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                                THE

                          CATHOLIC WORLD.

                                 A

                         MONTHLY MAGAZINE

                                OF

                  GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.


                             VOL. XV.
                 APRIL, 1872, TO SEPTEMBER, 1872.

                             NEW YORK:
                  THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,
                         9 Warren Street.

                               1872.




CONTENTS.


      Acoustics and Ventilation, 118.
      Affirmations, 77, 225.
      Aix-la-Chapelle, 795.
      Ambrosia, 803.
      Art and Religion, 356.
      Art, Faith the Life of, 518.

      Bad Beginning for a Saint, A, 675.
      Belgium, Religious Processions in, 546.
      Bolanden’s The Progressionists, 433, 618, 766.
      Bryant’s Translation of the Iliad, 381.

      Caresses of Providence, 270.
      Catholic Congress in Mayence, The Twenty-first, 45.
      Catholic Church in the United States, 577, 749.
      Chaumonot, F. (A Bad Beginning for a Saint), 675.
      Charity, Official, 407.
      Church, The, 814.
        “    and the Press, The, 413.
        “    The Symbolism of the, 605.
      “Chips,” Max Müller’s, 530.
      Cicero, A Speech of, 182.
      Craven’s (Mrs.) Fleurange, 60, 226, 342, 473, 591, 734.

      Donkey, Jans von Steufle’s, 92.
      Duties of the Rich in Christian Society, The, 37, 145, 289, 510.

      Easter Eve, 42.
      Education, The Necessity of Philosophy as a Basis of Higher,
        632, 815.
      English Literature, Taine’s, 1.
      Essay on Epigrams, An, 467.
      Etheridge, Miss, 501.

      Faith the Life of Art, 518.
      Fête-Day at Lyons, A, 362.

      Gothic Revival in England, History of the, 443.
      Greatness, True, 539.

      Handkerchief, The, 849.
      History of the Gothic Revival in England, 443.
      House of Yorke, The, 18, 150, 295.
      How I Learned Latin, 844.

      Iliad, Bryant’s Translation of the, 381.
      India, Protestant Missions in, 690.
      Intellectual Centres, 721.

      Jans von Steufle’s Donkey, 92.
      Jewish Convert, A Reminiscence of Vienna, 211.

      Lamartine, The Mother of, 167.
      Last Days before the Siege, The, 457, 666.
      Letters of His Holiness Pius IX. on the “Union of Christian
        Women,” 563.
      Little Love, 554.
      Lyons, A Fête-Day at, 362.

      Max Müller’s “Chips,” 530.
      Miracles, Newman on, 133.
      Miss Etheridge, 501.
      Mission of the Barbarians, The Roman Empire and the, 102, 654.
      Misty Mountain, On the, 705, 823.
      Mother of Lamartine, The, 167.
      Music, On, 733.

      Newman on Miracles, 133.

      Odd Stories, 124.
      Official Charity, 407.
      On Music, 733.
      On the Misty Mountain, 705, 823.
      Orléans and its Clergy, 833.

      Paris before the War, A Salon in, 187, 323.
      Philosophy as a Basis of Higher Education, The Necessity of,
        632, 815.
      Philosophy, Review of Dr. Stöckl’s, 329.
      Press, The Church and the, 413.
      Progressionists, The, 433, 618, 766.
      Protestant Missions in India, 690.
      Providence, Caresses of, 270.

      Quarter of an Hour in the Old Roman Forum during a Speech of
        Cicero’s, 182.

      Religion, Art and, 356.
      Religious Processions in Belgium, 546.
      Reminiscence of Vienna, A, 211.
      Review of Mr. Bryant’s Iliad, 576.
      Rich, Duties of the, in Christian Society, 37, 145, 289, 510.
      Rights of Women, How the Church Understands and Upholds
        the, 78, 255, 366, 487.
      Roman Empire, The, and the Mission of the Barbarians, 102, 654.

      St. James’s Mission at Vancouver, Decision against the, 715.
      Salon in Paris before the War, A, 187, 323.
      Siege, Last Days before the, 457, 666.
      Spain: What it was, and what it is, 397.
      Spaniards at Home, The, 783.
      Stöckl’s Philosophy, Review of, 329.
      Stories, Odd, 124.
      Summer in the Tyrol, A, 646.
      Symbolism of the Church, The, 605.

      Taine’s English Literature, 1.
      Tennyson: Artist and Moralist, 241.
      True Greatness, 539.
      Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence, The, 45.
      Tyrol, A Summer in the, 646.

      “Union of Christian Women,” Letters of His Holiness Pius IX.
        on the, 563.
      United States, The Catholic Church in the, 577, 749.
      Use and Abuse of the Stage, 836.

      Vancouver, Decision against the St. James’ Mission at, 715.
      Ventilation, Acoustics and, 118.

      Women, How the Church Understands and Upholds the Rights
        of, 78, 255, 366, 487.

      Yorke, The House of, 18, 150, 295.




POETRY.


      After Reading Mr. Tupper’s Proverbial Philosophy, 466.
      Anniversary of Baptism, 149.

      Blessed Virgin, Fragments of Early English Poems on the, 319.
      Books, Old, 729.

      Clerke at Oxenforde, 674.

      Dante’s Purgatorio, Canto III., 730.
      De Vere’s The Last Days of Oisin the Bard, 76.
         “     Legends of Oisin the Bard, 208, 320.
      Devota, 269.

      Faber’s The Papacy, 748.
      Fragments of Early English Poetry, 590.
          “       “       on the Blessed Virgin, 319.

      Oxenforde, The Clerke of, 674.

      Papacy, The, 748.
      Passion, The, 91.
      Passion, Fragments of Early English Poems on the, 17.
      Pledges, The Three, 127.
      Proverbial Philosophy, After Reading Mr. Tupper’s, 466.
      Purgatorio, Dante’s, Canto III., 730.

      Super Omnes Speciosa, 166.

      To Wordsworth, 538.
      Troubadours of Provence, On the, 294.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


      Allibone’s A Critical Dictionary of English Literature, 564.
      Anderdon’s Christian Æsop, 719.
      Announcements, 144, 288, 432, 576.
      Arias’ Virtues of Mary, Mother of God, 568.
      Augustine, St. Aurelius, Works of, 423.
      Aunt Fanny’s Present, 432.

      Baker’s Dozen, A, 859.
      Betrothed, The, 425.
      Bolanden’s Old God, 856.
      Book of Psalms, 137.
      Books and Pamphlets Received, 144.
      Burke’s The Men and Women of the Reformation, 285.
      Burke’s Lectures and Sermons, 852.
      By the Seaside, 859.

      Catholic Review, The, 860.
      Christian Counsels, 859.
          “     Free Schools, 432.
      Clare’s (Sister Mary Frances) Hornehurst Rectory, 857.
      Coleridge’s Life and Letters of St. Francis Xavier, 423.
      Conscience’s The Merchant of Antwerp, 720.
      Craven’s (Mrs.) A Sister’s Story, 287.
      Curtius’ The History of Greece, 139.

      De Croyft’s (Mrs.) Little Jakey, 432.
      Dorward’s Wild Flowers of Wisconsin, 287.
      Dubois’ Zeal in the Work of the Ministry, 137.

      Erckmann-Chatrian’s The Plebiscite, 858.
      Excerpta ex Rituali Romano, etc., 574.
      Extracts from the Fathers, etc., 569.

      Fashion, 140.
      Fiske’s The Offertorium, 574.
      Fitton’s Memoirs of the Establishment of the Church in
        N. E., 857.
      Formby’s Parables of Our Lord, 286.
         “    School Songs, 286.
         “    The Devotion of the Seven Dolors, 286.
         “     “  School Keepsake, 286.
         “     “  Seven Sacraments, 286.
      Fox’s Fashion, 140.
      French Eggs in an English Basket, 425.
      Fullerton’s (Lady) Constance Sherwood, 422.

      Gardner’s Latin School Series, 575.
      Gagarin’s The Russian Clergy, 719.
      Gleeson’s History of the Church in California, 428.
      Gould’s Legends of the Patriarchs and Prophets, 432.
      Gould’s Lives of the Saints, 576.
      Green’s Indulgences, Absolutions, Tax Tables, etc., 720.

      Half-hour Recreations in Popular Science, 431.
      Half-hours with Modern Scientists, 431.
      Hare’s Walks in Rome, 432.
      Harpain, Marie Eustelle, Life of, 285.
      Hart’s A Manual of English Literature, 427.
      Haskins’ Six Weeks Abroad, 571.
      Hengstenberg’s Kingdom of God under the Old Testament, 429.
      House of Yorke, The, 420.
      Humphrey’s Divine Teacher, 855.

      Lamon’s Life of Abraham Lincoln, 718.
      Little Pierre, the Pedlar of Alsace, 284.
      Liquefaction of the Blood of St. Januarius, 136.
      Longfellow’s The Divine Tragedy, 427.

      McQuaid’s (Bp.) Christian Free Schools, 432.
      Maggie’s Rosary, 425.
      Maguire’s Pontificate of Pius IX., 856.
      Maistre’s A Journey Around My Room, 138.
      Manning’s Sermons on Ecclesiastical Subjects, 142.
      Manzoni’s The Betrothed, 425.
      Martin’s Going Home, 858.
      May’s (Sophie) Little Prudy’s Flyaway Series, 144.
      Memoir of Roger B. Taney, 853.
      Merrick’s Lectures on the Church, 430.
      Monnin’s Life of the Curé d’Ars, 719.
      Mulloy’s Passion Play, 427.
      Mumford’s A Remembrance for the Living to Pray for the
        Dead, 144.
      Mystical City of God (Abridged), 720.

      Newman’s Discussions and Arguments on Various Subjects, 421.
      Newman’s Historical Sketches, 855.

      Oakeley’s The Order and Ceremonial of the Mass, 856.

      Paine’s Physiology of the Soul, etc., 430.
      Pellico’s Duties of Young Men, 575.
      Phædrus, Justin, and Nepos, 575.
      Proctor’s Half-Hour Recreations in Popular Science, 431.
      Proctor’s Strange Discoveries Respecting the Aurora, 431.
      Public School Education, 860.

      Rawes’ Great Truths in Little Words, 856.
      Reports on Observations of the Total Solar Eclipse, 431.
      Roscoe, Huggins, and Lockyer’s Spectrum Analysis, 431.

      St. Teresa, The Book of the Foundations of, 142.
      St. Thomas of Aquin: His Life and Labors, 568.
      Saunders’ Salad for the Solitary and the Social, 143.
      Sedgwick’s Relation and Duty of the Lawyer to the State, 430.
      Sermons by Fathers of the Society of Jesus, 425.
      Sir Humphrey’s Trial, 860.
      Smiddy’s An Address on the Druids, Churches, and Round Towers
        of Ireland, 143.
      Spectrum Analysis, 431.
      Souvestre’s French Eggs, 425.

      Taine’s Notes on England, 719.
      Tondini’s The Pope of Rome, 427.
      Travels in Arabia, 432.
      Tyler’s Life of Roger B. Taney, 853.

      Una and Her Paupers; or, Memorials of Agnes E. Jones, 569.

      Vaughan’s St. Thomas of Aquin: His Life and Labors, 568.
      Veith’s Via Crucis; or, The Way of the Cross, 426.
      Vetromile’s Travels in Europe and the East, 857.
      Virtues and Defects of a Young Girl, 571.

      Warner’s Saunterings, 719.
      Welsh’s Women Helpers in the Church, 572.
      Wiseman’s Witch of Rosenburg, 720.
      Women Helpers in the Church, 572.
      Woodland Cottage, etc., 432.

       *       *       *       *       *




                        THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

                  VOL. XV., No. 85.--APRIL, 1872.

  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev.
   I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.




TAINES ENGLISH LITERATURE.[1]


In so far as we may judge from the notices in periodicals and
newspapers, this work appears to have been received, both in
England and the United States, not only with general favor, but
with enthusiastic admiration.

A history of English literature based on a system new to the great
body of English readers, and written with freshness, _verve_, and
certain attractive peculiarities of style, could not fail to fix
their attention and engage their interest from the beginning to
the end of its two bulky octavo volumes. The author of the work in
question is so well known in the world of letters by his essays on
the philosophy of art that he needs no introduction to our readers.

M. Taine starts out with the assumption that the literature of any
given country is the exponent of its mental life, or, as he states
it (p. 20), “I am about to write the history of a literature,
and to seek in it for the psychology of a people.” In France and
Germany, we are told, history has been revolutionized by the study
of their literatures.

  “It was perceived,” says M. Taine, “that a work of literature is
  not a mere play of imagination, a solitary caprice of a heated
  brain, but a transcript of contemporary manners, a type of a
  certain kind of mind. It was concluded that one might retrace,
  from the monuments of literature, the style of man’s feelings
  and thoughts for centuries back. The attempt was made, and it
  succeeded.”

Unquestionably the style of man’s feelings may be traced in
literature for centuries back. That is M. Taine’s first approach.
But between the successful insight into this or that writer’s
opinions and modes of thought and the opinions and modes of
thought of a nation, the void is so enormous--unless, indeed, we
dangerously reason from particulars to generals--as to require to
fill it more subjective literary productions than any country has
ever yet produced.

From this system it would follow that if a nation has no
literature it can have no history. If it have--as is too often
the case--no literature but that of a despotism or of a dominant
minority, it follows that you cannot discern a single idea nor hear
a single pulsation of the heart of a great people. But granting
the literature to exist, although we are told that a work “is not
a mere play of the imagination,” we nevertheless know full well
that some of the most brilliant portions of every literature are
precisely what that phrase describes. Beyond that, we also know
that all writers are not only not sincere, but too often unfaithful
because too often venal, and cannot therefore be relied upon.

In certain writings enumerated by him, M. Taine says: “The reader
will see all the wealth that may be drawn from a literary work:
_when the work is rich, and one knows how to interpret it_, we
find there the psychology of a soul, frequently of an age, now and
then of a race.” Partially true. And M. Taine might have instanced
the _Confessions_ of St. Augustine, but he does not. We may indeed
find what he indicates under certain conditions, for, as he very
correctly adds, “their utility grows with their perfection.”
Unfortunately, such works occur in literature at the rarest
intervals.

It cannot be questioned that M. Taine’s theory contains a germ
of truth. But, in fact, so far as it is true it is a very old
story. What is true in his theory is not new, and what is new is
questionable. Since history has risen to be something more and
something better than a mere roll of warriors and a correct list
of kings and queens--which latter class of good people are fast
disappearing, never again, we trust, to return--since the historian
has been elevated from the rank of a mere annalist to be the
interpreter to his own age of not only the acts and sufferings,
but the mind and the heart of dead generations, he has become avid
of the most trifling details concerning their transitory passage
here on earth. He desires to discover and relate how they lived,
slept, and ate--how they talked, toiled, and travelled--what they
said, what they thought--what, in a word, was their social and
psychological life. To obtain the knowledge he seeks, all sources
are equally valuable--written manuscripts that speak as well as
stone ruins that are dumb.

Such knowledge as this the new school of German historians,
having first exhausted all literary material, have sought to
gather from the most remote and even repulsive sources; and from
philological analysis, from works of art, from monuments, old
roads, half-corroded coins, almost obliterated inscriptions, broken
pottery, partially effaced frescoes, and from the very fragments of
mere kitchen utensils, they have created afresh and revealed to us,
in all its details, the daily and familiar life of ancient Rome,
and poured a flood of light upon the living man of the that day.

And yet, before the results of their archæological and ethnological
labors were given to the world, we thought we knew our Roman
well and familiarly. For what literature, unless it be that of
Greece, presents so rich and so complete a portrait gallery of all
the types of its people as the literature of Rome? From Virgil,
who gives us the ploughman and vinedresser, and Cæsar, through
whose pages marches the Roman soldier, to Livy, Sallust, Tacitus,
Juvenal, and Horace, we have a score of writers in whose pages all
the virtues and vices, the grandeur and the shame, the nobility
and the grovelling sensuality, of Rome are spread before us in
language so attractive and so grand as to promise to outlast many
modern masterpieces.

M. Taine sneers at “Latin literature as worth nothing at the
outset,” being “borrowed and imitative.” To this we reply, _Adhuc
sub judice_, etc., and, bad or not, it tells the story of the Roman
people, and very nearly reveals to us the ancient Roman as he
walked on earth.

We have no such faithful picture of the English people in English
literature.

We fear that M. Taine mistakes a part for the whole.
Unquestionably, literature has its uses, and high ones, for the
elucidation of many a problem and the illumination of many a page
of history; but, if we set out to find the history of a nation
in its literature, outside of history proper and the new aids
to historical research we have referred to, we merely adopt a
deceptive guide that can lead us only to disappointment. For these
grand theories, so symmetrical and so plausible, when presented
by their generally eloquent framers, stand, when put into actual
service, very little wear and tear. Accordingly, we find that there
happens to M. Taine precisely what happens to every man who starts
out to construct a work strictly according to a given system.
And what thus happens is a serious matter. This it is. Facts are
treated as of secondary importance. They are put upon their best
behavior. They must show themselves up to a certain standard, or
they are counted as worthless. If they are so wrong-headed as to
come in conflict with the author’s theory--the old story--why, so
much the worse for the facts, and our theorist ruthlessly tramples
upon and walks over them straight to his objective point, which is,
necessarily, his foregone conclusion.

It would detain us too long to present an analysis of M. Taine’s
introduction, from which alone it would not be difficult to
demonstrate the insufficiency of his theory. It contains passages
which, in the stately march of his eloquent phrase, seem to sound
as though they announced newly discovered truths of startling
import, but which, translated into familiar language, turn out to
be but little more than the text-book enunciation of some familiar
principle. Thus:

  “When you have observed and noted in man one, two, three, then
  a multitude of sensations, does this suffice, or does your
  knowledge appear complete? Is a book of observation a psychology?
  It is no psychology, and here as elsewhere the search for causes
  must come after the collection of facts. No matter if the facts
  be physical or moral, they all have their causes; there is a
  cause for ambition, for courage, for truth, as there is for
  digestion, for muscular movement, for animal heat. Vice and
  virtue are products, like vitriol and sugar, and every complex
  phenomenon has its springs from other more simple phenomena on
  which it hangs.”

M. Taine, it is evident, cannot be charged with sparing his readers
either the enunciation or the elucidation of first principles.

The author commences by disposing of the Anglo-Saxons, their
literature, and six centuries of their annals, in a short chapter
of twenty-three pages, which, so far as our observation has
extended, has been passed over both by English and American
criticism almost without remark. Some reviewers account for its
conciseness by saying that Anglo-Saxon literature has but little
interest for the general reader, except as a question of philology.
As of general application, the remark is not widely incorrect, but
it is signally out of place with reference to M. Taine’s work, for
he announces as part of his task that of “developing the recondite
mechanism whereby the Saxon barbarian has been transformed into the
Englishman of to-day.”

Now, fairly to understand the Englishman of to-day, we must, by M.
Taine’s own announcement, have the Saxon original placed before
us; for, he says, “the modern Englishman existed entire in this
Saxon” (p. 31). The Saxon must be produced to our sight, and we
must have him evolved strictly on M. Taine’s principles, viz., _as
the psychological product of his literature_. If this is done, he
will fulfil his engagement of “developing the recondite mechanism,”
etc., or, in other words, of presenting us a full exposition of
Anglo-Saxon literature.

We feel bound to say that none of these promises are kept, and
none of these results are reached, by M. Taine; nay, more, that he
not only totally fails in presenting a fair or even intelligible
abstract of Anglo-Saxon literature, but that he appears to be
wanting in the necessary information which might enable him to do
it. We think it less derogatory to him to say that his knowledge of
the subject is defective than to make the necessarily alternative
charge.

We find, however, some excuse for M. Taine’s limited acquirements
in Anglo-Saxon literature in the fact that he appears to have
relied to a great extent on Warton and on Sharon Turner. Dr.
Warton’s well-known history of English poetry is unquestionably
a work of great merit and utility, in so far as it treats of
English poetry from the period of Chaucer down, but as authority
on any matter connected with Anglo-Saxon literature, it is next
to worthless. Warton knew very little about it. Sharon Turner as
authority on Anglo-Saxon history, and Sharon Turner as authority
on Anglo-Saxon literature, are two very different persons. The
knowledge of Anglo-Saxon literature has made great strides since
his day. For his history he was not dependent on Anglo-Saxon
documents. Latin material was abundant.

It must be borne in mind that, although the English tongue is so
directly derived from it, Anglo-Saxon is, nevertheless, a dead
language, and when, in the sixteenth century, its study was to
some extent revived, it had not only been dead four hundred years,
but buried and forgotten. That revival occurred at a time when
religious controversy ran high in England, the motive prompting it
being to discover testimony among Anglo-Saxon ecclesiastical MSS.
as to the existence of an English Catholic Church separate from
and independent of Papal authority. Thus far the search has not
been attended with any marked success. In the seventeenth century,
Anglo-Saxon was studied for the light it threw on the early history
and legislation of England. Since the commencement of the present
century, the study has been pursued with greater success than
ever for objects purely literary and philological. Indeed, it may
be said that, until within some forty years, the cultivation of
Anglo-Saxon was confined to a very small circle of scholars.

The most remarkable monuments of its literature are of
comparatively recent publication, and there happened at the outset
to the study of Anglo-Saxon precisely what happened to the study of
Sanskrit. It was that many scholars, aware of its literary wealth,
and, possibly, in possession of copies of some of its productions,
were without adequate means of pursuing or even of commencing their
studies on account of the want of dictionaries and grammars. It
was for this reason that Frederick Schlegel, before writing his
great work on _The Language and Wisdom of the Indians_, was obliged
to leave Germany and go to England, in order to avail himself of
the resources of the British Museum; and when we consider the
difficulties under which Dr. Lingard made his Anglo-Saxon studies,
and wrote his _Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church_, of which
work M. Taine does not appear to have heard, we are more than ever
surprised at the ability displayed by the great English historian.

When we undertake to trace the gradual development of the
Anglo-Saxon of Anno 500 into the Englishman of 1800, the first
phase is immeasurably the most interesting and the most important,
for in that phase he was at once civilized and christianized.
Take away the introduction and development of Christianity from
Anglo-Saxon history, and you have left nothing but a list of kings
and two or three battles. Now, M. Taine’s exposition of how,
when, and through what agencies civilization and Christianity
were brought into England may be descriptively characterized as
“how not to do it.” His great effort in his introductory chapter
is to eliminate Christianity from Anglo-Saxon history, and to
give us, as it were, the play of Hamlet with the part of Hamlet
omitted--an effort so systematic and persistent as to make us
almost regret our volunteered plea for his excuse on the ground
of want of familiarity with his subject. Here is his device to
escape the necessity of relating the all essential story of the
conversion to Christianity: “A race so constituted was predisposed
to Christianity by its gloom, its aversion to sensual and reckless
living, its inclination for the serious and sublime.” M. Taine has
just described (pp. 41-43) the leading characteristics of the
_pagan_ Anglo-Saxon mind as manifested in its poetry--“a race so
constituted”--and cites in support of his exposition two passages
translated from what he asserts to be pagan Anglo-Saxon poetry.
The first, _Battle of Finsborough_, we know was found on the cover
of a MS. book of homilies, written by some monk, although it may,
perhaps, be of pagan origin. The second, and more important one,
_The Battle of Brunanburh_, containing the line, “The sun on high,
the great star, God’s brilliant candle, the noble creature”[2] (p.
43), is Christian and monkish beyond all peradventure, for it forms
a portion of the _Saxon Chronicle_, begun as late as the days of
Alfred. The battle was fought in the year 939!

We continue: “Its aversion to sensual and reckless living.” This
is simply astounding when we remember that M. Taine has just been
telling us, through twenty pages, of their “ravenous stomachs
filled with meat and cheese, heated by strong drinks,” “prone to
brutal drunkenness,” becoming “more gluttonous, carving their hogs,
filling themselves with flesh; swallowing all the strong, coarse
drinks which they could procure,” etc.

And then follows the far more surprising psychological result:
“These utter barbarians embrace Christianity straightway, _through
sheer force of mood and clime_” (p. 44).

Now, M. Taine knows--as we all know--that these pagan Anglo-Saxons
were brutal and sensual to the last degree. In personal indulgence,
they were what he describes and more. They were pirates, robbers,
and murderers.

The rewards promised them by their gods after death were that they
should have nothing to do but eat and drink. Even the paganism
of their Scandinavian and Teutonic forefathers, a mixture of
massacre and sensuality, was corrupted by them, and the emblems
of their bloody and obscene gods were naked swords and hammers,
with which they broke the heads of their victims. The immortality
promised them in their Walhalla was a long continuance of new
days of slaughter, and nights of debauch spent in drinking from
their enemies’ skulls. Such was the race found by M. Taine so
constituted as to be “predisposed to Christianity by its gloom,
its aversion to sensual and reckless living”; such the people who
“through sheer force of mood and clime” laid aside their cruelty,
brutality, carnage, and sensuality, gave up feasting for fasting,
proud independence for obedience, indulgence for self-denial! Truly
remarkable effects of atmosphere. The climate of England must have
greatly changed since the year 597.

In the course of a debate which once arose in the British House of
Commons on the subject of negro emancipation, it was urged against
the measure that you could not civilize the negro; he belonged to
an inferior race which offered human sacrifices and sold their
own children into slavery. Whereupon, a member promptly replied
that was just what our ancestors in England did--they offered
human sacrifices and sold their children into slavery. This will
naturally recall to the reader’s mind the touching incident which
led to the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons, the fair-haired and
blue-eyed children offered for sale, and their redemption by the
great Gregory, who said they were not only Angles, but angels.
From that moment the mission to England was resolved upon. We all
know the story. Gregory’s departure, his capture by the citizens
of Rome and forcible return, his elevation to the pontifical
throne, the departure of St. Augustine and his forty companions,
their trials, sufferings, and danger of death on the route,
their arrival in England, their labors, the gradual and peaceful
conversion of the people, their successful efforts in bringing the
Saviour, his Gospel, and his church to benighted heathens, and
their civilization and social amelioration of the Anglo-Saxons. To
the immortal glory of these men be it said that neither violence
nor persecution was resorted to by them, their disciples, or their
protectors for the triumph of civilization and religion. It is one
of the grandest Christian victories on record. Of all this, here is
M. Taine’s record:

  “Roman missionaries bearing a silver cross with a picture of
  Christ came in procession, chanting a litany. Presently the high
  priest of the Northumbrians declared, in presence of the nobles,
  that the old gods were powerless, and confessed that formerly ‘he
  knew nothing of that which he adored;’ and he among the first,
  lance in hand, assisted to demolish their temple. At his side a
  chief rose in the assembly, and said:

  “You remember, O king, what sometimes happens in winter when
  you are at supper with your earls and thanes, while the good
  fire burns within, and it rains and the wind howls without. A
  sparrow enters at one door, and flies out quickly at the other.
  During that rapid passage and pleasant moment it disappears,
  and from winter returns to winter again. Such seems to me to be
  the life of man, and his career but a brief moment between that
  which goes before and that which follows after, and of which we
  know nothing. If, then, the new doctrine can teach us something
  certain, it deserves to be followed.”[3]

The Protestant historian, Sharon Turner, says of the conversion of
the Anglo-Saxons: “It was accomplished in a manner worthy of the
benevolence and purity [of the Christian religion]. Genuine piety
seems to have led the first missionaries to our shores. Their zeal,
their perseverance, and the excellence of the system they diffused
made their labors successful.” He gives a detailed narrative of the
action of Gregory the Great, of the devotion and self-sacrifice
of St. Augustine and his companions, of their long and perilous
journey, their landing in England, and, in describing their
procession on the Isle of Thanet, writes: “With a silver cross and
a picture of Christ, they advanced singing the litany.” M. Taine,
with a stroke of the pen, copies this line almost word for word,
and makes it do duty for a full and detailed account of the labors
of St. Augustine and his forty companions for two score years!

What period of time the word _presently_ represents to M. Taine
we do not know. It may be an hour, or a day, or a month, but the
incident which he refers to as occurring “presently” took place
about forty years after the “procession.”

And now it is sought to belittle or decry the victory of the
Christian missionaries in two ways: 1st. It was the most natural
thing in the world for the brutal, bloody, slave-dealing, drunken
barbarian to embrace the new religion, because his paganism so
strongly resembled Christianity. 2d. But after conversion they
remained, after all, substantially, barbarous pagans as before, and
their songs remind M. Taine of “the songs of the servants of Odin,
tonsured and clad in the garments of monks.” “The Christian hymns
embody the pagan” (p. 46).

To demonstrate this, and to show that the songs of these converted
Saxons are “but a concrete of exclamations,” have “no development,”
and are nothing but paganism after all, M. Taine gives five prose
lines of imperfect translation from a poem by Cædmon. Here is a
correct rendering of the opening of the poem in the original metre.
Let the reader judge of the amount of pagan inspiration it contains:

    “Now must we glorify
    The guardian of heaven’s kingdom,
    The Maker’s might,
    And his mind’s thought,
    The work of the worshipped father,
    When of his wonders, each one,
    The ever-living Lord
    Ordered the origin,
    He erst created
    For earth’s children
    Heaven as a high roof,
    The holy Creator:
    Then on this mid-world
    Did man’s great guardian,
    The ever-living Lord,
    Afterward prepare
    For men a mansion,
    The Master Almighty.”[4]

M. Taine continues:

  “One of them” [those servants of Odin, take notice], “Adhelm,
  stood on a bridge leading to the town where he lived, and
  repeated warlike and profane odes alternately with religious
  poetry, in order to attract and instruct the men of his time. He
  could do it without changing his key. In one of them, a funeral
  song, Death speaks. It was one of the last Saxon compositions,
  containing a terrible Christianity, which seems at the same time
  to have sprung from the blackest depths of the _Edda_.”

M. Taine has here given rein to his imagination, and made terrible
work with Saxon chronology and other matters. For Adhelm read
Aldhelm, in Saxon _Ealdhelm_, so King Alfred spelt it. The name
signifies _Old Helmet_; Aldhelm was of princely extraction.
“Warlike and profane odes” does not correctly translate “_carmen
triviale_.” Aldhelm was a learned priest, a Greek, Latin, and
Hebrew scholar, with a profound knowledge of the Holy Scriptures.
His present reputation rests on his Latin works. His contemporary
reputation was founded on his Anglo-Saxon productions. He composed
canticles and ballads in his native tongue, and, remarking the
haste of many of the Anglo-Saxon peasants to leave church as soon
as the Sunday Mass was over, in order to avoid the sermon, he would
lie in wait for them at the bridge or wayside, and, singing to
them as a bard, attract their attention, and in the fascination
of a musical verse teach them the truths of religion they would
not wait to hear from the pulpit. It was not for the pleasure of
singing that Aldhelm thus labored: it was to save souls. Without
the slightest authority, M. Taine puts in his mouth this beautiful
Anglo-Saxon fragment:

  “Death speaks to man: ’For thee was a house built ere thou
  wast born; for thee was a mould shapen ere thou camest of thy
  mother. Its height is not determined, nor its depth measured,
  nor is it closed up (however long it may be) until I bring thee
  where thou shalt remain, until I shall measure thee and the sod
  of earth. Thy house is not highly built, it is unhigh and low;
  when thou art in it the heelways are low, the sideways low. The
  roof is built full nigh thy breast; so thou shalt dwell in earth
  full cold, dim, and dark. Doorless is that house, and dark it is
  within; there thou art fast prisoner, and Death holds the key.
  Loathly is that earth-house, and grim to dwell in; there thou
  shalt dwell, and worms shall share thee. Thus thou art laid, and
  leavest thy friends; thou hast no friend that will come to thee,
  who will ever inquire how that house liketh thee, who shall ever
  open the door for thee, and seek thee, for soon thou becomest
  loathly and hateful to look upon.’”

The composition is not by Aldhelm, who, probably, never heard of
it. All of Aldhelm’s Anglo-Saxon MSS. perished when the magnificent
monastery at Malmesbury was sacked under Henry VIII. The Protestant
historian, Maitland, thus tells the story: “The precious MSS.
of his [Aldhelm’s] library were long employed to fill up broken
windows in the neighboring houses, or to light the bakers’ fires.”

All that we know of _The Grave_ is that it was found written in
the margin of a volume of Anglo-Saxon homilies, preserved in the
Bodleian Library. It is of a period following Aldhelm’s era, and
is in the dialect of East Anglia, while Aldhelm was of Wessex.
But M. Taine himself demonstrates that it could not be Aldhelm’s.
At page 50, he tells us Aldhelm died in 709, having previously
stated (p. 46) that the fragment “was one of the last Anglo-Saxon
compositions.” But among the finest Anglo-Saxon poetical
compositions are the celebrated _Ormulum_, and various poems by
Layamon, which were written about the year 1225. _The Grave_,
moreover, so far from containing “a terrible Christianity,” has
so essentially the tone and spirit of many well-known Catholic
meditations on death, that it might have been written in a Spanish
monastery or taken from a book of Christian devotions.

Of course, “the poor monks” can do nothing creditable in M.
Taine’s eyes, and he comes to sad grief in undertaking to go, by
specification, beyond the common counts of the ordinary declaration
dictated by bigotry. At page 53, vol. i., he thus refers in
contemptuous terms to the monks who compiled the _Saxon Chronicle_:

  “They spun out awkwardly and heavily dry chronicles, a sort
  of historical almanacs. You might think them peasants, who,
  returning from their toil, came and scribbled with chalk on a
  smoky table the date of a year of scarcity, the price of corn,
  the changes in the weather, a death.”

And here a word as to this _Chronicle_, which is a national history
generally conceded to have been established by King Alfred, under
the advice of his counsellor Pflegmund, Archbishop of Canterbury,
about 870 A.D. It begins with a brief account of Britain from
Cæsar’s invasion, and becomes very full in its narrative after the
year 853.

The _Chronicle_ shares with Bede’s history the highest place among
authorities for early English history. Seven original copies of it
are still in existence, and, making due allowance for the ravages
of time and the elements, and the destruction by war, demolition
of the monasteries, theft, spoliation, and the wilful mischief of
religious bigotry, the survival of these seven copies would go
far to prove the former existence of several hundreds. The copies
yet extant are all evidently based upon a single original text,
and it is presumed that the _Chronicle_ was continued at all the
monasteries in England, each one forwarding its local annals to
some one special monastery, where a brief summary was compiled
of the whole, copies of which were supplied to all the religious
houses, to be incorporated with the general _Chronicle_, thus
keeping up from year to year the general history of the nation.
M. Taine gives some half-dozen dry-as-dust extracts from the
_Chronicle_ of this nature:

  “902. _This year there was the great fight at the Holme, between
  the men of Kent and the Danes._”

He adds:

  “It is thus the poor monks speak, with monotonous dryness, who
  after Alfred’s time gather up and take notes of great visible
  events; sparsely scattered we find a few moral reflections, a
  passionate emotion, nothing more” (vol. i. p. 53).

But at page 42, M. Taine has given us as belonging to a period
preceding Christianity in England, as a part of “the pagan
current,” an extract from the song on Athelstan’s victory, of which
he speaks in terms of enthusiastic admiration. “If there has ever
been anywhere a deep and serious poetic sentiment, it is here,”
etc. Now, this song, under the date of A.D. 937, _is a part of the
Saxon Chronicle, written by some poor monk “after Alfred’s time_.”

    “This year King Athelstane, the Lord of Earls,
    Ring-giver to the warriors, Edmund too
    His brother, won in fight with edge of swords
    Lifelong renown at Brunanburh. The sons
    Of Edward clave with the forged steel the wall
    Of linden shields. The spirit of their sires
    Made them defenders of the land, its wealth,
    Its homes, in many a fight with many a foe.”[5]

“It is thus the monks speak with monotonous dryness”! And so
speak they often in their _Chronicle_. The death of Byrhtnoth
referred to by M. Taine in note 2, p. 36, is also from the _Saxon
Chronicle_, and Mr. Morley specifies numerous other poetical
passages in it. Nevertheless, we find that M. Taine is not at
all embarrassed by his somewhat uncertain and limited command of
Anglo-Saxon literature. On the contrary, he qualifies as _amusing_
(p. 30) a discussion on a point of Anglo-Saxon history by two such
distinguished scholars as Dr. Lingard and Sharon Turner! These
historians “amuse” M. Taine!

  “What is your first remark,” asks Mr. Taine, “in turning over
  the great, stiff leaves of a folio, the yellow sheets of a
  manuscript? This, you say, was not created alone. It is but a
  mould, like a fossil shell, an imprint, like one of those shapes
  embossed in stone by an animal which lived and perished. Under
  the stone there was an animal, and behind the document there
  was a man. Why do you study the shell, except to represent to
  yourself the animal? So do you study the document only in order
  to know the man” (Introduction, p. 1).

In this we almost agree with our author. It is well to study
shells, and well to study men in the shells of leaves, sheets,
manuscripts, or other literary exuviæ they may have left. Our
objection to M. Taine is that he has piles and heaps of such
shells, which he resolutely refuses to study, behind which he
persistently refuses to look. The trouble with him lies here.
Behind every shell is a monk, a priest, or a bishop, whose piety
and whose virtues are not subjects of agreeable contemplation to
a writer who announces his belief that religion is a mere human
invention; that man makes a religion as he paints a portrait or
constructs a steam-engine. Thus M. Taine states it: “Let us take
first the three chief works of human intelligence--religion, art,
philosophy” (p. 15).

Accordingly, of the great minds of Anglo-Saxon England during
whole centuries we see nothing in M. Taine’s pages. They are
carefully kept out of sight. One of the most majestic figures in
all literary history, that of the Venerable Bede, is absent from
his chapters, being referred to only twice by name, once as “Bede,
their old poet”! The learned Aldhelm is made a mere gleeman on the
highway. Roger Bacon’s name is not mentioned--the name of the man
who was a prodigy of learning, and who announced the principles
of the inductive system nearly four hundred years before Lord
Verulam appropriated the glory of its discovery.[6] Augustine,
Paulinus, Wilfred, Cuthbert, and scores of others are not referred
to. These men and their companions were at once monks, preachers,
schoolmasters, book-makers, scribes, authors, physicians,
architects, builders, surveyors, and farmers. _Laborare est orare_,
Labor is prayer, was their device. Barren moors, repulsive marshes,
fever-bearing fens, and wasted tracts they cultivated, and made
glad fields of gloomy swamps.

The sandy plains and barren heaths of Northumbria, and the marshes
of East Anglia and Mercia, the monks transformed by intelligent
labor and enduring toil from uninhabited deserts into rich fields
yielding abundant harvests. Around these isolated monasteries
soon sprang up, as around so many centres of life, schools,
workshops, and settlements. The wilderness blossomed. And the monks
wrote Christianity and civilization on the hearts of the people
and on the soil of England. Not to mention the grand literary
monuments dedicated to the record of their pious labors by Count
Montalembert in his _Monks of the West_, all these victories for
humanity are clearly discernible to scores of modern Protestant
writers, who have borne eloquent testimony to the noble devotion
and glorious services of these holy men, whose real merits have
been too long obscured by the historical conspiracy against truth.
They have looked behind shells and manuscripts, and found something
to reward their search.

Thus Carlyle finds a man behind the old MS. of Jocelin of Brakelond:

  “A personable man of seven-and-forty, stout made, stands erect
  as a pillar; with bushy eyebrows, the face of him beaming into
  you in a really strange way: the name of him Samson: a man worth
  looking at.... He was wont to preach to the people in the English
  tongue, though according to the dialect of Norfolk, where he
  had been brought up. There preached he: a man worth going to
  hear.... Abbot Samson built many useful, many pious edifices;
  human dwellings, churches, steeples, barns;--all fallen now and
  vanished, but useful while they stood. He built and endowed ‘the
  Hospital of Babwell’; built ‘fit houses for the St. Edmunsbury
  schools.’ ... And yet these grim old walls are not a dilettantism
  and dubiety; they are an earnest fact. It was a most real and
  serious purpose they were built for? Yes, another world it was,
  when these black ruins, white in their new mortar and fresh
  chiselling, first saw the sun as walls, long ago. _Gauge not,
  with thy dilettante compasses, with that placid dilettante
  simper, the Heaven’s-Watchtower of our Fathers, the fallen God’s
  Houses, the Golgotha of true Souls departed”!_

With the advantage of eleven hundred years of accumulated knowledge
in his favor, the cultivated M. Taine can well afford to sneer at
“a kind of literature” with which he credits these monks. The “kind
of literature” they most affected, and in which they unceasingly
labored, was the kind known as “the Scriptures.” Of a verity,
strange occupation for “sons of Odin,” for the most meagre summary
of Anglo-Saxon, monastic labor in this field is a magnificent
memorial of their imperishable glory.

In default of types and power-presses, volumes of the Scriptures
were multiplied by copying, and every talent and gift of man was
enlisted to preserve, beautify, and bring them within the reach
and comprehension of the great body of the people. Its light was
not hidden in the obscurity of an unfamiliar tongue. In the fourth
century, on the banks of the Danube, Ulphilas had translated the
entire Scriptures into the then barbarous Mœso-Gothic. In England,
Cædmon had sung the Scripture story of God’s power and mercy, and
put into verse all of Genesis and Exodus, with other portions of
the Old Testament, besides the life and passion of our Lord and
the Acts of the Apostles. The Venerable Bede had translated St.
John’s Gospel, and written numerous expositions of the Old and New
Testaments. Aldhelm had translated the Psalms. The entire four
Gospels have come down to us in the Anglo-Saxon of King Alfred’s
day. Ælfric translated the whole of the Pentateuch and the Book of
Job. The Normans in England had various translations besides their
metrical romance, and a verse translation of the Bible. In 1327,
William of Shoreham translated the Psalter into English. A few
years later, Richard Rolle translated the Psalms and part of the
Book of Job into the dialect of Northumberland. The four Gospels
issued in 1571 by Parker, with a dedication to Queen Elizabeth by
Foxe, the martyrologist, _are copied from two Anglo-Saxon versions
of the tenth and eleventh centuries_. From the original copy, _Tha
Halgan Godspel on Englisc_, they appear to have been divided and
arranged for reading aloud to the people. Many of these, it will
be noticed, are versions adorned and heightened by literary labor
and poetic inspiration. Plain prose Bible translations existed
in large numbers, which, as being more exposed, were the first
to perish from the effects of time, the elements, and the wilful
destruction of bigotry. The metrical versions were generally better
bound and better cared for in special libraries, and in the hands
of the wealthy. And yet of these how few copies survive! And who
shall tell us of scores of hundreds more of which we have never
heard? An immense body of Anglo-Saxon Scriptural literature has
perished and left no trace.

But M. Taine, it may be objected, was surely under no obligation
to write the history of your Anglo-Saxon monks! Certainly not. But
he was under some sort of obligation not to represent the product
of Christianity, viz., the Anglo-Saxon man, as the product of pure
paganism. That he has done so, we have shown from the remarkable
manner in which he has spoken of the products of Anglo-Saxon
literature, and we have not taken into account the full and
rich material at command, written in the Latin language by the
Anglo-Saxons.

When we get further on in M. Taine’s work, we find in his fifth
chapter, book the second, a yet more flagrant violation of his
promise to show us the Englishman as the psychological product of
his literature, and to “develop the recondite mechanism whereby
the Saxon barbarian has been transformed into the Englishman
of to-day.” Does he present to us the nature of the English
Reformation as evolved from the writings of Englishmen of the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries? Not at all. It would not
be pleasant to show that, as politics was the leverage of the
Reformation in Germany, plunder was the leverage in England, and he
candidly admits, in phrase of studied delicacy (p. 362), that “the
Reformation entered England by a side door.”

And so he travels all the way to Germany, and gives us, instead of
English opinion and English mind, the echoes of Martin Luther’s
“bellowing in bad Latin,”[7] and passages from his beery, boozy
_Table-Talk_, bolstered up with extracts from a modern history of
England by the late Mr. Froude. No study of shells and animals and
manuscripts here. No elaborate development of recondite mechanism!

But we have scarcely space left for a few remarks we desire to make
concerning


THE SHAKESPEARE OF M. TAINE.

And, at the outset, we do not agree with those critics who ascribe
M. Taine’s utterly fantastic and distorted appreciation of
Shakespeare to the general incapacity of the Gallic mind to grasp
the great dramatist. We find something more than this. We discover
a labored effort at depreciation, negatively, positively, and
by comparison. Of Shakespeare the man, the careful student must
admit that we know very little--almost nothing, indeed. Hence the
sharpened avidity of his biographers to seize upon every floating
piece of gossip, every stray tradition concerning him, whereof to
make history. With aid of such loose and unreliable material, M.
Taine makes of Shakespeare a man of licentious morals and loose
habits.

Our author’s æsthetic starting-point renders simply impossible for
him any fair appreciation of the great English poet. Corneille and
Racine are his models in tragedy--Molière in comedy. To them and to
their productions he subordinates Shakespeare at every step. Listen!

  “If [a poet] is a logician, a moralist, an orator, as, for
  instance, one of the French great tragic poets (Racine), he will
  only represent noble manners; he will avoid low characters; he
  will have a horror of valets and the plebs; he will observe
  the greatest decorum in respect of the strongest outbreaks of
  passion; he will reject as scandalous every low or indecent word;
  he will give us reason, loftiness, good taste throughout; he will
  suppress the familiarity, childishness,” etc.... “_Shakespeare
  does just the contrary, because his genius is the exact
  opposite_” (vol. i. p. 311).

At page 326, we are told: “If, in fact, Shakespeare comes across
a heroic character worthy of Corneille, a Roman, such as the
mother of Coriolanus, he will explain by passion[8] what Corneille
would have explained by heroism.” “_Reason_,” M. Taine further
informs us, “_tells us that our manners should be measured_; this
is why the manners which Shakespeare paints are not so.” Again,
“Shakespeare paints us as we are; his heroes bow, ask people for
news, speak of rain and fine weather,” etc. (p. 312). As M. Taine
finds that Shakespeare’s heroes bow, we should like to know his
opinion of the exordium of the grand rhetorical effort which
Corneille puts in the mouth of the master of the world, Cæsar
Augustus:

  “_Prends un siège, Cinna._”[9]

It cannot in reason be expected that the man who admires the
stiff and frigid artificiality of French tragedy should reach any
clear perception of Shakespeare. Nor can we expect the appreciator
of Shakespeare to find any superiority in Corneille and Racine.
A distinguished German scholar (Grimm) admirably expresses the
general German and English estimate of these French poets in a
letter he addressed to Michelet: “Must I tell you the opinion
commonly expressed among us here in Germany? With the greatest
possible amount of good-will, I have again and again opened Racine,
Corneille, and Boileau, and I fully appreciate their superior
talents; but I cannot read them for any length of time [_mais je ne
puis en soutenir la lecture_], so strong upon me is the impression
that a portion of the most profound sentiments awakened by poetry
are a sealed book for these authors.”

A French writer so able and so thoroughly skilled as M. Taine, is
at home in _persiflage_, and throughout his work he freely indulges
in it at the expense of “those excellent English.” From the moment
the Norman sets his foot in England, he is the Englishman’s
superior. With the Norman came in education and intelligence. These
poor Anglo-Saxons appear to have been their inferiors. Wherever
opportunity occurs, English models suffer in comparison with French
throughout the work, which closes with an extravagant rhapsody on
Alfred de Musset, and this line: “I prefer Alfred de Musset to
Tennyson.”

Many scholars of high acquirements, admirers of Shakespeare, having
exhausted with praise the catalogue of Shakespeare’s serious and
solid qualities, find that his pre-eminent superiority lies in wit
and humor--the wit bright and sparkling, the humor kindly and
genial, more akin to wisdom than to wit, and, indeed, in itself a
particular form of wisdom, so that it might almost be said that
his fools give us more wisdom than the philosophers of ordinary
dramatists. M. Taine is of a diametrically opposite opinion.
Here it is: “The mechanical imagination produces Shakespeare’s
fool-characters: a quick, venturesome, dazzling, unquiet
imagination produces his men of wit.”

Would you know what is true wit? You may learn from page 320, vol.
i.:

  “Of wit, there are many kinds. One, altogether French, which
  is but reason, a foe to paradox, scorner of folly, a sort of
  incisive common sense, having no occupation but to render
  truth amusing and evident, the most effective weapon with an
  intelligent and vain people: such was the wit of Voltaire and the
  drawing-rooms.”

The conclusion is thus forced upon us that this is by no means the
wit of Shakespeare. M. Taine falls into a mistake common to many
persons who understand Shakespeare but imperfectly. It is that
of attributing to him a certain style: “Let us, then, look for
the man, and in his style. The style explains the work.” Ordinary
writers have a style easily recognizable after slight study, but
Shakespeare has fifty styles, certainly at least one for every
character of marked individualism. This is not M. Taine’s view, for
he says: “Shakespeare’s style is a compound of furious expressions.
No man has submitted words to such a contortion. Mingled contrasts,
raving exaggerations, apostrophes, exclamations, the whole fury of
the ode, inversion of ideas, accumulation of images, the horrible
and the divine jumbled into the same line; it seems, to my fancy,
as though he never writes a word without shouting it” (p. 308).

If there is one peculiarity or merit of Shakespeare which,
more than another, has received the general assent of critics
and scholars, it is his eminently objective power. It is looked
upon as a striking proof of the great dramatist’s deep, clear
insight into the depths of the human heart, that he never thrusts
his individuality into his conception of characters. He never
mistakes the operations of his own mind for those of others, and
never confounds his personality with that of any of his dramatic
personages. Every page of Milton’s writings, it is said, exhibits a
full-length portrait of the author. Byron’s heroes, Lara, Conrad,
Manfred, and the rest, might interchange reflections and speeches,
and not seriously interfere with each other’s identity, and the
sentimental rubbish and trashy sophistry poured out from the mouths
of any of Bulwer’s men and women might answer for all of them. But
nothing that Romeo says could by possibility enter the mind of
Hamlet, and King Lear has not a line which would be fitting in the
mouth of Othello.

But M. Taine is not of this way of thinking. His theory is
diametrically opposed to this, and he finds Shakespeare eminently
subjective. He is always Shakespeare. “These characters are all
of the same family. _Good or bad, gross or delicate, refined or
awkward, Shakespeare gives them all the same kind of spirit which
is his own_” (p. 317). Hamlet is Shakespeare, the melancholy
Jaques[10] is Shakespeare, Othello is Shakespeare, and--Falstaff is
Shakespeare!

No, we do not exaggerate. Here are M. Taine’s words: “Hamlet,
it will be said, is half-mad; this explains his vehemence of
expression. The truth is that Hamlet here is Shakespeare” (p.
308). “Hamlet is Shakespeare, and, at the close of this gallery of
portraits, which have all some features of his own, Shakespeare has
painted himself in the most striking of all” (p. 340).

Things equal to the same are equal to each other. Lara being George
Gordon Noel Byron, and Conrad also being the same George, we see at
once why there exists a striking resemblance between them; but when
we are told that Hamlet and Falstaff, morally as far apart as the
poles, are yet painted from the same model, we find that too much
is asked of our credulity. Of Falstaff M. Taine says: “This big,
pot-bellied fellow, a coward, a jester, a brawler, a drunkard, a
lewd rascal, a pot-house poet, is one of Shakespeare’s favorites.
The reason is that his manners are those of pure nature, and
_Shakespeare’s mind is congenial with his own_” (p. 323). Wherein
this “drunkard and lewd rascal” resembles Prince Hamlet, and
wherein Shakespeare resembles either or both of them, is beyond the
range of any Anglo-Saxon or Teutonic mind to comprehend. Perhaps M.
Taine may be able to explain it. His book totally fails to do so.

No one can read this long chapter of fifty-five octavo pages on
Shakespeare without being struck by the skill with which the author
avoids mention of or reference to the dramatist’s most admirable
passages, and also by his elaborate and painstaking exposition of
the defects of Shakespeare’s inferior characters. Of the beauties
of Romeo and Juliet--the Queen Mab description alone excepted--we
hear nothing, but are regaled with two pages concerning “the most
complete of all these characters--the nurse,” and a long and severe
commentary on her “never-ending gossip’s babble.”[11] The same
remark may be made of Hamlet, a play of which M. Taine evidently
has no comprehension, if Coleridge, Hazlitt, Lamb, Ulrici, Tieck,
Goethe, and Schlegel at all understand it. Concerning Othello,
many paragraphs are frittered away in small criticism on the
characters of Iago and Cassio. Of the grand features of Othello
the reader obtains no glimpse, while a scandalous industry is
exercised in bringing out from under the cover of obscure texts
shocking pruriencies that are not perceived by the average reader
of Shakespeare.

We may be told that tastes differ, that what through tradition or
habit, perhaps, to us appear beauties, do not so strike a foreigner.

Let us test this by the criticism of another foreigner--not a
German, but a Frenchman--and we will find him selecting, as
prominent beauties on the first hearing of the play, the very
passages which also strike us on long and familiar acquaintance.

In the winter of 1829-30, a French version of Othello was
represented in a Parisian theatre, and that theatre--shades of
Corneille and Racine--the Théâtre Français! Mademoiselle Mars was
the Desdemona. The piece was a decided success, and in the _Revue
Française_ for January, 1830, there appeared an admirably written
article which was at once a _compte-rendu_ of the representation
and a criticism of the tragedy. It was from the pen of the Duc de
Broglie, and commanded universal attention. His description of the
desperate struggles of the two cliques--the Classical and the
Romantic--who were, of course, present in force, his account of the
effect of the piece upon the general audience, his analysis of the
motives of French admiration or blame of Shakespeare, are all most
interesting. But what we specially have to do with is his criticism
on the play and the dramatist. Here it is:

  “The effect of Othello’s narration was irresistible. This portion
  of the play is translated into all languages--its beauty is
  perfectly entrancing, its originality is unequalled. Even La
  Harpe could not refuse it the tribute of his admiration. But
  perhaps the scene which precedes and that which follows are even
  still more adapted to exhibit Shakespeare in all his greatness.
  How wonderful a painter of human nature was this man! How true is
  it that he has received from on high something of that creative
  power which, by breathing on a little dust, can transform it into
  a creature of life and immortality!”

Even as the Christian Anglo-Saxon was doomed to suffer at M.
Taine’s hands the outrage of attributed paganism, so also was
Shakespeare ignominiously foreordained (from the thirty-sixth page
of his first volume) to be a maniac Berserkir. And all because the
author has his little theory to carry out. Do you find it wonderful
that under such treatment the facts should suffer? Alas! other and
more important things must also suffer if such a work as this is
to receive the sanction of recognized critical authority, and be
placed in the hands of the rising generation.

To do M. Taine justice, he does not for a moment lose sight of
his Berserkir, and keeps him, in the soul of Shakespeare, well up
to his work. And so, Shakespeare’s Coriolanus is “an athlete of
war, with a voice like a trumpet; whose eyes by contradiction are
filled with a rush of blood and anger, proud and terrible in mood,
a lion’s soul in the body of a steer” (vol. i. p. 329).

For M. Taine, the grand trial act in the Merchant of Venice is
“the horrible scene in which Shylock brandished his butcher’s
knife before Antonio’s bare breast,” and King Lear is “the supreme
effort of pure imagination, a disease of reason which reason
could never have conceived.” But reason has so decidedly done the
contrary that an experienced physician of long practice in an
insane asylum (in the United States) has written an essay[12] to
show that Shakespeare’s physiological and psychological knowledge
and acquirements, as displayed in his tragedies, were in advance
of those of his age by fully two centuries, and, he adds, that the
wonderful skill and sagacity manifested by the great dramatist in
seizing upon the premonitory signs of insanity (as in King Lear),
which are usually overlooked by all, even the patient’s most
intimate friends and the members of his family, and weaving them
into the character of his hero as a necessary element, without
which it would be incomplete, like those of inferior artists, is a
matter of wonder to all modern psychologists.

To the Voltairian school of literature in the last century, the
plays of Shakespeare were “_ces monstrueuses farces que l’on
appelle des tragedies_,” and Hamlet, in particular, in Voltaire’s
judgment, “_seems the work of a drunken savage_.” When you have
read M. Taine on Shakespeare, first let the coruscations of his
verbal pyrotechnics subside, await the end of his epileptic
contortions of style, then scratch off a thin varnish of polite
concession, and you will find under it a Voltairian: although
not, we hope, brutal and cynical as was the great original in
his denunciation of those Frenchmen who were willing to claim
some talent for Shakespeare. Voltaire called them _faquins_,
_impudents_, _imbéciles_, _monstres_, etc. Such people were, he
said, a source of _calamity and horror_, and France did not contain
a sufficient number of pillories to punish _such a crime_. (“Letter
of Voltaire to Count d’Argental,” July 19, 1776.)

One of the most interesting books to be found in the English
language is Carlyle’s _French Revolution_. But it is interesting
only on condition that the reader is already familiar with
the history of that period. And we pay M. Taine’s work a high
compliment in saying that, in like manner, his _History of
English Literature_ will be found an interesting work to those
whose opinions on art and literature are formed, whose religious
principles are fixed, and whose judgments are sufficiently mature
to be in no danger of being affected by the artificial, erroneous,
and false views of man and his responsibilities, with which the
book abounds.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _History of English Literature._ By H. A. Taine. Translated by
H. Van Laun. With a Preface prepared expressly for this Translation
by the author. New York: Holt & Williams. 1871.

[2] Literal translation of the original falls thus into English
rhythm:

        “The field streamed with warriors’ blood,
    When rose at morning tide the glorious star,
    The sun, God’s shining candle, until sank
    The noble creature to its setting.”

[3] We have here substituted for M. Taine’s translation one that we
consider better, and we add the following poetical paraphrase of
the passage by Wordsworth:

    “Man’s life is like a sparrow, mighty king.
    That, while at banquet with your chiefs you sit,
    Housed near a blazing fire, is seen to flit,
    Safe from the wintry tempest. Fluttering,
    Here did it enter, there, on hasty wing,
    Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold:
    But whence it came we know not, nor behold
    Whither it goes. Even such, that transient thing,
    The human soul, not utterly unknown,
    While in the body lodged, the warm abode;
    But from what world she came, what woe or weal
    On her departure waits, no tongue hath shown.”

[4] M. Taine mildly states Milton’s obligations to Cædmon in
saying, “One would think he must have had some knowledge of Cædmon
from the translation of Junius.” It would be easy to show that some
of Milton’s finest descriptions of the fallen angels are taken from
Cædmon. Sir F. Palgrave says that there are in Cædmon passages so
like the _Paradise Lost_ that some of Milton’s lines read like an
almost literal translation.

[5] Version by Mr. Henry Morley.

[6] “Within Roger Bacon’s mind,” says Dr. Whewell, “was at the
same time the Encyclopædia and the Novum Organum of the thirteenth
century.”

[7] Expression of the historian Hallam.

[8] In his introductory chapter (vol. i. p. 36), M. Taine describes
the Berserkirs as fighting pagan maniacs. He coolly makes up his
mind that Shakespeare is a lineal descendant of a Berserkir! “With
what sadness, madness, waste, such a disposition breaks its bonds,
_we shall see in Shakespeare and Byron_”! And yet stupid English
biographers and historians are puzzling their brains and burning
midnight oil over the question of Shakespeare’s grandfather!

[9] “Take a seat, Cinna.”

[10] “A transparent mask, behind which we perceive the face of
the poet” (p. 346). Then follows a comparison between Molière and
Shakespeare, altogether to the disadvantage of the latter.

[11] We know of but one English author (of a Diary) with whose
appreciation of this tragedy M. Taine would be likely to be
pleased. It is that of the distinguished Mr. Samuel Pepys, who,
having seen Romeo and Juliet acted in March, 1672, pronounces the
play “to be the worst he had ever heard.” “A Midsummer Night’s
Dream” is also, in the opinion of Pepys aforesaid, “the most
insipid, ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life.”

[12] Published in a small volume. We regret we cannot recall the
title of the work and the author’s name.




FRAGMENTS OF EARLY ENGLISH POEMS ON THE PASSION.


Warton, in his _History of English Poetry_, has published a few
fragments of poems on the Passion, which he ascribes to the reigns
of Henry III. and Edward I. There is a harmony in the versification
of the following that one scarcely looks for at so early a date:

    “Jhesu for thi muckle might
      Thou gif us of thi grace,
    That we may day and night
      Thinken of thi face:
    In myn herte it doth me gode
      Whan y thinke on Jhesu blod,
    That ran down bi ys side;
      Fro ys herte dou to ys fot,
    For us he spradde ys hertis blod,
      His wondes wer so wyde.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “Ever and aye he haveth us in thought,
    He will not lose that he so dearly bought.”

One fragment more, which is taken from a sort of dialogue between
our Lord on the Cross and the devout soul:

    “Behold mi side,
    Mi woundes spred so wide,
    Restless I ride,
    Lok on me, and put fro ye pride:
    Dear man, mi love,
    For mi love sinne no more.”

    “Jhesu Christe, mi lemman swete,
      That for me deyedis on rood tree
    With al myn herte I the biseke
      For thi woundes two and thre:
    That so fast in mi herte
      Thi love rooted might be,
    As was the spere in thi side
      When thou suffredst deth for me.”

             --_Christian Schools and Scholars._




THE HOUSE OF YORKE.


CHAPTER XXV.

BOADICEA’S WATCH.

It was rather late when Mr. Yorke came down Sunday morning. The
storm was yet violent, and he did not mean to go out; and besides,
he had been tormented all night with disagreeable dreams. When he
appeared in the breakfast-room, Patrick had been to the village,
and had seen Father Rasle. The priest was resolutely keeping his
fast, and even hearing confessions.

The occurrence of the night before had stirred up the sluggish
faith and piety of those few Catholics who had not meant to attend
to their religious duties, and they crowded about their pastor at
the last moment.

It would, perhaps, be just as well not to describe the manner in
which Mr. Yorke received the news they had to tell him, for his
anger was scarcely greater toward the mob than toward his own
family. He would eat no breakfast, would scarcely stop to change
his slippers for boots, but started off to see Father Rasle.

“I shall bring the priest home with me; or, if he will not come,
shall stay with him, and defend him with my life from any further
outrage,” he said as he went out the door, addressing no one in
particular.

“We expect him to return with you, Charles,” his wife said; but he
paid no attention to her.

“Coddled like a great booby!” he muttered to himself as he strode
down the avenue. “Amy should have more respect for me, or, at
least, more regard for my reputation. It is a wonder she does not
dress me in petticoats, and set me spinning.”

“Never mind, mamma!” Clara said, kissing her mother, and leading
her into the house. “This storm will cool papa off nicely. He will
come home penitent, you may be sure. I only hope that you will hold
off a little, and not forgive him too readily.”

Mrs. Yorke wiped away the tears which had started at her husband’s
unusual severity.

“Never think to comfort your mother, my dear, by speaking
disrespectfully of your father,” she said, but, while chiding,
returned her daughter’s caress. “And do not think that I could
remember one moment any hasty word or act of his when I knew that
he was sorry for it. I do not at all wonder that your father is
annoyed at not having been called: I quite expected it.”

“Mother, I give you up,” Clara exclaimed. “Where Mr. Charles Yorke
is concerned, you have not a sign of--may I say spunk? That is what
I mean.”

“No, you may not,” replied Mrs. Yorke with decision. And so the
conversation dropped.

Patrick drove Edith to the church. When they entered, they found
the people all gathered; and in a few minutes Mass began. The scene
was touching. The congregation, prostrate before the altar, wept
silently; the choir, attempting to sing, faltered, and stopped in
the first hymn; and the priest, in turning toward his people,
could not trust himself to look at them, but closed his eyes or
glanced over their heads. Tears rolled down the faces of the
communicants when they knelt at the altar; and at the benediction
many wept aloud.

It was a Low Mass, and when it was over the priest addressed them.
He talked only a little while, but in those few words they found
both comfort and courage. They were not to mourn, but rather to
rejoice that he had been found worthy to suffer ignominy for
Christ’s sake. He translated and gave them for their motto these
words of St. Bernard: “_Pudeat sub spinato capite membrum fieri
delicatum_.” They should not seek persecution, indeed, but when
God sent it upon them they should accept it joyfully. For pain was
the only real treasure of earth, and real happiness was unknown,
save in anticipation, outside heaven. They belonged to the church
militant; and as their great Captain had marched in the van, with
shoulders bleeding from the lash, and forehead bleeding from the
thorn, they should blush to walk delicately and at ease in his
ensanguined footsteps. He implored them to pray constantly, and
keep themselves from sin, and, since they might for some time be
deprived of the sacraments, to take more than ordinary pains to
preserve the sacramental grace which they had just received. There
were a few words of farewell, uttered with difficulty, then he
ceased speaking.

When Father Rasle went out with Mr. Yorke, the weeping congregation
gathered about him, falling on their knees, some of them catching
at his robe as he passed by. He was obliged to tear himself away.

The storm was now over, and the sun burst forth brilliantly as
they stepped into the air. A carriage was in waiting, and, when he
had seated himself in it, with Mr. Yorke and Edith, Father Rasle
leaned out, looked once more with suffused eyes at his mourning
people, and raised his hand in benediction. Then the door closed
upon him, and they were alone.

A second carriage followed this containing four men, well armed,
and several other men, armed also, took the shorter road, through
East Street and the woods, to Mr. Yorke’s house. Whatever they
might suffer, these men did not mean that any further violence
should be offered to their priest or to the man who protected him.

As the carriage drove up the avenue, Mrs. Yorke and her two
daughters came down the steps to receive their guest. Both Mrs.
Yorke and Clara, who were speechless with emotion, gave a silent
welcome; but Melicent, much to her own satisfaction, was able to
pronounce an eloquent little oration. In the entry Betsey stood
stiffly, the two young Pattens in perspective. Thinking, probably,
that one of her abrupt courtesies was not enough for the occasion,
this good creature made a succession of them as long as the priest
was visible, young Sally bobbing in unison. Paul, duly instructed
by his mother, waited till the proper moment, then bowed from the
waist, till he made a pretty accurate right-angle of himself.

All that day, besides the regular guard, the Irish were coming and
going about the house, and when toward night they retired to their
homes, the guard was doubled.

Sally Patten came over in the evening and offered her services.
Joe could take care of the young ones, and her desire was to stay
all night and keep watch at the Yorkes’. It was in vain for them
to say that she was not needed. With every sort of compliment, and
every demonstration of respect, she persisted in staying. Betsey,
she said, had slept none the night before, and would be needed
about the house the next day, and they might all rest better if
there were a vigilant watcher in-doors as well as out. Men were
slow and stupid sometimes, but there was no danger of her letting
slumber steal over her eyelids.

“Well, it is true, my head does feel like a soggy batter-pudding,”
Betsey owned, beginning to waver. “I had a jumping toothache all
Friday night, and last night I never slept one wink.”

“Besides,” continued Boadicea, growing heroic, “when the two eldest
of my offspring are in the jaws of destruction, my place is beside
them.”

It was impossible to resist such an argument, and she was permitted
to have her way.

“I was going to leave the door unlocked, so that the men could come
in and get their luncheon,” Betsey said. “But as you are here,
perhaps you will carry it out to them.”

A dignified bow was the only reply. Mrs. Patten considered so
trivial a subject as luncheon irrelevant to these thrilling
circumstances. The question in her mind at this moment was what
weapon she should use in the event of an attack. Her taste was
for the mediæval, and she would have welcomed with enthusiasm the
sight of a battle-axe or a halberd; but since these were not to
be had, she inclined toward a long iron shovel that stood in the
chimney-corner, reaching nearly to the mantelpiece. This would give
a telling blow, and would, moreover, allow of a fine swing of the
arms in its wielding.

“Now, here are two coffee-pots full,” Betsey said. “This is done, I
think, and will do to begin with. You might put water to the other
so as to have it ready about twelve o’clock. I believe in having
something to eat and drink, no matter what happens. About all that
keeps me from joining the Catholic Church is their fasting. I
couldn’t praise God on an empty stomach; I should be all the time
thinking how hungry I was. If it warn’t for that, I do believe,
the folks here act so like the old boy, I’d turn Catholic just for
spite, if nothing else. Give ’em as many of them pumpkin-pies as
they want to eat. Give ’em all there is in the closet, if they want
it.”

Sally listened, superior, and merely bowed in reply.

Betsey set out a private lunch, and poured a cup of coffee. “Now,
you take this, Mrs. Patten,” she said, “and make yourself as
comfortable as you can. It will help you to keep awake.”

Boadicea hesitated, then, with a smile of lofty disdain, swallowed
the coffee. Why should she attempt the vain task of making that
unheroic soul comprehend the emotions which agitated her own
spirit? Pumpkin pies and coffee help to keep her awake! Well, she
swallowed them, but merely to escape the multiplying of trivial and
inconsequent words.

At length the happy moment came when all in the house had gone to
bed, and she was left alone.

And now indeed her soul swelled within her, and visions of possible
heroic adventure rose before her mind’s eye. She put out the lamp,
and pushed the logs of the fire so closely together that only a
dull-red glow escaped. She set the doors all open, and walked
stealthily from room to room, gazing from window after window,
stopping now and then to listen, with her head aside and her arms
extended. There was a smoldering knot of wood in both the parlor
and sitting-room fireplaces, and the faint light from them and from
the kitchen threw gigantic fantastic shadows of her on the walls
and ceiling as she moved about.

Clara, feeling restless, came softly down once, and, seeing this
strange figure, stole quickly back to bed again, and lay there
trembling with fear all night.

But Boadicea kept her watch in glorious unconsciousness of
realities. The place had undergone a change to her mind during
those lonely hours. It was no longer a common, wooden country
house, but a castle, with walls of stone, and battlements,
barbacan, and drawbridge. Mrs. Yorke was a fair ladie sleeping in
her bower (not even in thought would Sally have spelt lady with a
_y_), Mr. Yorke was a battle-worn warrior, Father Rasle the family
chaplain and my lady’s confessor. Without, the retainers watched,
and an insidious foe lurked in the darkness, ready for bold attack
or treacherous entry through a chink in the wall. Even now some
vile caitiff might have obtained entrance, and be lurking behind
yonder arras.

At that thought, Sally seized the kitchen shovel, and crept
stealthily toward the parlor window, a grotesque shadow
accompanying her, leaping across the ceiling in one breathless
bound. She paused, and stared at the heavy drapery that seemed to
outline a human form, and the shadow paused. She crept a step or
two nearer, and the shadow dropped down and confronted her. She
grasped the weapon firmly in her right hand, and, stretching the
left, with one vigorous twitch pulled down Mrs. Yorke’s damask
curtain.

For a moment Sally felt rather foolish. She put the curtain up as
best she could, and then went to give the garrison their midnight
lunch.

“And what is it ails the old lady?” asked one of the men of a
companion. “Is it dumb that she is?” For this great, gaunt creature
had given them their refreshments in utter silence and with many a
tragical gesture.

She bent suddenly toward the speaker, raised her hand in warning,
and whispered sharply, “Be vigilant!”

“What does she mean at all?” exclaimed the man in alarm, as Sally
stalked away, very much bent forward, and looking to right and left
at every step, as one sees people do on the stage sometimes. His
impression was that something awful had taken place in the house.

In short, it was a glorious night for this poor addled soul--a
night which would grow more and more in her imagination, till,
after the passage of years, her most sincere description of it
would never be recognized by one of the real actors.

Daylight came at length without there having been the slightest
disturbance. Betsey came down to relieve guard, and Sally, weary
but enthusiastic still, went home to electrify Joe with the recital
of her adventures.

Clara, coming down before the rest of the family, was astonished to
find the kitchen shovel reclining on one of the parlor chairs, and
a crimson curtain put up with the yellow lining inside the room.

Father Rasle appeared in a few minutes, and took an affectionate
leave of the men who had spent the night in guarding his rest; and,
as soon as breakfast was over, he and Mr. Yorke started for Bragon.

Edith saw him go without any poignant regret for her own part,
for she was to remain in Seaton but a few weeks longer. But her
heart ached for the poor people who were so soon to be left utterly
friendless. The burden of the pain had fallen, where it always
falls, on the poor. A group of them stood at the gate when the
travellers went through, and others met them in North Street, and
all gazed after the carriage, with breaking hearts, as long as it
was in sight. When might they hope to see a priest again? When
again would the Mass-bell summon them to bow before the uplifted
Host, and the communion cloth be spread for their heavenly banquet?
They cared little for the mocking smile and word, but covered their
faces and wept when their pastor disappeared from their gaze.

Patrick went down to the post-office, and came back bringing
a letter for Edith, which had lain in the office since Sunday
morning. The letter was from Mrs. Rowan-Williams, and contained but
a line: “My son is at home, dangerously sick with a fever.”

“The sentiment which attends the sudden revelation that _all is
lost_,” says De Quincey, “silently is gathered up into the heart;
it is too deep for gestures or for words, and no part of it passes
to the outside.”

Nor is the silence more profound when a slight possibility, over
which we have no control, still interposes between the heart and
utter loss.

Edith put the letter into her aunt’s hand. “I must go immediately
to Bragon, to take the cars,” she said quietly. “Will you tell
Patrick to get a carriage? I will be ready in a little while.”

She went up-stairs to put on a travelling-dress, and pack what she
wished to take with her. The selection was calmly and carefully
made. There was no need of haste. In less than an hour everything
was ready, and the carriage at the door.

“I have sent a telegram to your uncle, and he will meet you, and go
on to Boston with you to-night,” her aunt said.

Melicent offered her a cup of coffee, and she put it to her lips,
and tried to drink it; but all the muscles of her mouth and throat
seemed to be fixed, and she could not swallow a drop. She gave back
the cup, without uttering a word.

“I have put some fruit and a small bottle of sherry into this
luncheon-bag for you,” Mrs. Yorke said hastily. “You must try to
take a little on the way. You do not want to lose your strength,
and these will be refreshing.”

No one mentioned Dick Rowan’s name to Edith, or offered a word of
comfort. They even refrained from expressing too much solicitude
and affection, and only kissed her silently when she went out.
“Do nothing but what is necessary,” Mrs. Yorke had said to her
daughters. “There is no greater torture, at such a time, than to
be fretted about trifles. Think of her feelings, not of expressing
your own.”

Neither Betsey nor her assistants were allowed to appear, and
Patrick had orders to speak only when he was spoken to, and not on
any account to mention Mr. Rowan’s name.

“If he dies, it will kill Edith,” Mrs. Yorke said, letting her
tears flow when her niece was out of sight.

Some such thought was in Edith’s own mind during that long drive.
If Dick Rowan should die, her peace and joy would die with him; not
that he was everything to her, but because she could never accept a
happiness which was only to be reached over his grave. Edith loved
Carl Yorke with all her heart, he attracted her irresistibly, and
seemed rather a part of herself than a separate being; yet at
that moment the thought of his death would have been to her more
tolerable than the thought of Dick Rowan’s.

Mrs. Yorke’s telegram was at the priest’s house awaiting her
husband when he arrived, and he went at once to the hotel where his
niece was to meet him. Soon they were on the way.

“The Catholics here are in a state of the wildest excitement,”
he said. “The news arrived before we did, and the Irish want to
go down and burn Seaton to the ground. Father Rasle will have
difficulty in quieting them. The better class of Protestants,
even, cry out against the outrage. They have called an indignation
meeting for to-night, and the Protestant gentlemen are contributing
to buy the priest a watch. His watch and pocket-book were stolen
Saturday night, you know.”

Though Edith said but little in reply, it was not because she had
more important matter in her mind. The number of seats in the car
she counted over with weary persistence, the number of narrow
boards in the side of the car she learned by heart. She knew just
how the lamp swung, and could have described accurately afterward
the face and costume of the boy who sold papers and lemonade
and pop-corn. Not till the weary night was over, and her uncle
said, “Here we are in Boston!” did she awaken from that nightmare
entanglement of littlenesses. Then first she showed some agitation.

“Drive directly to Mrs. Williams’s,” she said, “and, while I sit in
the carriage, go to the door, and ask how he is. If they tell you
that he is better, say it out loud, quickly, but if--if the news is
not good, don’t say one word to me, only take me into the house.”

A telegram had been sent to Mrs. Williams, and Edith was expected.
As Mr. Yorke went up the step, the door opened, and Dick’s mother
stood there.

Edith leaned back in the carriage, and covered her face with her
hands. She had not dared to look at the house, lest some sign of
mourning should meet her glance. “O Mother of Perpetual Succor!”
she exclaimed.

“He is no worse, my dear,” her uncle said at the carriage-door. “I
think you need not fear. Come! Mrs. Williams is waiting for you.”

Edith lifted her hands and eyes, and repeated her aspiration, “O
Mother of Perpetual Succor!” but with what a difference!--not with
anguish and imploring, but with passionate gratitude. Dick would
live, she saw that at once. If the blow had not fallen, then it was
not to fall now.


CHAPTER XXVI.

DICK’S VISION.

When Dick Rowan came home the first time after his mother’s
marriage, both she and her husband had desired him to select a
chamber in their house which should always be his. He chose an
unfurnished one nearly at the top of the house, and, after several
playful skirmishes with his mother, who would fain have adorned it
with velvet and lace, fitted it up to suit himself. It was large,
sunny, and quiet; and there was but little in it besides an Indian
matting, an iron bed, a writing-table, wicker chairs, and white
muslin curtains, that did not even pretend to shut out the light.
There was nothing on the walls but a book-case and a crucifix,
nothing on the mantelpiece but a clock. The young man’s tastes were
simple, almost ascetical, and he protested that he could not draw
free breath in a room smothered in thick upholstery. Sunshine,
fresh air, pure water, and cleanliness--those he must have. Other
things might be dispensed with.

In this chamber Dick lay now, his body a prey to fever, his mind
wandering in wild and tumultuous scenes. He was at sea, in a storm,
and the ship was going down; he was wrecked, and parched with
thirst in a wilderness of waters; he was sailing into a strange
port, and suddenly the shore swarmed with enemies, and he saw huge
cannon-mouths just breaking into flame, and flights of poisoned
arrows just twanging from their bows; he was at Seaton again, a
poor, friendless boy, and his father was reeling home drunk, with a
rabble shouting at his heels. And always, whatever scene his fancy
might conjure up, his ears were deafened by the strong rush of
waves, adding confusion to terror and pain.

One day, when he had been crying out against this torment, a pair
of cool, small hands were clasped tightly about his forehead, and a
voice asked, low and clear, “Doesn’t that make the waves seem less,
Dick?”

He left off speaking, and lay listening intently.

“There are no waves nor storm,” the voice said calmly. “You are
not at sea. You are safe at home. But your head aches so that it
makes you fancy things. What you hear is blood rushing through the
arteries. I am going to put a bandage round your head. That will do
you good.”

Dick turned his head as Edith took her hands away, and followed her
with his eyes while she took a few steps to get what she wanted.
She smiled at him as she stood measuring off the strip of linen,
and making up little rolls of linen to press on the arteries of
the temples; and though her face was thin and white, and her eyes
filled, in spite of her, when she smiled, the image was a cheerful
one in that darkened room. She wore a dress of green cloth, soft
and lustrous, and had a rosebud in her hair. The effect was cool
and sweet. As she moved quietly about, the patient gazed at her,
and his gaze seemed to be wondering and confused, rather than
insane.

She drew the bandage tightly about his head, pressed hard on the
throbbing arteries, and sprinkled cold water on the linen and his
hair. She had observed that he started whenever ice was put to his
head, and therefore kept it cool, and avoided giving a shock.

“You are sick, and I am going to make you well,” she said. “You are
not to think, but to obey. I will do the thinking. Will you trust
me?”

“Yes, Edith,” he answered, after a pause, looking steadfastly at
her, seeming in doubt whether it were a real form he saw, a real
voice he heard.

“This is your room, you see,” she said, laying one hand on his, and
pointing with the other. “That is your book-shelf, there is your
table and your crucifix. You know it all; but sickness and darkness
are so confusing. Now, I’m going to give you one little glimpse of
out-doors, only for a minute, though, because it would hurt your
head to have too much light.”

She went to the window, and drew aside the thick green curtain, and
a golden ray from the setting sun flew in like a bird, and alighted
on the clock. Those sick eyes shrank a little, but brightened. She
returned, and leaned over the pillow, so as to have the same view
through the window with him. “That green hill is Longwood,” she
said; “and there is the flagstaff on the top of Mr. B----’s house,
looking like the mast of a ship. Now I shall drop the curtain, and
you are to go to sleep.”

So, as his feverish fancies rose like mists, her calm denial or
explanation swept them away; or, if the delirium fit was too strong
for that, she held his hand, to assure him of companionship, and
went with him wherever his tyrannical imagination dragged him,
and found help there. When he sank in deeps of ocean, he heard
a voice, as if from heaven, saying, “He who made the waves is
stronger than they. Hold on to God, and he will not let you go.”
If foes threatened him, he heard the reassuring text: “_The Lord
is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the
protector of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?_” If he groped
in desolation, and cried out that every one had deserted him, she
repeated: “_For my father and my mother have left me, but the Lord
hath taken me up_.” “_Expect the Lord, do manfully, and let thy
heart take courage, and wait thou for the Lord._”

She followed him thus from terror to terror, imagining all the
bitterness of them, trying to take that bitterness to herself, till
they began to grow real to her, and she was glad to escape into the
wholesome outer world, and see with her own eyes that the universe
was not a sick-room.

Hester had come up, and she called and took Edith out for a drive
every day; and sometimes she went home to Hester’s house, and
played with the children a while. She found their childish gayety
and carelessness very soothing.

“Carl and I are fitting up the house for the family,” Hester said
one day. “They are all to come up the last of the month. I shall
be so glad! It is delightful to go through the dear old familiar
rooms, and look from the windows, just as I used to. We new-furnish
the parlors only. Mamma wishes to use all the old things she can.”

“I cannot stop to-day,” Edith said; “but I would like to see the
house soon. You know I saw only the outside of it when I was here
before.”

“Carl is going to England before they come up,” Hester said
hesitatingly. “I don’t know why he does not wait for them, but he
has engaged passage for next week. I believe he means to be gone
only a month or two.”

Edith leaned back in the carriage, and made no reply. When she
spoke, after a while, it was to ask to be taken back to Mrs.
Williams’.

From Dick Rowan’s wandering talk, she had learned the history
of his last few weeks. She perceived that Father John and his
household must have known perfectly well what their visitor’s
trouble was, and that they had watched over and sympathized with
him most tenderly. Dick’s pride was not of a kind that would lead
him to dissemble his feelings or conceal them from those of whose
friendship and sympathy he was assured. Why should he conceal what
he was not ashamed of? he would have asked. She learned that he had
spent hours before the altar, that he had fasted and prayed, that
he had gone out in the storm at night, and walked the yard of the
priest’s house, going in only when Father John had peremptorily
commanded him to. These reckless exposures, combined with mental
distress, had caused his illness. Dick had never before been ill
a day, and could not believe that a physical inconvenience and
discomfort, which he despised, would at last overpower him.

One Sunday afternoon, a week after Edith’s arrival, the patient
opened his eyes, and looked about with a languid but conscious
gaze, all the fever and delirium gone, and, also, all the human
dross burned out of him. No person was in sight, and his heavy lids
were dropping again, when his glance was arrested by a pictured
face so perfect, that, to his misty sense, it seemed alive. It
was an exquisite engraving of Rubens’ portrait of St. Ignatius,
not the weak and sentimental copy we most frequently see, but one
full of expression. Large, slow tears, unnoted by him, rolled down
his face. The lips, slightly parted, and tremulous with a divine
sorrow, were more eloquent than any words could be. His finger
pointed to the legend, “_Ad majorem Dei gloriam_,” and one could
see plainly that in his fervent soul there was room for no other
thought. With such a face might St. John have looked, bearing for
ever in his heart the image of the Crucified.

The first glance of Dick Rowan’s eyes was startled, as though he
saw a vision, then his gaze became so intense that, from very
weakness, his lids dropped, and he slept again. In that slumber,
long, deep, and strengthening, the slackened thread of vitality in
him began to knit itself together again.

“All we have to do now is to prevent his getting up too soon,”
the doctor said. “It would be like him to insist on going out
to-morrow.”

The danger over, a breath of spring seemed to blow through the
house. The servants told each other, with smiling faces, that Mr.
Rowan was better. Mrs. Williams waked up to the fact that her
personal appearance had been notably neglected of late, and, after
kissing Edith with joyful effusion, went to put on her hair and a
clean collar. Miss Williams opened her piano, put her foot on the
soft pedal, and played a composition which made her father look
at her wonderingly over his spectacles. Had it not been Sunday,
he would have thought that Ellen was playing a polka. In fact, it
was a polka, and sounded so very much like what it was that Mr.
Williams presently ventured a faint remonstrance.

“Oh! nonsense, papa!” laughed the musician over her shoulder. “It
is a hymn of praise, by Strauss.”

“Strauss?” repeated her father doubtfully. He thought the name
sounded familiar.

“Mendelssohn, I mean,” corrected she, with the greatest hardihood,
and shook a shower of sparkling notes from her finger-ends.

Miss Ellen was one of the progressive damsels of the time.

Mr. Williams looked toward the door, and smiled pleasantly,
seeing Miss Yorke come in, and she returned his greeting with one
as friendly. There was a feeling of kindness between the two.
This gentleman was not very gallant, but, being in his wife’s
confidence, and aware therefore that Edith had been looked on by
her as a culprit, he had taken pains to make her feel at ease
with him. Moreover, in common with a good many other middle-aged,
matter-of-fact men, he had a carefully-concealed vein of
sentimentality in his composition, and was capable of being deeply
interested in a genuine love affair. With a great affectation of
contempt, Mr. Williams would yet devour every word of a romantic
story at which his daughter would most sincerely turn up her nose.
It is indeed on record, in the diary of the first Mrs. Williams,
that her husband sat up late one night, on pretence of posting his
books, and that, after twelve o’clock, she went down-stairs and
found him, as she expressed it, “snivelling over” _The Hungarian
Brothers_. “Which astonished me in so sensible a man as John,” the
lady added.

Edith took a chair by a window and looked out into the street, and
Mr. Williams turned over the book on his knee. It was a volume
of sermons which he was in the habit of pretending to read every
Sunday afternoon. Intellectually, Mr. Williams was sceptical; and
had one propounded to him, one by one, the doctrines he heard
preached every Sunday, and asked him if he believed them, he would
probably have answered, “Well, no, I don’t know as I do exactly”;
but early education by a mother whose religion was earnest if
mistaken, and that necessity for some supernatural element in the
life which is the mark of our divine origin, impelled him to an
observance of what he did not believe, for the want of something
better which he could believe.

When Dick waked again, the first object he saw was his mother’s
face, full of tearful joy. She smiled, quivered, tried to speak,
and could not.

“Poor mother! what a trouble I am to you!” he said, and would have
held his hand out to her, but found himself unable to raise it. He
looked, and saw it thin and transparent, glanced with an expression
of astonished inquiry into his mother’s face, and understood it
all. “I must have been sick a long time, mother,” he said.

She kissed him tenderly. “Yes, my dear boy. But it is all over now,
thank God!”

“Poor mother!” he said again. “I must have worn you out. Have you
taken all the care of me?”

“No! Edith was here,” she answered timidly. “She is a good nurse,
Dick.”

“Edith?” he echoed with surprise; and, after a moment’s thought,
added quietly, “Yes, I recollect seeing her. She helped me a great
deal, I think, dear child!”

“Would you like to see her?” his mother asked. “She has only just
left the room.”

“Not now, mother,” he answered. “She will come presently. I cannot
talk much now.”

He closed his eyes again, and lay in that delicious trance of
convalescence, when simply to breathe is enough for contentment--the
lips slightly parted, the form absolutely at rest, the eyes not so
closed but a faint twilight enters through the lashes--a sweet,
happy mood. When his mother moved softly about, Dick lifted his
lids now and then, but was not disturbed. Sometimes, before closing
them again, his half-seeing eyes dwelt a moment on some object in
the room. After one of these dreamy glances, there entered through
his lashes the vision of a face that seemed to cry aloud to him a
piercing summons.

He started up as if electrified, and stretched his arms out. “Stay!
stay!” he cried, and saw that it was no vision, but a pictured,
saintly face, with tears on the cheeks, and lips from which a
message seemed to have just escaped.

“Dick, what is the matter?” his mother exclaimed in terror.

He sank back on the pillows. “I saw it before, and thought it was a
dream,” he whispered. “I was thinking of it as I lay here.”

“The picture?” his mother asked. “Edith hung it there. I will take
it away if you don’t like it.”

“I do like it,” he answered faintly. “It is a blessed, blessed
vision.” He lay looking at it a while, then slipped his hand
under the pillow and found a little crucifix that he had always
kept there. At the beginning of his illness his mother had taken
it away, but Edith had returned and kept it there, seeing that
he sometimes sought for it. He drew it forth now, pressed it
passionately to his lips, then, holding it in the open palm of
his hand, on the pillow, turned his cheek to it with a gesture of
childlike fondness. “O my Love!” he whispered.

“Shall I tell Edith to come in?” his mother asked, catching the
whisper.

“Not now, not to-night, mother,” he answered softly.

But the next morning he asked to see the whole family, with the
servants, and, when they came, thanked them affectionately for what
they had done for him, taking each one by the hand. When Edith
approached, a slight color flickered in his cheeks, and he looked
at her earnestly. Her changed face seemed to distress him. “Dear
child, I have been killing you!” he said.

At his perfectly unembarrassed and friendly address, Edith’s worst
fear took flight. If Dick had reproached or been cold to her, she
would have defended herself without difficulty; but if he had
shrunk from her, she could scarcely have borne it.

The doctor was quite right in saying that their only difficulty
would be in keeping their patient quiet, for Dick insisted on
sitting up that very day.

“The doctor wishes you to lie still,” his mother said.

“And I wish to get up,” he retorted, smiling, but wilful.

“The Lord wishes you to lie still, Dick,” Edith said.

He became quiet at once. “Do you think so?” he asked.

“Father John will tell you,” she answered, as the door opened to
give admittance to the priest.

Of course Father John confirmed her assertion. “Everything in its
time, young man,” he said cheerfully. “This enforced physical
illness may be to you a time of richest spiritual benefit. You have
now leisure for reading and contemplation which you will not have
when you go out into active life again. You must let Miss Edith
read to you.”

Before leaving his penitent, the priest proposed to give him Holy
Communion the next morning; but Dick hesitatingly objected. “Not
that I do not long for it, father,” he made haste to add; “but I
wish to recollect myself. Like St. Paul, _I desire to be dissolved
and be with Christ_, but I wish to endure that desire a little
longer, till I shall be better prepared to be with him.”

Seeing the priest look at him attentively, he blushed, and added:
“Of course I do not mean to compare myself with St. Paul, sir,” and
was for a moment mortified and disconcerted at what he supposed
Father John would think his presumption.

“There is no reason why you and I may not have precisely the same
feelings that St. Paul had,” the priest said quietly.

Edith found letters in her room from Seaton. Her aunt wrote that
they were busily making the last arrangements for their moving, and
gave her many kind messages from her friends. The house in Seaton
had been leased advantageously, and they hoped that the lessee
might be able to buy it after a while, as he wished to. They were
to bring all their household with them, Betsey, Patrick, and the
young Pattens. The prospect of being left behind had so afflicted
these faithful creatures that she had not the heart to desert them.

Clara wrote a long, gossiping letter. “I must tell you what an
absurd little stale romance is being acted here,” she wrote,
“for mamma is sure to tell you nothing about it. Prepare to be
astonished by the most surprising, the most bewildering, etc. (see
Mme. de Sévigné). Mr. Griffeth has proposed for Melicent, and
Melicent is willing, so she says! Papa and mamma are frantic, and
Mel goes about with a persecuted, inscrutable look which distracts
me. I sometimes think that she is only pretending in order to have
a fuss made over her, but one cannot be sure. You know she always
prided herself on her good sense and judgment, and my experience is
that when such persons do a foolish thing,

  ‘They are So (ultra) cinian, they shock the Socinians.’

“We highfliers commit follies with a certain grace, and we know
when we reach the step between the sublime and the ridiculous;
but these clumsy sensible people are like dancing elephants, and
have no conception how absurd they are. (Did you ever observe that
people who have no _un_common sense always claim to have a monopoly
of the common sense?)

“It seems that Mel has had no intercourse with the man lately,
except what we have known, but he has been giving her some of those
expressive glances which are so effective when one has practised
them long enough. ‘Oh! those looks which have so little force in
law, but so much in equity!’ Mamma said that she would rather see
a daughter of hers married to Mr. Conway than to Mr. Griffeth,
for Mr. Conway had principle if he was not clever, and Mel made
a pretty good answer. ‘There is always hope,’ she said, ‘that an
irreligious person may be converted, but there is no conversion for
the commonplace.’ Mel thinks Mr. Griffeth remarkably intellectual,
and papa ridiculed the idea. The little man, he said, resembled
Cæsar in one respect, for whereas Cæsar wore the laurel wreath
to cover his bald pate, the minister took refuge in verbiage to
hide his baldness of thought. This having no effect, I gave the
‘most unkindest cut of all.’ I reminded her that he had tried both
you and me first, and we didn’t know how many more. Her reply
was to hand me a copy of Browning’s _Men and Women_, open at
“Misconceptions.” She had marked the words:

    “This is the spray the Bird clung to,
      Making it blossom with pleasure,
    Ere the high tree-top she sprang to,
      Fit for her nest and her treasure.”

“But I thought that her smile was something like that of one who is
taking medicine heroically, a sort of quinine-smile.

“There is but one way if we do not wish to have this howling
dervish in the family: we must exhibit, as the doctors say, a
counter-irritant--that is, find Mel another lover. I am convinced
that she will never voluntarily relinquish one romance except in
favor of one more.”


CHAPTER XXVII.

CARL YORKE’S ORBIT.

As Dick Rowan gained strength in those first days of convalescence,
Edith perceived that he had changed toward her. The manifestations
of this change were slight, she was not sure that he was himself
conscious of them, but they were decided. It was not that he
showed any unkindness, or even indifference, but his being seemed
to be--scarcely yet revolving round, but--brooding round a new
centre. He frequently became absorbed in contemplation, from which
he recalled himself with difficulty, though always cheerfully. Not
a tinge of pain marred the peaceful silence of his mood. It was
like that exquisite pause we sometimes see in the weather, when,
after a violent storm, the winds and blackness withdraw, and there
comes an hour of tender, misty silence before the sunshine breaks
forth. His eyes would turn upon her kindly, and, still looking,
forget her, and she saw that something of more importance had
usurped her image.

He was decided and self-reliant, too, in some things, and seemed
rather displeased than grateful for too much solicitude on the part
of others. He put aside entirely the usual sick-room inquiries. “I
am getting well,” he said, “and need not count how often I stumble
in learning to walk again. My miserable body has received attention
enough. Let us forget it, now that we may.”

Edith began to read, in obedience to Father John, but the books
she chose at first did not quite suit the listener. Even the _St.
Theresa_ and _The Following of Christ_, which she found on his
shelves, did not seem to be what he wanted then. She brought some
of her books, but could see that his own meditations were more
agreeable to him.

“I do not like to find fault with a pious writer,” Dick said
uneasily. “They are all good, but I have thought that some of them
sometimes--” He broke off abruptly. “Edith, is there such a word as
_platitudinize_?”

“I do not think that it is in the dictionary,” she replied, smiling.

“It is, then, an omission,” said Dick.

“Try the Gospels,” Father John said, when Edith told him her
difficulty. “Different states of mind require different reading,
just as different states of the body require different food and
medicine. I frequently advise people, whom I find having a distaste
for spiritual reading, to read the Gospels, and refresh their
memory of all the events recorded there by the simply-told story.
I always find that they return with delight and profit to the
meditations of those holy souls whose lives have been spent in the
study of these mysteries. These writers assume that the reader has
freshly in his mind that of which they treat. You cannot meditate
on a subject, nor follow clearly the meditations of another, when
the facts are not familiar to your own mind.”

Edith read the Gospels, therefore, and was astonished at their
effect on Dick. Either his perceptions had been sharpened during
his illness, or some obstructions had been cleared away from the
passage to his heart. This was not to him an old story, worn and
deadened with much telling, and slipping past his hearing without
leaving a trace, but a tragedy newly enacted, none of its edge
gone, every circumstance as sharp as a thorn, tearing in the
telling. While Edith read the story of the Lord as told by the four
great witnesses, and added the outpourings of those fiery Epistles,
the listener’s agitation was so great that she was often compelled
to stop. At the chapters which related to the passion, Dick’s
hands trembled and grew cold, and his head dropped back against
the cushions of his chair. The Epistles of St. Paul stirred him
especially.

“Now, Dick, if you don’t behave I won’t read you another word!”
Edith exclaimed, one day, when he had started out of his chair, and
begun to walk about.

He came back with a stumbling step, and seated himself, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead.

“I believe I shall have to postpone St. Paul till I am able to go
out-doors,” he said breathlessly.

Observing his eyes frequently wander to the St. Ignatius, she
remarked: “He looks as though he were present when our Lord was
crucified, and could not forget the sight.”

“We were all present!” he exclaimed. “How can we forget it?”

Long and intimate as their acquaintance had been, Edith thought now
that she had not known Dick Rowan well. She had praised, defended,
and loved him with sisterly fondness, but always, involuntarily,
almost unconsciously, from a higher plane than his. Now she looked
up to him as her superior. But, in truth, she had know him well,
and done him full justice. The difference now was that the full
current of his nature was turned into a higher channel.

One day Hester sent the carriage to take Edith to see the family
house, which was as complete as it could be before the arrival of
the family. Hester herself was detained at home by company, but she
sent a line: “Carl will be there, and the man who is putting up the
curtains, and the woman who is cleaning the closet in your room. So
you will not be lost, nor want for information.”

Edith had just begun her reading when the note was given to her.
She handed it to Dick to read.

“That settles the question,” he said, holding out his hand for the
book. “While you read to me yesterday, the thought occurred to me
that I could do it for myself, and I meant that this should be your
last reading. Go and take the air, Edith. You have been too much
shut up. This is your last day but one with me as an invalid.”

She looked at him with a startled expression.

“Because,” he answered smilingly to her look, “to-morrow I drive
out, the day after I shall sit down-stairs, and the next day I
shall forget that I have ever been sick.”

He looked thoroughly contented and cheerful. There was no lurking
sadness, nor reluctance to have her go. Dick was too transparent to
hide it if there were. As well might the lake show a smooth surface
while waves were rolling below. His soul had, indeed, always been
more placid than his manner.

Before Edith had left the room, he was turning over the leaves of
the book, a new one to him; and when she stepped into the carriage
at the curbstone, he was so absorbed in reading as not to know that
she was looking up at the window where he sat. The book rested on
the wide arm of his chair, his elbow near it, the hand supporting
his forehead. His hair had been cut off, and thus his full brow and
finely shaped head were clearly displayed. His hands were beginning
to look alive, his cheeks to get back their color. So he leaned and
read, and she drove away.

She was going to meet Carl, and she was glad of it, though at
Seaton she had thought that she must not see him again. The
second thought had shown her how unnecessary and Quixotic this
resolution had been, made in the first shock and confusion caused
by Dick Rowan’s distress, and her own discovery of the depth of
her own affection for Carl. She had since then put aside her own
imagination and that of others, and examined her heart as it was,
not as it might become under circumstances which she no longer
expected to find herself in. She and Carl were nearly related
by marriage, and he had been her teacher, and kind and delicate
friend. She had lived in the same house with him seven years, a
longer time than she had been associated intimately with Dick
Rowan, and her intercourse with him had been such as to call out
all that was most amiable in his character, and that at a time
when her own mind was maturing, and capable of receiving its most
profound impressions. She asked herself what the charm had been in
her intercourse with him, and the answer was immediate: a quick
and thorough sympathy in everything natural. For the supernatural,
so careful had he been not to offend her conscience, and so highly
had he appreciated religion in her, she had felt no sense of
discordance, but only that he lacked a faith which she hoped and
expected he would one day possess. Carl had never intruded his
scepticism on her. What, she asked herself then, had she wished
regarding him? and the answer was no more doubtful; she had wished
to be his most confidential and sympathizing friend, and had shrunk
with pain from the thought of any one coming nearer to his heart
than herself, or as near. Even of these wishes she had been almost
unconscious till others had forced them on her attention. Of Dick
Rowan’s friendships she could never have been jealous, and she
could never have suffered from them. Here she stopped, and set her
Christian will and her maiden reserve as a firm barrier against her
own imagination or the intrusive imaginations of others taking one
step further. She was ready to fling her _Honni soit qui mal y
pense_ in the face of any evil speaker.

“Dick Rowan was a good friend to my childhood,” she said, “and
protected me from all physical danger and insult, and petted me
with childlike fondness; and I have been grateful to him beyond the
point of duty, and to my own hurt. Carl Yorke helped to form my
opening mind, and patiently and carefully strove to endow me with
his own knowledge, and my debt to him is a still higher one. I have
a right, when he is going away, to bid him a friendly good-by, and
I should be ashamed of myself if I were afraid to!”

Carl stood in the door of his old home, and came down the steps,
hat in hand, to assist her. She saw in his face that he felt
doubtful whether his presence might not displease her.

“I am glad to see you, Carl,” she said cordially. “I could not
believe that you meant to go away without bidding me farewell.”

“I would not have gone away without seeing you,” Carl replied
quietly; and they went into the house together. His face had
lighted at her greeting. Evidently he liked its frank kindliness,
and the entire setting aside of all embarrassing recollections. He
had been in the cruel position of a man who, with a high natural
sense of honor, has suffered himself to be betrayed into an act
which he cannot justify, and is ashamed to excuse. Silence was best.

Edith was delighted with the home-like look of everything in the
house, and the good taste displayed in its arrangement.

“I can easily understand,” Carl said, “why you and my mother
wished to have as little new furniture as possible. I think we all
prefer that which has friendly or beautiful associations.”

He lead her to a portrait, conspicuously placed in the sitting-room.

“I hung dear Alice’s picture here,” he said, “because I thought
that her place was in the family-circle.” He sighed. “It is
astonishing how cruelly selfish men can sometimes be, without
knowing it. Poor, dear Alice thought of me, and I thought of
myself. Well, she is safe dead, with no more need of me, and I am
left with an unfailing regret.”

Edith was grieved and touched by his self-reproach, and was about
to say some comforting word, when he turned to her with a smile.
“And I am committing again the same fault which I confess,” he
said. “Edith comes out of a sick-room, weary and depressed, and I
sadden instead of cheering her. Shall we look about the house?”

They went up-stairs, and he showed her the different chambers. “But
we all concluded that you would prefer the one I used to have for
my painting-room,” he said. “It is up another flight of stairs, but
well repays you for the climbing. You are an early bird, and there
you will have the morning sunshine. It is the largest chamber in
the house, and has the best view. How do you like it?”

Edith exclaimed with delight. Nothing could have suited her better.
Through the windows were visible a wide sweep of sky and a pretty
city view. Inside, the room was large, charmingly irregular, with
alcoves and niches, and the partial furnishing was fresh and of
her own colors. Sea-green and white lace made it a home fit for a
mermaid. It was evident that a good deal of care had been used in
preparing the place for her.

“You are so kind!” she said rather tremulously.

He affected not to notice her emotion. “All I have done in this
house has been a labor of love and delight,” he said, and led her
to a picture which bore the mark of his own exquisite brush, the
only picture on the walls. “This is to remember Carl by,” he said.
“It is painted partly from nature, partly from a description of the
scene. It is a glimpse into what was called the Kentucky Barrens.”

An opening in a forest of luxuriant beech, ash, and oak trees
showed a level of rich green, profusely flower-sprinkled. The
morning sky was of a pure blue, with thin flecks of white cloud,
and everything was thickly laden with dew. The fringe of the
picture glittered with light, but all the centre was overshadowed
by a vast slanting canopy of messenger-pigeons, settling toward the
earth. The sunlight on their glossy backs glanced off in brilliant
azure reflections, looking as though a cataract of sapphires was
flowing down the sky. Here and there, a ray of sunshine broke
through the screen of their countless wings, and lit up a flower or
bit of green. An oriole was perched on a twig in the foreground,
and from the hanging nest close by, his mate pushed a pretty head
and throat. Startled by the soft thunder of that winged host, they
gazed out at it from the safe covert of their leafy home.

The two went down-stairs into the sitting-room again. “Now, I want
to tell you all my plans,” Carl said.

They seated themselves, and he began: “I have thought best to
make now the tour which I contemplated years ago. It must be now,
or never, and I am not willing to relinquish it entirely. But I am
not sorry that I was disappointed in going when I first thought
of it, for I was not then prepared to derive the benefit from the
journey which I now hope for. I should have gone then for pleasure
and adventure; now I make a pilgrimage to gather knowledge. I tell
you of this, Edith, but I have concluded not to tell my mother. It
seems cruel, and there has been a struggle in my mind, but I cannot
do otherwise. I well remember how hard it was to win her consent
before, and I believe she was truly glad of our loss of wealth,
since it kept me at home. If I should tell her now, the struggle
would be renewed, and she would be ill. I am afraid, too, that I
might be impatient with her, for I have no more time to throw away.
So I shall let her suppose that I am going to make a short visit in
England, which is true. Once there, she will not be disturbed at
my going over to France for a few weeks. After France, Switzerland
follows of course, Italy is next door, and the East is not far from
Italy. I have always observed that, when a thing is done, my mother
makes up her mind to it with fortitude; but, if it is left to her
to decide on anything painful, she is unable to decide, and the
suspense is terrible to her. My father knows that. When he really
means to do a thing, he is prompt, and makes no talk about it. And,
Edith, I shall not tell my sisters nor father, because it will seem
more unkind if she is the only one who does not know, and it might
compel them to practise evasion. I tell you alone, and I want you
to promise me that, if my mother should begin to suspect, you will
at once tell her all, and do what you can to quiet her.”

“I promise you, Carl,” Edith answered.

“You can also tell Mr. Rowan, if you have occasion to, if you wish
to,” he said, looking at her attentively.

She merely bowed.

“I think that you will approve of my plans,” he went on with
earnestness. “I have found what I believe to be my place and work
in this vortex of the nineteenth century, and I wish to fill that
place and do that work in the best manner I can. I have been
offered a position as _attaché_ at one of our embassies, but I am
not ready for that yet. I am not fit for anything that I wish to
do.”

Warming with his subject, Carl stood up, and leaned on a high
chair-back opposite Edith while he talked. His face became
animated, his manner had a charming cordiality and frankness.
When his time should come for speaking or writing, or taking any
part in the affairs of his country, he wished to be considered
an authority, and to deserve that consideration. To that end,
he must have more knowledge, not of courts, or camps, or books,
though these were worth knowing, but of people as they live in
their own homes, in their own lands, under laws strange to us. He
wanted to know the world’s poor, and the world’s criminals, and the
world’s saints, wherever he could find them. “You have observed,
in drawing faces,” he said, “how one little line will alter the
whole expression. It is the same with arguments. A great, loose,
sophistical generalization may be as completely upset by one sharp
little fact, as Goliath was by David. I want to have a sling full
of those facts. A plain hard truth may be made attractive by a
single beautiful illustration; and I wish to gather illustrations
from the whole world. I hate a sour patriotism, and I would not
think, nor speak, nor write narrowly on any subject.

“I can perceive, Edith, that we have much to learn in this country,
and I wish to be first taught myself, then to do my part in helping
to teach others. We need to learn that the order of society, as
well as of the heavenly bodies, depends on a centripetal, no less
than a centrifugal force. At present we are all flying off on
tangents. We need to learn that there is beauty and dignity in
obedience, as well as in independence. We should see that it is
better for a people to be nobler than their laws, than for laws to
be nobler than the people; and that the living constitution of a
living nation is not found on any parchment, but is the national
conscience brought to a focus. Why, Edith, those very persons who
boast themselves the most on the glorious fathers of our country
are, perhaps, the persons of whom those same fathers, could they
behold them, would be most unutterably ashamed. I do not mean to be
presumptuous, dear; but I see which way my influence should go, and
I mean to do my best to make that influence great, first by leading
an honest life, and next by polishing my weapons to the utmost. I
am talking confusedly. I give you but a rough sketch of my design.
Two years, I think, will be the limit of my stay. I am so well
prepared by my studies that I shall lose no time, and I have every
facility of access to all places I wish to visit. What do you say
to it, Edith?”

“I say God-speed, with all my heart, Carl! Your aims are noble. I
like to see you in earnest.”

“I am in earnest, dear,” he said. “I feel as a new planet might,
that has been turning on its own centre without progress, and is
all at once set spinning off on its orbit.”

In the momentary silence that followed, Edith went to a book-shelf
filled with pamphlets, and looked them over. “O Carl!” she said
brightly, “do you read these?”

They were the numbers of _Brownson’s Review_.

“I have read them more attentively than anything else,” he
answered, “and learned more from them. An American best understands
the American mind. Pure reason is, of course, cosmopolitan; but
reason is seldom so pure but a colored ray of individual or
national character intrudes; and I like to choose my color. I
think,” he said, smiling, “that I have been quoting that _Review_
to you. I leave them for my father to read.”

Edith’s eyes sparkled. “I thank God that you are on this track,
Carl!” she said. “The first I ever read in this _Review_ was an
article on De Maistre, and it solved for me a great difficulty. The
fragments of truth that I had seen in the mythologies of different
nations, and the beautiful Christian sentiments I had found among
the pagans, had been a stumbling-block to me; but, when I read
that, all became plain. You make me very happy, dear Carl!”

“I do not think that I am pious,” he said, after a moment. “My
mind is clear on the subject, but my heart is unmoved. I do not
wonder at that, and I am not sure but I prefer it so; to have
light pour over my mind till my heart melts underneath, rather
than have a mind imperfectly illuminated, and a heart starting up
at intervals in little evanescent flames, which die out again, and
leave ashes. The former is light from heaven, the latter suggests
the lucifer-match to me. As soon as the time shall come, which I
calmly await, when I have a clearer realization of the necessity
of baptism, I shall ask to be baptized. Till then, I wish my
intellectual convictions to be getting acclimated. My sacrifice
must be ready before I invoke upon it fire from heaven.”

“Oh! you remind me of St. John of the Cross,” Edith said. “He says,
‘Reason is but the candlestick to hold the light of faith.’”

“Precisely!” Carl replied. “Behold me, then, illuminated by a
candlestick, instead of a candle, but--aware of that lack. A friend
of mine, a convert, told me lately that he had always regretted
having hurried into the church, and to the sacraments, as he did.
He did not realize anything, but received supernatural favors like
one in a dream. He said that, though he was sincere, and would
have given his life for the faith that was in him, he was, for a
long time, tormented by the habit of doubt. When, at length, that
habit was broken, he used sometimes to long to receive baptism
over again, or wished, at least, that his first communion had been
postponed to the time of peace. A strong movement of the heart
might, perhaps, have saved this trouble; but neither he nor I have
been so favored.”

“And yet,” Edith said thoughtfully, “I should have supposed that
the first conviction of truth would have moved your feelings. When
my mind pointed that way, my heart followed quickly, and pretty
soon took wings, and flew along by itself, and left my thoughts
behind. I am not sure that I have any intellect in religion. I can
think of reasons for everything, if I try, but it does not seem to
me worth while, unless some one outside of the church wishes to
know.”

“That is a woman’s way,” Carl said, pleased with her pretty
earnestness. “A woman goes heart first, or her head and heart go
hand in hand, and her finest mental power is the intellect of noble
passions. A man goes head first, and his highest power is reason.”

The silvery bell of a clock warned them how long their interview
had been. Edith rose. “I must say good-by to you for two years,
then, Carl; but you have taken away the sting of parting. While you
are on the road to truth, I am not afraid of any road for you on
sea or land.”

She gave him her hand. Large, bright tears stood in her eyes.

“Dear Edith, good-by!” he said, and could not utter another word.

They went down the steps together. The carriage-door opened and
closed, there was one last glance, and they lost sight of each
other.

They parted with pain, yet not unwillingly; for duty and honor yet
stood with hands clasped between to separate them. Dick Rowan’s
pale face, as they had seen it that night sinking backward into the
river, could be forgotten by neither.

When we have wronged a person, though it were unconsciously, we
can no longer take the same delight in that pleasure which has
given him pain. The pleasure may be no less dear to us, but the
thought that it is to be reached only through the sufferings of one
who has even a fancied claim on us makes renunciation seem almost
preferable to possession.




THE DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY.

NO. III.

SOCIAL DUTIES.


Under this head we include duties toward certain classes or
individuals who are dependent on the rich for their well-being and
happiness. The rich furnish employment to those who live by labor.
By their wealth, their knowledge, their power of various kinds,
they set agoing and direct those great branches of human enterprise
and industry in which the majority of persons in civilized society
are the workmen. The welfare and happiness of the majority depend,
therefore, in a great measure upon the right discharge of their
duties by the minority, in whose hands the direction is placed.
In order that these duties may be rightly discharged according to
Christian principles, the small number who possess the largest
portion of wealth and power must be stimulated and governed by
the motive of true philanthropy, the love of their fellow-men,
Christian charity. Those who are dependent need, on their part,
the spirit of resignation to the will of God, contentment with
their lot, respect and affection toward those who are in a superior
position. Where this mutual charity, springing from Christian
principles, does not exist in great strength, binding all classes
together, sooner or later the rich will despise and oppress the
poor; and the poor will hate the rich, biding their time to revolt
against and destroy them. The rich ought, therefore, to devote all
their thoughts and energies to such an administration of the trust
committed to them as may produce the greatest possible amount of
well-being and happiness among the dependent classes in society,
and earn for themselves the respect, love, and gratitude of all.

We will now leave off generalizing, and descend to some
particulars. Merchants and others in similar positions ought to
take more interest than they do in the welfare and happiness
of their clerks. Those who know something of the hardships,
privations, and moral danger to which this class of young men
are exposed in New York will not dispute the assertion we have
made.[13] It may be extended to the corresponding class of young
women. And we have here the opportunity of citing the example of
a work undertaken by one of our merchants, which illustrates our
thesis much better than pages of explanation. We refer to the great
institution contrived, and now almost completed, by Mr. Stewart,
which may be seen, and is worth being seen by every one, on the
corner of Fourth Avenue and Thirty-third Street. This princely
undertaking is a sample of that benevolent and magnanimous effort
in behalf of a numerous and interesting class of the employees of
the rich which we are aiming to recommend.

The need of looking after the interests of those who are engaged in
the harder and rougher kinds of labor is much more stringent. The
tenements and daily surroundings of the laboring class of people
in great cities, the many squalid discomforts and miseries which
invest their lot in life, have been the frequent theme of those
who, either from real or pretended philanthropy, concern themselves
with social questions. Here again, we may cite the example of
another princely merchant, Mr. Peabody, as an illustration of
what might be undertaken and accomplished, if the whole body of
wealthy men had the same spirit and would make similar efforts.
The condition of the laboring class is too hard. They are too
much neglected. It is not safe to leave them in this condition,
and, more than this, it is not right to do so. Let us specify
some particular instances of the ill-treatment or neglect of
certain classes of workingmen. There are not a few who are most
unreasonably and cruelly overworked both by day and by night,
especially such as fill the most arduous kinds of employments about
railroads. The life of the Southern negro slave was paradisaic,
compared to that of the miserable drudges who work in the stables
of our horse railways. The conductors and drivers of our city cars
and omnibuses are worked to death on a pay so meagre that stealing
has become a kind of recognized necessity of their situation. How
can these men go to church on Sundays, approach the sacraments,
or enjoy an innocent holiday? There is a wonderful amount of
breath and ink expended in our enlightened city upon our religious
rights and liberties. Yet the men who are employed to take care of
the Central Park cannot find even a single half-hour on a Sunday
morning to go to Mass.

Let any one who wishes to appreciate the blessing of living in this
nineteenth century, in this land of light and liberty, and enjoying
the fruits of that advanced civilization which communicates the
greatest amount of happiness to the greatest number, take a tour of
the New England factories. He will there see spectacles to rejoice
his heart, if he is both a wealthy and a righteous man, and cause
him to exclaim: “God, I thank thee that I am not as other men,
_especially as these Irishmen_, and that my wife and children are
not like theirs!” The writer of these articles has had a long and
extensive experience as a missionary among the Catholic population
of the factory towns of New England. In almost every instance, the
persons who have had charge of the factories have been extremely
polite and obliging during the continuance of the missions. Often
they have manifested an interest in their success, and have
granted facilities to the operatives to attend the exercises.
So, undoubtedly, has it been with the masters of slaves on the
Southern plantations. These things cannot, however, make slavery
to be freedom, or the condition of operatives in factories one
that is fit to exist in a society which pretends to be Christian
or civilized. There are plenty of kind-hearted, philanthropic men
among New England capitalists. We do not suppose that all those
who give so largely to foreign missions and Bible societies have
either made their fortunes by selling opium and rum to the heathen,
or are seeking merely to salve over a remorseful conscience and
gain applause from men by their liberality. Yet even those who are
conscientious and benevolent are carried along by a system which is
bad and cruel. We do not mean that it is bad and cruel by accident
merely. Many of its crimes and cruelties are purely accidental, and
prove only the wickedness of particular persons. If a building is
put up in such a slight manner that it falls and crushes hundreds,
this is the crime of those particular persons who caused it to be
built in such a manner. If the superintendent of a factory abuses
his power to corrupt those who are under him, that is his own sin.
But if the principles and laws of the system produce moral and
physical misery independently of the individuals who carry it on,
the system is essentially vicious. It is even the cause of the
accidental and exceptional villanies which occur under it, because
it tends to produce a cruel and tyrannical spirit.

The essential vice of the system lies in this. Capitalists seek
to make exorbitant profits, without regard to anything but their
own selfish interests. They care not for their operatives. These
are, consequently, overworked, and employed at too tender an age,
and to a great extent are underpaid. They are regarded and treated
as working machines, and not as moral and religious beings. There
is something repulsive, gloomy, and uncivilized about the aspect
and surroundings of a factory or a factory town. The life which is
led there has the most stern and sombre elements of the monastic
institute, without the compensating charms and attractions. It
has something also of the state-prison discipline, something of
the poor-house, and a great deal of the _Commune_. There is a
dismal and frightful regularity, like that of a treadmill, in the
existence of the population of our factory towns of New England.
Everything is arranged both in the mills and the boarding-houses
with such clock-work regularity, and with such scanty allowance
for any other functions of life except those which are physical,
that the place would suit much better for a variety of apes with
sufficient intelligence to work machines than for human beings.
Sunday is free, it is true, thanks to the small amount of Christian
law which still survives in our country. Catholics can therefore
go to Mass and sermon, as they do in thousands, crowding the vast
churches which they have built for themselves, in spite of the
weariness of their week’s labor. But as for confession, it is made
almost impossible, and without that they cannot enjoy the greatest
of their Sunday privileges, holy communion. We will not enlarge
on the obvious fact that the regular amount of work exacted is
excessive. But what is to be said of those who take even more than
the regular and excessive number of hours in the day from their
overworked rational animals? At Manchester, N. H., during a mission
in which the writer was engaged, the operatives of one factory were
employed until half-past nine in the evening. Some of them, who
made a desperate effort to snatch what they could of the advantages
of the mission, complained to us that they were half-dead with
fatigue, and too jaded to care whether they had souls or not. We
asked if the extra hours of work were not voluntary. The answer
was, that they were so in appearance and in pretence, but that
they did not dare to refuse volunteering for extra work, for fear
of being punished by the ill-will of their overseers, and even
discharged at the first convenient opportunity.

At another New England town, West Rutland, Vermont, we found that
for a considerable time the workmen in the marble quarries had
been forced to take _store-pay_ for their wages. All the land, the
houses, the different branches of business, were in the hands or
under the control of a few capitalists, who would not permit any
of the Irish laborers to acquire property or gain a permanent and
independent footing on the soil.

These are scattered instances, but they tell a great deal, and
well-informed readers will know how to fill up the picture for
themselves. Many persons engaged in the system of which we
are speaking will admit its evils and hardships. They excuse
themselves, however, by the plea that they can personally do
nothing toward changing it for a better one. Private efforts,
they say, would only injure those who made them, by enabling the
merciless and unscrupulous to fill up the market and sweep up all
the profits. Legislation, they say, is hopeless, because controlled
by these very unscrupulous capitalists. Senator Wilson has made
this assertion in regard to New York. He says it is controlled by
what he calls a feudal moneyed aristocracy. Others would probably
extend the observation to a much wider sphere than New York. We do
not generally agree in opinion with Senator Wilson. But we agree
with him most heartily in condemning and denouncing such a regime
as this. Only, we would suggest that a more appropriate name for it
would be, instead of _feudal_, FOODLE ARISTOCRACY. It is not only
cruel, but despicable. Mammon was the “meanest spirit that fell,”
and the worship of the golden calf is the most degrading of all
idolatries.

The miserably poor, the helpless, the suffering, and even the
morally degraded and vicious classes of the community have also
their claims on the charity of the rich. We have no wish to deny
that these claims are very generally acknowledged in modern
society, and a great deal done to acquit them, both by organized
and by individual liberality and effort. We occasionally see
extraordinary instances of generous philanthropy towards one or
another suffering class of men. Very lately, we have seen the
Roosevelt Hospital opened, an extensive institution founded by
one of the old Knickerbocker gentlemen of New York, who left
$900,000, the bulk of his fortune, for this purpose. The miseries
of our social system are nevertheless so vast and fearful that the
remedies furnished by either public or private care are wholly
inadequate. Perhaps many persons will say that they are remediless.
There are those who look on the world and life with cold and
merciless eyes. It is a struggle of animals for their selfish
enjoyment. Let each one look out for himself, and the unlucky take
their chance. When such persons are prosperous and powerful, they
scorn and oppress the weaker individuals who are dependent on them.
Knowing their own depravity, they believe in that of all other men.
They are therefore perfectly pitiless toward their fellow-men. “The
tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” Others who are not cruel
are sad and disheartened. Although they mourn over the appalling
miseries of life, they look on them as the inevitable destiny of
the human race, and do not believe it is possible to help them. The
philosophy of the first class is diabolical, that of the second is
unworthy of Christians. We do not mean that they err in respect
to the point of fact that these miseries have always existed and
will exist. But we do say that they err in ascribing them to the
essential order of the world, to the constitution of society, to
human _destiny_, and not to the wilful sins and negligences of
men; they err in not believing that God has provided a remedy
which on his part is sufficient and adequate for these miseries;
and, therefore, they err practically, if they do not endeavor to
apply that remedy as far as they can to those miseries with which
they come in contact. Does one of these ask what hope there is of
a fundamental reformation in society which will remedy the crying
evils all benevolent persons see and deplore? We answer, that, with
all its faults, the nineteenth century is really remarkable on
account of the general interest which is felt in the improvement of
the condition of the working and suffering classes. What is wanted
is the knowledge and application of the right principles and means
for accomplishing the result. Communism, secularism, and every
kind of system which denies or ignores Christianity, is a remedy
worse than the disease, which can only produce death. Imperfect
or sectarian Christianity, although capable of producing partial
and limited improvement, is too weak for the task which its more
generous and enterprising professors exact from it, and endeavor to
stimulate it to undertake. It is only the Catholic Church which
is competent to such great and universal works. She alone has the
wellspring of divine charity, and the supernatural agencies for
distributing its health-giving, fructifying streams. Therefore, the
hope of a thorough application of the divine remedy to the dreadful
diseases of humanity is precisely commensurate with the hope of a
return of the whole people of nominal Christendom to true Catholic
Christianity.

Meanwhile, the duty of each individual is to do what he can for
the benefit of those who are within the sphere of his own efforts
or influence. Let him pay attention to his own dependents, and
to the poor and suffering who are immediately around him. No one
who has wealth, power, or influence of any kind will have any
reason to complain that he lacks the opportunity of doing good
to his fellow-men, if he is really desirous of doing it. Even if
his position is altogether that of a private person, he can do
his part, and that a good and noble one, in the general work of
human redemption. If he has the power and the opportunity to act
upon society, as a public man in a greater or lesser sphere, let
him remember that he is a Christian, and act accordingly, and
he will be doing precisely what those great and good men did in
former times who were the creators and improvers of our Christian
civilization.

FOOTNOTE:

[13] An incident has been related to the writer of this article,
within a few days, which may serve as a sample of some of the
grievances, and these not the worst, of this class of young men.
Complaint was made to the head of a large house that the clerks
were obliged to stand up during the whole day, and the reply was
made that they must keep on standing if they died for it. One
more fact which we have heard reported is worth recording: that
in certain places, deduction is made from the wages of clerks for
Christmas and New-Year’s Day. We cannot help wishing that a New
York Douglas Jerrold may start up from behind some counter, or out
of some comfortless sleeping-bunk, to do justice to this fruitful
theme.




EASTER EVE.


The midnight chimes had just done ringing, and the old church was
very still. All day long there had been comers and goers, and the
altar had been wreathed, the stone church carpeted, the clustered
pillars entwined with flowers and with evergreens. Round the
altar, that stood among the carven stalls like a May-shrine in
a dark forest-glade, was an amphitheatre of blossoming verdure;
boys’ hands had piled up the lilies, the violets, the roses, the
fuchsias; and monks’ hands had reared up the pyramid of palm, and
ivory magnolia, and many-colored rhododendron beyond. The palms
were golden, not green it is true, but they were very precious, and
could not be spared to-day from the festive decoration, for they
had come from Palestine, and only last Sunday had been offered to
the church. An Eastern guest had walked in the procession on Palm
Sunday, and had dedicated these lovely foreign boughs to the God of
East and West alike.

Everything was ready for the early celebration of the Paschal
Mass--even the golden chalice lay under its pall of satin upon the
altar of sculptured cedar-wood. Perhaps the transverse timbers
of the rare wood had not forgotten the time when the sea-breezes
blew on them on Lebanon’s heights, and when the voice of the young
crusader, Hugh of Devereux, had bidden them fall in the service of
God and help to build him another sepulchre in a Christian land.

“The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars!”

And now there was no one in the old church but the youngest
chorister, Benignus, the nephew of the monk Cuthbert. The child
was never happy save by the altar, and had no friend but Cuthbert,
because he was of the blood of the lords of Devereux, and his poor
betrayed mother was no more.

Midnight chimes are sweet, and the child had a weird passion for
their sound, and would sit entranced while they slowly rang out an
old well-known church-chant. But when they had done, and he thought
there was silence, he heard a sound he knew not growing out of the
chimes, but different from them, something graver than his childish
companions’ prattle, something sweeter than the monks’ low tones,
something that seemed like his own soul speaking to itself.

It came from the belfry, straight like an arrow of sound, and
muffled itself in a faint echo among the flower-forest round the
altar.

And presently he could make out the words:

“I have spoken to God, and offered him the last vows of dying Lent,
and woven into song the speechless prayers breathed over and yet
trembling on thy jewelled brim.”

And the child knew it was the angel of the bell who spoke.

And presently there rose a sound from the dim-robed altar, and the
voice of the angel of the chalice made answer: “My cup is as a
bell uplifted, with its song of joy hushed in the very words of
God, and drowned in the flood of ruby light that quivers, living
and sensitive, within my golden walls.”

“And my cup,” returned the voice of the bell, “is as a chalice
inverted, with its saving wealth outpoured in strains that reach
the human ken; endowed with a speaking, living tongue that can
touch the human heart.”

“I speak of men to God, while my fragile stem bears the wondrous
purple flower of the precious blood, and while I am reared aloft
with the divine burden weighing on me, even as the cross was reared
up high over Jerusalem’s walls.”

“And I speak of God to men while my brazen clangor is heard afar
like the trumpets of Israel before the crumbling walls of Jericho.”

And here the soft breeze from the open lancet-windows rustled among
the sweet-smelling shrubs around the altar’s base, and, as the
night-wind passed over them, their voices seemed to be blended into
its sighs, and to have found an interpreter in its fitful sound.

“We are children of many climes, and some of us are exiles in
this land, but under this roof we are at home again, and at this
festival none of us are strangers. We too, in all our variety,
have scarce one blossom among us that is not a chalice or a bell;
that holds not high its crimson cup towards heaven to receive the
crystal dew, or hangs not its white or purple bell with golden
tongue towards the unheeding earth. On the altar of green turf,
on the swaying columns of interwoven boughs, on the storm-tossed
belfries of vine-surrounded trees, in southern swamp or northern
forest, in tropical wilderness or rosy-tinted orchard, everywhere
is stamped the semblance of the church, with chalices upreared,
with bells anxiously bent human-ward. O brothers of the altar and
the tower, let us sing together the same hymn.”

And the child Benignus said softly to himself:

“O God! make _my_ heart a chalice, and _my_ lips a Christian bell.”

The voices of the flower-chorus spoke again, and the lilies of the
valley sang a silver peal behind their grass-green curtains:

“Every day we die by thousands, but our seed is borne afar, and
drops in some fair nook at last, beside a running brook or beneath
a spreading beech, even as the last echo of the unwearied bell that
knocks at some heart’s door, far away in the mountains of worldly
care, and strikes a well-known, long-silent chord, and draws the
exile back to the fruitful plains of God’s own church.”

The voice from the wind-rocked steeple came in swift and loving
answer:

“Even so, my blossom-sisters, for to us the word was given to
increase and multiply and fill the earth, and at every step bring
forth fresh glory and conquer fresh realms for the God of our
creation.” Then the living gems stirred again under the breath
of the still midnight breeze, and the voice came forth anew as
the royal cactus and the purple morning-glories flashed like
sun-touched clouds in the dusky foliage:

“Every day our lives are drained and our treasures rifled to adorn
with living beauty the banquets of great men, and to strew the
halls of marble palaces, and yet every day, as the sun comes forth
again, our parent stem is laden once more with exhaustless riches
and a more abundant harvest of loveliness, even as the lavished
treasures and the scattered wealth of the daily chalice are ever
being shed without intermission from the altar into the hearts of
thankless men.”

And the sweet low voice came back from the shrouded altar: “Yes,
dear emblems of God’s loving prodigality, for hath he not said:
‘Cast your bread upon the waters, and after many days it shall
return to thee‘’?”

The scarlet fuchsia shook its clusters of purple bells, planted
on a blood-red cross, as if it would say to men that none could
proclaim God save they proclaimed him from Calvary. The tall Nile
lily, whose cup is as a spotless shroud wrapped round a golden
nail, swayed in the night air as if whispering that the way to
the resurrection lay across the instruments of the passion:
the ivory-tinted roses, the first-born among their kind, whose
clustering, half-blown buds made a sculptured reredos of living
alabaster behind the altar-cross, wept tears of dew when the
midnight breeze shook their curled petals, as if weeping like
sinless virgins over the wrongs they knew only by name. A carpet of
violets was spread below, the last offering of Lent, the fringes of
the sweet pall of penance under whose folds the church spends her
yearly vigil of reparation.

The heart of the child Benignus was breaking with joy and love, and
he longed to be a flower himself, that he might sing the hymn the
living grove had sung.

The voice of the angel of the bell answered his unspoken wish:

“Wish not that thou wert other than that thou art, for Jesus said,
‘Unless ye become even as little children, ye shall not enter into
the kingdom of heaven.’”

And the flowers sighed, and gave forth a sweeter fragrance, because
they longed to be little children, and could not.

Then Benignus wished he might be an angel, if he could not be a
flower, and the voice from the altar sounded very softly, so low he
thought no one could hear it but himself:

“This wish will I put into my cup, and when to-morrow dawns, and
Jesus finds the first-fruits of this new Easter laid at his feet,
thou shalt have thy answer.”

Then came a soft chorus of welcome and congratulation, breaking
forth among the flowery worshippers, but the angel of the bell held
his peace.

And in the morning, when the sun flung his golden curtains across
the east window and crowned the saints and virgins thereon with
richer gems than living monarchs wear, the Paschal procession came
winding through All Hallow’s church, and no one missed the little
chorister Benignus. But when his turn in the anthem came, a voice
seemed to float from some unseen corner, and a shower of bell-like
crystal tones rang in triumphant cadence to the very roof, and no
one could tell if it were Benignus or an angel singing. The organ
ceased, and the monk Cuthbert looked anxiously along the lines of
white-robed choristers, but the child was not there. Still the
voice sang on, and it seemed as if it floated now from the chalice
on the altar to the distant belfry-tower, and then back again to
the fragrant forest of exotics in the choir. And Cuthbert, looking
up among the half-opened buds of the early roses that were piled
up directly over the tabernacle, thought he saw one more lovely
than the others just break gently from the frail green stem, and
fall in showering petals around the pall-covered chalice, at the
very minute the wondrous voice ceased in one long reverberating
“Alleluia.”

Then Cuthbert knew who had been singing and where Benignus was, and
he sang the “Gloria in Excelsis” as he had never done before.

But the angel of the bell was sad, because the child would have
helped him to bear abroad the message of God’s truth to men.




THE TWENTY-FIRST CATHOLIC CONGRESS IN MAYENCE.

FROM DER KATHOLIK.


It is evident that we have reached a turning-point in the history
of the world; that a crisis of terrible interest for the church,
for Christian Europe, for peoples, and for nations, is at hand. It
must, indeed, soon be decided whether Christianity shall continue
to be, in the life of the nations, what from its very nature and
design it is intended to be; whether it shall remain what it has
been acknowledged to be since it overcame the heathenism of old,
the light of the world, the supernatural leaven permeating all the
relations of life, purifying and ennobling them; or whether it
shall be cast out of public life as an illusion, and at most--and
who knows how long even that?--be tolerated as a species of
superstition. The nations--and especially the recently founded
German Empire--must soon decide whether they shall accept as their
basis the laws of eternal justice, whose root is in the holy and
personal God, and in him alone; whether they will hold to that
Christian civilization which reposes on the public recognition of
Christianity, of the church as a divine institution not subject
to the arbitrament of man; in fine, whether they will respect as
sacred those prescriptive rights of mankind which every one must
respect who believes in the divine government of the world--rights
of which history is the evidence; or whether they will yield to the
pressure of the revolution and of false science, throw Christianity
and Christian civilization overboard, proclaim the present will
of the dominant political powers or party the only and highest law
of the state, and, having done this, to use their immense power to
infuse this “modern” spirit and these “modern” principles into the
life of the people, and force it on them by every means at their
disposal, through legislation, government patronage, their system
of public instruction, and the whole organization of society; in
short, whether they will place naturalism and rationalism instead
of Christianity, the vital principle of national and popular
life, and thereby--no intelligent person can doubt it, for reason
and experience conspire to teach it--hasten for the nations the
inevitable catastrophe of which the burning of Paris was only a
premonitory symptom.

And precisely at this fatal moment in the history of the world it
is that, in Germany, a number of men, among them a few who have
deserved well of the church, blinded to a degree which it seems
hard to account for, have raised the standard of rebellion against
their mother, the church, because the Œcumenical Council did not
think fit to decide as they thought best, because it decided as
it pleased the pastors of the church and the Holy Ghost. The
foundation-stone of the church, laid by Christ himself, to preserve
unity and love within it for ever, has become a stumbling-block to
them. They have made shipwreck of the faith, and burst the bonds
of love that held them in union with their brethren in the faith.
Following the example of those who before them rebelled against the
church, they call themselves defenders of the faith, while denying
the very principle on which all faith reposes. Proclaiming human
science the supreme authority in matters of religion, placing it
above the highest authority in the church, above the Pope and the
council, above the assent of the whole Catholic world, they have
ceased to be servants of God and of his church; they have gone over
to the rationalism and naturalism which are striving so hard to do
away with Christianity entirely, and to constitute themselves in
its place a new cosmopolitan religion.

The turpitude of their rebellion against the church is equalled
only by that of the means which they have adopted to defend it and
to spread its principles. Repeating the worst and most perfidious
slanders of the past against the church, and giving them out as the
result of science, they proclaim to the world that the Apostolic
See has for a thousand years been the seat of well-concocted fraud
and deceit, and that in the most sacred of matters; that the
Catholic Church is dangerous both to the state and to morals; and
that the decree solemnly proclaimed by the Œcumenical Council,
that Christ will for ever preserve his visible representative on
earth from all error in faith and morals--a belief which has always
been the key-stone of Catholic faith, Catholic life, and Catholic
practice--is a doctrine inimical to the rights of the state. Under
these pretexts, they require the state to deprive the Catholic
Church of its rights, and of the liberty which has been guaranteed
to it by the state, and not to recognize the church represented
by the bishops and the Pope, but themselves, who have renounced
all allegiance to it, as the legal Catholic Church, the only one
recognized and promised protection by the state. Moreover, they
desire that those Catholics who have remained faithful to the
church shall be looked upon as recreant to the state, accusing them
of want of patriotism. Designating all those peoples embraced in
the Catholic Church by the name of the _Romanists_, they, in the
name of what they designate Germanism, demand their oppression and
extirpation.

And, we are sorry to say, these attempts have not been without some
success. Individual governments have been induced to take steps
against the church which, a short time ago, it was supposed it
would be impossible to take, and which the Catholics living under
those governments did nothing to warrant.

During this condition of affairs, the one hundred and twentieth
Catholic Congress met in the second week of September in Mayence,
to give expression in no weak or ambiguous terms to their faith,
and to their views on the condition of things; and they did it with
that unanimity and certainty which Catholic faith alone can give--a
faith neither anxious nor troubled with doubt, or weakened by the
spirit of the age.

This they did by their resolutions on the Roman question, on the
Vatican Council, and on the more recent opposition that has been
made to its decrees--and rightly; for, in the Roman question,
the question of all external Christian law and order reaches its
culminating point, as do theirs the constitution of the church
itself, and the whole of Catholic faith, in the decrees of the
Vatican Council.

The occupation of Rome is simply robbery--a crime against the
church, against every individual Catholic which nothing can
justify, which no principle of international law can excuse
or cover, which no prescription can make valid. The so-called
guarantees made to the church by the Italian government can never
be accepted, because they are based upon the false principle that
the state alone has the right to declare under what conditions
the church and its pastors shall exercise their functions as
teachers, priests, and shepherds of the flock--functions which
they exercise in virtue of the power conferred upon them by Jesus
Christ himself; because these laws do not by any means guarantee
to the Pope the free discharge of his supreme authority as chief
pastor, and, moreover, because there is not the least security that
these guarantees will be respected. The occupation of Rome and
of the Quirinal is the culmination of the policy of the Italian
revolution, and the success of that policy the disgrace of this
age. That the governments of European nations have done nothing
to defend the Pope is an injustice to their Catholic subjects, a
violation of the law of nations, and paves the way, necessarily, to
the violation of all law and the overthrow of all order. And this
is why it is that Catholics must for ever discountenance all these
acts, and oppose them by all legitimate means. And their opposition
cannot be rightfully construed as insubordination to the powers
that be, or as a want of patriotism on their part. On the contrary,
Catholics may be sure that in so acting they will be doing their
government and their country the greatest possible service. Such
service has been rendered by the resolutions of the Catholic
Congress in Mayence.

It was well that, at the first general meeting of the society
after the occupation of Rome, its members should give expression
to their thought on the wicked act by which, for the third time
in this century, it was attempted to destroy the work founded by
divine Providence since the christianizing of the world, in order
to secure to the head of the church his liberty and the efficient
discharge of the duties of his high office. Nor could the members
of the society express themselves concerning this crime otherwise
than in bold words of truth and justice--in words becoming an
occasion when the interests of God and man are alike at stake--in
words such as nature itself puts into the mouth of those who have
been the victims of great injustice or great misfortune. Worldly
policy may wait, and consider itself justified in waiting, to
take account of circumstances; but for us Catholics there is
but one thing to do when the question is simply this--whether
Christ or Antichrist shall reign, namely, what the martyrs did
under circumstances still more aggravating, what God himself
has commanded us to do, what we see his representative on earth
doing--to proclaim the truth to those in power before kings and
peoples.

It was, if possible, yet more necessary that the Catholic Congress
should make a public profession of its faith in the decrees of
the Œcumenical Council of the Vatican, that it should raise its
voice against those proceedings of the government which have no
object but to hinder the Catholic Church in the declaration of
its doctrines, and to lead or force Catholics into heresy. And on
these points again the association, in its resolutions, speaks the
truth, and expresses the Catholic view on them, in the plainest and
most direct manner, without any show of diplomacy or of pedantry.
We joyfully profess, say they, our faith in everything which the
church requires, particularly in the infallibility of the Pope
teaching the universal church, and in the very sense in which
the Vatican Council has defined it, do we believe it. And we are
convinced that the definition of this truth in our time is no evil,
but the work of a kind and good Providence, intended to strengthen
the church, to preserve unity, to reclaim the erring. We reject
with horror the caricature of the doctrine of Papal infallibility
which the opponents of the Vatican Council have drawn, and we
repudiate the slander that this doctrine or any other article
of our faith is in conflict with our duties as subjects of our
government, or with the allegiance which we owe our fatherland.
We protest against the course of those governments which have
endeavored to hinder the propagation of Catholic doctrine within
their territories, and to favor the opposition to the church
by their protecting the rebellion against it. In this manner,
they have overstepped the bounds of their rightful authority,
infringed the rights of conscience of their Catholic subjects, and
made themselves responsible before God for a host of evils. The
political principles which have led to these things are in conflict
with the law of God, in fact with all law and order, and can never
be recognized by Catholics as right or just. Yet are we not without
the hope that the governments which have been guilty of these
things will at no distant future forsake the unholy path upon which
they have entered.

But the members of the Catholic Congress did not confine themselves
to professing the Catholic faith, to raising a protesting voice
against the encroachments on their liberties and on their
rights--rights which should be ever inviolate; they pointed out
the fertile source from which have flown as well the most recent
evils as the more ancient ones which have done so much injury to
the Catholic life of Germany. The source of all these evils, past
as well as present, is in a science grounded on false principles,
and which appropriates to itself exclusively, but not with any
show of reason, the name of German science. These evils can be
healed only by the cultivation of real Catholic science in Germany,
and the most recent events demand absolutely that the reign of
such a science should be inaugurated at once. But so long as the
ancient institutions founded for Catholic purposes ignore, for the
most part, the object of their being; when they have gone over,
to a great extent, to infidelity or to secular management, it is
extremely important, both to pastors and people, that new seats of
science, of education, of real science and Christian education,
should be established.

Such are the principal resolutions of the Catholic Congress held
during the present year. What these resolutions contain is only
the echo and essence of the thought of the assembly expressed in
the orations and sayings of the members--the deep, unanimous,
and undoubted convictions of all. These same thoughts found
expression also in their addresses to the Holy Father, to the
Bishop of Ermeland, to the Bavarian Episcopate, to the Bishops of
Switzerland, as well as to the defenders of the Catholic faith in
Italy and Austria. But is it right to assume that the voice of
all Catholic Germany has been heard, and is heard, in the voice
of this general meeting of Catholics? True it is that they would
entirely misunderstand the essence and the spirit of the principles
of the members of those meetings who would invest their doings or
their sayings as a society with any authority; but they would err
no less grossly who would consider these meetings as mere party
meetings, or as meaning nothing as merely the coming together of a
few private individuals. From the very significance of this year’s
meeting’s resolutions, it may not be amiss to examine the question
somewhat more closely--how much importance is to be attached, what
significance and authority such Catholic meetings may have.

These general meetings are nothing more than the coming together
of believing Catholics. They do not assume to have any power or
authority ecclesiastical or political. They have nothing in their
own right that entitles them to be considered as possessed of such
power or authority, nor have they a power of attorney of any kind
to represent any one else in these meetings.

In the church no one has any power whatever except those to whom
Christ has granted it, and only such power as he conferred upon
them. But he has granted no power to any one in the church but
to Peter and the apostles. On this account the Catholic Church
recognizes no representatives, save only the pope and the bishops.
There is no such thing among Catholics as lay-participation in the
government of the church. Laymen have no power in church government
that is theirs of right, and they in no manner take the place of
or represent even the inferior clergy. Every tendency in that
direction is heretical and schismatical.

The society in question, and all other societies of the same
nature, have recognized, acted upon, this principle from the
beginning. Being Catholics and wishing to remain Catholics, they
have never interfered in the government of the church. On the
contrary, they consider it their duty to show to others the example
of the most religious submission to the Pope and the bishops in
matters relating to faith and ecclesiastical discipline. They,
therefore, represent no party in the church. The church wants no
parties and recognizes no parties within its bosom. Following the
church, the general meeting of Catholics negatives every division
in the body of the church. Its only desire is to find itself always
one with the church in all things, to be simply Catholic and
nothing else.

There is no use in wasting words to show that the Catholic Congress
and other Catholic societies claim no power of any kind whatever in
the state. They neither represent a political party, nor do they
belong to any, nor will they ever constitute themselves a political
party in the state.

True, the members of the societies are very far removed, as they
ought to be, from an unreasonable, unmanly, unchristian, and
un-Catholic indifference in matters pertaining to the nation. They
are by no means of opinion that it matters nothing to a Catholic
to which party in the country he belongs. They believe firmly that
it is the duty of Catholics, as well as their right, to watch over
the rights of the church and of its members, and to defend them by
the exercise of their political franchises. They do not, however,
doubt that it is perfectly legitimate for Catholics, wherever they
are, to organize themselves into a party for the exercise of their
political rights. But as the political life of every individual
Catholic is different from his religious life, and that, although
he may be guided in his politics by the principles of Christianity,
in like manner these associations of Catholics, inasmuch as
they are Catholic, are something higher and broader than mere
political associations. Their objects are not the political, but
the religious and ecclesiastical rights of Catholics. This has been
the universal understanding of the members of these associations
from the very beginning of their organizations. These have been the
principles which have always guided them, and which they have found
it well to be guided by. These associations have never allowed
themselves to forget these principles. They have never forgotten
them, not even in times of the greatest political excitement. And
in the last general meeting, the members of the association did not
swerve from these principles by as much as a hair’s breadth.

And precisely because these associations have held to their
principles as Catholics, to the very principles we have been
mentioning above, are they entitled to attention. They manifest,
in a manner that can be relied upon, the mind and conviction, the
determination and feeling, of those who are true to the church
and to the faith. It thus happens that this general meeting of
Catholics has given expression to the thought and feeling of the
Catholic clergy and Catholic people. And hence it is that those who
would learn what Catholics think and feel on the stirring questions
of the present must turn their attention to the resolutions of
this Catholic Congress. There is unmistakable evidence that these
general meetings express the feeling and ideas common to all
Catholics. For twenty-three years they have enjoyed the complete
confidence of the bishops of the church. The Holy Father and the
bishops of Germany have never hesitated to bless and to approve
the efforts of the Catholic association. This were impossible if
these meetings did not give expression to the Catholic mind on
the questions of the day, if there were any danger in them of
a departure from the principles of the faith or of the church.
Moreover, we may ask, Who are they that take part in these
meetings? They are precisely those persons who with living faith
partake of the sacraments, and are in habitual attendance at the
services of the church, and in the life of the church generally.
During the twenty-three years of their existence, these Catholic
associations have in every German diocese and everywhere been
one with the clergy on all subjects. Zealous and true Catholics
of every social position have been largely represented in them.
Hither have come the Catholic nobleman, the Catholic of the middle
class, the Catholic peasant, the physician of souls--the priest
himself sprung from the people--the Catholic _savant_, the teacher,
author, and publicist. Here, too, have been represented those
Catholic societies made up of those who really love the church.
In short, in those societies are represented those even who are
most despised and seldom represented anywhere else. The members of
the Catholic Congress are not representatives of their individual
opinions; they seek no worldly interest. It were more than folly
for any one to come to those meetings with any such intention.
Neither do these meetings represent any party on which they are
dependent. They represent no majority or minority to whom they are
responsible. Their faith and Catholic feeling it is that bring them
to these meetings, and those they have in common with the hundreds
and thousands from whose midst they come. There is a yet stronger
argument to show that these general assemblies really represent the
mind of all true Catholics. It is their unanimity on all questions
bearing on religion and on the church--a mark which belongs to
Catholics exclusively.

After all this, we feel ourselves warranted to say that these
meetings express decidedly the feelings and convictions of those
Catholics who are _worthy_ of the name.

But these general assemblies not only give expression to the
principles and sentiments of Catholics on the questions of the
day, they also tend to keep Catholic life awake and active. And
just here is the great use of Catholic societies. There never was
a more senseless saying than this: “We need no special societies;
our society is the Catholic Church.” Precisely because the Catholic
Church is a divine and all-embracing society, the society of
societies, does it from its inexhaustible fertility call forth from
its own bosom, in all times, other smaller societies--societies
calculated to meet the peculiar wants of the time. The life of
Christian societies, of church societies, is, indeed, a standard
by which Catholic life at any particular time or place may be
measured. And in our own day, when the spirit of evil more than
ever seeks the destruction of the church, mimicking it as he does
after his own fashion--to leave the power which societies are
calculated to wield entirely to the enemies of Christianity, to
those governed exclusively by the spirit of the world, would be to
be more than blind.

At the general meeting held at Düsseldorf, Dr. Marx agreed to take
upon himself the difficult task of collecting the statistics of the
Catholic societies of Germany. At the assembly held this year, he
presented the results of his labors. His work is imperfect, it is
true, but it is a foundation on which others may build. It embraces
the statistics of most of the German dioceses, and of a number of
those of Austria.

The amount of vitality in anything or anywhere cannot be made to
appear in a table of statistics, and the best things often thrive
in secret. Hence it is that the Catholic life of Germany is much
greater than even these tables or any others would give one reason
to believe. On the other hand, much that appears on paper in
statistics of this kind is of no importance whatever, or of almost
no importance. Yet the statistical tables before us demonstrate
that numerous live Catholic associations, and of the most varied
character, have arisen during the last twenty-three years, and that
each general assembly has made itself felt--now in one place, now
in another--furthering the creation of such local associations.
Societies purely religious, such as brotherhoods, sodalities,
congregations, are not at all or scarcely at all referred to
in these tables. It was part of the plan of the work that they
should be excluded from its tables. Yet they are of the very first
importance to the life of the church. Well-conducted societies and
sodalities for young people and of adults like those which, thanks
be to God, are springing up on every side, and particularly in the
Rhine lands, are the best nurseries of real Catholics. Rightly,
therefore, do these general assemblies continue to commend such
societies, as the general assembly did this year the “Society of
Young Merchants,” which was so worthily represented at the meeting.
Neither have our Christian social societies and associations been
noticed in these tables. And for this reason, again, are we much
richer in associations than we should suppose from these tables. On
the other hand, these statistics combine with daily experience to
show that we are yet only in the beginning of the development of
this society-life; that, much as we have to be thankful for, the
time has not yet come when we can repose upon our laurels. Rather
must we work with all our strength, with inexhaustible patience
and devotion at the establishment of Catholic societies. In many
parts of Catholic Germany there are no, or scarcely any, Catholic
societies, that is, live societies, while in others those which
have been begun are now neglected. It is so convenient to allow
things to go on in the old way, and so hard--for the most modest
association demands some sacrifice on the part of individuals--to
establish anything new. Yet a thing which in the great struggle
between the church and Antichrist is one of the most powerful
means of victory is really worth the highest sacrifice. Is it not
time to see that all Christian men should organize themselves into
societies, when infidels and free-thinkers so-called are organizing
on every side to draw everything to themselves? Our indolence would
be all the worse, all the more inexcusable, were we to yield the
field to our adversaries, since we, whenever there is a question
of real live associations, possess so great an advantage over
every other body, not on account of our own merits, but because
of the spirit and strength of Catholic Christendom. Let the world
surpass us in material means, let it be far above us in its appeal
to worldly interests; it is wasting the vital power of faith and
Catholic love, which alone are able to establish and to develop
associations possessed of real life--associations which can be
productive of real good.

How true this is, is shown by the history of the Catholic
association founded by the departed but never-to-be-forgotten
Kolping. Based only on Catholic faith and relying for support
on the very simplest of human means, it has during the past
twenty-five years had a steady growth and accomplished untold good.
And it will ever be so, so long as it holds to the simple Catholic
principles of Kolping. To these associations of young people
founded by Kolping others have been joined recently--associations
in which the masters of these young people meet. To complete the
good work, there is nothing now needed but similar societies for
apprentices.

What Kolping did for young mechanics must, with suitable
modifications, be now done for those of both sexes occupied
in factories and other such establishments. This is the most
important step that can be taken by Catholics, to solve certain
social questions, and which can be solved only on Catholic
principles. Indeed, the greatest social danger of the age is the
dechristianization and demoralization of the laboring classes
of mechanics and the employees in manufacturing establishments.
This dechristianization and demoralization are, to a great
extent, the cause of the wretchedness of these classes, and make
that wretchedness, even under the most favorable circumstances,
incurable. What enormous dimensions has this evil assumed under
the, in part at least, so unnatural, social, and economic relations
which modern liberal political economy has brought about! But
even the evils resulting from this condition of affairs might be
healed, if the laboring classes could be restored to Christianity.
The Society of Young Mechanics, founded by Kolping, demonstrates
that, even under the most unfavorable circumstances, the laboring
classes can be redeemed from evil and reclaimed to right, provided
they can be made to enter the atmosphere of Christianity in which
the members of these societies live. Let us work unanimously and
for the same object, and we shall see the number of Christian
laborers increase. We shall see them living more and more in one
another, associating with one another, and being strengthened
by that association. When we have such men, and not before, it
will be possible to make those associations really useful in the
improvement of the material condition of the laboring classes. So
long, indeed, as the laboring classes themselves remain unchristian
and immoral, it will be impossible to do anything for their
material improvement; for they will never be satisfied. Only by
strengthening the spirit of Christianity in all classes of society
can legislation itself be made Christian, and it will become
Christian just in proportion as the several classes of society
become Christian.

Let us now examine in brief the most important movements which the
general assembly of this year has initiated toward the establishing
of Catholic societies.

For a number of years, the principal subject that has engaged one
section of the Catholic Congress is the Christian solution of the
so-called social question. Through the efforts of the assembly,
the question has been fairly brought before the clergy and the
laity. The session of this year has, under this head, recommended
the establishment of Christian social associations, the raising of
helping funds, the encouragement of appropriate literature, the
circulation of the _Christian Social Journal_, and the erection
of dwellings for the laboring classes. They have pointed out
how important it is to study on every hand the condition of the
laboring classes, in order to discover the principles on which
we must proceed, in order to legislate concerning labor and the
laboring classes in a just and Christian manner.

The general assembly has, moreover, recommended the Catholic
missionary associations in the most emphatic manner. Among these,
the first place belongs to the Society of St. Francis Xavier for
Foreign Missions, and the Society of St. Boniface.

Considering the terrible blows that have fallen upon France and
upon Rome, it has become our duty to redouble our efforts in behalf
of the missions to foreign parts, and in behalf of the Society of
St. Francis Xavier; for on those efforts must depend, in a great
measure, the permanency and spread of Catholic missions the world
over. Unfortunately, the Society of St. Francis Xavier has gone
backward rather than forward, in Germany, during the last ten
years. In many places it has ceded to other societies. And yet it
should not be so. The Society of St. Francis Xavier is and must
remain the first and most important of all missionary associations.
It embraces the missions to all parts of the world, and they all
look to it for support. Even Germany has been helped by it more
than by any other association; and now, although the Society of
St. Boniface has extended so widely, it cannot be dispensed with.
Therefore it is that all Catholics, and, above all, the clergy,
who are always in all matters pertaining to Christianity the
divinely appointed leaders of the people, should take the deepest
interest in the Society of St. Francis Xavier. The Society of St.
Boniface will suffer nothing from this. On the contrary, the more
the Catholic spirit is strengthened, the more will this and every
other Catholic society thrive. As truly as the church embraces the
whole world, so truly can we not be real Catholics if we feel an
interest only in the missions of our own country, but none in the
missions to other parts of the world.

True it is that charity demands us to look first to the wants
of those who are our nearest neighbors. And on this account the
Society of St. Boniface cannot be too strongly recommended to our
benevolence. The general meeting has done its duty in this matter.
It has recommended the society in very earnest terms.

Besides these great societies, there are other smaller ones with
special objects of charity in view--smaller, but by no means
unimportant. The Society of the Holy Sepulchre is, independently of
its religious object, the most powerful auxiliary of the missions
in the East. The Society of St. Joseph is doing the work of the
Society of St. Boniface among the large and exposed Catholic
German population in large and foreign cities, and especially such
cosmopolitan cities as Paris and London.

A work of the highest importance is to care for the emigrants to
America. Here it is possible to do a great deal with little means.
The Committee on Emigration, presided over by Prince von Isenburg,
has placed its cards of recommendation at the disposal of all
parish priests, in order that emigrants presenting those cards
to the agents of the Catholic Emigration Society in America may
receive proper advice and direction in their new homes, and--who
would have imagined it?--those cards of recommendation have been
used much less than one might rightfully expect.

How great is sometimes our ignorance or indifference concerning
the interests of religion! It was, certainly, only right that the
general assembly of this year should have approved the founding
of an association, that of the Archangel Raphael, whose sole
object it is, besides the saying of a few prayers for the success
of this movement in behalf of the emigrants, to defray the heavy
expenses of the same, and thus to relieve the president of the
committee of that charge. We hear many exclaim just here, We have
too many associations, too many meetings! We know very well that,
when societies increase beyond measure, even when those societies
are benevolent ones, there may be danger. But that there may be
danger is no reason why we should not encourage the organization
of such societies when they may be necessary or useful. We do not,
however, wish to blame the taking of steps to prevent too great a
competition of societies having charitable or other objects in view.

The Catholic Congress this year could not well help--as, indeed,
all those which preceded it did--considering the school question.
There can be no question that the anti-Christian party in the state
is straining every nerve to do away, by means of legislation,
with the right of Catholic parents to a Catholic education
of their children in Catholic schools--with the right of the
church to instruct her people in a Catholic manner, and to found
institutions for that purpose. The members of the assembly spoke
on these matters in no ambiguous terms, and took, besides, into
consideration what they should do in case the state, siding with
the liberalism of the day, should banish the Catholic religion,
the Catholic Church, from the schools of the nation. Should this
happen, there was nothing left but to appeal to the consciences
of parents. It then became the duty of bishops to tell their
people that it was not allowed them to send their children to
unchristian schools. Liberty of education must be defended to
the utmost, and every sacrifice made in order to give Catholic
children opportunities for a Catholic education from the primary
schools to the university. But the impression is not hereby
intended to be conveyed that in this Catholics see the salvation
of the church, of her children, and of the nation. No; they will
always remind princes and states that it is their solemn duty to
govern a Christian people in a Christian manner, and, leaving out
of consideration the sacredness of the foundations and the right
of the church to teach, to give their Catholic subjects Catholic
schools--schools standing in proper relations with the church.

Yet, on account of the more universal questions, and the great
contests which the church is waging for her most important
possessions, for the independence and for the integrity of its
faith, the school question, even at this meeting, was held somewhat
in the background.

The general assembly was content with adopting a few resolutions,
embodying the simple principles which must guide Catholics,
should the state break with the church on the school question,
and, violating the natural and prescriptive rights of Catholics,
introduce a system of non-Catholic schools--principles not
sufficiently recognized by even well-meaning Catholics. These
resolutions are worded thus: “The monopoly of the school system by
the state is an unwarranted restriction of liberty of conscience,
and therefore to be opposed by all Catholics. Very many of the
schools have notoriously been founded by Catholics, and it is only
just that they should continue to accomplish those ends for which
they are established. In these schools, and in all Catholic schools
yet to be established, the Catholic Church must possess perfect and
unrestricted liberty in its capacity as a teacher.” Thus, while
the school question was not the most prominent before the general
assembly, the words spoken at that meeting will not, we hope, be
without beneficial results in the province of Catholic education.

All rights and liberties avail nothing in the end if Catholic
education itself is not what it ought to be. And the great battle
that is waging, that education may not be deprived of its Christian
character, can be won by us only on condition that teachers and
educators themselves, as well as parents and the clergy, understand
precisely the full bearing of the question.

It was, therefore, a happy thought to unite teachers, clergy, and
parents into one grand society, in order to further the great
matter of Christian education--a matter on which our whole future
for weal or woe depends. The association of teachers founded in
Bavaria, approved by the bishops, embracing among its members many
distinguished men, and directed by one evidently called by God to
fill that very position, Ludwig Aner, has sought and is seeking
to carry this thought into practice. The Catholic Congress held
at Düsseldorf had already called attention to the importance of
establishing similar societies elsewhere, only modified in their
character by the different nature of place or other circumstances.
The realization of this thought was a matter for the meeting at
Mayence to consider more closely yet. There was here assembled a
goodly number of educators and friends of youth from every part
of Germany, among them a number of the most widely known teachers
in the country; and they took occasion to most earnestly confer
on this matter each day of the meeting. They gave a general plan,
and threw out some very practical hints for the organization of
Catholic educational associations.

We give them here with the hope that they may prove as fertile
in blessings as did those thrown out on a former occasion, and
which resulted in the Society of St. Boniface, and in the Catholic
Association for Young Men, so often recommended by those meetings
since.

The matter is one of at least as much importance, and the general
plan of the organization of these societies at least as simple and
practical. Here are the broad outlines of the plan: “The task of
education, rendered more than ever before difficult on account of
the times in which we live, and the school question, now everywhere
looming into such immense proportions, render the foundation of
Catholic educational institutions imperative.”

The Mayence Association of Teachers--pointing to the association
already existing in Bavaria--suggests the following as the ground
principles of the new associations:

I. The Catholic educational associations recognize as their
foundation, first and last, the faith of the Catholic Church.

II. Excluding all party issues, their only object is the
furtherance of the temporal and eternal welfare of youth.

III. The Catholic educational associations desire that the youth of
the age should profit by all that the world has of good, and that
in their education all that it has of evil should be avoided.

Therefore, they are ready to accept and to use all that there is
of real worth in the educational systems of the age, all that can
promote real progress.

IV. These associations consider the proper education of youth in
the family, the schools, and later in life, that is, after the
youth have left the schools, as their exclusive object.

Therefore is it that they accept as members, parents, teachers, the
clergy, and all who, in any manner, are interested in the education
of youth.

V. They recommend to these associations, 1. The defence and
propagation of Catholic principles in education by word, writing,
and action. 2. The defence of the rights of parents to the
Christian education and Christian instruction of their children. 3.
The improvement of the family education of children, of schools,
and the providing of means for the continuance of education after
children leave schools. 4. The furtherance of the interests of
teachers, to support them in their efforts in the direction of
education, and particularly to help to elevate their material and
social position; the collecting of funds to aid in the education of
teachers, and in the support of their widows. 5. The encouragement
of literature bearing on the interests of education. 6. Founding
and caring for educational institutions of all kinds--schools for
children, boys, girls, apprentices, etc.

VI. The means for attaining the objects of these associations
are, besides the means suggested by the very nature of our holy
religion, 1. Periodicals; 2. Appropriate publications for teachers
and for families; 3. The establishment of libraries and literary
associations; 4. Co-operating with other associations--the
pecuniary assistance needed in any case to be obtained by regular
fees from the members, presents, etc.

VII. The getting up of particular by-laws to be left to the
associations from each separate province, but the by-laws to be got
up in such a manner that the above principles be not ignored.

The elevation of the tone and the support of the Catholic press
must ever be one of the principal objects of all Catholic
associations, and of the general meetings.

This year a great number of Catholic publishers and editors came
together at this meeting. All the principal organs of the Catholic
daily press were represented. The principal object gained was that
they became acquainted with one another, which is the first step
towards their understanding and appreciating one another.

As far as the press is concerned, we Catholics have nothing to
do but to look at things just as they stand. It is certain that
the unrestricted freedom of the press, which every one is ready
to abuse, and which allows every one to constitute himself a
teacher of the public, can be defended neither on principles of
reason nor of faith. It is certain, too, that the rank growth of
periodicals which has followed with all its attendant evils, and
the heterogeneous character of the reading of a great many people,
is a deplorable evil. But as, unfortunately, an unchristian press
is guaranteed the fullest liberty and the evils that flow from that
liberty, are widely spread, it becomes not only our privilege, but
our solemn duty to combat the unchristian by a really Christian
press--a matter on which the church and the head of the church
have spoken in an unmistakable manner. Yes, it is absolutely
necessary to call a Catholic journal into existence on every hand,
and to spare no sacrifice to do so. The beginnings of the Catholic
press have been everywhere small, and those who have interested
themselves in it have everywhere had to contend with untold
difficulties. This is true particularly of the larger journals,
which, to enable them to compete with other journals, need support
from other sources besides that derived from subscriptions and
advertisements. It is certainly the duty of Catholics, out of
pure love for God and for the church, to establish Catholic press
associations, in order to provide means for the support of Catholic
papers, just as the government and political parties find funds
to support their own organs. The financial difficulties which
the larger journals have to fear consist sometimes only in the
apprehension of too great a competition on the part of smaller
or other journals. There may be such a thing as a reprehensible
competition, when, for example, as in the same locality attempts
are made to found or establish new journals of the same nature as
those already existing, when those already existing are sufficient
to supply the demand. But, on the whole, we have by no means thus
far enough Catholic papers. There was a time, and it is not yet
entirely over, when Catholic Germany had very few papers among
the daily press of the country. And almost every one of these few
papers had an equal prospect, and it naturally enough seemed to be
the ambition of the editor or proprietor of each to make his paper
the central organ of the whole of Catholic Germany.

Naturally enough, too, those pecuniarily or otherwise interested
in these journals looked with a rather jealous eye upon all
attempts to found other Catholic journals. Whenever a new paper
was established, the old ones lost a number of subscribers, and
sometimes fears were entertained for the existence of the older
papers themselves. But experience has shown that these fears were
unfounded. Wherever and whenever a paper was properly managed
and ably edited, it has contrived to live and to do well. Thus
competition has, on the whole, worked advantageously rather than
otherwise.

If we look at the matter closely, we will see that it is quite an
abnormal state of affairs that Catholic Germany should possess so
few of the larger political papers. Compared with the time when
Catholics had no press at all, the existence of even one good paper
through which they can give expression to their thoughts is a great
blessing and a great gain; but that certainly does not enable
them to give their voice that weight in the questions of the day
to which it is entitled. Besides, it must be remembered that, if
Catholics have not this class of papers, they will take periodicals
which are not Catholic. Experience teaches, and it might be
expected from the very nature of things that a paper can rarely
obtain a very large circulation outside of the locality in which
it is published. Outside of these bounds it will find only a few
isolated subscribers. Hence it follows that every large city ought
to have its own Catholic paper, one that will worthily represent it.

These papers outside of the place of their publication will thus
find a number of subscribers--a number which will always depend
upon the ability with which they are edited, the reliability of
the views they advocate, and the interest which on other grounds
they may awaken. We cannot, however, be satisfied with a so-called
central organ, or with a small number of large papers. No, every
large city should have its Catholic paper, and support it, cost
what it may. We thank God that such papers have, during the past
year, been established in many parts. That such a journal should
be established in the capital of the new German Empire, at the
seat of government, was an evident necessity; and it is one of the
most pleasant events in the history of our time that a paper like
the _Germania_ should have in a short time taken its position as a
first-class and widely circulated Catholic journal.

All our already existing Catholic journals, and all those to be
hereafter established, instead of hindering, will help one another,
and that from the very fact that they exist; for, the stronger
the Catholic press becomes, the more the attention of the nation
is called to it, the more secure must become the existence of
each individual journal. Therefore, we hope that there will be no
jealousy between those interested in different Catholic journals;
that, on the contrary, they will help support one another at all
times. Still more important is it to take a proper view of the
smaller local press. It would be a great absurdity were Catholics
to neglect the establishment of smaller Catholic journals lest they
should interfere or compete with the larger ones. This competition
is not dangerous; but it is dangerous to put no antagonist in
the field to meet and to oppose the unchristian press in smaller
places. The large journals can neither be paid for nor read by
the vast majority of the inhabitants of such places--and does it
not seem wrong to leave them, or the Catholics among them, to the
evil influence of a press totally antagonistic to the faith? The
establishment and support of such papers is not hard, and the
financial difficulties which stand in the way of the larger papers
for the larger cities are not to be here encountered. Wherever the
matter of the establishment of such papers has been rightly taken
in hand, it has proved successful. If the clergy only take the
matter under advisement, they will find those willing and able to
carry the matter through. It is not a very hard matter to purchase
a press and find subscribers in such places. A feature which will
contribute not a little to aid in the matter is the finding of
the proper person to carry the papers around and to canvass for
subscribers and advertisements. By being thus practical, Catholic
men have established Catholic papers in localities where one might
have despaired of ever establishing them; and not only have they
been established, but they have succeeded. No matter what the
condition of our press, it is far from being in a state to despair
of. Oh! if the children of light were only as wise as the children
of the world, we should witness wonders. It is true that evil makes
its way in this world better than goodness does; but it is also
true that goodness does not prosper, because those who represent it
take the matter too lightly, or do not go about it as they should.
More is often done for the worst cause than men are willing to do
or to sacrifice for the best. A great deal has of late years been
done for the local press, and we sincerely hope that a great deal
more will be done and more universally, and need requires us not
only to pray, but to act and make sacrifices.

Other proposals were made at the general meeting to carry out
projects, which of course the general meeting itself could neither
undertake nor perfect, as, for instance, the furtherance of
this or that literary undertaking; yet these proposals are not
without their use. They suggest something or call attention to
something already existing. Thus, at the present general meeting
the establishment of a journal as the organ for the various
associations of young Catholics was recommended. The proposer of
the resolution was informed that there already existed a journal
of that character, and a very good one; that it was published by
the associations of young Catholics in Austria, and edited in a
very able manner, under the name of the _Bund_ in Vienna; and the
general meeting, therefore, recommended it for the purpose named.
Many other things relating to the press were touched upon. We feel
assured that the general meeting has done much for the Catholic
press of the whole country.

We pass over many things bearing on Catholic charity, which ever
engages anew the attention of the general meeting. We can only
mention that the members of St. Vincent’s Association held a
special meeting.

May the blessing of God, which has never failed the Catholic
Congress, bless their efforts of this year!




FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.


PART FIRST.

THE OLD MANSION.


VII.

Fleurange’s education did not allow her to yield to her feelings
without bringing herself to an account for them, and it was
surprising she had thus unresistingly allowed herself to be swayed
so long by a vague and unreasonable preoccupation. And could there
be one more so than this about an unknown person--a stranger she
had only had a glimpse of, with whom she had not exchanged a single
word, and whom she would probably never behold again? This was the
third time she had heard him spoken of since the day she saw him in
her father’s studio, and each time she felt agitated and disturbed.
When questioned by Dr. Leblanc, her first emotion was overpowered
by surprise, and especially by the sad remembrances awakened.
Afterwards, when Julian Steinberg mentioned Count George at the
Christmas dinner, his name gave her a thrill, but she attributed
this keen sensation to a natural interest in the hitherto unknown
individual who purchased the picture which had played so important
a _rôle_ in her life. But this time the quickened pulsations of
her heart and the ardent curiosity with which she listened to
every word that was uttered were succeeded by a prolonged reverie
which almost merited the name of madness. “Yes, Julian was right!
That is really what he looks like!” she exclaimed aloud. And every
hero with whom history, poetry, or old legends had peopled her
imagination, passed one by one before her, but always under the
same form. Then, as there is no hero without heroic feats, and no
heroism without combats and perils, a series of terrible events
succeeded each other in her waking dream--battles, shipwrecks,
desperate enterprises, and dangers of all kinds, in which the
same person was the chief actor, and in all these phantasmagoric
adventures she saw herself enacting an inexplicable and indistinct
part.

A whole hour passed thus, but the declining day recalled a habit
contracted in childhood which changed the current of her thoughts
and brought her to herself. It was sunset--in Italy, the hour of
the Ave Maria. Fleurange never forgot it. Every evening at that
hour, a short prayer rose from her heart to her lips.

Every one is aware of the power of association. We have all felt
the influence of a tone, a flower, a perfume, and even things more
trifling, in recalling a host of remembrances of which no one else
could see the connection. What a natural and touching thought,
then, to associate a holy memory with the hour that links day with
night!--the hour of twilight, when the dazzling sunlight is fading
away, work is suspended, and propitious leisure brings on long,
sweet, and sometimes dangerous reveries! In such a case, it is not
surprising the evening star becomes a safeguard. Has not the effect
it had on Fleurange been experienced a thousand times by others?

A sudden clearness of perception, strength to prevail over all
earthly phantoms, an aspiration towards heaven, an instantaneous
revival of early impressions, an influx of salutary thoughts
dispelling the confused, illusory ideas floating in her mind--such
was the effect now produced by the remembrance indissolubly
associated with that evening hour. She resolutely got up. Her
attitude, that had been languishing, her look lost in space, were
now transformed. She awoke to a sense of duty, and the feeling was
not a transient one. What was this madness that had overpowered
her? Putting this question to herself brought a blush of confusion
to her face, and made her resolve to resist and overcome reveries
so vain and absurd. And to this end she would cut them short. She
reopened her note-book, and began by tearing out the page on which
was the name but just written; then, with no further examination
of her thoughts, even for the purpose of self-reproach, which
would have been another way of prolonging them, she seated herself
at her table, and took up a volume of Dante which lay there. She
had promised Clement to mark some passages of the canto they read
together the evening before, and to add some notes from her own
memory. She at once set herself to work, and endeavored to give
her whole mind to the occupation. It is often easier, we all
know, to abstain from an act than to repress a thought. Perhaps
the volition is at fault in the latter case; but Fleurange was so
firmly resolved to obtain a victory of this kind that, at the end
of half an hour’s effort to keep her mind on her work, she thought
herself successful. She would have been more sure of herself had
she foreseen all that was so soon to come to her aid, and banish
from her mind for a long time all vain illusions, vague reveries,
and especially all exclusive self-preoccupation.

It was quite dark when she rose from the table. She heard the
clock strike, and felt ashamed of remaining so long in her room
by herself, at a time she should have been unusually attentive
to others. This was the last evening Clara would spend at home
previous to her marriage, and it ended a period of unalloyed
happiness in the Old Mansion. One place in the family was about
to be vacated, a beloved form disappear, a cherished one cease to
make part of their daily life. They would probably see each other
again, but it would not be as before. The happiness of her who
was to leave them would change its nature, but even her mother
hoped she would be so happy as never to regret the paternal roof.
Clara’s smiling face was grave and tearful to-day, as her tender
glances wandered from her parents to her brothers and sisters, and
lingered lovingly on the old walls she was about to leave. Julian
was terrified by her melancholy appearance, but felt reassured when
Clara, smiling and weeping at the same time, said to him naïvely:

“Julian, it is you that I love! To-morrow I shall leave them all
for you, and I truly feel I never could give you up for them. Is
not this enough?”

“No. If I do not see you calm and full of trust, I shall not enjoy
my happiness.”

“My trust in you is boundless.”

“And yet you tremble, and your eyes are turned away.”

“Because the unknown happiness of a new life makes me anxious, and
terrifies me in spite of myself.--I tremble, I acknowledge, but I
do not hesitate. I am afraid, but I wish to be yours, and no fear
would induce me to resume the past or repulse the future--for the
future is you!”

It may surprise some to learn that this young girl, in speaking to
her betrothed of their approaching union, expressed unawares the
sentiments death inspires in those souls whose love extends beyond
the grave, and who, triumphing over their weakness and limited
knowledge, ardently long, in spite of their fears, for the eternal
union that awaits them.

One of these beings, holy and gifted, being asked, as her life was
ebbing away, what impression the prospect of death made on her,
hesitated, and then replied:

“The impression that the thought of marriage produces on a young
girl who loves, and yet trembles--who fears union, but desires it.”

Fleurange, when she left her chamber, went down to the gallery,
where she expected to find her cousins, but it was empty. The
preparations for the morrow caused an unusual disorder throughout
the house, generally so quiet and well-ordered. Clara was doubtless
with her mother, but where was Hilda? The latter, she knew, would
have another sad farewell to utter the following day, and she
reproached herself for having so long lost sight of this fact.
She passed through the gallery and opened the door of the library,
where she found her whom she was seeking. Ludwig Dornthal and
Hansfelt were talking together, and near them Hilda, mute, pale,
and motionless, was listening, without taking any part in the
conversation that was going on before her.

Hansfelt was talking to this friend of his departure, and spoke as
one who was never to return. He was apparently thinking of nothing
but their long friendship, their youth passed together, and the end
of their companionship, but his accents were profoundly melancholy,
and all the harmony of his soul seemed disturbed.

Ludwig, however, was extremely agitated, and, while replying to his
friend, looked attentively and anxiously, from time to time, at
his daughter. Fleurange softly approached her; Hilda’s cold hand
returned her pressure. “I am glad you have come,” she said in a low
tone, “very glad.” Fleurange did not venture to make any reply,
and scarcely looked at her, for fear of increasing her emotion
by appearing to observe it. Seeing an open jewel-case lying on
the table, she exclaimed--glad to find something to say: “What a
beautiful bracelet!”

“It is a wedding present Hansfelt has just brought Clara,” said the
professor.

“Yes, a wedding present, and a parting gift which Ludwig has
allowed me to offer one of his daughters,” said Hansfelt. “As for
the other,” continued he in a troubled tone, “the time for her
wedding presents will doubtless soon come also, but the time for a
parting gift has already arrived. Ludwig, in memory of the pleasant
years during which I have seen her grow up, and as a souvenir of
this last day, will you allow me to give Hilda this ring?”

The professor made no reply.

Hansfelt continued: “In truth, a departure like mine is so much
like death, that it gives me a similar liberty to say anything.
Hilda, why should I not acknowledge it to you now in his presence?
It will do no harm. Well, you shall know, then, that the old poet,
whose forehead is more wrinkled than your father’s, would perhaps
be foolish enough to forget his age were he to remain near you. It
is therefore well for him to go.”

He took the young girl’s icy hand in his. “If he were younger,” he
continued, forcing himself to smile, “he might perhaps obtain the
right to give you a different ring than this.”--He stopped alarmed.
Hilda’s face had become frightfully pale, and she leaned her head
against Fleurange’s shoulder. She seemed ready to faint.

“Hilda, good heavens!”

“Zounds, Karl,” cried the professor, rising abruptly. “You try my
patience at last. Where are your wits?”

“Ludwig!”

“Yes, where, if you cannot see that you are yet young enough to
force me to give you my daughter, if I would not behold her die
with grief?”

“Ludwig!” repeated Hansfelt, quite beside himself.

“Of course I am displeased with her for her folly, and I am
angry with you too, but I suppose I must forgive you both
because--because she loves you.”

“Beware, beware! Ludwig,” said Hansfelt, growing pale. “There are
hopes that prove fatal when blasted!”

“Come, now, you must not die yet, nor she either!” Then he tenderly
folded his daughter in his arms, and, as she opened her eyes and
looked around in confusion, he said in a low tone:

“Hilda, my child, I give my consent. May you be as happy as you
desire. You have your father’s blessing.--Come, now,” said he to
Fleurange, “let us go to your aunt, and leave them to make their
own disclosures.”


VIII.

Madame Dornthal was affected but not surprised at hearing what had
just taken place. She had never been deceived as to her daughter’s
sentiments, and for a long time had endeavored to open her
husband’s eyes. But he was incredulous, and persisted in declaring
it was impossible for his friend, his contemporary, his “old Karl,”
even to win the heart of a girl of twenty. “It is a mere fancy,
which will pass away as soon as she meets a man of her own age who
is worthy of her,” he obstinately repeated.

“Perhaps so, but that is the difficulty,” replied the sagacious,
clear-sighted mother. “Between you and Hansfelt, Hilda has become
accustomed to live in a rarer atmosphere than generally surrounds
youth. Whether this is fortunate or unfortunate, I know not; but
as long as I perceive only pure and noble sentiments in her heart,
which I read like an open page, I do not feel I have a right
to oppose them. Believe me, we must not think too much of our
children’s happiness, and, above all, we must not plan for them to
be happy according to our notions. The important thing, after all,
is not for them to be as happy as possible, but to fully develop
their worth. Let their souls, confided to us, bear all the fruit of
which they are capable. Is not this the chief thing, Ludwig?”

The more worthy one is to hear such language, the less easy it
is to reply, and this conversation, which took place the evening
before, made Ludwig waver at the interview in the library, and drew
from him unawares his consent.

“We shall now lose them both,” said the professor sadly.

“I should rather see them happy, as we are, than happy for our
benefit,” courageously replied his wife, with a greater effort than
she wished to appear.

All misunderstanding being now cleared away, and the consent
of every one obtained, it was at once decided that Hansfelt’s
departure should be delayed a fortnight, and at the end of that
time he should go, but not alone! The last evening the two sisters
spent together under the paternal roof became therefore, doubly
memorable; but they were all calmer than might have been expected.
The professor, in spite of the suggestions of his reason, in spite
of the evident wisdom of his opinion and opposition, could not look
at his daughter without feeling that the profound and tranquil joy
which beamed from her eyes was permanent and satisfying, and the
reflection of that joy on Hansfelt’s inspired brow and softened
look involuntarily showed the secret of her affection for him.

“Well, my venerable Karl, it must be acknowledged you look quite
youthful to-night!”

“How could it be otherwise? I was withering away, and now my
freshness has returned; my life seemed hopeless, and now it is lit
up. This resurrection, this new existence, is like the restoration
of youth, and, more than that, it elevates and ennobles. If
_noblesse oblige_, so does happiness, and what would I not do now
to merit mine?”

The following day, the bright sun cast a brilliancy around the form
of the young bride, which was declared a lucky omen, in addition to
many others carefully noted by the superstitious affection of those
who surrounded her.

The Mansion, as we have said, was very near the church, and the
wedding procession was made on foot, to the great satisfaction
of those who composed it, as well as of the curious spectators.
Clara, crowned with myrtle and clad in white, was as lovely a bride
as one could wish to see, but there was no less admiration for
the two young girls who, followed by several others, two by two,
walked immediately behind. It will be guessed they were Hilda,
whose beauty was now radiant, and Fleurange, whose black hair and
general appearance distinguished her from the rest. The latter, as
she passed along, might have noticed more than one look, and heard
more than one word, calculated to satisfy her vanity, but she was
wholly occupied in observing all the details of the wedding array
which surrounded her for the first time in her life. They found a
great crowd in church, and as the _cortége_ slowly approached the
altar, Fleurange, casting her eyes around, suddenly met a friendly
look, accompanied by a respectful salutation. She bowed slightly in
return, but without recognizing the person who saluted her, though
his face was familiar. Nor did she know the fresh young woman
leaning on his arm. A few steps further on, and she recalled her
travelling companion, and Wilhelm, her husband, who was her uncle’s
clerk. It was he, she felt sure, and she eagerly turned to look at
him. She even stopped. At that moment she heard Felix Dornthal’s
name mentioned, followed by these words: “They say that is his
intended who has just passed by.” Fleurange felt they were speaking
of her, and she blushed with displeasure. Then she heard Wilhelm’s
reply: “Would it might be so! She might, perhaps, yet save him
from--” The rest escaped her as she was borne along by the throng.
She did not see Wilhelm or his wife again, and for the present
thought no more of this incident.

The ceremony, the return, and the wedding dinner, all passed off
with joyful simplicity. At the end of the repast, Clara took off
her myrtle wreath, and divided it among her young companions,
wishing that they too, in their turn, might find good husbands, and
a happiness equal to her own.

It was Hilda who was first honored in this distribution. This
signified she would be married before the rest. She took the myrtle
from her sister’s hand without any embarrassment, as if she were
not ashamed to let others see she joyfully accepted the offering,
and regarded it as more than a mere omen.

After Hilda, came Fleurange, and then all the others down to little
Frida, who had joined them with several other companions of her age.

“In your turn, Gabrielle!” said Hilda, as Fleurange fastened the
sprig of myrtle in her belt. “Your turn will soon come also to wear
this crown.”

Fleurange shook her head, and replied with a seriousness she
herself could not have accounted for: “That day will never come for
me--no, never!”

“Why do you say so?” said Hilda, astonished.

“I do not know.” And then she laughed.

An hour after, she perceived the myrtle had fallen from her belt.
She searched for it, having been charged by her cousin to wear it
the remainder of the day, but she could not find it.

At nightfall the newly married couple left the Old Mansion,
escorted over the threshold and down the steps by all the family,
who, with kind wishes and congratulations, there bade them adieu
with more affection than sadness, for they were not to be widely
separated, or for any great length of time.

Clara’s father and mother accompanied her to her new home. It was
a modest, pleasant house in one of the faubourgs of the city,
which Julian, with loving interest, had been preparing more than
a year for her who was now to take possession of it. Her parents
took leave of her at the threshold. Madame Dornthal embraced her
daughter, and, while clasping her in her arms, said: “Remember you
are now beginning a new life. Continue to give us our share of your
affection; but let nothing henceforth prevail over the love which
is now your duty.”

“I shall merit a severe penalty,” said Julian, “if this duty ever
becomes a burden--if she ever regrets the day she joined her lot to
mine.”

The father and mother stood looking at them a moment as they
paused at the entrance of the house. They observed the moved and
respectful look of the bridegroom. They saw, too, the confiding
glance of the bride amid her tears, and they left them without fear
under the protection of God!

On their way homeward, the poor father, breaking the long silence,
said: “Years hence, when she in her turn is separated from a
child, she will understand all we have suffered to-day!”

“Yes, my Ludwig,” said Madame Dornthal, wiping away her tears; “and
Heaven grant she may then have, like us, a stronger feeling in her
heart than that of grief, which will enable her to bear it!”

They pressed each other’s hands. Never, even in the brightest days
of their youth, had this old couple felt so tenderly, so closely
united!

They found the Old Mansion brilliantly lighted up. The gallery and
library, illuminated and ornamented with flowers and wreaths, were
filled not only by the customary friends and relatives, but the two
brothers’ whole circle of acquaintance in the city.

It was the custom at that time to end the wedding day with a
_soirée_, but a delicate sentiment forbade the newly-married pair
taking a part in the festivities, their happiness being considered
too profound, too concentrated, to enjoy the noisy gaiety. But
here, the unrestrained gaiety was natural, infectious, and wholly
exempt from an ingredient too often found in the corrupting
influences of society--a sad and fatal ingredient, which inspires
ill-toned pleasantries whose effect is to excite smiles and
blushes, and a gaiety as different from the other as the laughter
of fiends from the smiles of angels! The gaiety here did not
profane by a word, a glance, or even a smile, the end of the day
which had witnessed a Christian espousal.

Felix Dornthal himself seemed less disposed to jest than usual.
He was even grave, absent-minded, and gloomy to such a degree as
to excite attention in the morning at church, where he arrived
late, and at the wedding dinner, where, appointed to propose the
health of the newly married pair, he acquitted himself of the
duty with ease, but only to resume afterwards a complete silence.
Family festivals were doubtless little to his taste, and perhaps
it was _ennui_ that produced so gloomy an aspect. Such, at least,
was the supposition of his cousins, who, after declaring him
disagreeable, left him to himself. He disappeared at the end of the
repast, and now in these crowded rooms he alone was wanting. His
absence, noticed by several persons, greatly excited his father’s
impatience, who, to-day more than ever, ardently desired to witness
before he died the marriage of his son. Illness had brought on the
irritability of old age, and Heinrich Dornthal could no longer bear
contradiction.

“Where can he be?” repeated he for the tenth time to his neighbor,
who, with his look fastened on the door, seemed to share the uneasy
expectation of the banker. At that instant Fleurange passed by.
She stopped as she saw Wilhelm Müller again, at her uncle’s side.
This time she recognized him at once, and, with the natural grace
that gave a charm to her every movement, she approached and renewed
her acquaintance with him. She learned in a few words that he had
been absent, that his wife was restored to health, and had not
forgotten her. Fleurange, in return, sent her many affectionate
messages. Then she passed on, while her uncle, gazing at her,
felt an increased regret, which she was as far from imagining as
sympathizing with.

The piano was open. Several pieces had already been played with
great success, and now all the younger members of the party
were seized with the unanimous desire of dancing, which is so
contagious, and in youth often a kind of necessary manifestation of
joyousness. The Germans are all musicians, and Clement excelled.
He at once divined the general feeling, and seized his violin.
Hilda seated herself at the piano. Hansfelt took his place at her
side, and the gaiety she fully participated in did not inspire her,
like the rest, to leave her place. She was, therefore, in the best
mood possible to acquit herself of the _rôle_ which Clement with a
glance assigned her in this improvised orchestra. The brother and
sister struck up a waltz, and played with that skill, perfect time,
and particular animation which, like the waltz itself, is peculiar
to the German nation. In an instant there was universal animation.

Fleurange had occasionally danced with her cousins in the winter
evenings, but she had never experienced, as on this occasion, the
inspiriting effect of so much liveliness and so general an impulse.
She involuntarily rose up with a desire to take a part in it, and
at that very moment she heard these words addressed her: “Will you
favor me with this waltz?”--an invitation so in accordance with
the wish of the moment that she replied in the affirmative, and
left the place before realizing it was her cousin Felix who was her
partner. They danced around twice. Poor Heinrich Dornthal saw them
sweep by, and uttered a joyful exclamation--the last that a feeling
of hope or of paternal joy would ever draw from him again in this
world!

Felix conducted Fleurange back to her seat. She was breathless,
pale, and annoyed. While waltzing, he had uttered words she wished
had never been said. Scarcely seated, her first impulse was to
leave the spot where he stood, and even the room, but she could
not. Felix’s hand, placed on hers, forced her to sit down again.
Then Fleurange rose above her embarrassment. She comprehended that
the time had come to be firm, calm, and decided--not a difficult
thing when the heart and the will are perfectly in accord. That
was the case in this instance, and Fleurange almost coolly awaited
what her cousin had to say.

“I only beseech you for one word, Gabrielle,” said Felix, with more
emotion and respect than usual--“one word, and, if you understood
me, an answer.”

“I heard you,” said Fleurange.

“And understood?”

“Yes; and with regret, Felix.”

“Tell me plainly, Gabrielle, do you understand that I love you?”

Fleurange blushed and made no reply.

“That I love you to such a degree, my happiness, my future
prospects, and my life are in your hands?” continued he vehemently.
“And this is true, literally true.”

Fleurange frowned. “Do you wish to frighten me?” she said coldly,
turning her large eyes toward him.

“No; I have told you the truth without thinking I could frighten
you; but, since you ask the question, here is my sincere reply:
Only promise to accept my hand, promise it through fear or love,
terror or joy, I will be satisfied, and ask for no more.”

“Then,” said Fleurange slowly, “it is all the same to you whether I
esteem or despise you, love or detest?”

“No woman can for ever detest a man who endeavors to win her
love--when that man is her husband, and could be her master, but
only wishes to be her slave.”

“There is great fatuity in your humility, Felix; but you are frank,
and I wish to be so too. I shall never--mark my words--never be
your wife!”

Felix turned pale, and his face assumed a frightful expression.
“Take more time, Gabrielle,” said he--“take more time to think
of it. But, first, listen to me. I am going to say something that
may touch you more than a threat or a declaration--” He stopped
an instant and then continued: “If you saw a man on the edge of a
precipice, would you stretch forth a hand to save him?”

“What do you mean?” said Fleurange, affected in spite of herself,
and suddenly recalling the words she heard that morning in the
church.

“I ask if you would put out your hand to aid a man in such peril?”
He had, in truth, found the means of making her hesitate, but it
was only for a moment.

“You are speaking figuratively, I suppose,” said she at length;
“and it is a question of a soul in peril, is it not?”

“A soul in peril? Yes,” replied Felix, with a bitter smile.

“Well, I tell you, in a danger of this kind, I would offer no
assistance that would inevitably lead to my own destruction.”

Felix rose: “And is this your final decision?”

“Yes, Felix, a decision unhesitatingly made, but not without
sorrow, if it afflicts you.”

His only reply was a loud laugh which made Fleurange shudder.
She turned towards him, but there was no longer in his look the
respect, or the sadness, or the emotion he had so recently shown.
His face had resumed its habitual expression of irony and proud
assurance.

“I thank you for your frankness, cousin. That is a trait I trust
you will retain. It somewhat detracts from the charm you are
endowed with, but it will preserve you from some of the dangers to
which your eloquent glances expose you. Adieu!”

“Felix, give me your hand as a token you bear me no ill-will,” said
Fleurange softly.

“Ill-will?” replied Felix. “Oh! be assured I am too good a player
not to bear bad luck cheerfully. Besides, one is not always, and
in everything, unfortunate. Certain defeats, they say, are pledges
of victory. Come, Gabrielle, forget it all. Give me your hand, and
wish me _good luck_.”

Before Fleurange could make any reply, he was gone. This
conversation had been so rapid that the waltz was not yet ended.
The noise, motion, and music, added to Fleurange’s agitation, made
her dizzy. She went to an open window near the piano. At that
moment the music ceased, and all resumed their places. Fleurange
found herself nearly alone. Clement was still near, and, observing
her, quickly laid down the violin he held in his hand.

“You are very pale. Are you ill?”

“No, no, let me go out. I only wish to take the air a moment.”

Clement cast a rapid glance around the room, and then followed her
into the garden:

“You were dancing just now?”

“Yes, and I did wrong.”

“Your partner left you before the waltz was over?”

“Yes.”

Clement remained thoughtful a few moments, and then said:
“Gabrielle, pardon me if I am indiscreet, but I wish I dared ask
you one question.”

“What a preamble! Did we not agree to speak freely to each other?”

“Well, will you tell me why Felix went away?”

“Yes, Clement, and I think you will be surprised. He asked me to
marry him. What do you think of that?”

“And you gave him his answer?”

“Assuredly. I said no, without hesitating.”

Clement started so abruptly that Fleurange looked at him with
surprise. She saw an expression of joy on his countenance which he
could not conceal.

“I see you are no fonder than I of our cousin,” she said, “and are
delighted with his ill-success.”

“Delighted? No. Were he my worst enemy, I should pity him at such
a moment; but I am very glad of--glad of--” Clement hesitated,
contrary to his usual practice, which was to go straight to the
point. “I am very glad of a decision,” said he at length, “which
will dispense me from ever speaking of him again to you.”

“What would you have done if I had accepted him?”

“What I am glad not to be obliged to do.”

“Now you are talking enigmatically in your turn.”

“No; enigmas are intended to be guessed, and I beg you to forget
what I have just said.”

It is uncertain what answer Fleurange was about to make Clement,
who was less candid than usual, and therefore provoking, but at
that instant she noticed a sprig of myrtle in the button-hole of
his coat.

“What! you with myrtle?” she said. “I thought it was only worn by
young maidens on such a day.”

Clement blushed, and snatched the myrtle from his coat: “It is
yours, Gabrielle. Pardon me. I saw it fall from your girdle, and
picked it up.”

“Mine? Indeed!”

“Yes; here, take it, unless,” said he, hesitating a little--“unless
you will consent to give it back to me.”

“Very willingly, Clement; keep it as a gift from me. It is a good
omen, they say, predicting a fair bride when your turn comes.”

Clement replaced the myrtle in his coat, and gravely said: “That
day will never come for me; no, never!”

“Never; no, never! Oh! how strange!” cried Fleurange, in a tone
that surprised Clement.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

What struck her as strange was that Clement, _à propos_ of this
piece of myrtle, had, without being aware of it, uttered precisely
the same words she herself had said some hours before.

On the whole, this _soirée_ she found so pleasant at its
commencement, ended in a painful manner. She returned to her
chamber less cheerful than she left it, but with the satisfaction
of feeling she had had no difficulty throughout the day in
banishing from her mind the fantastic image she had formed the
evening before of Count George.


IX.

More than a fortnight had elapsed. Hilda was married and gone
from the paternal roof. Clara and her husband were on their way
to Italy, where they intended to remain till spring. Those who
remained in the Old Mansion were suffering from the reaction that
always follows the confusion and agitation of any event however
pleasant--a reaction always depressing even when there is no real
sadness in the heart. But this was not exactly the case with
Fleurange. Her cousins were both married and happy. She loved them
too sincerely not to rejoice at this, but it was not the less
true that the house seemed to have grown more spacious, the table
around which they gathered enlarged, the library immense, and
the garden deserted. The least to be pitied was Fritz, who still
had his brother, and was not so much affected by the change; but
little Frida mourned for her sisters, and clung more than ever
to Fleurange, whose talent for amusing and diverting children
was again brought into exercise. Fleurange, on her part, greatly
appreciated this distraction as a benefit. The child seldom left
her cousin’s room, and they became almost inseparable. One day,
while there as usual, Fleurange singing a long ballad in a low
tone, and Frida listening with her head against her cousin’s
shoulder, a knock at the door made them both start. And yet it was
but a slight rap, that gave no cause for the alarm with which she
put the child down and hastily ran to the door. She found her kind
of presentiment justified.

It was Wilhelm Müller, Heinrich Dornthal’s clerk, who knocked. It
was quite evident from the expression of his countenance and his
agitated manner, as well as his unexpected appearance at such an
hour, that something unusually sad had occurred.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said hurriedly. “I was not looking
for you; but M. Clement has gone out, and the professor also, they
tell me. Do you know where they are to be found?”

“I do not know where Clement is, but my uncle and aunt are gone to
M. Steinberg’s. They have charge of the garden during his absence.”

“Steinberg’s! It would take more than an hour to go there. What is
to be done! What is to be done!”

“What has happened, Monsieur Wilhelm? For pity’s sake, tell me what
misfortune has occurred.”

“Misfortune!” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “Ah! yes,
mademoiselle, a great misfortune has befallen us--but I cannot stop
an instant. Pray send for M. Ludwig with all possible speed, and
tell him his brother--his brother is dying!”

“Dying!” cried Fleurange. “Uncle Heinrich! Oh! take me to see him
while they are gone for his brother.”

“No, no, mademoiselle, you must not go. I cannot consent to it.”

Fleurange insisted, and had already left her room when she met
Clement, who had just returned, and heard his uncle’s clerk was in
search of him.

“Uncle Heinrich is dying!” exclaimed Fleurange, before he could
ask a question. “Let us go to him instantly, Clement, while they
are gone for your parents.” And she drew him toward the stairs.
Meanwhile, Wilhelm approached and whispered a few words in
Clement’s ear. The latter turned pale, but, instantly surmounting
his violent emotion, he took Fleurange by the hand.

“Remain here,” he said. “You must not go. Believe me, you must not.
When it is suitable, I will come for you.” And he led her back
kindly, but firmly, into her chamber, and then went out, closing
the door behind him. In less than two minutes the street door was
heard to shut in its turn. Fleurange was left alone, or, at least,
with only little Frida, who, frightened, was crying. She tried to
soothe her, endeavoring at the same time to be calm herself, and
patiently bear the torture of waiting anxiously, without the power
of action.

It was about five o’clock when Wilhelm came to her door, and of
course still light, as it was summer. But day declined, and night
came on, finding Fleurange still waiting. Frida, after crying a
long time, had gone to sleep in her arms. Fleurange, in spite of
her usual activity, wished to remain where she was, that Clement
might find her at once when he returned. She heard him order the
carriage as he went out, and knew he had sent for his father and
mother. She looked at the clock, and counted the hours. Not a
third of the time was required to go to the faubourg, and yet they
had not returned. They had evidently gone directly to the dying
man’s house. And what was now taking place there? Why had Clement
dissuaded her from going? She joined her hands in silent prayer:
then began to listen again with a feverish and ever-increasing
anxiety.

At last she heard the rumbling of a carriage. She softly placed the
sleeping child on the bed, and was about to go down-stairs to meet
her uncle and aunt, whom she supposed to have arrived. But before
she had time, she heard Clement ascending the stairs in great
haste. An instant more and he opened the door. Before she could ask
the question on her lips, he said:

“Gabrielle, poor Uncle Heinrich is no more!” Then he added after a
moment’s silence: “A dreadful shock caused his instantaneous death.”

“Ah! my heart told me I should hear sad news.”

“Yes, sad indeed,” said Clement. And in spite of himself he seemed
for a moment suffocated by an emotion too violent to be surmounted.

Fleurange looked at him. There was something besides the shock
and grief caused by this sudden death. “Clement, what else has
happened? Tell me everything. Tell me at once, I implore you!”

“Yes, Gabrielle,” he said, making an effort to command his voice,
usually so firm and mild. “Yes, I am going to tell you everything.
I came on purpose to spare my poor father and mother this
additional pain. Listen, or, rather, read this yourself!”

Fleurange with a trembling hand took the letter he offered her, and
read as follows:

“FATHER: I have abused your confidence. Your name, which you
allowed me to make use of, has hitherto enabled me to conceal my
losses. With the hope of repairing them, I rashly aimed at an
immense prize which chance seemed to offer me. Had I obtained it,
all would have been saved. I have been unsuccessful. Ruin has
fallen not only on us, but on all whose property is in our hands.
Farewell, father, you will never see me again. Do not be afraid of
my taking my own life. That would only be another base act. But
there are lands where they who seek death can find it. I hope to
have that good luck. May I speedily expiate what I can never repair!
                                                            “FELIX.”

Fleurange silently clasped her hands. Pity mingled with the
repugnance, now so well justified, with which Felix had always
inspired her, and she could not utter a word. Clement continued:

“This letter, imprudently given to my unhappy uncle this morning,
immediately brought on one of the attacks to which he was liable,
and which (perhaps happily for him) has proved fatal. He had not
time to realize the blow that had befallen him.”

Fleurange herself hardly comprehended its extent. “But where is
Felix, then?” she said at length.

“He has been gone a fortnight.”

“A fortnight!” she exclaimed, with a painful remembrance of their
last interview.

“He left the day after the _soirée_ at the time of Clara’s
marriage.”

“That evening,” she said with emotion, “he spoke of an abyss into
which my hand would prevent him from falling. O God!” she continued
with the greatest agitation, “could I really have saved him by
consenting? Would the sacrifice of my life have prevented this
terrible disaster?”

“No; the great stake he made that night was his sole resource
against ruin. Why did he talk to you in such a manner? Was it
through madness or perversity? It must have been madness, the
unfortunate fellow loved you without doubt. I pity him, but--”
Clement hesitated and then rapidly continued: “Listen to me,
Gabrielle. I am going to tell you something it might be better to
keep to myself, but I must justify myself and reassure you, and it
cannot injure him now. I regarded Felix with contempt because,” and
for a moment there was a flash in Clement’s eye--“because he wished
to make me as despicable as himself, and once played the vile
_rôle_ of a tempter to me who was then but a boy--because he would,
if he could, have drawn me after him into the path which to-day
has ended so fatally. Therefore, cousin,” he continued with still
more emotion, “had he succeeded in winning your hand, I should have
felt it my duty to have warned you of his unworthiness, of which I
was too well aware, for I have never forgotten you called me your
brother. But I was reluctant to denounce him, and glad, oh! so
glad, that evening, not to be obliged to do so--glad you were saved
by your own self! And if I tell you all this now, it is to put an
end to the fears you have just expressed.”

“And I am grateful to you for banishing them. But, Clement, tell me
once more--here, in the presence of God, have I nothing to reproach
myself with?”

“Nothing, on my honor, Gabrielle, believe me!”

Clement, as we have remarked, possessed great firmness of
character, and a kind of premature wisdom which gave him great
ascendency over others. When this trait is natural, it is manifest
at an early age, and a day often suffices for its complete
development. That day had arrived for Clement, and henceforth no
one would ever dream of calling him a boy.


X.

Ruin!--a word at once positive and yet extremely vague--very
plain in itself, and yet conveying the idea of a multitude of
undefined consequences, often more alarming than actual misfortune,
and sometimes suggesting chimerical hopes. And it has a deeper
signification when it happens to a person unaccustomed to the
calculations of material life, given up to thought and study, and
moreover delivered from the necessity of exertion through long
years of prosperous ease.

Such was the nature, and hitherto such the position, of Professor
Ludwig Dornthal. Of all the misfortunes in the world, that which
had now befallen him was the last he would have dreamed of, and
he was less capable of comprehending it than of supporting it
courageously. Besides, the word _ruin_ may also be taken in a
relative sense which mitigates its severity, and this was the way
the professor regarded it. With only a faint idea of the extent
of the catastrophe, he remained inactively expectant of something
to partially remedy what merely related to his finances, being
more preoccupied about his nephew’s shameful flight and its fatal
consequence--the death of his brother.

Meanwhile, Clement, with the aid of Wilhelm Müller, examined the
state of affairs with a promptitude and sagacity that greatly
edified the honest and intelligent clerk who initiated him into
this new business. Seeing him so quick of comprehension, so firm
in decision and prompt in action, he exclaimed with despair in the
midst of their frightful discoveries:

“Alas! alas! if your unfortunate cousin had only had your head on
his shoulders!”

“My head! It is not equal to his,” responded Clement to one of his
companions. “No, no, it is not that, but something else, he lacks.
Why have not I, on the contrary, his capacity and wit! Then I might
be capable of retrieving our fortunes, whereas my only talent is
that of knowing how to endure poverty. Oh! if it threatened me
alone, how little I should dread it!”

“Poverty!” interrupted Wilhelm. “But do you not understand all I
have explained to you?”

“With respect to my uncle’s creditors?”

“Yes. Do you not see that the principal creditor, the first of all
on the list, is M. Ludwig Dornthal, whose whole fortune nearly can
be saved from shipwreck?”

“Yes, on condition of the ruin of the remainder.”

“But their claims are not equal to his: he was not his brother’s
partner. He had only entrusted his property to him, like so many
others.”

Clement made no reply. After a short silence he observed: “The
entire renunciation of my father’s property would enable us to
repay all the creditors without exception, would it not?”

“Yes, all.”

“Would there not be a single debt in this case?”

“No,” replied Wilhelm, smiling; “not a debt--not a penny.”

Clement again took up one of the papers on the table, and silently
read it over once more with the most profound attention.

“Yes, it is really so,” said he rising. “Everything is plain now.
I must leave you, Wilhelm. It is after four o’clock, and I am
expected at home. I shall see you again this evening, and we will
decide on some definite course of action.”

This conversation took place in a lower room of the banker’s house,
which had been Wilhelm Müller’s office for many years. He pressed
the young man’s hand, and Clement proceeded rapidly towards home.

It was their dinner hour, and his parents were waiting for him.
The habits of the family had resumed their ordinary course. The
sad routine of life is seldom interrupted more than a day even
by the most overwhelming disaster, and this exterior regularity,
however painful a contrast to the grief that has changed everything
interiorly, helped restore calmness to the soul, and with calmness
the courage and strength to act.

Clement was a quarter of an hour late. He went directly to the
dining-room, knowing his father’s punctuality. As he supposed, the
family were at dinner, and he took his place after some hasty words
of apology at his entrance, and then fell into a profound silence.

The fine, spacious room in which they were was one of the
pleasantest in the house. Rare old china lined the _étagères_, and
the dark panels were relieved by old portraits, all original and
of great value, and the most celebrated part of the professor’s
collection. The open windows commanded a view of the garden.
Verdure refreshed the eye, and the perfume of the flowers pervaded
the room. The glass and silver reflected the rays of the sun,
though there was a large awning before one of the windows. An air
of quiet, opulent comfort everywhere reigned.

Clement look around. All these things, to which he was daily
accustomed, now made a new impression on him. He noticed to-day
the objects he often forgot to observe, but this examination did
not have the effect of weaning him from his sad thoughts. On the
contrary, it only increased them, and Clement was deeply plunged in
gloomy reverie when he was aroused by his little sister’s voice:

“Papa,” said Frida, “we shall start for the sea-shore in a week,
shall we not?”

“Yes, my child,” replied the professor.

“And then we shall go to see Hilda?”

“Yes, she expects us in a month.”

“And after that?”

“We shall return home. It will be time, I think, after two months‘’
absence.”

In fact, that was the longest time the professor had ever been
absent from his cherished home.

These few words produced an expression of suffering on Clement’s
face which he could not conceal. His mother observed it and
questioned him with a look. But Clement turned his eyes away, and
did not raise them again till the end of the silent meal, though he
keenly felt another look besides his mother’s fastened on him.

“Clement, I have something to say to you,” said his mother as soon
as dinner was over. He rose instantly, and followed her into the
garden, but before leaving the room he said:

“Father, will you allow me a few minutes‘’ conversation with you
afterwards? I have several things to tell you.”

“Yes, my dear son, I will wait for you.” And the professor turned
towards the library, where he always spent an hour after dinner.

“Come, tell me everything now,” said Madame Dornthal, leading the
way to a bench where they could not be seen from the house.

“Yes, mother, dear mother, it is to you I will refer a decision
which my honor and my conscience tell me is required. You shall
decide whether we ought to evade or submit to it.”

He began his account, and, while she was attentively listening
without interrupting him once, laid before her the details, in all
their reality, of the situation in which his uncle’s death and his
cousin’s flight had left them.

Madame Dornthal, more accustomed to the practical details of life
than her husband, had not shared his illusions. She was much better
prepared than he for the sad consequences of a reverse of fortune,
but had been far from anticipating its extent. They would be much
less wealthy than before, have some privations to endure, and for a
time be obliged to practise considerable economy; such had been the
extent of her fears. But all this did not appear to so excellent a
manager a trial beyond her strength. During the past week she had
declared, as often as her husband, that the loss of money was the
smallest part of the misfortune that had befallen them.

Now she realized that this loss was something real, something
almost as appalling as death, for it involved the end of the life
she had been accustomed to for twenty years--an end she must face
and at once accept. And she was courageous enough not to hesitate.
She embraced her son, and said:

“God be blessed for giving me a son like you! Yes, dear Clement,
yes, you are right--a thousand times right.”

“Then you agree with me, mother, that the ruin of the Dornthals
should not cause the ruin of any one else?”

“Yes, my child.”

“Our name must remain without reproach, and nobody in the world
have a right to curse it?”

“Certainly, Clement, whatever be the consequence.”

“Whatever be the consequence!” repeated Clement firmly. “Thanks,
dear mother. I must leave you. It is not my place, but yours, to
inform my father.”

“Yes, Clement, it is my place.” She put back her son’s thick hair,
and gazed silently at him for a moment with profound attention and
emotion. Never had Clement’s eyes expressed more clearly than now
the firmness, integrity, and energy of his nature.

“No!” thought she, “there is not among those who effect great
things in the world, and leave behind them a glorious and
illustrious name, a nobler or more courageous heart than yours, my
son! God be praised! Your life will be blessed, even though your
worth and all the faculties you possess remain hidden and for ever
unknown but to him alone!”

Such were Madame Dornthal’s thoughts, as she gazed with maternal
fondness into her son’s eyes, but she did not give them utterance.
She pressed her lips once more to his brow, and placed her hand on
his head as if in benediction. Clement in return kissed her hand
with grave and tender respect. Then he rose and left the garden at
once, and, soon after, the house.

He remained absent several hours. It was nearly nine o’clock when
he returned. His mother was waiting in the entry for him, and
opened the door when he rang. He was very pale, and held a pile of
papers in his hand.

“Well,” said Madame Dornthal, “is everything arranged?”

“Yes, mother, everything! These papers only lack my father’s
signature. He is willing to give it, is he not?”

“You cannot doubt it, I think.”

“No, but my poor father was so far from supposing--”

“Yes, that was it, I did not fear any hesitation on his part, but
only the complete illusion he was under. I only dreaded the effect
of surprise and the shock. O Clement! I know not what terror came
over me from the frightful remembrance of the other day! My poor
Ludwig!”

Madame Dornthal stopped a moment to brush away her tears, then
smiled as she continued:

“But be easy, he knows everything now. He comprehends the state of
affairs, and feels as we do. It is better, however, that I alone
should see him this evening. Give me those papers. And you, my boy,
see after your brother and sister. I have not had time to think of
them. Ah! and Gabrielle, poor child, perhaps it would be well to
look for her also and tell her all. We have nothing to conceal from
any one, above all from her.”

Without awaiting a reply, Madame Dornthal abruptly left her son to
rejoin her husband in the library, where she remained the rest of
the evening.




THE LAST DAYS OF OISIN, THE BARD.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.


IV.

OISIN’S QUESTION.

    “O Patrick! taught by him, the Unknown,
      These questions answer ere I die:--
    Why, when the trees at evening moan,
      Why must an old man sigh?

    “No kinsmen of my stock are they,
      Though reared was I in sylvan cell:
    Love-whispers once they breathed: this day
      They mutter but ‘farewell.’

    “What mean the floods? Of old they said,
      ‘Thus, thus, ye chiefs, ye clans, sweep on!’
    They whiten still their rocky bed:
      Those chiefs and clans are gone.

    “What Power is that which daily heaves
      O’er earth’s dark verge the rising sun,
    As large, the Druid, Alph, believes,
      As Tork or Maugerton?

    “A woman once, in youthful flower,
      An infant laid upon my knee:
    What was it shook my heart that hour?
      I live--Where now is he?

    “What thing is youth, which speeds so fast?
      What thing is life, which lags so long?
    Trapped, trapped we are by age at last,
      In a net of fraud and wrong!

    “I cheated am by Eld--or cheat--
      Heart-young as leaves in sun that bask:
    Is that fresh heart a counterfeit,
      Or this gray shape a mask?

    “Some say ‘tis folly to be moved.
      ‘The dog, he dieth--why not thou?’
    They lie! We loved! The ill reproved!--
      Is Oscar nothing now?

    “O Patrick of the crosier staff,
      The wondrous Book, the anthems slow!
    If thou the riddle know’st but half,
      Help those who nothing know!

    “Who made the worlds? the Soul? Man’s race?
      The man that knoweth, he is Man!
    I, once a prince, will serve in place
      Clansman of that man’s clan!”




AFFIRMATIONS.


“Instead of considering the physical condition of a nation
determining its moral character, we must always regard the moral as
determining, as well as moulding and modifying, the physical.”

“As the divine modifies the moral, so the moral modifies the
physical, or external.”

“In education all sight has been lost of the _reality_ which is
regeneration, and only when this is brought into the soul, will it
be fit to receive the spirit.”

“As the body grows older, the mind grows younger, when the will
conceives with the divine will in the permanent ground.”

“Christ is desirous to divorce the soul from Satan, and to do this
he begins by making the soul uneasy.”

“There are thousands who have been taught to think from learning
have yet to be taught to think from the living basis within the
will that sustains the thinker.”

“Know thyself is a false maxim. _Be whole_--_or one_--and one with
thy Lord.”

“Only does the Jesus spirit in the soul make the soul exhibit the
divine essence.”




HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.


FIRST ARTICLE.

AGES OF MARTYRDOM.

Women are receiving just now, at the hands of a certain class
of agitators, a degree of attention which may be flattering to
some, but which certainly is not only intrusive, but unnecessary
with regard to many. They are told that their rights are trampled
upon, that they must assert and defend themselves, and take their
place in the great battle of life. Now, these exhortations have
generally been met by copious references to all the undoubted
precepts of old, which made the domestic life woman’s own sphere,
and consecrated her the minister of all man’s comforts. This sphere
of home duties is incontestably theirs; and what is more, while
they can help man in his avocations, man, on the other hand, can
scarcely help them in their own. But in addition to this, their
inviolable territory which they intend never to abandon, let them
boldly claim a share of man’s kingdom, and let them make good
their claim. People have listened to many women and to a few men
on the subject of the so-called “Women’s Rights:” let them listen
with indulgence to one woman more, who comes claiming far greater
things than they dream of, and yet showing that her claims are but
long-established and real _rights_, recognized, defined, limited,
and protected by an older code of jurisprudence, and a longer
tradition of immemorial custom, than they have as yet been told of
by the press or in the lecture-room.

The existence of woman is a fact: it is equally a fact that
everything that exists has some work to do in the order of the
universe. God himself, in a few simple words, stated what her work
was: “Let us make him a help like unto himself” (Gen. ii. 18). The
words indeed are so simple that they hardly arrest attention, yet
in them lies the whole relation of woman to man. She is to be _a
help_; but no restrictive detail is added, so that it is clearly
open to her to help man intellectually, religiously, morally,
as well as domestically. She is to be _like_ unto him; that is,
emphatically not masculine, not a creature that is a _mere_ copy or
reproduction of himself, but _like_ unto him, that is, sufficiently
like to understand him, sufficiently unlike to love him. Again, no
precise relation in which she is to stand to man is defined: she
may therefore be a help as a wife, mother, sister, in the domestic
circle; she may be a help as a consecrated virgin, as an adviser,
as an intercessor, in the religious order; she may be a help as a
governor, a regent, a queen, in the political order: lastly, she
may be a help as a friend and confidant in the social order.

Now, having seen that God distinctly gave woman a mission, as
he has to every animate and inanimate creature, we must suppose
that he has also provided her with the means of fulfilling it.
We look around us to see how he has done so, and whether, when
the means were at hand, woman used them to her own distinction
and advantage. In one place and under one set of circumstances
alone do we find that it was so, and this not by exception, but
by rule. This place is the Catholic Church; these circumstances
are her laws and her history. The reason why it remained for our
times to form “_women’s rights_” associations, is simply that
women’s wrongs have, under the influence of the Reformation, been
so shamefully multiplied. The present movement is a reaction
against the Protestant atmosphere of repression which has
suffocated woman’s highest aspirations for three hundred years.
The tribute unconsciously paid to the Catholic Church by the
Anglican communities of monks and sisters is a proof of the wisdom
of the old church in regard to its treatment of women. Sensitive,
enthusiastic, earnest souls found themselves without the outward
means of satisfying their craving after a more perfect life;
others with superabundance of energy and devotion, with the gift
of tending the sick or instructing the young, found themselves
confined to the circle of their own unaided efforts and unorganized
activity. They hailed “sisterhoods” as the newly opened gates of
heaven, not knowing that sisterhoods were no new invention, but had
their source in the very beginnings of the days of which the then
unwritten Gospels became the after-history.

In a sermon recently delivered by one of the most popular preachers
of New York, and reported in the columns of a widely-read journal,
occur the following words, which are a singular corroboration of
what we have just said: “There is nothing more dangerous than
an educated community with nothing to do. There are thousands
of educated women who do not work.... I do not wonder the bold,
eagle-like natures fret in their limits and detest life, or that
the great hearts dash themselves out in waste. There must be outlet
for these immense forces, or society will go on getting worse and
worse to the end.” A few days after these words were spoken, the
following appeared in a letter referring to the attempt made by
a woman to drop her vote in the ballot-box, at the New York City
election of the 7th of November, 1871. She gives a lamentable
account of woman’s world, as it has grown to be under the shade of
Protestantism. “The condition of involuntary servitude is favorable
to the cultivation of all the vices of secrecy and deceit. As
women, we have been schooled in hypocrisy and duplicity, until
our deep souls revolt against the oppression that so compels us
to belie our sincere and earnest natures. The most docile wife
has that latent fire in her heart which only needs the air of
freedom to fan into a flame. Many seemingly contented wives would
almost risk the salvation of their souls to make their masters
feel for one day the humiliation they have endured uncomplainingly
for years. If this is true of the favorites of fortune, what
may not be said of the great crowd of women who rush into every
folly, or are doomed to severest trial by stringent laws and the
oppressive customs growing out of them--laws and customs that
disfranchise them, prescribe their pleasures, limit their fields of
labor, and curtail their wages, all on the plea of sex? We have,
gentlemen, very generally arrived at the knowledge that sex is a
crime punishable by law.” The writer of this subscribes herself
“Mary Leland,” and is, no doubt, a fair representative of the
indignant champions of indiscriminate equality between men and
women. If the slumbering volcano she describes is really hidden
beneath the frivolous life of ordinary women, what a fearful
responsibility lies at the door of the system whose effect it is!
This spirit of rebellion can only exist as a reaction against the
forced inactivity of woman’s mind and will, and against the torpor
induced by the delicate flattery of those who would make her a
sultana, or the brutality of those who would fain turn her into a
beast of burden. Both alike are forms of slavery; both alike are
anti-Christian; both are contradictions against nature, and will
inevitably bear their evil fruit. Since their true rights have been
denied them by the spirit of the Reformation; since the education
of their children is taken out of their hands by the state; since
nothing but a savory meal and a pleasant face are expected from
them--what wonder that the displaced pendulum of their mind should
sway violently aside, and thus come in rude contact with the more
arduous sphere of man?

But it is not our purpose to give a lecture on the abstract
principles concerned in the question of the rights of women; facts
speak more loudly and more convincingly than the most eloquent
arguments, the most fascinating pleas: we aim only at giving a few
of these facts to our sisters of the present day, and showing them
how the church has ever regarded, and has long ago settled, the
question now agitating them so painfully.

Our only difficulty is in the mass of evidence from which to make
selections, the matter that is to serve us as a witness being
simply the history of the church, and its abundance so rich that
we hesitate which of the countless examples to draw forth for
the admiration of _woman_-kind, and which to leave in undeserved
oblivion. If we take a cursory glance at the infant church on the
shores of the Lake of Galilee, we shall find woman already in a
conspicuous and honorable position. It is a remarkable fact that
no nation of antiquity, save the Jews, had any respect for the
female sex, beyond that which included women in the _possessions_
of their husbands and fathers, and consequently could make no
difference between an insult to a virgin or a wife and a theft of
any other precious chattel. The Jews--that is, the people whom
God himself guided and taught, and whose laws were his immediate
decrees--hedged in the chastity of women with the most stringent
safeguards, and defended it by the severest penalties. They allowed
women to inherit from their parents and perpetuate their own
name, and to be preferred before the male relations, that is, the
brothers or nephews of their father (Numb. xxvii. 8). Not only
were the wives and daughters of the Israelites inviolable; their
hired servants, whether Jew or Gentile, and their captives, were
equally protected from the licentiousness of man. The Old Testament
has numberless chapters consecrated to the praises of women, and
to the precepts necessary for the education of their sex. In
Genesis, chap. xxxiv., we find the sons of Jacob making war upon
the Sichemites, to revenge the insult done to their sister Dina by
the prince Sichem; in the Book of Judges, chap. xx., we read of a
bloody and protracted war waged by the Israelites against one of
their own tribes, the Benjaminites, to revenge the Levite’s wife,
outraged by strange men in the town of Gabaa; in the Second Book
of Kings, chap. xiii., we see how promptly and fearfully Absalom
resented the wrong done to his sister Thamar by their brother
Amnon. In the Book of Judith, we are astounded at seeing the high
and solemn eulogium pronounced upon this valiant woman. She speaks
to the elders of Bethulia as one having authority, yet, with such
humility as befits even the most highly favored servant of God, she
comforts them and bids them hope, so that they acknowledge that her
words are true, and ask her to pray for them (chap. viii. 29). Her
own prayer for guidance and success is full of wisdom, of poetry,
of confidence in God and the right: her speech to Holofernes is
conspicuous for tact, and the heathen general himself exclaims,
“There is not such another woman upon earth ... in sense of words.”
When the great deed is done and Judith returns to the besieged
city, she sings a noble canticle, a true poem, full of grave beauty
and deep meaning, and we are then told how highly she was honored
by the high-priest Joachim, who came from Jerusalem, with all
his elders, to see her and bless her. He calls her the “glory of
Jerusalem, the joy of Israel, and the honor of the people” (chap.
xv. 10), and bestows upon her precious vessels from the spoils
of the Assyrians. He does not forget to extol her chastity as
intimately connected with her success; indeed, this praise seems to
supersede the blessings with which she is hailed as a deliverer.
When she died, the people publicly mourned for her seven days, and
to the time of her death it is recorded that “she came forth with
great glory on festival days.”

This is not the only instance where we find woman in a responsible
and elevated position, surrounded by friends of high degree, vying
with each other in bestowing upon her marks of esteem and respect.
Later on we find Christian prelates acting the part of Joachim to
some new Judith, some woman distinguished for piety and virtue, and
whose influence or example is a powerful auxiliary of their own
efforts.

Reverting for a few moments to the history of the Jews, we see how
in numberless instances women were the instruments of grace and
deliverance, how they were gifted, and how they were esteemed.
Instead of a marriage that was nothing but a bargain such as
was in use among heathen nations, the betrothal of Rebecca was
a most grave and solemn ceremony, and the consent of the maiden
was formally asked. Jacob had such a high idea of Rachel’s worth
that he served her for fourteen years. When the walls of Jericho
fell and the inhabitants were put to the sword, the woman Rahab
was spared, together with all those who chose to take refuge in
her house. The child Moses was rescued and educated by a woman,
and his sister, Mary, was a great prophetess whose canticle has
come down to us almost as a national hymn. Anna, the mother of
Samuel, sang praises to God in language which the inspired writers
thought worthy of transmitting to the perpetual remembrance of
all generations; the Queen of Sheba was so enamored of wisdom and
learning that she came a long and tedious journey to pay homage to
the superior gifts of Solomon; Anna, the wife of Tobias, after her
husband had lost his sight, earned the wherewithal for their humble
home at “weaving-work” (Tob. ii. 19). Sara, the wife of the younger
Tobias, prayed God in words that have always been incorporated in
the sacred text. Mardochai said pointedly to Queen Esther, “Who
knoweth whether thou art therefore come to the kingdom that thou
mightest be ready at such a time as this?” and she answered by
effectually interceding for her people, though, notwithstanding her
regal position, it was only at the risk of her life that she could
approach the king unbidden. Her prayer, like all the rest recorded
in the Scriptures, is a poem in itself, and points to the true
source whence all real courage springs, while it also hallows with
religious feeling the deep patriotism peculiar to the Hebrew race.
Later on, the mother of the Machabees showed such heroic fortitude
under persecution that the Scriptures say of her that she “was to
be admired above measure, and was worthy to be remembered by good
men.”

Turning to the New Testament, we find woman in equally prominent
positions, honored by the special notice of the Man-God himself,
and materially aiding in the establishment of his church. Not
to speak of the Mother of God, whose influence on the fate of
woman has been simply paramount, and leaving aside the fact of
his undoubted voluntary subjection to her, as well as that of her
intercession, being the immediate occasion of his first public
miracle and manifestation at Cana of Galilee--the place of woman in
the Gospel history is one that may justly be the pride of her sex.
The greater part of our Lord’s miracles were worked in favor of
women, most often on their own persons, at other times on persons
whom they held dearer than life. Of the first, witness the cure
of the mother-in-law of Peter, of the woman healed of an issue of
blood, of the daughter of the Chanaanitish woman, to whom Jesus
said, “O woman, great is thy faith; be it done to thee as thou
wilt” (St. Matt. xv. 28); of the woman bowed down with an infirmity
that had afflicted her for eighteen years; also the raising of the
daughter of Jairus. Of the second, witness the restoring to the
widow of Naim of her only son, whom Jesus raised to life “being
moved with mercy towards _her_” (St. Luke vii. 13), and whom, when
he had raised him, he “gave to his mother.” Lazarus, too, dear
as he was personally to the Master, was yet raised to a new life
chiefly through the prayers and the faith of his sisters, whose
sorrow had touched the heart of the divine Saviour. Not only in
temporal things, but much more in spiritual, did our Lord seek out
women for their cure and salvation. He did not disdain to speak
long and patiently with the woman of Samaria, and, instead of
heralding his saving presence to her countrymen through his own
disciples, he preferred to let her be his messenger. He proposed
the modest almsgiving of the poor widow as a model of all true
charity. He protected the woman taken in adultery against her
pharisaical judges; he commended the woman Magdalen, and prophesied
that, wherever the Gospel should be preached, there should her name
be also remembered. When he was teaching the multitudes, it was a
woman who cried out in touching boldness and pathetic directness
of speech: “Blessed is the womb that bore thee, and the breasts
that gave thee suck.” Again it was to women that he spoke when, on
the path to Calvary, he turned, and said, “Weep not for me, but
weep for yourselves and for your children.” Women followed him
bravely when men deserted, betrayed, and denied him; women stood
beneath his cross while his apostles were hiding in fear, and the
solitary friend who never left him was the most woman-like of all
his disciples. His last legacy on earth, the last precious thing
on which he turned his thoughts, was a woman, and the first person
to whom he appeared after his resurrection was also a woman. When
the disciples were gathered together awaiting the coming of the
Paraclete, a woman was among them: “The mother of Jesus,” as the
Gospel says, was there.

Later on, in the Acts of the Apostles, we find women mentioned as
most efficacious helpers in the work of the infant church. Tabitha,
for instance, a “woman full of good works, and almsdeeds” (Acts ix.
36), and Priscilla, the wife of Aquila, a woman who accompanied St.
Paul from Corinth to Ephesus, and there took Apollo, an eloquent
and fervent man, and “expounded to him the way of the Lord more
diligently” (Acts xviii. 26). Again, Lydia, a seller of purple,
“one that worshipped God,” offered hospitality to St. Paul, and
“constrained” him to dwell in her house (Acts xvi. 14, 15). St.
Paul has been quoted and misquoted so often that one almost shrinks
from appealing to his arguments and precepts; yet perhaps even
here we may find something new to say, something to point out in
a new light, something that the controversialists on the subject
of Women’s Rights, on both sides, have, apparently at least,
overlooked. We will not dwell on such portions of his Epistles
as are always in the mouth of those who aim at relegating woman
to an exclusively domestic sphere, but, on the contrary, we will
point out words of his, honoring woman so highly that no law of
modern times has been able to rival such deference, and no claim
of strong-minded female associations would dare to lift itself to
such importance. In his First Epistle to the Romans, chapter xvi.,
he says: “And I commend to you Phebe, our sister, who is in the
_ministry_ of the church ... that you receive her in the Lord as
becometh saints, and that you assist her in _whatsoever business_
she shall have need of you: for she also hath assisted many, and
myself also.” Ministry, of course, stands for help, and is used
here in its strict and original sense, as when the Gospel says of
our Lord, “And angels came and ministered unto him,” and as when
we say the _ministrations_ of charity. Some persons, indeed, have
affected to see in this text an implied permission for women to
act as priests; common sense and the general tone of the Epistles
are sufficiently explicit, however, to undeceive all such as do
not on this head voluntarily deceive themselves. The same Epistle
we have quoted goes on to say: “Salute Prisca [Priscilla] and
Aquila [her husband], my _helpers_ in Christ Jesus; who have for
my life laid down their own necks; to whom not only I give thanks,
but also _all the churches_ of the Gentiles; and the church which
is in their house.” Observe how St. Paul speaks of them without
distinction of sex as equally helpers, and how he even mentions
the woman’s name first. Again he continues: “Salute Mary, who
hath _labored much_ among you ... salute Julia, Nereus, and his
_sister_, and Olympias, and all the saints that are with them.” We
have no space for recalling the well-known precepts St. Paul gives
concerning both the state of marriage and that of virginity; we
would only indicate by a passing notice how truly liberal is his
teaching, including both states as honorable, _commanding_ neither
marriage nor continence, and providing with minute foresight for
each circumstance that human mutability can create. And in one of
these, the case being the desertion by an unbelieving consort of
the Christian yoke-fellow, he distinctly says: “If the unbeliever
depart, let him depart; for a brother or sister _is not under
servitude_ in such cases; but God hath called us in peace” (1 Cor.
vii. 15). The very custom of calling women “sisters,” universal in
the early church, is a token of the respect that was paid them, and
of the Christian equality which denied them no legitimate share in
the spiritual and social life of man. St. Paul has traced out in
one word the whole duty of man to woman when he said, “The elder
women entreat as mothers, the younger as sisters, in all chastity”
(1 Tim. v. 2). In the First Epistle to the Philippians, he says:
“Help those women who have _labored_ with me in the _Gospel_, ...
and whose names are in the _book of life_.” St. John dedicated a
whole Epistle, or letter, to the “Lady Elect and her children,
whom I love in the truth, and not I only, but also _all_ they
that have known the truth.... And now I beseech thee, lady, _not_
as writing a _new_ commandment, but that which we have had _from
the beginning_, that we love one another.... Having more things
to write to you, I would not by paper and ink, for I hope that I
shall be with you, and speak face to face, that your joy may be
full.” St. Peter, in his First Epistle, does not disdain to give
counsel as to the outward dress of women, thus dignifying the
subject through the symbolism he wishes it to express. And let not
any one of our own times call these counsels either frivolous or
interfering, for has not every sect that arose as a self-appointed
reformer begun by the restraint on female apparel, typical of
moral restraint over our passions and inclinations? Even now, in
a mistaken and distorted interpretation of the significance of
dress, have not the ultra-advocates of Woman’s Rights laid their
“reforming” hands upon the current fashions?

When St. Peter came to Rome, the first house that received him was
that of Pudens, a Roman senator, whose wife Priscilla, and whose
daughters Pudentiana and Praxedes, became his first converts and
his most powerful co-laborers. The two virgins, having become the
heiresses of their parents and brothers, sold their vast estates,
and gave the price to the suffering and persecuted among their
brethren; and, though we read of hundreds of such cases among the
women of the early church, we seldom find it so with the men,
except in such families where the influence of some female relative
resulted in this heroic renunciation. The palace of Pudentiana and
Praxedes was converted into a church which for centuries has borne
their name, and in which is shown as well the temporary receptacle
and hiding-place, says time-honored tradition, of the bodies of
the martyrs, carefully collected by these brave women. This church
is the oldest in Rome, says a reliable authority, the Rev. Joachim
Ventura, whom we shall often have reason to quote in these pages,
and it is also the first among those giving titular rank to the
order of cardinals.

Among the apostolic women whose names stand beside those of the
great saints to whom the church owes her wide sway, St. Thecla has
ever been foremost; St. Ambrose, St. Augustine, St. Chrysostom, St.
Gregory of Nyssa, St. Gregory Nazianzen, St. Isidore of Pelusium,
St. Epiphanius, and St. Methodius, bishops and fathers of the
church, have vied with one another in extolling her constancy and
her greatness. The last mentioned of these tells us, in his book
the _Banquet of Virgins_, that she was well versed in secular
philosophy, and in the various branches of polite literature; he
also exceedingly commends her eloquence, and the ease, strength,
sweetness, and modesty of her discourse (_Butler’s Lives of the
Saints_). Of the persecution she suffered at the hands of the
young pagan to whom she had, before her conversion, been betrothed,
we will not speak, neither will we touch upon her miraculous
deliverance from the wild beasts to whom she had been thrown,
further than to point out, however, that woman has shown more than
masculine courage long before modern agitators began to accuse her
of degeneracy and tameness. But the secret lay then, as it does
now, in the teaching of a church that sees in her children only
hierarchies of _souls_, and that looks upon the body as a mere
form, determining respective duties, it is true, but certainly
not conferring _de jure_ on the possessors of such forms any
superiority or difference of intellectual or moral capacity. A
proof of this lies open to all in the fact that women’s names as
well as men’s are incorporated in the text of the Mass, and are
repeated every day with as much honor, before the altar of God.
After the “Commemoration of the Dead,” and in the prayer beginning,
“Nobis quoque peccatoribus,” the names of Felicitas, Perpetua,
Agatha, Lucy, Agnes, Cecilia, Anastasia, are coupled with those
of the apostles and martyrs _John_, Stephen, Matthias, Barnabas,
_Ignatius_, Alexander, Marcellinus, and _Peter_, that is, with some
of the greatest saints whom even Protestants consent to admire. The
church, too, shows her appreciation of the sex and its capabilities
by the express words, often used in her liturgy, “devoto femineo
sexu,” which, whether translated as usual, the “devout female sex,”
or the “devoted,” seems equally honorable to woman and her special
characteristics. Virgins and widows are mentioned by name in the
prayers used in public on Good Friday, and immediately before them
are named the seven orders of the priesthood. The mere fact of so
many churches being dedicated to God under the special invocation
of some female saint, often one whose history has become obscure
and traditional from very remoteness, serves to illustrate the
high respect of the Catholic Church for womanhood, and the perfect
equality with which she looks upon both her sons and her daughters.
The cathedral of Milan, one of the most renowned shrines in the
world, is under the patronage of the virgin of whom we have just
spoken, the proto-martyr, St. Thecla. The fathers of the church,
following the example of St. Paul, call the help of faithful
Christian women a ministry, and Ventura tells us that Origen, St.
Chrysostom, and Haymon speak of “women having through their good
offices deserved to attain to the glorious title of apostles, and
having supplemented the work of the evangelists and apostles by
their preaching in private houses, especially to persons of their
own sex” (Ventura, _La Donna Cattolica_, vol. i. p. 279). It is
related in the _Breviarium Romanum_, at the part appointed to be
read on the 19th of May, that St. Pudentiana once presented ninety
persons to St. Pius, Pope, to be baptized, all of them being
perfectly instructed in the faith through her teaching alone. St.
Martina, who was a deaconess (which answers to _religious_ in the
later church), converted and instructed many persons, principally
women. The _Breviarium_ honors her as the _protectress_ of Rome.
She has also a hymn specially set apart for her office in the
_Breviarium_, and the church dedicated to her in Rome is the
richest and most magnificent of those under the patronage of the
martyrs. The house of Lucina, a noble Roman matron, was converted
into a church, afterwards dedicated to the holy Pope Marcellus.
Another church, now called _San Lorenzo in Lucina_, stands over the
tomb which Lucina prepared for that saint. Priscilla, also a Roman
lady of high lineage, the wife of the before-mentioned senator
Pudens, gave her fortune and her land for a cemetery, to which her
name was justly appended. Natalia, the wife of the martyr Adrian,
after publicly exhorting her husband to be steadfast in the faith,
boldly put on man’s attire to elude the order recently given that
no Christian woman should be allowed to visit the prisoners. The
_Breviarium_ tells us that St. Justina, upon whom a famous magician
named Cyprian had tried all manner of unhallowed arts, so far
prevailed over him that she brought him to know the true God, and
to abandon his idols and sorceries. But examples such as these of
the intellectual influence of women upon their friends, and even
upon strangers and enemies, would multiply under our hands into a
volume, if we could stop to collect them all.

Martyrdom was, in the early ages, the almost inevitable end of
zealous faith and active evangelization. St. Cecilia ranks among
the most prominent of those who, strong with a supernatural
strength, gladly gave up life, youth, health, and beauty, for the
sake of principle. Let us put it in that form, for even now there
are many who respect in the abstract a single-minded devotion to
principle. This devotion would be essentially called manliness in
our day; yet the women of the early church--some mere children in
years, some threatened with what would make a woman waver in her
determination far more than mere physical torture could, the loss
of her honor, some again with natural diseases or weakness upon
them--showed a superabundant amount of this very _manliness_.
Cecilia has long been the patroness of music, and we read in her
_Acts_ that she employed both vocal and instrumental music in the
service of the Most High, fitly using the most beautiful of arts to
glorify Supreme Beauty. Her love for the Holy Scriptures was such
that she often wore them on her bosom in the folds of her robe,
and that long before the Canon of Scripture had been fixed, and
before the Holy Book could have the world-wide reputation which the
church has now bestowed upon it. Cecilia’s will, made in presence
of Pope Urban, consisted in the giving of her palace for a church,
and the distributing of her remaining wealth to the poor. Her death
was heroic, and, as her life-blood was ebbing slowly from her, she
only thought of converting her executioners. Oblivious of bodily
pain, she exhorted them to throw off the yoke of idolatry, and
succeeded so far as to cause them to exclaim, “It is only a God
who could have created such a prodigy as his servant Cecilia!” The
body of the martyr was interred in the Catacomb of St. Callixtus,
in a chapel hollowed out of the earth, and somewhat larger than the
other chambers of the same catacomb: it was the sepulchre of the
popes, and the placing of her body in this sepulchre was a mark
of the extraordinary respect due to her generous munificence and
her heroic courage. Thus has the old church, so truly called the
“mother church,” always recognized and rewarded merit, whether in
man or woman. Susannah, a relation both of Pope Caius and of the
Emperor Diocletian, and daughter to Gabinius, a man as learned as
he was noble, was another instance of how religion can reconcile
profound instruction with deep piety, and unite both to beauty
of person and grace of manner. She was learned, say her _Acts_,
in philosophy, in literature, and in religion. The emperor sent
one of his nobles, Claudius, Susannah’s own uncle, to entreat her
to marry Maximinus Cæsar, Diocletian’s son. The noble and learned
virgin not only refused the alliance, but, strengthened by the
approbation of her Christian father and her other uncle, Pope
Caius, who were present, spoke so eloquently that Claudius was
converted to Christianity. The _Acts of the Martyrs_ record his
words in announcing this conversion to his wife: “It is chiefly
my niece Susannah who has conquered me. I owe to the prayers of
this young girl the happiness of having received God’s grace.”
His wife, Prepedigna, and Maximus, his brother, were also won
over by her influence, and the latter bears tribute equally to
her _wisdom_, holiness, and her beauty. There could be but one
end to such proceedings, a glorious end for all: her friends all
suffered martyrdom before her, and she who had braved an emperor’s
displeasure without a sign of so-called _womanly_ weakness, met her
death in secret with equal courage and joy.

Agnes, the maiden of twelve or thirteen years, is praised by
Ambrose, a Christian priest, for her contempt of the jewels with
which the son of Symphronius attempted to bribe her: she is also
pictured as the very incarnation of youthful bravery, when with
holy defiance she scorns the threat of her impure and cruel judge
to send her to a place of ill-fame. This threat, often executed,
was more than any other the touch-stone of their faith to the
Christian virgins of antiquity, while their invariable deliverance
from this danger was the reward of their unflinching denial of the
power of the false gods, even in the face of this shameful threat.
Death would seem a bridal, to judge by the loving alacrity with
which these child-virgins ran to meet it. Who can say that the
church does not admire and inculcate courage and self-respect in
women, since half the martyrs defended their honor as well as their
faith with the last drop of their blood?

St. Ambrose, speaking to his sister Marcellina of the martyr
Sothera, in whose praises he is enthusiastic, says: “What need for
me to seek for examples for thee, who hast been formed to holiness
by thy martyred relative? [Sothera was their great-aunt.] ...
Brought up thyself in the country, having no companion to set thee
examples, no master to teach thee precepts, there were at hand
no human means to teach thee what thou has learnt. Thou art no
disciple, therefore--for there can be no disciple where there is
no master--but the heiress of the virtues of thy ancestress. Let
us speak of the example of our holy relative, for we priests have
a nobility of our own, preferable to that which counts it an honor
to have prefects and consuls among our forefathers: we have the
nobility of faith, which cannot die.” These words of grave import
are addressed to a woman, and the boast of holy ancestry they
contain also refers to a woman. Agatha, the heroine of Catana, and
Lucy, the martyr of Syracuse, both noble Sicilian maidens, speak
the boldest language to their barbarous judges, and meet death as
bravely as any man could face it for his country and his home.

Victoria, a lady of Abyssinia, in Africa, accused of being a
Christian, and defended by her pagan brother, who swore she had
been deluded into connivance with the Christians, vehemently
contradicted him in open court. “I came here of my own accord,”
she averred, “and neither Dativus nor any one else beguiled me;
I can bring witnesses among my fellow-townspeople to the fact
that I came simply because I knew there would be a gathering of
our brethren here, under our priest Saturninus, and that the holy
mysteries would be celebrated.” She persists when her brother
excuses her again as being insane, and eagerly criminates herself
in the eyes of the judge, till she succeeds in winning her crown.
Forty-eight other martyrs, men and women, heroically suffer the
same penalty, greatly comforted and encouraged by her dauntless
attitude. At Thessalonica, a woman named Irene was apprehended,
together with her five sisters, and was herself chiefly accused
of having kept and concealed the books of Scripture, and other
papers relating to the Christian religion. Dulcetius, the judge
before whom she was brought, and who was president of Macedonia,
could elicit from her nothing that could endanger any one but
herself, her sisters having been tried and martyred upon the charge
of refusing to eat meats consecrated to idols. Her firmness both
in screening others and in avowing her eager care for the holy
writings, not only gives us a high idea of her moral courage, but
also of her intellectual interest in those scarce and valuable
works. She suffered death for her dauntless custody of these
treasures, and it is related that she sang psalms of praise while
ascending the funeral pile.

St. Catherine of Alexandria is a most noted example of the
erudition often attained and displayed by Christian women. At the
age of eighteen, says the _Breviarium Romanum_, she outstripped in
knowledge the most learned men of her day: Maximinus, who was both
a libertine and a tyrant, was cruelly persecuting the Christians
of Alexandria, and dishonoring the noble matrons of that city.
Catherine boldly and publicly upbraided him, and forced him to
listen to her arguments. Her _Acts_ and the Greek _Menology_ of the
Emperor Basil affirm that she supported her thesis of Christianity
against the arguments of forty of the ablest heathen philosophers,
and so effectually confuted them that they preceded her in her
martyrdom by declaring themselves Christians, and being forthwith
condemned to be burned alive. Catherine, during her imprisonment,
converted the wife of Maximinus, and the commander of his army, and
further made such an impression upon the crowd assembled to witness
her death that many became Christians on the spot. The interesting
Church of San Clemente, in Rome, contains one chapel, the walls
of which are covered with frescoes illustrative of each of these
occurrences; this chapel is supposed to date from the fourth or
fifth century, and is a mute witness to the honor with which the
memory of the illustrious and learned maiden of Alexandria was,
even at that early age, surrounded. Butler, in his _Lives of the
Saints_, says of her: “From this martyr’s _uncommon erudition_,
... and the use she made of it, she is chosen in the schools the
_patroness_ and _model_ of Christian philosophers.” This is by no
means the only instance of a woman being honored as patroness in
the roads of learning or of art. Later on, we shall have occasion
to speak of other saints equally distinguished for their talents
and zeal for true philosophy. Butler says in a foot-note to the
_Life of St. Catherine_: “The female sex is not less capable of
the sublime sciences, nor less remarkable for liveliness of genius.
Witness, among numberless instances in polite literature and in
theology, the celebrated Venetian lady, Helen Lucretia Cornaro,
doctress in theology at Padua in 1678, the _wonder_ of her age for
her skill in _every_ branch of literature, and, still more, for the
austerity of her life and her extraordinary piety.”

Most of the martyrs we have hitherto mentioned were virgins: among
widows and widowed mothers, we find other heroines whom no bodily
torture nor that more bitter anguish of witnessing their children’s
sufferings could daunt or even cause to waver.

Symphorosa, a noble Roman matron, denounced by the astrologers of
Rome to the Emperor Adrian, bravely confessed her faith in the
presence of her seven sons, whom she thus encouraged to do the
same. She spoke of herself as honored in being the widow and sister
of martyrs, and utterly scorned the proposal to forsake the truth
for which they had bled. Here is a foreshadowing of the times of
mediæval chivalry, which were but the legitimate offshoot from such
a moral atmosphere of pure chivalric heroism as enveloped the lives
of the early Christians. Invincible strength and a courage that
smiled in the face of death was with the children of the primitive
church a point of honor, a family tradition, a hereditary legacy.
Another widow and mother, Felicitas, suffered more cruelly yet than
Symphorosa; for, under the reign of Marcus Aurelius, she beheld
her seven children butchered before her eyes, and never ceased
exhorting them to constancy, while her mother’s heart and more
natural feeling were suffering a sevenfold martyrdom. She followed
her sons to death with fervent joy. St. Augustine was eloquent in
her praise, and on one anniversary of her triumph called her death
a “great spectacle offered to the eyes of faith,” and herself
“more fruitful by reason of her many virtues than of her many
children.” St. Gregory, the great father, exalted her by likening
her example to a new and spiritual birth of the Saviour in each
soul that she thus secured to God, according to the interpretation
of the words of the Gospel: “He who does the will of my Father in
heaven is my brother, and my sister, and my _mother_.”

Another St. Felicitas, a Christian slave and widow, with her
mistress Perpetua, who had also lately lost her husband, suffered
death in the amphitheatre of Tharbacium, near Carthage, in Africa,
rather than give up what they knew to be divine truth. Felicitas
was martyred a day or two after the premature birth in prison of
her child, and, when brutally jeered by the guards at her inability
to suffer the pains of childbirth in silence, answered in words
that to this day furnish the key to all woman’s superiority as
proved by the facts of church history: “It is I that suffer to-day,
and nature is weak: to-morrow Jesus himself will suffer in me, and
his grace will give my nature the strength it needs” (_Acts of the
Martyrs_). Perpetua, her mistress, but also her sister in Christ
(for in the church alone resides true equality), resisted the
pleadings of her aged father and the mute appeals of her infant’s
unprotected condition, and bore her sufferings as it is said the
Spartan women knew how to bear theirs. But while the enduringness
both of men and women was in Sparta only the artificial result
of compulsory laws, and soon disappeared before the shameful
voluptuousness that was natural to all heathen beliefs, that
of Christians of both sexes made its mark through successive
generations, and lives yet in our less hardy times, because it
is intrinsic to the nature of a faith whose God had no more
hospitable birthplace than a cold stable, and no better death-bed
than a cross.

Blandina, the martyr of Lyons, is justly celebrated for her
extraordinary constancy, and the Christians of Lyons who wrote a
letter preserved to history by Eusebius, and addressed to their
brethren of Asia and Phrygia, extol her as the soul of the heroic
stand made by many of their number against idolatry. She was a
slave, very young and _very weak_ in health, says this letter, and
yet even her executioners marvelled at her powers of endurance,
exclaiming: _One_ of the tortures she has suffered ought to have
killed her, and she is alive yet after them all! Further on, she
is likened to a _bold athlete_. Some of her companions having
wavered, her example and exhortations recalled them to their duty,
and Ponticus, a young boy, was the last to die under her eyes,
_encouraged_ and _upheld_ by _Blandina_. Potamiana, another slave,
who died in defence of her honor as well as her faith, chose a more
lingering death than that to which she was condemned, rather than
uncover herself in public, the judge consenting to this change not
in pity, but in cruelty. Her executioner became her first convert;
many other men likewise came to the faith through visions of this
young and steadfast virgin.

We have mentioned women in every sphere and state of life, social
and domestic, as endowed with confessedly heroic powers, and
capable of attaining high and noble ends in the field of religion,
of art, and of philosophy. One class of women, however, remains
still to be noticed, and it is perhaps the greatest proof of the
church’s universal and instinctive tenderness toward the sex,
that among that unhappy class she alone has been able to make
fruitful the call of God. The Catholic Church has set upon her
altars and in her calendar the names of many illustrious penitents
and anchorites, side by side with stainless virgins and matrons of
unblemished fame. The Catholic Church alone can restore to fallen
woman her rightful inheritance, and so efface the brand of sin
that its shame shall be merged into a glory as pure as that of
baptismal innocence. To take among the martyrs but one instance
of this rehabilitation, let us see what history relates of Afra,
the courtesan of Augsburg, in the Roman province of Rhetia, and
the present kingdom of Bavaria. Afra was of noble birth, and had
many slaves and possessions. She was converted by St. Narcissus, a
Christian bishop who was fleeing from the persecution then raging
in Gaul. Her household as well as her mother followed her example.
She succeeded in concealing Narcissus and his deacon Felix for some
time in her own house, and meanwhile diligently applied herself to
making converts of her friends and former associates. Denounced
in her turn a little later, and sneered at for the contradiction
between her past and present life, she answers the judge boldly,
admitting humbly that she is unworthy to be called a Christian, yet
affirming that the threatened torments will cleanse and purify her
body, while the proposed sacrifice to the gods would only further
stain and disfigure her soul. Bound to a stake and burned with slow
fire, her intrepidity only redoubles, and, having sinned through
the weakness of undisciplined nature, she shows a more than manly
courage through the new-born strength of grace.

With her, we close the few practical examples of the greatness of
woman during the ages of martyrdom, but the spirit that made the
martyrs did not die with the last of the canonized victims of
the pagan persecutions. St. Jerome speaks of a “daily martyrdom,
which consists not in the shedding of blood as a testimony, but
in the devout and undefiled service of the mind” (_De Laud. S.
Paulæ_). This we propose to illustrate in a subsequent article,
giving historical instances of the actual honor paid in the church
to learned, holy, and influential women, rather than entering into
abstract controversy on the subject of what is and is not due
to her sex. What we have already said in these pages will tend,
please God, to remove prejudices, and at least clear the way for
evidence still more appreciable by our ambitious non-Catholic
sisters, namely, that which goes to show that not only in social
and home life, but also in the wide sphere of statecraft and public
influence, the church has marked out a noble margin for women’s
genius.




THE PASSION.


    Was ever tale of love like this?
      The wooing of the Spouse of blood:
    Who came to wed us to his bliss
      In those eternal years with God?

    Those griefless years, those wantless years,
      He left them--counting loss for gain--
    To taste the luxury of tears,
      And revel in the wine of pain!

    ’Twas sin had mixed the cup of woe
      From Adam passed to every lip:
    And none could shirk its brimming flow--
      For some a draught, for all a sip:

    Till Jesus came, athirst to save:
      Nor sucked content a sinless breast;
    But grasped the fatal cup, and gave
      That Mother half, then drained the rest.

    Enough the milk without the wine.
      When first the new-born Infant smiled,
    ’Twas merit infinite, divine,
      To cleanse a thousand worlds defiled.

    But _we_ must take of both. And how
      Could love look on, nor rush to share?
    Or hear us moan: “Death’s darkness now:
      And _Thou_, at least, wast never there”?

    And so he drank our Marah dry:
      Then filled the cup with wine of heaven.
    Who would not live--with him to die?
      Or not have sinned--when so forgiven?

Lent, 1872.




JANS VON STEUFLE’S DONKEY.


I.

Jans von Steufle was a happy man until he got that donkey. Now, you
might think the donkey was left him as a legacy by some dear friend
or rich relation, or that Jans found him in the highway some cold
wintry night and took him home in pity, or the donkey might have
strayed into Jans’ enclosure and refused to go out, but no such
thing; Jans bought and paid for all his trouble in good silver coin.

Jans had some comforts, however to compensate: he had a good wife.
Some say, “A good wife is a rare thing,” but you never hear that
sneer in German-land, for German wives and German children are
taught betimes to be good. Jans’ wife kept the house clean and the
kettles bright; and made _Sauerkraut_,[14] and _Wurst_,[15] and
delicious _Rahmkäse_[16]--ah! it would melt in your mouth--and
had always such nicely browned _Rinderbraten_,[17] and delicate
_gedämpftes Fleisch_,[18] and put vinegar in everything.

Then such beautiful patchwork _Bettdecke_[19] she stitched
together, and such snowy _Bettwäsche_,[20] you would be floated off
to dream of _Arabian Nights_ just to sleep under them. And when her
fingers had nothing particular to do, that is, when she walked
about the house and garden a little just before supper-time, to
see that every corner was clean, and everything in good order, and
the pot-herbs coming up properly, or when she went down the lane
to drive home the truant chickens and little ducks who were out
on some juvenile frolic, did her ten fingers rest? Oh! no, then a
thread of yarn came creeping out of her pocket, and click, click,
went the needles, and such stockings! You might wear them to the
North Pole, only they’d be too warm.

But her great genius and tact lay in garden-making. We do wrong
to apply these words to her, for she understood neither, and Jans
despised both; rather be it said that her industry was made most
manifest when she betook herself (under Jans’ direction, of course)
to digging and planting.

Jans had a pleasant way of imparting knowledge, and at the same
time making himself comfortable. Seated on a wooden bench in some
shaded gravel-walk near the scene of her rural operations, with
a pipe in his mouth, he would sit patiently the long hot summer
afternoon, directing the putting down of pea-sticks, the tying up
of hop-vines, and apportioning off the territory to be allowed to
the marauding pumpkins. Some people profess to discover a striking
resemblance between the human family and the great family of
animals each to each, and they even run a parallel between them
in physiognomy; but in a garden the similitude is perfect. No one
who cultivates a garden for very love of it but what unconsciously
invests his community there with a sort of intelligent existence.
They are well-behaved or troublesome; in good health or pining
under little ailments. Here a hardy native pushes his way to upper
air, heedless alike of deluge or drought, while that other one
from some far-away country, like any discontented foreigner, finds
nothing to its taste, but must be sheltered, and watered, and
gives a deal of trouble. Some are orderly and upright; others are
inclined to crooked ways, and seldom amend until tied to a stake.
The roots generally stay underground until they are wanted, while
some, like the bold, conceited turnips, climb to the surface when
not more than half-grown, and bask in the sunlight as if they
were roses. The vine tribe care as little as human climbers whom
they crush down in their aspiring efforts; onward they trail and
take possession, reckless of those who have a better right. Many
a pretty little plant have those green vines tyrannized over! As
for flowers, we call them modest, bold, gaudy, retiring, even in
common speech; and many a habit and inclination do they exhibit to
a humble admirer which has never been entered in scientific books.
Yes, a garden is a community of wonderful creations, where each
one has its peculiarities, and yet each one conforms in a certain
degree to the type of its family.

With such loving eyes did Jans and his _gute Frau_ look on their
flower-beds and their edibles; and such like matters did they often
discourse about, when the spading and raking for the day were done,
and she sat on the bench by his side knitting, knitting.

It is doubtful, however, whether they would have noticed matters
quite so particularly, not having been educated to abstractions,
comparisons, generalizations, and such like metaphysical flights,
had not their attention been directed to them occasionally by a
third member of their family, the very learned Herr von Heine.

Now, Jans in his efforts at amassing riches had neglected no
honest means of success. Consequently, when their two children
had both married well and gone to live in distant cities, and he
found himself with a spare room in his house, he looked about for
a tenant. Then mein herr (as he was called for brevity’s sake)
presented himself, and, as his testimonials for respectability and
prompt pay were satisfactory, he was soon established in the pretty
little chamber with its white curtains, its patchwork bedspread,
and a floor so well scrubbed you might have eaten off of it.
He somewhat marred the beauty of the spot by an importation of
certain odd things which he professed to consider indispensable.
There was a regiment of ragged-looking old leather books, and
some well-worn coats and dingy dressing-gowns, not to mention an
assortment of pipes and tobacco jars and old boots, and a few
warlike weapons which stuck out in a protecting way from the top of
his book-shelves.

Mein herr was just now direct from the _Collegienhaus_[21] of
the famous University at Königsberg, where he had been giving
short lectures and receiving long pay, and being, therefore, on
good terms with himself and the world in general, he resolved to
rusticate in some secluded spot for the summer, and renovate his
faculties for the next winter’s campaign.

No place could be more quiet or better suited for his purpose
than his present abode. Here he could spin all kinds of cobweb
theories hour after hour, with not a sound to ripple the air and
demolish them, for neither Jans nor his wife ever intruded into his
apartment. It was only in the soft summer evening twilight that
he made his descent to the garden, and indulged in a brief social
intercourse with his host and hostess. Indeed, he came almost as
regularly as the sun set. His tall, straight figure enveloped in a
long black sort of ecclesiastical gown, a jaunty cap on his head,
with its tassel hanging down behind, a meerschaum in hand which
he was bound to finish before he should retire, behold Mein Herr
von Heine!--the embodiment of profound and extended erudition out
for a little recreation. Mein herr was always welcome. Pleasant
enough was the discourse they all held as he slowly walked up and
down the gravel-walk, or took a seat beside them, especially when
the subject was farm-matters; and mutually profitable was the
exchange between theory and practice; many a pleasant laugh they
had, too; and as to the _gute Frau_, she listened and smiled, and
occasionally put in a modest little word, this being, according to
her best belief, the extent of “woman’s rights.”

They were sitting thus one June evening, when Jans laid aside his
pipe, and said, in his usual deliberate way:

“I think I’ll buy a horse, or a donkey, or a dog-cart, or
something, to take all these cabbages to market.”

“Buy a _donkey_ by all means,” said mein herr, “for a donkey,
that is an ass, is classical. They are famous in sacred as well
as in profane literature. No animal has always been so much the
companion of man as the donkey, no one more valuable. An ox and
an ass are what we are warned in the commandments not to covet,
showing their universality in the days of Moses, besides being what
any man in his senses would be most likely to covet. Asses are
repeatedly mentioned in the Old Testament. Every one has heard of
Balaam’s ass, who was so much wiser than his master. I have often
noted the great injustice done to that ass. Balaam bestowed on him
three very decided beatings; and although he was fully convinced
afterwards that they were entirely undeserved, we have no record
that he made the least apology or expressed the least regret. Now,
even a donkey deserves justice. Asses have pervaded all ranks in
life. There was Debbora the prophetess, the wife of Lapidoth; in
the Canticle, where she addresses the brave princes of Israel,
she adjures them as ‘you that ride upon fair asses, and sit in
judgment, and walk in the way’; on the other hand, Job predicts woe
to him ‘who hath driven away the ass of the fatherless.’ Certainly,
asses were everywhere. When the wealth of Abraham was counted,
he-asses and she-asses made a part of it; and when he was about to
ascend the mountain to sacrifice his son Isaac, we are told that
‘he arose and saddled his ass.’ Then there was Abdon, eight years
a judge of Israel, who had forty sons and thirty grandsons, ‘all
mounted on seventy asses,’ are the words of history. Then there was
the Levite of Mount Ephraim--ah! I forget his name--his wife left
him and went to stay four months with her father in Bethlehem Juda,
and when he went to bring her back, he took with him ‘a servant and
two asses,’ one doubtless for her use. Then the jaw-bone of the ass
made famous by Samson is well known, I mean the jaw-bone he wielded
at Ramathlechi, when he put his thousand enemies to flight. Some
of these animals possess virtues worthy of our own imitation; they
have displayed oftentimes very great intelligence, and affection
for those they serve; as in the case of a certain old prophet who
went forth from Juda to Bethel to denounce Jeroboam, and, being
misled and turned from his duty by a pretended friend, was killed
by the way on his return home; his ass was found standing patient
and watchful by the side of his dead master.”

Thus discoursed mein herr; his colloquial efforts were apt to be
rather prolix and oratorical, but this was to be ascribed to his
profession as lecturer; he was so much accustomed, when he had
unearthed an idea, to follow it up and make the most of it--a sort
of intellectual fox-chase.

Failing to keep pace with him over such extended and erudite
ground, Jans had, nevertheless, a dim notion that it was something
to own even one donkey, so he said:

“To-morrow I will buy a donkey.”

“Ah! yes,” said the Frau von Steufle, “and next market-day we will
go with a donkey.”

“You will be wise to buy a donkey,” repeated mein herr, “for
now I call to mind that Sancho Panza had one whose labors, as he
tells us, half-supported his family. I am reminded, also, that the
great Cervantes himself rode an ass, as he relates, on a pleasant
journey from Equivias with two of his friends. They heard some one
clattering up from behind and calling to them to stop, and when he
at length overtook them it proved to be a student, who was mounted
on an animal of the same sort; he no sooner learned their names
than he flung himself off of his ass, says Cervantes, whilst his
cloak-bag tumbled on one side, and his portmanteau on the other,
and he hastened to express his admiration of the great author of
_Don Quixote_.”[22]

Just at this point both meerschaum and pipe had given forth their
last whiff, and the knitting-work had arrived at the middle of a
needle; and as the great matter under discussion, the purchase,
was considered as wisely decided in the affirmative, they mutually
exchanged a kind “Gute Nacht” with the inevitable “Schlafen Sie
wohl!”[23]


II.

The day after the above conversation, Jans left his home for a
little business in a distant city, and several more elapsed before
he returned with his purchase.

Oh! vain boast when Jans von Steufle declared, “To-morrow I will
buy a donkey.”

What is a donkey? In one phase of his character, he is the very
personification of the stoical philosophy of the ancients; the type
of that perfect indifference to all sublunary mutations to which
Zeno vainly strives to elevate humankind; patient and enduring
under any amount of rain, hail, snow, and sleet that can pour down
on him, and any amount of luggage that can be piled upon him;
totally, indifferent, in the road he travels, as to its length,
direction, hostelries, or hardships, and satisfied, as far as food
and sleep are concerned, with the smallest quantity and the poorest
quality.

This was Jans’ idea of a donkey, but it was not what he got for
his money; he got a little gray beast, with a shaggy hide, a large
head, long ears, and a temper.

It was quite dark when Jackey with a boy astride him arrived
from the place of his last abode; so he was quietly taken to the
comfortable quarters prepared for him not far from brindle-cow,
and particular introductions to him were deferred until the next
morning.

The next morning ushered in market-day. The edibles had all been
gathered in and nicely washed the night before; the flowers also
had been culled and tastefully arranged in beautiful bouquets--some
small for sweet little love tokens; some larger to decorate the
tables and mantel-shelves of those people who are unhappily forced
to dwell always among the bricks and mortar of the town, who paid
large prices for them, and took them thankfully, as their very
minute share of all the glorious and beautiful works of the Creator
which are spread around life in the country. Others, again, were
tied together in tall pyramid-like forms, the apex a pure white
lily or perhaps a white rose, and spreading down from that to the
base in blossoms that mingled all the colors of the rainbow. These
were destined for the grand altar of the great church; for there
were always pious souls in the town ready to expend their good
groschen and thalers in adornments for the sanctuary. Very skilful
are the fingers of German wives, and great their taste in making up
all these tempting little articles of merchandise; and as they lay
waiting in the _Wohnzimmer_[24] of the Von Steufle dwelling-house,
you might have thought the whole garden had moved for a departure.

Breakfast was disposed of early, and immediately after it Jackey
was brought out for his first load.

“He has good points,” said the learned herr, after taking a
leisurely survey.

Jans knew not much about points, but he knew how to put a good load
on his back, and this he now proceeded to do.

“Much discretion is necessary in purchasing a donkey,” observed
the Herr von Heine--“much discrimination; wisdom and foolishness
are so much alike on a cursory view. A demure aspect may represent
either; and, then, a staid, dignified manner may proceed from lack
of ideas, nay, even absolute stupidity, as well as from profound
thought. In dealing with an animal which exhibits these traits,
great penetration is called for, or you will be deceived. Then,
there is a brightness of the eye, nothing vicious. Ah! I think your
animal has it, a sort of exuberance of spirit, a repressed strength
which can accomplish deeds almost incredible when opportunity
offers. You seldom see this in pictures of the donkey race;
painters seem to think it necessary to represent them dull and
imbecile, which is far from being correct.”

Mein herr paused, but his friends were both too busy to reply,
so he was only met by a “Freilich, mein Herr”[25] from Jans,
and a smiling “Ja Wohl”[26] from his helpmate. In German-land,
social life has no sharp points and corners to prick and scratch.
All is polished and polite, and such a little acknowledgment of
attention to a speaker could never be neglected. It was sufficient
encouragement for the herr, and he proceeded. He was so accustomed
to vibrate between his study and his lecture-room, that to be
quite silent or to have all the talking to himself had become most
natural to him, so, as we have said, he proceeded.

“Painting recalls to me Polygnotus, mentioned, I think, by
Pausanias, yet I’m not quite certain. He was an Athenian painter
of great celebrity, and one of his works was an allegorical
picture, in which unavailing labor was symbolized by a man twisting
a rope which an ass nibbles in pieces as fast as he advanced.
These allegorical pictures are pleasant studies, and it is truly
surprising to compare all the different interpretations of them
by all the different people, who call the same object by totally
different names, and of course draw from the entire composition
very different conclusions. Things are generally contradictory to
themselves as well as to other things, especially when viewed in
that dim light which I would call, if I may be allowed an original
expression, the _mist of ages_. We may cite for this Silenus.
He is the only heathen god depicted on an ass. Now, the morals
and manners of Silenus are very well known, and his association
with this quadruped is complimentary to it or not, according to
the view taken. It may be a panegyric on a patient, sure-footed,
philosophical animal, who could put aside personal feeling in
choosing his company, and bear his bibulous rider in safety when
he was totally unable to walk. Or was Silenus an immortal in
disgrace--degraded from horse, tiger, lion, panther, not to mention
chariots and wings, all that gods and men delight in, and doomed
to the indignity of donkey-back? If the latter, certainly the
creature rose superior to his situation in the end; his voice must
have been tremendous! In battle between the gods and giants, when
Silenus rode in among them, it was his sonorous bray that threw
the giant ranks in confusion and actually put them to flight. He
was well rewarded for this service, for justice is in the sky if
not on earth. He was exalted to the constellations. Search the
star-lighted sky for Cancer, and you will find in it the once
humble Asellus of Silenus.

“_Midæ aures_, the asinine appendages which the king was forced to
accept so unwillingly on Mount Tmolus (a proper reproof to captious
criticism),

  ‘Induiturque aures lente gradientis aselli,’[27]

were evidently a compliment to the quadruped; for certainly Apollo
meant them for an improvement on his own, which had so signally
failed him.”

Here mein herr came to a decided stop necessarily, for the donkey
was at last loaded, and such a load! Nothing but a donkey could
have stood under it, much less walk! It was cabbages this side,
potatoes that side, cauliflowers in the middle. Then salad laid on
loose; then celery stuck in endwise; then great bunches of sage and
savory and thyme, and herbs for the soup, _Petersilie_ and _der
Rettig_. All these, hung on everywhere, made Jack so fragrant that
his coming could be known long before he was in sight. Lastly, was
a delicate little basket of eggs, engaged long ago by a dainty
customer, swinging easily, so as not to break, under all.

As Jack was pretty nearly buried out of sight under the
substantials of trade, the Frau von Steufle took the flowers for
her share, and she was equally well laden. She could only be said
to resemble an immense walking bouquet, with a pleasant, happy face
peering out from its midst. Truly, the two were worth seeing. As
for Jans, his great responsibility was load enough for him, and so,
with good wishes and great expectations, they departed.

The Herr von Heine was alone all that long summer day. It was
rather a pleasant variety at first. Solitude has charms about it.
He wandered through the house, and explored every nook in the
garden, and went a long way over the grass to look at the pigs; he
fed the chickens and even patted the cow. The old cat seemed to
think it incumbent on her to show him the premises. At all events,
she escorted him hither and thither, now turning somersaults in
front of him, now flying up a tree to take a bird’s-eye view of
him, or perhaps to show him there were some feats not to be learned
in books; then down again, in a sentimental sort of humor rubbing
her head and ears against him, under his very steps; she quite
disturbed his equilibrium.

The large house-dog, or, rather, yard-dog, for there he lived,
looked on with a more suspicious air, as if he should like to be
informed what this new state of things meant; and after returning
the learned Herr von Heine’s proferred intimacy with the slightest
possible wag of his tail, he walked off to attend to his own
business.

Perhaps mein herr added a trifle that holiday to his stock of
knowledge. He had evidently descended from his pedestal of dignity,
and he enjoyed it vastly; besides, he had often introduced such
things in an illustrative or figurative manner to his classes, and
it was as well to make himself familiar with their surroundings.

But it was getting late now, the sun had set, twilight deepened
into darkness, or rather moonlight. Where could the three be
staying? Jans and his good wife were always home from market long
before this hour, even when each carried a load with a barrow to
wheel by turns!

He walked down to the road-way, and gazed long and anxiously
into the distance. No signs of them yet! Where could they be? He
returned to the house, and, ascending to his chamber, selected
from among his books a volume in Latin by the renowned Cornelius
Agrippa. He turned to the last chapter, “Ad Encomium Asini
Digressio.”[28] He felt an intense interest at this moment in
asses. It was possible some of their peculiarities had escaped
his knowledge; he desired to ascertain. But he failed, under the
peculiar circumstances, to fix his attention, so he laid the book
aside, and returned to the regions below; to his solitary stroll up
and down the gravel-walk, with an occasional pause for a long and
anxious survey of the road. Even his meerschaum was forgotten or
uncared for.

    “But Time is faithful to his trust:
    Only await, thou pining dust.”

Time, which does so much, at length brought them home. To his great
relief, the trio reappeared, and, creeping slowly along, turned
from the road into the gravel-walk and reached the house, all three
evidently depressed in spirits.


III.

Jackey had been turned loose in the paddock on his return, _not_
for good behavior; and he alternated there between nibbling the
grass as assiduously as if he had engaged to mow the whole before
next daylight, and standing still with his head thrust down and
fixed, as motionless as if he had been carved out of stone.

“A singular animal truly,” said mein herr to himself as he looked
down from his chamber window. “He reminds me--”

Here a summons to supper interrupted the reminiscence; and, when
they were all revived with the delicious hot coffee and cream which
the Frau von Steufle knew so well how to mix, Jans entered on his
adventures as follows:

“I thought a donkey was a great traveller, and very careful and
mindful, and to be trusted, and good on bad roads, and could eat
what a donkey ought to eat, and not steal what was not meant for
him.”

“Of course,” said the Herr von Heine; “you are right, he is a
great traveller. I tried one myself on the Alps, that is, I began
the Alps on a donkey; most people begin the Alps on a donkey, next
a mule, then on foot, if they try Mont Blanc. I well remember
the last view I took of the Jungfrau and its avalanches from the
Wengern Alps. At the Hospice of St. Bernard I took a comfortable
meal from the good monks, and then on foot and mule-back I mounted
by way of Martigny and Tête Noire to Chamouni. In Egypt there is
nothing like a donkey for the desert; when I was at Cairo (that
was in my student life), many a pleasant morning I started out on
a donkey, and spent the day among the ruins about there. Great
climbers they are, so obedient and sure-footed. The little white
donkeys of Egypt are beauties, long silky hair; the pashas value
them highly. Certainly the ass is a traveller; the wild asses of
Syria are fleet as the wind. Then, what would Rome be without
donkeys? or any part of Italy, for that matter? Along the coasts,
the bay of Naples, Mount Vesuvius, now over sand and stones and
lava, and volcanic ashes fetlock-deep, now to explore pleasant
fields, and woody paths, and old highways, always picking his way
so carefully up and down steep places, by some path of his own
you fail to see--why, you may ride on one to the very verge of a
precipice, and take your view from his back, as safely as if you
crept there on hands and knees! Oh! yes, they are great travellers,
though sometimes slow.”

“Very slow is Jackey,” responded his owner, “so slow that a good
part of the time he stood still.”

“Possible?” queried mein herr. “Perhaps his load was rather--but
yet, you can hardly overload a donkey. Why, in Rome they are
perfect moving heaps of fagots, hay, fruit, old clothes, mats,
brooms, and brushes, and everything, in fact, that is salable
and movable, with a dirty, swarthy peasant striding beside him
as driver, or, it may be, a boy; but, no, I should say they are
_always_ driven by a mob of boys. I hold that the most gregarious
of all animals is the human biped in its youth; and if I were
called upon for a centre-piece, with most power to collect around
it these juvenile swarms of the genus _homo_, I should name a
Roman donkey. Before him, behind him, a body-guard on each side,
all sizes, in all sorts of garments, or, rather, in all degrees
of nudity, shouting, yelling, laughing, talking, and each one
using all his powers to increase the speed of the poor little
beast--there you have a Roman donkey! I have been told of a scene
in Rome. A little ass whose panniers were two good-sized baskets
of eggs; it was about Easter time, when eggs are valuable. To
hasten him, his driver, a tall, ragged peasant, struck him smartly,
which offended him. He stood still a moment, then deliberately
laid himself down, and rolled over. The peals of laughter which
greeted the donkey as he arose, daubed and dripping with the
yellow semi-liquid, the bewailings of his owner, all together were
worth seeing. In no place in Europe are they as poorly fed and
as much abused as by the lower classes in Paris; truly they are
miserable-looking wretches there, bony, sulky, dirty. I have often
wished to apply to the back of the ragged, screaming boy-driver
the stick with which he was cudgelling his poor donkey. Monsieur
Chateaubriand says he would gladly be the advocate of certain
creatures, works of God, despised by men, and ‘en première ligne,’
says he, ‘figuereraient l’âne et le chat.’

“The heavy-laden ass is a verity in ancient lore; even its name
is used to express hardship and endurance; as from the Greek
word ὄνος, an ass, is supposed to be derived the Latin _onus_,
signifying a _burden_.”

Mein herr made a pause, he was evidently lapsing into the delusion
that he was in his _Collegienhaus_, lecturing on donkeys. The
gentle frau recalled his wandering wits by observing, in a low, sad
voice:

“Oh! he shook so many things off; all lost; he shook half his load
off in the creek!”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the herr, “is it possible! that was not to be
expected of him. Many classical writers mention _loading_ the ass,
but I cannot recall a single instance where he _unloaded_ himself
in a creek!

“Horace, it is true, refers to what might be a little sulkiness
under a heavy load, when he represents himself as a sort of
discontented donkey under the infliction of some of his troublesome
friends:

    ‘Demitto auriculas ut iniquæ mentis asellus
    Quum gravius dorso, subiit onus.’[29]

“Then, the poor creature has been at times imposed on in a manner
which might excuse resentment. In ancient Rome, for instance, on
sacred days all labor was forbidden, with the exception of some
certain kinds considered necessary.

    ‘Quippe etiam festis quædam exercere diebus
    Fas et jura sinunt.’[30]

“The works allowed were setting traps for birds which were hurtful,
ordering the trenches which irrigated the fields, and some few
others of like kind. To the rustics, permission was granted to
carry their farm produce to market on sacred days, and they also
might bring a load back. This was allowed them in order that this
business might not interrupt them on working-days. Now, a _load_
with them necessarily demanded an ass; consequently the ass knew
no sacred day, no day of rest from his burdens, and _such_ loads,
Mynheer von Steufle!

    ‘Sæpe oleo tardi costas agitator aselli
    Vilibus aut oneras pomis; lapidemque revertans
    Incusum,’ etc.[31]

“Oil, cheap fruits, millstones, black pitch! Ah! _mein lieber
Freund_ what a load! I hardly believe they prefer thistles to
grass, as some say, but they will subsist on one-third of what is
required by a horse under all this labor.”

Jans looked at him ruefully and incredulous:

“Some may--some of them may--but I count Jack two horses at the
least. He must have been eating all night, for he had enough put
before him; and to-day, why, you’d think he hadn’t seen a corn-husk
in a month. He ate apples and cauliflowers, and a peck of peas,
and--and--”

The Frau von Steufle supplemented the catalogue of enormities.

“All my roses, thorns and all, and Katrina von Dyke’s beautiful
tulips that she had just sold, and my tallest bouquet, the one that
was engaged for the grand altar. O dear! what will they do? Then
he chewed up a nice bonnet, and he overset the things! Dear me, so
much mischief! Ah me!”

“Yes, yes,” said Jans, “it is well to say, ah me! Look at the
bills that will come in to-morrow!”

“Truly,” said the herr in a tone of commiseration, “it is
surprising. It was not to be expected! Yet we must look at the best
of it. Horace says:

    ‘Nemo adeo ferus est, ut nom mitiscere possit
    Si modo culturæ patientem commodet aurem.’”[32]

“I know not what that may mean, Mein Herr von Heine,” said Jans,
“nor do I know the Herr Horace; but I wish, if he wants a donkey,
he would take mine. I wish he had him.”

The herr was silenced.

Morning came, and with it a heavy bill to Jans von Steufle for
damages done by a certain donkey, who did kick, bite, tear, trample
on, and devour a long list of things belonging to a long list of
persons.

Evening came, and with it came a lad, halter in hand, which he
quietly knotted round Jackey’s neck, and led him away, looking as
solemn and as amiable as when he first arrived.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Sourkrout.

[15] Sausage.

[16] Cream-cheese.

[17] Roast-beef.

[18] Stewed meat.

[19] Bed-quilts.

[20] Bed-linen.

[21] The hall where lectures are mostly delivered.

[22] See preface to _Labors of Persiles and Sigismunda: A Romance_,
the last work of Cervantes, and left unfinished at his death.

[23] “May you sleep well!”

[24] Common sitting-room.

[25] “Assuredly, sir.”

[26] “Ah! yes.”

[27] “And he puts on the ears of an ass quietly moving along.”

[28] “A Digression in Praise of an Ass.”

[29] “I let down my ears as a young ass of stubborn mind when he
has taken a burden too heavy for his back.”

[30] “Since even on festive days, right and the laws allow us to do
certain things.”

[31] “Often the driver loads the sides of the slow ass with oil or
cheap fruit, and bringing back the wrought stone,” etc.

[32] “No one is so savage that he cannot be tamed if he will lend
an ear to instruction.”




THE ROMAN EMPIRE AND THE MISSION OF THE BARBARIANS.


“Our clock strikes when there is a change from hour to hour; but
no hammer in the horologe of time peals through the universe when
there is a change from era to era.”[33] So writes Mr. Carlyle in
one of his powerful essays; and he is correct. As gradually and as
silently as childhood passes into youth, and youth into manhood,
and manhood again into old age, so does a nation and the world
itself pass from one era into another. But if the signal of such
a change is not heard sounding through the world, the moment of
the transition is foreknown and has been preordained by God, under
whose eye all agents throughout the universe are ever acting out
their parts. Men are sometimes taken by surprise, but God never.
Men are often mistaken in their calculations of the action of
natural forces, but it cannot be so with God. A revolution brews
like an angry storm, all in silence; and bursts; and a nation is
shivered into fragments. Men are amazed; they have made a false
reckoning; but the storm has brewed under the eye of God, and
gathered its hidden forces, and burst at the very moment that God
allowed it, and the havoc has been done up to the time which he has
marked out. This is the expression of a great Catholic principle
of history which it is well, especially in this age of godless
theories, to keep constantly before our minds. We are about to
endeavor to show how powerfully the truth of this great historical
principle is brought out in that part of history to which our
subject refers, for it is well said by Cesare Cantu in his _Storia
Universale_,[34] “If ever history was manifested as a visible order
of Providence, it was in these times.”

As we pass from the fourth into the fifth century, we come into
a new era of the history of the church. The fourth age was one
of mental strife; it was an age of great minds. The enemy of the
church in the time of the persecutions had been brute force; now
it was power of intellect. But God always has his champions ready.
In the persecutions, they were the martyrs; in the fourth age,
they were the Athanasiuses and the Ambroses. But in the fifth
age the men of God’s choice are of another type. They are men
out of the darkness, savages of the forest, wild dwellers amid
the ice-mountains and the swamps. They have known no civilizing
influences; they are nature’s children, and hardy as the rock and
granite. They have reason, it is true; but it does not guide them
on their strange, savage mission. They are all driven on by an
instinct that is irresistible.

The words of Alaric are the expression of the feelings of all those
wild warriors. As the Gothic leader is marching towards Rome at the
head of his army, a solitary goes out from his grotto to arrest him
in his course. “No,” replies Alaric, “a mysterious voice within me
says: March on, go and sack Rome.” So we are told by Socrates[35]
and Sozomen[36] in their histories. Thus, then, they go to their
stupendous work of destruction. That work is characterized by
blood, and smoke, and the crash of falling cities. The age is one
of chaos. Never before since the world began were there such wild
ruin and devastation; never such terrible levelling to the ground
of human grandeur; never such savage smashing up of the monuments
of luxury and worldly greatness. It would, indeed, be difficult
to describe adequately what is so confused and so chaotic. When
the storm-clouds have gathered and overshadowed us with darkness,
when the lightning-fires flame through the sky and scathe the
forest-trees, and the blinding raindrops drive in fury through the
air, can we see any order in it all? Can we draw lines and mark
out clearly the different elements of the storm? No. It is only
when the storm is spent and the air becomes clear again that the
eye can discern what havoc has been done. The giant oak has been
cleft by the storm-spirit’s fiery sword; the lofty tower has been
hurled down from its stately height; the rocks have been split,
and the earth’s surface torn up, as by the bursting of some mighty
engine of war. So it would be difficult to describe, with anything
like clearness of method, the mighty storm which burst upon the
Roman Empire in the fifth century. However long we pore over the
pages of Paul Orosius or Salvian, we still rise from our study with
bewildered brain. God lets loose his wild messengers of wrath, and
they do their savage work in their own savage way. We can see no
order in it--to our eye there is none. We hear the wailing cries
of despair, and the frenzied howls of the conquering barbarians,
and the loud re-echoing crashes of the falling empire. But it is
only when the smoke has cleared off and the dust has subsided that
we can form any idea of the ruin and devastation which have been
accomplished. If our task, then, were mainly to draw an accurate
and true picture, we should fail. But it is rather to give a view
of a period of history from a Catholic philosophical standpoint: it
is to show, as far as we can, the action of God on human affairs.
It will be necessary, then, first to point out what the mission of
the Roman Empire was--a mission to build up: and then the causes
which prepared the way for the mission of the barbarians--a mission
of sweeping destruction.

At the time when the Son of God came down upon earth, the Roman
Empire was at the height of its splendor and power. Never in
the history of the world had there been an empire in every way
so wonderful. Never before had there been a power so mighty
and all-embracing in its dominion. All that had been great and
brilliant in the civilization of the empires of old had come down
to Rome, and had undergone a boundless development there. This
truth is powerfully put forth in the words of the first professor
of the philosophy of history at the Catholic University of Ireland.
We will quote his words: “The Empire of Augustus,” he says,
“inherited the whole civilization of the ancient world. Whatever
political and social knowledge, whatever moral or intellectual
truth, whatever useful or elegant arts the enterprising race of
Japheth had acquired, preserved, and accumulated in the long course
of centuries since the beginning of history, had descended without
a break to Rome, with the dominion of all the countries washed by
the Mediterranean. For her the wisdom of Egypt and all the East
had been stored up; for her Pythagoras and Thales, Socrates, Plato
and Aristotle, and all the schools besides of Grecian philosophy
suggested by these names, had thought; for her Zoroaster, as well
as Solon and Lycurgus, legislated; for her Alexander conquered, the
races which he subdued forming but a portion of her empire. Every
city in the ears of whose youth the Poems of Homer were familiar
as household words, owned her sway. Her magistrates, from the
Northern Sea to the confines of Arabia, issued their decrees in the
language of empire--the Latin tongue; while, as men of letters,
they spoke and wrote in Greek. For her Carthage had risen, founded
colonies, discovered distant coasts, set up a world-wide trade, and
then fallen, leaving her the empire of Africa and the West, with
the lessons of a long experience. Not only so, but likewise Spain,
Gaul, and all the frontier provinces from the Alps to the mouth of
the Danube, spent in her service their strength and skill; supplied
her armies with their bravest youths; gave to her senate and her
knights their choicest minds. The vigor of new, and the culture
of long-polished, races were alike employed in the vast fabric
of her power. In fact, every science and art, all human thought,
experience, and discovery had poured their treasure in one stream
into the bosom of that society which, after forty-four years of
undisputed rule, Augustus had consolidated into a new system of
government, and bequeathed to the charge of Tiberius.”[37]

This passage from Mr. Allies is like a brilliant flash of light
thrown on Rome’s greatness; but yet it only gives us a glimpse. It
would take us long to form to ourselves an adequate idea of this
greatest of empires. We should have to make long journeys through
her extensive provinces, measure her vast cities, march along her
grand roads, and, after we had journeyed over all the civilized
world of those days, we should still be within the circuit of
the mighty empire. Her sway extended over the three then known
continents: “Gaul and Spain, Britain and North Africa, Switzerland
and the greater part of Austria, Turkey in Europe, Asia Minor,
Syria and Egypt, formed but single limbs of her mighty body.”[38]

It is wonderful, again, to think of what Pliny calls the “immensa
Romanæ pacis majestas.” The inconceivable majesty of Rome in
the time of peace was, perhaps, more overpowering than anything
else about her. Having a boundlessness of empire such as we have
described, containing within her circuit a population, according to
Gibbon, of 120,000,000, looking round from her throne of supreme
authority, and claiming all as her own that was visible to the eye
of civilization, she could stretch forth her sceptre over all this
immeasurable area and over these countless peoples, and hold all
in submission and peace. We cannot, then, be surprised that Rome
ruled over the nations as a goddess; that divine power and majesty
were believed to belong to her. Her sway was felt from the Rhine
and the Danube to the deserts of Africa, from utmost Spain to
the Euphrates, like an ubiquitous presence. Her eye of authority
reached from one extremity of the world to the other, and she had
her 340,000 men stationed on the frontiers, looking with watchful
ken into the vast unknown solitudes beyond, and ever ready to hurl
back the savage hordes of external foes, if perchance they stepped
forward for a moment from their native darkness. Very few forces
were needed to preserve internal order. That same Gaul which in
1860 required 626,000 armed men to preserve internal order and
for external security in time of peace, had a garrison of only
1,200 men in the days of old Rome.[39] Well then may Pliny and
the old Roman authors speak with such admiration of the “immensa
Romanæ pacis majestas.” Nothing had ever been seen on the earth
so imposing and so grand. No empire had ever existed with such a
boundless sway, such wonderful internal organization, such a union
of strength, such compactness of power, and such an awe-inspiring
name. And at the time of Augustus there was no sign of decay
or deterioration. Rome was, on the contrary, rising higher and
higher in cultivation and refinement. We may here quote the words
of Tertullian in his treatise _De Anima_; they give us a vivid
and beautiful picture of the Roman Empire of his day. “The world
itself,” he says, “is opened up, and becomes from day to day more
civilized, and increases the sum of human enjoyment. Every place is
reached, is become known, is full of business. Solitudes, famous of
old, have changed their aspects under the richest cultivation. The
plough has levelled forests, and the beasts that prey on man have
given place to those that serve him. Corn waves on the sea-shore,
rocks are opened out into roads; marshes are drained, cities are
more numerous now than villages in former times. The island has
lost its savageness, and the cliff its desolation. Houses spring up
everywhere, and men to dwell in them. On all sides are government
and life.” And so we might go on indefinitely, describing Rome’s
power, and riches, and civilization, and never succeed in giving an
idea equal to the great reality. Then, as we think of all this, we
are led to ask ourselves, How is this mighty empire ever to fall?
Other empires, we know, rose and fell, but at their highest point
of greatness they could not be compared to the Empire of Rome. All
that they had of might and majesty and durability Rome has, and
immeasurably more. Men have not known how to qualify her power, nor
how to designate her except by calling her “Eternal Rome.” Where,
then, can another power come from that shall be able to cope with
her? She looked as durable as the very firmament which God had set
on immovable pillars, more lasting than the rock-built earth on
which she had grown and developed for nearly a thousand years. Her
existence was inconceivable before she began to be; her ceasing to
exist was as inconceivable afterwards. It seemed as if to destroy
her would be to split the earth itself on which she was based, or
to shiver the universe, which she seemed to embrace in her mighty
arms. Of her capital itself a great living writer says: “Look at
the Palatine Hill, penetrated, traversed, cased with brick-work,
till it appears a work of man, not of nature; run your eye along
the cliffs from Ostia to Terracina, covered with the _débris_ of
masonry; gaze around the bay of Baiæ, whose rocks have been made
to serve as the foundations and the walls of palaces; and in those
mere remains, lasting to this day, you will have a type of the
moral and political strength of the establishments of Rome. Think
of the aqueducts making for the imperial city for miles across the
plain; think of the straight roads stretching off again from that
one centre to the ends of the earth; consider that vast territory
round about it, strewn to this day with countless ruins; follow
in your mind its suburbs, extending along its roads for as much,
at least in some directions, as forty miles; and number up its
continuous mass of population, amounting, as grave authors say,
to almost six million; and answer the question, How was Rome ever
to be got rid of? Why was it not to progress? Why was it not to
progress for ever? Where was that ancient civilization to end?”[40]
After looking at Rome with a human eye, this is the way we should
speak; these are questions we should ask. To the human eye, Rome
was based on everlasting foundations, and was to be immortal.
There was no power--there could be no power sufficiently mighty to
move her from her seat. But looking at her from the standpoint of
the great Catholic principles of history, we shall use language
very different. We shall say that Rome, however mighty and well
based, will last no longer than serves the wise designs of God’s
providence. He raised her up, as he has raised other empires, for
a mission; when that mission is fulfilled, he will say to her,
“Perish,” and she will wither away and gradually die, or, if so be
his pleasure, she will be swept, as by the fury of a storm, from
the face of the earth. It was the latter judgment that actually
fell upon her, and we have to see in the course of this essay with
what terrible reality it was carried out.

Mighty as Rome was, so was she intended for a mighty mission. She
had subdued the world, and the world was at her feet. Her great
highways cut through her immense empire in every direction. By
these broad roads the riches of the provinces were carried to
her bosom, and by these roads went forth her legions to guard
the distant frontier. She had given her own language to the
various races which she had bent under her sway, so that her
word of command was understood and obeyed in every part of her
wide empire. At this point, then, in the course of her history,
God had determined to appear, in visible form, on the scene of
human events. When the world was thus at peace, and under the
sway of this mightiest of empires, the Prince of Peace came on
earth. Circumstances never could have been more favorable for the
establishment of his kingdom. It strikes us, then, here at once,
that the evident mission of the Roman Empire was to prepare the
way for Christianity. In spite of the opposition of pagan gods;
in spite of sensual passions and human pride, the Crucified will
have Rome, as has been long ago preordained, for the seat of his
own wonderful empire. Thence his missionaries will go forth,
like Rome’s own conquering legions, but unto still more glorious
conquests than they. The broad Roman roads will rejoice more under
the footsteps of these new conquerors than ever they did in days
before under the tramp of warlike battalions returning booty-laden
to the great capital. Everything is ready for the prosecution
of these new conquests. The provinces are at peace and ready to
receive these Heaven-sent messengers. Men seem to be waiting for
some voice that shall be heard sounding through the world telling
them to lay down their swords for ever, to forget their strifes,
and that they are all brothers. Such a voice is now to be heard.
The language of Rome has made itself universal in order that it may
be the organ of a universal religion. When the first revelation
was made, the language of the human race was one; so was it
necessary that, when a new revelation was about to be given to men,
they should be brought back again to unity of language, in order
that revelation might be universally received, and be transmitted
to future ages. The great Roman conquerors had no thought, whilst
they went forth to conquest with their countless warriors, full
of ideas of human glory and lust of booty, that they were the
simple instruments of him who was ruling in the heavens, and whom
they knew not. But so it was. And we see how God’s designs were
carried out. We see, in course of time, the aged fisherman, from
the Galilean Lake, wending his way toward the great Roman capital.
As he walks along the Via Appia with his scrip and staff, he is
the symbol of simplicity and human weakness. But mark you well
that old way-worn form. There walks the first of the great race
of Popes. He represents no contemptible power, that weak-looking
wayfarer. He bears with him a secret source of strength which will
give him courage against all obstacles. Though he looks so mean in
his Jewish garb, yet he is a conqueror such as the world has not
yet seen. He has no legends at his back, no surroundings of earthly
might to make the world tremble before him. But he bears with him
something mightier than Roman armies, and far more irresistible: it
is the Cross of Jesus Christ. March on, old man, to the great city
that is called the mistress of nations and omnipotent. Fear not;
thou shalt subdue her with thy poor wooden cross, and plant in her
midst thy everlasting throne. Yea, of a truth, the throne which
that old man shall establish there shall be the first immovable
throne which the world has ever seen. The throne of Cambyses has
passed away; the throne of Alexander has crumbled to dust; and the
throne of the Roman Cæsars will soon be buried in the wreck of
barbarian invasion. But the throne of the fisherman will stand firm
where he planted it, whilst everything around perishes and crumbles
away. Nations and kings will mistake it for a human thing, and they
will, in their blind rage, rush against it to overturn it; but they
will dash themselves to pieces in the collision, and they will be
seen lying around in scattered fragments, whilst that throne itself
still remains immovable. So, then, the fisherman, conscious of
his great mission, enters into the mighty city which God had been
preparing for him those long ages. That was a solemn moment for
the world, though the world knew it not. Other conquerors enter
into the capitals of kingdoms with great pomp and a mighty array
of armed men; and perhaps their hold upon the subdued cities is
of short duration. The tide of human affairs quickly changes, and
perhaps the conquerors themselves are in their turn the conquered
and the captive. But this meek old man has no armed force to awe
men into submission. He is the centre of no pageant. He walks on
his way in silence. He has nothing but his staff and his scrip and
his little wooden cross, which in reality is his sceptre. But he
enters Rome to take a lasting possession of it. Not all the world
in arms will ever again be able to make a permanent conquest of
that city. A mystery will henceforth hang about it for ever. It
will always look like a city of the past, and yet it will hold
within it the life of all peoples and nations to come. By degrees,
other kings shall leave it altogether to Peter and his successors,
as if scared away by the mysterious presence of Christ’s vicar.
And if, in the course of ages, men dream like Rienzi of the great
days of ancient Rome, and long to see the old pagan prestige of the
city brought back, and then come with their mailed hands and strike
the mysterious power that God has established there, their mailed
hands shall wither, and they will fall back stricken by Heaven in
their turn, as Oza was in past days for his irreverence.

When, then, Peter had taken possession of his city, the rapid
spread of Christianity began. Here was the throne of the head of
the church established in the very centre of civilization and
of the Western World. We cannot think that Romulus and his wild
robber-followers had any profound design in fixing the site of
their city on those seven hills. No; but God had. It is remarkable
that Rome seems built to be even naturally and physically the
centre of the world. “Nothing,” says Father Lacordaire, “is
isolated in things; the body, the soul, divine grace, everything
is united; all is harmonious. The body of man is not that of the
irrational animal; the configuration of a country intended for one
destiny is not the same as that of a country appointed to another
destiny, and the general form of our globe is as full of reason
as of mystery.”[41] The ancients seem to have had a traditional
knowledge of this; hence it was that, when they built their cities,
they made a deep and religious study of the spot which was chosen
as the site. Looking, then, first at Italy, we see that God formed
it for a great purpose. It is curious to remark how Asia, Africa,
and Europe are united, as it were, together by the basin of the
Mediterranean Sea, which also opens toward the West to allow
the vessels of all nations to sail to the American continent.
Into this central Mediterranean Sea, Italy shoots out its long
length. On its northern side it is strongly guarded by ridges of
mountains, and seems thus designed to be defended from Europe,
whilst it is its heart. Almost in the centre of this Italian
peninsula, more to the south than the north, and more westward
than eastward, Rome is seated. She is built on seven hills, and
by the borders of the Tiber, whose yellow waters roll sluggishly
along between banks bare and uninteresting, and destitute of that
green verdure which gives such a charm to the rivers of our own
country. At a distance of six leagues eastward rises the dark line
of the Apennines; looking westward, you may catch a view from some
elevated spot of the bright-glancing waters of the Mediterranean;
northward rises the isolated Soracte, towering up like a mighty
giant, and seeming to stand as guardian of the plain. Directing
your gaze southward, your eye falls on the pleasant hamlets of
Castel-Gandolfo, Marino, Frascati, and Colonna.[42] In this centre
of the world, then, made such by God when he formed the globe;
in this centre, so wonderfully adapted for easy communication
with the rest of the world, God has his central city built, and
when the hour comes which he preordained in his wise Providence,
he conducts the Fisherman-Pope there, and bids him there abide
till the end of time. It is not likely, then, that any other city
of the world, either Jerusalem or Constantinople, or any great
capital yet to be built, can supplant Rome in the honor of being
the city of the Popes, or that any other country will be in as
true a sense the chosen country of God as Italy is. Italy was
chosen, as we have seen, to be the heart of the world. Then God
chose to have this great central capital from which the light of
Christianity was to radiate to the four quarters of the globe. It
would be easy to show what a glorious and conspicuous part she has
acted in all ages through the church’s history. It is Italy which
has given to the church almost the whole long line of Pontiffs who
have filled the chair of St. Peter. From Italy have gone forth
almost all the greatest missionaries of the world. St. Innocent
says, in his Epistle to Decentius, that all the great founders of
Christian churches in Gaul, Sicily, Spain, and Africa came from
this favored county. To her also is Germany indebted for her first
apostles; and, unless we credit the legend of Joseph of Arimathea,
we must own that Christianity was first brought over into Britain
by missionaries from Rome. And we are not surprised that Italy
is so prolific in apostles and preachers. Nearest to the heart
does the life-blood flow most quickly. Under the eye of Christ’s
Vicar, and under the shadow of his presence, has the Christian
life always been best realized. We cannot, then, wonder that the
history of Christian Italy should furnish the highest and the most
glorious pages of the history of the church. She is glorious in her
countless martyrs, in her learned doctors, in her great founders of
religious orders. With all this before us, we can understand the
soul-stirring words of Luigi Tosti to the Italian clergy. “State
sa,” he cries out, “Leviti dell’ Italiano chericato, abitatori
della terra in cui la chiesa impresse sempre la prima orma dei suoi
passi, quando procede all’ assunzione di una forma novella. Scalza,
perseguitata, cruenta di martirio in Pietro: ricca, guistiziera,
fulminatrice in Ildebrando; bella, copulatrice di due civiltà nel
decimo Leone; e sempre in Italia.” We lose much of the fire and
vigor of the original by translating these words into our own
language, but yet we may, perhaps, venture to render them thus:
“Arise, Levites of the Italian clergy, dwellers in that land on
which the church always imprints her first foot-mark whenever she
is about to take up a new form. Barefooted, persecuted, red with
the blood of martyrdom in Peter; rich, rigid, hurling anathemas in
Hildebrand; beautiful, uniting the two civilizations in the tenth
Leo; and always in Italy.”[43]

Returning, then, to what we have already said regarding the Roman
Empire, and seeing how wonderfully God has arranged all things for
the establishment of his holy religion, we may form to ourselves
an idea how rapidly the truths of Christianity would spread
throughout the world. Now we see a nobler and higher use for those
grand Roman roads than ever entered into the minds of those who
designed and constructed them; now we perceive the advantage of
that one noble Latin language being the established language of
the empire; now we take in more perfectly the great design of God
in laying so many nations at the feet of Rome, and inspiring them
with such veneration for her very name. Thus favored on all sides,
Christianity soon made its way into the cities and towns of the
wide-spreading empire. We have been amazed as we have observed
God working out in detail this grand scheme for the propagation
of his religion. We have seen and wondered at the mighty power
of that Word which was confided by Jesus Christ to the apostles
and their successors. We have seen it captivating the rich and
the poor alike, and baffling and finally humbling at its feet the
proud philosophers themselves. We know how in a few years the
Christians could be counted by thousands in Rome itself, and how
they were found wherever the Roman legions had penetrated. From
Rome, as from a great central sun, the light of truth shone far out
in all directions, and Christian churches seemed to rise as by an
invisible power, in all cities and towns near and far distant, and
then shoot forth their beautiful brightness into the surrounding
darkness. In Africa, as Alzog and Döllinger relate, the Christians
soon outnumbered the pagans. And we know well, for there is no
one who has not read them, the famous words of Tertullian, in
his _Apologetica_: “We are but of yesterday, and already we fill
your towns, your villages, your fortresses, your islands, your
assemblies and your camps, the senate and the imperial court; we
leave you nothing but the temples.” In studying the first ages of
the church’s history, what glorious things do we witness, and how
strongly is the conviction forced upon us that God is there ruling
events and using men for his own great purposes! We see the Roman
legions transforming themselves, as did the Thundering Legion,
into so many phalanxes of conquering Christians, who rushed to
victory under the impulse of the grand idea that they were thus
subduing new countries to the rule of Christ.[44] We see those
victorious legions carrying with them their laws, their customs,
and their schools to the banks of the Rhine and the Danube, and
there planting civilization and the faith of Christ. We wonder
less at this when we think what noble Christian hearts were
burning in the breasts of those brave men, and how oftentimes
they laid down their lives as martyrs for Christ’s name. We can
never forget the noble Theban legions dying at the foot of the
Alps, thus giving by their heroic martyrdom the first lessons of
Christian teaching to the people of Switzerland. In the camps of
Rhætia, Noricum, and Vindelicia, again, we see Christian soldiers
sowing the seeds of their holy religion on every side of them. How
beautiful a thing did it appear to the devoted Ozanam to follow the
footsteps of these early missionaries, to represent to himself the
hymns of redemption rising heavenwards amidst the silence of the
pagan forests, and to see in imagination the barbarians receiving
the waters of baptism at the same fountains which their fathers
adored![45] The more closely, then, we study the manner in which
Christianity was propagated in the first ages, the more clearly
does the mission of the Roman Empire stand out before our eyes. It
becomes more and more evident, the longer we look at facts, that
Rome’s conquering legions, her great far-reaching roads, her laws,
and her one universal language were all made use of by God in a
wonderful way, not only to prepare the way for, but also for the
establishment of his great spiritual kingdom upon earth.

Thus far we have considered the Roman Empire as working for God, as
aiding in a remarkable manner the propagation of Christianity. Thus
viewed, the Roman Empire was on God’s side. But from another point
of view we know how bitterly she opposed God’s work. Never was
there such dire war made against God as during the three hundred
years of the persecutions. We have now to glance at these years of
blood and hatred, since they are a part of the explanation why in
later times there came, by God’s sending, such a whirlwind of wrath
on the mighty empire that it was shaken to its very foundations,
and fell with a crash which made the whole universe tremble. We do
not intend to dwell on the more minute details of these strange,
sad years, but only to refer in a general way to the cruelty of the
persecutors and the heroic conduct of the children of the cross in
the presence of death.

Towards the end of the first seventy years of the Christian
church, we see the imperial garden at Rome the scene of a strange
festivity. The Roman people are there assembled on a dark night
for an entertainment. The Emperor Nero is seen passing to and
fro in his imperial carriage, followed by the senators in their
costly equipages amidst the shouts and plaudits of the people. It
is the opening of the first persecution. The long, shady avenues
are lighted up by living torches--human beings covered over with
burning pitch are serving as festal lamps. In the open squares of
this garden we see women and children, belonging to some of the
noblest families of Rome, clothed with the skins of wild beasts,
and cast to hungry dogs, which devour them alive. Meanwhile Nero
laughs with savage glee at the success of his new invention, and
his myrmidons congratulate him on the ingenuity he has displayed in
it. This is only a glimpse--but we need no more.

Later on we see that other monster Domitian, shut up in a dark
chamber of his palace, holding with fiendish satisfaction the end
of the chain which binds the limbs of those who are brought before
him for trial. We see him oftentimes presiding in person and
gloating with a wild beast’s _gusto_ over the tortures inflicted on
innocent Christians. In his reign, virtue became a crime, and the
followers of Christ were put to death throughout the whole extent
of the empire as being the declared enemies of the state. We do
not wonder that Domitian acquired for himself the odious name of
“the tyrant whom the universe detested,” as Suetonius tells us in
his _Life_ of this emperor. Neither can we wonder that the Roman
people endeavored to blot out even his very name from their memory.
Lactantius tells us, in his _De Morte Persecutorum_, that his
statues were broken to pieces, and his inscriptions effaced from
the proud monuments which his hands had raised.

As we pass on to Trajan and Adrian, we find no reason to be partial
to their memories. Though no new edicts of persecution were
published during their reign, yet Christians were put to death in
great numbers throughout the empire. When we think of Trajan’s
persecution, a grand, saintly figure always rises before our
minds--it is St. Ignatius of Antioch, as he himself has sketched
in striking outlines, in his famous _Epistle to the Romans_,
the sublime ideal of the Christian martyr, and he realized with
wonderful exactitude that ideal in his own person.

The student of church history well remembers the bold independence
of the holy man as he stood before the emperor at Antioch; and the
courageous joy with which he went to the amphitheatre to be the
victim of wild beasts and a spectacle to the bloodthirsty Romans,
is one of those glorious things which the church points to as
characteristic of her great martyr-bishops.

Again, when we think of Adrian, we recall that symbol of his
cruelty, the brazen bull, into which, when heated to red-heat, the
faithful veteran Eustachius with his wife and family was cast. His
name, too, brings back to our memory the brave widow Symphorosa and
her seven sons. The cruel scene of torment is again enacted before
our minds. We think how the poor mother was suspended aloft by the
hair, all bruised and mangled as she was by hard lashes, whilst
the bodies of her children were opened before her eyes with knives
and iron hooks. Such facts as these are certainly not calculated
to persuade us that Adrian’s character was one of mildness and
clemency, as profane historians would have us believe. To this
emperor belongs, as Tillemont tells us, the odious distinction of
having profaned in the vilest manner those holy places which are
so dear to Christian hearts. He defiled the holy Mount of Calvary
by erecting thereon the sensual figure of Venus; he desecrated the
sacred Cave at Bethlehem by setting up the statue of Adonis; and
he placed, as though in jeering triumph, the image of Jupiter over
the tomb of our blessed Saviour. Under the influence of Adrian’s
zeal, paganism experienced a temporary revival; idolatry seemed to
regain new life and vigor, and made a great effort to substitute
the trophies of the devil for those of Jesus Christ. Adrian went so
far as to erect temples in his own honor, which, as Döllinger says,
have been falsely supposed by some to have been places of Christian
worship. Adrian died at last a wretched prey to his crimes. As
he writhed in agony and rotted away under the violence of a
loathsome disease, he called a thousand times upon death to come
to his deliverance. But death came slowly to the cruel torturer of
Symphorosa and her sons.

As we pass rapidly on down these years of blood, our eye is again
arrested, in the time of Marcus Aurelius, by the grand figure
of glorious Polycarp, who rises then distinct and clear to our
view, as he stands up bravely on his funeral pile above the heads
of the Roman rabble, overspanned by his triumphal arch of fire.
As the venerable martyr went to his trial, a voice from heaven
spoke to him these words: “Courage, Polycarp, quit thyself like
a brave man.” And so he did. No one can read without emotion the
beautiful, calm answer which the old man gave to the proconsul who
ordered him to “blaspheme against Christ.” “It is now eighty-six
years,” the aged martyr replied, “that I have served him. How then
can I blaspheme against my Lord and Saviour?” His noble words
and his heroic death inspired courage in thousands of Christians
who afterwards gave their lives for Christ. We learn, also, that
during this persecution Christians who had been for some time
detained in the prisons were massacred _en masse_, and that the
Rhone flowed all red and ghastly with the blood which countless
martyrs had shed on its banks. But the emperor-philosopher felt
his impotence to destroy the ever-dying yet ever-multiplying race
of Christians. “Vary their torments,” he writes, in his despair,
to the governors of the provinces; and then we see the victims of
his hatred crucified, burned, or cast to the wild beasts. Modern
men of science may rank Marcus Aurelius with philosophers, but we
are inclined to believe, with M. Leroy, that it was his infamous
cruelty towards the Christians rather than true wisdom which has
made them pass over in silence his shameless turpitudes and grant
him this proud distinction.

During the raging persecution which Septimius Severus had
enkindled against the Christians, we see St. Perpetua going
boldly to death, bearing in her arms her new-born child. Her aged
pagan father, kneeling in tears at her feet and begging her to
sacrifice to the gods, could not deter her from advancing, with
firm step and calm look, to meet the wild beasts of the circus. We
see Felicitas, Saturninus, Revocatus, and others accompanying her
through the savage crowd to the same fate. What a grand procession
of heroes--something to look at till our tears flow and our hearts
are set on fire! As they advance proudly along, the voice of Satur,
one of their number, is heard giving forth those scathing words to
the wild crowd that surrounded them: “Look well at us, that you may
know us again at the judgment-day.”

Turning our eyes to Alexandria, we find that city a great centre
of persecution at this time. There it was that the most intrepid
defenders of religion, and the stern, penitential men of the
Thebaid, were summoned to crown their noble lives by the heroism of
martyrdom. And again is the blood of martyrs flowing like water in
the streets of Lyons. St. Irenæus and twenty thousand Christians
are immolated in honor of Christ’s name. The work of extermination
is continued with unrelenting vigor under the gigantic son of
the Thracian peasant. Maximin deals out his blows of death with
the power and fury of a Cyclops. But the brave Christian hearts,
braced up to noble deeds by the secret indwelling presence of
their Lord, do not quail before his terrors. And in the midst of
the bloody fray, we hear the soul-inspiring voice of great Origen,
calling aloud to his brethren in these words: “Behold, generous
athletes, your portion--a tribulation above all tribulations, but
yet a hope above all hopes; for the Lord knows how to glorify, by
his rewards, those who have thought little of this poor earthen
vessel, which death so easily breaks to pieces. I should like to
see you, when the combat is at hand, bounding with joy as did the
apostles in their day, who rejoiced that they were found worthy
to suffer outrages for the name of Jesus. Remember ye the words
of Isaiah, ‘Fear not the reproach which comes from men, and let
not yourselves be cast down by their contempt.’ Men laugh to-day,
and to-morrow they are no more; already the eternal pit swallows
them up for ever. When you shall be on the arena of combat, think
with Paul that you are a spectacle to the world, to angels, and
to men. If you triumph, Christians will applaud your courage; the
heavenly spirits will rejoice at your victory. But if you yield,
the powers of hell will shout for joy, and will come forth in
myriads from their fiery abyss to meet you. Fight, then, valiantly,
and, in imitation of Eleazar, leave behind you, as a remembrance
of your death, a noble example of constancy and virtue.”[46] These
noble words are worthy of the generous soul and the marvellously
gifted mind of the great doctor of Alexandria. They sound forth
with a soul-stirring, awakening power, like a trumpet-blast from
heaven. And, no doubt, many a trembling heart was nerved into
courageous daring by them; many a glorious victory was won under
their influence which would otherwise have been lost. And it was in
the next persecution under Decius that such powerful, encouraging
words were needed. Never yet since the empire began to make bloody
war against Christ’s followers had the Christians more need of
strength and help; never had they more need than now to picture to
themselves the depths of the fiery abyss, and the bright glories
of God’s kingdom. Decius came to his bloody work with a resolution
to succeed at any cost. His orders went abroad over the empire to
all governors and public functionaries, that every conceivable
torture was to be used in order to force the Christians to renounce
their faith. It was not, then, prompt, quick death that was now
the order of the day, but slow, cruel torture. We have a picture
of the horrors of this persecution in the words of St. Gregory of
Nyssa. “The magistrates,” he says, “suspended all cases, private or
public, to apply themselves to the great, the important affair--the
arrest and punishment of the faithful. The heated iron chains, the
steel claws, the pyre, the sword, the beasts, all the instruments
invented by the cruelty of man, lacerated, by night and by day, the
bodies of martyrs; and each tormentor seemed to fear that he might
not be as barbarous as his fellows. Neighbors, relatives, friends,
heartlessly betrayed each other, and denounced Christians before
the magistrates. The provinces were in consternation; families were
decimated; cities became deserts; and the deserts were peopled.
Soon the prisons were insufficient for the multitudes arrested
for their faith, and most of the public edifices were converted
into prisons.”[47] We find, also, St. Denis of Alexandria speaking
in moving language of the persecution which he witnessed in his
own city. He tells us that the numbers of the martyrs were past
counting. No regard was paid to sex, age, or rank; men, women,
children, and old men were tormented with equal cruelty. Every
species of torture was employed, and every imaginable cruelty used
to increase the horrors of death.[48] Again, at Smyrna, Antioch,
Lampsacus, Toulouse, Nîmes, and Marseilles, martyrs died in
thousands. In fact, wherever we turn our gaze, we see throughout
the length and breadth of the empire the blood of Christians
flowing.

During the reign of Valerian the monotonous work of death goes
on, but, perhaps, as we advance, the destruction of Christians
becomes more wholesale. At Utica the heads of one hundred and fifty
followers of Christ fell at once, and at Cirta in Numidia we see an
atrocious butchery taking place which lasts the greater part of a
day. The martyrs are led into a valley with ranges of hills rising
to a great height on both sides, as if to favor the spectacle. They
are ranged in line, their eyes bandaged, along the river-side; and
the executioner passes on from one to another, striking off their
heads.[49] It was, perhaps, a glad sight for the savage idolaters
who thronged the high hill-sides to witness the bloody slaughter,
but it was a sublime spectacle, too, for the angels of heaven, as
they looked down upon those brave soldiers of Christ, and saw them
standing in calm, joyful silence by that African river-bank and
receiving their bright martyrs’ crowns.

The ages of blood came to an end with the Diocletian persecution.
It would be difficult to imagine that anything new in the way
of torture could be invented at this date. Ingenuity and malice
had already done their worst in the matter of inventions; but
Diocletian and his associates brought with them a qualification
in which they were surpassed by none of their predecessors, and
that was an intense hatred for the Christian religion. Never had
the rage and fury of persecutors been greater than was displayed
by these “three ferocious wild beasts,” as Lactantius calls them;
and never, consequently, did the blood of Christians flow more
copiously. Hell was making its last great effort. Though we are
accustomed, in traversing these centuries of terrible bloodshed,
to read of cruelties which are almost beyond belief, yet we are
startled into new horror when we find in this tenth persecution
an entire town with its twelve or fifteen thousand inhabitants
consumed by fire because it is a town of Christians. Each province
has its peculiar species of torture. In Mesopotamia, it is fire; in
Pontus, the wheel; in Syria, the gridiron; in Arabia, the hatchet;
in Cappadocia, iron bars for breaking limbs; in Africa, hanging;
the wooden horse in Gaul, and wild beasts at Rome.[50] Where, we
ask, as we gaze over the wide-stretching empire, is not the blood
of Christians flowing? Its voice rises heavenwards from the cliffs
of Tangiers; it saturates the plains of Mauritania; it springs from
wounded combatants on the shores of Tyr; but nowhere over the wide
earth is it poured out for God’s glory without his taking count of
it. The blood of martyrs will not cry to heaven in vain; God’s day
of reckoning with the empire will surely come.

But we can dwell no longer on these ages of heroic sacrifice.
Pascal has truly said that “the history of the rest of the Romans
pales beside the history of the martyrs.” Whoever wishes to see the
full force of this remark, let him read the _Acts of the Martyrs_,
in the history of Eusebius, or the charming pages of Ruinart, or
in the ponderous tomes of the Bollandists. Nowhere in Christian
literature is there anything so simply and touchingly eloquent.
The _Acts of the Martyrs_ constitute a drama whose character is
most sublime, and the interest of which is more than ravishing. In
order to express our idea more perfectly, we will borrow the words
of Mgr. Freppel. “If there be a drama,” he says, “each of whose
acts bears a special character, whilst at the same time perfect
unity is preserved, it is the _Acts of the Martyrs_. Here we have
a bishop who puts to confusion a proconsul by the calm constancy
of his faith; there we have a virgin who mingles with her answers
that enthusiasm of love with which her heart is on fire. In another
place, we have the Christian mother surrounded by her sons, who
confess one after another the simple faith of their infancy, and
pass from mouth to mouth the testimony of truth. Again, we have
the Christian soldier, who reveres in Cæsar the majesty of power,
but who places above all imperial honors the worship of the King
of kings. In this magnificent epopee of martyrdom, to which each
persecution adds a new song, the scene varies according to time and
place; it is the fidelity of love and the grandeur of sacrifice
which constitute its unity.”[51] It is there that we have put
before us the most beautiful and the most noble characters that
have ever done honor to the human race. We find nothing sordid,
nothing selfish, nothing haughty in these heroes. They are meek
and humble, yet brave and high-souled, and strikingly grand in the
face of death. Profane history may ransack its annals, but it will
never be able to show us characters so noble and so admirable.
Their equals are not to be found in the _Lives_ of Plutarch, nor
in the pages of Eutropius. How true is it that the Catholic Church
alone is the Mother of Heroes! The heroism of the martyrs was of
that kind for which all ordinary theories fail to account. It
gave strength to the tottering frames of venerable old men; it
made timid virgins courageous in the presence of hideous racks;
it spoke by the lisping tongues of frail infants. Let the profane
historian point to any scene that can equal in simple grandeur
the trial and death of the gentle, sweet St. Agnes, or in heroic
endurance the painful, slow martyrdom of the beautiful Agatha, the
glory of Sicilian virgins. Let him tell us of anything, either
in profane fact or fable, which can equal in purity and strange
boldness the beautiful history of Eulalia, the child-saint of
twelve summers, whose name is celebrated in touching harmonies
by Prudentius as the glory of Merida, the sweet Lusitanian city
which stands on the flowery banks of the rapid Guadiana. Let
him tell us of anything, even in the fancied facts of strangest
romance, that is half as marvellous as the history of St. Cyr, the
child-confessor and martyr of three years old, who, when he was
taken up into the governor’s embrace to be coaxed into apostasy,
lisped out his brave confession, “Christianus sum,” and was dashed
to pieces on the steps of the tribunal. Will the profane historian
speak of wonderful endurance? We invite him to look at the child
Barallah, in his seventh year, who was suspended in the air and
scourged before his mother’s eyes, and who, as his blood sprang
out on all sides, and his little bones were stripped of their
flesh, could be brave and unflinching whilst the rough executioners
themselves shed tears of pity. As the blood flowed from his body,
the little martyr cried out in the burning heat of his torments,
“I am thirsty; give me a little water.” His brave mother reproved
him, saying, “Soon, my son, thou wilt be at the source of living
waters”; and she carried her child in her arms to the spot where
he was to be beheaded, and as his head was severed from his body
she received it into her veil. Tell us, profane historian, of great
mothers like this. Tell us if your greatest heroes could be so
invincible in the midst of suffering as the child-martyrs of the
Catholic Church.

The three ages of martyrdom in the church’s history are
emphatically the ages of great heroes. No brave man that ever
went to death for any other cause went so boldly or was so calm
and dignified as the Christian martyr in the presence of the
executioner. Never before in the annals of the human race were
men known to go to death rejoicing; never before were they seen
to smile and be glad when brought in sight of the rack and the
gibbet. This perfection of courage and sublime self-possession
were seen every day among the martyrs of the church. This it was
that amazed the frantic rabble which witnessed their sufferings;
it was this that oftentimes enraged the Roman governors so far
as to drive them to order the death-blow to be inflicted before
the torturers had done their appointed work. The joy with which
the martyrs gave their blood for Christ’s holy name is one of the
problems which unchristian philosophers have never been able to
solve. These so-called thinkers have never been able to comprehend
the long, mysterious blood-shedding of those three hundred years.
The Christian philosopher alone, with his great Catholic principles
of history, can understand that _blood-shedding_ is the mysterious
law which characterizes in such a striking manner the great work of
the Incarnation. As he gazes into the past, he sees the sacrificial
blood flowing in every nation’s worship. Far back in the ages of
the patriarchs, he can discern the red stream glistening; and as
his eye still gazes, he sees it flowing ever onward, with typical
significance, through the centuries, until it meets the God-man’s
sacred blood pouring down from the Cross of Calvary. There the
typical was merged in the real. He can see, again, how congruous
it seems that, after the great sacrifice of the cross had been
typified through the proceding ages by an ever-flowing stream of
blood, and after Christ had poured out all his own blood on the
hill of Calvary, and it had flowed down so copiously on the sinful
world, his first followers and disciples should in their turn shed
their blood for him. This abundant blood-shedding, this wondrous
heroic self-sacrifice, was a testimony which honest men could
not withstand, for, as Pascal says, “men believe witnesses who
shed their blood.” To die willingly and joyfully for another was
something of which the world had not yet heard. Jesus Christ, then,
wished to show the mighty power of his doctrine. He would let the
world see what wonders his cross could work in the souls of men.
He wished to make it manifest to all men’s eyes what courage it
could give in the presence of the most terrible racks; how it could
so influence the weak and timid as to make them joyful when they
were taken to die; how it could be a consolation and an ineffable
sweetness in the midst of torments the most painful. All this he
did manifest to the world in the most striking light. His martyrs
were such characters as the world had not seen before; what was
terrible to others was not so to them; when others would shriek
with agony, they would smile with joy; when others would languish
and faint under the lash and the knife, they could calmly remark
with St. Eulalia as she looked at her wounds: “They write your name
all over my body, sweet Jesus.” Truly, the cross planted amidst a
very sea of blood, generously shed for the love of the Crucified,
is the grand central point of all history, which men may look back
at, and gaze upon with admiration and ravishment to the end of time.

But, returning to our former point of view, and looking upon
these centuries of terrible blood-shedding as the fierce, furious
war which the Roman Empire waged against God and his religion,
we naturally ask ourselves a question, Where is the great God of
the Christians whilst his children are being immolated to pagan
savagery throughout the whole earth? Does he from his high heaven
take note of what is done? Oh! he who sees the sparrow fall does
not lose sight of his children, nor does his eye fail to see the
sufferings which they endure for him. The voice of his martyrs rose
heavenwards with a mighty cry during those three hundred years. It
rose from the saturated floor of the Roman amphitheatre; it spoke
with pleading eloquence from the depths of the mines of Numidia;
it echoed incessantly in the ear of God from amid the solitudes of
Pannonia. God was not at any time deaf to that cry. He was slow in
his anger, but, then, on that account he was the more terrible.
Whilst Nero was shedding the first Christian blood at Rome, God was
silently gathering together his avenging armies in the forests of
the north. It took him more than three hundred years to marshal his
overwhelming warrior-hosts; but, O heavens! what a direful shaking
of the universe when they did come!

FOOTNOTES:

[33] Carlyle’s _Miscellanies_, vol. ii., “On History,” p. 151.

[34] Vol. i. p. 44, French ed.

[35] _Eccl. Hist._, vii. 10.

[36] _Hist._ ix. 6.

[37] Allies, _Formation of Christendom_, vol. i. p. 42.

[38] Allies, _Formation of Christendom_.

[39] See _Formation of Christendom_, by Mr. Allies.

[40] Dr. Newman, _Office and Work of Universities_, pp. 161, 162.

[41] _Œuvres_ du R. P. Lacordaire, tome vi. p. 172.

[42] See Père Lacordaire’s _Lettre sur le Saint-Liège_.

[43] Tosti, _Al Clero Italiano; Prolegom.-alla Storia Universale_,
vol. i.

[44] See _Leroy_, vol. ii. p. 295.

[45] See Ozanam, _La Civilisation chrét. chez les Francs_, p. 4.

[46] Origen, _Exhortatio ad Mart., passim_, quoted by Leroy.

[47] St. Greg. of Nyssa, _Vita Thaumat._, p. 578.

[48] See the sixth book of Eusebius’ _Hist. of the Church_.

[49] See Darras’ _History of the Church_, Amer-edit., p. 262.

[50] See Eusebius’ _History_, book viii. ch. 12, and following.

[51] _Les Pères Apostoliques_, 20me leçon, p. 433.




ACOUSTICS AND VENTILATION.[52]


Every effort to elucidate what is obscure, or to provide a
remedy for acknowledged evils, is a just title to that friendly
acknowledgment which the writer of this little book bespeaks. It
is a step in the direction of progress. But it is of the highest
importance in the attempt to impart clear ideas upon any subject,
that they should be so distinctly expressed as to leave no doubt
concerning the identity of their subject. Thus, in treating of
_sound_, it seems to us that the question first presented is this:
_What is sound?_ Our author says that it “_receives_ its vitality
or its life through the air, and without air sound loses it and
becomes extinct.”

We object to this statement of the origin of sound, as both
unsatisfactory and indistinct. It implies that _sound_ is something
born and floating in the air, and external to the mind perceiving.
We fancy that, without _an ear to hear_, sound would not become
extinct, but have no existence; and that the _vitality_ of which
our writer treats is not _in_ or _on_ the air, but in the mind
itself. This exception to the supposed origin of the _life of
sound_ may not seem to affect the discussion of acoustics as far as
the practical purpose of the architect is concerned; but we insist
that neither the drumsticks nor the drum, nor the air within it or
without, nor even all these at work, are _sound_, more than the
telegraph wire and the electric current are the _message_ sent
from one operator to another.

That inaccuracy which we discover in our author’s use of terms,
we find also in his quotations from others. For example: “The
intensity of sound depends on the density of the air in which the
sound is generated, and _not on that of the air in which it is
heard_. A feeble sound becomes instantly louder as soon as the air
becomes more dense. So you will always find, on great elevations
in the atmosphere, the sound sensibly diminished in loudness. If
two cannon are equally charged, and one fired at [from] the top of
a high mountain, and the other in a valley, the one fired below,
in the heavy air, may be heard above, while the one fired in the
higher air will not be heard below; owing to its origin, the
sound generated in the denser air is louder than that generated
in the rarer. Peals of thunder are unable to penetrate the air to
a distance commensurate with their intensity on account of the
non-homogeneous character of the atmosphere which accompanies them;
from the same cause, battles have raged and have been lost within
a short distance of the reserves of the defeated army, while they
were waiting for the sound of artillery to call them to the scene
of action.”

It seems to us that the truth here expressed is not unmixed with
error. In the very first sentence, we think that accuracy would
require the suppression of the word _not_. The intensity of sound
depends not only upon the density and elasticity of the air whose
pulsation is an antecedent condition, but also upon the density and
elasticity of the air _through which_ the pulse is transmitted.
While it is true that a pulse given to the denser column or stratum
of air may be transmitted through a _rarer_ medium with greater
resultant force than if its origin and direction were reversed, it
by no means follows that the intensity of sound is unaffected by
the density of the air _in_ which it is heard. We apprehend the
truth to be that the pulse given to highly rarefied air is very
feeble; and its secondary effect upon a denser and more elastic
fluid, correspondingly slight; while the pulse from the denser air
would be transmitted with greater--but still diminished--force,
through the rarer atmosphere _in which_ it reaches the ear. An
_absolute vacuum_ could not transmit the pulse given through
a column or stratum of elastic fluid. A _rarefied atmosphere_
could but transmit it with a force always varying with its own
elasticity. And were it possible to preserve one’s consciousness
within the exhausted receiver of an air-pump, we doubt if the most
sensitive ear could be made to hear the roar of a cataract without.

“A feeble sound becomes instantly louder as soon as the air becomes
more dense;” but _not as loud_ as if the same initial pulse were
_immediately_ given to the denser air. In the case of two cannon
equally charged, one of which is fired on the top of a mountain,
and the other in a valley below it, to say that “_owing to its
origin_, the sound generated in the denser air is louder than that
generated in the rarer,” _sounds_ much like saying it is _because_
it is. If it be more than this, it is wrong. It is a clear case of
_non causa pro causa_. The origin [of the _pulse_] of sound is in
either case the same: the explosion of equal charges of gunpowder,
in guns supposed to be of like material and equal size. The
_effects_ are not the same, because the effect of a force depends
upon its _transmission_ as well as upon its origin.

Does the atmosphere “_accompany_” peals of thunder? Or does this
expression convey a distinct idea of the office of the atmosphere
in the production of sound? We understand that the atmosphere
receives the pulse or blow, and that its transmission to the ear
is due to the elastic force of the intermediate air. It is not the
_homogeneousness_ of air, but its _elasticity_ which transmits
the pulse. And though, in architecture, the object sought is a
uniformly elastic air throughout the _auditorium_, it does not
follow, nor is it even desirable, that the _maximum effect at a
given point_ should be obtained by it.

“Science,” says our author, “teaches us that, whenever a shock or
pressure of any sort is suddenly applied to material of any nature,
whether metal, wood, gas, water, air, etc., it is immediately
affected in all its parts, from the point of contact to the whole
extent of the material, in displacing and replacing the particles
of a _determinate volume_; and the velocity of the movement of
the particles of the mass, created by the concussion of shocks or
pressure, depends _solely_ (?) upon its elasticity and density.
Sound likewise _causes_ motions (?) with every particle of the
air, and as far as the motion reaches; so that each particle, with
regard to that which lies immediately beyond it, is in a progress
of rarefaction during return.”

What is meant by affecting a mass of matter “_in all its parts_,”
by “displacing and replacing the particles of a _determinate
volume_,” we do not precisely understand. That whatever
causes motion does it “as far as the motion reaches,” is as
unquestionable as any other identical proposition. But that
the velocity of the movement of the particles, created by the
concussion of shocks, pressure, _upon an unconfined elastic fluid_,
depends _solely_ upon its elasticity and density, we dispute.
That _pulses_ “are propagated from a _trembling body_ all around
in a _spherical_ manner” may be true, if the air is on all sides
equally elastic. Such might be the case with those produced by the
vibrations of a _bell_, when the surrounding air is undisturbed
by other causes, and is uniformly elastic at equal distances
from it. It would not be strictly true if the initial pulse were
made only in a certain direction. “Every impression made on a
fluid is propagated every way throughout the fluid, whatever be
the direction wherein it is made;” but it is not true that the
impressions are equal at equal distances from the initial pulse,
irrespective of its _direction_. This result would presuppose a
fluid _perfectly_ elastic; which we never have--and _then_ we
might, with equal truth, say that the impressions would be equal at
all distances.

Everybody is familiar with the fact that the “transmission of
sound,” the pulse which strikes upon the ear to produce the
sensation, _is affected_ by currents of air--the direction, force,
and velocity of the wind--between the initial pulse and the hearer.
_How_? and _how much_? _directly_ or _indirectly_? are questions
distinct from the fact itself. The distance through which guns are
heard, as well as the loudness of their report, varies with the
_direction_, _force_, and _velocity_ of the wind; and, in very
still air, with the _aim_ of the gun itself, the _direction of
the initial pulse_. For short distances, these differences may be
so minute as to escape notice; just as the false proportions of
a miniature picture are unobserved until the magnifier displays
them. And for longer ranges, they are so small, in contrast with
the magnitudes compared, as to seem rather like _accidental_ than
_legitimate_ differences. But the difference is not the less real
because the reality is less. Words spoken in a faint whisper are
clearly heard by a listener immediately _before_ the speaker, when
quite inaudible or indistinct to one at an equal distance _behind_
him.

The _actual velocities_ of wind and sound differ so widely that the
small fraction by which their _relative velocity_ is denoted is
held as proof that the propagation of sound--_the pulse_--through
distances of a few yards or feet, is not affected by currents of
air: that there are no _differences in the “velocity of sound.”_
Yet the ear detects them as one of the small differences between
discord and harmony in music; distinctness and confusion of
speech. In music these differences may be blended by the prolonged
intonation of _vowel sounds_; but in speech, whose distinct
significance is due to _consonants_, “which cannot be sounded
without the aid of a vowel,” these differences are fatally evident.
The sharp edges of the vocal pulses, which give shape and meaning
to vowel sounds, are destroyed alike by a husky voice and a puff of
air. What remains is _vox et præterea nihil_.

It seems to us that some of the many failures in practical
acoustics come from considering the air--the material involved--as
perfectly elastic. From this it is inferred that sound is not
affected by the direction of the initial _pulse_: that the
direction and velocity of the _effective_ pulse are not varied by
currents and blasts of air. In short, that the slight inaccuracy
of these assumptions will be the actual measurement of resultant
error.

Were the purpose only to ascertain the _acoustic_ properties of
unadulterated air, varied experiments might eliminate the errors of
anomalous results. But when the process is reversed, and we deduce
_effects_ from _only one_ among concurrent and conflicting causes,
theory is confounded by discordant facts. Theories of _sound in
purely elastic air_ might give results approximately realized in
practice, if the actual pulses with which we are concerned were
given by a flail; but are pregnant of error when the atmosphere
is mixed with vicious vapors, and the _pulse_ is a breath of air.
Then, the assumption that “_pulses of sound_” proceed _equally_
in all directions from the initial point, is simply false; and
theories based upon it can only complicate the problems to be
solved.

Water, as well as air, is a highly elastic fluid, and, if confined
and subjected to pressure, the force applied is exerted on all
sides of the confined volume. But the _effect_ of a _pulse_ or
blow upon a surface of large extent varies with the _direction_ of
the force as well as with its _power_ and _velocity_. We have seen
fish swimming near the surface killed or paralyzed by a blow upon
the water immediately over them. And we have seen the blow fail of
its intended effect _solely_ because it was _misdirected_. Perhaps
the water in the latter case was _not perfectly elastic_! Neither
is the air of churches and public halls, when their atmosphere
has yielded a portion of its _oxygen_, and, in return, is charged
with _carbonic acid_ and moist vapors from the breath of crowded
assemblies. _Carbonic acid gas_ is heavier _by one-half_ than
atmospheric air. It does not, then, always rise toward the ceiling
or roof, but remains in solution with impure exhalations; or else,
condensed by contact with the colder walls, descends to poison the
lower air and impair its elastic force--its power of transmitting
the “_pulse of sound_” to the ear.

We have just come from one of our city churches, where we have
had a striking example of this result. The church in question
will _accommodate_ (?) about two thousand people. Twenty-five
hundred may be crowded into it. At the commencement of the
sermon, the preacher’s voice was distinctly audible at points
fifty or sixty feet from the pulpit, in spite of reflections of
sound--_air pulses_--from galleries, wooden columns, and the
arched ceiling and side-walls, of lath and plaster. Before it was
ended, the exhalations of the breathing crowd had so filled the
lower half of the “_auditorium_” that only vowel sounds could be
distinguished; and the _peroration_ seemed to consist of spasmodic
utterances--scarcely sounds--of _a_, _e_, _i_, _o_, _u_. _W_ and
_y_ had lost their affinity to vowels, and the rest of the alphabet
were no longer _consonants_, for they were not heard at all.

The acoustic and sanitary problems are here identical--to find
a method of preventing an accumulation of foul and inelastic
vapors around the breathing and listening congregation, and to
give, instead, wholesome air to their lungs, while enabling their
ears to hear. And since these poisonous and inelastic gases are
specifically heavier than atmospheric air, and must fall to the
floor by their own weight, the problem is reduced to providing
a practicable way for their escape, and guarding it against
counter-currents which might obstruct the passage.

The introduction of warm air through openings in or near the floor
will not readily produce uniformity of temperature within a room.
The simplest experiment in proof of this is constantly made by
multitudes of people, who, in crowded assemblies, find their heads
surrounded by warm and moist vapors, reeking with offensive odors,
while their feet are chilled, though near the “hot-air register.”

A library, whose walls were 12 feet high, and whose floor--18 by
15--contained 270 square feet, was constantly warmed by a “Latrobe
heater,” placed in the chimney at one end of the room. The pot
holding the coal was raised one foot above the level of the floor,
which was covered by a woollen carpet. Immediately under the
library was a kitchen, whose temperature was kept at about 72° F.
Three thermometers were placed thus: No. 1, standing on the carpet
near the centre of the library floor; No. 2, three feet, and No.
3, six feet, above it. At the expiration of half an hour, No. 1
indicated 62°; No. 2, 66°; and No. 3, 72°. Numbers 1 and 3 were
then placed side by side with No. 2, three feet above the floor.
At the expiration of fifteen minutes, all three indicated the same
temperature of 66°. The low temperature of the inferior stratum
of air was certainly not due to that of the room beneath it, for
that was above 70°. It was only the heavier, colder air of the room
itself, and of adjacent apartments warmed in the same way, slightly
affected by contact with the stratum of warmer air above it.

Such slight differences of temperature in small apartments could
not greatly affect the transmission of “the _pulse of sound_.”
But in larger and loftier rooms, like churches and public halls,
corresponding differences of temperature would, and do, produce air
_strata_ widely different in density and elasticity, and occasion
serious acoustic defects. But the acoustic requirement is not
satisfied by uniformly elastic _air_ alone; for its _pulses_ are
reflected, and unity--distinctness--of sound, is lost in echoes or
reverberations, from windows, columns, floors, and ceilings.

To know the difficulties to be encountered is always a step towards
their alleviation; and these are sufficiently apparent throughout
the little volume before us. They are, _First_, _inelastic
air_--which cannot transmit its pulses to the ear. _Second_, strata
and amorphous volumes, of unequal densities, which transmit the
_air-pulses_ with unequal force; so that they produce _distinct
sounds_ and _indefinite murmurs_ at equal distances from the
initial pulse. _Third_, _reflecting surfaces_--the floor, the
ceiling, walls, columns, and furniture of the _auditorium_; which
variously reflect the waves caused by air-pulses, and produce
effects analogous to the eddies and whirlpools made by conflicting
currents of running water.

The _first_ and _second_ of these difficulties are clearly within
the province of “heat and ventilation;” and any means by which
a constant tidal flow--_not a current_--of wholesome air, _from
floor to ceiling_, may be produced, and by which the _un_wholesome,
inelastic, heavier _gases_ generated in crowded assemblies shall be
prevented from accumulating but be _forced_ to give place to the
purer air, will practically solve the problem which they present.

The _third_ difficulty is purely architectural. While _surfaces_
reflect what are called _pulses of sound_, and so multiply their
effects, they also create conflicting waves, which partially
neutralize each other, or else strike the ear in irregular
succession, to destroy the unity and harmony of sound. We cannot
have buildings free from the _inconveniences_ of walls, floors,
and ceilings; but we can regulate and utilize surfaces to give
aid in the transmission of _air-pulses_ in _one direction_, and
greatly diminish the reflecting power of those that would give back
conflicting waves of air. A sounding-board or arch, whose lower
surface should be a semi-paraboloid, so placed that a line drawn
from its highest points, and parallel to its axis, would pierce
the opposite wall four feet above the floor, while the axis itself
should attain the same height at a distance of forty feet from the
_focus_, would be an example of what we mean by utilizing surfaces
to transmit air-pulses _in one direction_. The employment of an
inelastic substance, like coarse _felt_, between the _furring_ of
a wall and the _lathing_, would undoubtedly tend to destroy its
ability to reflect the “_pulse of sound_.” And hollow cast-iron
columns, _filled with clay_, would hardly _vibrate_ from a pulse of
air.

In one of the Protestant churches of our city, we were shown
a sounding-board, whose authors seemed to have halted between
the acoustic merits of the paraboloid and the graceful shape of
the pilgrim’s scallop-shell. We were told that “it helps the
voice of the preacher.” There seemed to be too much of it for
ornament, if its principle be wrong or inefficient, and too little
for usefulness if right. Many attempts to improve the acoustic
properties of halls designed for public lectures are failures
through faulty execution of correct designs.

We once saw the working-plans of a lecture-room, where the line
of intersection of the end wall with the floor of the stage or
platform was a _parabola_, the arch above and behind the lecturer’s
desk being a _semi-paraboloid_, springing from the wall at the
height of the speaker’s voice. Thus, it was supposed that the
_pulses_ reflected from the walls and arch would proceed in
parallel lines or “waves of sound,” because the _initial pulse_
would always be given at the _focus_ of the reflector.

The place of every joist in the cylindrical wall was carefully
marked, and the dimensions and place of each rib of the
paraboloidal arch accurately given. But in executing the design,
the builder discovered a _mistake_!--“the floor of the stage would
not be a true circular segment!” So he “_corrected_ it”--with
stunning effect upon the lecturer, and to the utter confusion of
his audience. And the design was pronounced _a failure_.

In looking through the work before us, we almost unconsciously
began to say: “This is nothing new; we have seen this, and more
than this, before.” And in the same sense, we suppose it might as
well be said that _nothing_ is essentially new.

We have lately seen a notice of an invention for tracing patterns
on glass by means of a _jet_ of sand. Of course, it is nothing
new. The wind has been doing the same trick with the sand of the
sea-shore for ages. We have seen it long ago, and often. Doubtless,
the same effect has been noticed by many others. A thought of
the possible utility of a process whose result was seen may have
flitted through many minds, and, like the outline of a passing
cloud, have been forgotten as it passed. But honestly, we never
thought of tracing lace patterns on glass by any such process. And
while new combinations of well-known truths give new and useful
results, we hope they may never cease to be made.

Mr. Saeltzer’s book is full of good hints. But that is not its
chief merit. It recognizes the inseparable connection of sound and
ventilation, and insists upon observance of the laws which govern
them. As he is so evidently alive to the sanitary and acoustic
defects in public buildings, we shall be disappointed if his
little volume does not prove to be the preface to more specific,
practical directions for their removal. He has put his finger upon
the principal cause of failures. The laws of light, and heat, and
sound are sufficiently understood to render their phenomena as
controllable as time, space, and velocity in mechanics. The more
intelligent efforts are therefore directed not to the discovery of
new principles involved, but to utilize what knowledge we possess.
And when the effort is made at the right point and in the right
direction, we can heartily say, Go on and conquer. The world is
full of wonderful monuments signalizing defeat. Let us see just one
crowned with victory.

As yet, modern ecclesiastical architecture, especially, is but the
imperfect reproduction of ancient and mediæval models. It is the
heathen temple or the Gothic minster, or, more recently, an attempt
to vary the monotony with Byzantine forms of old basilicas, without
their grandeur. In decoration, we have crude, unmeaning imitations
of Moorish tracery, weak in imagery of form and symbolism, without
those glowing contrasts and harmonies of colors which are to
architecture as rhythm to poetry of sound. We know the cause and
history of this poverty in constructive and decorative art. History
tells us how men became so spiritual, in their own conceit, that
symbolism was held to be a sin; and how, by losing the sign, the
thing signified was forgotten or denied. But it seems almost
unaccountable that the world should be teeming with _philosophers_,
to whom the laws of nature, even their least tangible phenomena,
seem familiar as things of daily use, while great temples are so
constructed that they who have ears to hear _cannot_ hear.

FOOTNOTE:

[52] _A Treatise on Acoustics in Connection with Ventilation;
and an Account of the Modern and Ancient Methods of Heating and
Ventilation._ By Alexander Saeltzer, Architect. New York: D. Van
Nostrand, Publisher. 1872.




ODD STORIES.


I.

THE LADDER OF LIFE.

There are a great many rounds in the ladder of life, though simple
youths have always fancied that a few gallant steps would take
them to the summit of riches and power. Now, the top round of this
ladder is not the presidency of any railroad or country, nor even
the possession of renowned genius; for it oddly happens that when
one sits down upon it, then, be he ever so high up in life, he has
really begun to descend. Those who put velvet cushions to their
particular rounds, and squat at ease with a view of blocking the
rise of other good folks, do not know they are going down the other
side of the ladder; but such is the fact. Many thrifty men have,
in their own mind, gone far up its life-steps when, verily, they
were descending them fast; and poor people without number have in
all men’s eyes been travelling downward, though in truth they have
journeyed higher by descent than others could by rising. So many
slippery and delusive ways has this magical ladder that we may say
it is as various as men’s minds. One may slip through its rungs out
of the common way of ascent, and find himself going down when he
ought to be going up; and vain toilers have ever fancied that they
were mounting to the clouds when everybody else must have seen they
were still at the same old rounds. Ambitious heroes have made the
same mistake, if, indeed, the particular ladder which they have
imagined to themselves has not itself been sliding down all the
while they have been seeking vain glory by its steps.

The ladder of life is an infinite ladder. It is full of
indirections to suit the abilities, and of attractions to please
the tastes, of climbers. You may work at a forge, or sail the
sea, or trade in money and merchandise, or hear operas, or write
romances, or take part in politics, or wander over mountains, or
go to church, while living thereon; but you must go up or go down,
and either way will have some sort of climbing and toiling to do.
Everywhere on the ladder is trouble, save in careful steps; and
since human progress is so illusory, many honest persons rather
fear to fall than aspire too eagerly, or felicitate themselves
on precarious elevations. Prudence forbids us to say at what
real round of the ladder are all our bankers, brokers, showmen,
advertisers, and other millionaires; but it is certain that good
little children, and simple citizens, and poor geniuses, and
suffering men and women have gone higher up than the world knows.
Indeed, they have gone quite out of sight, for there is a place
on the great ladder which few men know, and where only saints can
see the angels ascending and descending. Moreover, the ladder of
life reaches from the pit to the stars, so that they who climb up
or climb down, as it were, may see a firmament at either end: the
good, their lights and joys; the evil, their chimeras and fire of
darkness.


II.

OBED’S SONS.

Obed, the young man, came to Father Isaac for his blessing, who
thus said to him with few words: “Thou shalt have five sons, and to
the first shall be given might, to the second cunning, to the third
beauty, to the fourth knowledge, to the fifth patience, and to all
in accord wisdom: but God giveth naught for nothing.” And as Father
Isaac had promised, so was it fulfilled in prayer. The first of the
sons of Obed became a mighty hunter; the second excelled in craft’s
of all kinds; the third was of a comely figure, well to look upon;
the fourth was learned in wise traditions; the fifth was patient,
as none other of the family of Obed had been before him. Now, the
five sons ill-agreed in their husbandry in the field of their
fathers, and they went their several ways, some near, some far,
to seek their fortunes, leaving the last and youngest to be the
staff of their sire. Then poverty fell upon the house of Obed, and
infirmity upon the limbs of the patient man; and, dying, his father
blessed him, saying: “The Lord bless thy patience that it fail not.”

At this time, the fame of him that slew lions with his arms, and
men with his right hand, was very great; but a devil entered into
him, so that he did no work, and fell to great sloth, and men
scorned him, and he lifted up his voice and cried: “Oh! that I had
the cunning of my brother, that my hands might know their work; and
the beauty of my brother, that maids should not turn from me; and
the knowledge and patience of my brethren, that I might with wisdom
bide my time.”

From all sides was he sought that had the gift of cunning; but
being greedy in his craft, and seeking not knowledge, nor patience,
he lost his cunning, and cried with a face in which there was no
beauty: “Wisdom was not given me, nor patience, neither comeliness
nor might, and so have I been abandoned to devices of misery.”

Rejoicing in his fair proportions, the third son of Obed danced
before the daughters of his tribe, but, taken in the wiles of
flattery and of pleasure, he became as a drunken man whose face is
a warning, and whose life is a scandal, and he lamented: “Oh! that
I had the cunning or patience or might of my brethren, then should
none withstand me, or I be overthrown.”

And he to whom it was given to know much in many tongues, and to
counsel with scholars, lost the kindly ways of men, seeking vain
and dark sciences, till he exclaimed in the bitterness of his
heart: “Knowledge is given me without wisdom: henceforth must I
seek counsel in patience, and observe the prudence of my brethren.”
And he set out for the house of his fathers.

Now had the infirm brother tilled the fields of his brethren,
and taught the laborers thereof the arts of handiwork, and when
the sons of Obed returned to the house of their sire, one after
another, the first averred that he was strong, the second that he
was cunning, the third that he was comely, the fourth that he had
knowledge. But Father Isaac, the shepherd of his flock, hearing
them, said: “Yea, for he hath one virtue which maketh many: the
staff of thy brother hath devoured thy rods.”

“Wherefore, then, lov’d Isaac,” spake the eldest, “are we robbed of
our gifts, and wit, and might, and beauty gone from us, leave us in
sorrow of heart?”

“Told I not thy sire Obed,” said the patriarch, “that the Lord of
lords gave naught for naught. Have ye earned your wages--have ye
paid back your gifts? He that had might, why was he not taught of
knowledge and invention, and, being skilled, why learned he not the
patience of toil? He that had beauty, why sought he not counsel of
strength and skill, that judgment might be his? He of knowledge,
why sought he not help of patience and craft? Each had his virtue
to purchase a share in the virtues of the rest, and to win gifts to
his gift, that God might be praised. But only goodness bringeth fit
wisdom, and wisdom dwelleth not in discord.”

Then the sons of Obed, answering, asked: “Why hath one virtue, as
thou sayest, devoured ours?”

“For that thou hast thrown thine own to the dogs, my sons, and
patience hath picked them up. He that suffereth much with patience
winneth much with wisdom.”

“Even so, Father Isaac, but have we not, too, suffered?”

“Yea, my children, that so God may teach thee wisdom, and thy gifts
abound tenfold. He that hath much, let him save it by bounty: he
that hath little, let him increase it with patience: he that hath
won, let him divide the victory. Share ye each other’s virtues,
that each may possess the gifts of all.”




THE THREE PLEDGES.


    Three students sat together
      In a villa on the Rhine,
    And pledged the beauteous river
      In draughts of sparkling wine.

    One was bold and haughty,
      Count Otto was his name:
    His dark eyes flashed and smouldered:
      From Nuremberg he came.

    And one was too fond-hearted
      For aught but love and song;
    With hair too brightly golden
      To wear its lustre long.

    His hands were white and shapely
      As any maid’s might be;
    Count Adelbert of Munich,
      A joyous youth was he.

    And one was grave and quiet,
      With such a winning smile
    That, meeting all its brightness,
      Sad hearts grew light the while.

    And as they sat together,
      Three trav’llers by the Rhine,
    And pledged the noble river
      In draughts of golden wine,

    With lays of olden minstrels
      They whiled the hours away,
    Till twilight gently sealed them
      With the sign of parting day.

    Then silence fell upon them,
      And the distant boatman’s song
    Returned in softened echoes
      The gleaming waves along;

    And through the latticed windows
      The hush of evening stole,
    And the solemn spell of silence
      Fast fettered soul to soul.

    Dream on, O happy-hearted!
      The future holds no truth,
    No amaranthine jewel,
      Like the rainbow tints of youth.

    Dream on, O happy-hearted!
      The hour will soon be gone,
    And darkness fall too swiftly.
      Dream on, young hearts, dream on!

           *       *       *       *       *

    This is the proudest hour
      Of all the golden twelve,
    That seek the mystic caverns
      Where gray gnomes dig and delve.

    “The beauty of the morning
      Is but the birth of day,
    And the glory of the noontide
      Doth pass as soon away.

    “But twilight holds the fulness,
      The meed of every one,
    And drops the radiant circlet
      Before her god, the sun.

    “This is the proudest hour
      Of all the golden twelve--
    Now combs the Nix her tresses,
      Now rests his spade the elve.

    “And I drink to the proudest maiden
      That treads this German-land;
    No other love shall my heart own,
      No other queen my hand.

    “And I’ll pledge her three times over,
      This haughty queen of mine,
    In the brightest flowing nectar
      That ever kissed the Rhine.”

    Thus spake the bold Count Otto,
      And held his goblet up,
    And three times overflowing
      Each student drained his cup.

    “This is the fairest hour,
      For the sunset clouds unfold
    To the purple sea of twilight
      Their red-tipped sails of gold.

    “And the hecatombs of sweetness
      That all the day have risen
    In the bosom of the flowers
      Unbar their shining prison.

    “This is the fairest hour,
      The hour of eventide,
    And I drink to the fairest maiden
      That dwells the Rhine beside.

    “And I pledge her three times over,
      Though her only dower should be
    The heaven-born gift of beauty,
      And a faithful love for me.”

    Thus spake Adelbert, smiling,
      And held his goblet up,
    And three times overflowing
      Each student drained his cup.

    Then paused the twain in wond’ring,
      What Ludwig’s toast might be;
    For their comrade sat in silence,
      And never word spake he.

    “How now? Why thus, brave Ludwig,
      Sitt’st thou in pensive mood?
    Dost choose to dwell unmated,
      In loveless solitude?”

    He smiled, and then looked downward
      As he answered, glass in hand,
    “Nay, nay; but, if I pledge her,
      Ye will not understand.”

    “Where dwells she, then?” cried Otto,
      “This peerless love of thine?
    Mayhap some fabled Lurline
      That sings beneath the Rhine?

    “Thou’rt smiling--haste, then, pledge her!”
      And the brimming glasses rung
    As Ludwig dropped the music
      That trembled on his tongue.

    “This is the holiest hour
      Of all the twenty-four,
    For the rush of day hath passed us,
      And the tide returns no more.

    “And the waves of toil and traffic,
      By dark argosies trod,
    Are lost through circling eddies
      In the mightiness of God.

    “This is the holiest hour
      When purest thoughts have birth,
    And I drink to the holiest maiden
      That ever dwelt on earth.

    “Her vesture falleth around her
      In folds of changeless white,
    And her holiness outshineth
      The jewels of the night.

    “She weareth a mantle of sadness,
      Her sorrows are her fame:
    She long hath been my chosen,
      But I will not name her name.

    “Ah! not with wine I pledge thee,
      All spotless as thou art,
    But with my life’s devotion,
      With the fulness of my heart.

    “Ah! not with wine I pledge thee,
      Nor one libation pour;
    Thou hold’st the bond that seals me,
      Thine own for evermore.”

    This with white brow uncovered,
      ’Neath the floating twilight skies;
    And angels might have marvelled
      At the beauty of his eyes.

    Then he turned his goblet downward,
      And waved the flask aside
    His comrades would have proffered
      To pledge such wondrous bride.

    “Friend, thou hast spoken strangely,
      But thou wert ever strange;
    Mayhap this matchless maiden
      Hath power thy mood to change.”

    Thus Adelbert spake, smiling,
      And shook his golden hair:
    “_I_ ask nor saint nor angel,
      But maiden fond and fair.

    “Then let us pledge each other,
      Since thy passion is too deep,
    With comrades tried and trusty,
      Its sacredness to keep.

    “What maiden like thy vision
      In all our fatherland?”
    “Ah! said I not,” cried Ludwig,
      “Ye would not understand?”

    “Come, let us pledge each other,”
      Said Otto, glass in hand--
    “A right good draught of friendship
      That all may understand.”

    Then their glasses clashed together,
      “Firm may our fealty be!”
    And Ludwig’s voice of music
      Rang loudest of the three.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Seven times hath autumn gathered
      The vintage of the Rhine,
    Since the students pledged each other
      In draughts of golden wine.

    In a grand and lofty castle,
      The Danube’s stream beside,
    Count Otto dwells in splendor,
      The lord of acres wide.

    He has won the proudest maiden
      In all that German-land,
    And countless hosts of yeomen
      Obey his high command.

    But the haughty brow is clouded,
      And his eye is full of care,
    For the trace of many a heart-storm
      Hath left its impress there.

    Love had sought Adelbert,
      Young Beauty’s flow’ret blown,
    And the tendrils of its blossoms
      About his heart had grown.

    And joy had wrapped them softly
      In robes of radiant sheen,
    Till Death bent down, relentless,
      And sapped their living green.

    Hush! a mourner sits in silence
      Within a darkened room,
    Where the fairest flower of summer
      Lies withered in her bloom.

    While those who move about him
      With footsteps sad and slow,
    Whisper to each other,
      But leave him to his woe.

    And down in the quiet churchyard,
      Where nodding grasses wave,
    The children gather, silent,
      And the sexton digs a grave.

    Solemnly tolls the church-bell,
      It counteth twenty-five--
    O God! the flowers wither,
      And the old, old branches thrive.

    Solemnly tolls the church-bell,
      Slowly winds the train
    Adown the rocky hillside,
      Along the grassy plain;

    Sadly pass the bearers
      Into the churchyard old,
    Brightly falls the sunlight
      In glittering lines of gold;

    Tearfully pause the mourners
      Above the broken sod,
    And Ludwig waits beside it,
      A humble priest of God.




NEWMAN ON MIRACLES.[53]


These essays are here reprinted from the original editions of each,
with only the addition of a few bracketed notes, and with some
slight emendation of the wording of a few sentences of the text of
a merely literary character. For many years, Dr. Newman has been
a public man in the English theological world, so much so that,
as he himself expressed it, “he is obliged to think aloud.” His
writings have passed into the domain of English literature, and
are public property. It is not now in his power to withdraw any
portion of them, much as he might desire to do so. Under existing
circumstances, he has judged it the better course--or, at least,
the lesser evil--that they should be republished under his own eye,
with such corrections in bracketed notes as will indicate what he
would now correct or retract.

These two essays mark very distinctly two stages in the career
through which, as he fully explains in his _Apologia_, Dr. Newman
has passed.

The first one, written to defend the miracles recorded in the
Holy Scriptures against the attacks of Hume, Gibbon, and other
infidels, dates from 1825-26, while he was yet young, and a
staunch Protestant, somewhat imbued with evangelical feelings,
especially in the matter of _Popery_. Hence, while ably conducting
the exposition and defence of the Scripture miracles, he omits
no opportunity of hitting at the other miracles recorded to have
occurred in the Catholic Church since the days of the apostles. In
fact, he had, as he tells us elsewhere, read the work of Middleton
on _The Miracles of the Early Church_, and had imbibed his spirit.
He was guided also by Bishop Douglas, whose _Criterion_ he often
quotes.

Seventeen years of continuous study and mature thought produced
their fruit in his clear and candid mind. In 1842-43, he wrote the
second essay as a preface or introduction to a portion of Fleury’s
_Ecclesiastical History_, then being published in an English
translation.

Though still a Protestant, he had entirely changed his views
on these ecclesiastical miracles. So much so, that this essay
may be read as his own confutation of what he had said against
them in his earlier essay. In the present volume, the bracketed
foot-notes subjoined to that essay are, for the most part, mere
references to the paragraphs of the second essay, in which the
immature errors of the first are corrected. With the traditional
prejudices of Protestantism then strong in him, he had looked on
these ecclesiastical miracles as rivals, and as, in some way,
antagonistic to the miracles of Scripture which he was upholding;
and he had striven to find points of difference as well in their
internal character as in the evidence needed to prove them. All
this he fully meets in the second essay. In the second, third, and
fourth chapters of it, treating of “The Antecedent Probability
of Ecclesiastical Miracles,” of their internal character, and
of the evidence in support of their credibility, he shows how
the admission of Scripture miracles utterly does away with the
ground taken by some against the possibility or probability of
ecclesiastical miracles, how the two classes agree in their chief
and essential characteristics, and how, in fact, they rather merge
into one general class of events, under the moral order of divine
Providence, established for man’s salvation--an order distinct from
and superior to the physical order of nature. Nothing can be more
lucid than his replies to the objections of Douglas, Warburton,
Middleton, and other Protestant writers on this subject. He shows,
with the utmost clearness, how all that they urge against these
ecclesiastical miracles in the Catholic Church can be turned by
unbelievers, with equal plausibility, and in the same sophistical
spirit, against the miracles of the apostles themselves.

Dr. Newman, in both dissertations, frankly admits--what indeed
cannot be denied--that not a few of the Scripture miracles are
to be believed by us simply because they have been recorded by
divinely inspired writers. We have no other knowledge of them, no
other evidence of their having occurred, than that we read them
on the inspired page. Such miracles are for us matters of faith,
not proofs in evidence. They are themselves proved by Scripture.
Whatever they were to those who witnessed the occurrence, they
are not now for us historical evidence in support of divine
revelation. Writing as a Protestant, Dr. Newman did not advert to
another important truth lying further back which Protestant writers
generally ignore. Our knowledge of the inspiration and divine
authority of the Scriptures as we have them--distinguished, that
is, from the numerous other gospels, acts, epistles, apocalypses,
and other pretended sacred writings, more or less current among
and accepted by the sectaries of the early Christian ages--depends
entirely on the decision of the Catholic Church, made after the
death of the apostles. Hence, the value of the Scripture testimony
as to these miracles, and our duty to recognize and accept it as
divinely inspired, and therefore unerring, depend, in the last
analysis, on the divine authority and character of the Catholic
Church--of that same church which has always claimed that God
continues to work miracles within her fold. To say that she errs
on this latter point leaves room, to say the least, for the
imputation or the suspicion that she may have erred in the other
decision likewise; and so those Scripture miracles which lack,
as most of them do, other corroborative testimony, would stand
without sufficient proof. On the contrary, for the ecclesiastical
miracles, because they occurred nearer our own times, there might
still remain, as in many cases there does remain, ample historical
evidence from contemporary witnesses.

After devoting four chapters to a thorough discussion of the
subject of ecclesiastical miracles in general, Dr. Newman proceeds,
in the fifth and last chapter, to sum up and discuss the evidences
we still have, in nine special cases, held to be miraculous
interventions, in the early ages of the church. For a clear and
orderly presentation of the evidence, the logical application of
the principles established in the earlier chapters, and the happy
and often overwhelming retorting of their own propositions on
Douglas, Leslie, and other anti-Catholic writers, each one of these
cases deserves and will amply repay a special study.

Here, as in his other volumes, Dr. Newman displays that
intellectual acumen and that plain common sense which are as
characteristic of his writings as is the singular mastery over the
English language which has caused him to be recognized as one of
the classical writers of our day.

Valuable as this volume is to the careful student for its erudition
and acute reasoning, and for the aid it gives in the polemical
controversies that rise from time to time with Protestants, it is
chiefly valuable, in our eyes, as a well-reasoned and, as it were,
practical refutation of that rationalistic or materialistic system
of false philosophy which is taught in some of our colleges, and is
being spread through the land, and which either leaves God out of
sight altogether, or at most acknowledges him only as the Creator
and founder of the physical order. Dr. Newman, in discussing what
some would term the philosophy of miracles, sets forth strongly and
clearly the necessity of recognizing and taking into account the
moral order, established by God, equally with the physical order,
and superior to it in rank. The world is under both. To leave
either out is to take only a partial view. To exclude the moral
order from our consideration is to err at the very commencement of
our course, and our progress will be but from error to error. The
action of both orders may, and often does, coincide--would have
always coincided had not sin brought in jarring and confusion. But
in point of fact, they are sometimes found in opposition. A wise
and good sovereign dies immaturely, leaving his sceptre to a wicked
and unscrupulous successor; a good father dies early in life, and
his orphans are left to grow up in ignorance and vice; a just
and benevolent man dies or is ruined, and debts are left unpaid,
and a stream of charity fails at the fount. And if we class the
evil actions of men as belonging to this physical order, and the
rationalists refuse to class them otherwise, do they not present a
continual opposition between the physical and the moral orders? And
if the physical order so asserts itself, should we not reasonably
look for corresponding, if not greater, manifestations in the moral
order?

Divine revelation itself is a fact in the moral order entirely
beyond and above the physical order of nature--by its nature, a
miracle. It can be proved only by miracles; and miracles are the
appropriate accompaniment of its continuance as a dispensation of
divine Providence. Hence, in the church--the kingdom of heaven--in
which God specially reigns and rules, and in which the moral
order is endowed with supernatural force, and interworks with the
physical order of nature, we should as readily and as reasonably
look for miracles, as, if we may be allowed a trivial comparison,
we should expect, when examining a piece of complicated machinery,
to find that one set of wheels will control and at times arrest the
ordinary action of other wheels, and interpose some result due to
their own special action in the general series of results. Not to
take account of the moral and supernatural order in God’s ruling
the world is not to recognize the highest and greatest of his acts.
The rationalist is like a deaf man before an exquisite musical
clock. His eye may follow the hands as they move round the dial;
but he has closed his ears to the sweet melodies that float around
him.

FOOTNOTE:

[53] _Two Essays on Scripture Miracles and on Ecclesiastical_.
By John Henry Newman, formerly Fellow of Oriel College. Second
edition. London: Pickering. 1870. New York: Sold by the Catholic
Publication Society. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 396.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  THE LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF ST. JANUARIUS, AT NAPLES. An
      Historical and Critical Examination of the Miracle. New York:
      The Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

This is a republication of several very able and interesting
articles which have lately appeared on this subject in THE CATHOLIC
WORLD. Their appearance in the present form cannot but be welcomed
by all well-disposed persons, whether they be desirous to ascertain
the truth or anxious to have the means for defending it. Catholics,
who are accustomed to hear this miracle, as well as the many others
which have occurred in the church from the earliest times, coolly
dismissed by their Protestant acquaintances as undoubted impostures
or superstitions, will find in this account all that is needed to
silence, if not to convince, their opponents, and to enable them
to assert their own faith; while the fair and candid non-Catholic
will find in it an array of facts and of reasoning which cannot
fail to produce a deep impression on his mind, and which may serve
as a basis for his conversion to the faith. But we would not advise
anyone who is determined in any event to remain a Protestant or
an infidel to have anything to do with it. The failure to find
any false but plausible theory to account for certain phenomena
which do not agree with one’s preconceived ideas sometimes leads
to a very unpleasant and dangerous frame of mind--that in which
it impugns the known truth. The book contains seventy-nine pages,
and is illustrated by an engraving representing the celebrated
reliquary in which the blood of the saint is contained. It is the
only complete and exhaustive treatise on the subject in the English
language.

       *       *       *       *       *

  AMERICANISMS: The English of the New World. By M. Schele De Vere,
      LL.D. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1872.

This elegantly printed book has a real and solid value. It shows
how the English language has been enriched by additions from
various sources in the New World, while, at the same time, it
indicates the deterioration and corruption to which it has been
exposed by knocking about in a new country. Both these topics
are important, and we commend them to the careful attention of
all who wish to acquire a true knowledge of the art of speaking
and writing English. We object decidedly to the definition of _A
Hickory Catholic_, on p. 58, as one who “is free from bigotry and
asceticism.” This is a vulgar cant phrase, unworthy of a scholar. A
hickory Catholic is a person who makes his principles bend to his
passions and interests. He believes that he is bound to go to Mass
on Sundays and to the Sacraments at Easter, but neglects to do so,
because he is lazy, or fond of drinking too much, or licentious, or
unwilling to make restitution, or stupidly careless about his soul;
hoping to sneak into heaven by an old age or death-bed repentance.
We have noticed nothing else worthy of censure in Professor De
Vere’s book, and we can recommend it without hesitation as most
valuable to all who are engaged in teaching the English language
or endeavoring to learn it. It is, moreover, extremely amusing and
entertaining, as well as instructive. Would that those who have the
naming of places would study it attentively, and strictly follow
its suggestions! Think of _Ovid_, _Livy_, _Greece_, _Virgil_, for
names of villages in a country rich in glorious Indian names!
Not content with imposing absurd or unmeaning or vulgar names
on places which had none before, those which have already most
tasteful and appropriate ones are frequently rebaptized. For
instance, in Fairfield Co., Connecticut, Saugatuck has been changed
to Southport, and Green’s Farms to Westport. What a name is New
York for a great state and a great city! What a change from Lake
St. Sacrament, or even Horicon to Lake _George_! We wish that
some of those who have leisure and inclination to take up this
matter in earnest would do so, and try to effect a reformation. We
notice also, with satisfaction, the condemnation of that wretched
interloper and vagabond of a word, _donate_. Humbly, and with tears
in our eyes, we entreat of our venerable presidents of colleges and
of all in literary authority to sentence and banish _donate_, or he
will some fine day bring into college his still shabbier and more
beggarly cousin, _orate_, and a whole troop of poor relations, who
will _locate_ themselves, for all coming time. English has been
and can be enriched from new sources, as Professor De Vere amply
proves; but let us watch carefully that it do not become corrupted
and be not made vulgar.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ZEAL IN THE WORK OF THE MINISTRY. By L’Abbé Dubois. London: J. C.
      Newby. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

It is encouraging to see books of this kind published in the
English language. We know not how to make any extracts from this
volume, for every page of it is filled with good sense, practical
advice, and the true spirit of the priesthood. Could we realize our
wishes, we would place in the hands of every priest and candidate
preparing for ordination a copy. It would be most wholesome for
daily spiritual reading and meditation. The author reveals his
object in writing the book in the following passage in the preface,
p. viii.:

  “To rekindle in the bosom of the priesthood the ardor of that
  zeal which should be its animating principle; to call to
  remembrance those noblest virtues without which it languishes,
  and with which it works miracles; further, to bring that zeal
  into practice by showing how the priest ought to act in the
  various circumstances of daily life, and in his intercourse with
  the various persons with whom he is perpetually brought into
  contact; such, in short, is the plan I have adopted. God grant
  that I may have carried it into execution in such a way as to
  procure abundantly his glory and the salvation of souls!”

One evidence that he has not been unsuccessful in attaining his
object, is that this translation is made from the fifth French
edition.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE BOOK OF PSALMS. Translated from the Latin Vulgate. Being a
      Revised Edition of the Douay Version. London: Burns, Oates
      & Co. 16mo, pp. 193. New York: The Catholic Publication
      Society, 9 Warren Street.

“This English version of the Book of Psalms,” says the Most Rev.
Dr. Manning in the preface, “may be regarded as one more of the
many gifts bequeathed to us by my learned and lamented predecessor
[Cardinal Wiseman]. One-half, at least, of the psalms were revised
by his own hand.” Critics will regret that there is nothing
to enable them to distinguish the precise psalms on which the
illustrious cardinal brought his great Biblical learning and his
pure English taste to the task of revision.

The term “Douay Version” in the title is used in the loose way
which his eminence himself opposed, and the basis is not the Douay,
but Dr. Challoner’s text.

This edition is made in a cheap popular form, and is intended to
diffuse more generally among the faithful the psalms as a manual of
prayer. They are the great storehouse from which the church draws
her offices, and supply the pious with ejaculations, short and
fervent prayers, which are of wonderful value. No greater boon has
been added recently, for, though there is no lack of pocket Bibles,
they are unhandy, and the type too small for those who wish the
psalms alone.

To meet this want a new translation was issued in 1700, in a neat
little volume, the version being by John Caryl, a friend of Pope,
and faithful adherent of the Stuarts. His _Psalms_ is a very
uncommon work, though highly esteemed.

We had thus Gregory Martin’s version in the original Douay,
Caryl’s, Bishop Challoner’s, and Archbishop Kenrick’s, and we
have now a version due in part at least to Cardinal Wiseman. It
is a little volume that will reward study among those who wish to
compare the versions, and as a convenient, well-printed manual
commends itself to the pious.

“In the Book of Psalms,” says his grace, Dr. Manning, “the Spirit
of Praise himself has inscribed the notes and the words of
thanksgiving to be learned here, and to be continued before the
eternal throne. For this use and aid I commend the present volume
to the piety of the faithful.”

Some common errors have, we see, been retained in this edition,
which we hope to see corrected, such as the omission of “angry”
before enemies in Ps. xvii. 48; “and,” in Ps. xliii. 12; “in form,”
Ps. xliv. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A JOURNEY AROUND MY ROOM. By Count Xavier de Maistre. New York:
      Hurd & Houghton.

This work, so full of the author’s delicate humor and sentimental
reverie, is the very thing for a winter evening, when one feels
like giving himself up to dream away a few hours.

The author was a younger brother of the perhaps better known Count
Joseph de Maistre, French Ambassador at the Russian Court in
the early part of this century, and one of the ablest defenders
of the Papacy. He was the author of the famous _Du Pape_ and the
philosopher of the _Soirees de St. Petersbourg_. Count Joseph
was likewise an intimate friend of Madame Swetchine’s, whose
interesting life has been published by “The Catholic Publication
Society,” and was instrumental in the conversion of that remarkable
woman to the Catholic Church.

The De Maistres belonged to the _haute noblesse_ de Savoy. Count
Xavier, as well as his brothers, became an exile during the first
French Revolution. He went to Russia, where he married. After an
absence of twenty-five years he returned to his own country.

Lamartine addressed him one of his _Harmonies Poëtiques_ after his
return, saluting him thus:

    “Voyageur fatigué qui reviens sur nos plages
    Demander à tes champs leurs antiques ombrages,
        A ton cœur ses premiers amours!”

He also calls Count Xavier the Sterne of Savoy, but without his
affectation, and declares him equal to Rousseau, but without his
declamatory style. “He is a familiar _genie_, a fireside talker, a
cricket chirping on the rural hearth.”

The writings of Xavier de Maistre were among the favorite volumes
that composed Eugénie de Guérin’s library, and we can imagine a
certain sympathy in their intellectual natures. The _Lépreux_ in
particular appealed to her sympathetic nature, and the thought of
meeting its author filled her with delight. When this meeting took
place at Paris, Count Xavier had just lost his children, and was so
depressed in consequence that it was not equal to her expectations.

But Lamartine speaks of seeing him a few years after, and
describes him as “an old man of fourscore years, gracious in
manner, and with no signs of decay of body or feebleness of mind.
Airiness of sentiment, a mild sensibility, a half-serious,
half-indulgent smile at human affairs, a tolerance--the result of
his intelligence--of all human opinions: such was the man.

“His sonorous voice had a far-off sound like an echo of the past,
and was well adapted to the reminiscenses of his previous life,
which he loved to tell.

“His _Leper of the City of Aosta_ is, in the literature of the
heart, equal to Paul and Virginia; the _Journey around my Room_ is
only a pleasantry. The _Leper_ is a tear, but a tear that flows for
ever!”

Lamartine, in his _Confidences_, gives a pleasing picture of
the De Maistre family, and likens a summer passed among its
illustrious members in Savoy to the conversations of Boccaccio
at his country-seat near Florence. They used to assemble beneath
a clump of pines at the foot of Mont du Chat, overlooking the
Arcadian valley of Chambery, so redolent of St. Francis de Sales,
another genius not less poetical, and with no less delicacy of
sentiment, but loftier than Xavier de Maistre; and sometimes they
came together on a terrace over-arched by vine-hung elms before the
Château de Servolex, the residence of Madame de Vigny, De Maistre’s
sister.

Count Joseph de Maistre, like a modern Plato, was the centre of
this family group. His stature was lofty, his features fine and
manly, his forehead broad and high, and, crowning all, floated his
thin, silvery hair. His mouth was indicative of the delicate humor
that characterized the family. His brothers regarded him with great
respect, and used to gather around him to listen to the experiences
of his exile. Even the Canon de Maistre, afterwards Bishop of
Aosta, who looked like a Socrates, with features that had been
softened and sanctified by the influences of Christianity, would
hasten to close the breviary he had been reading in a secluded
alley, and join the group.

And now and then came sweet interludes of soft Scythian airs
through the open window of the château, which Mademoiselle de
Maistre, a pensive, talented girl, was playing on the piano.

The writings of Count Xavier de Maistre, though not at all
dogmatic, belong to Catholic literature. They are among the sweet
blossoms that have unfolded under the pure light of Catholic
influences, and with a delicacy of aroma not to be found in the
forced hot-house plants of the world. We love to inhale their odor,
and would not be the last to welcome the appearance of _The Journey
around my Room_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE HISTORY OF GREECE. By Professor Dr. Ernest Curtius.
      Translated by Adolphus William Ward, M.A. Vols. I. and II.
      New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1871.

Dr. Ernest Curtius is impartial, and metes out strict justice to
all whom he summons to the tribunal of history. Neither Spartan
valor nor Athenian grace influences his judgment. He passes from
the Eurotas Valley to the Acropolis without leaving in his train
a single notion which would weigh in his decision on the men and
things in Attica. And this impartiality is a rare gift in the
writers of Grecian history, be they ancient or modern. Almost all
take sides. Mitford holds the Spartan oligarchy to be the height
of perfection in government, and makes it the standard by which
the democracy of Athens is to be judged. The result is that in his
pages the fair features of Athens are caricatured and distorted,
while the stern features of Sparta are so flattered that not even
Lycurgus would recognize them. On the other hand, Thirlwall, and
many more besides, have not been able to escape the fascination of
Athenian wit and elegance, and throughout their histories Athens
is unduly favored. Dr. Curtius judges not of governments and
institutions in the abstract, but he judges of them with reference
to the peoples for whom they were intended, and thus has avoided
the error into which so many have fallen.

There are in the volumes before us two points which are
particularly well handled. These are the origin of the Greek
people, and the development of their religion. Mr. Mommsen, in his
_History of Rome_, absurdly tells us that the ancient peoples of
Italy were indigenous to the soil. This he does, doubtless, either
to show his independence of revelation, or to save himself the
trouble of further investigation, perhaps with both ends in view.
Dr. Curtius is neither so disregardless of truth nor so saving
of labor. By the aid of ethnography, philology, and historical
research, he demonstrates that the Greeks and the Latins also
belonged to the great Aryan family. He traces them back to their
old homes in the Phrygian highlands, where, before their migrations
westward, they occupied positions adjoining. The Latin tribes
were the first to leave Asia Minor, then followed the Greeks in
successive waves of migration through the Hellespont and Propontis.

The learned professor discusses at length the origin and
development of the Greek Pantheon, and the conclusion arrived at
is most satisfactory. He proves that the Greek tribes in their
primitive simplicity worshipped the one only God--“The Zeus, who
dwelt in light inaccessible.” Gradually the primitive traditions
began to wane, and the “Zeus who dwelt in light inaccessible”
became the “Zeus who dwelt in sacred light over the oak-tops of the
Lycæan mountain,” still formless and unapproachable. But this Zeus
was too near the earth to remain long formless and unapproachable.
His worshippers soon began to approach him under different names,
then under different forms, and, finally, they divided him up into
the different gods of their Pantheon, so that the first and best
known became the “Unknown God.”

We have now pointed out some of the excellences of Dr. Curtius’
history, but it has its defects, as every human work has, and one
of these we deem it our duty to point out. Its chief defect is its
diffuseness; for diffuse it really is in many places. And because
it is diffuse it is often monotonous and even prosaic. On the
whole, however, the style is good, and abounds in elegant passages,
which are well rendered by the translator. This defect is indeed
the only one which justifies us in doubting whether the _History_
will become popular, and receive the appreciation which it deserves.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FASHION: THE POWER THAT INFLUENCES THE WORLD. By George P. Fox.
      New York: The American News Company. 1872.

The author of this work seems to have been “born with a divine idea
of cloth.” According to him, fashionable dress is a preservative
of morals. Easy and graceful garments are incompatible with deeds
of violence. No one who ever honored the author with his patronage
was ever convicted of a crime. We are as morally bound to offer a
pleasing exterior to our friends as a smiling face. In Carlyle’s
language, “Man’s earthly interests (to say the least) are all
hooked and buttoned together by clothes. Society is founded on
cloth.” The pen was once considered mightier than the sword, but
shears are now in the ascendency. “Dress makes the man, and want of
it the fellow.” Dress is a duty we owe ourselves, and inattention
to it indicates a want of respect to others. Man’s chief duty is to
sacrifice to the graces. Our author is the high-priest of fashion.
He makes dress almost a sacrament--as Hazlitt says, “an outward and
visible sign of the inward harmony of the soul.” _Non possumus_
does not seem to be in his code. There is no physical defect he
cannot remedy. Witness the unhappy man in New York, with a long
neck, low shoulders, and sallow complexion, at last able to hold
up his head in society; the unfortunate British nobleman, whose
attenuated and shapeless limbs are made to correspond more fully to
our idea of sturdy John Bull; and President Fillmore’s life-long
ambition for a pair of well-fitting pantaloons at length realized.
Bow legs and knock-knees are all remedied. The old proverb of the
Béarnais is verified: “_Habillez un bâton, il aura l’air d’un
baron_.” A book that brings hope to all is a public benefaction.
No Jonathan need despair of cutting a figure in the world after
this, and he _should_ not. Dress, its color, style, and fit, are
all matters of momentous interest (being so interwoven with our
morals), as well as manners and the carriage of the body, which are
not overlooked in this volume. As to the latter, everybody knows a
stoop in the shoulders sinks a man in public and private estimation.

The _Saturday Review_ calls our author a Transcendental Tailor, a
title he evidently merits. The _devise_ he assumed when he entered
the _lists_ was _Faire sans dire_, which Daniel Webster did him
the honor of quoting in an address before the New York Historical
Society, as well as wearing his transcendent--we almost said
transcendental--garments, both living and dead, for the blue coat
with a velvet collar and gold-wove cloth buttons that shrouded the
immortal statesman are almost a matter of history, and have been
sworn to in the most solemn manner before the mayor of New York.

But to go back to our _devise_. The author forgot it when he began
to write. He must now make it: _Faire et dire_. However, he handles
the pen almost as skilfully as the shears, and throws quite a
glamour of poetry over the most common duties of the toilet. He
ought to be a capital hand at a _hem-a-stitch_, as Rogers said of
Béranger. He gives some excellent advice about dress (gentlemen’s,
of course) and etiquette, but some of the chapters seem rather
foreign to the subject. We cordially recommend the book to Mr. and
Mrs. Veneering as they endeavor to adjust themselves at the glass
of fashion, and to whosoever is entirely _wrapped up_ in cloth.

We have been particularly interested in the published
correspondence at the end of the volume of the various dignitaries
in the political and literary world who sought the efficient
co-operation of our Prince of Tailors. If dress is really an
“emanation” of the soul (as well as from Mr. Fox’s “emporium”), and
indicative of character, it is well to know that Mr. Fillmore’s
ill-fitting garments might be owing to a judgment awry; the
attenuated limbs of the British minister, which nothing had been
able to hide, to a paucity of understanding; and the long neck of
our New York friend, which had to be muffled, to an overreaching
disposition. Who can tell?

Dress is certainly of the utmost importance to those who are
conscious of no other recommendation. Diderot saw no difference
between a man and his dog but the dress, and it would sometimes be
hard to give a person his proper grade in the animal world without
reference to his material garments, for it really does not do in
our social world to follow Carlyle’s advice to look fixedly on
clothes till they became transparent. It would lead to a fearful
revolution in society.

Still, there are some, like Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, who “go in neck
and crop for fashion,” who can bear such a clairvoyant eye. Mrs.
Boffin was “a Highflier for Fashion,” but we entirely overlook
that low evening dress of black sable which she does credit to
(“her make is such”), in consideration of her large heart, and the
affectionate readiness to salute her lord to the great detriment of
her great black velvet hat and plumes.

Our author is really a phœnix sprung from the ashes of Beau
Brummel.

    “Kind Heaven has sent us another professor,
    Who follows the steps of his great predecessor.”

As we read, we share the sensation he produced at the Presidential
_levée_ at Washington, clad in a blue coat out of the very web that
furnished Mr. Webster’s last suit. The meeting of the President
of the United States of America, serenely conscious of his new
clothes, and the President of Fashion, who so successfully cut
them, reminds us of another meeting there which Irving compared to
“two kings of Brentford smelling at one rose.”

We cannot close without expressing our gratitude in particular
for the fine suit of black our Prince of Tailors presented Father
Mathew of blessed and abstemious memory.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE BOOK OF THE FOUNDATIONS OF ST. TERESA OF JESUS, OF THE ORDER
      OF OUR LADY OF CARMEL. Written by herself. Translated from
      the Spanish by David Lewis. London: Burns, Oates & Co. New
      York: The Catholic Publication Society.

This volume contains, besides the work indicated in the title-page,
_Annals of the Saint’s Life_, by Don Vicente de La Fuente, _The
Carmelite Rule_ and _Constitutions_, and _The Visitation of
Nunneries_, and _Maxims_ of St. Teresa herself. The principal work
is also more complete than any previous edition in English.

Those who are familiar with the wonderful story of St. Teresa’s
history will need no assurance that the spirit which animated
her life also pervades her works. Indeed, the two are almost
inseparable, her writings evidently being a faithful transcript of
her whole history. Notwithstanding the signal favors she received
from heaven, she seemed always oppressed with the idea of her own
unworthiness. The prologue to the _Foundations_ furnishes many
valuable lessons to religious as well as those whose sphere of duty
lies in the world. St. Teresa knew how to exert the utmost zeal
and energy in the service of religion, with entire submission to
her ecclesiastical superiors. The case of St. Teresa, moreover, is
evidence of the way the church honors real reformers--by proposing
them to the veneration of the faithful as canonized saints. As
an indication of her humility, even the main work in this volume
was undertaken, not to gratify any personal feeling, but in
obedience to the command of her confessor. It contains a history
of the religious houses, male and female, she established. In the
face of great difficulties and discouragements, she persevered
in her purpose, until the reform was recognized at Rome, and the
Carmelite Order was divided into two branches, one under the milder
observance, and her own under the stricter or primitive observance.

The lives of the saints present marvels exceeding in interest
the dreams of poetry and romance, and we cannot do better than
commend to those who jeopardize their innocence in the perusal of
sensational figments of the imagination, to betake themselves to
the more edifying and truly interesting lives and writings of the
saints.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SERMONS ON ECCLESIASTICAL SUBJECTS. By Henry Edward, Archbishop
      of Westminster. Vol. I. American Edition. New York: The
      Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

Each new volume from Archbishop Manning is a precious addition to
Catholic literature. The present collection of sermons has all the
usual characteristics of the author, both as a preacher and as a
writer. Great as many other sermons undoubtedly are, those of Dr.
Manning possess a charm all their own. The oldest theme is never
stale in his hands. His logic is always of the keenest, while his
style is as clear and musical as a brook.

Of the sermons before us, we commend two especially. The first,
on “The Church, the Spirit, and the Word”; and the sixth, “The
Blessed Sacrament the Centre of Immutable Truth.” The thirteenth
will also be found of peculiar interest for American readers. It
was preached in St. Joseph’s College, Nov. 17, 1871. Its subject:
“The Negro Mission.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  AN ESSAY ON THE DRUIDS, THE ANCIENT CHURCHES, AND THE ROUND
      TOWERS OF IRELAND. By the Rev. Richard Smiddy. Dublin: W. B.
      Kelly. 1871. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

This is a very neat little publication, well-bound and handsomely
printed. Those who have not leisure or opportunity to read Petrie’s
elaborate book on the Round Towers or the works issued by the
Archæological Society will find in Mr. Smiddy’s essay much valuable
information regarding Irish antiquities, though in some of his
views and theories he differs materially from preceding writers on
the same class of subjects.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY AND THE SOCIAL. By an Epicure. New York:
      De Witt C. Lent & Co. 8vo, pp. 526. 1872.

The author of this book, if author in the proper sense he may be
called, has acted discreetly in withholding his name from the
public, for, though a work not specially opposed to morality or
truth, it is as little likely to increase the fame of the compiler
or secure the approbation of the judicious as any of the many
modern publications that teem from our metropolitan press, and
depend almost altogether on the beauty of their illustrations
and mechanical taste for public patronage. We have a very high
appreciation of the shrewdness and foresight of publishers as a
class, but upon a cursory glance at the appearance of the book,
and on a comparison of it with its homogeneous contents, we were
inclined to think the firm of Lent & Co. was an exception until
we noticed in a brief preface that thirty thousand copies of the
original, of which the book before us is said to be an enlarged and
improved edition, have been sold. This may or may not be a piece of
exaggeration on the part of the publishers: if it be not, then we
are sorry for the lack of sense and judgment on the part of so many
of our fellow-beings. The work is compiled, not written, pretty
much as it is said “leading articles” in remote Western journals
are produced, by the efficient aid of the scissors and mucilage,
and its general contents would be more in place in the columns of
those second or third hand journals, under the stereotyped headings
of “Facts and Fancies” or “Mirth and Fun,” than in the imposing
garb of a well-bound book. From cover to cover it is nothing
but a compilation of old stories, thread-bare jokes, worn-out
puns, stupid epitaphs, and references to historical and literary
personages which are neither new nor original, and scarcely
_apropos_ to the subject they are intended to make interesting.
There is some attempt at arrangement in the display of this useless
learning, and here and there a pleasant little bit of chat, but
the whole composition is so disjointed and puerile that the effect
produced on the mind of the reader is anything but pleasurable.
There is no discretion apparent in the selection of extracts and
quotations, and no dignity in the tone of the entire work that
would entitle it to the praise of even comparatively illiterate
persons, though the generally good character of the engravings
and its attractive exterior may secure some purchasers. Besides,
its title gives no idea of its contents, and we hope not to be
considered unkind when we offer the suggestion that, if the author
should ever inflict another edition on a patient public, he will
change it. _Hash_ would be much more expressive and germain to the
matter, _salad_ being much too palatable a dish to be treated with
such contumely.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A REMEMBRANCE OF THE LIVING TO PRAY FOR THE DEAD. By James
      Mumford, Priest of the Society of Jesus. Reprinted from the
      Edition of 1661. With Appendix on the Heroic Act. By John
      Morris, Priest of the same Society. London: Burns, Oates &
      Co. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1871.

Those who have read Father Mumford’s _Catholic Scripturist_ or
_Question of Questions_ will need no assurance from us of the
excellence of the present treatise. Those who are yet strangers
to this old writer will find a peculiar charm in the work, if, at
least, they have any liking for terseness, directness, and unction.
Father Mumford is somewhat quaint; but that only adds to his style.
Good works on Purgatory are not plentiful. This is one of the very
best. It particularly inculcates, too, a duty we seldom appreciate
sufficiently.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LITTLE PRUDY’S FLYAWAY SERIES. Aunt Madge’s Story. By Sophie May,
      author of “Little Prudy’s Stories,” “Dotty Dimple Stories,”
      etc. Illustrated. Boston: Lee & Shepard. New York: Lee,
      Shepard & Dillingham. 1872.

This is a delightful little story for children, but this is saying
nothing new, for Sophie May’s stories always are. As Aunt Madge was
not one of the “tremendous good” children, her story will, perhaps,
have a special interest for the little ones.

P. F. CUNNINGHAM has in press and will soon publish _Marion
Howard_, a story of much interest.




BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.


  From CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO., New York: A Commentary on the Holy
      Scriptures. By J. P. Lange, D.D. Translated, enlarged,
      and edited by P. Schaff, D.D. Vol. IV. Containing Joshua,
      Judges, and Ruth. 8vo, pp. iv., 188, 261, 53.--Lectures on
      Science and Religion. By Max Müller, M.A. 12mo, pp. iv.,
      300.--Systematic Theology. By C. Hodge, D.D. Vol. II. 8vo,
      pp. 732.

  From CARLTON & LANAHAN, New York: Three Score Years and Beyond.
      By Rev. W. H. De Puy, D.D. 8vo, pp. 512.--Jesus Christ. By E.
      de Pressensé, D.D. 12mo, pp. 312.--Pillars of the Temple.
      By Rev. W. C. Smith. 12mo, pp. 366.--Light on the Pathway of
      Holiness. By Rev. L. D. McCabe, D.D. 18mo, pp. 114.--The Land
      of the Veda. By Rev. W. Butler, D.D.

  From D. APPLETON & CO., New York: Ballads of Good Deeds. By H.
      Abbey. 18mo, pp. 129.

  From P. DONAHOE, Boston: The Fourfold Sovereignty of God. By
      Henry Edward, Archbishop of Westminster. 18mo, pp. 272.--The
      Council of the Vatican. By Thomas, Canon Pope. 12mo, pp.
      xviii., 340.

  From KELLY, PIET & CO., Baltimore: The Martyrs of the Coliseum.
      By Rev. A. J. O’Reilly. 12mo, pp. viii., 396.

  From J. R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston: The Divine Tragedy. By H. W.
      Longfellow. 18mo, pp. iv., 150.

  From LEE & SHEPARD, Boston: Half Truths and the Truth. By Rev. J.
      M. Manning, D.D. 12mo, pp. xii., 398.

  From the AUTHOR: Notes on Historical Evidence in Reference to
      Adverse Theories of the Origin and Nature of the Government
      of the United States. By J. B. Dillon. 8vo, pp. x., 141.

  From D. &. J. SADLIER & CO., New York: The Devil. By Father
      Delaporte. 18mo, pp. viii., 202.

  From KREUZER BROS., Baltimore: Triumph of the Blessed Sacrament.
      By Rev. M. Müller, C.SS.R. 18mo, pp. 146.--The Catholic
      Priest. By Rev. M. Müller, C.SS.R. 18mo, pp. 163.

  From G. ROUTLEDGE & SONS, New York: The Moral of Accidents. By
      the late Rev. T. T. Lynch. 12mo, pp. xviii., 415.--Una and
      Her Paupers.--Memorials of Agnes E. Jones. By her Sister.
      With an Introduction by Florence Nightingale. First American
      Edition. With an Introductory Preface by Rev. H. W. Beecher.
      12mo, pp. xlvi., 497.

  From P. O’SHEA, New York: Lectures on the Church. By Rev. D. A.
      Merrick, S.J. 12mo, pp. iv., 263.

  From J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., Philadelphia: Wear and Tear. By S.
      W. Mitchell. 18mo, paper, pp. 59.

  From R. CODDINGTON, New York: The Church and the World. By Rev.
      T. S. Preston, D.D. Paper, pp. 30.

  From ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston: The To-Morrow of Death. By Louis
      Figuier. 12mo, pp. viii., 395.

  From C. C. CHATFIELD & CO., New Haven: Logical Praxis. By H. N.
      Day. 12mo, pp. viii., 148.

  Proceedings of the Third Annual Session of the American
      Philological Association, held at New Haven, Conn., July,
      1871. [The Third Annual Meeting of the Association will be
      held in Providence, R. I., July 24, 1872, at 3 P.M.]

  We are under obligations to the Author for a copy of Evolution
      and its Consequences. (Reprinted from the _Contemporary
      Review_.) A Reply to Prof. Huxley. By St. Geo. Mivart, F.R.S.




                        THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

                   VOL. XV., No. 86.--MAY, 1872.

  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev.
   I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.




DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY.

NO. IV.

DUTIES TO THE CHURCH.


If we look at one aspect of Christian society, we cannot help being
overwhelmed with astonishment at the number and the greatness
of the generous deeds and sacrifices which crowd and adorn its
history. The noble, the powerful, the highly gifted, the wealthy,
have lavished their possessions, their labors, their lives, for
their fellow-men, in such a way as really to merit our wonder
when we think of the weakness of human nature and the rarity of
disinterested philanthropy among those who are not Christians. But,
if we look at another aspect of the same, the amount of meanness,
selfishness, and baseness which meets our view makes us wonder
that Christian faith has, after all, produced so little really
rare and rich fruit in the soil of human nature. The little which
we do find is so perfect that we are astonished not to see more of
the same quality produced by the same causes and influences. When
we think of the motive which men have for making sacrifices, and
of the example which has been given them--that is, that the Lord
of heaven has died on the cross for mankind--the conduct of those
Christians who have followed that example by the practice of heroic
perfection seems merely the fulfilment of a plain, Christian duty
of gratitude. On the other hand, the conduct of those Christians
who live a selfish and unworthy life appears not only in a mean and
ignoble, but even in an atrocious, light. That we belong absolutely
to God, that we have been redeemed by the blood of Christ, that
we have only one lawful end to our life on the earth, which is
to glorify God and merit to be glorified by him hereafter, are
first truths which no Catholic ever thinks of denying or doubting.
These truths caused some of the saints to renounce literally
everything for Jesus Christ, and others to administer the power
and wealth which they retained, exclusively for the glory of God
and the good of their fellow-men. The saints are only examples
of the highest degrees of those virtues of the same kind which
constitute the character of all really good Christians. Every rich
man, therefore, who wishes to be a good Christian, must have the
same devotion to the faith, to the church, to the cause of God,
of Christ, and of the Vicar of Christ on earth, which the saints
had. Devotion to the church sums up the whole, because it includes
or implies everything. This devotion must precede, direct, and
dominate over every intention, motive, object, and undertaking of
life. The obligation to it lies in the very nature of baptism. The
baptized person is wholly devoted to the service of the Lord who
has redeemed him, signed him with his own peculiar mark, and given
him a title to the crown of celestial glory. The nature and extent
of the service due varies with the position and the talents of the
individual. The one who receives one talent is bound to gain one
more with it. This may mean, for instance, that this particular
man, or that particular woman, is bound to no other service to the
church than to bring up well some three or five children, to come
to Mass and the sacraments with them, to live an honest life, and
to make some small contributions to the treasury of the church. The
one who receives five talents is also bound to gain five more. The
explication of the sense of this, and its application to particular
cases, are easily made. Whatever the talents conferred on any
individual may be, all must be devoted primarily to the sacred
cause of the Catholic Church. It is the kingdom of Christ; it is
the only hope of salvation to the world; it is the ark of safety
to the individual himself with whom we are speaking. Into that
church he has been baptized at the font, and made its child, its
citizen, and its subject. There is no escape from its allegiance
except by treason. The character of baptism is ineffaceable,
and no one who bears that mark has any rights over himself, his
talents, or his possessions, except such as are conceded to him
by the law of Christ. “Ye are not your own, ye are bought with a
price.” “Henceforth, no one liveth to himself, and no one dieth
to himself.” It is necessary to live and die as a member of the
Catholic Church, in order to live honorably and to die happily. As
it is only by partaking in the common life of the church that its
individual members have any life of their own, it is their first
duty to promote that common life. The law of life is the law of
duty: the greater and stronger and more important the member is,
the greater is the service it is bound to render to the body.

The duties of Catholics who belong to the higher and more wealthy
class in society to the church are very various, numerous, and
heavy. One portion of them coincides to a great extent with
their obligations to the poor and miserable, of which notice
was taken in our last number. The obligation of succoring their
fellow-creatures because they are of the same blood through
Adam, and made in the rational image of the same God, becomes
more sacred towards those who are brethren in Christ through
baptismal grace. How is it possible for Christians who expect to
be saved through the infinite charity of Jesus Christ to revel
in splendor, luxury, and enjoyment, and at the same time to look
with heartless indifference on the want and suffering of those
who are the dearest friends of Christ? If they are charitable and
kind-hearted, as every true Christian must be, the charities of the
church are so numerous and extensive as to tax their generosity to
the utmost. There is great scope for private and personal charity
toward individuals, but the great organized works of general
charity must be carried on by the clergy or religious societies.
The funds which they are ordinarily able to procure for these
works are, in proportion to the necessities clamoring for relief,
like the five loaves and two small fishes which the disciples of
Christ set before the famishing multitude of five thousand men,
besides women and children. These small funds come in great part
from the almsgiving of laboring people, or from the various devices
of lectures, fairs, concerts, etc., to which the managers of
charitable works are obliged to resort. After all has been done,
the Catholic priest, the charitable layman who makes his round
of visits in the name of the St. Vincent de Paul’s Society, the
Sister of Charity, are hardly able to do more than help those who
are in want of the absolutely necessary clothing, food, and fire
with which to keep off the gaunt death that grins at them out of
every corner of their life. The demands upon charity are constant,
multifarious, and pressing. They are made chiefly upon priests, who
have already given up everything for God. It is plain, therefore,
that it is the duty of the rich to furnish them liberally and
abundantly with the means for supplying these demands.

The building of churches, their decoration, the furnishing of
sacred vessels and ornaments for the sanctuary, and other works
directly connected with the service and worship of the divine
Majesty, are objects demanding a truly immense outlay of money.
So far as concerns that which is necessary for the ministering of
the word and sacraments of Christ, these spiritual wants of the
people take precedence of their bodily necessities. So far as the
decoration, splendor, and dignity of religion only are concerned,
they come next after the more essential works of charity. Add to
the buildings which are immediately devoted to divine worship, all
those which belong to colleges, schools, orphanages, etc., and
the work demanded of the Catholics of the United States appears
colossal, and would seem impossible, did we not see before our eyes
so much of it already accomplished. Then, there are the most just
and imperative claims of the Holy Father, and the pathetic appeals
of the foreign missions, never so pressing as at the present
moment, when the downfall of the power of France has left them so
denuded of the succor which they formerly received from that most
generous nation. The naïve response which a most estimable French
lady once gave to a priest who asked her for a donation to a good
work in this city, very well expresses the true state of the case
in hand: “Very much call, very little fund.” Nowhere is this more
literally true than in New York. The most extreme liberality of
all the Catholics of this city who have anything to spare, whether
rich or poor, would not yield the means of furnishing a sufficient
number of churches, schools, and other means for supplying the
spiritual and corporal wants of our swarming and increasing
population. Millions might be used at the present moment, if they
could be had, in works of the most practical utility and even
necessity. When a city or a nation is in straits through the
calamities of war, pestilence, or famine, all its citizens are
expected to strain every nerve and to make heroic sacrifices for
its relief. No city or nation has a thousandth part of the claim
to devotion from its citizens which the church possesses. And the
church, always militant, is always in straits, at least in some
part of her great empire, always suffering from the effects of the
perpetual warfare waged against her, from pestilential vices and
sins among her children, from a famine of the word and sacraments
of Christ among the most neglected and abandoned of her people.
God alone can help her efficiently. But men must struggle to help
themselves, if they expect God to help them. Our Lord demanded of
his disciples to feed the hungry multitude, and ordered them to set
before them the whole of their own scanty provisions. “He himself
knew what he would do,” and he did it by multiplying miraculously
the loaves and fishes of his disciples. God alone can rescue the
famishing and perishing multitudes of Christendom and heathendom
from the abyss of temporal and spiritual ruin and death which yawns
under their feet. Society must be reconstructed on a Christian
basis, and by mighty, organic movements, in which the church and
the state, the hierarchy, both ecclesiastical and civil, and all
the powers contained in the bosom of society, in harmonious concert
of action, labor together for a common end, it must work out its
own regeneration and the Christian civilization of the human race;
or the work will remain for ever incomplete. Christendom is full
of deadly disorders and wounds, inflicted on it by the fell power
of schism, heresy, and infidelity. Only Catholic unity can heal
it, and combine its members in the work assigned to it by divine
Providence, and only a miracle of grace can restore to that unity
the severed and disorganized parts, close up the deadly gashes
in the living body, and reanimate it with complete health. The
zeal, activity, and wealth of the whole community, collected in
the communion of the Catholic Church, would be sufficient for
as thorough a regeneration of New York, and of the whole United
States, as the most sanguine optimist could ever expect to see
brought about in any country in the world. Christendom, united
in itself, and governed on Christian principles, would absorb
into itself on a century the entire world. But meanwhile, the
faithful and loyal children of the church must do what they can,
and await the time for God to do what he has determined, and to
a great extent made conditional in the efforts of men. The most
of our Catholic people in the United States have, on the whole,
fulfilled the duty of contributing the funds required for carrying
on the works of the church remarkably well. Whether the richer
portion of them have done their fair share, is a question not so
easy to answer. Instances of princely generosity have not been
wanting, and to a considerable extent there has been a creditable
liberality manifested by the wealthier classes of Catholics when
they have been publicly or privately solicited to aid in religious
or other charitable works. That there are some who are niggardly
in their disposition, and many who are more sparing and moderate
in their charities than they ought to be, can hardly be doubted.
The comparatively small number of wealthy men in the Catholic
community has necessarily thrown the great burden of supporting the
institutions of the church upon the mass of the people who are not
rich. There is nothing in this to complain of. If the rich do their
fair share, it is no disgrace to them that they enjoy the benefits
which have been chiefly purchased by the money of the laboring
classes. But if they fall behind their proportion, it is a real
disgrace to them, because they receive in that case for nothing,
and as an alms from the poor, something which they ought to have
paid for.

The church demands something more than a portion of the surplus of
the wealth of the rich. She demands the consecration and devotion
of the minds, the wills, the time, the efforts of all the _élite_
of her laity, of those who are rich in intellectual gifts and
acquisitions, as well as of those who are rich in gold and silver.
The principal medium of the operation of this devotion at the
present time are voluntary associations under the sanction and
direction of the hierarchy. These associations have for their scope
the organization of charitable works, the diffusion of knowledge,
resistance to the enemies of the church, the defence of the Holy
See, and general co-operation with the clergy in the extension
of the Catholic religion. We will not enlarge on this theme, at
present, as we have promised to make our articles very brief, and
an essay on the subject has already appeared in our pages. What we
have said will be sufficient, we trust, to stimulate all those who
are imbued with the spirit of Catholic faith to greater zeal and
effort in the sacred cause of the church, in which the laity have
as great an interest as the clergy.




ANNIVERSARY OF BAPTISM.

BY A CONVERT.


    On this steep pathway, which, with prayers, I climb,
    I pause a moment--as a traveller might,
    Weary and footsore, and in dusty plight,
    Hearing, far off, the clear, melodious chime
    Of bells that mark the swiftly passing time:
    Then, as he pauses on the beetling height,
    Through filming distance fixes his keen sight
    On one faint speck, his starting point at prime,
    And takes fresh courage for the sharp ascent--
    Thus do I pause to-day; my steadfast eye
    Fixed on that point of time, in which doth lie
    The germ of all which can my soul content;
    On which my waking thoughts, my dreams, are bent:
    Then, turn where life’s still summits touch th’ eternal sky.




THE HOUSE OF YORKE.


CHAPTER XXVIII.

GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-BY.

It is well for us that faith is able to decipher what De Quincey
calls “the hieroglyphic meanings of human suffering”; and that,
though the interpretation should not at once be made plain to us,
we may, at least, be sure that it is merciful. As St. Peter stands
supreme, holding in his hand the shining keys of heaven, which none
but he can set in the wards, and none but he can turn, so to each
Christian on earth is given the golden key to a personal heaven,
and none but he can open the door, and none but he can close it.
Within that door sits the interpreter, and when the soul is still
it hears his voice reading, with praise and amen, both day and
night: and some riddles he makes clear, and on some he sets the
seal with the Holy Name; and that is God’s secret, and one day he
will speak to the soul concerning it. He who seeks to tear away
that seal finds only darkness and confusion; but he who folds his
hands above it will at last be illuminated.

Never once during his trial had Dick Rowan rebelled against God, or
questioned him. Nature might writhe in pain, and forget for a time
the words of praise, but it submitted; and, according to the tumult
and darkness that had prevailed, so were the light and peace that
followed. It was thorough work, as all the work in this soul had
been from the first, and his convalescence was like a new birth.

On the morning after Edith’s parting with Carl Yorke, Dick
remained in his room unvisited, keeping all his strength for that
first drive. At length the carriage came to the door, and Mr.
Williams, who had insisted on remaining at home to superintend what
he called the “launching” of his step-son, came down-stairs with
Dick. Mrs. Williams, all smiles, followed after, rustling in silks
donned in honor of this great occasion. Edith and Ellen Williams
stood in the entry, awaiting the little procession. Miss Ellen,
blushing and bedizened, was to accompany the two on their drive.
Edith had preferred to stay at home and prepare for her evening
exodus to Hester’s.

“Why, Dick, you look like an Esquimaux!” she exclaimed. “I cannot
even see your nose. How are you to get any fresh air?”

He laughed. “I told mother that I could not breathe anything but
fur; but she is a tyrant.”

“It isn’t often I get the chance to play the tyrant over you,”
Mrs. Williams remarked, and began giving orders to have sundry hot
soap-stones, and gay afghans put into the carriage.

“Mother,” her son exclaimed, “I am ashamed of having such a fuss
made over me! I will run away. I will leave the country. I will go
back to bed.”

He really blushed, and seemed annoyed.

They went out, and there was the parade of getting settled in
their places, Mrs. Williams pleasantly conscious, and her son
distressfully so, that several of the neighbors were looking on
with interest. The inquiries for Dick had, indeed, been constant
from all the neighborhood, even from persons with whom they had no
acquaintance. Not a woman, young or old, but had looked kindly on
the young sailor, and known when he sailed away, and when he came
back; not a child but smiled and nodded to him through the window
when he passed. Of course they had all surmised that the lovely
young girl whom they had seen there before, and who had now been
taking care of him, was one day to be his wife. She divided their
attention with him as she stood on the step, and watched him drive
away.

It was the hour of the steamer’s departure; and when Edith was
alone, she shut herself into her chamber, and, kneeling there,
prayed fervently that God would keep the traveller wherever he
might wander, and that, though far from her, he might be ever near
to heaven.

She did not leave her room when she heard the others come home; and
after a while Mrs. Williams came to say that Dick would like to see
her.

“We had a delightful drive, and he is not a bit the worse for it,”
the mother said. “He will be well enough to go to Mrs. Cleaveland’s
to see you, now; but I think he wants to have a good talk with you
before you go away. He told me not to let any one interrupt.”

Edith knew well what the summons meant, and with one upward
aspiration, “O Spirit of light and truth!” she went immediately.

Dick was sitting in his arm-chair by the window when she entered,
and he looked around with a bright smile and greeting, “Well,
little sister!” and motioned her to a chair near him.

On hearing that title, she stopped, and clasped her hands on her
bosom.

“It was a brother who sent for you,” he said. “Come!”

She seated herself, speechless, almost breathless.

“Edith, where is Carl Yorke?” he asked gently.

She gave the answer with a quiet that looked like coldness. “He
left in the steamer to-day for England. From there he continues his
travels to the East, I do not know where else. No person is to know
this but you and me, as his mother cannot be told.”

The color and the smile left Dick Rowan’s face. Surprise and pain
for a moment deprived him of the power of speech.

“I am astonished and distressed!” he said, at length. “I wished to
see him, to talk with him. But that he is not a Catholic, I should
have wished to see you married soon.”

A deep blush of wounded delicacy rushed to Edith’s cheeks. “Dick
Rowan,” she said, “you have yet much to learn about women, or, at
least, about me. Whatever feelings of sympathy and affection I may
have had for Carl Yorke, my conduct and conversation with him have
been irreproachable, and so have my thoughts even. The thought of
marriage has not crossed my mind. I do not wish to hear you speak
of it.”

Her dignified answer disconcerted him for a moment. He had made
the mistake nearly always made by men, often made by women,
of misinterpreting the nature, or, at least, the degree of
development, of an affection as yet angelically pure, if ardent.

“You were quite right in supposing that I would marry no one but a
Catholic,” she remarked.

“I have done you a great wrong, Edith,” he said hastily, “and I
wish to repair it as far as I can. But, first, will you tell me why
you promised to marry me?”

“Because you told me that your life hung in the balance, and that
I was your only hope and aim,” she answered. Her voice trembled
slightly, and her eyes softened as she remembered how nearly he had
spoken the truth. “You had been my first and most faithful friend.
I considered my obligations stronger to you than any one else. I
could not tolerate the thought of your suffering through me, when I
was the only person you cared for.”

While she spoke, his eyes were downcast, and a deep color burned
in his face. “Did my dependence on you attract your affection?” he
asked, still looking down.

“It attracted my pity and anxiety,” she replied, without
hesitation. “I should respect more a man who would be able to live
without me. I do not believe that these violent feelings are either
healthy or lasting; and I would not choose to act the Eastern myth
of the tortoise supporting a world.”

“Oh! how mean I was!” he exclaimed. “How contemptibly selfish! Let
me tell you all. I had a strong affection for you, that is true;
but I can see now that there were unworthy motives mingled with
it. There were pride, ambition, and self-will. I was determined
to take you away from Carl Yorke. I knew that he thought of you,
and I believed that he would win you, unless I prevented it. Your
antecedents of birth, your tastes and social position, your kind of
education, all were the same, and made you suited to each other.
I said to myself that my being a Catholic gave me the precedence;
but in my heart I knew that there was no reason why he, as well as
I, should not receive the gift of faith. I knew, indeed, that his
friendship for Alice Mills had predisposed him toward it, and that
he read Catholic books. But I was determined to have you. I did not
dare to ask if you would be quite content. I would not contemplate
any other possibility. When I asked you if you were willing, it
was only after you had promised. I confess this with shame and
contrition!”

“Dick,” Edith asked breathlessly, “have you quite got over caring
very much about me? Are you not disappointed?”

He raised his face, and all the shame and distress passed away
from it. “The only disappointment I am now capable of feeling,” he
said, with the emphasis of truth, “would be in case any earthly
object should come between me and God. In the last few weeks I
have learned to shrink with fear and aversion from all earthly
affection. There is nothing but harm in those attachments which are
so strong that the loss of their object brings destruction. They
are mistaken in their aim. Why, Edith, what I worshipped in you was
not simply what you are, a good and amiable girl, but a goddess.
You were magnified in my eyes, I put you in a niche. That niche is
now empty. Or, no!” he added, raising his brightening eyes, “it is
not empty, but the right one stands there. You could never have
satisfied the enthusiasm of my expectation. The great and wonderful
good which I vaguely looked for with you, I should never have won.
I mistook my object.”

He looked out thoughtfully, and she sat looking at him. At length
he said, with a faint smile, “I wrote you last year of a visit
I paid to the island and cave of Capri. That scene is like my
past life. That cave was an enchanted place, so fair, so blue, so
unreal! All ordinary critical sense deserted me as I gazed. I could
easily have believed that the walls and ceiling were of jewels,
and the watery floor some magical blue wine. As I sat in the boat
and looked back, I saw a white star in the distance. Everything
but that, and a long white ray from it, was blue. I rowed toward
that star, I looked at it as my goal, just as I made you my goal.
But when I came near, I found that it was no star. It was only the
low entrance to the cave. Or, rather, it was for me the passage to
sunshine and the heavens. And that you have been to me, Edith,”
he said, turning toward her. “Thank God that your influence with
me has always been for good, and that, in leaving you, I progress
rather than change! You inspired me, and kept me from what was
low, when I had no religion to help me. I can see it all now. The
very excess and enthusiasm of my affection for you was necessary
in order to govern me and keep me from harm. Besides, it is my
nature to do with my might what my hands find to do. I was not then
capable of resolving to do right for the sake of right; but when I
was strong enough, then you drew aside, and left me face to face
with God!”

His breath came quickly, and his wide-opened eyes were fixed on the
western sky, and caught its golden light.

“Of course there was a struggle,” he resumed, “for I was sincere.
But that is over. My unreasonable affection for you is as
thoroughly eradicated as if it had never been a part of my life. I
am ashamed of having so given myself up to it.”

Edith hesitated, then put the test. “Dick, I must be satisfied
that I am really free. If you were sure now that no other, deeper
sympathy stood between me and you, and that I were ready and
willing to fulfil my engagement with you, would you still say that
God alone held your heart?”

His expression was one of terror and shrinking. “It is not so,
Edith!” he exclaimed. “God forbid that it should be so! I could no
more go back to those hopes and wishes of the past than I could be
a little boy again!”

After the momentary fear and suspense that had accompanied her
question, Edith’s first feeling was one of joyful relief and
freedom, her second an indignant sense of the wrong that had been
done her. She rose from her chair, walked to the other window, and
stood there looking out with eyes that saw no object before her.
Her mind glanced swiftly back over the last year and a half. She
remembered the bright peacefulness of her life, yet half-enshrouded
in the mists of childhood, the vision of her womanhood shining
large and vague just above the line of her eyelids; for she cared
not yet to look at or question that future. She recollected the
hopes and aims that had begun to form themselves, of doing good, of
making herself such a Catholic as would be a credit to the faith,
of helping and instructing her poor, of trying to bring her uncle’s
family into the church; and she remembered a faint rose-tinge of
personal happiness, soft and rare, and too delicate to be seen, but
felt by some finer intuition. Then came the sudden call that had
put her life in confusion, the future wrenched rudely open, the
many clustering interests trampled by one that demanded to be made
paramount. And there was no more cause than this!

Indignation swelled to the point of speech. She turned about, and
faced Dick Rowan, and her eyes flashed.

“You may well be ashamed,” she said, “for you have been unmanly!
I do not speak of what I have suffered in my own mind; but you
have exposed my reputation, which, next to my character, I hold
sacred. You have deprived me of your mother’s friendship; for she
will never cease to blame me. You have had me proclaimed as your
promised wife, every one supposing that the promise was freely
given. Yet, when I went down-stairs that day, I was like a victim
going to be immolated. Nothing but prayer had strengthened my
resolution. I thought that a refusal would be your destruction.
You had said as much. You have exposed me to the condemnation of
shallow judges, who will be only too glad to find fault. Those
people who pronounce without knowing, and think that they can
include the motives of another’s whole life in three words, will
all condemn me. I, who have tried with constant watchfulness to
walk to a hair’s-breadth in the path of womanly propriety, shall
be pointed at as the girl who jilted you and broke your heart. And
all this, not from the blindness of real affection, which would
have excused you in my eyes, but from will, and pride, and a mere
fascination. Don’t tell me of eradicating a real affection. It may
be conquered, and made subject to duty; but sympathy is not to be
eradicated. That feeling which has died in your heart was, indeed,
a false blossom.”

She turned and stretched her hands out toward the East, where, far
away, the steamer that bore Carl Yorke ploughed the twilight wave.
“O Carl! you would not have done it,” she cried, and burst into
tears; the usual womanly peroration to such a discourse.

“O God, accept my humiliation!”

She heard that tremulous prayer through her sobs, and, starting,
looked at Dick. His face was bowed forward in his hands, as though
he could never again raise it. She recollected herself. It was God
who had cured and enlightened him. He was not a man who had turned
from one fickle fancy to another. He was in the hands of God.

She wiped her eyes, and, after a little while, went and knelt
beside his chair. “Forgive me, Dick, for reproaching you so,”
she said. “It is over now. We all make mistakes, and those only
do well who acknowledge them, and forgive others. My childhood’s
dear friend, let us forget all that is painful in the past. God
will direct. There is much in life besides marrying and giving in
marriage, and I do not wish to think of that again, not for a long,
long time, if at all. Set the seal on the events of the last two
years. They never happened. I am happy now. You know that, though
I was born at the North, I have a Southern temper. See! the little
cyclone is past, and I am clear from every cloud. We are two sober
friends, who wish each other no end of good. Tell me what you mean
to do.”

He raised his head, and the one absorbing interest of his new life
came back and obliterated the passing trouble. “I do not know,
Edith, and I lay no plans. I have no reason to trust my own will
or wish. I give myself up entirely to direction, and am certain on
but one point: God will not let me go, and I will not let him go.
When I lay bruised and helpless before him, he took me in his arms
and healed me, and I will never know another love. He has kindled
a fire in my heart which my life shall guard. I rejected him once,
but will never again. That night I spent in the church, before my
baptism, a voice from the altar asked me, I thought, to give up all
for God; and it would have been easy then for me to promise. As I
meditated on heaven, the Mother of Christ drew to herself all that
is lovely in woman; all that was strong, and true, and protecting
in a guide clustered around the church; all that was adorable,
that passed beyond speech, was there before me in the tabernacle.
I thought then that to be a brother in any religious order, or a
servant in the church, to sleep under the same roof that sheltered
the head of Christ, to light the candles, to care for his altar, to
serve Mass, all that would be the highest honor and happiness. I
think so now, but I ask nothing. I thought then with self-contempt
how I had toiled to earn money, when the ‘inexhaustible riches of
God’ had lain untouched at my hand; how I had travelled to see the
wonders of the earth, when the wonders of God had appealed to me
in vain. But when daylight came, I treated the whole as a dream, a
mere exaltation of the fancy, and impracticable. I know now that
what I took for a dream is the only reality, and what I thought
reality is but a dream. I resisted the inspiration, and have been
lacerated on the briers of my own obstinacy.”

He paused, looking out toward the west, and in the fine golden
light that was left from sunset, with the new moon and the evening
star half-drowned there, his face looked beautiful. Calmness,
humility, solemnity, and sweetness mingled in its expression.

Edith whispered a low “Well, Dick?” to make him speak again; for he
had, apparently, forgotten her.

“Father John has promised me that I may make a retreat as soon as
he thinks me well enough,” he said, rousing himself at the sound of
her voice. “I do not look beyond that. I do not know anything. I
wait.” And again there was silence.

After a while, Edith said timidly, for he seemed buried in a
reverie, “Do you remember last year, Dick, when we went about the
city, like two strange sight-seers? You said then that the poor and
the suffering looked at you in an asking way different from the
look they gave others. Don’t you think it might have been the Lord
who asked through their eyes?”

“I have not a doubt of it,” he answered.

“Nothing else is of worth!” he said after a minute, as if speaking
to himself--“nothing else is of worth!” And again, “O miserable
waste!”

Presently she spoke again, very softly: “Sometimes, when one has
meditated a long while, everything seems unspeakably good and
beautiful, as if all were in God. A warmth and sweetness flow
around the soul. If your enemy should come to injure you, you
would embrace him. If your friend were taken away from you, you
would smile, and let him go. For, turning to the Lord, you find
all there. Nothing is lost. When you go away, you feel still, and
speak lowly. You want to do something for some one; and, wherever
you look, you see the Lord, and whatever you do is done for him. He
accepts it all, and nothing is small, and nothing is great. If you
see any one suffer, you pity, and try to help, and, perhaps, you
weep; but the agony of pain you feel at other times at the sight of
suffering, you do not feel now. You get a glimpse of the reason why
angels can witness so much pain, yet still be happy.”

Dick, looking out at the sky, smiled. “Yes!” he said, “yes!”

A carriage drove up to the door, Hester’s carriage, come for
Edith. Twilight had fallen softly round them, and their faces were
dim to each other in that curtained chamber.

“My dear friend,” Edith said earnestly, “is there peace between us?”

“All is peace, Edith,” he answered.

“Then, before I go,” she said, “I want you to put your hand on my
head, and say, ‘God bless you!’”

He did as she bade him, laid his hand on her head, and said, “God
bless you for ever! Good-night!”

Both of them knew that good-night meant good-by, yet they parted
with a smile.


CHAPTER XXIX.

EVERYBODY’S CHAPTER.

The family had come to Boston, and were settled in their old
home. The change had not been effected without emotion, and, to
the surprise of all, the one most moved was Mr. Yorke. Whether,
with that noble self-control in which men so much excel women, he
had carefully concealed the real misery of his life in Seaton,
or whether the return to their former home reminded him that it
had been lost by his act, we will not attempt to say, for he did
not. He was silent and very pale, and, as he entered the house,
stood on the threshold a moment, with an expression in his face
which touched the hearts of all. One might read in his look the
consciousness that a great change had passed over him since last he
stood there, and that the return did not bring him the happiness he
had anticipated.

Perhaps nothing in life is more sad than to have a boon long sought
for at length accorded to us, and to find that we have lost the
power to take delight in its possession.

The furniture and baggage had been sent in advance, and Hester and
Edith had superintended the arrangement of everything, so that all
was ready for them. Their last week in Seaton had been spent with
Major Cleaveland, at his house there. He had kept it open for that
purpose, and remained to assist and accompany them, while his wife
and children had preceded him to the city.

Hester went to meet her family at the depot, and Edith stood in the
door when they drove up, and ran joyfully out to embrace them. The
house was bright, and dinner was ready. To Mrs. Yorke, there was
but one blot on the occasion, and that was her son’s absence. But
he had written her with such affection and cheerfulness that she
did not grieve too much. Besides, she expected him soon to return.

Dinner over, Hester and her husband went to their own home, and the
family sat once more together in their old, familiar sitting-room.
The situation was one to provoke emotion or thoughtfulness. Clara
set herself to cheer the company, and put sentiment into the
background.

“The first trouble in changing one’s residence,” she said, “is to
make people remember one’s address. Fortunately, our number, 96, is
peculiar. It is the only created thing I know, except the planets,
which is not changed nor disconcerted by being turned upside down.
Turn it as you will, stand on your head and look at it, tear the
house down, still the number 96 smiles on you unchanged, and as
changeless as a star. It is a very proper number to have on a
house.”

They all sat and looked at her, smiling slightly, glad to be amused.

“The next thing is,” she pursued, “to prevent our friends going to
extremes in making their new estimate of us. They must be made to
comprehend that, though we have positively renounced the German, we
are not Puritans nor ascetics; and that, though we have written, do
write, and mean to write in future, and to put ourselves in print
whenever we feel so disposed, we do not set up as geniuses. Papa,”
she said, suddenly interrupting herself, “why is not the plural of
genius genii? I always want to say genii.”

“They mean about the same thing,” Mr. Yorke remarked; and there was
silence again for a while.

The night was calm, the street quiet, but there was that
unmistakable feeling that a great press of human life is near. It
was not the presence which one feels in the woods, where nature is
obedient to its Maker, and the soul is lifted by the constantly
ascending homage that surrounds it, but a lateral influence,
electrical and exciting, of contending human wills.

Clara was again the one to break silence. “Trees, and toads, and
mosses, and no market, are all very charming for a change,” she
said. “But if one does not live in the city, the city should
be near. A man or a woman without society is no better than a
vegetable. You remember, papa, how Bolingbroke took root among his
trees. And what delights one has in the city! There is music. O
the violins!--the soprano witch among instruments! If Pan invented
the pipe, the original of the organ, then Æolus invented this
instrument of airy octaves. Those old painters were right who put
violins into the hands of their musical angels. Give a violin time
enough, and the music of it will gradually eat up the whole body,
or etherealize it, till some day the musician, touching carefully
his precious film of a Cremona, will find it melt in his hands,
and disappear in a harmonious sigh. Ladies and gentlemen, I should
like to hear this moment a whirlwind of violins, ten thousand, say,
blowing through a vast hall with clustered pillars, and dusky nooks
and reaches, and arches everywhere, and a sultry, fragrant dimness
through it all, and an immense crowd holding their breaths to
listen, and, away up in the roof, little birds perched, as they are
in Notre Dame, at Paris, and trembling with fear and wonder through
all their downy feathers. And when it was over, people would look
at each other, and some would smile, and some laugh out with
delight; and the birds would venture two or three little silvery
peeps, then flutter about as though nothing had happened. Yes, the
city is the place to live in.”

“And then,” said Edith, “one can always go to church.”

Clara immediately gave her cousin an enthusiastic embrace. “Oh! you
darling little bigoted Papist!” she exclaimed.

Melicent, sitting in the chimney-corner, was engrossed in her
own thoughts. She was, perhaps, meditating on that romance of
which Clara had written to Edith. A villainously ugly, but
tenderly-beloved Scotch terrier lay on the hearth-rug, his eyes
fixed on the fire, and seemed to muse. Mrs. Yorke bent toward him,
touched him lightly, and quoted Champfleuri, _apropos_ of cats:
“‘_A quoi pense l’animal qui pense?_’” and added a definition she
had heard somewhere: “‘The brute creation is a syllogism, of which
the conclusion is in the mind of God.’”

This brought them to the point to which their thoughts naturally
tended that evening. God, and the meanings of God, claimed their
attention.

“We are all tired,” Melicent said. “Shall we have prayers now,
papa?”

The Bible was brought, Betsey sent for, and they waited in silence
for Mr. Yorke to begin the reading. He sat with his hand on the
open page, and looked into the fire a moment, then looked at his
wife.

“Amy, I would like, for to-night, to have all my family worship
together,” he said. “After to-night, we can go our different ways.
Let Patrick and Mary and Anne be called in, and, since they cannot
unite with us, let us unite with them. Are you willing?”

Mrs. Yorke blushed with surprise, but made no objection. Melicent
drew herself up, but no one observed her. Mr. Yorke turned
smilingly to his niece. “Well, Edith, if you Catholics will listen
to a chapter from me, I will listen to your prayers, and join in
them as far as I can.”

She did not say anything as she rose to call the servants, but,
in passing her uncle, she laid a loving hand on his shoulder, and
looked her gratitude and delight.

Patrick and the girls had too much confidence in Edith to hesitate,
though they wondered much at her summons. Seated in the midst of
the circle, they listened while Mr. Yorke read a psalm, then they
knelt down. There was a moment’s pause. The Yorkes were accustomed
to sit while their prayers were read. Then Mr. Yorke knelt, and
wife and daughters followed his example, Melicent involuntarily,
and making a motion to get up again as soon as she was down, but
concluding to stay. Episcopalians kneel, she reflected, and she
could mentally kneel with them. Edith led the prayers, and her
tremulous voice conciliated the good-will of the listeners.

It was the first time any of this family had ever assisted at a
private Catholic devotion, and they were astonished to perceive
how every circumstance and need of man was met by this perfect
spiritual science. The devotion was not something apart from life,
but an aspiration and petition from every thought and act of life.
The invocation to the Holy Spirit, the recommendation to place
themselves in the presence of God, the pause for the examination of
conscience, the act of contrition following it, the preparation for
death--a Catholic knows them all, but to a Protestant their effect
is startling.

Never again would their own devotions seem to this family other
than dry and unsatisfying; never would one of them again be in
trouble or danger, but the impulse would be to utter the voice of
Catholic prayer.

In taking up their old life again, the Yorkes were surprised to
find that they had grown more earnest and simple during the years
they had spent in retirement. Mrs. Yorke had lost much of her
love for fashion and luxury, the daughters were astonished at the
frivolity of some of their former pleasures, and Mr. Yorke cared
less for heathen literature, and felt more interest in the poor and
ignorant.

Edith was happy in her religion; but, though she went to Mass every
day when she could, had a mind too enlightened and well balanced to
find her religion only in going to church. She was not in the least
a gushing young lady: hers was a deep and silent enthusiasm which
moved to action rather than speech. The persecution of Catholics
was going on in Massachusetts also, and Governor Gardner and his
motley legislature were making juries the judges of the law as
well as of the facts, and disbanding Irish regiments (which were
allowed to reorganize for 1862), and making a law which would
enable them to send a troop of men to search the dormitories and
closets and cellars of convent schools. But all this troubled Edith
very little. She could laugh at the _Transcript’s_ parody:

    “Half a league, half a league out of the city,
    All to the boarding-school rode the committee:”

and could see how the enemies of the church were covering
themselves with ridicule and disgrace, and securing their own
ultimate defeat.

“They’re hanging themselves! They’re hanging themselves!” Mr. Yorke
would say with glee, at each new extravagance.

When the Yorkes first returned to the city, Melicent’s affairs
chiefly occupied their minds. There was no engagement, and there
had been no private intercourse between her and Mr. Griffeth; but
she had not broken with him entirely, and had requested permission
to receive friendly letters from him. After Mr. Griffeth had
been bound over to commit no act and write no word aggressively
sentimental, this permission was unwillingly given. One of these
friendly missives had come the week after her arrival; and, though
the writer had kept the letter of his promise, he had so broken
the spirit of it that Mrs. Yorke, to whom the letter was dutifully
shown, frowned on reading it, and had a mind to answer it herself.
Melicent, indeed, seemed desirous to alarm her family as much as
possible regarding this affair, and carried herself with such a
conscious, heroine-of-a-novel air as both amused and annoyed her
family.

Among their earliest visitors was the Rev. Doctor Stewart, Mrs.
Yorke’s former pastor and good friend. The mother confided to him
her distress, and besought him to speak to Melicent on the subject.

“She always had a high respect for you and Mrs. Stewart, and would
be influenced by what you say,” she concluded.

The minister made inquiries concerning this suitor’s orthodoxy as a
Universalist.

“He is orthodox in nothing, doctor!” Mrs. Yorke exclaimed. “He
wears his creed as he wears his clothes, changing, when convenient,
the one with as little scruple as the other. He is a moral
Sybarite, who adjusts his conscience comfortably to his wishes, and
looks about with an air of calm rectitude, and an assumption of
pitying superiority over people who are so bigoted as to believe
the same yesterday and to-day.”

“I know the kind of man,” the minister said, with an expression of
severity and mortification. “They are one of the pests of the time,
and a disgrace to the ministry. I will do all I can to separate
Melicent from him.”

Doctor Stewart was a stately gentleman, something over fifty years
of age, gray-haired, rather heavy, and slightly old-fashioned. He
was amiable in disposition, believed that great respect should
be paid to the clergy, wore a white neck-cloth, and was fairly
educated in everything but theology. Since the Yorkes left Boston,
he had lost his wife, an excellent lady several years older than
himself. He was left with three children, a son of nineteen, who
was a student in Harvard College; another son, ten years older,
who was making his fortune in the West; and a daughter, the eldest
of the family, married to a foreign missionary, and industriously
distributing Bibles to the Chinese. Once a month, in the
missionary-meeting, the reverend doctor read a letter from this
daughter, in which she described the great work she was doing, and
asked for more Bibles and money.

This was the gentleman to whose management Mrs. Yorke entrusted her
eldest daughter’s love-affair.

Nothing of their first interview transpired, except that the
minister seemed to be hopeful. Melicent became more inscrutable and
consequential than ever.

About this time, Miss Clara Yorke began to grow exceedingly merry
in her disposition. She would smile in season and out of season,
and burst into laughter without apparent cause. At the mention
of Doctor Stewart’s name, her eyes always began to dance, and at
the sight of him approaching their house her gravity deserted her
immediately. Mrs. Yorke was both astonished and puzzled by her
daughter’s levity.

“I esteem Doctor Stewart very highly,” the lady said. “He is a
dignified and agreeable person. I am glad he feels like running in
here often. He must be lonely at home, for Charles is away during
the day, and studies all the evening. Poor man! The loss of his
wife was a terrible blow to him, but he bears it beautifully.”

The laughter with which Miss Clara was tremblingly full had to be
restrained; for at that moment the door opened to give admittance
to a smiling elderly gentleman in a white neckcloth. But, glancing
at Melicent’s demure countenance a minute after, the young woman’s
mirth became audible.

“Clara, you should, at least, give us the opportunity of sharing
your amusement,” her mother said, rather chidingly.

Clara stammered out that there was a very witty article in the
last _Atlantic_.

“By the way,” the minister said to her pleasantly, “I must
compliment you on a very touching story of yours I have read
lately. It is ‘Silent Rooms.’ I confess to you, Miss Clara, that I
wept over it.”

How exquisite must be the sensibility of that person who weeps over
one’s pathetic stories! Clara looked at the reverend doctor with a
new interest. He certainly had a most beautiful nose, she observed,
and his expression was benign. Moreover, he was a gentleman of good
mind.

“I am delighted by what you tell me, doctor,” she said. “For, while
such emotion is the highest compliment I could receive, it does not
hurt you. Indeed, I thought that sketch would be affecting. I shed
tears myself when I was writing it, and I think that a pretty good
cry-tear-ion to judge by. Beg pardon, papa! I didn’t mean to. It
punned itself.”

The minister then asked her to write a play and a hymn for the
Christmas festival of his Sunday-school.

“I should be delighted to, doctor,” she said, but clouded over a
little. “I am not much in the way of that sort of composition, but
I will try.”

“Then you will succeed.” A bow and a smile accompanied the
assertion.

“Do not be too sure of that,” Clara exclaimed with vivacity. “I
can write easily enough what is in my own mind, but not what is
in other minds; and I haven’t an idea on this subject. I am not a
facile writer when I have nothing to say. When I have no thoughts,
I find it hard to express them.”

“Oh! dash off some little thing,” said the doctor, with a sweep of
the hand, as though he were sowing plays and poems broadcast.

“Dash off some little thing!” repeated the young lady scornfully,
when their visitor had left them. “‘_Dash off!_’ That is all he
knows. I don’t believe he cried over my story!”

“My daughter!” expostulated Mrs. Yorke; but her husband laughed.
Melicent cast an indignant glance on her sister, and went out of
the room. At that, Clara’s hilarity returned.

Carl wrote to his mother often, giving her an account of his
movements. He stayed nowhere long, and every letter concluded with
an announcement of his intention to make a flying visit to some
other place. The descriptions he gave and the adventures he related
were not those of an ordinary sight-seer. “I should think that
the boy were gathering material for a history of the nineteenth
century,” his mother said, and was evidently very proud of him.

But after a while she recollected he had not said that any one
of these flying visits would be his last, and had never answered
plainly her questions as to the time of his return. One day she
suspected the truth. She had just received a letter from Carl,
dated at Nice, in which he hinted at a projected trip to Asia
Minor. After reading the letter through, she dropped it into her
lap, and sat looking out through the window and off into distance.

No one else but Edith was in the room, and she had been attentively
watching her aunt’s face. Seeing that strange look settle on it,
she crossed the room, and seated herself close to Mrs. Yorke’s side.

“Edith,” her aunt said, her eyes still gazing far away, “I think
Carl means to be gone a long while.”

Edith called up her powers of self-control; for the time of
explanation had come.

“He has already been away a long while,” she said. “It is six
months since he went. That is six months taken from the whole.”

Mrs. Yorke’s eyes turned on her niece with a quick searching. “You
know all about it!” she exclaimed, and began to breathe quickly.

“Yes, I know all about it,” was the calm reply; “and I was to tell
you as soon as it should seem best. Carl is making a long journey,
but six months of it are over.”

Mrs. Yorke flung Edith’s hand away. “You knew it, and his own
mother did not!” she exclaimed. “You need not tell me. If Carl
deceived his mother, I wish to hear no more about it.”

She pressed her hands to her heart, which beat with thick,
suffocating throbs.

Nothing but firmness would do. It was necessary to recall her
to a sense of the injustice she was doing, and shame her into
controlling herself, if no better could be done.

“Aunt Amy,” Edith said, “it seems to me that you should question
yourself, rather than reproach others. Never was a woman more
tenderly loved and cared for by her family than you are. Your
husband, your children, your niece, your servants even, are
constantly on the watch lest something should startle or agitate
you. A door must not be slammed, the horses must not be driven too
fast, ill news must be gently broken, you must not be fatigued nor
worried. If we shed tears, we conceal them from you; if one of us
is ill, we make light of it to you. We wish to do this, and do it
with all our hearts, for your life is most precious to us. But I
think that our devotion entails one duty on you, and that is to
look on everything as calmly and reasonably as you can, and not
agitate yourself without cause.”

Mrs. Yorke looked at her niece in astonishment. This tone of firm
reproof was new to her, and, from its strangeness, effective.

“Carl did not deceive you,” Edith went on. “He has told you nothing
but the truth.”

“A half-truth is a lie!” Mrs. Yorke interrupted. “I see plainly in
this the influence of that pernicious Mr. Griffeth. I well remember
one of his sayings: ‘As the doctors give poisons to a sick body,’
he said, ‘so we must sometimes give lies to a sick mind.’ I have a
sick mind, it seems.”

“It is for you to prove whether you have or not,” Edith replied
quietly.

The reproof was severe, and Mrs. Yorke’s heightened color told that
she felt it. She leaned back in her chair, and was silent.

“Carl told me,” Edith said, “because I am healthy, and cannot be
endangered by sorrow; and he knew, too, that I would not require
any man to sacrifice his duty and prospect of a high career merely
that I might have the pleasure of being always with him. When a
man is twenty-nine years old, if he is not going to throw himself
away, and be a miserable failure, it is time for him to go out into
the world, and live his own life. Carl would gladly have told you
all his plans, and it was cruel that he should be obliged to go
away without your blessing, and to carry with him, as he must, this
constant anxiety about you. He was doubtful and unhappy, but did
what he thought was best. He told no one but me. Now, be fair, Aunt
Amy, and ask yourself what you would have done if Carl had come to
you and said that he was going away on a two-years’ journey?”

Mrs. Yorke put her hands over her face, and sat breathing heavily,
and without uttering a word. Edith trembled. Would she see the pale
hands fall nerveless, and her aunt drop dead in her arms? She sent
up a silent prayer to her ever dear Mother of Perpetual Succor,
then gently loosened a golden locket from Mrs. Yorke’s belt, and
opened it.

“Dear Carl!” she said tenderly, kissing the miniature, “how could
your mother misunderstand you so, when your true and loving face
was so close to her heart? Is it only Edith who never mistakes you?”

The frail hands slipped down to hers, as she leaned on her aunt’s
lap, and she looked up to meet a faint and tearful smile.

“You are all so tender, my dear, that I am afraid it makes me
selfish,” Mrs. Yorke said. “Now tell me the whole story. See! I am
reasonable.”

“You are an angel to let me talk so, and not be angry!” Edith
answered joyfully. “Wait till I get you a granule of digitaline;
then I will tell you all about Carl. You will be proud of your son,
my lady.”

A few days after, Doctor Stewart proposed for Melicent, greatly to
her mother’s astonishment. “Why, doctor, I am proud to consent, if
Melicent does,” she said. “But I never dreamed of such a thing!”

“Melicent assures me that, with her parents’ consent, she is
willing to entrust her happiness in my hands,” the minister said.
“She does not find my age any obstacle. You must be aware, indeed,
that your eldest daughter’s disposition is grave and dignified.
My impression is, that the only attraction Mr. Griffeth had for
her was through his clerical office. She has confided to me that
she wrote him a decided dismissal the very day after my first
conversation with her.”

Of course, if Melicent was satisfied, no one else could object; and
Melicent radiated satisfaction.

“I am sure you have chosen wisely, my daughter,” her mother said.

“I never really thought I should marry Mr. Griffeth, mamma,” the
daughter answered, blushing. “And I never said any more to him than
that I would consider his offer.”

That very evening the engagement was tacitly announced to the
public, by Mrs. Yorke and Melicent appearing at a lecture at Music
Hall, escorted by Doctor Stewart. Mr. Yorke, Clara, and Edith
went early, and took seats in the side balcony, overlooking the
platform, where the rest of their party had places reserved.

“It will just suit Mel,” Clara said gleefully. “I saw it from the
first minute, and have been laughing over it all winter, while
you stupid folks never had a suspicion. Mel was cut out for just
such a fate. She likes to be lofty and sphynx-like, and to sit on
platforms with everybody staring at her, and to come sweeping in
at the last minute, and take the highest place. The doctor, too,
is just to her mind. He is tall, and large, and slow. His voice is
sonorous, he has a nice nose and finger-nails, and his neckcloth
compels respect. Oh! there is no fear but Mel will be happy. The
only danger is on our side. For I tell you, papa, those two will
walk over us in their smooth, grand way, if we are not careful. I
must study how to take them down a peg.”

There was a smile in the corners of Mr. Yorke’s mouth, but he spoke
reprovingly. “It doesn’t sound well for you to talk in that way of
your sister, Clara,” he said.

Clara gave a little impatient sigh. “I sometimes wish that I could
not see so plainly the difference between solid people and inflated
people,” she said. “It is a misfortune; but I cannot help it.”

Mr. Yorke said nothing. He had already learned that there was one
point on which he would have to resist encroachment. More than once
he had seen Doctor Stewart turn a severe glance on the shelf where
stood the numbers of _Brownson’s Review_ left by Carl; and only
that day Melicent had proposed that the books should be carried
up-stairs.

“Up-stairs!” Mr. Yorke had repeated. “What for?”

“Why, on account of the doctor,” Melicent had answered,
disconcerted by the sharpness of her father’s astonishment. “He
does not like them, and their being here might lead to unpleasant
controversy.”

The reply had been decisive:

“If Doctor Stewart does not like what he finds in my house, he is
at liberty to remain out of it. And if he should forget himself so
far as to begin any unpleasant controversy, I shall recommend him
to increase his stock of theological knowledge by a careful study
of the same _Review_.”

Mr. Yorke said nothing of this conversation, and Melicent had not
mentioned it; but it was a warning to both.

“Papa,” Clara said, after looking down on the audience awhile,
“did you ever observe how bald heads light up an assembly like
this? They reflect the gas, and have a very cheerful effect.
Oh! there is Mel. Attention! See, the conquering hero comes. My
poor little mother is nearly invisible. Such a small duenna! How
frightfully conspicuous! See the doctor smile, and show them to the
very front chairs, and see the filial manner in which he behaves
to Mrs. Yorke. Suppose he should take to coloring his hair! There!
they are seated at last, after that display, and I must own that
Mel’s stage-manners are very good. If only they would not look so
conscious! Edith, why is Doctor Stewart like a verd-antique? It’s a
conundrum.”

That night, after Melicent had gone to her room, the others sat
talking over the wedding. Doctor Stewart had desired that it might
be soon. Edith proposed to give the trousseau.

“We cannot allow you, my dear,” her aunt said. “Your uncle and I
have something, and Melicent must take what we can give her. You
are too bountiful already!”

Edith drew writing materials toward her, and began to make out a
bill.

  MISS EDITH YORKE,
      _To_ Charles Yorke and family, _Dr._
  To seven years’ board and tuition,                         $7,000
  “    “     “    clothing,                                   1,400
  “ Instruction in her religion,                         20,000,000
  “ Kindness to Father Rasle,                            10,000,000
  “ Never being anything but kind to her,                10,000,000
  “ Sundries,                                            10,000,000
  “ Joining her once in Catholic prayer,    100,000,000,000,000,000
                                          -------------------------
                                           $100,000,000,050,008,400

“I think that is correct,” she said, showing the bill to her uncle.
“I am mathematical in my tastes, you know. I do not like the
dollars, though, the association is so vulgar. We will put it in
some classical gold coin. It shall be rose-nobles.”

Looking in Mr. Yorke’s face as he smiled on her, she exclaimed,
“Uncle, you have a look of my father, now!”

“And you have a look of my brother,” he returned. “Your eyes are
changeful, like his, and your hair has a sunny hue. When you coax,
too, your ways are like his. Robert was very winning.”

She put her arm in his, and looked reproachfully across the table
to her aunt. “And yet,” she said, “you are not willing that I
should give Melicent a few pocket-handkerchiefs to be married with!”

Mrs. Yorke laughed. “You shall give her as many handkerchiefs as
you please,” she said.

       *       *       *       *       *

But what, meantime, of Dick Rowan?

Mrs. Yorke had called at once to see him on her arrival, but he had
already gone to make a retreat, and they did not see him afterward.

The first part of that retreat was to him heavenly; but, when it
came to making definite plans for the future, then he found himself
in cruel doubt.

“Oh! if I could have had a Catholic training in early life!” he
said to Father John. “It seems to me now that heaven has been
within my reach, and has slipped away, without my knowing it. I do
not wish to be presuming. I do not try to think of it; the thought
haunts me.”

“Tell me freely all that is in your mind,” the priest said. “I am
here to help you.”

Dick Rowan’s head drooped, and he spoke rapidly, as if afraid to
speak: “It seems to me, father, that if I had been brought up a
strict Catholic--any sort of Catholic--I should have been--” He
lifted his face, looked at Father John with eyes that could not
bear suspense, and added, “I should have been a priest!”

Then, since he found neither astonishment nor displeasure in that
face, his distress broke forth. “And now, O God! it is too late!”
he said, and wrung his hands.

“You think that you had a vocation, my son?” the priest asked
calmly.

“I believe it!” he answered. “What has my whole life been but a
searching and striving after some great and glorious happiness,
something different from the common happiness of earth, some one
delight which was to be mine here, and still more mine in the world
to come? It was always my way to have but one wish, and to expect
from its fulfilment what nothing on earth can give. I believe, sir,
that when a man has that way of concentrating all his hopes and
desires on one object, that object should be God. Otherwise, there
is nothing but ruin for him. Such an end was once possible to me,
and now it is lost!”

Father John laid his hand on the young man’s. “My son,” he said,
“it is not lost!”

Dick uttered not a word, but gazed steadily into the priest’s face.

“I believe that you have a divine vocation.”

“You believe that I _had_!” Dick cried out sharply.

“I believe that you _have_!” the priest replied.

Dick drew a deep breath, and his pale face blushed all over with a
sudden delight; but said nothing.

“When a man first thinks of choosing God,” the priest said, “he
may mistake. But when God chooses a man, and tears away from him
every other tie, and sets him in a place where he can see nothing
surrounding him but a great solitude filled with God, then there is
no mistake. I believe that God chooses you.”

“God chooses me!” repeated Dick Rowan, blenching a little, like
one dazzled by a great light. “God chooses me!” he said again, and
stood up, as if his swelling heart had lifted him. “Then I choose
him!” He put his hands over his lifted face, and tears of joy
dropped down. Father John, deeply affected, spoke to him, but he
did not hear. He was repeating the words of the marriage-service:
“‘For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do
us’--_unite_!”

The priest spoke afterward to Edith on the subject. Dick had
requested him to tell her and his mother whatever they wished to
know.

“Never was there a soul more ardent and single,” Father John said.
“His only difficulty arose from a tender regard for the honor
of God, and a great reverence for the sacred office. He fancied
that it would be an insult to both for a man to seek to enter the
priesthood of whom people could say that he did so because he was
disappointed in love, and that he gave to God the remnant of a
heart which a woman had rejected.”

“Dick rejected me,” Edith interposed hastily.

“I told him,” the priest resumed, “that if God had called him,
he had no right to think of any coarse and uncharitable remarks
which might be made. I reminded him that his life-long devotion
to you had been a life without faith, and that, after one year in
the church, he had given you up willingly. His idea of the true
priest was this: one for whose sacred vocation his pious parents
had prayed and hoped from the hour of his birth, who had lived
from his childhood cloistered in retirement and sanctity, who had
never cherished worldly hopes or desires, but, walking apart, had
thus approached the altar that had never ceased to shine before him
from the hour of his baptism. I owned to him that such a vocation
is beautiful, and is often seen by men and angels; but told him
that there are others whom the Almighty leads differently. He hides
from such souls that he has sealed them also from the beginning, he
allows them to drag in the mire of earth, to feel its temptations,
to share in its weaknesses. We cannot penetrate the designs of
God, but we may well believe that his motive is to humble that
soul, and to teach it through its own failings a greater pity and
tenderness for the weak and the erring. I warned him that this fear
of his might be a temptation of the devil, who saw that his pride
was not broken, and who pursuaded him that he was jealous for the
honor of God, when in reality he thought but of his own. He was
happy at that. ‘If it is nothing but my own pride,’ he said, ‘I
have no more trouble.’

“And he has no more trouble, my child,” the priest concluded. “He
is the happiest man I ever saw!”




SUPER OMNES SPECIOSA.


    Is any face that I have seen--
      Some perfect type of girlhood’s face:
      Some nun’s, soul-radiant, full of grace--
    Like thine, my beautiful, my Queen?

    Of all the eyes have paused on mine--
      And these have met some wondrous eyes;
      So large and deep, so chaste and wise--
    Have any faintly imaged thine?

    The chisel with the brush has vied,
      Till each seems victor in its turn:
      And love is ever quick to learn,
    Nor throws the proffered page aside:

    Yet few the glimpses it has caught,
      For thou transcendest all that art
      Can show thee--even to the heart
    Most skilled to read the poet’s thought.

    That thought can pierce its native sky
      Beyond the artist’s starry guess:
      But all that it may dare express,
    Is through the worship of a sigh.

    And this thou art, a sigh of love--
      Love that created as it sighed;
      And shaped thee forth a peerless bride
    Dowered for the spousals of the Dove.

    To set the music of thy face
      To earthly measure, were to give
      Th’ informing soul, and make it _live_
    As there--God’s uttermost of grace.




THE MOTHER OF LAMARTINE.[54]


M. de Lamartine tells us in his _Confidences_ that, as the sages
pause for reflection between life and death, so his mother was
in the habit of devoting an interval at the close of the day in
looking back on its vanished hours, and seizing its impressions
before night should have dispersed them for ever.

When all the household had retired to rest, and no sound was to
be heard but the breathing of her children in their little beds
around her, or the howling of the wind against the casement and
the bark of the dog in the court, she would softly open the door
of a little closet of books, and seat herself before an inlaid
cabinet of rose-wood to record the events of the day, pour out her
anxieties and sorrows, her joy and gratitude, or utter a prayer all
warm from her heart. Her son says: “She never wrote for the sake
of writing, still less to be admired, though she wrote much for
her own satisfaction, that she might have, in this register of her
conscience and the domestic occurrences of her life, a moral mirror
in which she could often look and compare herself with what she had
been in other days, and thus constantly amend her life. This custom
of recording what was passing in her soul--a habit she retained
to the end--produced fifteen or twenty little volumes of intimate
communings with herself and God, which I have the happiness to
preserve, and where I find her once more, living and full of
affection, when I feel the need of taking refuge in her bosom.”

Of course, such a journal was not intended for the public eye,
and her son is so conscious of this that, even while editing this
volume of extracts from his mother’s manuscripts, he says it has no
interest but for those who are allied to her by blood or sympathy
of soul, and prays all others to abstain from reading it. M. de
Lamartine’s financial difficulties obliging him to make capital,
not only out of the private emotions and experiences of his own
heart, but even of his family archives, the publication of this
volume was announced previous to his death, but was deferred at his
earnest request.

The interest in everything connected with so eminent a poet, the
charming pictures he has drawn of his mother in his _Confidences_,
and the influence she had in moulding his character, made us look
forward with interest to this work, that we might have a clearer
insight into the soul to which he owed his poetical and imaginative
nature. It is always refreshing and useful whenever one ventures
to lift the veil of a pure soul and allows us to read its passing
emotions. But such a soul should not be exposed to the eye of
curiosity, but only to that of sympathy. To scan such a book--the
outpourings of a mother’s heart, written solely for her own
satisfaction and her children’s--with the cool eye of a critic,
would be as profane as to jeer over the grave of one whose remains
have just been exhumed.

But let every tender, religious heart--especially every maternal
heart--that loves the sweet odor of flowers that still give out
their fragrance when drawn forth from some old drawer in which they
have long lain, reverently open this volume, sacred to all the
outpourings of a mother’s tenderness. In her transparent nature
they can read the unusual strength of the domestic affections, but
a heart large enough to take in the poor and the sufferer of every
grade, a charity that constantly found excuses for the asperities
of others, and a piety that breathed all through her sweet life and
crowned her death.

This book is a new proof of the tender piety and sincere faith
among the old noblesse of France. Madame de Lamartine is worthy
of being classed with the family of the Duke d’Ayen, the La
Ferronnays, and the De Guérins. The simple grace of her style,
the religious element so strongly infused into her daily life,
the development of her emotional nature, and the intensity of her
love for her family, all remind us of Eugénie de Guérin. And like
her, she had one of those sweet, pensive natures that need the
retirement of country life or the shade of the cloister for full
development. They were similarly demonstrative in their affections
and in their piety. And where one loves and follows with anxious
prayer a gifted brother, the other, with the devotedness of St.
Monica, weeps and prays for her son.

M. de Lamartine, after passing one gloomy All Souls’ day in
recollection near his mother’s grave at St. Point, ended it by
taking out the eighteen _livrets_ in which all her thoughts
and feelings had been buried for so many years, and, while the
church-bell was mournfully tolling above her grave as if to
reproach the living for their silence and admonish them to pray
for their dead, he opened these books one after the other, and
read, sadly smiling, but oftener weeping the while. It is with some
such a feeling the reader will follow him. The drama of the heart
is always touching, the genuine tear, even in the eye veiled in
domestic obscurity, always appealing, and in this page of life’s
drama there is many a one dropped. But the eyes from which they
fell are always turned heavenward, and such tears have always a
gleam of heaven in them, without which the sorrows of life would be
unendurable.

       *       *       *       *       *

Madame de Lamartine was the daughter of M. des Roys,
intendant-general of finances to the Duke of Orleans. Madame des
Roys was the under-governess of the children of that prince, and
so great a favorite of the duchess that she was employed as the
confidential agent of the latter during her exile, as we learn
from this volume. After the execution of Philippe Egalité and the
dispersion of his family, the duchess took refuge in Spain. Her
daughter, afterwards known as Madame Adelaide, who displayed so
much character and exerted so great a political influence during
the reign of her brother Louis Philippe, was in a German or Swiss
convent. The duchess, suspicious of Madame de Genlis’ influence
over her daughter, and perhaps fearful she might be made a tool
of the Orleans faction, with whose aims she did not sympathize,
commissioned her devoted follower, Madame des Roys, to bring her
daughter to Spain. Madame des Roys succeeded in her mission. She
embarked at Leghorn about the beginning of January, 1802, and
arrived safely at Barcelona with her charge. Madame de Lamartine,
who had all this from her mother’s lips, says the meeting of the
duchess and Mademoiselle d’Orleans was extremely affecting. Madame
des Roys subsequently returned to France, and died on her estates
in June, 1804, worn out with fatigue, and troubles resulting from
the revolution. She gave her daughter a portrait of Mademoiselle
d’Orleans--a present from the duchess, and Madame de Lamartine
always showed herself loyal to that family. When the poet wrote his
_Chant du Sacre_ without mentioning the Duke of Orleans among the
other members of the royal family, she entreated him with tears to
be mindful of what she owed the family. Lamartine yielded, but with
so ill a grace that his allusion displeased the duke. Madame de
Lamartine, fearful of being thought ungrateful to the family, wrote
Mademoiselle d’Orleans a full explanation of the affair.

But to go back to the time when Madame des Roys was still governess
in the Duke of Orleans’ family. She and her husband had apartments
at that time in the Palais Royal in winter, and at St. Cloud in
summer. It appears Madame des Roys and Madame de Genlis had some
pitched battles in those days, or, as Madame de Lamartine afterward
expresses it, _deux camps opposés_. Madame de Genlis kept up the
grudge after the death of her former rival, and, years after,
severely attacked M. de Lamartine’s poems by way of satisfaction.

Madame de Lamartine was born at the palace of St. Cloud, and passed
her childhood there with Louis Philippe, sharing the lessons and
sports of the Orleans children. All her earliest recollections
were connected with St. Cloud, its fountains, and broad alleys,
and velvet lawns, and lovely park. Many years after (in 1813), she
tells in her journal that, being at Paris, her son drove her to St.
Cloud in a cabriolet, and she thus writes of her visit: “This is
the place where I passed so much of my childhood when my mother was
bringing up the Duke of Orleans’ children. I was very happy there.
I left when fifteen years old, and had not seen the place since,
though I longed to, for I retained a delightful remembrance of it.
I walked all over the park with Alphonse and Eugénie, pointing out
tree after tree where I played when a child. I wished to see our
apartments once more, but it was impossible, as they are occupied
by the Empress Maria Louisa.”

When fifteen years of age, Alix des Roys was nominated by the Duke
of Orleans to a vacancy in the noble Chapter of Salles, where
she was placed under the protection of the Countess Lamartine de
Villars, a canoness of that chapter. The Chevalier de Lamartine,
visiting his sister, fell in love with the beautiful Alix, who is
said to have resembled Madame Récamier, and, instead of embracing
that semi-monastic life, she ultimately married him, March 6, 1790.

We can imagine the contrast between her life in the _maisons de
plaisance_ of one of the wealthiest princes in Europe, and that she
afterward led in a plain country residence a hundred miles from
Paris, and in limited circumstances. She afterward alludes in her
journal to this change: “In my childhood I imagined it impossible
to exist unless at court, in a palace like the Palais Royal, or the
park at St. Cloud, where I lived with my mother. Now, O my God, I
wish to be content in every place where thy will places me!”

But her new home was not without its attractions for a nature like
hers. Leaving the banks of the Saône where it winds among the
fertile hills of Mâcon, and going toward the old Abbey of Cluny,
where Abélard breathed his last, the traveller, turning aside into
a winding mountain-path, comes after an hour or two to a sharp
spire of gray stone towering above a group of peasants’ houses.
Beyond these, nestling in a hollow at the foot of a mountain, is
Milly, familiar to every reader of Lamartine. Five broad steps lead
to the door, which opens into a corridor full of presses of carved
walnut containing the household linen. From it doors open into the
various apartments, and access is had to the one story above. The
mountain almost insensibly begins its ascent directly back of the
house. Its slope is luxuriant with vines, on which depended mainly
the subsistence of the family. A small garden is in the rear of the
house, with its vegetables and flower-beds and clumps of trees,
and its secluded “Alley of Meditation” where Madame de Lamartine
walked at sunset, saying her rosary and giving herself up to holy
recollections.

She seems to have taken Milly at once to her heart. She
affectionately calls it her Jerusalem--her abode of peace. She
often said to her son: “It is very small, but large enough if our
wishes and habits are in proportion. Happiness is from within. We
should not be more so by extending the limits of our meadows and
vineyards. Happiness is not measured by the acre, like land, but by
the resignation of the heart; for God wishes the poor to have as
much as the rich, that neither may dream of seeking it elsewhere
than from him!”

And again she says: “If people were convinced that, by
submissively receiving all the difficulties of the position in
which they are placed, they would be at peace everywhere; they
would allow themselves to be sweetly guided without anxiety by
circumstances and the persons to whom they owe deference. Since
I decided on this, I have been infinitely more happy. There was
a time when I wished everything to yield to me, and absolutely
subordinate to my will. I was then incessantly tormented about
the present and the future. I often saw afterward it would have
been a misfortune to have had my own way. Now I abandon myself
to the Infinite Sovereign Wisdom, I feel at peace exteriorly and
interiorly! God be praised for ever! He alone is wise, and should
overrule all!”

Poor woman, she had enough to try her flexible will. Her husband’s
elder brother, who, according to the ancient _régime_, was regarded
as the head and guide of the family, was not disposed to give up
his rights. He was unmarried, and particularly fond of interfering
in the domestic regulations of the family whose future prospects
somewhat depended on him, particularly those of Alphonse, who was
to perpetuate the name. Another brother, the Abbé de Lamartine,
lived further off, and was, of course, less tempted to interfere,
but seems to have given his voice on extraordinary occasions. And
then there were two unmarried aunts whom Madame de Lamartine seems
to have been attached to, and whom in her charity she calls saints,
but very trying saints they were with their strictures on her
dainty ways, her careful dress, and her indulgence to her children.
To do them justice, however, they all seem to have been sincerely
anxious for the prosperity of the family.

Madame de Lamartine brought up one son and five daughters,
concerning whom she gives many interesting details in her journal.
The daughters appear to have been lovely in person and character.
Their brother has given a delightful description of them in his
_Nouvelles Confidences_, which is confirmed by his mother’s
journal.

But M. de Lamartine makes a very strange mistake in saying his
mother derived her notions of educating her children from the works
of Rousseau (particularly from _Emile_) and St. Pierre, whom he
calls “the favorite philosophers of women because the philosophers
of feeling,” and “whose works,” he says, “she had read and admired.”

Some of Madame de Lamartine’s earliest recollections were certainly
of Gibbon, D’Alembert, Rousseau, and others of the same stamp who
frequented the society of Madame des Roys. She even remembered
seeing Voltaire when but seven years of age, and “his attitude, his
costume, his cane, his gestures, and his words remained imprinted
on my memory as the foot of some antediluvian monster on the rocks
of our mountains.” But she certainly did not esteem these men or
imbibe any of their opinions, and so far from having “_conservé une
tendre admiration pour ce grand homme_,” Jean Jacques Rousseau, as
her son declares, she regarded him with a certain horror, and his
genius as allied to lunacy.

In the first place, Madame de Lamartine seems to have been very
scrupulous about reading dangerous books. In her journal of the
year 1801, she makes a resolution to deny herself all useless
reading for her children’s sake, and declares frivolous books “one
of the most dangerous pleasures in the world.”

Some years after, she visits her son’s chamber, during his absence,
to examine his books. Among others she finds Rousseau’s _Emile_.
She regrets it is “empoisoned with so many inconsistencies and
extravagances calculated to mislead the good sense and faith of
young men. I shall burn this book,” she adds, “and particularly
the _Nouvelle Héloïse_, still more dangerous because it inflames
the passions as much as it warps the mind. What a misfortune that
so much talent should be allied to madness! I have no fears for
myself, for my faith is beyond temptation and not to be shaken; but
my son ----”

And when toward the close of her life she saw by her son’s poem
_Childe Harold_ that he had imbibed the pernicious ideas of
French philosophy, she says: “I knew these famous philosophers
in my youth. Grant, O my God! he may not resemble them. I firmly
represent to him the danger of such ideas, but, in the language of
Scripture, the wind bloweth where it listeth. When a mother has
brought a son into the world, and instilled her own faith into
him, what can she do? Only put her feeble hand continually between
the light of this faith and the breath of the world that would
extinguish it! Ah! I am sometimes proud of my son, but I am well
punished afterward by my apprehensions as to his independence of
mind!

“As for me, to submit and believe seems the only true wisdom in
life. They say it is less poetic, but I find as much poetry in
submission as in rebellion. Are the faithful angels less poetical
than those who rose up against God? I would rather my son had none
of these vain talents of the world than to turn them against the
dogmas that are my strength, my light, and my consolation!”

Madame de Lamartine records a fact concerning Rousseau which is by
no means a proof of her esteem for him. Madame des Roys, from whom
she had it, was very intimate with the Maréchale de Luxembourg.
Previous to the birth of one of Rousseau’s children, the maréchale,
a great friend of his, fearing he would send the child to a
foundling asylum as he had done three others, begged, through a
third person, to have it as soon as it was born, promising to
take care of it. Rousseau gave his consent. The mother was beside
herself with joy, and as soon as the child was born sent word to
the person who was to take it away. He came, found it was a fine,
vigorous boy, and appointed an hour to come for it. But at midnight
Rousseau appeared in the sick-room wrapped in a dark cloak, and, in
spite of the mother’s screams, carried off his son to drop it at
the asylum without a mark by which it could be recognized. “This is
the man whose sensibility so many extol,” said Madame des Roys, and
Madame de Lamartine adds: “And I, I say, here is the unfeeling man
whose head has corrupted his heart! Alas! genius is often only a
prelude to insanity when not founded on good sense. Let us welcome
genius for our children if God bestows it, but pray they may have
sound sense!”

Alphonse was sent at an early age to a secular school at Lyons, the
religious orders not being restored. His mother thus writes:

“November 9, 1801.--To-day I am at Lyons to bring Alphonse back
to school. My heart bleeds. I went to Mass this morning. I was
continually looking for his beautiful fair hair in the midst of
all those little heads. My God! how frightful to thus root up this
young plant from the heart where it germinated, and cast it into
these mercenary institutions. I was sick at heart as I came away.”

In October, 1803, she says: “I have with difficulty obtained
permission from my husband and his brothers to take Alphonse away
from the school at Lyons, and place him at the Jesuits’ College at
Belley, on the borders of Savoy. I came with him myself. I was too
much distressed to write yesterday after confiding him to these
ecclesiastics. I passed half the night weeping.

“October 27.--I went this morning to look through the _guichet_ of
the court of the Jesuits’ College at my poor child. I afterward saw
him at Mass in the midst of the students. He says he is satisfied
with his reception from the professors and his comrades. I went
to-day to see the Abbé de Montuzet, the former prior of my Chapter
of Canonesses at Salles. In the evening I left for Mâcon. In
passing before the college I could see the boys from the carriage
playing in the yard, and heard their joyous shouts. Happily,
Alphonse did not approach the _guichet_ and see my carriage. He
would have felt too badly, and I also. It is better not to soften
these poor children destined to become men. Leaning back in the
carriage, I wept all alone under my veil a part of the day.”

She loved to read the _Confessions of St. Augustine_, and, like St.
Monica, she followed her son with her prayers and tears all through
the vagaries of his early life, trembling for his rich gifts and
susceptible nature. And with how much reason is evident from his
own account. How much more she continually desired his spiritual
welfare than his success in the world is evident throughout this
work. In the first flush of his fame as a poet, she writes:

“January 6, 1820.--Nothing new at Paris, except I am told Alphonse
is received with distinction in the best society, where his
appearance and talents have excited, according to my sister, Madame
de Vaux, a kind of enthusiasm. She mentions the names of many whose
mothers I knew in my youth who overwhelm him with cordiality--the
Princess de Talmont, the Princess de la Trémouille, Madame de
Raigecourt (the friend of Madame Elizabeth), Madame de St. Aulaire,
the Duchess de Broglie (Madame de Staël’s daughter), Madame de
Montcalm (the Duke de Richelieu’s sister), Madame de Dolomieu, whom
I knew so well at the Duchess of Orleans’; then there are many
eminent men who eagerly proffer their friendship to him who was
so obscure but yesterday--the young Duke de Rohan, the virtuous
Mathieu de Montmorency, M. Molé, M. Lainé, said to be such a great
orator, M. Villemain, the pupil of M. de Fontanes, whom he sees
at M. Decazes’, the king’s favorite, and a thousand others. Thou
knowest, O my God! how proud I am of this unexpected cordiality
toward my son, but thou knowest also that I ask not for him what
the world calls glory and honor, but to be an upright man, and one
of thy servants like his father: the rest is vanity, and often
worse than vanity!”

And when, still later, she goes to Paris, and meets the
distinguished circle in which he moved, is received by Madame
Récamier with her incomparable grace, and hears Châteaubriand, one
of her favorite authors, read, and sees the prestige which her son
had acquired, she confesses to a feeling of gratification at his
fame, but adds: “I pray God for something higher than all this for
him.”

But to return to her life at Milly. The tenderness of her nature
was not confined to her own family, but was always responsive to
every appeal.

To quote from her journal: “I was told after dinner that a
friendless old man, whom I saw after, that lived in a hut on the
mountain, with only a goat for a companion, had just been found
dead. The news greatly distressed me, for I had reproached myself
for not having gone to see him lately--it was so far. It is true I
thought he had recovered, but I should not have trusted to that
at his age. I ought to have been more attentive to him. My heart
is full of remorse. In the good I do, and in everything, I am not
persevering enough. I grow weary too soon and too frequently. I
am too easy led away by distractions or weariness, which are not
sins, but weaknesses, and hinder from a holy use of time. Was not
time given us that every day and hour something might be done for
God, both in ourselves and for others? I went to walk this evening
with my husband and two eldest daughters. We went through the
vineyard, now in bloom. The air was perfumed with their pleasant
odor. Our vines are our only source of income for ourselves, our
domestics, and the poor. If there are as many bunches of grapes as
of blossoms, we shall be quite well off this year. May Providence
preserve them from hail!

“We approached the hut above the vineyard where the poor old man
died in the morning. I wished to enter it once more in order to
pray beside him. My husband was not willing, fearing the sight of
him would make too great an impression on me and the children.
I wished to ask pardon of his soul for not having been there to
utter some words of consolation and hope during his agony, and to
receive his last sigh. The door was open: his goat kept going out
and in, bleating as if to call assistance in its distress. The poor
creature made us weep. My husband consented for me to send for it
to-morrow after the burial, and give it a place with our cow and
the children’s two sheep.”

Another day she writes: “I went to see an old demoiselle of eighty
years, who lives on an annuity in one of the upper chambers of
the château. Her only companion is a hen, who is as attached to
her as a tame bird. She is called Mademoiselle Félicité. In spite
of her wrinkles and hair as white as the wool on her distaff,
it is evident she must have been very handsome once. My husband
has consented to my wish not to disturb her in spite of the
inconvenience it causes us. Old plants must not be transplanted.
The places where we live become truly a part of ourselves. She is
taken care of by Jeanette, the sexton’s wife, once a servant at the
château, and who knows all its past history: we love to hear about
those who lived before us in the same dwelling. All this excites
to reflection. Some day I shall be spoken of as having been, and
perhaps the day is not far off! My God, where shall I then be?
Grant it may be in thy paternal arms!”

The means of the family seem to have been quite limited during the
first years of her married life. This made them anxious as to the
vintage on which their income chiefly depended. She thus writes:
“The day has been unfortunate. There have been several showers,
and the hail has crushed our vines. This is more distressing, for
they were loaded with grapes. My heart is very heavy to-night on
our own account and that of our poor vinedressers. This shows how
much I still involuntarily cling to the things of earth. It is as
if I thought happiness due me, for the least affliction immediately
casts me down. My God! make me realize at last the nothingness of
the things of this world, that I may set my heart only on those
that are eternal!”

And later: “The will of God be done! These were the last words
I wrote in my journal at the last date. They are the first on
to-day’s page. The great storm yesterday was a terrible misfortune
to us. The hail completely destroyed our harvest. We should have
had a fine crop, and now there remains scarcely enough for our
poor laborers to exist on. I am ill with sorrow and anxiety. This
misfortune will oblige us to make retrenchments and privations.
All our plans to go to Mâcon for the education of our children
are frustrated. We shall probably have to sell our horse and
_char-à-bancs_. But it is the will of God: this ought to be
sufficient to console me for everything. The fewer pleasures I
have in the world, the less I shall cling to it, and the more I
shall look forward to that world which alone is important and
imperishable--our eternal home. Nothing hardens the heart and so
fills it with illusions as prosperity, and what seems hard to
human nature is perhaps a very great grace from God, who wishes
us to cling to the only real treasures by depriving us of what is
only dust. I can say this with more sincerity to-day: yesterday
the blow seemed too hard. My husband showed great courage--more
than I--though he was greatly distressed for the moment. He said:
‘Provided neither your nor our children are taken away from me, I
can resign myself to anything. My riches are in your hearts.’ Then
he prayed with me. Meanwhile we could hear the noise of the hail
which was breaking the branches and the glass, and the peasants in
the court sobbing in despair.”

As in all the old patriarchal Catholic families, Madame de
Lamartine was not unmindful of the spiritual interests of her
servants: “After dinner, which is at one, I read, then sewed
awhile, after which I read a meditation on the Gospel to my
domestics. I am going presently to end the day at the church, whose
dim light inspires devotion and recollection. It is there I fill
the void during my husband’s absence.”

“September 5, 1802.--We have just established family prayers. It is
a very impressive and salutary practice, if, as the Scripture says,
we wish like brethren to dwell together in unity. Nothing elevates
the hearts of servants so much as this daily communion with their
masters in prayer and humiliation before God, who knows neither
great nor small. It is also good for masters, who are thus reminded
of their Christian equality with their inferiors according to the
world.

“My poor aunt, who took care of me in my infancy, is dead. I
am extremely uneasy about the fate of poor old Jacqueline, her
femme-de-chambre, who was a second mother to me, and is now left
alone, and perhaps poor. I wish at whatever cost to receive her
here. The family are opposed. My husband fears, and with reason, to
contradict his brothers and sisters, on whom we rely a good deal
for our children. He proposes to pay secretly Jacqueline’s board in
a house at Lyons, where she will no longer lack food and care, but
I would like to fulfil my obligations of gratitude toward this poor
woman to their utmost extent. If I were in her place, and she in
mine, nothing would prevent her from receiving me, even in her bed.”

The domestics of the old families in France seemed to have been
regarded as a part of the family. Service was almost hereditary,
and a bond on both sides. In the French Revolution, nine out of
ten of those proscribed by law who escaped were saved by the
devotedness of their domestics. Madame de Lamartine shows how
fully she regarded the tie that bound her to every member of her
household as a sort of spiritual relationship.

“Palm-Sunday, 1805.--There is a great commotion in town and
country. The emperor arrives to-day with all his court. We are
_très gênés_, because we are to lodge Mgr. de Pradt, Bishop of
Poitiers (the emperor’s chaplain; since Archbishop of Malines, so
celebrated for playing the courtier at that time, and _for his
subsequent ingratitude towards Napoleon after his fall_). I prefer
this guest to any other of the retinue.”

Of course the parenthetical clause is by M. de Lamartine. It
seems Mgr. de Pradt was not wholly ungrateful to the emperor, for
the declaration issued by the allied sovereigns at the Congress
of Laybach in 1821, so insulting to the memory of Napoleon,
called forth from the Archbishop of Malines the following noble
protestation:

“It is too late to insult Napoleon now: he is defenceless, after
having so many years crouched at his feet while he had the power
to punish. Those who are armed should respect a disarmed enemy.
The glory of a conqueror depends, in a great measure, on the just
consideration shown toward the captive, particularly when he
yields to superior force, not to superior genius. It is too late
to call Napoleon a revolutionist after having, for such a length
of time, pronounced him to be the restorer of order in France, and
consequently in Europe. It is odious to see the shaft of insult
aimed at him by those who once stretched forth their hands to him
as a friend, pledged their faith to him as an ally, sought to prop
a tottering throne by mingling their blood with his.

“This representative of a revolution which is condemned as a
_principle of anarchy_, like another Justinian, drew up, amid
the din of war and the snares of foreign policy, those codes
which are the least defective portion of human legislation, and
constructed the most vigorous machine of government in the whole
world. This representative of a revolution, vulgarly accused of
_having subverted all institutions_, restored universities and
public schools, filled his empire with the masterpieces of art, and
accomplished those stupendous and amazing works which reflect honor
on human genius. And yet, in the face of the Alps which bowed down
at his command; of the ocean subdued at Cherbourg, at Flushing, at
the Helder, and at Antwerp; of rivers smoothly flowing beneath the
bridges of Jena, Serres, Bordeaux, and Turin; of canals uniting
seas together in a course beyond the control of Neptune; finally,
in the face of Paris, metamorphosed, as it was, by Napoleon, he
is pronounced to be the agent of general annihilation! He, who
restored all, is said to be the representative of that which
destroyed all! To what undiscerning men is this language supposed
to be addressed?”

Napoleon himself at St. Helena, though he censured Mgr. de
Pradt’s course as ambassador at Warsaw, regarded the tribute he
subsequently paid him as an _amende honorable_.

Las Cases, alluding to his notes from the emperor’s statements
and those about him, says: “I, however, strike them out in
consideration of the satisfaction I am told the emperor
subsequently experienced in perusing M. de Pradt’s concordats.
For my own part, I am perfectly satisfied with numerous other
testimonies of the same nature, and derived from the same
source.”[55]

It was during this visit of Napoleon at Mâcon he held some
conversation with M. de Lamartine [the poet’s uncle] in Mgr. de
Pradt’s presence. “What do you wish to be?” said the emperor at the
close. “Nothing, sire,” was the reply. The emperor turned away
with a look of anger.

“Lyons, April 26, 1805.--I came here with my sister to see the
Pope. I saw him pass from the terrace of a garden near the
archevêché where he stops. Yesterday I went to the Pope’s Mass
at St. Jean’s Church. I had a good view of all the ceremonies,
but found it difficult to reach the throne in order to kiss his
slipper. However, I had this happiness. This aged man has the
aspect of a saint, as well as some of the Roman prelates who were
with him, especially his confessor.”

“May 12, 1805.--Our fortunes are improving. My husband has just
bought M. d’Osenay’s hôtel at Mâcon. The garden is small, but the
house is immense. We are furnishing it, and shall take possession
of it this summer. My husband allows me six hundred francs a month,
and all the provisions from our two estates, for the household
expenses, and to pay for Alphonse’s board [at school]. This is more
than sufficient. I cannot cease to admire the providence of God
toward us, and am ever ready to give up all he bestows on me when
he wishes and as he wishes.”

There is an interesting description of this new home in the
_Nouvelles Confidences_, and of the circle of friends whom they
drew around them. Madame de Lamartine desired this change for the
benefit of her daughters, but her own tastes inclined her to the
retirement of the country.

She thus writes September 7: “I am again at St. Point, which I
prefer to any other residence in spite of the dilapidation of the
château. I long for a still more profound retreat--a moral one. We
must from time to time enter into the solitude and silence of our
own hearts.”--“It seems to me if I were free I would consecrate
myself entirely to God, apart from the world. But we are always
wishing for something different from the will of God. Is it not
better to desire only his will?”

She describes the life she leads with her daughters as almost
conventual. They all go to Mass every morning. After breakfast
they read the Bible or some religious book, and then resume
their studies--history, grammar, etc. After dinner and an hour’s
recreation, they sew and study. At nightfall they say the Rosary
together, and in the evening she plays chess with her husband, and
sometimes reads one of Molière’s comedies. “I see no harm in it,”
she says with her characteristic delicacy of conscience. “I skip
every dangerous word.” They finally have family prayers, at which
she improvises a short meditation aloud. Her great object, she
says, is to cultivate a genuine spirit of piety in her children,
and to keep them constantly occupied.

“September, 1807.--I am enjoying the seclusion at Milly alone with
my children. Madame de Sévigné is my society. I took a long walk
to-night on Mount Craz, above the vineyard back of the house. I was
all alone. I take pleasure in such long strolls at this hour in
the evening. I love the autumn time, and these walks with no other
company but my own thoughts. They are as boundless as the horizon
and full of God. Nature elevates my heart, and fills it with a
thousand thoughts and a certain melancholy which I enjoy. I know
not what it is, unless a secret consonance of the infinite soul
with the infinity of the divine creation. When I turn back and see
from the heights of the mountain the little lights burning in my
children’s chamber, I bless Divine Providence for having given me
this peaceful, hidden nest in which to shelter them!

“I finish always with a prayer without many words, which is like an
interior hymn, which no one hears but thee, O Lord! who hearest the
humming of the insects in the tangle of furze which I tread under
my feet.”

“Milly, April 11, 1810.--I passed the night here with Cécile and
Eugénie. The weather is fine, and I longed to enjoy a pleasant
spring morning which I find delicious. As soon as I rose I went
into the garden, where I passed three hours reading, praying,
meditating, thanking God for his benefits, and endeavoring to
profit by them. The weather is lovely, the trees are full of buds
and blossoms which perfume the air. The leaves are beginning to put
forth, the birds to sing, the little insects to hum. Everything in
nature is reviving and being born again. I am inexpressibly happy
when I can be at peace in the country at this sweet time of early
spring. Unfortunately I am obliged to return to town for I know not
how long, but I wish only the good pleasure of God, and my only
desire is to fulfil my duty wherever he calls me.

“Ah! how much I have to reproach myself for. I go to extremes
in everything. In the world I am too worldly, in retirement too
austere. Present surroundings have too sensible an effect. I am not
well. I offer my sufferings to God. I pray a little. I read a good
deal. I am extremely impressed by the shortness of life, and the
necessity of preparing for eternity. I often endeavor to be fully
penetrated with what I remember to have once written--that this
life must be regarded as a purgatory, and whatever sufferings the
good God sends I should look upon as sweet in comparison with what
I merit.

“What makes me tremble is the establishment of my six children,
and all the difficulties I foresee in this respect. But this
anticipated trouble is wrong; for, after the assistance of God in
so many circumstances, I ought to expect it still more in this the
great object of my life.”

In fact, she succeeds wonderfully in disposing of her daughters
_à la Française_, and, to our American eyes, they are wonderfully
docile, but perhaps edifyingly so. Her lovely daughters all marry
gentlemen who are so fortunate as to have the particle _de_ to
their names--a thing of vast moment with the French gentry.

One of them, Césarine, a dazzling beauty of the Italian style and
said to have a lively resemblance to Raphael’s Fornarina, has
her little romance, which her mother favors, but the fates frown
adversely in the person of _la famille_, to wit, the formidable
uncles and aunts. How poor Madame de Lamartine ever got such a jury
to agree on the sentence of any suitor is no small proof of her
talent for diplomacy. In this case the objection was for pecuniary
reasons only, for the _de_ was not wanting--“de misérables raisons
de société,” says the mother, who adds: “They would not be very
rich, but I could keep them at home. I am obliged to conceal from
my husband’s family my inclination for this marriage; but, if I did
not oppose them sometimes, I should never get my children married.”

In this instance she was at last forced to yield, and tell the
aspirant, but not without tears, that Césarine could not marry
him. “The family is obstinate in its refusal. I am in despair.
The young man still hopes against all hope.” Luckily--at least
luckily for the family peace--Césarine, though sad, is touchingly
submissive--the lovers are separated for ever. The chivalric
Alphonse tells his sister not to do violence to her feelings--that
he will take her part against the whole set; but the gentle maiden
declares--we persist in believing, in our fondness for a bit of
sentiment, that she made a virtue of necessity in view of those
Gorgons and chimeras dire--declares her attachment rather a feeling
of gratitude for the love that had been given her, and that she is
ready to marry without repugnance the estimable man destined to
replace the one she has lost!

Nothing more could be said. She marries unexceptionably--M. de
Vignet, the nephew of the celebrated Count de Maistre, author
of _Du Pape_, and goes to Chambéry to become a member of a very
distinguished family. She died a few years after.

Some years later, Madame de Lamartine records a visit from the
discarded suitor of six years before. “We did not speak of
Césarine, but his very presence and tender manner said enough. I
cried heartily.”

In 1824, she records the affecting and edifying death of her
daughter Suzanne, whose loss, as well as that of Césarine, her
affectionate nature never recovers from. Her heart seems now to
turn more fully toward heaven. The latest records in her journal
evince a constantly increasing devotional frame of mind. The
surviving daughters are all married, and her son’s prospects
extremely flattering. She says: “I should be a happy mother had
I not lost two flowers from my crown. Ah! what a void their loss
makes when I walk here in the garden in the evening, and yearn to
see them and hear their voices. I must detach myself more and more
from the world in spite of myself.

“I have this year formed the habit of going to Mass before light.
It is better to snatch the first moments of the day from the bustle
and pleasures of the world, and first render to God the things
that are God’s, and then to the world what belongs to the world. I
sometimes find it hard to go out in all kinds of weather from my
warm room to attend what is called the servants’ Mass, to which the
poor go; but are we not all poor in divine grace, and all servants
to our parents, our husbands, and our children? I am abundantly
repaid by the recollection I feel in the dim church, the fervor
of my prayers, and the calmness and strength I derive from the
Divine Presence which accompanies me throughout the day after thus
fulfilling a paramount obligation.”

Only a short time before the dreadful accident that caused her
death, Madame de Lamartine thus reviews her past life, as if
conscious of her approaching end:

“Milly, October 21, 1829.--To-day the birth-day of my first-born.
I am here alone, and have consecrated the day to meditation to
strengthen my soul and prepare it for death. How many times in
my life I have paced up and down this alley of meditation, where
no one can see me from the house, with my rosary in my clasped
hands, meditating or praying! Alas! what would have become of me in
all my interior and exterior trials had God not visited me in my
meditations, and suggested holier and more consoling thoughts than
my own! It is a great grace to have this facility for recollection
in God, which has inclined me almost every day of my life to
consecrate some hours, or at least some minutes, in thinking
exclusively of him. He loves these heart-to-heart appeals to his
divine compassion. He inclines his ear to listen to the pulsations
of the pious heart that turns toward him! I felt this more than
ever to-day, and came away all bathed in tears, without perceiving
it while walking in the alley. It seemed as if my whole life passed
before me, and before him who is my Creator and Judge!

“Oh! may his judgment, which is approaching, be merciful.

“I saw myself, as if but yesterday, a child playing in the broad
alleys of St. Cloud; then, still young, a canoness, praying and
chanting in the Chapel at Salles, undecided whether to make my
vows like my companions, and consecrate my whole life to praising
God in a place of retreat between the world and eternity; I saw my
husband, young and handsome, come in his rich uniform to visit his
sister, Madame de Villars, the canoness, under whose care I had
been placed because she was older and more reasonable than I. I saw
his attention was particularly directed to me above all the rest,
and that he profited by every opportunity of visiting his sister
at the chapter. As for me, I was struck with his noble features,
his somewhat military air, his frankness of expression, and a
haughtiness that seemed only to unbend toward me; I remember the
emotion of joy shut up in my heart when he at length asked through
his sister if I would consent to his demanding me in marriage;
then, our first interview in his sister’s presence, our walks in
the environs of the chapter with the elder canonesses, his openly
expressed wish to marry me, and the continued opposition, and
the many tears shed in the presence of God during three years of
uncertainty to obtain the miracle of his family’s consent, which
appeared impossible; finally, our years of happiness in this poor
solitude of Milly, then much more humble than at present; my
despair when, scarcely married, he desperately sacrificed all, even
me, to fulfil his duty at Paris, defending as a simple volunteer
the palace of the king on the 10th of August: the divine protection
which enabled him to escape covered with blood from the garden
of the Tuileries, his flight, his return here, his imprisonment,
my apprehensions as to his life, my visits to the wicket of the
prison, where I took my son to kiss him through the bars; my
walking with my child in my arms, through the streets of Lyons and
Dijon, to appeal to the rude representatives of the people, a word
from whom was life or death to me; the fall of Robespierre; the
return to Milly, the successive births of my seven children, their
education, their marriages, the vanishing of those two angels from
earth, for whose loss the remainder cannot console me!

“And now the repose after so much weariness! Repose, yes, but old
age also, for I am growing old, whatever they say. These trees that
I planted; the ivy I set out on the north side of the house that my
son might not tell an untruth in his _Harmonies_ where he describes
Milly, and which now covers the whole wall from the cellar to the
roof; these walls themselves covered with moss; these cedars which
were no higher than my daughter Sophie when she was four years of
age, but under which I can now walk--all this tells me I am growing
old! The graves of the old peasants whom I knew when young, which
I pass as I go to church, tell me plainly this world is not my
abiding-place. My final resting-place will soon be prepared. I
cannot refrain from tears when I think of leaving all, especially
my poor husband, the faithful companion of my early years, who is
not feeble, but suffers and needs me now to suffer, as he once
needed me to be happy! My children, my dear children! Alphonse, his
wife, by her affection and virtue, a sixth daughter; Cécile and her
charming children, a third generation of hearts that love and must
be loved! And then those who are wanting, but who follow me like
my shadow in the Alley of Meditation! Alas! my Césarine, my pride
on account of her marvellous beauty, buried far away behind that
Alpine horizon which continually recalls her remembrance! Alas! my
Suzanne, the saint who wore too soon the aureola on her brow, and
whom God took from me that her memory might be for me an image of
one of his angels of purity! Dead or absent ones, I am here alone,
having borne my fruit--some fallen to the ground like that of
yonder trees, and others removed far from me by the Husbandman of
the Gospel! Ah! what thoughts attract me, pursue me in this garden,
and then force me to leave it when they cause my heart and my eyes
to overflow! Ah! this is truly my Garden of Olives!

“O my Saviour! has not every soul such a garden? Alas, yes! this
was my garden of delights--and now it is laid waste and desolate.
It is my Garden of Olives where I come to watch before my death!
And yet it is dear to me, in spite of the vacancies time and death
have made around me, even while seeking beneath yonder linden-trees
for the white dresses of my children, and listening for their gay
voices exclaiming over an insect or a flower in their border!

“What had I done that God should bestow on me this corner of the
earth, and this small house, of whose size and barrenness I was
sometimes ashamed, but which proved so sweet a nest for my numerous
brood? Ah! his name be blessed! his name be blessed! and after me
may it still shelter those who will always be a part of me.

“But I hear the bell at Bussières ringing the Angelus.

“Let us leave all this--it is better to pray than to write. I will
dry my tears, and all alone in my alley I will say the rosary, to
which my little daughters used to respond as they followed me, but
which only the sparrows in their nests and the falling leaves now
hear. No; no, no, it is not good to give way too much to tears. I
must keep my strength for duties to be accomplished--for we have
duties even on the death-bed.

“It is the will of God! Let us abandon ourselves to him entirely!
The only true wisdom consists in this--to resign ourselves to his
adorable will. I have been busying myself here in putting in order
my old journals, which has led me to look them over with interest.
This always fills me with fresh gratitude for all the grace I have
received from God, and with regret for my little progress in piety,
after all the good resolutions and reflections I have so often
made, but with so little profit. But there is time, always time,
while God gives us life, to profit by it to prepare for heaven.
This is what I beg him with my whole heart as I finish this book,
praying him to shed on me, and on all who belong to me, abundant
spiritual blessings. As to temporal blessings, I only ask for them
as far as they may be necessary for gaining heaven, but I abandon
myself with all my heart to his paternal decrees. May he bless me
in my children, in my friends, in all who have loved me, and whom I
have so much loved on earth!”

These are the last words Madame de Lamartine wrote in her journal.
Some days after, in entering a bath, she found the water too cool,
and turned the faucet. The boiling water dashed up on her chest.
She fainted. Her cry was heard, but it was too late. She was
removed to her chamber. Consciousness returned, and she lived two
days. During her last hours she constantly exclaimed: “How happy
I am! How happy I am!” Being asked why, she replied: “For dying
resigned and purified.”

Her son was at Paris, and did not arrive till after the funeral.
Remembering her wish to be buried at St. Point, he had her removed.
The grave was opened at midnight, one cold night in December, when
the ground was covered with snow.

The peasants, whom she loved and who loved her, took turns in
carrying the bier eight leagues, her son on foot behind. Not
a word, not a whisper, was to be heard on the way. When they
approached Milly, between two and three o’clock in the morning, all
the peasants stood in their door-ways, with pale faces and tearful
eyes, holding lamps in their trembling hands. They all came out to
follow the procession to Milly, where her coffin was placed for a
while at the entrance, on the very benches where every morning sat
the needy to whom she used to distribute food or medicine.

All the sobbing crowd came up to sprinkle her body with holy water
and utter a prayer.

M. de Lamartine afterward built a chapel over the grave of his
mother at St. Point, which bears on its cornice the inscription:

“SPERAVIT ANIMA MEA.”

FOOTNOTES:

[54] _Le Manuscrit de Ma Mère; or, Extracts from the Journal of
Madame de Lamartine._ Edited by her Son. Hachette & Co., Paris.
1871.

[55] See Abbott’s _Napoleon_.




A QUARTER OF AN HOUR IN THE OLD ROMAN FORUM DURING A SPEECH OF
CICERO’S.


  A PASSAGE FROM CICERO’S SPEECH IN SUPPORT OF L. LICINIUS
      MURENA’S CANDIDACY FOR THE CONSULATE, AGAINST THAT OF SERVIUS
      SULPICIUS--TWENTY YEARS BEFORE CICERO’S ASSASSINATION--CICERO
      AND C. ANTONY BEING CONSULS--SIXTY-TWO YEARS BEFORE CHRIST.

Introductory Note: Servius Sulpicius was perhaps the most eminent
practitioner of his day in that branch of the law which belongs
to the “special pleader” and the “conveyancer”; but so little of
a speaker that he would not venture alone to recommend his own
cause or to urge his claims before the Roman people. He employed
Cneius Postumius, then very young, and Marcus Cato, a most weighty
orator, whose character, however (and a reputation for unswerving
principle and the austerest virtues), had a larger share than
the mental power of his words in securing to them influence and
authority. It was less important what Cato said than that it had
been said by Cato. How very different was the case with Hortensius!
A stranger, whose face, whose name, not one of the audience knew,
fitly delivering any of Hortensius’ harangues, would have commanded
attention from the first, retained it to the last, raised many an
interrupting tempest of applause during its progress, and left,
when he had finished, a powerful, a formidable impression.

Hortensius was that Bolingbroke of the Roman Forum to whom the
huge and intelligent assemblies he addressed were what the organ is
to a Smart or the violin to a Sivori. He had hewn a lane through
many a group of brilliant opponents and rivals, with an Excalibar
forged by genius and by study _together_ (and few at last cared to
face the weapon), to the very throne of contemporary eloquence.
And there, for years, he sat at ease, _a king_. A suitor despaired
of his cause beforehand upon learning that Hortensius had been
retained on the other side. Of course, his wealth had become
enormous, and his indirect influence (for, although he had had his
year of the Consulate, he cared not very much about politics) was
an element, a “quantity,” which had to be taken into account by
statesmen and generals, by the senate, and by the consuls.

In the case of “Sulpicius against Murena” (Murena had defeated
Sulpicius in the canvass for the ensuing year’s Consulate, and this
was a prosecution of revenge to unseat the future and “designated”
chief magistrate), Murena had retained Hortensius, M. Crassus,
afterwards the Triumvir, _and Marcus Tullius Cicero_. Now, during
about ten years past, Hortensius--although speaking with the same
charm and the same glamour as ever--had ceased to sit upon the
throne or to wear the crown of eloquence. A far mightier spirit, a
far finer genius, a far deeper student--a master upon whom _his_
competent and appreciative glance rested with an admiration at
once boundless and _hopeless_--had, after a gallant struggle on his
part, so utterly eclipsed him that there was now a greater distance
between Tully and Hortensius than there ever had been between
Hortensius himself and those accomplished but defeated competitors
to whom Hortensius had long been a wonder and a despair.

Cicero, however, had passed a sleepless night before the day of
this trial: his voice almost failed him; he looked haggard; his
nerves had, for the moment, given way, and with them his presence
of mind. In charm of manner, in vigor of delivery, in clearness
and percussion of utterance, in external grace, and dignity,
and ease, his ancient rival for once surpassed him; nay, till
the respective speeches were reported, and could be compared on
perusal, Hortensius created the illusion that he had at last, in
_all_ respects, overtaken his victor, and would yet again contend
for the palm of pre-eminence.

This never was to be. The broken heart of the only orator known to
human records, who might _perhaps_ have performed such a task, had
then been mouldering for three centuries in a small island of the
Ægean Sea. We have bored the reader enough about the advocates,
and have mentioned also _what_ Servius Sulpicius, the prosecutor,
was. The defendant, L. Licinius Murena, was, on the other hand, a
distinguished soldier. He had served as a sort of adjutant-general
to the famous Lucullus in that series of campaigns by which he had
greatly reduced, without overthrowing (a task reserved for Pompey),
the power of Mithridates. Except Hannibal, and perhaps Antiochus
(we do not reckon Pyrrhus, for Rome was in the gristle then), no
enemy had ever waged so formidable a warfare against the Romans
as Mithridates. He was a winged beast. How his fame remains! What
parties and excursions you Crimean gentlemen made to the spot where
his ashes are supposed to have been inurned and intempled! Lord
of every seaboard of Pontus and the Euxine, and lord of the “Evil
Sea” itself; of ten thousand rich cities; of five hundred strong
fortresses; of five hundred thousand armed men; of horses enough
to mount the hordes of a Genghis Khan; of half-a-dozen numerous,
adventurous, and well-found fleets; of treasures uncounted and
uncountable; adroit, bold, proud, insatiably enterprising; no mean
captain; an object of worship to his followers; magnificent and
munificent; an implacable hater of the Roman name; the long-alight,
far-flaming meteor of the East--he threatened to shake hands in
Spain, across all Europe, with Sertorius; to make the shores of
Italy quake at the white clouds of his sails, and to teach the
waters of the Atlantic as well as those of the Levant to know
either the sceptre or the sword of Mithridates. It was no child’s
play to bring this potentate to the dust.

Against such a potentate, in the post next to that of the
commander-in-chief (who happened, besides, to be a great general),
Murena had served for years with the most brilliant efficiency and
distinction.

Sulpicius, among other things (alleged bribery, etc.), had sneered
at the presumption of Murena, a man “who had been principally
with the army” and out of Rome, in entering into competition
with, or daring to come forward as the rival of, a person of his,
Sulpicius’, dignity, learning, and professional station, standing,
rank.

We have said enough--perhaps too much--to frame the little picture
which we want to present to our readers; to set it near the right
window as you pass. That little picture is the argument in which
Cicero (_who was on terms of personal intimacy with the prosecutor,
as well as with his gallant client_) firmly questions--yet
questions with the most exquisite urbanity--the rather exorbitant
pretensions of Sulpicius, the “learned conveyancer and special
pleader,” to a higher consideration than “ought to be, or
could be,” allowed to the instruction, the knowledge of many
sorts (geographical, historical, administrative, tactical, and
technical--ay, strategical even--and of characters; of general
statistics; of actual local supplies; of incidental resources,
material and moral), and to the professional industry, to the
labors, the wounds, the dangers, to say nothing of the valor and
the genius of a patriotic and public-spirited soldier, who had led
armies to victory, had stormed great strongholds, and had not only
defended the frontier of the empire, but enlarged it, with every
circumstance of legitimate splendor and honorable success.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TRANSLATION--EX “PRO MURENA”--SECOND PART OF THE “CONTENTION.”[56]

“I recognize in you, Servius Sulpicius, all the respectability and
distinction that family, character, intellectual toil, and such
other accomplishments can confer, as may entitle any one to aspire
to the Consulate.

“In all these respects I know Murena to be your equal; and so
nicely your equal, that we can neither admit any inferiority on
_his_ part, nor concede the slightest precedency on _yours_.

“You have taunted Murena with his genealogy, and extolled your own.
If you mean, in all this, that no one can be deemed of honorable
parentage who is not a patrician, you will bring the masses
[_plebs_, not _populus_] to withdraw [_secede_] once more to Mount
Aventine. But if there are considerable and distinguished plebeian
families--why, both the great-grandfather and the grandfather of
Murena were actually prætors; and his father, when laying down
the prætorian office, having received, in the amplest and most
honorable form, the solemnity of a capitolian triumph, left thereby
the more accessible to my client the avenue to the Consulate,
inasmuch as it was for a dignity already earned by the father, and
due to him, that the son became a candidate.

“_Your_ nobility, Servius Sulpicius, although of the highest
class, is best known to men of letters and to antiquaries; to the
people and the electors, not so obvious: your father, you see,
was of knightly rank; your grandfather--famous for nothing very
remarkable--so that no loud modern voices, but rather the remote
whispers of antiquity, attest the glories of your race. For which
reason, I have ever claimed you as one of us; a man who, although
but the son of a knight, yet have achieved for yourself a fair
pretension to the honors of the chief magistracy in the republic.”
[He means that he was not presumptuous in offering himself to the
electors for the Consulate: “_summâ amplitudine dignus_” are the
words.]

“Nor, for my part, have I ever looked upon Quintus Pompey, a new
man, and bravery itself, as having less worth and dignity than
Marcus Æmilius (_Scaurus_), one of the leaders of our aristocracy;
for there is the same merit in the mind and the genius which hand
down to posterity the glory of a name not inherited (and this
Pompey has achieved), as to revive, like Scaurus, by personal
services, the half-dead honor of an ancient line. However, I was
under the impression, judges, that my own exertions had succeeded
in rendering the objection of lowly birth obsolete in the case of
persons of merit--persons who, if we recall not merely the Curii,
the Catos, the Pompeys, of a former age, architects of their own
station, and men of the loftiest spirit, but the Mariuses, the
Didii, the Cœliuses of almost yesterday, had been left lying in the
shade. But when, after so long an interval, I myself had stormed
those fastnesses of nobility, and had struck wide-open for the
admission of merit not less than of nobility, in the time to come
(as they used to be among our ancestors), the approaches to the
Consulate, I certainly did not expect, while a ‘designated’ consul,
sprung from an ancient and illustrious family, was defended by an
actual consul, the son of a Roman knight” [Cicero was himself at
that moment vested with the Consulate], “that the accusers would
venture to taunt him with the newness of his origin! For, indeed,
it was my own lot to be candidate for the chief magistracy in
competition with two eminent patricians, one of them as conspicuous
for the abandoned audacity of his wickedness, as the other for
his modesty and virtue--_and to vanquish both_: Catiline, by the
respect in which my character was held; and Galba, in the love
and confidence of the people. And, surely, had it amounted to any
reproach to be a new man, I lacked neither enemies nor enviers. Let
us drop, then, this discussion about family, a point in which the
present competitors are both alike distinguished; let us see what
the other allegations are. ‘_Murena sought the Quæstorship with
me: and I was made Quæstor first._’ An answer is not expected to
be given to every little nothing; nor does it escape any of you,
when a number of persons obtain simultaneously the same grade of
the magistracy, while only one of them can stand first on the list
of announcements, that to be _first declared_ in point of time is
not the same thing as to be _declared first_ in point of rank; for
the obvious reason, that there must be earlier and later entries
in every catalogue, although each name on it bears, for the most
part, the very same honor. But the quæstorships of both pretty
nearly coincide as to the ‘partition’” [of region]: “my client,
under the Titian law, had a silent and quiet province; you, that
Ostian province at the mention of which the people, when quæstors
are drawing lots, usually utter shouts--not so much a favorite or
distinguished, as a busy and troublesome department. The names of
each of you continued dormant in quæstorships; for fortune gave
to neither a field wherein your valor might respectively have
been exercised and displayed. The ulterior periods of time which
are brought into rivalry were by each of you very differently
spent. Servius pursued here, along with us, this civic warfare of
replications, pleas, caveats; replete with care and vexations;
learnt the civic law; kept late watches; toiled hard; was the
servant of every one; endured the stupidities, bore with the
arrogance, was surfeited with the perplexities of hundreds; lived
at the will of others, not according to his own. It is highly
honorable, and wins men’s favor, that one man should labor in a
pursuit which is useful to so many others. And all this while,
how was Murena engaged? He was serving as adjutant-general to
the bravest and wisest of men, a consummate captain, Lucius
Lucullus, in which service he led the army, engaged the enemy,
was repeatedly [often] at close quarters with him; routed large
forces; took cities now by storm, now by siege; so traversed
that opulent Asia, that Asia famed for its seductions, as to
leave behind him not one trace either of care for its wealth or
pursuit after its gaieties; in short, during a war of the first
magnitude, played such a part, that, while he shared, and shared
with distinction, in every achievement of the commander-in-chief,
the commander-in-chief had no part in numerous and notable services
of his. Although I speak in Lucullus’ own presence, yet, lest
it should be supposed that he allows me, on account of Murena’s
actual danger in this prosecution, to exaggerate his merits, let
me remind you that everything I state rests upon official and
public evidence--evidence in which Lucullus awards to his second
in command an amount of credit which never could have proceeded
except from the most candid and the least jealous of chiefs. Each
of the present competitors possesses every title both to personal
respect and to social position; and I would pronounce them equal,
if only Servius allowed me. But he will not allow me. He persists
in his quarrel with soldiering; he inveighs against the whole of
Murena’s adjutant-generalship. He will have it that the supreme
magistracy is the natural reward of this, his desk and chambers
[_assiduitatis_, etymologically _sitting-ness_] work; these daily
labors of his. ‘What!’ quoth he, ‘you will have been with the
army all these years; you will never have been seen in the Forum;
and then, after such a disappearance, you pretend to compete for
the highest dignities with men who have spent their lives in the
Forum?’ In the first place, Servius, you are not aware how irksome,
how wearisome to people, this _assiduity_ of ours is. To me,
indeed, the ‘_in sight, in mind_’ brought with it its conveniences;
but I surmounted the danger of tiring people by my immense
laboriousness: you may have done the same; but a little less of our
everlasting presence would have hurt neither of us.

“However, passing over this, let us come to the comparison of your
several studies and acquirements. How can there be any doubt, but
that warlike glory carries with it far more likelihood than that
of the law to win the Consulate? _You_ keep night-watches, that
you may give an opinion to your consulting clients; _he_, that he
may reach his destination in good time with his army. _You_ awake
in the morning to the crowing of the cocks; _he_ is called by the
battle-breathing trumpets. _You_ array pleadings; _he_, armies. You
are careful not to let your clients be captured; he, to keep from
capture cities and camps. He studies how the enemies’ forces, and
you how neighbors’ drains and roof-rains, may be held at bay. He
knows how to extend our boundaries; and you, how to litigate about
our ‘boundings and buttings’”--_Cætera desunt, hic_.

FOOTNOTE:

[56] N. B.--Be it observed that what follows is an attempt to
translate the untranslatable. Not only the idiomatic proprieties
are lost, but the strain of public sentiment and public thinking
which the speaker took into account in every remark is changed: and
the rhythm defies reproduction, etc.




A SALON IN PARIS BEFORE THE WAR.


PART I.

VANITY OF VANITIES.

Mesdames Folibel occupied a double set of rooms _au premier_ on the
Boulevard des Italiens. On a door to the right a large brass plate
announced that Madame Augustine Folibel presided over “_lingerie et
dentelles_,” and invited the public to “_tourner le bouton_.” To
the left a large steel plate proclaimed Madame Alexandrine Folibel
“_modiste_,” and invited the public to ring the bell. But after a
certain hour every day both these invitations were negatived by a
page in buttons, who, stationed at either door, kept the way open
for the ceaseless flow of visitors passing in and out of the two
establishments. My friend Berthe de Bonton was just turning in to
the _lingerie_ department when I came up the stairs.

“How lucky!” she cried, running across the landing to me, then
_sotto voce_: “Madame Clifford [pronounced Cliefore] is here, and
wants me to choose a bonnet for her. Now, if there’s a thing I
hate, it is choosing a bonnet for an Englishwoman. To begin with,
they don’t possess the first rudiments of culture in dress, then
they can never make up their minds, and they find everything too
dear; but the crowning absurdity is that they bring their husbands
with them, and _consult them!_ _Figurez-vous, ma chère!_” And Berthe,
with a Frenchwoman’s keen sense of the comic, laughed merrily at
the ludicrous conceit. I laughed with her, though not quite from
the same point of view.

“I made an excuse to get away for a few minutes, and left the
_ménage_ discussing a pink tulle with marabout and beetle-wings
trimming--_un petit poème, chérie_--but,” she caught me by the arm,
“fancy Madame Clifford’s complexion under it!”

“_Ah, bonjour, mesdames!_ I am at the order of _ces dames_. Will
they take the pains to seat themselves just for one second?”
continued Madame Augustine, who greeted us in the first _salon_,
where she was carrying on a warm debate on the relative merits of
Alençon _versus_ Valenciennes as a trimming for a bridal _peignoir_.

“I merely wanted to say a word with reference to my order of
yesterday. Where is Mademoiselle Florine?” inquired Berthe, looking
round the room, where there were several groups ordering pretty
things.

“Florine! Florine!” called out Madame Augustine.

“_Voici, madame!_”

Mademoiselle Florine was a plump little _boulette_ of a woman, who
wore her nose _retroussé_ and always looked at you as if she had
reason to complain of you. Without being uncivil, she looked it;
her nose had a supercilious expression that made you feel it was
considering you _de haut en bas_. The fact is, Mademoiselle Florine
was not happy. She was disappointed, not in love, but with life
in general, and with _lingerie_ in particular. She had adopted
_lingerie_ as a vocation, and now it was going down in the world;
it was degenerating into _pacotille_; _grandes dames_ began to
grow cold about it, and to wear collars and cuffs that a _petite
bourgeoise_ would have turned up her nose at ten years ago. More
grievous still was the change that had come over petticoats. The
deterioration in this line she took terribly to heart, and the
surest way to enlist her good graces and secure her interest in
your order, be it ever so small, was to preface it with a sigh or
a sneer at red Balmorals or other gaudy and economical inventions
which had dethroned the snowy _jupon blanc_ of her youth, with
its tucks and frills and dainty edgings of lace or embroidery.
Berthe, it so happened, very strongly shared this dislike to
colored petticoats, and was guilty of considerable extravagance
in the choice of white ones; Mademoiselle Florine’s sympathies
consequently went out to her, and, no matter how busily she was
engaged or with whom, she would fly to Berthe as to a kindred soul
the moment she appeared.

“I have been thinking over those _jupons à traine_ that I ordered
yesterday,” said Berthe to the pugnacious-looking little _lingère_,
“and I have an idea that the _entre-deux anglais_ will be a
failure. We ought to have decided on Valenciennes.”

“Ah! I thought Madame la Comtesse would come round to it!” observed
Mademoiselle Florine with a smile of supreme satisfaction. “I told
Madame la Comtesse it was a mistake.”

“Yes, I felt you didn’t approve; but really twelve hundred francs
for six petticoats did seem a great deal,” observed Berthe
deprecatingly. “Now, suppose we put alternately one row of deep
_entre-deux_ and a _tuyauté de batiste_ edged with a narrow
Valenciennes instead of all Valenciennes?”

“_Voyons--réfléchissons!_” said Mademoiselle Florine, putting her
finger to her lips, and knitting her brow.

“It occurred to me in my bed last night,” continued Berthe, “and
I fell asleep and actually dreamed of it, and you can’t think how
pretty it looked, so light and at the same time _très garni_.”

“So much the better! Talk to me of a customer like that!” exclaimed
Mademoiselle Florine, clasping her hands and turning to me with a
look of admiration which was almost affecting from its earnestness.
“There is some compensation in working for madame, at least. If
those ladies knew what I have to endure from three-quarters of
the world!” And she threw up her hands and shook her head in the
direction of the _premier salon_. “But let me get out the models,
and see how this dream of Madame la Comtesse’s looks in reality.”
Boxes of lace and embroidery were ordered out by the excited
_lingère_, and under her deft and nimble fingers the dream was
illustrated in the course of a few minutes. Berthe was undecided.
She sat down and surveyed the combination in silent perplexity.

“Really this question of _jupons_ makes life too complicated!” she
said presently; “and now I begin to ask myself if these will go
with any of my new dresses? The crinoline _éventail_ is going out,
Monsieur Grandhomme told me, and they will never go with the _queue
de moineau_ that he is bringing in!”

Here was a predicament!

“_Attendez_,” said Florine, dropping a dozen _rouleaux_ of lace
on the floor as if such costly rags, the mere mortar and clay of
her airy architecture, were not worth a thought. “Let us leave
the question of _jupons_ unsettled for a while; I will go myself
this evening and discuss the toilettes of Madame la Comtesse with
her _femme de chambre_; we will see the style and fall of the new
skirts, and adapt the _jupons_ to them.”

“How good you are!” exclaimed Berthe, looking and feeling grateful
for this unlooked-for solution of her difficulty.

“It is a consolation to me, Madame la Comtesse,” replied
Mademoiselle Florine with a sigh, “and I need a little now and
then!”

We wished her good-morning. “Let us go back now to Alexandrine,”
said Berthe; “I hope Mrs. Clifford has made up her mind by this
time.” But the hope was vain. Mrs. Clifford was standing with her
back to the long mirror, looking at herself as reflected in a
hand-glass that she turned so as to view her head in every possible
aspect, while Mr. Clifford looked on. “Do you think it does?” she
inquired as we came up to her.

“I think a darker shade would suit you better,” I said; “that pale
pink has no mercy on one’s complexion.”

“I’ve tried on nearly every bonnet on the table,” she said, looking
very miserable, “and they don’t any of them seem to do.”

“Madame will not understand that the first condition of a bonnet’s
suiting, after the complexion of course, is that the hair should be
dressed with regard to it,” interposed Madame Alexandrine, who I
could see by her flushed face and nervous manner was, as she would
say herself, _à bout de patience_; “these bonnets are all made
for the _coiffure à la mode_, whereas madame wears _un peigne à
galerie_.”

“_Dieu!_ but it is six months since the _peigne à galerie_ has been
heard of!”

I suggested, in aid of this undeniable argument, that the comb
should be suppressed.

“Oh! dear, no, I wouldn’t give it up for the world!” said Mrs.
Clifford, with the emphatic manner she might have used if I had
proposed her giving up her spectacles.

“Then you must have one made to order.”

“Yes,” said Madame Alexandrine, “I will make one for madame after a
_modèle à part_.”

“But then it will be dowdy and old-fashioned,” demurred the
Englishwoman.

“Then let madame sacrifice _le peigne à galerie_! What sacrifice is
it, after all? Nobody wears them now; they belong to a past age,”
argued Madame Alexandrine, appealing to me.

“This one was a present from my husband,” replied Mrs. Clifford, in
a tone that seemed to say: “You understand, there is nothing more
to be said.”

I did not dare look at Berthe. Luckily she was beside me, so
I could not see her face, but I saw the muff go up in a very
expressive way, and she suddenly disappeared into a little _salon_
to the left, set apart for caps and _coiffures de bal_. I heard a
smothered “burst,” and a treacherous _armoire à glace_ revealed her
thrown back in an arm-chair, stuffing her handkerchief into her
mouth, and convulsed with laughter.

Madame Folibel, whose risible faculties long and hard training had
brought under perfect control, received the communication, however,
with unruffled equanimity.

“That explains why madame holds to it,” she answered very
seriously; “it is natural and affecting. Still, one must be
reasonable; one must not sacrifice too much to a sentiment.
Monsieur would not wish it,” turning to the gentleman, who stood
with his back to the fireplace listening in solemn silence to
the controversy. “Monsieur understands that the chief point in
madame’s toilette is her bonnet. I grieve to say English ladies
themselves do not sufficiently realize the supremacy of the bonnet;
yet a moment’s reflection ought to show them how all-important
it is, how necessary that every other feature in the dress
should succumb to it. The complexion, the hair, the shape of the
head, are all at the mercy of the _chapeau_. Of what avail is
a handsome dress, and fashionable shawl or mantle, costly fur,
lace--an irreproachable _tout-ensemble_, in fine--if the bonnet
be unbecoming? All these are but the _rez-de-chaussée_ and the
_entresol_, so to speak, while the _chapeau_ is the crown of the
edifice. Le chapeau enfin c’est la femme! [The bonnet, in fact, is
the woman!]” At this climax Madame Folibel paused. Mr. Clifford,
who had listened as solemn as a judge, his hands in his pockets,
and not a muscle of his face moving, while the _modiste_, looking
straight at him, delivered herself of her _credo_, now turned to me.

“Unquestionably,” he said in a serious and impressive tone, “there
must be a place in heaven for these people. They are thoroughly
in earnest.” Mrs. Clifford took advantage of the aside between
her husband and me to follow up Madame Folibel’s oration by a few
private remarks.

Clearly she was staggered in her fidelity to the “sentiment” which
interfered so alarmingly with the success of the “crown of the
edifice,” but she had not the honesty to confess it outright. She
was ashamed of giving in. Without being often one whit less devoted
to the vanities of life, an Englishwoman is held back by this
kind of _mauvaise honte_ from proclaiming her allegiance to them.
She is ashamed of being in earnest about folly. Now, this British
idiosyncrasy is quite foreign to a Frenchwoman; even when she is
personally, either from character or circumstances, indifferent to
the great fact of dress, she is always alive to its importance
in the abstract, and will discuss it without any assumption of
contemning wisdom, but soberly and intelligently, as befits a grave
subject of recognized importance to her sisterhood in the carrying
on of life.

“What do you advise me to do, dear?” said Mrs. Clifford, appealing
to her husband, the wife and the woman warring vexedly in her
spirit.

“Give in,” said Mr. Clifford. “What in the name of mercy could you
do else! A dozen men in your place would have capitulated after
that broadside ending in the woman and the bonnet.”

“What does monsieur say?” inquired Madame Folibel.

Monsieur had answered his wife with his eyes fixed on the
Frenchwoman, as if she were a wild variety of the species that he
had never come upon before, and might not have an opportunity of
studying again.

“I suppose I must sacrifice the comb,” observed Mrs. Clifford,
affecting a sort of bored indifference and looking about for her
old bonnet, “so we will leave the choice of the model open till I
have had a conversation with Macravock, my maid, and see what she
can do with my hair; she is very clever at hair-dressing.”

“Oh! de grâce, madame!” exclaimed La Folibel, terrified at the
rough Scotch name that boded ill for the _couronnement_. “Your
maid, instead of mending matters, will complicate them still more.
You must put yourself in the hands of a _coiffeur_ who understands
physiognomy, and who will study yours before he decides upon
the necessary change. If madame does not know such a man, I can
recommend her mine, a _coiffeur_ in whom I have unlimited trust. I
send him numbers of my customers, he never fails to please them,
and I can trust him not to compromise me. Madame understands the
success of my bonnets depends in no small degree on the way in
which the head is adjusted for them. _Il y a des têtes impossibles_
that I could not commit my reputation to. I am sometimes obliged
to make a bonnet for them, but I never sign it. I have my name
removed from the lining, and so edit the thing anonymously. It
would compromise me irremediably if my signature were seen on some
of your country-women’s heads!”

Mrs. Clifford, awakened to the responsibility she was about to
incur, promised to consult the artist instead of her Scotch maid;
whereupon Madame Folibel handed her a large card which bore the
name Monsieur de Bysterveld and his address. Under both was a note
setting forth his capillary capabilities, and informing the public
that--

“Monsieur de Bysterveld undertakes to prove that it is possible to
become a hair-dresser and yet remain a gentleman.”

The _modiste_ then assisted Mrs. Clifford to tie on her bonnet,
observing, while she smoothed out the ribbon carefully as if trying
to make the best of a bad case:

“I am glad for her own sake that madame has consented to give up
that _peigne à galerie_. It really is an injustice to her head, and
it is simply out of the question her having a _chapeau convenable_
while that impediment exists. Madame will be quite another person,”
she continued, addressing Mr. Clifford. “Monsieur will not
recognize her with a new chignon and in a bonnet of mine.”

“Oh! then I protest,” said Mr. Clifford dryly; he understood
French, but did not speak it--“I protest against both the chignon
and the bonnet, madame.”

“_Plaît-il, monsieur?_” said Madame Folibel, looking from one to
the other of us.

“Dear Walter! she means I shall be so much improved,” explained the
wife, laughing.

“Improved!” repeated Mr. Clifford, not lifting his eye-brows, but
writing _incredulity_ on every line of his face.

His wife blushed, and her eyes rested on his for a moment. Then,
turning quickly to Madame Folibel, she made some final arrangement
about a meeting for the following day.

Just at this juncture Berthe came back. I was glad she was not
there in time to catch the absurd little passage between the two.
A husband paying a compliment to his wife, and she blushing under
it after a ten years’ _ménage_, would have been a delicious morsel
of the _ridicule anglais_ that Berthe could not have withstood; it
would have diverted her _salon_ for a week.

“Well?” she said, five notes of interrogation plainly adding: “Are
you ever going to have done?”

“_C’est décidé_,” answered Madame Folibel, coming forward with an
air of triumph. “Madame sacrifices the comb!”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Berthe. “I congratulate you, _chère madame_.
Even mentally, you will be the better of it. For my part, I know no
little misery more demoralizing than an unbecoming bonnet.”

We all went down-stairs together, but at the street-door we parted
from the Cliffords.

“Where are you going now?” asked Berthe.

“To the _réunion_ at the Rue de Monceau,” I said. “I got the
_faire-part_ last night, and I want particularly to be there to
try and get a child into the Succursale school. There is only
one vacancy, and we are six trying for it, so I fear my little
_protégée_ has small chance of success. Come and give me your vote,
Berthe.”

“_Chérie_, I would with pleasure, but I am so dreadfully busy this
afternoon: I promised La Princesse M---- to look in during the
rehearsal at her house; and then I’ve not been to Madame de B----’s
for an age, and I almost swore I’d go to-day.”

“Well, what’s to prevent your going afterwards?” I cried. “It’s
not yet four, and the _réunion_ does not last more than an hour.
Monsieur le Curé arrives at a quarter-past four, and leaves at
five.”

“But one is bored to death waiting for him,” argued Berthe, “and
the room is so hot _chez les bonnes sœurs_, and there won’t be a
cat there to-day, I’m sure; everybody is at the skating.”

“Oh! the parish and the skating don’t interfere with each other,” I
cried, laughing; “but I see you can’t come, so good-by. I must be
off. Mademoiselle de Galliac will be waiting for me.”

“_Comment!_ Is _la petite_ to be there? I particularly want to see
her. I want to know how her snow-storm costume went off at the
Marine, for in the crowd I never caught sight of her. _Chère amie_,
I’ll go with you to Monceau. After all,” she continued, drawing a
long sigh as we stepped into her carriage, “this life won’t last
for ever; one must think now and then of one’s poor soul.”

We were a little behind our time for the canvassing. Four of my
rivals were before me in the field, and had robbed me of a few
votes that I might have received by being there a quarter of an
hour sooner.

“Now, Berthe,” I cried, “it’s your fault, so you must bestir
yourself to help me. Attack those young girls in the window, and
persuade them to vote for my child.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know--go and ask them.”

Berthe charged valiantly at the group in the window, introducing
herself by embracing the young girls all round, and declaring her
perfect confidence in their support. They gathered round her,
fascinated at once by her beauty and her frank, attractive manner.
I saw at a glance that the votes were safe, and that I had no
need to bring up reinforcements in that quarter, so I set to work
elsewhere.

Perhaps it would interest my readers to hear something of the good
work itself. Its object is to take charge of orphans of the poorest
class, clothe, feed, and educate them till the age of twenty-one.
The members are exclusively ladies, married or single. To be a
member, it is necessary to be a parishioner, to pay a small sum
yearly for the maintenance of the confraternity, and to assist
at the monthly meetings, where the wants, plans, and progress of
the work are discussed in presence of the curé, who is always
president, and another parish clergyman elected _directeur_, the
rest of the board--treasurer, secretary, and vice-president--being
chosen from amongst the members. When an orphan is proposed for
admission, a written statement giving her birth, parentage, and
circumstances, and setting forth the special claims of her case,
is placed on the green table of the assembly-room, at which the
dignitaries preside during the meeting. This preliminary fulfilled,
the next step is to secure the votes of the confraternity. The
demand being always much greater than the supply, when a vacancy
occurs it is sure to be sharply contested. A zealous patroness
takes care to canvass beforehand; but, from one circumstance or
another, there are always a good many votes still to be disposed
of on the day of the election, and the half-hour that elapses
from the opening of the assembly to the arrival of the curé is
spent in fighting for them, and presents a scene of interesting
excitement. The patroness is looked upon as the mother of the
little petitioner, who, once admitted into the orphanage, is called
her “child.” Those who are long members and very zealous succeed
in getting in many orphans, and thus become mothers of a numerous
family. The most devoted of these mothers are generally the young
girls. The way in which some of their hearts go out to their
adopted children is touching and beautiful beyond description. They
seem to anticipate their joys and cares, and to invest themselves
with something of motherhood in their relations with the little
outcasts, who look to them for help in a world where, but for them,
they would apparently have no right to be--where no one cares for
them, no one loves them, except the great Father who suffers the
little ones to come to him, and will not have them sent away.

Every month the _sœurs_ send in a special bulletin of the conduct
and health of each child, addressed to the adopted mother, and read
by Monsieur le Curé at the meeting. According to the contents of
the bulletin, the mothers are congratulated or the reverse. Little
presents are sent to the good children, and letters of reproval
written to the naughty ones. In this way, the maternal character is
kept up till the children leave the shelter of their convent home.
Then the mothers assist in placing them as servants or apprentices,
or, better still, in getting them respectably married.

While Berthe was getting up votes for me on her side, I was busy on
my own, and when the bell rang, announcing, as we thought, Monsieur
le Curé, I had a pretty good poll.

The buzz of talk subsided suddenly; the high functionaries broke
away from the humbler participants, and took their places at the
green table, near the _fauteuils_, waiting for the curé and the
vicaire. Some of the very young mothers looked eager and flurried.
One in particular, who was a rival candidate with me, seemed
terribly nervous. She was about seventeen. Two young mothers
on either side of her were speaking words of encouragement and
trying to keep up her hopes. “You must pray hard for my success,”
I heard her say to one of them; “the poor old grandfather will
break his heart if Jeannette is refused. He can’t take her into
Les Vieillards, even if it were not against the rules, because he
hasn’t a crust of bread to give her. He has nothing but what the
_sœurs_ give him for himself. Oh! do pray hard that I may succeed!”

“Let us say another Pater and Ave before Monsieur le Curé comes
in,” suggested her companions; and the three friends lowered their
voices, and sent up their pure young hearts together in a last
appeal to the Father of the fatherless in behalf of the little
orphan.

The door opened. It was not Monsieur le Curé.

“_Ah, bonjour, cher ange!_” exclaimed Madame de Bérac, embracing
Berthe with effusion, and talking as low as if she were “receiving”
in her own _salon_. “What a charming surprise to meet you! I came
to vote for Marguerite’s _protégée_, and see how my _dévouement_ is
crowned!”

I expressed my satisfaction at virtue’s proving in this case its
own reward.

“But why have I not seen you before?” inquired Berthe. “I did not
even know you were in town.”

“I hardly know it yet myself,” replied Madame de Bérac. “I only
arrived last night. Marguerite wrote to me imploring me to be here
if I could in time to vote for her. _Chère aimée_,” she continued,
turning to me, “till you reminded me of it, I actually forgot I was
a member at all!”

“Well, now that you are in town, you mean to stay?” said Berthe.

“_Hélas_, I only remain a week.”

“But you said you meant to spend the carnival here?”

“When I said so, I believed it.”

“And what has changed your plans?” I inquired.

Madame shrugged her shoulders. “My husband has been so impolite as
to tell me that he has no money! One cannot stay in Paris without
money.”

“_Quel homme!_” exclaimed Berthe, with a look of pity and disgust.

The door opened again. This time it was the curé. After the
usual blessing and prayer, he declared the _séance_ opened, and
read the reports of the board and the bulletins. These matters
disposed of, the business of the election began at once. A brisk
cross-examination soon put four candidates _hors de concours_. Two
had fathers who could support them, but wouldn’t. The confraternity
found the children not qualified for its charge. Two others were
not parishioners of St. Philippe du Roule. Of the six who had
started, two therefore only remained in the field. One was mine,
the other was the _protégée_ of the young girl whose conversation
I had just overheard. We were to divide the votes between us.
Our respective orphans had the necessary qualifications. It only
remained to see which of the two, as the more destitute, could
establish the primary claim on the protection of the confraternity.
Mine was ten years of age. She had two tiny brothers and a sister
some five years older than herself who, since the death of their
mother, six months ago, had supported the whole family by working
as a _blanchisseuse de fin_ by day, and as a _lingère_ half the
night. But the bread-winner gave way under the load of work, and
now lay sick at the hospital, while the brothers and the sister,
clinging to each other in a fireless garret, cried out for bread
to the rich brothers who could not hear them. The Curé de Ste.
Clothilde had promised to find shelter for the boys; but what was
to be done with the girl? I had stated these plain facts in the
petition, and now verbally recommended the case to the compassion
of the members, and once again asked for their votes.

My rival’s child was twelve years of age. She had no brothers or
sisters. She was utterly destitute, but in good health, and nearly
of an age to support herself.

Monsieur le Curé listened to the two cases, and, when he had heard
both, his judgment seemed strongly impressed in favor of mine.

In spite of the interest I felt in my poor little _protégée_,
I could not help regretting the impending failure of my young
competitor opposite. She had answered the curé’s questions in
short, nervous monosyllables, and now sat drinking in every word
he said, two fever-spots burning on her cheeks, while her eyes
swam with tears that all her efforts failed to suppress. A face
of seventeen is always interesting; but in this one there was
something more than the mere attractiveness of early youth and
innocence. There was an eager, awakened expression in the clear
blue eyes, and a sensitive play about the grave, full lips that
one seldom sees in so young a face. She was simply, almost quaintly
dressed as contrasted with the costly elegance of most of the
dresses around her. The black bonnet with the wreath of violets
resting on the fair hair, and the neat but perfectly plain black
reps costume, bespoke not poverty, but the very strictest economy.

“To the vote, _mesdames_,” said the curé. “I fear, Mademoiselle
Hélène, you have a bad chance.”

“O Monsieur le Curé!” burst from Hélène, “her poor old grandfather
will die of disappointment.”

“My poor child, I hope not,” said the curé, evidently touched by
her distress, but unable to repress a smile at this extreme view.
“Your _protegée’s_ having a grandfather is indeed an advantage on
the wrong side.”

“He’s blind, Monsieur le Curé! and paralyzed! and eighty-six years
old!” urged Hélène, gaining courage from desperation, “and his one
prayer is to see the _petite_ safe somewhere before he dies. O
Monsieur le Curé!--” She stopped, the big tears rolling down her
cheeks.

“_Voyons!_” said the good old pastor, rubbing his nose, and
fidgeting at his spectacles. “Let us take the vote, and then we
shall see. You have a child already, have you not, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Curé; I have two, but one is in the country, at
the Succursale.”

The votes were taken, and, by a very small majority, I carried it.
My voters congratulated me, while Hélène’s friends crowded round
her, condoling. But the poor child would not be comforted; overcome
by the previous emotion and the final disappointment, she sobbed as
if her heart would break.

“Oh! really, it’s too cruel to let that dear child be
disappointed,” said Berthe. “Can’t we do something, Monsieur le
Curé? Can’t we by any possibility squeeze in another child?”

“Nothing easier, madame; you have only to create a new _bourse_, or
get subscribers to the amount of three hundred francs a year for
the term of the child’s education,” replied Monsieur le Curé.

“Then I subscribe for two years down,” said Berthe impulsively.
“Who follows suit?”

“I do,” said another speaker; “I will subscribe for one year!”

“And I will give forty francs,” said a third.

“And I a hundred,” said the curé, who was always to the fore when a
good work was to be helped on.

In a few minutes, the green table glistened with gold pieces and
notes. It was all done so quickly that Hélène had not had time to
ask what it was all about, when Berthe ran up to her with the good
news that her child was taken in, and, embracing her tenderly, bade
her dry her tears.

“How good you are, madame!” said the young girl, returning her
caress with fervor; “but I knew you were good; you have the face of
an angel!”

“It is better to have the heart of one,” said Berthe, laughing, and
hastily rubbing a dew-drop from her own fair face.

“Now, I must make haste away, or I shall be late for my lesson,”
said Hélène, after thanking the members who gathered about her,
this time embracing and congratulating.

“What lesson are you going to take, _ma petite_?” inquired Berthe
affectionately.

“I am going to give one, madame,” replied Hélène. “I live by giving
music lessons.”

“Then you must come and give me some,” said Berthe. “Here is my
address. Come to me to-morrow as early as you can.”

“You are not sorry I made you come, are you, Berthe?” I asked, as
we went out together.

“Sorry! I would not have missed it for the world.”


PART II.

LE PARTI.

“_Au revoir, à demain soir!_” said Berthe, kissing a fair-haired
young girl, and conducting her to the door.

“What a sweet face! Whose is it?” inquired Madame de Beaucœur.

“Hélène de Karodel’s. Her character is sweeter still than her face.
I have fallen quite in love with her,” said Berthe. And she related
the story of their meeting at the _réunion de Monceau_, and the
acquaintance that had followed.

“It is a fine old Breton name, and used to be a very wealthy one.
How comes she to be earning her bread, poor child?”

“The old story,” said Berthe. “General de Karodel mismanaged his
property, took to speculation by way of mending matters, and of
course lost everything. He died, leaving a widow and three children
to do the best they could with his pension, about a thousand francs
a year. Hélène is the eldest, and what she earns pays for the
education of the second sister.”

“But the rest of the family are well off. Why don’t they do
something for them?” demanded Madame de Beaucœur.

“Rich relations are not given much to helping poor ones,” replied
Berthe; “besides, these Karodels are as proud as Lucifer, and
benefits are pills that a proud spirit finds it difficult to
swallow; it takes a good deal of love to gild them.”

“Very true!” And dismissing Hélène de Karodel with a sigh, “_Chère
amie_” said Madame de Beaucœur, “I am come to ask you to do me a
service.”

Her presence indeed at so early an hour (it was not much past
one) on Berthe’s “day” suggested something more important than an
ordinary visit. A “day” is a thing that deserves to be noticed
amongst the institutions of modern Paris life. Everybody has a day.
Women in society have one from necessity, for the convenience of
their visitors whose name is Legion. Women not in society have one
because they like to be included amongst those with whom it is a
necessity. The former speak of their day as “_mon jour_” and as
a rule hate it, because it ties them down to stay one day in the
week at home. The latter speak of it as “_mon jour de réception_,”
and glory in it. For the former it is a mere episode, an occasion
amongst many for toilette and gossip, mostly of the Grandhomme and
Folibel kind, but often of a more serious character, sometimes even
of conversation on such grave topics as politics, science, and
theology. For the latter, it is a grand opportunity for dress, and
dulness, and weary expectation. Madame, attired in state, sits on
her sofa like patience on a monument, smiling, not on grief, but on
hope--hope of visitors, who come like angels, few and far between.
Woe be unto the false or foolish friend who, under any pretence of
business, or kind inquiries, or lack of time, should pass by this
day of days, and call on some insignificant day, when neither
madame, nor the _salon_, nor the _valet-de-chambre_ is in toilette
to receive him!

But it is not into one of these dreary Saharas that we have
strayed. Berthe’s day is as busy as a fair. So great is the
concourse of visitors that, although the reception begins
officially at three, the rooms begin to fill soon after two, those
who really want to speak to her alleging, as an excuse for forcing
the _consigne_, that, when _la cour et la ville_ are there, it is a
sheer impossibility to get a word with her.

“A service!” repeated Berthe. “I hope it is not too good to be
true.”

“_Toujours charmante!_” Madame de Beaucœur took her hand and
pressed it. “But the favor I am going to ask does not directly
concern myself. You know Madame de Chassedot?”

“Slightly; I meet her here and there; we bow, but we don’t speak.”

“She has deputed me to speak for her to-day. Do you know her son at
all?”

“A fair youth, tall and good-looking?”

“Precisely.”

“I think I danced with him at the Marine, the other night,” said
Berthe reflectively.

“Then you know him at his best; he dances divinely; but I believe
that is the only thing he excels in,” observed Madame de Beaucœur.

“He is very stupid?” said Berthe interrogatively.

“Not very. Simply stupid. But he is, as you know, good-looking,
and, what is more to the purpose, of good family and very well off.
He is heir to his uncle, and so will one day have two of the finest
châteaux in France, each representing two millions of money. The
paternal millions have grown thin since the old gentleman’s death,
but the uncle’s will replenish them soon; he cannot last long, he
is in bad health and seventy-six years of age. So the marquis is
safe to be at the head of a very handsome fortune by the time he
has settled down.”

“Meanwhile?” said Berthe, pretending not to see the drift of these
preliminaries.

“Meanwhile, his mother is very anxious to marry him. She spoke
confidentially to me about it, and begged me to look out for a wife
for her. I promised I would do my best. Like all mothers-in-law,
she wants perfection. Sixteen quarterings _en règle_, that is
understood; equal fortune of course; but, although Edgar’s
present and future fortune is nominally four millions, as he has
compromised one million, she would count it as not existing,
and only exact three millions with his wife. This is carrying
on matters on a grand scale?” And Madame de Beaucœur waited for
Berthe’s approval.

“How did he compromise the odd million?” inquired Berthe evasively.

“_Mais, mon Dieu!_ One must not examine too closely!” replied
Madame de Beaucœur, smiling at the _naïveté_ of the question.

“And besides these?” said Berthe.

“The girl must be pretty, and well brought up. I must tell you,
my dear,” continued the lady, with a sort of diffidence as if
conscious that she was about to state some ludicrous or damaging
fact, “that the mother-in-law is very pious, and she holds very
much to having a daughter-in-law who is so also. Otherwise she is
the best woman in the world, very intelligent, and will do all in
her power to make her son’s wife happy.”

“And the son himself? You have not said much about him. How far
does he pledge himself to the same end?”

“Ah! there is the difficulty!” said Madame de Beaucœur.
“Unfortunately he won’t hear of being married at all. The moment
his mother speaks of it, he either turns it off in a joke, or, if
she insists, he gets into a tantrum, flies out of the house, and
she doesn’t see him for a week. You can fancy how this complicates
the matter for her, poor woman!”

“It certainly is a complication,” observed Berthe.

“And it makes it all the more incumbent on us to try and help her,”
resumed the envoy. “So I have come to enlist your offices in her
behalf. I promised her she might count on you, _chère amie_. Did I
promise too much?”

“If you promised her that I would marry her son for her, _nolens
volens_, you decidedly did,” answered Berthe, laughing ironically.

“Oh! I did not go that length,” protested Madame de Beaucœur,
nettled, but laughing heartily to hide her pique. “I only said that
you were more likely than any other woman in Paris to know the girl
who united all these conditions, and that, if you knew her, you
would give Madame de Chassedot an opportunity of meeting her.”

“And how about Madame Chassedot meeting her?” demanded Berthe
perversely. “After all, the contracting powers must look each
other in the face at least once before they are brought to swear
eternal love and duty before Monsieur le Maire, and if this
inconvenient young man flies out the room at the bare mention of
such a catastrophe--dear madame, I have the highest opinion of your
diplomatic powers, but, believe me, this enterprise is beyond their
compass.”

“Leave that to his mother,” said Madame de Beaucœur. “She is equal
to it. If you find the missing element, and give her a chance of
managing it, the issue is certain.”

Berthe was going to reply when the door opened, and the Princess
de M---- was announced. When the usual greeting had subsided, the
three ladies entered on the foremost questions of the day, viz.,
the _salon_, the cholera, and the new comedy called _La Beauté du
Diable_ that was setting all Paris by the ears.

The trio were not long alone. The rooms were filling rapidly, but
the new-comers, instead of checking the conversation, enlivened it,
every fresh arrival falling in with the current and propelling it.

“The Empress does not believe it to be contagious, and holds it of
primary importance that the popular belief to the contrary should
be practically repudiated,” said an old senator, who joined the
circle while the cholera was on the _tapis_, “This was the chief
motive of her visit to Amiens. I have just been to the Tuileries,
and heard the account of it.”

“Racontez, monsieur, racontez!” exclaimed Berthe, recognizing his
white hairs by making room for him on the sofa beside her.

“You honor me too highly, madame!” said the old courtier, bending
to his knees before he assumed the place of distinction. “I should
have at least run the gantlet with the plague to deserve to be so
favored. You are aware,” he continued in a more serious tone,
“that it was raging furiously at Amiens. The townspeople became
so panic-stricken that the victims were deserted the moment they
were seized. Every house was closed. No one walked abroad for
fear of rubbing against some infected thing or person. Except the
sisters of charity going in and out of the condemned houses and
hospitals, there was hardly a soul to be seen in the streets. In
fact, it threatened to be a second edition of the plague in Milan.
The Empress, hearing all this, suddenly announced her intention
of visiting the city. The Emperor strongly opposed the project,
and her ladies seconded him, being very loth to run the risk of
accompanying her majesty. The Empress, however, held her own
against them all, like a Spaniard and a woman, said she would have
no one run any risk on her account, and declared herself determined
to go alone. Two of her ladies, to save their credit, thereupon
volunteered to go with her. They started by the first train next
day, and returned the same evening, not at all the worse for the
journey.”

“I dare say,” remarked a young _crévé_, a furious Legitimist, who
always spoke of the Emperor as _ce gaillard là_, and who would have
as soon dined with his _concierge_ as at the Tuileries. “They made
a tour in a close carriage round the town, and took precious care
to keep clear of the dangerous quarters.”

“I have the word of her majesty to the contrary, monsieur. She
visited the wards, inquired minutely into their organization, and
spoke to several of the sufferers. The equerry who accompanied
her told me that she held the hand of one poor fellow who was
dying, and stooped down, putting her ear close to his lips to hear
something he had to say about his little children: there were three
of them, their mother had died that morning, and now they were
going to be quite destitute. The Empress sent for them, embraced
them in the presence of the father, and promised to take care of
them. He expired soon after blessing her, as you may imagine.”

“She has a noble heart!” murmured Berthe, while a tear stood in her
eye.

“Comédie, haute comédie!” sneered the _crévé de faubourg_.

“A stroke of policy, rather,” observed a Deputy du Centre, stroking
his beard.

“A comedian’s policy!” said a Deputy de la Gauche; “but it is time
and trouble lost, the people are no longer duped by that sort of
charlatanism.”

“Say, rather, the people are tired of peace and prosperity, and
want a change at any cost,” said the Princess de M----. “You are
the most unmanageable people under the sun. The wonder is, how any
one can be found willing to govern you.”

“That is quite true,” assented Berthe, whose politics, of no
absolute color, leaned towards Imperialism, partly because it was
the established order of things, and partly because the court was
pleasant and its hospitalities magnificent. “We are an unruly
nation; but whatever one thinks of the Empire, it is ungrateful and
unjust not to give the Empress credit at least for good intentions
in this visit to Amiens. It was an act of heroic charity and
courage, and that there was as much wisdom as charity in it is
proved by the fact that the pestilence has decreased sensibly from
the very day of her visit.”

“O madame, madame!” protested the _crévé_ and the two deputies in
chorus.

“The bulletins of the last week are there to prove it,” affirmed
Berthe.

“Where were they fabricated?” demanded the Deputy de la Gauche.
“Perhaps Monsieur de Taitout could tell us?” Monsieur de Taitout
was Chef de Cabinet at the Ministry of the Interior.

“They were issued at Amiens by the medical men of the hospitals
and by the Commission of Public Health, I presume,” replied the
ministerial functionary with repellent _hauteur_.

“They had at least a roll of red ribbon apiece in return for their
satisfactory bulletins!” pursued the Deputy de la Gauche, with
supercilious irony.

“You are evidently well informed, monsieur,” replied the Chef de
l’Intérieur, provoked by the persiflage; and darting a glance of
peculiar meaning at the deputy, “We may infer that you are in the
confidence of the Minister of Police?”

The deputy bit his lip and reddened, while a suppressed titter ran
through the company. This suspicion of complicity with the police,
which the established system of compression and its inevitable
consequence, espionage, engendered too readily, was apt to fall
sometimes on the most unlikely subjects; in the present instance,
however, it was all the more mortifying because public rumor had
paved the way for credulity by ascribing the violent antagonism of
the Deputy de la Gauche to the fact of his having been disappointed
in obtaining a prefecture under the existing government. But
Berthe, though she disliked and mistrusted him, was annoyed that
he should be made uncomfortable in her _salon_. She disapproved
of the turn the conversation was taking, and by way of diverting
it, without breaking off too precipitately from the subject under
discussion, she said, addressing an academician who had just joined
the circle:

“Is it not quite possible, admitting panic to be the first
condition of contagion, that the presence of the Empress in the
midst of the sick and the dying may have had such an effect on
the _morale_ of the people as could sufficiently explain the
immediate decrease in the number of deaths? Instruct us, Monsieur
le Philosophe!”

“Madame, I come here to learn rather than to teach,” replied the
man of science with the gallantry of his threescore years and
ten; “but, since you do me the honor to ask my opinion, I confess
that it has the good grace to agree with your own. The people were
imbued with the belief that to breathe the infected atmosphere was
to die. The Empress, of her own free impulse, came boldly into the
midst of it, stood among the dying and the dead, breathed long
draughts of contagion, and did not die. Therefore contagion is a
fallacy, and panic, instead of killing, is forthwith killed.”

“Your therefore, monsieur, is admirable,” said the Princess de
M----, tapping her parasol on the arm of her chair. “Now, let us
have a truce of the plague, and talk of something else.”

“Yes,” said Berthe, “or else talking may raise a panic, and we
shall all catch it. Have you been lately to the theatre, monsieur?”

“I went last night to see _La Beauté du Diable_,” replied the
philosopher.

“Ah! And what did you think of it?”

“I think, madame--_que la France est bien malade_,” said the old
man gravely.

“One need not be _un des quarante_ to find that out,” remarked the
Deputy de la Gauche with a sneer.

“Is it so very bad?” inquired Berthe, turning a deaf ear to the
uncivil commentary.

“It is so bad,” replied the academician, “that, if I had not seen
it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears, I could not have
believed that the French drama and the French public could have
fallen so low. I asked myself whether I was in Paris or in Sodom.
From first to last the piece is a tissue of license and blasphemy,
for which I could find no parallel, even approximately, in the most
ribald productions of ancient or modern literature.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Berthe, “you quite horrify me. Why, we had
just arranged a _partie fine_ to go and see it!”

“Take an old man’s advice, madame--don’t go,” said the academician
impressively.

“It all depends,” said the Princess de M----, twirling her parasol,
and lolling back in the luxurious _fauteuil_, “if one is prepared
to risk it. I am for my part!”

The philosopher bowed to the lady, but offered no comment.

“Why does the Censure permit such bad comedies to be played?” asked
Madame de Beaucœur. “I thought the reason for its existence was the
protection of the public morals?”

“Political morals rather, madame,” corrected the Deputy de
la Gauche, with an air of mock solemnity, “and it is most
conscientious in the discharge of that duty. An irreverent
insinuation against the government suffices to bring down anathemas
on a comedy or a drama from which no amount of talent can redeem
it. My friend Henri ---- has just had a _chef-d’œuvre_, the result
of a whole year’s labor, rejected on the plea that some odd
passages, which cannot be removed without changing the whole plan,
might be construed by sensitive Imperialists into a hit at the
dynasty.”

“The judges would serve the dynasty better by exercising a little
wholesome restraint over what may prove more fatal to it in the
long run than even servile flattery,” observed the philosopher.
“What think you, M. le Sénateur?”

“Que voulez-vous?” The senator shrugged his shoulders. “One must
reckon with human nature; you cannot lock it in on every side. If
you don’t leave a safety-valve to let off the superfluous steam,
the ship will blow up.”

“Take care the valve does not turn out to be a leak, or the ship
may sink!” replied the academician. “Our press and our literature
are eating into the very marrow of the nation’s heart, and rotting
it. The people are taught to scoff at everything--to make a jest
of everything, human and divine. Nothing is sacred to the venal
scribes who pander to the base passions of humanity, and prey upon
its vices and its follies. When public morality has come to such a
pass that one of the first writers of the day publicly vindicates
the devil’s claim to our respect and pity as ‘an unsuccessful
revolutionist,’ and when one of the last writes and prints such a
sentence as, ‘I grant you the good God, but leave me the devil!’
and that the cynical blasphemy calls out no stronger comment than
a laugh or a shrug--when, I say, we have come to this pitch of
progress and civilization, it is time the ship’s hold were looked
to.”

“I grant you they are dangerous symptoms,” assented the senator,
shaking his head, and preparing a pinch from his enamelled
snuff-box.

“A much more ominous symptom, to my mind, is that the nation is
dreadfully _ennuyée_,” observed the Deputy du Centre, with a
weighty emphasis on the adverb. “When France _ennuies_ herself, it
is time to cry, Take care.”

“Who is to take care?” said the Princess de M----.

“The government, madame. We have had this one eighteen years now;
three years beyond the lease usually granted to governments in
France, and the people are thoroughly tired of it. Paris especially
is _ennuyée_ of late.”

“Paris is always _ennuyée_ unless she has a war, or an exhibition,
or some kind of a carnival, to keep her in good humor,” said
Berthe; “but Paris is not France.”

“Pardon, madame, Paris c’est le monde!” replied M. du Centre, in
melodramatic accent.

“Le monde, non,” retorted Madame de M----; “le demi-monde
peut-être.”

There was a general laugh at this sortie of the princess, and
before it subsided a group of new arrivals, amongst whom were
the Snow-Storm and her mother, were ushered in, and broke up the
controversy. Several of the company, some who had not spoken a word
to Berthe, but had merely made _acte de présence_ in the crowd,
withdrew. Madame de Beaucœur and the Princess de M---- remained on.

“_Quelle charmante jeune fille!_” said the former _sotto voce_ to
the princess, as Madame de Galliac and her daughter sat down near
them. “Who is she?”

“Mademoiselle de Galliac. She is the _partie_ of the season. _On
dit_ gives her four millions.”

“Indeed!” And Madame de Beaucœur, on marriageable maids intent,
pricked up her ears. “How odd I should not have met her before!”

“She has only lately arrived from Brittany. Our hostess patronizes
her very zealously. I suppose she is looking out for a husband for
her.”

Madame de Beaucœur made no reply, but committed the remark to her
mental note-book. Why had Berthe not suggested this girl to her for
Madame de Chassedot? It was the very thing she was looking for.
Old name, four millions--one too many, but the inequality was on
the right side--beauty, and of course good principles. Madame de
Galliac was known to be an excellent woman. How could Berthe have
been so disobliging or so thoughtless? Big with a mighty purpose,
and unable to resist the need of communicating her ideas, Madame
de Beaucœur turned to the Princess de M----, and in the strictest
confidence opened her heart to her.

But Madame de M---- was a foreigner, and did not fall in
sympathetically with French views on the subject of marriage, and
was, moreover, given to call things bluntly by their names.

“A girl with her beauty and money will find plenty of willing
purchasers,” she argued, “and I see no conceivable reason for
expecting that she will let herself be forced on an unwilling one.
There are husbands to be had at every price; she can bid for the
best, and the best are already bidding for her.”

“Ah!” said Madame de Beaucœur, alarm mingling with curiosity in the
interjection.

“Why, you don’t suppose a prize like that is likely to be
twenty-four hours in the Paris market without having scores of the
highest bidders fighting for it?”

“How mercenary men are! They are greatly changed since my young
day!” Madame de Beaucœur was somewhere between five-and-thirty
and forty; but she had been married from school at eighteen, and
had heard nothing of sundry interviews between _notaires_ and
mothers-in-law, etc., that had preceded the presentation of her
_fiancé_ ten days before her marriage.

“Very likely, but in this particular case it strikes me the woman
is the mercenary party. You say the young man won’t let himself be
married, big dower or little one?” said Madame de M----, laughing,
and speaking rather louder than was desirable in the presence of
the marketable _dower_.

“Introduce me to Madame de Galliac,” said her companion, striking a
_coup d’état_ on the spot.

The request was complied with, and the two ladies were soon
absorbed in each other.

“What shall we do to amuse ourselves this week, _chère madame_?
For Wednesday we have _La Beauté du Diable_ with a _diner fin au
cabaret_, and a _petit souper_ at Tortoni’s; but what shall we do
to kill the other three days?” demanded the princess, who had risen
to go, and now pounced upon Berthe, who stood taking leave of some
guests at the door.

“I haven’t an idea just at present; we will talk it over to-morrow
night at Madame de Beaucœur’s. But you must not count on me for
Wednesday,” said Berthe, “I have changed my mind about going.”

“What! You are going to play us false!” exclaimed the princess, her
ugly but expressive features lighting up with irresistible humor,
while her eyes shot out a cold, sardonic glance into Berthe’s.
“That old _perruque_ has put you out of conceit with it? But, no!
It’s too absurd, _ma chère_!”

“Absurd or not, I don’t intend to go,” said Berthe resolutely. “I’m
not so brave as you are. I do not want to risk myself.”

“But all Paris will laugh at you. They will say you have turned
_dévote_. For mercy’s sake, my child, do not make such a fool of
yourself!”

“Paris may say what it likes,” answered Berthe, bridling up, while
a blush of defiant pride suffused her cheek. “I despise its gossip,
and, in short, I don’t mean to go.”

“Seriously?”

“Quite seriously.”

The princess lifted her shoulders slowly, and as slowly let them
fall.

“Then there is no use in my proposing a little distraction that we
were planning, in the shape of an escapade to the _Bal de l’Opéra_
on Saturday night? In dominos and masks, of course?”

“Thank you, I do not want to run the risk,” said Berthe, smiling.

“Adieu!” And Madame de M---- heaved a long sigh. “You will make a
charming saint, but I fear I sha’n’t worship the saint as much as I
loved----”

“The sinner,” added Berthe, laughing good-humoredly. “Oh! well,
I’ve not donned the sackcloth and ashes, so you mustn’t denounce
me yet. But don’t suppose,” she continued, seeing Madame de
M----’s eyes fixed on her with a puzzled expression, “that I mean
to reproach you for amusing yourself. Our positions are widely
different. You have your husband to stand between you and evil
tongues, and, again, you are not amongst your own people here.
Honestly, would you go on at Berlin as you do in Paris?”

“Oh!” The princess threw up her parasol, caught it again, and,
laughing out, said, “But Paris is a _cabaret_, where one does as
one likes!” And with this exhaustive apology, she opened the door,
and passed out.

Berthe went into the second _salon_, where some of the earlier
visitors had gathered to leave room for new arrivals in the first,
but she was hardly seated when the door was again opened, and
François announced:

“Le Marquis de Chassedot!”

If he had announced Le Marquis de Carrabas, his mistress could not
have been more astonished. Was it a trap that Madame de Beaucœur
had laid for him? But, no, Mademoiselle de Galliac’s presence was
quite fortuitous, and, moreover, Madame de Beaucœur did not know
her, so she could not have had any scheme into which the heiress’
visit adjusted itself to-day.

“You were kind enough to permit me to pay my respects to you,
madame,” said the young man, walking up to Berthe, with his hat
in both hands, and blushing violently while he doubled himself in
two before her. “I hope I am not indiscreet in availing myself so
precipitately of the permission?”

Berthe smiled her gracious clemency on the indiscretion, and the
gentleman, backing a few steps, carried his hat toward a group
of politicians who were shaking hands in the window, and making
appointments before separating.

“How extraordinary!” muttered Berthe, laughing to herself at the
cool audacity of Monsieur de Chassedot. “I was kind enough to
permit him! Perhaps he is under delusion, and mistakes somebody
else’s permission for mine. Or perhaps it is a ruse of his mother’s
to put him unawares in the way of the three millions?”

But Berthe was wrong. M. de Chassedot really had said something
to her between the links of the “ladies’ chain” about placing
himself at her feet, and, as she looked very smiling and gracious,
he took the smiles for a permission. He had no view in asking it
beyond that of being received in the _salon_ of the fashionable
beauty, and he was encouraged in presenting himself there by the
knowledge that he was sure not to meet his mother. It would be a
free territory where he might flit about without being in perpetual
dread of falling into some net which the maternal solicitude was
constantly setting for him in the _salons_ of her devoted allies.

Madame de Beaucœur did not count amongst those redoubtable
beligerents. When she called during the day at his mother’s house,
he was never there, and, as the _habitués_ of the marquise’s
Tuesday evenings were recruited chiefly amongst the old fogies
and devotees of the faubourg, a class of her fellow-creatures
whom Madame de Beaucœur carefully avoided, there was no chance
of his meeting her there in the evening. It was this precisely
that made her mediation so precious to Madame de Chassedot. Edgar
was disarmed before her; he did not mistrust her, and when,
reconnoitring the company in the adjoining room through the broad
glass-panel that divided the _salon_, he spied her sitting near a
very pretty girl, the discovery gave him no shock, and, when Madame
de Beaucœur, catching his eye, nodded familiarly to him, he at once
made his way toward her, and took up a position behind her chair.

“I should like to go very much,” Madame de Beaucœur said,
continuing the conversation with Madame de Galliac, “but I have not
been this year since the garden opened. One cannot go without a
gentleman, and M. de Beaucœur is always so busy in the evening that
he can never accompany me.”

“There are hundreds who would cross swords for the honor of
replacing him, madame,” declared M. de Chassedot, stooping over
her chair, and throwing all the _empressement_ into his voice and
manner that her position as a married woman rendered legitimate.

“Then you shall have the honor without crossing swords for it,”
replied the lady. “Come and fetch me to-morrow evening at eight
o’clock; unless you are equal to undergoing a _diner de ménage_
with myself and M. de Beaucœur, and in that case come at half-past
six.”

“Madame! Such kindness overwhelms me!”

Madame de Beaucœur said _au revoir_ to the heiress and her mother,
kissed hand to Berthe in the inner _salon_, and, granting M. de
Chassedot’s request to be allowed to see her to her carriage, they
left the room together.

“Who is that young lady who was sitting beside you, madame?” he
asked with some curiosity, when they were out of ear-shot on the
staircase.

“Mademoiselle de Galliac. Did you never see her before?”

“Yes; but I did not know her name.”

“I ought to have presented you. How stupid of me! She is a nice
girl to talk to.”

“_A l’honneur, madame!_ to-morrow evening!”

And the carriage rolled off, leaving M. de Chassedot bowing on the
sidewalk.

Punctual to the minute, he presented himself in Madame de
Beaucœur’s drawing-room as the clock was chiming the half-hour.
Monsieur de Beaucœur had, of course, an appointment at the club,
which to his infinite regret prevented his accompanying his wife
to the Concert Musard, so he remained sipping his _café noir_, and
they set out alone.

The gardens, though only beginning to fill, presented a brilliant,
animated appearance. The central pavilion, its roof and pillars
girded with light, glowed like the starry temple of an Arabian
tale, while from within the orchestra sent forth its melodic
stream, now tender and plaintive as the zephyr wooing the rose at
midnight, now loud and valiant in the rhythmic dance; balls of
light came glistening through the foliage, making the trees stand
out in radiant illumination.

But, artistically mindful of the worth of contrast in scenic
effect, the light distributed itself so as to leave certain parts
of the garden in comparative shade. There, those who shrank from
the dazzling glare of the centre could walk and enjoy the scene and
the music without inconvenience.

“Why, there is Madame de Galliac, I declare! Let us go and meet
her!” said Madame de Beaucœur in delighted surprise, and they
walked on quickly. “What an unexpected pleasure, madame! I thought
you were going to the opera to-night?”

“So we intended; but there was some mistake about the box; we only
found it out at the last moment, and Henriette was so disappointed
that, to comfort her, I proposed coming here for an hour,”
exclaimed Madame de Galliac.

“Poor child! But I assure you the music here is no despicable
compensation. Let us go round by the left; the breeze is blowing
from that point,” said Madame Beaucœur, and, without taking the
slightest notice of Monsieur de Chassedot, she turned to walked on
with Madame de Galliac.

“Madame!” whispered the young man, touching her lightly on the arm,
and by a sign intimating that she had left him standing out in the
cold.

“Oh! how stupid I am! Allow me to introduce you: le Marquis de
Chassedot--la Baronne de Galliac.”

“My daughter, monsieur,” said the latter, pointing to Henriette.

Everybody having bowed to everybody, the party moved on, the young
people walking in front of the married women.

Monsieur de Chassedot, serenely unconscious of the cruel snare into
which he had fallen, and finding Henriette a lively, unaffected
girl, talked away pleasantly, confining himself of course to
authorized insipidities, such as the music, the decoration of the
gardens, the weather, etc., and making himself, as he could do when
he liked, very agreeable.

“Is not that Madame de P----’s voice?” said Henriette, stopping
abruptly, and bending her ear in the direction of the sound.

“I think it is. Let us walk on and see,” answered her mother, and
they quickened their steps.

Now, though Madame de Beaucœur liked Berthe, and as a rule was
delighted to meet her anywhere, on this particular occasion she was
the last person in Paris she cared to meet. She could not avoid
her, however, without awakening suspicions in the mind of Edgar de
Chassedot which might prove fatal to her own benevolent designs on
him. When Berthe saw the party, her surprise was great, and, though
she said nothing, her face expressed it so naïvely that Henriette,
being intelligent, noticed it, and bethought herself that there
must be some stronger reason for it than the ostensible one of
her mother’s meeting and walking round the garden with Madame de
Beaucœur.

Berthe had four gentlemen in attendance on her: a tall,
_distingué_-looking Austrian, who spoke to no one, but shot vinegar
out of his eyes at a handsome young Breton on whose arm Berthe
leant; a dark Englishman, who made up in vivacity what he lacked in
height; and another Englishman, whose notablest idiosyncrasy was an
eye-glass that seemed to be a fixture, so faithfully did it stick
in the right eye of the wearer, morning, noon, and night. Over
and above this guard of honor the beautiful widow was accompanied
by Hélène de Karodel. She introduced the two girls, who walked on
together, while the gentlemen and the three married women followed.

Hélène and Mademoiselle de Galliac had not proceeded far when
Monsieur de Chassedot broke away from the elders, and joined them.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, addressing Hélène, “I have just made a
discovery so agreeable that, before I venture to believe it, I must
have your corroboration.”

“Indeed!” said Hélène, puzzled at the singular apostrophe.
“_Couvrez-vous, monsieur_.” Edgar remained bare-headed awaiting her
answer--“and let us know what this wonderful discovery is.”

“You are the daughter, I am told, of that brave soldier and true
gentleman, Christian de Karodel?”

“You have been told the truth,” replied Hélène, her eye moistening
with grateful emotion at hearing her father so designated.

“He was my mother’s first cousin, consequently I claim close
friendship with you,” resumed the young man.

“And your name is--?”

“Edgar de Chassedot.”

“Ah! we are indeed cousins; but as your family seemed quite to have
forgotten the fact, we had almost forgotten it ourselves,” replied
Hélène coldly.

“It is not too late for us to remember it, I hope?” said Edgar,
imperceptibly emphasizing the us, and throwing a persuasive
deference into his tone that subdued Hélène.

“It is strange that you should care; but, since it is so, let us be
cousins!” And she held out her hand to him.

Six weeks after this promenade in the Jardin Musard there was a
_diner de contrat_ at Madame de Galliac’s. The _fiancé_ wore the
full-dress uniform of a _chasseur d’Afrique_. His bronzed features
attested long residence under Algerian skies, and the stars and
medals on his breast bore witness that his days had not been wasted
there in idle dalliance.

The plot against Monsieur de Chassedot’s liberty had collapsed,
to the inexpressible vexation of his mother, who, together with
the family lawyer and Madame de Galliac, had arranged all the
essentials for his marriage with Henriette’s four millions; but,
strange as it may seem, the consent of the young people themselves,
when demanded as a final condition, was actually found wanting.
It had come to the young lady’s ear that Monsieur de Chassedot was
no party to the business, and that, if he let himself be persuaded
into marrying her, it would be quite against his will. Mademoiselle
de Galliac there and then declared that she would be forced upon
no man, were he _Roi de France et de Navarre_. And so this most
eligible union, for want of a bride and a bridegroom, fell through.

Madame de Beaucœur then called to mind a nephew of her husband’s
who was serving in Africa. He was two millions short of the
requisite figure, but he had ‘_de grandes espérances_’ and was
moreover willing to be married, having positively written to his
family stating this fact, and requesting them to look out for a
wife for him. Photographs were exchanged, character and principles
inquired into, and vouched for satisfactorily--Henriette made
this a _sine quâ non_--and within one month from the day that his
aunt opened negotiations with Madame de Galliac, Alexandre de
Beaucœur arrived in Paris the affianced husband of Henriette de
Galliac. They were presented to each other at a morning reception,
and met next day at the _diner de contrat_. He took her in to
dinner, Madame de Galliac whispering to him with an arch smile, as
Henriette accepted his arm, “Now pay your addresses!”

The position was an embarrassing one. Monsieur de Beaucœur wished
to avail himself of the opportunity to win his bride’s affections,
but he was ill at ease, and, the more he strove to find something
agreeable to say, the less he succeeded. When dessert was served,
however, he took courage, and, bending over Henriette’s wineglass,
he murmured timidly in a low tone:

“Mademoiselle, what color will you have your carriage?”

“Blue, monsieur,” the young lady replied in the same low tone.

He bowed, and they relapsed into silence.

This was all that passed between them till they swore before God
and man to love each other until death did part them.

It may interest my readers, and it will no doubt surprise them, to
hear that this prosaic marriage turned out a singularly happy one.
The young man was a gentleman with a conscience and a heart. The
girl was sensible, high-principled, and affectionate. They were
both sound at heart, and they did their duty by each other. After
all, the most romantic union can hardly embark with surer or fairer
elements of happiness.

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




THE LEGENDS OF OISIN, BARD OF ERIN.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

V.

OISIN’S VISION.


    As dim through snowy flakes the dawn
      Peered o’er the moorlands frore,
    The old, snow-headed Bard, Oisin,[57]
      Sat by the convent door.

    His chin he propp’d on that clenched hand
      Of old in battles feared:
    And like a silver flood, far-kenned,
      To earth down streamed his beard.

    That sun his eyes could see no more
      Their thin lids loved to feel:
    It rose; and on his cheek a tear
      Began to uncongeal.

    Then slowly thus he spake: “Three times
      This thought has come to me,
    Patrick, that I am older thrice
      Than I am famed to be:

    “For on the ruins of that house,
      Once stately to behold,
    Where feasted Fionn the King, there sighs
      A wood of alders old.

    “And on my Oscar’s grave three elms
      Have risen; and mouldered three:
    And on my Father’s grave, the oak
      Is now a hollow tree.

    “Patrick, of me they noised a tale,
      That down beneath a lake
    A hundred years I lived, unchanged,
      For a Faery Lady’s sake:

    “They said that, home when I returned,
      The men I loved were dead;
    And that the whiteness fell that hour
      Like snow-storm on my head.

    “A song of mine--a dream in youth,
      That tale, misdeemed for true:
    Far other dream was mine in age:
      A dream that no man knew.

    “For though I sang of things loved well,
      I hid the things loved best:
    Patrick, to thee that later dream
      At last shall be confessed.

    “On Gahbra’s field my Oscar fell:
      Last died my Father, Fionn:
    The wind went o’er their grassy mounds:
      I heard it, and lived on.

    “I loved no more the lark by Lee
      Nor yet the battle-cry;
    And therefore in a dell, one day,
      I laid me down to die.

    “The cold went on into my heart:
      Methought that I was dead:
    Yet I was ’ware that angels waved
      Their wings above my head.

    “They said, ‘This man, for Erin’s sake,
      Shall tarry here an age,
    Till Christ to Erin comes--shall sleep
      In this still hermitage:

    “‘That so, ere yet that great old time
      Is wholly gone and past,
    Her manlier with her saintlier day
      May blend in bridal fast.

    “‘And since of deadly deeds he sang
      Above him we will sing
    The Death that saved: and we from him
      Will keep the gadfly’s wing.

    “‘For him an age, for us an hour,
      Here, like a cradled child,
    Shall sleep the man whose hand was red,
      Whose heart was undefiled.’

    “Patrick! That vision, was it truth?
      Or fancy’s mocking gleam?
    That I should tarry till He came--
      ’Twas not, ’twas not a dream!

    “And wondrous is mine age, I know;
      For whiter than the thorn
    Was this once-honored head before
      The men now white were born:

    “And on my Oscar’s grave three elms
      Have risen: and mouldered three:
    And on my father’s grave, the oak
      Is now a hollow tree.”

    Then said the monks, “His brain is hurt”:
      But Patrick said, “They lie!
    Thou God that lov’st thy gray-haired child,
      Would I for him might die!”

    And Patrick cried, “Oisin! the thirst
      Of God is in thy breast!
    He who has dealt thy heart the wound
      Ere long will give it rest!”

FOOTNOTE:

[57] Pronounced _Oiseen_.




A JEWISH CONVERT: A REMINISCENCE OF VIENNA.


Among the pleasant capitals of Europe through which a long tour
carried the writer of this sketch, one of the most brilliant is
Vienna. It has many associations of genius to consecrate it;
Mozart and Beethoven, not to mention many lesser princes of music,
found there both home and appreciation; it has been the resort of
elegance, the _rendezvous_ of talent, the paradise of diplomacy,
even while graver ecclesiastical and historical events have centred
in it. It has its old cathedral, which, though disfigured by some
unfortunate internal bungling of the style of the Renaissance,
nevertheless has not lost its impression of religious solemnity,
heightened by the deep, narrow, and sombre choir with the wonderful
windows of old stained glass. Inimitable and unapproachable even
in its fragmentary state, this old glass is perhaps the most
interesting thing in the old church of St. Stephen, if we except
the stone pulpit, cunningly carved and placed in a recess of the
exterior wall of the building, the pulpit from which, so runs
Viennese tradition, the second Crusade was publicly preached.
There is among the records of the foundations at St. Stephen’s
one that sets forth the desire and prayer of the people, during a
pestilence in the middle ages, that a Mass should be daily offered
in that church for the cessation of the epidemic. Tradition says
that a great wind arose, and the pestilence was stopped. The
Mass, however, continues to be said daily, and it certainly is a
remarkable fact that there is not one day in the year, summer or
winter, wet or dry, when the wind does not blow in Vienna. The
Austrian capital, however, has yet more interesting associations
for us than are called up by the cathedral, and the many other
monuments and chapels by which it is historically distinguished.
In the Advent season of 1865, a young Jewish convert preached in
the _Schotten-Kirche_ a short course of the most eloquent sermons
it has ever been our privilege to hear in any language or any land
whatever.

His name is Marie-Bernard Bauer, and his family, of Hungarian
descent, is among the most influential and wealthy of those settled
in Vienna. The Jews of that city have indisputably as large a share
of the talent as of the riches of the country. The oldest brother
of young Bauer is one of the greatest bankers in Austria. At an
early age, the young Jew, fiery and enthusiastic, and already
gifted with singular eloquence, threw himself into the ranks of
the Revolution, and became one of its most ardent emissaries. At
eighteen, he was entrusted with important missions and considered
a rising Freemason. But during his travels he became acquainted
with a young Frenchman, a zealous Catholic, whose influence and
friendship laid the foundations of his conversion. He visited
his friend’s mother, also, who by her example more even than her
exhortations contributed to the work of grace begun in his soul by
her son’s solicitations. Bauer wore, at the request of these two,
a medal of the Immaculate Conception; and we need scarcely remind
our Catholic friends of the part this blessed badge fulfilled
in the conversion of another illustrious Jew, the Père Marie
Ratisbonne, the founder of the _Dames de Sion_, who has since
devoted his life to the instruction and conversion of Jewish girls
at Jerusalem. After being fully instructed in the faith, Bauer
required nothing but grace to believe. Being at Lyons with several
worldly acquaintances, he happened to be standing on a prominent
balcony, on the feast of Corpus Christi. The procession of the
Blessed Sacrament was to pass below, and they, with cigars in their
mouths and mockery in their hearts, were waiting for the pageant.
No change came to the young Jew until the canopy under which the
priest carried the Divine Host was close beneath the balcony.
The change at that moment was lightning-like. Faith entered his
heart, or rather--as he himself reluctantly admitted when pressed
by his superiors at a later time to lay aside false humility and
declare the works of God in his soul--a conviction so absolute
that it distanced faith made itself felt throughout his whole
being. The same _knowledge_, so to speak, returned to him many
times since while consecrating at Mass, and he said that he could
not _believe_ merely, in a matter of which he was so blissfully
and unerrably _certain_. As Jesus passed, Bauer threw himself on
his knees and professed himself a Christian. A very short time
elapsed before he entered the novitiate of the Carmelite Friars.
His mother, who was living in Paris, endeavored to see him, but
was refused access to him by his superiors. Later on, when he had
passed through the novitiate, he might have seen her, had it not
been for the machinations of his family. For five years every
friend and relation he had among his own race cruelly ignored
him, and he was kept away even from his mother’s death-bed by
their relentless sternness. His mother alone never ceased to love
him, and had a picture painted of him in his monastic cowl. This
portrait hung opposite her bed, and she died with her eyes fixed on
it and her hands lovingly stretched out towards it. When after her
death he was allowed by his family to visit her chamber, he saw a
curtained picture at the foot of the bed, and, drawing the curtain
aside, stood face to face with this touching proof of a mother’s
undying love. After some time, his fame as a preacher spreading
fast, his family received him once more into their circle, and,
with strange inconsistency, now made almost an idol of him. During
his novitiate, and according to a rule of his order, he used to
preach in turn with his fellow-novices in the refectory during
meals, at which time the generality of the young men in training
for a religious Demosthenes would receive but scant attention from
their companions. When Bauer’s turn came, the contrary, however,
was observed: the food was untouched, and the young audience sat
transfixed, hanging upon the words of their eloquent and gifted
companion. From the first his health was delicate; the effort of
preaching rendered it weaker day by day, till at length the zealous
and impassioned speaker, whom his friends prophesied to be the
future Lacordaire, was one day carried fainting from the pulpit,
having broken a blood-vessel. A year in Spain and complete rest of
mind and body did nothing more than just save his life, and the
Holy Father, who was very much interested in the young convert,
advised him to leave the Carmelite Order, for the austerity of
whose rule his shattered health now rendered him unfit. This
paternal advice--or, let us say, command--proved a great trial to
the enthusiastic religious; but, bowing to the will of God, he
accepted his altered life, and prepared to make it as fruitful in
good works as his short monastic career had proved. Although his
health precluded him from the exhausting work of preaching long
Lenten stations or continued missions, yet, as often as suitable
opportunities offered, he was to be found indefatigably working
in the pulpit; and we leave it to those who have had the good
fortune to hear him, to judge of the loss the Catholic world has
sustained in one whose eloquence and fervid enthusiasm rivalled
that of Lacordaire, and whose steadfast faith and unerring logic
far distanced that of the unhappy Hyacinthe.

In 1865, having already preached before the Emperor of the French
in Paris, and been greatly commended by the most distinguished
people there, both French and foreigners, he was called to Vienna,
where his family resides, and where all his former associates
and co-religionists awaited him with the greatest curiosity
and interest. The six lectures or discourses he gave in the
_Schotten-Kirche_, opposite his brother’s residence, at which he
was an honored and _fêted_ guest, were attended by crowds of his
own Jewish friends, besides all the _élite_ of Viennese and foreign
society. The impassioned tone of his voice, his closely knit
arguments, the air of apostleship about his slight figure and pale,
inspired face, the presence of his nearest and dearest relations,
and, above all, his own position toward them, in the very centre
of his youthful Revolutionary triumphs--all concurred in making
this short station of Advent one of thrilling interest. At the
end of each sermon, or _conférence_, as the French say (they
were delivered in French, which is like a second mother-tongue to
Marie-Bernard Bauer), he addressed a prayer to God, and, while
the language of each succeeding discourse increased in sublimity,
that of the concluding prayers seemed to take such flights of
unparalleled grandeur that the audience could only kneel in
motionless attention and unbroken silence for some minutes after
the preacher had ceased to speak--the highest tribute, perhaps
which an impressed people can offer to an orator. Marie-Bernard
Bauer has since received the Roman title of Monsignore, and been
appointed chaplain to the Emperor of the French. He accompanied the
Empress Eugénie to the opening of the Suez Canal, and preached a
magnificent sermon on the occasion, in presence of the assembled
potentates. But whatever else he has done, whatever else he may be
destined to do in the future, he will scarcely be able to surpass
his admirable achievements of the Advent station of 1865, when he
became, as it were, the champion and apologist of Christianity
before one of those representative Jewish assemblies which
contained within itself so much enlightenment, so much talent, and
so much successful individuality.

At the time when he preached these sermons, of which we will now
endeavor to give some idea, as far as a translation will allow,
he was only thirty-six years of age, and his frail, delicate body
made him seem even younger. The following is the third in order of
the _Conférences_, and was preached on the 17th of December, 1865.
The text is given entire, and the subject, as expressed in the
published edition of these sermons, was:




CHRISTIANITY AS A HISTORICAL FACT.


I would fain hope, my brethren, that the two last _conférences_
have contributed, in some degree, to revivify in believing hearts
both the energy of faith and the enthusiasm of virtue; that they
have cast doubts in doubting hearts, upon the very uncertainty
which creates doubt; that they have shed around hearts petrified,
so to speak, in the darkness of fleshly bondage, some rays of
the twilight which is the forerunner of the full light of God’s
grace, and which manifests itself in such hearts through this
question, solemnly and shrinkingly put: After all, might I not be
in error? Might there not be, despite all, another life, a real
responsibility, a moral law, supernatural duties, a judgment, a
judge, a God, and this God the God of Christianity?

No matter to what level the Sun of Truth may have attained on the
horizon of your inner life, you will allow me, nevertheless, to
retrace, in a few short words, the doctrinal substance of the two
previous discourses [_conférences_].

Man, such as we see him, is a fallen being; he is born with the
taint of original sin, and if to this, which is the form of evil,
he adds--and it is practically inevitable that he should--his own
individual sins, which are evil’s natural outgrowth, he does but
widen, at each moment of his existence, the abyss that parted
him from God since the very hour of his birth, and which, thus
ceaselessly widened, becomes such, at last, that nothing short of
a miracle will suffice to bridge it over. Death then, suddenly
intervening, cuts short all things here below, and hurls the man
whose whole life has been spent without God into the chasm of
the unknown. From a phase of being where all is transient, he is
hurried to another where all is abiding, and from that instant the
separation from God in which he has lived, and which before was
transient in its turn, becomes abiding, and from temporal changes
to eternal. Such are the conclusions of reason, which, leaning upon
faith, point out to us in this eternal separation the fitting seal
of an eternal woe.

It would not enter into my design toward the hearers which
Providence, having gathered together before me, seems to have
specially predestined to hear the words of eternal life from my
unworthy lips--it would not, I say, enter into my design to show
them these dark spiritual perspectives, without pointing out at
the same time some vista of supernatural light, some promise and
way of salvation, some hopes of life, nay, even life itself. No!
God forbid that I should become as the treacherous guide who
draws the lost wayfarer to the very edge of the precipice, and
there leaves him to himself and to the terrors of the ravenous
depths below. Yet, mark it well!--the mystery of life leads
towards death, through paths that skirt a giddy abyss where no
man’s self-possession is proof against danger; but there is,
nevertheless, an infallible road that leads to life through and in
spite of the manacles of death. It is called by a name with which
my lips cannot become familiar, as with a common word indifferently
bandied about in careless conversation--a name which I confess
myself unable even to pronounce without feeling my whole being
tremble with love and bow down in worship; a name which, when
spoken from this pulpit for the first time, only a few days ago,
produced an impression, or rather a mysterious shock, that neither
you nor I have yet forgotten--the name of _Jesus Christ_.

It is of him I come to speak to you to-day. My Father! my Friend!
my Master! abide with me, and, in order that I may be worthy to
speak of thee, speak thou thyself through these my lips!

Among all questions put by man to his own intellect, whether
they be historical, scientific, philosophical, social, or
religious, there is none of more gigantic importance than this:
Who and what is Jesus Christ? He and his works have been for two
thousand years the most notable reality of the universe; they
have been inextricably mingled with the course of history, with
the family and state relations of man to man, with literature,
with poetry, with politics; they have been the unseen link that
binds together all social problems; they have been the mainspring
of those mysteries that are convulsing the present century, and
which are fraught to some minds with terror and threatenings,
while to others they suggest hope and salvation. They have been,
without the slightest exaggeration, all things to all men, and it
follows, therefore, that according to the bent of man’s judgment
on Jesus Christ and his works, so will man’s whole nature lean,
his intellect with his thoughts, his heart with its feelings, his
life with its acts and its shortcomings, his soul with its eternal
aspirations.

This is indeed, and beyond all contradiction, the main question
of life--that question which, solve it which way you will, cannot
fail to produce two radically different types of men, and to open
up before us two paths, as far apart from each other through the
coming eternity as they are widely separated in the realms of time.

But why do I insist upon the awful importance of this problem? Do
you not understand it yourselves? Nay, do you not even bear witness
to it by your presence here at this moment? Why are you gathered
here--men of the most varied, perhaps the most contradictory,
beliefs? Why are you crowded around this pulpit in anxious silence,
breathless and motionless, perhaps vaguely troubled in mind? Why
but because there is not one amongst you to whom the sacred name of
Jesus is wholly indifferent or wholly meaningless! If to some this
holy name is the constant object of their highest adoration and
of their tenderest, I would fain say the most impassioned, love,
to others it is the object of their most agonizing doubts, the
spiritual sphinx whose riddle baffles and tortures all ages. And
further yet, while this name is to some the synonym of a smothered
curse or of a hatred as open as it is relentless, it contains for
all men a question of vital importance, I might even say a question
of life and death. My brethren, it is of _him_, who is both so
marvellously loved and so marvellously hated, of him whose figure
meets us at every turn of the past or the present, of him whom the
future cannot uncrown, that I purpose speaking to you to-day.

Every cause which has produced an effect may be considered either
in this effect or in itself. Hence, there exist two methods of
demonstration: the one beginning from the consideration of the
effect, and tracing it up to the cause; the other starting from
the study of the cause, and deducing its legitimate effect. We
are now about to apply to the great cause and the great effect
before us this twofold species of demonstration--this extrinsic
and intrinsic touchstone used by our intellect in acquiring its
noble treasure of proved facts and tried certainties in the domain
of philosophy, metaphysics, history, natural sciences, and, in
fact, of every branch of human knowledge. This cause is Christ,
this effect Christianity, of which he is the founder; and, since
it is natural to the human mind to consider first that which falls
more immediately under its own observation, I shall begin by
investigating the effect, namely, Christianity. This done, I shall
appeal simply to your reason to connect the effect with its cause,
and to discern through the beautiful proportions of the Christian
system the inimitable stamp of its divine founder.


I.

Every doctrine which has become a fact, every fact which has won
for itself a place in history, may be looked at in three ways:
first, with regard to its extent in material space; secondly, as
to its duration in time; thirdly, as to the depth to which it has
reached in human nature. This division is no invention of mine;
it is the same pointed out by the Apostle St. Paul when he wrote
to the Ephesians, and endeavored to explain to them the length
and breadth, the depth and divinity, of the Christian faith: _Ut
possitis comprehendere cum omnibus sanctis quæ sit latitudo et
longitudo, et sublimitas et profundum_ (Eph. iii. 18).

Now, as to its extent in material space, or, in other words, its
territorial sway:

Open the map of the world, and scan the globe with attentive eye:
a strange phenomenon will strike you. You will hardly discover one
corner of earth where Christianity--and I use the word in this
instance in its widest acceptation, excluding neither heresy nor
schism, which, though unhappily rebellious, are nevertheless, in
a certain sense, real members of the Christian household--where
Christianity, therefore, has not penetrated, either in undisputed
and irrevocable sway, as in Europe and America, or as a peaceful
conqueror, sealing its hardly-won victories not in the blood of
its enemies, but in its own. Following closely in the wake of new
discoveries, it is for ever landing on new shores, making a home
for itself among new populations, and winning new worshippers to
bend beneath the ancient sway of the never-aging cross.

You might rise in contradiction to my statement, and remind me that
the hour has not yet struck that will allow us, the soldiers of
Jesus Christ, to intone the triumphant hosanna of final victory,
since to this day there are many lands, many island-studded
archipelagoes, many vast and populous continents, beyond the pale
of our peaceful conquest, and since, after all, the standard of the
cross is not yet securely reared in every clime.

I admit it; but what does this prove? That our task is not yet
done? But who denies that? It is not done because time--which is
our only limit--is likewise unended, nay, is perhaps only just
beginning! For time is the array of all ages, and God alone, who
created them, has reckoned their mysterious number. Yes, we confess
it, our work is not done, and therefore we are ceaselessly and
everywhere laboring; and therefore I myself, a humble but zealous
worker, am laboring here at this moment. Those alone who will
see the end of time will see the task completed. That which we
have done during the twenty centuries that lie behind us is only
an earnest of what we will do in future ages, God’s holy grace
concurring.

What, my brethren! When we had no ships but frail canoes, and no
compass but our untutored eyes; when we had no roads but eternal
snows, virgin forests, and trackless deserts, vying with the wild
beasts of the wilderness in barring our further progress; when
we had no support but barefooted poverty and a pilgrim’s staff;
no provision save precarious charity, and no guide save faith,
hope undying, and--God; even then we succeeded in crossing rivers
and seas, deserts and forests, mountain gorges and Alpine snows,
that we might carry to the very confines of the world our living
faith and the Word of our God. This ineffable Word has reached
further than Alexander, who stopped at the Indus; further than
Crassus, whom the Euphrates arrested; further even than Varus, who
was stayed by the mighty Rhine--further than all conquerors, and
further than all conquests. And can we believe that we have now
set our foot on the fated threshold where the angel of evil would
be permitted to say to the angel of virtue, as erst the latter
was commanded to say it to his fallen brother, to Attila and the
barbarian hordes, at the very gates of the Eternal City: “Usque huc
venies, sed non ultra”--“Thus far shalt thou come, and no further”?
Do not believe it, my brethren; for, on the contrary, it is but now
that God’s reign is beginning, and as I believe, so I prophesy to
you, with an irresistible and invincible conviction.

Forward, then, O human enterprise! Cleave the mountains, cut
through the isthmuses, drain the morasses, and fill up the lakes;
cast bridges over the waters, carry roads over the trackless
country, build you mighty vessels, throw electric wires in the
air, and gird the world with an iron girdle! Let your treaties of
commerce and navigation be signed, and embassies sent to nations
and kings whose names till yesterday were unknown in the civilized
tongues of Europe! Know you what you are doing in thus knitting
humanity together, and in connecting, with an energy unexampled
in the whole history of the past, the orient and the occident,
the pole and the equator? In one mighty embrace their hands are
clasped, and they offer to each other, if we may so word it, that
gigantic kiss of peace which, day by day, re-echoes more loudly in
both hemispheres.

In all this, you are doing under the hand of God that which the
war-steed does under the hand that guides him and the spur that
urges him on. For, like unto the steed, who hardly knows whence he
came, far less where his rapid steps are leading him and what is
the burden that he bears--like unto him, thou Christ-blaspheming or
God-forgetting age, thou boundest forward with maddening strength,
carrying on thy broad shoulders with proud recklessness the rider
whom thou scarcely knowest to the goal thou wottest not of. Every
invention, every development of thy industry, far from cursing it,
I bless it from the depths of my heart! Go forward and prosper! In
a hundred years, thanks to thee, Truth will be sovereign of the
world!

Christianity is the greatest geographical and territorial fact
under the sun. It is so beyond all controversary, and if this
fact, which I simply call a miracle, seems to you natural and
easy of accomplishment, I only ask you this: try to spread and
propagate over the universe, not a whole complicated system of
metaphysics, but one single doctrine, whose mortal opponents, in
the first instance, shall number every human passion which repulses
it as treason against nature, and every heathen government which
denounces it as treason against authority. But I will not ask
even so much. Endeavor to persuade, not even one single nation,
one city, one family, but _one man_, of the truth of a doctrine
at once repulsive to his passions and hostile to his interests.
I speak to you as a man whose life is devoted to this sublime
and laborious mission of persuasion. And knowing as I do its
wonderful consolations as well as the superhuman and apparently
fruitless labor it often imposes, I tell you, my brethren, what
you yourselves will tell me when the school of reality shall have
taught it to you, that Christianity as it exists, spread over the
whole earth by the godlike contagion of faith, is simply a fact so
overwhelming that the language of men holds but one word fit to
express its being--that one word, _miracle_.

There is, however, one thing more marvellous yet than mere
propagation: it is duration, and a duration ever true to itself.

Condense the mystery of life into one short formula, capable at
once of holding and adequately expressing it, and you will find
none more comprehensive than this--_motion and change_. From the
mass of inanimate being which, in the bowels of the earth and in
the bosom of eternal night, is causing, by its agglomerations,
its cohesions, and its fusions, a species of constant internal
agitation, of blind and feverish restlessness as old as creation
itself, up to the most dazzling pinnacles of life, where man
figures under every name and in every relation conceivable among
mortals, there exists the same law, there reigns the same spirit.
In its name, by its authority, we see in private life one day
swallowed up by the next, dethroned by its breathless and equally
ephemeral successor, doomed beforehand to annihilation, while on
the stage of public life events crowd each other out of time and of
the memory of man, empires fall, dynasties grow up under the double
shield of God’s grace and man’s enthusiasm, frontiers are widened
and narrowed, whole nations migrate and spread, and even language
itself, though but an outward sign of immaterial substances and
metaphysical proportions in no way themselves subject to change,
puts on divers forms, as if carried away by an irresistible impulse
in the whirl of this universal frenzy. Yes, my brethren, motion is
everywhere, and, in order that even death should not be permitted
to fling its defiance permanently to life, this law penetrates
even to the night and silence of the tomb, pierces the coffin,
and installs between its four wooden walls the same unceasing
restlessness which torments the great world. Worms, created to
prey on man, riot with breathless agitation over the human corpse,
and proclaim, by their ghastly activity in the abode of final
destruction and in the very bosom of the crowning dread of earth,
that life triumphs yet over death, and that the universal law of
motion reigns in undisputed sway over that kingdom of darkness that
owns no other created sovereignty.

And what is the result of this ceaseless motion? Nothing less than
ceaseless change. Motion is a change of relations with the world
and with one’s self. There is no motion but causes change, no
change but presupposes motion. These terms are convertible, and so
it is that I justify what I told you a few moments ago--that the
concise formula of life is _motion and change_. It follows from
this demonstration that nothing is so difficult of attainment as
duration, and duration true to itself, which is to the sovereign
law of _motion and change_ a permanent defiance and a marvellous
contradiction.

Let us seek in the vast sepulchre of Time, where during so
many ages countless men and things, countless doctrines and
institutions, have lost themselves, and in which even the
shattered wrecks of once noble ruins, spectres of the past and
often unconscious prophets of the future, have been swallowed
up--let us seek one man or one created thing that has not succumbed
to this pitiless law. Let us seek diligently in the manuscripts
of old, in the caverns of forgotten magic, in the tombs of buried
sages! Or stay, my brethren, and seek not! For, like unto the
alchemist of mediæval ages, we should seek and not find, for that
which we seek is not.

But if you would see this tremendous miracle of a duration as
invulnerable as it is abiding, lifting up its solitary existence
in the midst of universal change and motion, do not gaze afar,
but turn your eyes to that tabernacle crowned with the cross, the
standard and badge of _Catholic_ Christianity. This, and this
alone, abides where all else has been swept away by the ruthless
and untiring breath which devours all that is, and ravenously
awaits all that, as yet, is not. Christianity, and it alone, has
lived true to itself, while all else around it was changing. Like
unto God, the impassible and unchangeable, Christianity stands
unmoved amidst the countless ruins with which you--men--strew the
world. Christianity, with its old principles and its youthful
aspect, leans on the rock of its own eternity, and gives the lie
to the universal law with unassailable and ineffable calm. Yes, it
defies you! It sees you pass, as the shore looks on the lapsing
river, as the cliff looks on the ocean, as heaven looks upon earth,
and as _God_ looks on _man_.

It is strange, is it not? It takes our breath away. But this is not
all: it is scarcely the beginning. Listen! To bespread over the
whole earth is much; to live where all decays is more; to abide
ever true to one’s self when all things change is more still. My
opponents, however--I will not say my enemies, for, thank God, I
know of none--are perhaps saying to themselves at this moment:
“But are there not other forms of religion bearing much the same
marks, at least in a certain degree? Islamism holds a considerable
territorial sway. The Buddhism of India has surely been in a
certain sense true to itself from time immemorial.” I do not deny
it, for truth needs no dissimulation. And it is precisely on this
account, and because error has been permitted to bear in some
respects a certain likeness to truth, that it was imperative, for
the sake of those men of good-will whom this likeness might have
deceived, that truth should possess, besides those notes which she
shares with error, other marks so utterly inimitable that on their
appearance there could not be but instant recognition of that truth
whose counterfeits are as legion, but whose equal does not exist.

The touchstone by which to gauge the worth of any doctrine is
neither this doctrine’s extent in space nor its duration in time,
nor even its impassibility amid universal transmutations; that is
much, but it is not all. What is of more importance than the limits
of its influence or the length of its spiritual reign, is _the work
it has done_. There is its secret proof, there its most personal
revelation. It can give but what it has, and it can have but what
it _is_; it can produce outwardly but what it inwardly possesses;
if it be falsehood, then falsehood; if it be error, then error; if
it be evil, then evil; if it be a half-truth, then half-truth; if
it be human and natural virtue, then human and natural virtue; but
if it be God, then _God himself_.

Christianity, considered from this point of view, to which we can
give but a passing glance, will vindicate itself in our eyes as
standing unrivalled on earth, even as God is unrivalled in heaven.

To make my meaning clear, let me present to your minds one
preliminary observation.

Man often lives amid the wonders of creation without feeling the
slightest curiosity in their regard, and this because a sublime
spectacle, from being too constantly before his sight, becomes only
a familiar part of the daily monotony of his life. We might almost
say of him that, to the abiding miracle of the material universe,
he opposes the miracle of abiding indifference. Now, the visible
creation contains another, both visible and invisible, and which,
though far more wonderful than the material one, yet draws from
you, on account of its abidingness, only the careless notice of
indifference. Inhabitants of a Christian land, members perhaps of a
Christian family, citizens of a Christian community, children, in a
word, of Christian civilization, you are living in the midst of a
world of miracles which has lost the power to interest you because
it fails to surprise you. It is my mission to-day to rouse you from
this indifference, to dispel this mist, to show you things as they
are.

Look at any Christian country, any Christian or civilized nation
of to-day; the country which harbors us at present, if you will.
Who were here eighteen, fifteen, fourteen centuries ago? Not even
barbarians; savages! Who was it that came and saved you from
yourselves? Who was it that drew you from the materialism in which
you were plunged in the person of your forefathers, and in which
numberless tribes are grovelling still to this day--nations whom
Christ has not yet gathered in, and who horrify the sight of the
boldest explorers? Who was it that drew you from your forests,
built your cities, founded your families, traced your boundaries,
inspired your laws, reared your churches, anointed your kings,
and created those two centres of light around which for eighteen
hundred years your history has grouped itself, and your private
sympathies, your public enthusiasm, has revolved--the altar and
the throne, fatherland and God? Who has reclaimed your fields, and
made fruitful by the labor of the plough the glorious conquests
of the sword? Who has preserved in the silence and solitude of
the cloisters the scattered remnants of classical learning, and
through the Scriptures and traditions has kept alive the plenitude
of sacred lore? Who was it that created that incomparable marvel,
of which I would fain speak with tears, rather than with words--the
Christian _Family_?--the father, the patriarch, priest, and pontiff
of home; the mother, the apostle of God; the Christian virgin,
that holy wonder which earth proudly points out to heaven, as if
defying even heaven’s angels to surpass it? Who is it that has
created virtues without number within sacrifices without name,
putting by the side of every woe the voluntary service which will
minister to it, giving to every misfortune some heart that will
beat for it, and to the most neglected grave a mourner to weep
over it? Who is it that has freed the slaves of man to create the
slaves of God--those slaves who can say with the humble exultation
of a supernatural sacrifice, in the words of the Jew of Tarsus, now
become the great Apostle St. Paul: “Ego vinctus pro Christo”--“I,
the slave of Christ.” Who is it that has created the ideal of duty
and honor which inspired the troubadour and the knight--the ideal
of fidelity to the pledged word, of horror at injustice, of the
sacred hatred of evil? Who is it that has given you all the goods
man prizes, and which you enjoy in ungrateful forgetfulness, while
cursing those who accumulated them for you during centuries of
untold and weary toil, and even him who won them for your sake on
the cross, in a sea of tears and of blood? Who gave you the great
gift which this age counts as the kingliest boon of all--the gift
whose magical name we fear, not because our lips were the first
to pronounce and to honor it here below: _freedom_--the deliverer
from sin and death, from the passions of hell, and from the hell
of human passions? Who made you what you are, or what you ought to
be--beings regenerated, civilized, free, glorious, sacred--in a
word, _Christians_?

Who, my brethren? Jesus Christ, he who is there present in his
tabernacle, he who listens to me, who sees you, and who will judge
one day between my word and your souls, between me and you.

And henceforward, when a blasphemy against his Godhead seeks
passage on your lips, be it in mockery or in malediction, remember
the Caribbean savage and the Red Indian, think of what he is and of
what you are, and do not forget that, were it not for Christ, you
would be even as that poor savage. If your soul is not yet open to
the fulness of faith, at least let it hold its peace if it respects
itself.

Christianity in its breadth, its length, and its depth is the
principal fact of the world. No sincere and deep intellect, when
glancing at this comprehensive whole, can contemplate it without
developing in itself a spontaneous doubt, without saying to itself,
if it be unhappily far from belief, “Might this not be really the
work of God?” But if the simple consideration of the effect, that
is, of Christianity, can create this inevitable doubt, what shall
we say of the cause which has produced it, and of the relations
of the one to the other? What, indeed, save this, that, face to
face with this cause, doubt is turned into certainty, and man is
irresistibly impelled to cry out, in the full conviction of his
soul, that _Jesus Christ is God indeed_.


II.

What, then, is the cause which has effected this mighty reality,
as great as earth, as old as time, as marvellous as heaven, and
whose name among us is Christianity? Nineteen hundred years ago, a
little Child was borne in an obscure village of a poor country. His
parents were poor and of no account; he himself lived a poor man,
unknown and unnoticed, save in one or two instances plying during
thirty years a lowly trade in a forgotten corner of the world. Of
a sudden, however, he breaks silence: he preaches, all untaught
as he seemed, a doctrine which earth had never before heard,
and confirming it by signs earth had never before seen. Public
attention is arrested: he becomes the hero of the hour, and parties
spring up for and against him. Two years and a half go by in uneasy
peace, but a day comes when his enemies get the upper hand, and
denounce him to the civil tribunals of the country, whose cowardly
justice, while declaring him to be innocent, yet allows popular
prejudice and the threat of imperial displeasure to wrest from it
an unwilling condemnation. The innovator is nailed to a gibbet, and
his brief history, hardly three years old, seems for ever ended,
and ended in what manner? By a sentence of capital punishment,
and a memory left stained with ignominy by the hand of the public
executioner.

Here, then, is the cause we seek: A Jew! a poor, unknown, untaught
Jew! a Jew condemned to a shameful death by the justice of his
country, and executed on the public road among other malefactors; a
Jew, and, if we dare to say the word, a _felon_!

Listen and weigh well that which you shall hear. You have seen the
cause, you have seen the effect. Between the two rises the great
question. How could such a cause produce such an effect? This we
purpose to examine in a few words:

There are three explanations from which your choice may be made,
and which pretend to connect a cause so radically powerless with
an effect so immeasurably disproportionate. They are these: Either
mankind has believed for two thousand years and actually believes
in Christianity without sufficient reason, without adequate proof.
In that case, humanity is mad, and for twenty centuries has been
so, and I myself, who am speaking to you, am out of my senses.

Or else mankind believes with fully adequate proof, perfectly
calculated to convince it, and yet what it believes is false.
In that case, God has deceived us during twenty, forty, sixty
centuries, since the beginning of the world. In that case,
Providence is a mockery, and its sway over the universe has been
from the very first hour of creation but one long mystification,
one scornful derision of our human reason. Or again, if you cannot
believe either that mankind has mistaken God, or that God has
deceived mankind, there is but one hypothesis left, namely, that
Jesus Christ is God!

In order that you may choose more deliberately between these
three possibilities, it will be necessary to afford them fuller
development. The first of these compels you to infer that mankind
for the last two thousand years has been bereft of reason, and
that at the present moment a considerable portion of it, myself
included, is in a hopeless state of insanity.

This may seem to you an exaggerated proposition, got up simply
to prop the weakness of an untenable argument, but it is nothing
if not an absolute truth, most easy of demonstration. Let us
suppose that to-morrow, the 18th of December of the year of grace
1865, there shall enter into this great capital, through one of
its numerous gates and towards the dusk of evening, a poor and
ragged beggar, the dust of his journey still upon him, and his
ignorance of the language of the country painfully conspicuous.
Let us suppose this man presenting himself before the populace,
the magistracy, the priesthood, the army, and before the Emperor
himself, and speaking to him thus: “Sire, a few years ago, your
majesty was pleased to order the public execution, in a remote
province of the Empire, of a Jew. This Jew was the Messiah, the
Saviour, God himself! Therefore, O Cæsar! come down from your
throne, bend your knee, be baptized, and confess your sins; for,
mark it well, this crucified Jew is none other than your God.”
What would you say, my brethren, to the man who should speak thus
to-day? You would fitly account him a madman, and madder yet the
people and the priesthood, the army and the monarch, who should
believe in his wild words.

Well, then, this strange tale is a true one, it is a historical
fact. One day, many ages ago, an old Jew, baptized by the name of
Peter, entered, a beggar, ragged, and dust-begrimed, through one
of the gates of the greatest capital of the mightiest empire of the
world--ancient Rome.

In Rome, he actually preached the unheard-of sermon I have just
quoted, and which, repeated in that form to-day, would cause
only a burst of derision. Why did Rome not mock him? Why did the
priesthood not hoot him? Why did Cæsar not scorn him? Why, on the
contrary, did this beggar, with his rough staff and scrip, with his
barbarous Latin sounding harshly on the ears of those who could yet
remember the voice of Cicero on the rostrum--why did he shake the
foundations of the mightiest empire of the world, and why, instead
of provoking laughter, did the people pale and tremble before him
in the Forum, the magistrates quail beneath their robes of office,
the priesthood shrink affrighted to their doomed temples, and Nero,
the emperor, forget to trust in his blood-stained purple? Why does
the deserted Palatine look to-day upon the opposite hill of the
Vatican, and behold there a dome whose summit may well be said
to seek to scale the heavens--a dome that crowns a tomb, that of
the beggar Peter, a tomb which, though but the fane of the dead,
is nevertheless the centre of Europe and the world? For this tomb
bears a throne at once the most ancient and the most sacred in
Europe, the only one which represents an empire whose boundaries
are the boundaries of the universe. And why all this? Only because
Peter proved by signs and wonders, by _miracles_ wrought both in
life and in death, that he spoke indeed in the name of him whom
heaven and earth obeyed, because he was their Maker. Because he
wrought these signs, his word was believed. And I am free to
confess that, had the men of his time believed in him without such
an irrefragable proof of his mission, they would have been madmen
indeed, and we, who are now the heirs of their faith, would have
been only the successors to their folly. For two thousand years,
I repeat it, the history of mankind would have been a long dream
of insanity, an act of stupendous folly, and, as a climax to this
incalculable confusion, there would have sprung from this folly the
most incomprehensible of contradictions--wisdom and glory, light
and virtue, civilization and progress--in a word, that great wonder
which holds all lesser marvels within itself, namely, Christianity.

If I mistake not, your common sense has already set aside this
hypothesis as untenable. We admit it, you may say to me; to make
mankind believe in the--humanly speaking--unbelievable, there
must have been proofs capable of proving and making certain, so
to speak, the very impossible itself. We must admit it, unless we
accuse the whole world of madness. But if Peter and the apostles,
and all the preachers of the Gospel, confirmed their teaching by
signs that were accounted miracles, might this not be explained
by a chain of fortuitious coincidences, happy accidents, seeming
miracles, which are every day elucidated by the progress of
investigation until they utterly disappear in the full light of
science? A discussion of the nature and essence of the Gospel
miracles would be utterly out of place at this moment. I will
therefore confine myself to this: if the miracles which, among
outward causes, are the principal explanation of the world’s
conversion to Christianity, are false, then it is no longer mankind
unconsciously duped and led away, but Heaven itself, the deceiver
and seducer, whom we must indignantly accuse.

There is no alternative, my brethren: either madness on the part
of earth, or crime on the part of heaven. Either man is bereft of
reason, or God is no longer just. Either man unknowingly deceives
himself, or God wilfully deceives him. Choose ye, therefore!

But in choosing, remember that he who accuses God of having
deceived the world, or even of having permitted what is called
chance to have so deceived it, blasphemes as much against mankind
as against God, and commits such treason against humanity as can
never be forgiven by it. To accuse God of having allowed evil to
triumph in the plausible likeness of good, and to become, behind
this mask, the goal, the light, the glory, the life, the very God
of mankind, involves nothing less than the negation of Providence,
and the abandonment of the world to the blind god of chance,
the savage god of fate, the shadowy god of nothingness. Such an
accusation confuses all creation, darkens the sun of understanding,
casts history back into chaos, the human intellect into doubt, the
human heart into despair. If Providence has betrayed mankind from
its cradle, why should it not have betrayed me, individually, from
my birth? At the slightest hint of such a doubt, what a fearful
horizon looms up before me!

I have believed in him who has numbered every hair of my head; and
I have been deceived.

I have believed in the prayer of the poor who ask for daily bread,
and in the answer of him who gives it, and in whose sight even
the sparrow is not forgotten; and I have been deceived! I have
believed in the eloquence of tears shed at the feet and the heart
of God; in the blessings of mothers registered in heaven; in the
fruitfulness of suffering; in the merit of unknown virtue, and
of virtue unknown to itself; in defeats that are glorious and
success that is shameful; I have believed in all that showed forth
God in man, and man in God! But--grief unspeakable!--I have been
deceived, since there is no Providence, since for ages and ages
an odious and inexplicable chance has ruled humanity, and forced
it, humbled, mystified, levelled with the brute, miserably plunged
in a stupid and inconceivable idolatry, to bend the knee to the
very dust--before what? before whom? Before a man, a Jew--before
a scourged and crucified Jew, whom it hearkens to as an oracle,
invokes as a master, and worships as a god.

I have reached a limit beyond which I cannot go, and I stop a
moment to ask you: Have we not seen enough of these impossibilities
jostling one another, enough of absurdities crowding on our
bewildered sight, and, as Scripture words it, of deep calling unto
deep?

And yet, if you tear from the brow of Jesus Christ the crowning
glory of the Godhead, you will be compelled to admit a thousand
times more than this, and not only to admit it, but even to believe
it fitting and most rational. You are therefore forced to choose
between the human madness that believed in and deified an impostor,
the guilty and merciless fraud practised by a God whose seal was
thus solemnly set to the most appalling scandal ever witnessed by
mankind, or the crowning dogma of the divinity of Jesus Christ, a
dogma which alone reconciles and explains all mysteries. When you
recross the threshold of this church, you must go forth believers,
either in a miracle of folly, a miracle of treachery, or a miracle
of mercy and love. Mankind must appear before you either as a
regenerated, a deceived, or an idolatrous creation.

What will be your choice? Would to God that at the solemn moment
of your decision I might come to each one of you, and on my knees
beseech you, through the merits of that Precious Blood which, if
you will not let it be your salvation, will most assuredly be your
eternal condemnation, and the sign that will doom you to doubt in
life, to agony in death, to despair in eternity--beseech you, I
repeat it ere you have raised your voice in final decision, to free
your soul from the interests that bind it, the human respect that
fetters it, the sophisms that lead it astray--in a word, from all
the passions of flesh and blood whose watchword is eternal hatred
to the truth of God.

Then, and only then, in that freedom from all bondage, in the
silence of your inmost hearts, make the choice that will lead you
to life or to death.

But what words are these, my brethren? There will be no need of
choosing then: the choice will be already made; for, as the sun
swiftly reaches the last recess of the deepest cavern the moment
the obstacle is removed which has hitherto resisted its light,
so does Jesus Christ, the sun of the mind, the incarnate truth,
flood with his radiance every soul whose own obstinate efforts
do not close it against this blessed transfiguration. Open wide
your hearts, my brethren, to this God of love and truth, who has
vouchsafed to show himself to you in the brightness of such light
and the majesty of such conviction.

And thou, Lord Jesus, who art the truth “_that enlighteneth every
man that cometh into the world_” (St. John i.), let it not come
to pass that one soul out of this great assemblage should return
this day from the foot of this pulpit to the common turmoil of
the world without bearing within itself the ineffable wound of a
dawning conviction. And if, O Lord! thou requirest unto this end
the sacrifice of a human life, let this day be my last on earth,
and this hour the last hour of my mortal pilgrimage.




AFFIRMATIONS.


“It is the child’s spirit that is to be loved and sympathized with,
not his body; the body must be pampered as little as possible.”

“Principle must unite with purpose before it becomes practical.”

“Human nature must do as nature does--cling to the sustainer, and
then it will be always producing new fruits.”

“We are none the better for reflecting upon our own ideas of heat,
but if we would cease reflecting and let the heat warm us, the heat
would itself realize what our reflected reflections never can.”

“There is a communion with God, with saints, and also with angels,
and then with each other, but this is not in space and time, or
with the space and time man.”

“That which Love requires for the everlasting food, the man of this
world expends in heaping up rubbish.”




FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.


PART FIRST.

THE OLD MANSION.


XII.

Clement remained a moment thoughtful and undecided. Before obeying
his mother’s injunction, he felt the need of collecting his
thoughts and regaining his self-control. Whatever strength of mind
he might manifest, he was very young to experience such painful
emotions as he had endured the past day. He crossed the passage
of the stairs that led to Fleurange’s room, then passed on and
went directly into the garden. Hitherto he had only thought of his
parents. At least, he felt all that morning that, as soon as his
father and mother knew everything, a great weight would be removed
from his mind which would enable him to breathe quite freely. But
the terrible revelation was made, and yet he was not relieved. He
was still agitated, painfully agitated. Having passed the whole
evening shut up in Wilhelm’s office, reckoning up the sad accounts,
he felt the need of fresh air. It was the end of June. The weather
was cloudy, and somewhat showery. He walked swiftly to the end of
the garden, then returned slowly towards the house, and was about
to go in search of the children and his cousin when he heard his
name called close behind him:

“Clement!”

“Is it you, Gabrielle, here all alone?”

Fleurange was sitting on an obscure bench against the side of the
house.

“Yes, I have been here an hour. You are going to tell me everything
that has occurred, are you not, Clement? Remain here awhile and
tell me. Do not conceal things from me any longer.”

“I do not intend to, Gabrielle, but do not detain me now. Come in,
dear cousin. When the children are asleep, I will return and tell
you.”

“The children are asleep, Clement, and have been for a long time.
It is nearly ten o’clock. Poor little things, do you think they
could keep awake till this time? After dinner I took them to the
further end of the garden, that their lively prattle might not
disturb the house. By eight o’clock they were tired out. I made
them go up-stairs, and as soon as they fell asleep I came down to
wait for you.”

Had her account been still longer, Clement would not have thought
of interrupting her. He made no reply for a while, but at length
said:

“Thank you, Gabrielle. You are--” He stopped. He felt an iron
grasp at his throat, and feared he should sob like a child if
he attempted to speak. With all his manly energy and precocious
gravity, Clement’s young heart was passionately tender. And yet he
had not been wanting in firmness throughout the day. Why, then,
did it seem to abandon him so suddenly now? How happened it that,
after considering, without shrinking, all the consequences of the
resolution he was the first to make and propose--after manifesting
no hesitation at the sight of his parents, and his brother and
sister, he now felt terrified and almost overwhelmed at the thought
of the sacrifice that had been made, and the great change about
to occur in their lives? He hardly knew why himself, for he had
not examined very minutely what was passing in his dreams. Clement
was naturally inclined to reverie. He cared but little for the
amusements of his age. His mind sought relaxation in secretly
brooding over the inspirations of poetry. His friends knew he had
a good memory and was familiar with a great number of poems, but
they did not suspect he had a deep vein of poetry in his nature
which ranked next to the influences of religion. This interior life
was so completely veiled that the very eye of his mother scarcely
penetrated it. Clement’s aptitude for history and the sciences, his
turn for practical studies and a practical life, his skill in a
thousand things of a material nature, served to conceal still more
the other qualities of his mind. They depended on him to train a
horse, settle an account, give a lesson in mathematics or history,
plan an excursion, or make arrangements for a journey; but the
idea of his wandering in imaginary or poetic regions, absorbed and
lost in such waking dreams as are expressed in German by the word
_Schwärmen_, and silently passing a part of his life in an interior
world to which he never alluded, was little imagined, even by those
who knew him best. And perhaps he himself, as we have said, had
never thoroughly analyzed his own nature, for until to-day the
actual and the imaginary had never come in conflict. But now all at
once he felt there was in his ideal world a sanctuary, a palace, a
throne, he must resign himself to see crumble away like the rest,
and the courage he manifested at the material loss of wealth to its
fullest extent seemed to forsake him now in view of the imaginary
ruin of this enchanted domain!

Fleurange, seeing her cousin made no reply, waited quietly awhile,
but at length she said, somewhat impatiently:

“Come, Clement, I pray you, keep me no longer in suspense. What are
you afraid of? Am I a child? Am I not older than you? And did I not
learn long ago the sad meaning of sorrow, suffering, and trial?
Speak to me freely, then, and without fear. Nothing frightens me.”

Fleurange’s earnestness roused her cousin, and restored his
calmness and self-control. Without any further hesitation, he
seated himself beside her, and related the greater part of what
he had told his mother some hours before. She thus learned in her
turn the extent of the disaster which had befallen them--that all
due reparation would be made, that the honor of her uncle’s house
and name might remain intact, though his brother, Ludwig Dornthal,
would be ruined--for ever ruined.

“And your good father and mother have consented to this
renunciation of their rights?”

“Yes, and without any hesitation.”

“O dear and noble soul!” cried Fleurange, clasping her hands in her
transport. “And it was you who proposed it?”

“Yes.”

“O Clement, my dear Clement! truly, I love you as I never loved you
before!”

“Gabrielle,” said Clement in a low and trembling voice, “do not say
that.”

“Why not?” said Fleurange. “I think so, and it is the truth.”

“Because--because, if they are often to be blamed who are wanting
in honor and duty, there is nothing particularly praiseworthy in
those who are faithful.”

“Nevertheless, my dear cousin, if I love you better than before,
you must not be displeased, but I will not say so again if it
offends you.”

There was a moment’s silence. Fleurange was lost in profound
reverie. She soon resumed, in a grave tone: “Now I understand the
state of affairs, I see our life is to assume an entirely new
aspect.”

“Yes, entirely,” said Clement, with a dull anguish.

“This dear Old Mansion,” continued Fleurange, “must it be left?”

“Yes,” said Clement; “it will have to be sold, with all it
contains, for the produce of this sale is all my father will have
to begin life anew with.”

“Sell the house!” replied Fleurange thoughtfully. “Yes, I see it
must be so; and afterwards we shall be separated.”

“And why must that be so?” cried Clement with sudden impetuosity.
But he presently resumed in a different tone: “However, it would
be very selfish in us to wish to retain you, now we have no longer
anything to share with you but our poverty.”

“Clement,” said Fleurange hastily, “that is truly a rude and
unjust speech, which I hardly merit--” She stopped an instant,
then went on in a tone of emotion: “What! when poverty, misery,
and hunger--yes, Clement, hunger!--were staring me in the face,
your father bethought himself of me, he invited me here, received
me into his house, conferred on me--not a happiness I had already
experienced, but one hitherto unknown: he became my father, when
mine was no more, and gave me a mother, brothers, and sisters whom
I had never possessed. Life, youth, and joy had been meaningless
words to me. I only comprehended them after I came under his
roof, and now--now,” said she in broken accents, no longer able
to restrain her tears, “it is his son--Ludwig Dornthal’s son--who
tells me it is to escape the misfortunes of his family that I wish
to leave them!”

“Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” said Clement in an agitated manner,
“forgive me--have some pity on me. Stop, I beseech you; you will
drive me mad, if you utter such reproaches at this time.”

Fleurange by degrees grew calm, and, forcing a smile, while great
tears stood in her eyes, she soon resumed: “Poor Clement! I am,
then, neither allowed to praise you nor blame you, this evening.
Well, let us lay aside what relates merely to ourselves, or at
least speak of it in a different manner. What I meant just now was
that we could no longer remain idle. We must aid our dear parents
all we can,” she continued in a softened tone, “and labor for
them--”

“Labor!” said Clement. “_I_ must unquestionably; that is a matter
of course; but you, Gabrielle--you! There is no reason in what you
say.”

“And I also,” said Fleurange calmly. “And that is a point to be
considered. I must not only cease to be a burden to your parents,
but I must aid them. How happy that will make me! I thank Heaven
for the very thought that I may now be able to do something for
them to whom I owe everything. This hope relieves my very sadness.”

She rose and held out her hand. “Good-night, cousin. To-morrow I
will tell you what inspiration I have received from my good angel
during the night.”

He silently pressed her hand, and allowed her to leave him without
a word.

The night was cloudy. If Clement caught any glimpses of his
cousin’s features during their conversation, it was because, seated
beside her, and even favored by the obscurity, he ventured to look
at her more closely than he would have done elsewhere. Now, the
stars rose only to disappear beneath the sombre clouds. He was
no longer afraid of being seen. He remained where Fleurange left
him, and, burying his face in his hands, gave vent at last to the
tears that for two hours had been suffocating him--tears of sorrow,
regret, and affection, which he must shed to keep his young heart
from breaking.

But he soon surmounted this violent emotion, and rose up ashamed of
his weakness. At that moment he heard a window open above his head.
It was Fleurange, who soon appeared on the balcony. He could see
her white dress and the regular outline of face against the light
from her chamber. He saw her soft glance lost in the darkness. Then
she folded her hands and bent down her head. She was praying, but
not alone to-night. Clement, kneeling unperceived in the shade,
prayed with her. He was in the very place where he heard her say to
Felix: “Clement is my brother, and you are not.” He recalled the
words now, and renewed in his heart the solemn promise to be for
ever faithful to all the obligations they imposed.


XIII.

If the happy inmates of the Old Mansion had been told a month
previous they only had a few weeks more to pass within its walls,
they would have been greatly dismayed by the prediction, and asked
how such a trial could be borne. But there is in life--even in the
happiest life when it is ordered aright, that is, when its duties
are daily considered and faithfully accomplished--there is, I say,
in such a life a latent preparation for the most violent shocks of
adversity, and, when they suddenly come, it is surprising to find
that they who seemed to enjoy more than others the good things they
possessed are the best able to resign themselves to their loss
with firmness and serenity. And yet they are not insensible to
the calamity. It falls on them with its full weight, but it comes
alone, unaccompanied by the two scourges which generally follow in
the train of a misfortune resulting from misconduct--trouble and
confusion of mind.

Neither of these followed ruin into Ludwig Dornthal’s house.
Externally the disaster was complete, but peace and order were
maintained within. All their decisions--even the most painful--were
made deliberately, and executed calmly and without delay. They
did not dissemble the greatness of their sacrifice; they made no
pretence to an insensibility they did not feel; but they quietly
made their preparations--tears often blinding their eyes the
while--like a brave and worthy crew wrecked by a tempest and forced
to abandon their vessel.

It was thus they made all the arrangements for leaving their dear
home and disposing of their library, paintings, and objects of
_virtu_, which the professor had selected with so much care and
pride, and were his only source of pleasure apart from the society
of his family and friends. And from the latter also he was to be
separated. When Ludwig Dornthal announced his intention of resuming
the career he abandoned twenty years before, positions were offered
him on all sides, especially in the city where he resided. But on
account of the strict economy he must henceforth practise, as well
as a secret repugnance to a different social position in a place
where he had been so prosperous, he decided, after some hesitation,
to leave Frankfort, and accept a modest situation offered him at
the University of Heidelberg. He succeeded in purchasing a small
house in that place at a low price--somewhat rustic, it is true,
but situated without the city walls, on the banks of the Neckar,
and surrounded by a garden. He could easily walk to the university
every morning, and the perspective of the rural repose that awaited
him at the end of the day would enable him to endure its labors
more cheerfully. He therefore decided to take possession of it as
speedily as possible, and all the necessary arrangements had to be
made during the few weeks they were to remain in the Old Mansion
before leaving it for ever.

Clement took charge of all the preliminaries of the somewhat
extensive sale that was to take place. He wished to relieve his
father from so sad a task, and perform the painful and fatiguing
business without any assistance, but it was made much easier for
him than he anticipated. Fleurange insisted on his accepting her
aid. She set herself to work, silently going to and fro with her
sleeves turned back, carrying the rare china carefully from one
place to another with her small but efficient hands, and dusting,
arranging, and numbering the books according to her cousin’s
directions. Of course she greatly lightened his labors. In the
evening they seated themselves in the library, now nearly stripped
of its treasures, and wrote lists or inserted notes in the large
registers concerning the precious manuscripts and books that were
to be disposed of. It was, in short, a work that required the vigor
and activity of youth, as well as much thought and assiduous labor.
To say that, while performing this double task, they never found it
tiresome, that no shade ever came over their brows, and that their
eyes were never tearful while handling so many objects they were
never to see again, would be false; it would be equally so to say
that Clement, in spite of the fatigue, was greatly to be pitied
during these days.

There came a time, long after, when, looking back on the past, it
seemed to him that these hours passed in the light of Fleurange’s
beautiful eyes, sometimes cast down as she bent over the large
registers, and anon raised to ask a question or give him a friendly
glance--it seemed to him, I say, that these vanished hours were
among the most delightful of his life.

At length came the day their task would be completed, and, while
they were working together for the last time, Fleurange raised her
eyes. “Clement,” she said, “we are nearly done. I have been waiting
for this moment to tell you something.”

Clement dropped his work at once, and looked up interrogatively.

“No, no; finish what you are doing, and I will tell you afterward.”

Clement soon finished. Fleurange closed the great book before her,
and resumed: “Do you remember our conversation in the garden a
fortnight ago?”

“I do, most assuredly.”

“Well, after leaving you that evening, I passed the night in
reflection, and ended by writing to the best, and, indeed, the only
gentleman-friend I have in the world out of this house.”

“Dr. Leblanc?” said Clement, aware, of course, of all the
circumstances that preceded his cousin’s arrival.

“Yes, Dr. Leblanc. I wrote him all I had just learned. I made known
the situation my uncle and his family would soon be in, and my
desire, my ardent desire, not only to cease to be a burden, but to
fulfil a daughter’s duty with regard to them. His own daughters
have other duties, now they are married, but I have only this, and
it is one so precious--so precious,” repeated Fleurange in the soft
tone that sometimes made her simplest words penetrate to the depths
of the listener’s heart, “that I shall consider my life happy and
well-spent if I can consecrate it entirely to this duty!”

Clement bent down his head, and took up his pen as if to correct a
mistake on the paper before him. She must not see the effect of her
words on his countenance--no! she must not.

“Well,” said he presently, without looking up, “what did Dr.
Leblanc say?”

“Here, Clement, read the letter I received from him two days ago.”

Clement took the letter, but, while reading it, he was all at once
filled with a similar anguish to that he experienced after the
conversation that night in the garden which Fleurange had just
alluded to. He was obliged to make a violent effort to restrain
his feelings, and not tear the letter in his hands into a thousand
pieces. Fortunately he succeeded, for it would have been the most
foolish act he ever committed. And there was really nothing in Dr.
Leblanc’s letter to justify such a mad desire. It read as follows:

  “MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND: I cannot tell you how much I am at once
  distressed and edified by the sad account you have given me. I
  have long known what kind of a man your uncle is. I now see there
  are but few to be compared with him, even among the best, and I
  never had a keener desire than to make his acquaintance. You know
  I have always hoped for this gratification. It will probably be
  afforded me sooner than I anticipated. And this leads me to the
  second part of your letter.

  “I understand your wish, and would like to second it. Besides, I
  have not forgotten my promise to aid you in gaining a livelihood,
  should it ever be necessary. Poor child! I hoped never to be
  called upon to fulfil it, but, as things have come to that
  pass, I must tell you of a letter I received yesterday which,
  coinciding with yours, seems to be a providential indication.
  This letter is from the Princess Catharine Lamianoff, a Russian
  lady, who is one of my patients. She is now at Munich, and has
  sent for me to go there. I have already prescribed for her with
  success, and, from what she tells me of her state, I think my
  visit may be beneficial. I have therefore decided on the journey,
  and shall be absent a fortnight. I shall go by the way of
  Frankfort on purpose to see you. But, first, I must tell you what
  there is in the letter to interest you. The princess earnestly
  requests me to find a young lady, carefully educated and with
  good manners, to be her _demoiselle de compagnie_. She is an
  invalid and requires to be entertained, so the office would be
  a charitable as well as a lucrative one. We will talk all this
  over before another week. Meanwhile, rely always, as you have the
  right to do, on my sincere and affectionate devotedness. I say
  nothing about my sister, as she is writing you in a similar tone
  by the same mail.

  “P.S.--The princess has been married twice, but is again a widow.
  She is very wealthy, and offers the young lady she commissions me
  to find one hundred and fifty louis a year.”

Clement remained silent for some time. “And you think of accepting
such a proposal?” said he, at length, in a tone of irritation quite
at variance with his usual manner. “What folly!”

“No, it is not folly,” replied Fleurange mildly. “If, after talking
with Dr. Leblanc, I discover no reason for declining the situation,
I cannot possibly see the folly of accepting it.”

“Gabrielle,” said Clement, without changing his tone, “you know the
course you wish to take is insupportable to me! This _rôle_ belongs
to me--me alone. It is my place to labor for my parents, my brother
and sister, and for you. If you had the least regard for me, you
would feel this is a favor you have no right to refuse me.”

“Come, Clement,” said Fleurange calmly, “let us talk it over in a
reasonable manner. When everything is sold, and your parents are
settled in their new home at Heidelberg, you are perfectly aware
that your father’s small salary, even with what you can add to it,
will barely enable them and Frida to live comfortably. You will
remain at Frankfort, where, notwithstanding your youth, you have
the choice of several situations. But Fritz--have you forgotten our
calculations yesterday? Will you have sufficient means to send him
to the excellent gymnasium you were so desirous he should enter,
that he might be enabled to become independent in his turn? No,
Clement, you know well you could not do it. Whereas,” she continued
with animation, “if this good lady likes me, I can send all my
salary, with the exception of a small part, to my dear brothers.
This will ensure Fritz’s education, and my dear aunt will be freed
from all anxiety about him as well as me. And do you not see,
Clement, that I shall be a thousand times happier far away from
you all, even though treated like a slave by this princess, than
among you, useless, inactive, and adding by my presence to your
difficulties, instead of aiding to diminish them?”

Clement, with his elbows resting on the table, and his face buried
in his hands, did not answer a word.

“Come, come, dear Clement, put off that frown,” said Fleurange in a
caressing tone, taking him softly by the hand. “We shall see each
other, like school-children, during our vacations. From time to
time we shall meet on the banks of the Neckar! That will always be
our home, where we shall all gather around the hearth, as here, on
great festivals.”

What reply could poor Clement make? What objection could he offer?
Must he not for ever conceal all he had hoped in his vanished
dreams to confess some day? Was he not now reduced to constant
labor for subsistence? Had not his life henceforth a single aim
that nothing must turn him from? And were it otherwise, did she not
look upon him as a mere boy? Was he not destitute of every quality
that could please her? And had he not always foreseen that his
enchanting dreams would vanish at the very first breath of reality?

He took his cousin’s small hand in his, and, with his usual frank
and cordial look, said: “You are right, Gabrielle, forgive me. I
appear ungrateful, but I am not. May God reward you! You are an
angel!”

And he added in a tone too low for her to hear: “An angel from whom
I am more widely separated than from the angels in heaven!”


XIV.

From that day forth Clement displayed no more interest in his
cousin’s project: at least, he never alluded to it, and the plan
was discussed before him without his taking any part in the
conversation.

Madame Dornthal, capable herself of the most generous devotedness,
knew also how to accept it from others--a rarer gift, but perhaps
not less noble. She thoroughly understood Fleurange’s disposition,
and was unwilling at such a time to deprive a heart like hers of
the most exquisite joy it can taste.

“Yes, dear child,” she said, folding her in her arms, “I accept the
aid you offer me, and with gratitude. Thanks to you, I shall be
relieved from all anxiety respecting two of my children, and, if
Dr. Leblanc reassures me as to my Gabrielle, I shall let her follow
the generous impulse of her heart.”

But Madame Dornthal kept to herself, or only communicated to her
husband, another motive for her consent. Fleurange would thus be
preserved from some of the privations of their new life. “She would
continue to enjoy comforts we could no longer give her. She would
be happier and more cheerful away from us, the poor child! than
with us at such a time.”

“Yes,” replied the professor, “it would indeed be a pity to bury
her youth in a cottage. I could not bear it. I have so often
blessed God within a month for having assured the destiny of our
dear daughters! And yet,” added poor Ludwig, sighing, “their young
faces were so cheering around us!”

“We shall soon see them again, Ludwig. Hilda and Karl are awaiting
our visit, and Clara will pass the winter near us, Julian having
received a great number of orders from the vicinity of Heidelberg.
O my dear Ludwig! as long as God leaves us these blessings, let us
resign, not only without a murmur, but without regret, all he has
taken from us!”

Those who are absorbed in the acquisition of wealth, and make it
the special object of their lives, are no less liable to misfortune
than others. Indeed, it may be said, they are more frequently
overtaken by adversity. Would it not be well, then, for them to
reflect a little beforehand on the means of singularly modifying
the features of this stern visitant, and giving it the aspect it
now wore in the Old Mansion? It is true, to do this they must begin
by thinking of something higher than the mere acquisition of riches.

Dr. Leblanc arrived, as he promised, about ten days after his
letter. His visit at the Old Mansion coincided with the last days
its inmates were to pass within its walls, and this circumstance
would have made him hesitate to come, had not the professor
cordially encouraged him. They had long wished to know each other,
for in their different spheres they were equally renowned, and
Fleurange, under so many obligations to both, was a tie between
them. The doctor was therefore received by M. Dornthal quite
otherwise than as a stranger. The tendency of their minds, the
nature of their studies, and even the prominent features of their
character, were very dissimilar, but there was the same foundation
to their nature, and they aimed at the same end by different means.
They therefore soon discovered that, though their lives were
drawing to a close without even having met before, they were born
intimate friends.

How many unknown friends thus pass their whole lives without ever
meeting, or even suspecting the sympathy that unites them! Who can
tell how many ties of this kind will be discovered in heaven? And
who knows but this discovery may be one of the sweetest surprises
of another life, and, like all the joys we have a foretaste of here
below, and perhaps more abundantly accorded to those who on earth
were the most destitute?

The hospitable doors of the Old Mansion were closed, the library
shelves bare, the panels stripped of the rich paintings that
adorned them, and all was now humiliation and sacrifice where once
reigned satisfaction and enjoyment, and yet Dr. Leblanc probably
would not have felt so lively a sensation of respect and emotion
had he visited the Dornthals for the first time during the days of
their prosperity.

As to them, this new friend seemed to have always occupied the
place he now took in their midst, and, in spite of the sadness
of the present as well as of the future, Fleurange enjoyed the
satisfaction of seeing them brought together for a few brief hours,
and, though on the eve of leaving her friends, did not find the
last days she spent among them the least happy.

Madame Dornthal gathered nothing from her conversations with Dr.
Leblanc that was unfavorable to Fleurange’s project; but she
learned that the Princess Catharine was only making a temporary
visit at Munich on her way from a watering-place where she passed
her summers and would soon leave for Florence, where she owned a
palace which was her residence in winter.

After some correspondence, it was decided Fleurange should accept
the princess’ offer, and go to Munich under the doctor’s care. She
would thus have the double advantage of her old friend’s protection
during the journey, and his presence during the first days of her
new career among strangers.

While all this was being decided, the time passed sadly and rapidly
away, and the last day they were to spend in the Old Mansion
came--the last day their eyes would linger on the venerable walls
which had witnessed all the happiness of the past, the garden with
its velvet sward, the borders of flowers, and the wide alleys
through the overshadowing trees, full of remembrances they would
not another spring be able to retrace, or indeed any spring of
their future lives.

Clement, silent as he often was, but more agitated than usual,
hastily collected the small number of books which were to form part
of his luggage the following day. His cousin’s generous sacrifice
enabled him to fulfil his wishes at once with regard to Fritz. This
only left him the more completely alone--the care of the child
would have added to the young man’s difficulties and become later
a serious burden; but Clement loved his little brother, and had
looked upon the necessity of keeping him with him as a consoling
feature of his future life. This necessity no longer existed.
Clement, left free, decided to make choice of the most laborious
career offered him--the one least conformed to his tastes, but the
best adapted to second his desire of aiding his parents.

Wilhelm Müller proposed he should enter a large commercial house
where M. Heinrich Dornthal’s worthy and intelligent clerk himself
had found a situation similar to that he recently occupied at the
banker’s. Clement accepted it. He was at first to receive only a
small salary, but it would be increased from year to year. “And
later,” explained Wilhelm, “you may have your share in the profits
of the house. You are young. Who knows, whatever you may say,
that you will not some day become rich again, and as happy and
prosperous as you were destined to be?”

Nothing in Clement’s heart responded to this encouraging prophecy,
but he did not the less follow Müller’s advice. Moreover, he
accepted the kind clerk’s offer of renting him a small chamber in
the house he himself occupied.

“Poor Monsieur Clement,” he said, “what I offer you is only a
garret, but it is under our roof, and you will feel you have
friends around you. My wife is a good housekeeper, and will always
be ready to render you a service. The little ones are good children
also, though somewhat noisy, and will sometimes divert your sad
thoughts.”

“It is all well enough,” said Clement. “Your offer suits me every
way, and I thank you, Wilhelm, with all my heart.”

Thus matters were arranged between them.

Fleurange made her appearance in the library while Clement was
diligently packing his books. She remained awhile, and learned by
questioning him all that has just been related, not omitting the
kind clerk’s offer to become his host as well as his colleague.

“Oh! so much the better,” cried Fleurange. “The Müllers are
excellent people. I know Bertha, who is an amiable little woman.
You can talk with her about me.”

Bertha’s name recalled Fleurange’s journey, which they discussed.
This naturally led to her arrival on Christmas Eve, the Midnight
Mass, the festival of the following day, and all the other happy
days that succeeded.

All these reminiscences were too touching, too poignant, at such
a time. Fleurange at last became unable to utter a word. She
turned her face away, and started as if to leave the room. But she
stopped at the threshold, and remained leaning against the garden
window, which at that season was surrounded by honeysuckle. Clement
followed, and both stood gazing at the thousand objects gilded by
the brilliant rays of the setting sun. There was nothing wanting in
the melancholy beauty of that evening hour, either in the sweetness
of the air, the clearness of the sky, the perfume of the flowers,
or anything that could in their eyes add an unusual charm to all
they were about to leave for ever.

And she! how did she appear in the sight of him who feared he
might never, after this hour, behold her again as she now stood
beside him? What did he think of the effect of the golden lights
upon her fair brow and on her black and silky hair?--on the pale
azure of her eyes, now so smiling and soft, and again so grave and
thoughtful, but in which tenderness was overruled by a will that
would ever remain dominant?

We will not state what were his unuttered thoughts. The mingling
of sweetness and energy which heightened the attraction Fleurange
inspired he was equally gifted with, and what he ought to conceal
within his own bosom he knew how to prevent his mouth from uttering
or his eyes from ever betraying. He therefore remained near her,
calm in appearance, while his heart was a prey to such grief as
in youth changes the entire aspect of nature, and makes it almost
unendurable to live.

“To-morrow!--to-morrow I shall no longer behold her,” he repeated
to himself, with a sensation that one might have in sharpening
the instrument of his execution, and the thought deprived him of
enjoying the few hours that remained to him.

Fleurange, on her side, dwelt on the fatality that always separated
her from those she loved. She recalled the day when the bare
thought of ever leaving this spot caused such a painful contraction
of the heart. And now, that prophetic anguish was justified!--the
frightful dream had become a reality! Sad thoughts crowded on her
mind. Another moment, and she would be unable to restrain them, all
her firmness was about to give way in a flood of tears, when an
effort of her will made her triumph over the emotion, or, at least,
prevented her from manifesting it. Putting a stop to her long
reverie, she raised her head, and turned toward her cousin:

“Here, Clement,” she said softly, drawing a small book from her
pocket, “here is my Dante we have so often read in: keep it, dear
friend, in memory of our favorite study, and do not forget our
habit of daily reading a canto in it.”

“No, I shall never forget it. Thank you, Gabrielle: the gift is
very precious. I shall always prize this little book.” He opened
it: “But write my name on this blank leaf. Here is my pencil.”

She took the pencil and wrote: “_To Clement._”

“One word more,” said Clement in a supplicating tone. “Pray write
also a word, a line, a stanza if you will, from our favorite poet.”

“What shall I write?” said she, turning over the leaves.

“There, that in the second canto,” said he, pointing it out. She
wrote it immediately, and then read it over:

“To Clement.

  “L’amico mio e non della Ventura.”[58]

“That is right,” said Clement. “Thank you.”

“That is a sad line: I should have chosen a different one.”

“It is appropriate to the present occasion. Now add your name.”

She was about to write it when he stopped her.

“Your real name,” said he. “Write your other name, to-night--the
name that suits you so well--Fleurange!”

Fleurange smiled, and shook her head. “Oh! no,” she said. “I gave
it up with regret, but I should not have thought of such a thing
had I previously known you all. But I have been so happy since I
have borne the name of Gabrielle--and you were the first to call
me so, Clement--so happy that I no longer love the name associated
with the sadness of the past, and, were I to hear any one call me
Fleurange now, I should imagine it an ill omen.”

Clement made no reply, but, when she returned the book, he retained
her hand a moment: “Gabrielle, one word more--perhaps my last
before your departure. Listen to me. Wherever you may be, if you
ever need a friend--a friend, do you understand?--that would value
no sacrifice for your sake, do not forget that your brother is
ready to aid you, not only willingly, but with a pleasure you have
no idea of.”

Clement’s voice was grave and solemn, but at the same time
agitated and tremulous, as he uttered these words. They were so in
conformity with what Fleurange had reason to expect from him that
they touched her, but excited no surprise.

“Yes, Clement,” she replied frankly, casting an affectionate glance
toward him; “I promise to have recourse to you. I feel I have no
better friend in the world than you, and doubt if I ever shall
have.”

Were these words sweet or bitter? He hardly knew. The sadness that
overwhelmed him it seemed impossible to increase, and equally
impossible to alleviate. And yet!--she was still there--beside
him--with an air of serenity and hope. There was not a single
sentiment of her heart he did not share. She called him her friend,
and there was no other she preferred to him. The moment, so full of
anguish, was yet a happy one, and he regretted at a later day not
having known how to profit more by it.

This was their last conversation in the Old Mansion. Clement
preserved the little volume in which she had written the name of
Gabrielle as a memento of this interview, and also a sprig of the
honeysuckle that touched her forehead.

The remainder of the evening passed swiftly away. Soon after light
the next morning came the farewell hour. The Dornthals left their
beloved home without the hope of ever entering it again, and
Fleurange once more left those she loved, to enter upon a new life
that looked a thousand times gloomier and more uncertain than that
which was before her when she left Paris. And Clement bade them
all farewell, to endure as he could isolation, a laborious and
uncongenial life, the privation of the affection and pleasures of
his boyhood, and especially all the pain and love a young heart can
endure.


PART SECOND.

THE TRIAL.

      “Era già l’ora che volge il disio
    Ai naviganti e intenerisce il core,
    Lo di’ c’han detto a’ dolci amici addio!”--DANTE.


It was a beautiful night--brilliant, serene, and starry--a night
the uprising moon would soon render as light as day. A fresh
breeze from the land swelled the sails of a vessel just leaving
Genoa, which, far from impeding its course, only gave it a bolder
and more rapid flight over the waves. There were various groups
of passengers on deck, some conversing in subdued tones quite
in harmony with the mysterious hour of twilight, and others
aloud as if it were mid-day. One was playing on a guitar, as an
accompaniment to a somewhat remarkable voice, one of those airs
everybody knows, sings, or hums as long as they are in the fashion.
The music, in itself indifferent, did not seem so on the water and
at such an hour. It harmonized with the feelings of those who were
sailing over that azure sea, beneath that starry sky, and in sight
of those charming shores which the boat scarcely lost sight of
during its short sail from Genoa to Leghorn.

Apart from all these groups, and belonging to none of them, we
again find Fleurange, who was sitting entirely alone. She had
been here some minutes, attracting general attention from the
first by the gracefulness of her form, which the cloak in which
she was wrapped could not wholly conceal. The hood, half-covering
her head, only added a picturesqueness to the striking beauty
of her regular features. More than one of her fellow-travellers
would gladly have drawn near the place where she was sitting, but,
though she was alone and did not appear to be under any one’s
protection, there was, in the simple dignity of her attitude, in
her evident indifference to the sensation she produced, in her very
want of timidity, which was not boldness, but resolution, and in
her whole appearance, a something undefinable which intimidated
the most lively admiration, and would have disconcerted insolence
itself--a remark _en passant_ to those who regard familiarity as
only a proof of the attraction they inspire. Therefore, in spite
of some whispering, notwithstanding more than one look toward the
charming face distinctly visible in the full light of the moon,
now risen, Fleurange remained quietly in her corner, abandoned to
her own meditations, undisturbed by any one, and without troubling
herself in the least about those who surrounded her. Her thoughts
were various and complex. A strange fate seemed to pursue her and
constantly break the thread of her life, and every time it was
broken she found the severance more painful. It was but recently
she wept so bitterly at leaving Paris, and Dr. Leblanc, and the
dear Mademoiselle Josephine. But the tears were much more bitter
she shed at leaving the Old Mansion, and the loved circle where she
had first known and tasted in all their fulness the sweet joys of
family life.

After leaving Frankfort, Fleurange’s firmness, which had never
faltered before, suddenly gave way to such a degree as to make
Dr. Leblanc resolve to take her back to her friends if, after his
short stay at Munich, he did not find her more resigned to her
lot. But Fleurange was not a person to be easily subdued. Her
natural strength of character soon asserted itself, and enabled
her to persevere in the path she had chosen. Her resolution was
strengthened by the very circumstances which would have discouraged
many others. At their arrival at Munich, they found the Princess
Catharine confined to her bed by a violent attack of her malady,
and it was as nurse that Fleurange entered upon her duties. Her
complaint, all the physicians declared, was not dangerous, but it
was not the less painful, nor the easier to be relieved. That Dr.
Leblanc was again successful in his treatment was partly owing to
the sudden and lively fancy of his patient for the young companion
he had brought her. To tell the truth, the doctor, knowing the
princess, had foreseen this attraction, but he knew Fleurange was
fully able to justify and sustain this first impression, and he
sincerely hoped by bringing them together he had done something no
less useful and beneficial for his wealthy patient than for his
young _protégée_.

However this might be, nothing could have been better adapted
to dispel the burden of grief that weighed on Fleurange’s heart
than the immediate necessity of forgetting herself in active and
assiduous care for another. It was rather a sad beginning to pass
a succession of days and nights at the bedside of a sick stranger,
but in the actual state of her mind it was the best thing she
could have done. She possessed all the qualities that constitute
an efficient nurse, and, to a degree that excited Dr. Leblanc’s
surprise, firmness and promptitude, ease and gentleness in all her
movements, vigor and skill, and seasonable attentions--nothing was
wanting, and the result was--the never-failing effect of her beauty
and grace, added to the sentiments of lively gratitude sick people
generally feel for those who know how to relieve them. The princess
did not cease thanking the doctor, and the latter, quite pleased
with the result of his inspiration, left Fleurange not only without
anxiety, but with the most favorable hopes as to her position.

Though scarcely able to travel, the Princess Catharine insisted on
leaving Munich, and by easy stages she succeeded in reaching Genoa.
Now she was on her way to Leghorn, and thence would go to Florence
without delay, as she was eager to arrive at the palace which was
her real home, having long been obliged by her health to absent
herself from Russia, or at least to live there only during the
brief portion of the year known as the pleasant season.

For the first time, almost, since she left her friends, Fleurange
was now absolutely alone, and at liberty to indulge freely in her
own reflections. She began by recalling the cherished memory of her
distant friends, from whom she was every moment drifting away with
frightful rapidity. It was the hour sung by the poet:

              “The hour that wakens fond desire
    In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart,
    Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell”;

and Fleurange’s thoughts for a long time dwelt upon the recent
events of her life, so rapid in their current as now to be
numbered among the things for ever vanished--upon the happy family
now scattered; the days--so few--in which she was permitted to
be a member of it and finally, her present isolation, for,
notwithstanding the kindness of the princess, she felt extremely
isolated. By a singular exchange of _rôles_, it was she--the
unprotected orphan, who now seemed to have become the support of
her protectress; and the lady of rank--the rich princess, the poor
woman spoiled by fortune--who seemed to seek aid and consolation
from her. Fleurange’s kind heart found unexpected relief in these
cares, the very success of which was ample reward. She felt her
affection increase for the object of these attentions in proportion
as she lavished them, but it was rather a feeling one has for a
child or an inferior, than one it would have seemed natural to have
for a person on whom she was dependent, and to whom she actually
owed respect and obedience. She therefore felt solitary, and
this loneliness was depressing. And yet in spite of herself--in
spite of her melancholy (though this may seem contradictory)--an
irresistible sensation of joy quickened the pulsations of her heart.

Who has not experienced this joy that has once seen the beautiful
sky of Italy, and left it, and then beheld it again? Who has not
greeted with transport the charming and sublime features of its
glorious scenery as it appears anew on the horizon, as if beholding
once more the face of a beloved friend? And who, after being long
deprived of hearing the sweet accents of its musical language,
has not heard them again with emotion? All these impressions must
have been more deeply experienced in Fleurange’s case than in many
others. And as the wind went down, and the moon ascended the clear
sky, reflecting a train of light that grew brighter and brighter on
the sea, like a pathway of diamonds leading to an enchanted abode,
Fleurange, with her eyes fixed on the dazzling waters, felt for a
moment transported with joy! All the sadness of the past as well as
of the present vanished: she only realized the infinite pleasure
of living, of being young, of being here under this sky, on this
sea, near that coast whose odors were perceptible; and when she
remembered that that coast was Italy, that she would be there in a
few hours, a throng of poetic dreams and confused presentiments of
happiness added their vague hopes to the secret joy with which she
felt, as it were, intoxicated.

Dreams--half-understood dreams of youth--which are seldom realized,
and which at a later day, according as the soul triumphs over or
yields to the dangers of life, are transformed into divine and
powerful aspirations, or into deceptive and fatal realities!

At this same hour, what was Clement dreaming of, seated at his
garret window, and likewise gazing at the starry sky? Ah! if he
could have followed her whose image filled his soul, he would now
have been beside Fleurange as she was thus wafted away from him,
lulled by her confused dreams. His reverie, too, was sad, but there
was nothing vague or indefinite about it, and the manly tenderness
of his look expressed firmness and resolution rather than softness.
The future was clearly defined in his mind. Yes, though he was
only twenty years old, he felt capable of cherishing a fond memory
in his heart without ever being unfaithful to it. Yes, she should
remain there, as in a sanctuary, and, after God, he would offer
her the labors, the studies, the poetry, and the purity of his
life! Every talent he had received should be cultivated, and bring
forth all that was required on the part of the Giver. This motive
should quicken his mental faculties, and refresh him after the
exertions of the day; stimulate him to arduous labor--sacred in his
eyes--which he would pursue with energy and constancy, for it was
the source of his parents’ comfort and support, and the reliance of
their old age. And if at length!--Perhaps some day!--But when the
sudden revival of a forbidden hope gave him all at once a thrill,
he repressed it. His judgment, his reason, a painful and invincible
presentiment, had for a long time assured him this hope was vain.
“_Garder l’amour en brisant l’espoir_” was his aim and _devise_--a
task painful, difficult, and perhaps even impossible. But at this
time such was his fancy and such his dream!

                        TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTE:

[58] “A friend, not of my fortune, but myself.”




TENNYSON: ARTIST AND MORALIST.[59]


No English voice in the world of letters wakes the pulses of our
age to the thrill of joy which greeted _Childe Harold_ and _Rob
Roy_. Those monarchs of the popular heart left no successors; or if
their mantle hung for a moment on the shoulders of another, it is
now buried in the grave of Dickens. We have yet several novelists.
We have many poets. But none has obtained universal appreciation;
to none has been awarded with general consent the palm of paramount
renown. Yet it will not be questioned that few living writers
command a larger following, are remembered with more affection, and
heard with greater eagerness than the author of “In Memoriam.”

There are few studies more delightful than the growth of a poet’s
mind. In the case of Tennyson we witness the whole process of
development. We have seen him in his timid beginnings and in his
brilliant prime. More than forty years have passed since a slender
volume of poems introduced a young graduate of Cambridge to the
English-reading world. The modest offering fell upon a time which
had garnered larger and riper fruit. There were giants in those
days. Byron indeed was dead, but his fame, although it had passed
its zenith, still shone the brightest in the firmament. Shelley had
preceded him, but the reputation of that sweet singer and genuine
artist was growing, and has not ceased to grow. The lovers of
Campbell had not surrendered their faith that the _Pleasures of
Hope_ and the story of _Gertrude of Wyoming_ were but a prelude to
loftier strains. From the grave of _Adonaïs_ men’s eyes had turned
with regret and wonder to the bold outline of _Hyperion_ and the
rich shadows of _St. Agnes’ Eve_. Coleridge was a wreck, but the
finger of his _Ancient Mariner_ pointed many a thoughtful gaze
toward the untravelled country which fringes the visible world.
The master-hand that had swept the chords of Scottish minstrelsy
had not yet lost all its original vigor. And Wordsworth’s voice
gave loud and clear the signal of poetic reform, and all who were
ready to desert the out-worn moulds of classic thought and classic
imagery had begun to close around his banner.

Into that circle of splendid names no youthful aspirant could
win admittance without a challenge. More fortunate, however,
than Keats, Tennyson secured through university friendships some
indulgence from the reviews. A few were eager to crown him. It is
now acknowledged that their unwinnowed praise discovered less of
the judge than of the partisan. The conservative temper of Wilson
was provoked by the cordial welcome accorded the new-comer in
certain quarters to assume an attitude of repression that was, to
say the least, ungenerous. A measured severity might have been
amply justified. This first venture was indeed superior to those
_Hours of Idleness_ which had drawn the sneer of the _Edinburgh
Review_. But he would have been a bold prophet who in 1830 from
“Claribel” and the “Mermaid” would have foretold the “Idylls of the
King.”

Tennyson ripened slowly. His next volume was published two
years later. It was enriched with the “Lady of Shalott,” the
“Lotus-Eaters,” and the “Palace of Art,” but many of the poems
were disfigured by his earlier mannerisms, and some discovered an
affected mysticism and a hankering after novel expression that was
not indicative of health or strength. The poet, too, had betrayed a
sensitiveness to criticism that augured ill for the discipline of
his powers. It was still an open question whether the great gifts
which he unquestionably possessed would be burnished by patient
labor, or after some idle brandishings rust in satisfied repose.
Nor would he have been the first for whom victory too early and
lightly won has twined the poppy with her laurel. A silence of ten
years followed, and it seemed probable that another name must be
added to those of Campbell and Coleridge on the roll of splendid
disappointments.

But during this long interval he had not been idle. He had thought
and he had suffered. He had learned much and discarded much. On
a sudden, his treasury was opened, and the fruits of energy and
discipline fell in glistening showers at the feet of a public which
had almost forgotten him. The “Morte d’Arthur,” “Dora,” “Love and
Duty,” “Ulysses,” “Locksley Hall,” appealed in divers tones to a
charmed and astonished audience. By one sweep, and with no feeble
hand, he had planted his standard in many and widely different
fields. The bright forecast of his college friends was justified.
He had sprung at a bound into the front rank of living poets.

We pass over the “Princess,” which added little to his reputation,
and reach 1850, a cardinal point in his career. In that year it
is just to say that “Lycidas” and “Adonaïs” were eclipsed by “In
Memoriam.” This remarkable work, at once the noblest monody and
most impressive of heart histories, interpreted the author’s
life and consolidated his fame. “Maud” came next, and, morbid,
incoherent, structureless as it is, would have severely tried a
credit less firmly rooted. “Maud” indeed seems to owe its origin
rather to the blind impulse of crude intemperate youth, or the
promptings of some delirious fever, than the deliberate, healthful
movement of the poet’s higher faculties. It marks the single break
in the progress of his mind.

Not a few of Tennyson’s admirers had always affirmed the “Morte
d’Arthur” to be the strongest of his works. That fragment was
published in 1842, but it was not until 1859 that four kindred
poems were drawn from that Arthurian romance which had early
haunted his fancy and has chiefly employed the energies of his
riper years. The “Idylls of the King” have had several successors,
and the “Last Tournament” completes the cycle.

An effort has lately been made in certain quarters to depreciate
Tennyson. We do not object to comparisons if they are fruitful in
suggestion, and are instituted in a candid spirit. But perhaps
analysis affords the surer test. We ourselves hold Tennyson to
be the first of living English poets, and incline to rank him
above Byron and beside Wordsworth. In the course of an attempt
to indicate his place in literature, we shall quote wherever
quotations may sustain or illustrate our ideas. We shall draw
mainly from those works which exhibit a writer at his best. The
height of mountain ranges is gauged by their loftiest peaks,
and the merit of a public benefactor by his virtues, not his
shortcomings. A poet is a public benefactor. Not his failures, but
his masterpiece, should supply the materials of an honest judgment.


I.

_Vision_, in the old Roman conception, was the distinguishing
faculty of the poet. And indeed _vates_, not _poeta_, marks the
fundamental condition of his art. The _seer_ precedes the _maker_.
It is not indispensable that he should see more than other men, but
he will see more clearly. His perceptions are acute and nimble;
his sensations are intense. The retina and ear-drum deliver with
peculiar speed and precision their messages to his brain. His
glance tracks the eagle in his circles, and numbers the hues of
the western sky. He catches the whisper of fainting winds, and
spells the cadence of the rippling stream. To him all outlines are
sharp and crisp, every tint is vivid, every tone is clear. Senses
exquisitely organized are the first essential of the poet.

Sensations are fraught with countless degrees of pleasure, with
infinite shades of pain. Those objects whose ideas awaken a
feeling of delight we call beautiful. To register the beautiful
is an instinct of the poet. With a nice reference to the pleasure
imparted, he discriminates forms, divides the chromatic scale,
graduates the gamut of sound. In a word, his æsthetic judgment is
wakeful and unerring. But the keenest joys of the mind are not
begotten by beauty pure and simple. There is a fuller and sweeter
satisfaction than that derived from kaleidoscope combinations of
color, arabesques without significance, and _fantasias_ without
text or theme. Wherever _design_ emerges, the notion of _fitness_
is born. The Greek found it in the human body. We can trace it in
the flower and the star. When we contemplate those things of which
design may be predicated, there is blended with the feeling of
pleasure a perception of inward adaptation. The idea of perfection
is married to the idea of beauty. The ideal is their offspring.
Upon it the æsthetic judgment unaided dares not pronounce. The
complex faculty, whose province is the ideal, is _taste_. It is the
second requisite of the poet.

Most persons of culture and refinement have taste in some degree.
They are no strangers to the pure delight evoked by a smiling
landscape. In the human form they enjoy the beauty of outline and
proportion, and recognize the nice adjustment of structure to a
central aim. But their joys are transient. The flower fades; sunset
yields to moonlight; autumn touches with her pencil the canvas of
the spring; one graceful attitude melts into another; emotions
course across the countenance like winds over standing wheat.
The poet comes. His mission is to chain the fleeting, to fix the
evanescent, to reproduce the past. He brings you a rose with the
bloom on it; calls up the buried friend; stays the sinking sun on
the edge of his western bed. His life is a long revolt against
the law of change. Nor is he confined to imitation. His sphere
transcends realities. He may play with nature, if he will not
violate her. His memory is not a store-house only, but a crucible
as well, where the phenomena of sense lie fused in a glowing
golden mass. Through his brain float airy shapes surpassing and
yet suggesting the grace of earthly forms; ideals strange and
fantastic, yet bound by subtle ties of relationship to types of
the actual world. His fancy is ever in labor. Incessant gestation,
incessant parturition, engage her energies. Reproduction, creation,
is a law of the poet’s being. It is this which vindicates his right
to the noble name of _maker_.

Keen senses, a just taste, creative force, compose the common dowry
of artists. But art is threefold--plastic, pictorial, poetic.
To each species belongs a peculiar medium in which memories are
embalmed and fancies embodied. The media are solids, colors, words.
In language lie certain powers and certain limitations. The poet
divines them. He produces a speaking picture, but he remembers that
much of a picture cannot be spoken. He demonstrates that much also
may be told that cannot be painted. On his canvas vivacity and
intensity do duty for light and shade. Elaboration, suggestion,
silence, are the elements of his perspective. He borrows from
sculpture the significance of _isolation_, and the incisive
lesson of the _group_. Images, metaphors, similes, are the poet’s
graving-tools. He learns their latent capacities and their inherent
flaws. He secures subtle effects by climax, antithesis, evolution.
He plays the chemist with ideas, and presents them in every stage
of development, now vaporous, now congealed. He weighs words,
detects their finer applications, and fathoms the deeper meanings
which are coiled about their roots. And, finally, he masters the
mechanism of speech, the organic structure of sentences, the joints
and vertebræ of his native tongue. One step remains, to seize the
principles of metre, the secrets of rhythm and cæsura, the march
and music of verse. His panoply is finished. He is a poet.

Let us apply some of these tests to Tennyson. And, first, his power
of simple imitation. At first sight this seems no lofty triumph of
the poet’s art. And yet how much it implies! To translate substance
into the unsubstantial. To portray the visible and tangible in that
which has neither color nor dimension. Above all, to transfuse
through the spirit of man the spirit of nature. It behooves him
who would compass this to purge the heart of emotion, abjure
self-consciousness, and forget, like the Pythian priestess, his
own identity. He is not to steep his landscape in sentiment of his
own, nor ascribe to it a fictitious sympathy with human moods and
passions. The outward beauty he contemplates must traverse his
mental atmosphere, untinctured, unrefracted, like white light. We
must catch in his work the soul of the scene, a spirit rising from
it like an exhalation, not drenching it with alien dews. We find a
happy instance of right treatment in this cool upland valley from
“Œnone”:

    “There lies a vale in Ida lovelier
    Than all the valleys of Ionian hills;
    The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen,
    Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,
    And loiters slowly drawn. On either hand
    The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down
    Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars
    The long brook falling thro’ the cloven ravine
    In cataract after cataract to the sea.
    Behind the valley topmost Gargarus
    Stands up and takes the morning; but in front
    The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
    Troas and Ilion’s columned citadel.”

Beside this place the rank luxuriance of a tropic island where
“Enoch Arden,” shipwrecked, waited for a sail:

    “The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns,
    And winding glades high up like ways to heaven,
    The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes,
    The lightning flash of insect and of bird,
    The lustre of the long convolvuluses,
    That coiled around the stately stems and ran
    Even to the limits of the land, the glows
    And glories of the broad belt of the world--
    All these he saw.”

Of pure imitative art Scott and Wordsworth are the great modern
masters. Yet we shall all acknowledge that the passages quoted
exhibit a rare excellence. It would be hard to match in Theocritus
the breezy freshness of the “Brook.” As we listen, we lose
ourselves, and seem to penetrate the joyous heart of nature. We
too are in Arcadia. It is the morning of the world, and the infant
god of some slender streamlet hums his naïve song to Pan, who lies
along the sward:

    “I wind about, and in, and out,
    With many a blossom sailing;
    And here and there a lusty trout,
    And here and there a grayling.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance
    Among my skimming swallows,
    I make the netted sunbeams dance
    Against my sandy shallows.”

We have dwelt at length on the sincerity with which Tennyson
interprets nature. It is the stamp of the true poet. The
dilettante, however cunning, cannot counterfeit it. He cannot keep
himself out of the picture, but invests it with his own sentiment,
and tricks it out in the whims and caprices of the hour. It is
otherwise with Wordsworth. That high-priest of nature enters her
presence reverently, with humble and candid heart. He puts off the
vanities and weaknesses of man on the verge of her holy ground.
From his lips her lessons fall with a simple earnestness, like
oracles from the mouth of a child. Her truths he incarnates, but
does not presume to clothe.

While it is false art to attribute to nature a conscious sympathy
with man, it is true that she at times discovers an unconscious
harmony with his moods. Our emotions are deepened by the accord.
The happy are the happier for sunshine. The sad are saddest in
the night and the rain. To aim at this mystic unison, to strike
one note from feeling and from circumstance, is legitimate and
delightful. Let us contrast an example of such treatment with the
less truthful method to which we have referred. We ought always to
study a theory in some felicitous expression of it, and therefore
we take these graceful lines from Dr. Holmes. The stars and flowers
touched by the woes of fallen man have conspired to watch and warn
him. The flowers cannot bear the sight of human misery.

    “Alas! each hour of daylight tells
      A tale of shame so crushing,
    That some turn white as sea-bleached shells,
      And some are always blushing.

    “But when the patient stars look down
      On all their light discovers,
    The traitor’s smile, the murderer’s frown,
      The lips of lying lovers,

    “They try to shut their saddening eyes,
      And in the vain endeavor
    We see them twinkling in the skies,
      And so they wink for ever.”

At the first glance this moves, and pleases; because the emotion
of the moment veils the extravagant hyperbole. The writer is an
artist, and makes us see, as it were, through tears. But the
lines do not grow upon us like the truly beautiful. As we read
them a second time, there comes over us a feeling of annoyance,
almost of pain, that the flowers should be misinterpreted, the
stars misconstrued. We tremble before nature’s shocks and storms,
and cannot afford to darken her brightest bloom or trouble her
sweet serenity. Look now at this figure of “Mariana,” weeping,
forsaken, “in the moated grange!” There is no pathetic prelude, no
preliminary appeal to human sympathies. A neglected garden and a
lonely house. A reach of level waste, colorless, silent, cold. The
desolation is contagious, and just as the heart is sinking into a
state of depression and despair, the moan of the stricken girl
falls quivering on the ear.

    “With blackest moss the flower-plots
      Were thickly crusted, one and all;
    The rusted nails fell from the knots
      That held the peach to the garden wall.
    The broken sheds looked sad and strange:
      Unlifted was the clinking latch:
      Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
    Upon the lonely moated grange.
        She only said, ‘My life is dreary!
          He cometh not!’ she said;
        She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
          I would that I were dead!’”

We are very far from saying that Tennyson is everywhere free from
the pathetic fallacy. But his sins of the kind occur chiefly in
some vein of sportive apologue, like the “Talking Oak,” or in
the mouth of Maud’s morbid lover, half distraught by temper and
wholly crazed by crime. And, indeed, if any could be pardoned for
beholding in all things one image, it would be, no doubt, the
lover. In the old myth, love guided the hand of art; but Pygmalion
was a sculptor, not a landscape painter.

The portrayal of the human form is one of the painter’s triumphs,
as it is the sole province of plastic art. Poetry, for the most
part, evades a description of personal beauty, and is content with
a suggestion. Yet there are two or three etchings in the “Palace of
Art” which seem to us not unworthy of a place in that gallery of
Philostratus which a poet’s hand repeopled:

    “Or sweet Europa’s mantle blew unclasped,
      From off her shoulder backward borne;
    From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped
      The mild bull’s golden horn.

    “Or else flush’d Ganymede, his rosy thigh
      Half buried in the eagle’s down,
    Sole as a flying star shot through the sky
      Above the pillared town.”

These are mere outlines. But Tennyson has drawn one figure with
almost pictorial finish and force. It is Aphrodite revealing
herself to Paris on Mount Ida:

    “Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful,
    Fresh as the foam, new bath’d in Paphian wells,
    With rosy, slender fingers, backward drew
    From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair
    Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat
    And shoulder: from the violets her light foot
    Shone rosy white, and o’er her rounded form,
    Between the shadows of the vine-bunches,
    Floated the glowing sunlight as she moved.”

This is genuine _painting_. There is form and color in it, and,
withal, the _spirit_ of beauty bathing the whole, untainted by the
faintest suggestion of wanton love.

In the temple of outward nature poetry is only the acolyte of
painting. But one shrine is more exclusively her own. She is
mistress of the heart. Over that ocean no other wing sustains
continuous flight. There are waves of impulse which canvas cannot
reflect, and currents of emotion untraced by the limner’s skill.
There are dainty joys and fears that mock his grasp, and gust of
passion that confound his cunning. Pictorial art must read the soul
in the face, and the face is at best a clouded mirror. From the
poet we hide nothing. The growth of character, the drift of habit,
the pressure of inherited tendencies, springs of motive, stings of
appetite--he discerns and deciphers all. But he must not speak in
riddles: he is bound to make his meaning clear. He owes a duty to
the humblest. They look to him to lend thought a form, shadow a
substance; to explain the strange by the familiar, and flood the
whole with the mellow flight of fancy. The poet is, in a certain
sense, what Sidney would make him, the right popular philosopher.
On the success of Tennyson in this field there is some difference
of opinion. The fervor of his sympathies within a certain range
and the delicacy of his intuitions are unquestioned. His style
is allowed to be rich in color, and often fraught with incisive
force. Let us glance at some passages which depict the finer
shades of feeling, or are conspicuous for felicitous expression. We
will then look at the charges, so often brought against Tennyson,
of obscurity and a want of dramatic power.

It is a fact of common experience that quite opposite emotions,
wrought to intensity, reach a state of fusion. They move, as it
were, in converging lines, and their vanishing point is pain; or
rather, they have what physicists would call a common dew-point.
Thus we hear of the luxury of sorrow and of love’s sweet smart.
Coleridge has touched this psychic truth with extreme tenderness in
“Genevieve.” He shows us the young girl rapt in a troubled wonder
before the strange feeling that storms her gentle breast. Her heart
flutters like a snared bird:

    “Her bosom heaved, she stept aside;
      As conscious of my look she stept:
    Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
      She fled to me and wept.”

So in one of Tennyson’s “Idylls,” the eyes of the happy Enid are
suffused with tears. It is hardly possible to read the lines
without loving human nature:

                        “He turned his face,
    And kissed her climbing; and she cast her arms
    About him, and at once they rode away.
    And never yet, since high in Paradise,
    O’er the four rivers the first roses blew,
    Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind
    Than lived through her who in that perilous hour
    Put hand to hand beneath her husband’s heart
    And felt him hers again. She did not weep,
    But o’er her meek eyes came a happy mist,
    Like that which kept the heart of Eden green.”

Most persons have known those transient attachments which are born
of “accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving.”
In the “Gardener’s Daughter” some one alludes in this playful
fashion to the dethroned darling of his salad days:

                                “Oh! she
    To me myself, for some three careless moons,
    The summer pilot of an empty heart
    Unto the shores of nothing. Know you not
    Such touches are but embassies of love,
    To tamper with the feelings ere he found
    Empire for life?”

Few who have read the new “Maid’s Tragedy” have forgotten “Elaine.”
There is no sweeter face in story. We trace a master’s hand in the
passage where a passionate sympathy holds her from her sleep, and
the deep lines of Lancelot’s countenance are mirrored in her white
soul:

    “As when a painter, poring on a face,
    Divinely through all hindrance finds the man
    Behind it, and so paints it that his face,
    The shape and color of a mind and life,
    Lives for his children ever at its best
    And fullest: so his face before her lived.”

Lancelot is always gracious to her, and grateful for her tender
care, but he is moody and absent, and instinct tells her that his
love can never be hers. She bears home a heavy heart:

    “She murmured, ‘Vain! in vain! it cannot be;
    He will not love me! how, then, must I die?’
    Then, as a little, helpless, innocent bird,
    That has but one plain passage of few notes,
    Will sing the simple passage o’er and o’er
    For all an April morning, till the ear
    Wearies to hear it; so the simple maid
    Went half the night repeating, ‘Must I die?’”

One more. A song of Tristram’s, rife with the graceful gayety that
masks and half-redeems a faithless heart. It might have been made
by Ronsard, and sung by Bussy d’Amboise. The husband of “Isolt of
Brittany” and the lover of “Isolt of Britain” gives the _rationale_
of broken vows:

    “Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that bend the brier!
    A star in heaven, a star within the mere.
    Ay, ay, O ay, a star was my desire;
    And one was far apart, and one was near!
    Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that bow the grass!
    And one was water, and one star was fire.
    And one will ever shine, and one will pass;
    Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that move the mere!”

The admirers of Byron and the poets of the Georgian era find
Tennyson obscure. By obscurity they ought to mean a darkness born
of confusion, the cloud of fallacy, the vagueness of incoherence.
Crude thoughts, unfledged fancies, halting metaphors, are obscure.
Poetasters are commonly dark, and it would be easy to show that
Byron himself in his best work, the fourth canto of _Childe
Harold_, is sometimes guilty of obscurity. And it must be admitted
that some poems of Tennyson’s youth, and likewise “Maud,” are open
to this objection. But if, as we believe, the charge is pointed at
“In Memoriam,” “Love and Duty,” or the “Palace of Art,” then we
deny its force. It may be that they who find enigmas in _Paradise
Lost_ and “In Memoriam” mistake the source of their difficulties.
We incline to depreciate what we fail to comprehend. We forget
that deep waters are not necessarily turbid; that novelty is not
obscurity. As we climb a mountain, we gain new views of the valley
beneath, yet the novel landscape may be no less vivid than the old.
There is, indeed, a dulness of the ear that detects no clue to the
myriad threads of harmony. There is a myoptic disease which sees
nothing but indistinctness beyond its narrow horizon. In such cases
the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that
we are mystified.

We have said that the poet owes a duty to the humblest. That duty
is fulfilled when he has conjured his fancies into visible shapes,
and given truth a concrete form. He is not called upon to find eyes
for the blind, or learning for the ignorant. It is enough if at his
banquet there is food for all stomachs. The poet owes a duty not to
the humble only.

There are, for example, two methods by which poetry may illuminate
history. It may invest personal character with the truth and vigor
of life, and portray detached scenes in correct and brilliant
colors. Or it may reveal to the imagination by exact and felicitous
metaphor the sequence of events, the march of knowledge, the drift
of opinion, and the “long result of time.” Thus Lucan poetized
a narrative, Lucretius thinks in imagery. We recall no better
illustration of the former treatment than the fine stanza from
_Childe Harold_:

    “When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse,
    And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war,
    Redemption rose up in the Attic muse,
    Her voice their only ransom from afar.
    See as they chant the tragic hymn, the car
    Of the o’ermastered victor stops; the reins
    Fall from his hands; his idle scymitar
    Starts from its belt; he rends his captive’s chains,
    And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains.”

The anecdote is a noble one, and has gained nobility in the
telling. But anecdotes after all are not the marrow of history.
Something may be learned from Montesquieu as well as from
Marmontel. Two lines from “Locksley Hall” exhibit the other method
of interpreting history. The lines aim at nothing less than at once
to condense and illumine the most pregnant epoch of modern times,
the eighteenth century. This looks certainly like a preposterous
abuse of that definition assigned to the drama, “an abstract and
brief chronicle of the time.” Let us recall for a moment the period
of Louis Quinze. The feudal system has fallen. The flowers are
withered, the chains remain. The nobles have become courtiers,
municipal privilege has perished, the peasant is a slave. Dishonor
on the throne, bankruptcy in the treasury, the poor starving,
the rich corrupt. Oppression tightening his grasp, and knowledge
learning to realize the woe and to divine the remedy. On one side,
despair that has begun to think of vengeance; on the other, blind
arrogance that does not dream of retribution. And now, is not the
whole story told with almost terrible simplicity in the compass of
these lines?

    “Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher
    Glares at one that nods and blinks behind a slowly-dying fire.”

It may be said that Byron was well-read in history; but he held
that only romantic characters and striking facts were fit subjects
of poetic treatment. That is not our opinion. We believe Byron gave
the best he had. Moreover, it is not true that poetry may borrow
nothing from history but personal traits and isolated events.
That narrow view of the poet’s province was corrected for English
literature by the _Paradise Regained_. Poetry is no mendicant,
to be put off with the stale scraps and shallow gossip of the
servants’ hall. Her seat is at the high table, beside the masters
of the house.

Tennyson, we are told, has no dramatic power. It is true that he
has written no drama. Does it follow that he is wanting in dramatic
power?

Derivation often tells us more of words than of men. A drama is
something done, not told or sung; neither narrative nor ode, but
something _done_. First, then, we must have _doers_; or, if you
please, actors. Our actors must prove themselves alive, they
must be impelled to move. The impelling force is _incident_. But
detached scenes illustrative of character do not make a drama,
incident is not _plot_. The action which develops character must
at the same time tend toward a certain end, the catastrophe of the
piece. A drama, then, in the strictest sense is this: a development
of character in situations which excite to action in a particular
direction.

Where the evolution of plot is subordinate to the portrayal
of character, the drama is loose and inorganic, like many of
Shakespeare’s plays. Where the elaboration of personal traits is
merged in the accomplishment of the event, the drama leans toward
the epic, like a tragedy of Æschylus. Perfect equimarch in the
development of character and plot stamps the ideal drama. Dramatic
power in this sense is one of the rarest of human gifts, and
perhaps has been exerted nowhere but in the plays of Sophocles.
The phrase has, in English criticism, a much narrower meaning, and
points simply to the exhibition of character by action.

We acknowledge that those poems of Tennyson which preceded the
“Idylls of the King” gave little evidence of dramatic talent. Like
the works of Byron, they are for the most part lyrical, reflective.
In them the “beings of the mind” are rather analyzed than animated.
The poet interprets them. They do not speak for themselves. Even
dramatic insight, which is another thing than dramatic power,
seems at times to be wanting. Thus his “Ulysses” is a modern
soul grappling with the framework of Homeric times. “Margaret,”
“Madeleine,” “Isabel,” are lovely dreams, not lovely women. In the
“Princess,” if anywhere, we should look for the development of
character. But as the persons of the tale pass across the stage, we
incline to suspect with the prince that they are but shadows, “and
all the mind is clouded with a doubt.” Indeed, little Lillia, whose
burst of pretty petulance suggests the theme, is by far the most
lifelike figure.

But the judgment passed upon living poets is at best provisional,
and subject to reversal on appeal. The writer of pastorals will
perhaps produce an _Æneid_ in his riper years; “L’Allegro” and
“Lycidas” may be succeeded by an epic. In the cluster of poems
which embodies the Arthurian legends, there is much discrimination
of character. The courtly flippancy of “Gawain” is distinguished
from Tristram’s joyous levity. “Etarre” is vicious, “Vivien” is
base. “Enid” is not a gentler being than “Elaine,” yet her meekness
is finely contrasted with the latter’s emotional nature. In
“Lancelot” we have a noble spirit in the toils of a great crime.
In “Arthur,” the perfect equipose of _character_, illumined by a
sublime resolve.

Nor are the foremost persons of the poems mere portraits. They
are actors as well. They approach for the most part unheralded.
Their temper and motives are self-betrayed, or hinted with a wise
reserve. Their personal traits are evoked by incident or emphasized
in dialogue. Here certainly is dramatic power of a certain kind.
Not the highest which creates a drama--is it high enough for an
epic? We incline to doubt. At least, it has produced none. We
cannot allow that the “Idylls” which are grouped around the figure
of the king constitute an epic poem.

The epic--we speak of the _Æneid_--is distinguished from the drama
by this, that the development of character is subordinate to the
evolution of plot, the actors are merged in the action. And as
the drama may lean toward the epic, so the epic may lean toward
history. That the poet unites in his own person the functions of
scene-painter, machinist, and _chorēgus_, is only a difference of
form.

Now, it is not so much grasp of character as _nexus_ of plot that
we miss in the “Idylls.” Scott’s _Rokeby_ is an epic, yet Bertram
Risingham is not more lifelike than “Lancelot.” But in _Rokeby_
the story grows; one event generates another, the catastrophe
is inevitable. Episodes are admitted in the epic, but they must
be natural growths, or at least successful grafts. For example,
“Elaine” and “Guinevere” stand in true organic relation, but “Enid”
and “Vivien” have nothing in common with the rest of the cycle but
their social atmosphere and casual reference to familiar names. In
the poet’s mind, no doubt, the old Arthurian romances have been
fused into a kind of unity. They present to him a coherent picture;
discover a central thought. It is the soul at war with flesh,
aspiration foiled by appetite, the eagle stung by the serpent. But
he has conveyed the idea by short and random strokes. We catch only
glimpses of it, and are not permitted to watch the progressive
development. In the “Idylls of the King” there is the matter of an
epic, but not the form. We should prefer to place them in a class
apart, which might include the _Faerie Queen_.

On the range, finish, and accuracy of Tennyson’s diction, we
need not dwell. But no view of a poet’s artistic powers would be
complete without a glance at his command of melody and rhythm.
For sweetness and clearness of tone, the choral hymn in the
“Lotus-Eaters,” and the “Bugle” and “Cradle” songs which beguile
_entr’actes_ in the “Princess” are excelled by few English lyrics.
In grasp of rhythm Tennyson yields to no recent poet, except
Shelley. There is a striking instance of rhythmic effect in the
“Palace of Sin.” A strain of music floats in upon the ear, deepens,
swells, and at length bursts forth in an orchestral symphony.

Most of Tennyson’s later poems have been written in unrhymed
pentameter, and his management of the verse suggests a comparison
with his master. In dignity of movement, Milton has never been
equalled by any English poet. It seems that no line but his could
express the lost archangel, or embody that vision of imperial Rome
where sonorous names load as with cloth of gold the march of the
stately iambics. Yet nothing could stoop more awkwardly to the
quiet talk and joys of the married pair in Eden. While Tennyson’s
blank verse falls short of his model in majesty and serried force,
we must allow it to be more flexible. We cannot imagine the little
novice using the Miltonic line. Her gentle thoughts would have been
drowned in the mighty current, whereas Tennyson’s tripping vocables
deliver with easy grace her artless prattle.

We can only allude to those experiments in metre which amuse the
leisure of an artist, although one of them deserves attention. It
is an ode to Milton:

    “O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies,
    O skilled to sing of time and eternity,
    God-gifted organ-voice of England,
    Milton, a name to resound for ages!”

Let the reader compare these lines with some familiar model
of Alcaics like “Vides ut altâ,” and then ask himself whether
_quantity_ has hitherto had fair play in English verse.


II.

What has art to do with morals? With what propriety shall a poet
play the moralist? His purpose is distinct, his method is radically
different, is his object ever identical? We know that it is not
always so. In the face of outward nature the truthful artist is
forbidden to read humanity. Hardly is Wordsworth suffered to
discover here divinity. The Greek sculptor sought beauty, not
goodness, in the daughters of men, and the lines that grew beneath
his fingers breathe the harmony of grace, not the harmony of
character. Does the application of these rigorous principles bound
the sphere of genuine art? Do the good and the beautiful nowhere
cohere and interfuse? They may--in the _ideal_. For what is beauty
in things which disclose design but the reflex of perfection?
And what is goodness but the perfection of the heart? In the
scheme of ethics, vice is ugliness, error a discord, and weakness
disproportion, character means equipoise, and virtue expresses
harmony. But how shall art or ethics discern a moral symmetry, and
crown a spiritual perfection, without a right conception of man’s
nature, of his place and purpose, his relation to the universe
and to God? So far as he portrays the heart, the poet must be a
moralist. Within this domain the truest art will utter the purest
morals.

It is a blessed law by which he who aims to please is constrained
to edify. For reason is a disinherited prince, and the estate is
too often squandered before he comes to his own. Pride rears the
head against precept. The imagination flutters and beats her bars,
until experience has clipped her wings. The ideal republic could
ill afford to dispense with poets, for there is no lesson like the
modest lesson of a lovely life. To our gaze perhaps the influence
seems wholly lost, and yet may be only latent. This is sure, that
virtue has still a foothold in the heart that keeps an altar to
the beautiful. We know how many seeds of goodness, what germs of
aspiration, are flung broadcast by the poet’s hand. Who will say
that his random sowings may not stir in a genial hour, strike root
in the depths of motive, and blossom in act and life? No thoughtful
mind has failed to recognize the insight of Sidney’s words in his
_Defence of Poesy_: “For even those hard-hearted evil men who
think virtue a school name, and know no other good but _indulgere
genio_, yet will be content to be delighted, which is all the
good-fellow poet seems to promise, and so steal to see the form
of goodness, which, seen, they cannot but love ere themselves be
aware, as if they had taken a medicine of cherries.”

The ethical standard is sensitive to the influence of climate and
of race. The Italian and the German recognize the same virtues, but
write them in different scales referred to a national key-note.
The growth of knowledge and the expansion of sympathy determine a
deeper change. From the age of Pericles to the age of Napoleon,
the ideal of character has undergone alterations which have
penetrated the essence and affected the type. Of certain virtues
which fired the heart of an Athenian, we have kept nothing but the
names, and we have canonized others of which he had no conception.
The attitude of the individual man toward nature and society is
constantly shifting under the pressure of ideas. The wave of
inquiry which rose in civic revolution has swept in widening
circles over the whole surface of opinion, and now dashes on the
primal verities which declare the origin and destiny of man. The
mind is active, but the heart of the age is perplexed and sad. She
ponders painfully the riddle of the painful earth. She is lost in
the great forest, the new paths are uncertain, the old to her seem
overgrown. She is troubled with a vague unrest, beset with dark
misgivings, by results she loathes to accept, doubts which she
longs to silence, and hopes she dare not forego. Her mood is too
grave and earnest for blithe and heedless carol. She cannot pause
to hear the idle singer of an empty day. The music which holds
her ear must be attuned to serious sympathy, must echo her own
self-questionings, and breathe her aspirations. She puts aside from
her lip the cup of distilled water, and turns to the mineral spring
that savors of the rugged earth.

De Musset is not more essentially a child of the age than Tennyson.
Both inherited in rare perfection the exquisite sensibility and
high tension of the nervous system which are developed by modern
life. In both the violence of emotion is succeeded by prolonged
depression. Their joy is often rapture, and their sorrow anguish,
but the prevailing tone is a dreamy languor that betrays fatigue.
Their intellects were plunged in the same bath of learning, and
tempered in the furnace of the time. They unite in regretting the
trustful past, and complain that they were born too late into a
sick and decrepit world. They pace together the shore of life,
and gaze with wistful eyes over the expanse of ocean. But here
the parallel ends. Their roads diverge in youth. Each obeys a
different impulse, and learns a different lesson. The one hears
a growing harmony in the voices of science, and perceives an
increasing purpose in the movement of mankind. The other bows the
head in stupor before the howling storm. Tennyson has a kindly
glance and a cheery word for his fellow-men, they are his brothers,
his co-workers, ever reaping something new. De Musset loads the
heart with a sense of utter misery, and paralyzes the will by the
infusion of his self-contempt. He is half-indignant that his spirit
should be still haunted by a sublime aspiration, and confesses
almost with a groan:

  “_Une immense espérance a traversé la terre._”[60]

It is in another mood that Tennyson hails the promise which he sees
in the aspiration of the soul:

    “What is it thou knowest, sweet voice? I cried,
    A hidden hope, the voice replied.”

There are few words more painful to read than the prayer in
“L’Espoir en Dieu.” The passionate queries are wrung from a
breaking heart. We offer a rude but passably close translation of
two stanzas. The poet demands:

    “Wherefore in a work divine
    So much of discord tarrieth?
    To what good end disease and sin?
    O God of justice! wherefore death?

    “Wherefore suffer our unworth
    To dream, and to divine, a God?
    Doubt hath laid desolate the earth,
    Our view is too narrow or too broad.”

Compare the rooted faith and serene calm of the poem to “In
Memoriam:”

    “Thine are these orbs of light and shade,
    Thou madest life in man and brute,
    Thou madest death, and, lo, thy foot
    Is on the skull that thou hast made.

    “Thou wilt not leave him in the dust,
    Thou madest man, he knows not why,
    He thinks he was not made to die,
    And thou hast made him, thou art just.”

Much, no doubt, of the peculiar spirit that pervades the work of
either poet may be traced to the social atmosphere in which he
moved. Much also is only to be explained by the history of his
life. Behind the “In Memoriam,” an unselfish and ennobling sorrow
weeps and prays above a cherished grave. “In Rolla,” remorse sobs
bitterly amid the ruins of a wasted life. The song has betrayed the
singer. The one is the laureate of hope: the other, a prophet of
despair. Tennyson is a night-worn pilgrim whose kindling eye has
caught the glimmer of a lovely dawn; De Musset, a tired swimmer
whose drowning cry leaps toward us from the gates of death. The
poetry of De Musset is a convex lens which draws to a fiery focus
the doubts and longings of the time; Tennyson’s, a stained
rose-window, that subdues the flaring sunlight to a mild and tender
radiance.

While man’s moral nature is developed and determined by his
attitude toward society and his Maker, it is also profoundly
affected by his attitude toward women. The relative position of
woman has been rather raised than lowered by the movement of
modern thought. Much has been deciphered by speculation, and much
dissected by science, but the deep significance of the female
character remains intact. In the fine atmosphere which nourished
the musings of Richter, two earthly forms move freely, the maiden
and the wife. In the long process of comparative anatomy, the
beautiful first reveals itself in the sweet instinct that binds a
mother to her offspring. Then first does the fire of Prometheus
fairly catch the clay. The noblest instinct and the noblest
aspiration have one element in common--the abnegation of self.
Perhaps the one is but a reflex of the other. It is certain that
the highest art has done the fullest justice to women. Let us
measure Byron and Tennyson by this standard. To Byron, woman was
an exquisite instrument which responds in perfect tune to the
master-touch of passion. To Tennyson, she is an embodied spirit,
who inspires and tempers man while she seems to obey his impulse.
It is a shallow criticism which would excuse Byron’s low conception
by an unfortunate experience. If personal experience be narrow,
why not look beyond it? If the feet stumble in the mire, the eyes
may still be lifted. The fact is, an irresistible instinct compels
a genuine artist to discern and to preach the truth. His life may
prove a rebel, but his work will pay tribute to Cæsar.

The author of “Godiva,” of “Enid” and “Elaine” is eminently the
poet of woman. It is especially worthy of remark that he should
have maintained a distinct and lofty ideal throughout the Arthurian
cycle. In the mediæval myths, the lineaments of the female
character were sometimes clouded by the admixture of masculine
traits. Through the Carlovingian romance that lives in Ariosto’s
verse, there roves an unsexed and warlike virgin, whom the poet
means us to admire; at whom we smile in secret. Tennyson has read
woman’s nature with an insight too fine and delicate to place her
in so false an attitude. There is no Bradamant in the “Idylls of
the King.”

The unswerving justice of true genius finds consummate expression
in the treatment of “Guinevere.” The wrong-doing of imperial beauty
was a dangerous theme, and we may guess how it would have been
handled by the author of “Parasina.” In the original legend the
queen commanded sympathy, but she is now positively degraded by her
preference for a meaner soul. It is Arthur’s doom, and no merit of
hers, that he loves her still. There is little likelihood that a
modern Francesca will borrow impulse or pretext from her story. It
is amusing to find the lovers of Haidee and Gulnare scandalized by
“Vivien.” If ever a vile nature was scorched and shrivelled by the
flame of an honest wrath, that poem affords the spectacle. In wily
Vivien, vice is neither condoned nor glozed, but simply stripped
and gibbeted. The pure air which breathes throughout the “Idylls”
is condensed in the lines of “Guinevere,” which declare the great
purpose of the king. We may say with assurance that no other
English poet, except Wordsworth, would have written them.

Tennyson has spoken words of comfort to many English hearts, and
inspired with a noble purpose many English lives. His spirit has
crossed the seas. To him and Wordsworth the youth of America owe
much that they will not speedily forget. Other benefactors may
receive some form of recompense, but how shall we repay a poet?
It is not praise, but thanks we would offer Alfred Tennyson. Rare
artist, and high teacher, sweet voice, pure heart, there are many
who admire, and not a few who love him.

FOOTNOTES:

[59] _The Last Tournament._ Boston, 1871. J. R. Osgood & Co. _The
Poetical Works of Alfred Tennyson, Poet-Laureate._ We have already
printed in this magazine a review of Tennyson’s poems which aimed
to indicate the Catholic aspects of his mind. The following article
covers different ground.

[60] “A vast hope has passed over the earth.”




HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.

SECOND ARTICLE.

AGES OF THE FATHERS OF THE CHURCH.


When the Christian religion had triumphed over idolatry, the
principle of evil took refuge in heresy, and vigorously began a
new attack upon the church. As women had once sealed their faith
with their blood, so now they came eagerly forward to preach it
by their learning. The centuries which produced the fathers of
the church produced women also, to whom these great lights of the
true faith were mainly indebted for their early education. The
same circumstances also created women who, on the throne and in
the council-chamber, governed turbulent nations and guided fierce
passions, according to the rules of justice, honesty, and religion.

The mother of St. Gregory Nazianzen, Doctor of the Church, was
Nonna, and is honored as a saint. Butler, in his _Lives of the
Saints_, says: “She drew down the blessing of heaven upon her
family by most bountiful and continual alms-deeds; ... yet, to
satisfy the obligation of justice which she owed to her children,
she, by her prudent economy, improved at the same time their
patrimony.”

Here, therefore, in the fourth century, we find a woman commended
for her practical knowledge of business and her skill in managing
property. Ventura relates that, as soon as her son Gregory came
into the world, she placed the Scriptures in his infant hands,
and ever after inculcated in her teaching the greatest love and
reverence for sacred learning. Nonna’s other children were both
canonized, one of them, Gorgonia, having led the most exemplary
life in the holy state of matrimony. (_La Donna Cattolica_, vol.
i. pp. 431, 432.) St. Basil, who counted among his ancestry
many martyrs of both sexes, was the son of St. Emelia, and the
great-nephew of St. Macrina the Elder, of whom he says himself that
he “counts it as one of the greatest benefits of Almighty God, and
the truest of honors, to have been brought up by such a woman.”
His elder sister, also named Macrina, was greatly instrumental in
conducting his education. When after his death his brother, St.
Gregory of Nyssa, went to visit their sister, and open his heart
to her concerning their common sorrow, he found her dying, it is
true, but so vigorous in mind that her discourse on the providence
of God and the state of the soul after death was no less striking
than comforting. He could hardly believe, says Ventura, that it
was not a doctor of the church, a learned theologian, who was
speaking to him; and so much did he treasure his sister’s words
that he compiled his admirable _Treatise of the Soul_ and _The
Resurrection_ chiefly from the matter furnished by her discourse.
Macrina’s funeral was an ovation, and the bishop of the diocese
held it an honor to be present thereat.

Olympias, the widow of Nembridius, the treasurer of the Emperor
Theodosius the Great, flourished about the end of the fourth
century, and was the friend and helper of St. John Chrysostom. His
letters to her are part of his published works, and Nectarius,
his predecessor in the Patriarchal chair of Constantinople,
often consulted her on matters of ecclesiastical importance.
When Chrysostom was persecuted and banished, she did not escape
vexatious notice from heathen and heretical rulers; but through
all, her fortitude would have done credit to the bravest man. The
great patriarch charged her to continue, during his absence, “to
serve the church with the same care and zeal” (Ventura, _Donna
Cattolica_, p. 443), and elsewhere in his works says emphatically
that “women, as well as men, can take part in any struggle for the
cause of God and of the church.” (_Epistle 124, to the Italians._)
In a letter to her, he says that her presence was _required_ at
Constantinople to encourage the persecuted brethren, and in another
he bids her exert all her resources to _save_ the Bishop Maruthas
from the abyss (he having given signs of yielding to heresy).
Further on, in the same letter, he gives her instructions, almost
amounting to a diplomatic and official mission, with regard to
the request of the King of the Goths for a bishop and missionary
in place of Aubinus the Apostle, who had just died, after
converting many thousand of these barbarians. When St. Chrysostom
sent a messenger to the Pope St. Innocent, at the beginning
of the persecutions at Constantinople, he gave him letters of
recommendation to none but a few Roman ladies--Proba, Juliana, and
Demetrias.

The influence of Monica, the mother of St. Augustine, upon her
wayward son, is so well known that it is almost superfluous
to dwell on it; and St. Jerome, eminently a learned saint, was
scarcely less connected with holy and well-taught women. He himself
tells us that it was especially his friend and spiritual daughter
Paula who engaged him in the study of the Old and New Testaments,
and who induced him to translate the former from the original
Hebrew. Rohrbacher, in his _Ecclesiastical History_, corroborates
this statement; and Capefigue, in his _Four First Ages of the
Church_, says that “the pure society of women had imparted to
Jerome a heartfelt exaltation, a deep enthusiasm for all purity
and nobility in themselves.” We learn from Butler (_Lives of the
Saints_) that Marcella, one of the many matrons under St. Jerome’s
instruction in Rome, made great progress in the critical learning
of the Holy Scriptures, and learned in a short time many things
which had cost him abundance of labor (vol. ix.). Other women, of
whom we shall speak hereafter, were collected under his guidance;
almost all are now canonized saints, and were celebrated even in
their own day for their skill and erudition. The great Paula was
the most illustrious among them, and he tells us of her as also of
five or six others that they were as well acquainted with Hebrew
as with Latin and Greek. To the daughter-in-law of St. Paula,
Jerome wrote a letter full of minute and seemingly trivial details,
concerning the education of her little daughter, who afterwards
became St. Paula the Younger. It is of such quaint interest, and
so calculated to give a high idea of the importance attached by
the great doctor of the church to the minutiæ of a little girl’s
daily life, that we cannot resist the temptation of quoting a few
extracts from it:

“Let her be brought up as Samuel was in the temple, and the Baptist
in the desert, in utter ignorance of vanity and vice; ... let her
never hear bad words nor learn profane songs; ... let her have an
alphabet of little letters made of box or ivory, the names of all
which she must know, that she may play with them, and that learning
may be made a diversion. When a little older, let her form each
letter in wax with her finger, guided by another’s hand; then
let her be invited, by prizes and presents suited to her age, to
join syllables together.... Let her have companions to learn with
her, that she may be spurred on by emulation.... She is not to be
scolded or browbeaten if slower, but to be encouraged that she
may rejoice to surpass, and be sorry to see herself outstripped
and behind others, not envying their progress, but rejoicing at
it while she reproaches herself with her own backwardness. Great
care is to be taken that she conceive no aversion to studies, lest
their bitterness remain in after-years. A master must be found for
her, a man both of virtue and learning: nor will a great scholar
think it beneath him to teach her the first elements of letters....
That is not to be contemned without which nothing great can be
acquired. The very sounds of letters and the first rudiments are
very different in a learned and in an unskilful mouth. Care must
be taken that she be not accustomed by fond nurses to pronounce
half-words, as it would prejudice her speech. Great care is
necessary that she never learn what she will have afterwards to
unlearn. The eloquence of the Gracchi derived its perfection from
the _mother’s_ elegance (of speech). No paint must ever touch her
face or hair.” He is no less sensible and moderate in physical
instructions than strict in things of the spiritual order. He
says: “She should eat so as always to be hungry, and to be able to
read or sing psalms immediately after meals. The immoderate long
fasts of many displease me. I have learned by experience that the
ass, much fatigued on the road, seeks rest at any cost. In a long
journey, strength must be supported, lest, by running the first
stage too fast, we should fall in the middle. In Lent, full scope
is to be given to severe fasting.” He advises the young girl, when
old enough, to read the works of St. Cyprian, the epistles of St.
Athanasius, and the writings of St. Hilary. These are grave and
abstruse studies, requiring much time and application, and as fully
up to the standard of a modern _male_ education as any woman could
desire. St. Jerome himself was living at Bethlehem when he wrote
this letter, and while recommending her mother to send little
Paula to St. Paula the Elder for her later education, he himself
promises to instruct her, adding that “he should be more honored
by teaching the spouse of Christ than the philosopher [Aristotle]
was in being preceptor to the Macedonian King.” It was the elder
Paula who built St. Jerome the monastery of Bethlehem, in which
he spent a great part of his life. She governed a monastery of
women not far from it. St. Jerome, in his panegyric of her life,
addressed to her daughter Eustochium, expresses himself in the
following unequivocal language: “Were all the members of my body
to be changed into tongues, and each fibre to utter articulate and
human sounds, even then I could not worthily celebrate the virtues
of the holy and venerable Paula.” As soon as her husband’s death
left her the free use of a magnificent fortune, she liberated all
the numerous retinue of slaves that formed not only her household
but her possessions. Hundreds of Christian masters and mistresses
did the same, and treated their freed retainers as brethren and
sisters in the faith, long before the philanthropy of modern times
had begun to envelop in a halo of unusual heroism the sacrifice of
slave property. From a noble Roman matron, placed by her birth in
an assured position of great prominence, she became a voluntary
exile and wanderer for the sake of planting the faith more firmly
in the East. St. Jerome describes, in words full of sympathetic
admiration, her pious visits to the Holy Places of Judea. She also
made a pilgrimage to the home of monasticism, the Thebaïd and the
Lybian desert. Humble as she was, fame followed and surrounded her.
Pilgrims to Jerusalem counted her as one of the most consoling and
admirable of the objects that claimed their devotion. Macarius,
Arsenius, Serapion, famous lights of the church and patriarchs of
the eremitical life, came from long distances and inaccessible
solitudes to confer with her. At Jerusalem, she founded places
of shelter and entertainment for the many pilgrims who flocked
there; both at Rome and in the East, she was the mother and the
idol of the poor, whose wants she relieved untiringly, and for
whose sake she was often not only penniless, but in debt. Her
last illness was like a royal levee, and bishops and patriarchs
hastened to her bedside; her funeral, says Ventura, was almost a
canonization. Bishops carried her body to its tomb, and for seven
days sacred hymns and psalms echoed ceaselessly in the church
of the Holy Grotto at Bethlehem, where the funeral service was
performed in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Capefigue calls her the
“most remarkably erudite woman of her age,” and her instincts
of faith and learning alike made her intuitively aware of the
artifices of the heretic Palladius, whose well-concealed Origenism
she unmasked and denounced in presence of St. Jerome, when the wolf
would have put on sheep’s clothing and deceived her simple nuns.
Paula’s daughters--Blesilla, the learned and accomplished widow;
Eustochium, the celebrated virgin to whom many of St. Jerome’s
works are addressed or dedicated; Paulina, the model wife to whose
influence over her saintly husband the first hospitals in the West
are due--and their sister-in-law, Læta, the happy mother of the
younger St. Paula, are all canonized saints of the church, and each
of them the just pride of their sex in the respective walks of
life to which they were destined. Fabiola, another of St. Jerome’s
scholars, was the foundress of the first hospital absolutely
established in Rome.

The church has never been chary of tendering graceful homage to
the influence and ability of woman, and perhaps no more singular
or flattering proof of this can be found than the pictorial honor
which, Ventura assures us (_Donna Cattolica_, vol. i. p. 466), was
offered by St. Gregory the Great to St. Sylvia, his mother. She was
represented as sitting by his side, robed in white, and crowned
with the mitre worn by doctors of theology, while the left hand
held an open Psalter, and the right was raised with two fingers
extended, in the attitude of benediction.

St. Ambrose, the Bishop of Milan, who was born and died in the
fourth century, owed his early training of piety and solid
learning to his mother, who was left a widow during his infancy,
and to his elder sister Marcellina, to whom later on Christendom
became indebted for the three admirable books he wrote on _The
State of Virginity_. Another of his famous works is a treatise
on _Widowhood_. In one of his books on _Virginity_ he meets the
common though worn-out argument that virginity is a foe to the
propagation of the human race. As this bears upon our general
subject, though it be not immediately akin to it, we will stop to
quote it. “Some complain,” he says, “that mankind will shortly
fail if so many are consecrated virgins. I desire to know who ever
wanted a wife and could not find one? The killing of an adulterer,
the pursuing of waging war against a ravisher, are the consequences
of marriage. The number of people is greatest where virginity is
most esteemed. Inquire how many virgins are consecrated every
year at Alexandria, all over the East, and in Africa, where there
are more virgins than there are men in this country [Italy].” And
Butler, in his _Life of St. Ambrose_, goes on to explain: “May not
the French and Austrian Netherlands, full of numerous monasteries,
yet covered with populous cities, be at present esteemed a proof
of this remark? The populousness of China, where great numbers
of new-born infants are daily exposed to perish, is a terrible
proof that the voluntary virginity of some is no prejudice to the
human race. Wars and the sea, not the number of virgins, are the
destroyers of the human race, as St. Ambrose observes; though the
state of virginity is not to be rashly engaged in, and marriage
is not only holy, but the general state of mankind in the world.”
Not only did St. Ambrose occupy his mind and pen with the concerns
of holy and spotless women, but he did not think it beneath his
dignity to write for those unhappy virgins who had fallen from
their vows and thus been reft of their most precious heirloom. In
the third book of his work on _Virginity_, he pays the following
homage to Christian woman, such as she was in his age: “I have
been a priest but three years,” he says, “and my experience has
not been long enough to teach me what I have written. But what
my own experience could not teach, the sight of your conduct has
suggested. If, in this work, you find any flowers of thought, know
that I have gathered them from your own lives. I do not so much
give you precepts, as I draw examples from the behavior of living
virgins, and set them before the eyes of the world. My discourse
has only reproduced the image of your virtues. It is but the
portrait of your own life, so grave and earnest, which you will
see here, beaming with light as reflected from a mirror. If you
find grace in these words, it is you who have inspired my mind with
it. All that is good in this book belongs to you.” (Third book on
_Virgins_.) What more graceful tribute, more appreciative homage,
could man render to the opposite sex? Yet he who wrote this was a
great and powerful bishop, a doctor of the church, a profoundly
learned man, whose influence was spread through kingdoms, and whose
advice was sought and followed by emperors. Here is yet another
example of the distinguished part played by woman in affairs of the
highest public importance. Capefigue, in his _Four First Ages of
the Church_, says that in the churches of Rome might be seen the
most noble matrons of the city, “who gave the first and greatest
impulse to all Christian sentiments.” This was at the end of the
fourth century, and the two Melanias were then foremost among the
active and energetic women mentioned. The elder Melania, whose
fortune was immense, and who was married early by her father, the
Consul Marcellinus, became a widow after a few years of married
life, and thereafter devoted herself to the church. She travelled
to Egypt and Palestine in the interests of the persecuted Patriarch
Athanasius, whom she protected and supported with all the moral
influence and temporal means at her command. The zealous and open
protectress of more than five thousand Christians, the harborer
of priests and bishops driven from their sees and parishes during
the Arian persecutions of the Emperor Valens, she was herself cast
into prison by the Governor of Jerusalem, to whom she spoke thus
boldly and fearlessly: “Do not think to despise me because I wear
poor garments: I might wear the robes of a princess, did I choose
to do so. Do not think to intimidate me by your threats, for I have
sufficient influence to protect me against the slightest aggression
on your part. I tell you this, and give you this advice, that you
may not through ignorance commit any error that might lead you
into danger.” The courageous woman was released, and continued her
ministrations of mercy. Her granddaughter, St. Melania, married
young to a noble Roman, the descendant of the great Publicola, and
the son of the Prefect of Rome, was even a more prominent personage
than the elder Melania. After the birth and death of two children,
she and her husband renounced their high position, freed eight
thousand slaves, and sold their immense possessions in several
parts of the Roman Empire for the benefit of the poor. They then
retired to a quiet country solitude in Campania, and with several
associates began leading “the perfect life” which we have so often
seen attempted in vain in this age by refined and earnest souls
without the bosom of the church. Here, their chief occupation was
the study and the propagation of the Scriptures and other solid
works of learning and faith. The works of the fathers were foremost
among the latter, and Ventura says with truth that we may well
thank woman when we read these admirable treatises, for without her
help, care, and zeal they would be considerably less in number than
they are. The love of the Scriptures and of Biblical lore seems
thus to have been a distinctive mark of the sex in the early days
of the church.

Melania and her companions after a time left Italy, and settled in
Africa near Hippo, and there became the most active allies of St.
Augustine. They also journeyed through Spain, Palestine, and Asia
Minor, always in the interests of the faith, founding monasteries
and schools, and assisting the poor and the persecuted. After her
husband’s death, Melania, having been wrecked on the coast of
Sicily, and having found several thousand Christians in bondage to
barbarian idolaters, she redeemed and freed them all. At one time
she held a high post at court, and exerted herself successfully
in favor of orthodoxy. When the Nestorian heresy was making great
progress in Asia and Africa, she uncompromisingly combated it by
her influence and social talents, by the persuasion of her manner
and the force of her arguments, as Ribadeneira testifies in the
sketch he wrote of her life. Ventura asserts that she confounded
Pelagius himself, who by all manner of arts endeavored to win her
to his side; and it is known that, when St. Augustine failed to
convert Volusian, the Prefect of Rome, and uncle to Melania, this
heroic woman, according to Baronius, undertook to convince him, and
succeeded most triumphantly. Melania’s funeral at Jerusalem was
the occasion of lavish homage to the power and influence of her
sex; bishops and confessors were eager to show their respect and
admiration, and the Christian world proved once more that “precious
in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”

Marcella, one of St. Jerome’s spiritual daughters, and whose
funeral eulogy he wrote, was, according to this great saint’s own
words, “the greatest glory of the city of Rome.” When Alaric and
his Goths invaded Rome, her house was broken into, and herself
cruelly beaten and disfigured. All her reply was, “My gold I have
given to the poor: you will find nothing in my possession but the
tunic I wear.” She collected many holy and learned women around
her, and her house was the rallying point of all Christians. All
good works received their impetus from her, and she was often
consulted by bishops and priests on questions of Biblical learning,
after St. Jerome, who had taught her the Scriptures, had left
Rome. Although consecrated virgins of both sexes abounded in her
time, as yet no distinct community under a recognized rule had
been formed in Rome. She undertook to establish the monastic life
in the capital of the empire, and was the first to reduce to order
the elements of which such a community might be formed. With the
advice of St. Athanasius, and some fugitive priests of Alexandria,
who took refuge in Rome in 340, during the Arian persecution in the
East, Marcella gave up a country-seat of hers for a monastery, and
adopted for the future religious the rule of St. Pachomius. The men
followed her example, and assembled in concert to found communities
of their own. Rome vied with the Thebaïd for sanctity and learning,
and this was the work of a woman. When, in the seventh century,
St. Benedict, the reformer and patriarch of all religious orders
in Europe, reduced monasticism in the West to the state in which
we know it in our own days, he was only, says Ventura (_Donna
Cattolica_, vol. i. p. 488), walking in the path which the heroic
women of Christendom had hewn out before him in imitation of the
hermits and anchorites of the East. But Marcella shines no less as
a pillar of orthodoxy than as the institutrix of Western monachism.
When the Origenists, through the aid of the cunning Rufinus and
the intriguing Macarius, who disseminated skilfully veiled errors
in Rome, began to attack the integrity of the Christian faith,
Marcella left her solitude, and came to the capital to confront
the heresiarchs. The following details are all vouched for by
St. Jerome in the funeral eulogy addressed by him to her friend
and scholar Principia: “The faith of the Roman people had been
weakened on many points.... The new heresy had made many victims,
even among priests and monks.... The Sovereign Pontiff himself,
Siricius, who was as conspicuous for holy simplicity as for
sanctity of life, and who judged of others by the candor of his own
soul, seemed for a moment to have become the dupe of the hypocrisy
of these new pharisees. The orthodoxy of the bishops Vincent,
Eusebius, Paulinian, and Jerome had even been suspected, and, when
they cried out that the wolf was in the fold, no one vouchsafed
to listen to them. In this grave emergency, in presence of much
coldness, indifference, and weakness on the part of _men_, God made
use of the far-sightedness, the zeal, the courage of a _woman_ to
keep the faith intact in Rome. Marcella, more eager to please God
than men, resisted the Origenist heresy publicly, vigorously, and
efficaciously. She it was who by the very testimony of those who
had first been deceived by the new errors and then abjured them,
convinced every one of the real nature of the heretical doctrine.
She stimulated the zeal of the Sovereign Pastor by proving to
him how many souls had already gone astray.... She was the first
to point out to him the disguised impieties of the garbled
translations of Origen’s book on _Principles_, which Rufinus had
translated and altered, and was now selling everywhere. She often
summoned the heretics to come and justify themselves in Rome, but
they dared not answer, and preferred being condemned as absent
and contumacious, rather than be publicly confounded by a woman.
At last, when a general condemnation was pronounced upon their
doctrines, it was chiefly the result of Marcella’s vigilance.”
Here, therefore, is a woman exerting a guiding influence on the
destinies of the church by her learning, subtleness, and eloquence.
If the women of the early centuries achieved such successes with
the natural weapons of their sex and position, why do our sisters
of the present day desire a reorganization of society, and a
new accession of hitherto unknown and unnatural weapons? Why
indeed but because the order of society sanctioned and regulated
by the church has been subverted by the Reformation; the holy
charter of woman abolished; and elegant and veiled Islamism, or
in some instances a coarse and degrading barbarianism, inculcated
and forcibly brought into action concerning woman, and the sex
gradually forced out of its legitimate orbit, with its capabilities
dwarfed, its intellect narrowed, its talents sneered at, and its
affections repressed? The broad river of woman’s influence, flowing
so calmly and majestically through the centuries of the church’s
undisturbed unity, has been dammed up by the Protestant tradition
of the last three hundred years, till it has broken forth again
as a turbulent torrent, devastating where it once fertilized,
disturbing where once it conciliated. In its new form and its
strange aggressiveness, it now horrifies mankind, where in early
days, in its legitimate sphere, it guided the greatest statesmen,
orators, and saints, and gravely helped them on the road to heaven,
to science, and to happiness. But we are digressing, for we have
undertaken to speak of facts, not to declaim about theories. We
have much ground to travel over yet before we come to the end of
the list of glorious women who have made the church, so to speak,
their panegyrist, and the world their debtor. We have once before
mentioned the Roman ladies, Proba, Juliana, and Demetrias, to whom
St. Chrysostom recommended his envoys and their mission to Pope St.
Innocent. Demetrias was the daughter of the Consul Olibrius and
of St. Juliana; Proba was her grandmother on her father’s side.
The two widows, having converted their husbands, consecrated their
after-lives to the education of Demetrias. St. Augustine was their
friend and counsellor, and wrote them letters that are among the
most prominent of his works. One to Proba is on the efficacy and
the nature of prayer; another to Juliana treats of the advantages
and duties of widowhood. When Demetrias announced her intention
of remaining a virgin, the holy joy of the family knew no bounds,
and the day of her formally receiving the veil was a festival for
all Rome. St. Jerome honored her with a discourse which has come
down to us in the shape of a _Letter to Demetrias_, followed by a
treatise on _Virginity_, and not only did he interrupt for this
purpose the grave commentaries on the Scriptures in which he was
engaged, but he also addressed to the parents of the virgin such
congratulations as rang throughout Italy, and made the holy and
happy trio the envy of every matron and maiden in the Christian
world. (Ventura, _Donna Cattolica_, vol. i. p. 520.) The heresiarch
Pelagius so little understood the importance of woman that he
took the trouble to address to Demetrias a letter so long that it
almost forms a book, which is still extant, and was intended to
instil into her mind his insidious errors. St. Augustine, however,
cautioned her against Pelagius, and bid her keep staunch to “the
faith of Pope Innocent.”

There was one sphere which more than any other was christianized
and influenced for good by women, and indeed could not have been
otherwise sanctified--the sphere of the imperial court, both in
Rome and in Constantinople. We have already seen empresses and
relatives of the Cæsars becoming Christians and often martyrs, but
it remained for the women of the fourth and fifth centuries to make
the palace into a sanctuary and add the lustre of a heavenly crown
to the majesty of an earthly sceptre. Constantine, under whose
auspices Christianity first emerged from the Catacombs, was the
gift of woman to the church. His mother Helena, his wife Fausta,
and his mother-in-law Eutropia (the two latter being respectively
the wife and daughter of Maximian-Herculeus) were zealous and
devoted Christians, and to their influence are due the toleration
and subsequently the favor with which the faith was treated by
Constantine. Eusebius relates that Eutropia on her pilgrimage to
the Holy Places found idols and sacrificial rites still flourishing
near the famous oak of Mambre, where tradition places the scene
of the visit of the three angels to Abraham. She wrote to her
son-in-law in unconcealed indignation, and thus procured after a
time the destruction of the shameful altars. Later on we find the
emperor building a church on the identical spot. The progress of
the Empress Helen through Palestine is as an ovation to the faith,
and a record of churches built and monasteries founded in every
Holy Place. She constantly besought her son’s aid and munificence
in these undertakings, and extended the protection of his name to
all Christian establishments in the East. We owe to her piety and
energy the most solemn and the greatest of the memorials of the
Passion, the Holy Cross on which our Lord suffered and died. It is
likewise to her, a woman, that we owe one of the most beautiful
of Christian churches, that of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem,
as well as one of the most interesting basilicas of Rome, _Santa
Croce in Gerusalemme_, where a portion of the august relic of the
cross was deposited. Her charities were numberless, her foundations
magnificent. She alleviated the condition of those who were
condemned to the mines, and freed many from chains and slavery.
The city of Drepanum in Bythinia, where St. Lucian the martyr had
died for his God, she so beautified and endowed in his honor that
after her death her son changed its name to Helenopolis. Even the
fame of the local and municipal life of many cities can be traced
to the influence and activity of woman, and further on we shall see
how some of her sex have laid colleges, schools, and universities
under eternal obligations. Constance, the daughter of Constantine,
was the first convert of the imperial family, and exercised no
little influence over her father. She assembled numbers of holy
virgins, and consecrated herself with them in a state of virginity
to the service of God and the poor. When Constantius, her brother,
became emperor, and, favoring Arianism, called himself head of
the church, while he exiled Pope Liberius, hundreds of the Roman
ladies united in a deputation to protest against this illegal
act. As long as the anti-Pope Felix remained in Rome, these same
women utterly scorned his authority, and encouraged the people
to refuse to hold communion with him. This firm attitude of the
women of Rome had its reward, and Pope Liberius was at length
recalled when the emperor perceived that the forced schism was
likely to result in sedition against himself. Maximus, Emperor
of the West, through the influence of his Christian wife, became
the friend and protector of St. Martin of Tours; and Theodosius,
the contemporary of St. Ambrose, was mainly guided in his wise
and, upon the whole, salutary administration by his wife Placidia
and his daughter Pulcheria. But his granddaughter, also named
Pulcheria, and justly honored as a saint, was pre-eminently the
glory of the Eastern Empire and the honor of her sex as well as
of her order. Her reign was the triumph of the church, the golden
age of justice, the realization of a Christian Utopia. When the
tranquillity of the age was disturbed, it was through the decline
of her influence and the triumph over her of her many enemies.
When her father Arcadius died and left his throne to his son
Theodosius, she was chosen not as regent, but as _Augusta_, or
co-ruler and empress, with her brother, and moreover was entrusted
with the care and responsibility of his education. The historian
Rohrbacher, ever eager to extol the sex says of her: “It was a
marvel, the equal of which has never been known either before
or since, and which God wrought in those days for the glory of
woman, whom his grace sanctified and his wisdom inspired--that a
maiden of sixteen should govern successfully so vast an empire.”
Pulcheria reduced the imperial household to a degree of order and
decorum more resembling a college than a court; her brother’s
masters were all chosen and approved by her, and the utmost respect
was paid by her both to the laws and the prelates of the church.
Alban Butler, in his _Lives of the Saints_, speaks of her and
her reign in these terms: “The imperial council was, through
her discernment, composed of the wisest, most virtuous, and most
experienced persons in the empire: yet, in deliberations, all of
them readily acknowledged the superiority of her judgment and
penetration. Her resolutions were the result of the most mature
consideration, and she took care herself that all orders should be
executed with incredible expedition, though always in the name of
her brother, to whom she gave the honor and credit of all she did.
She was herself well skilled in Greek and Latin, in history and
other useful branches of literature, and was, as every one must
be who is endowed with greatness of soul and a just idea of the
dignity of the human mind, the declared patroness of the sciences
and of both the useful and polite arts. Far from making religion
subservient to policy, all her views and projects were regulated
by it, and by this the happiness of her government was complete.
She prevented by her prudence all revolts which ambition, jealousy,
or envy might stir up to disturb the tranquillity of the church or
state; she cemented a firm peace with all neighboring powers, and
abolished the wretched remains of idolatry in several parts. Never
did virtue reign in the oriental empire with greater lustre, never
was the state more happy or more flourishing, nor was its name
ever more respected even among barbarians, than whilst the reins
of the government were in the hands of Pulcheria.” Ventura is not
less explicit in praise of this great woman. After mentioning the
different studies embraced in the plan of education which Pulcheria
had traced for her brother, he says: “In these arrangements,
both the subject-matter which was to occupy the young prince’s
attention, and the time he was to spend in each occupation, were
so judiciously and admirably managed that such a plan of education
seemed rather the work of an experienced philosopher than that
of a young girl of sixteen.... Theodosius possessed neither a
generous soul nor exalted intellect; in fact, his was a nature
scarcely above mediocrity. Pulcheria, however, by her enlightened
efforts, succeeded in producing unexpected results from so
thankless a field of labor.” (_Donna Cattolica_, vol. ii. pp. 23,
24.) Exiled and disgraced by the machinations of her frivolous
sister-in-law, the Empress Eudocia, and the ambitious Chrysaphius,
one of the courtiers, she left Constantinople and retired into the
country, no more downcast in adversity than she had been elated in
prosperity. Eudocia and Chrysaphius, unable to draw St. Flavian,
the Patriarch of Constantinople, into their conspiracy against
the noble exile, became violent partisans of Eutyches and his new
heresy. Between the years 447 and 450 of the Christian era, the
condition of the empire was perfectly chaotic; the heresies of the
Eutychians, the Nestorians, and the Monothelites disturbed the
public peace; morality was forgotten; the court became an assembly
of intriguers; Theodosius himself was no longer obeyed at home
or respected abroad. St. Leo the Pope, scandalized and grieved at
such excesses, wrote to the emperor, the clergy, and the people
of Constantinople, but reserved his most remarkable mission for
Pulcheria. He says, “If you had received my former letters, you
would certainly have already remedied these evils, for you have
never failed the Christian faith, nor the clergy her guardians,”
and towards the end of his letter he adds: “In the name of the
blessed apostle St. Peter, I constitute you my _special legate_
for the advancement of this matter before the emperor.” Referring
to this magnificent elogium, the historian Rohrbacher remarks
that, “when the Pope writes to the Emperor Theodosius, one would
think he was addressing a woman; when, on the contrary, he writes
to the ex-empress, one would imagine he was speaking to a _man_,”
upon whose energy he could depend. In 450, the Emperor of the
West, Valentinian, and his mother and wife, Placidia and Eudoxia,
came to Rome, where the Pope entrusted them with the task of
admonishing by letter the weak-minded Theodosius and his heretical
followers. Thus was the power of woman and her influence in state
affairs recognized and honored by the church from end to end of the
Christian world. Pulcheria, urged by the entreaties of all these
great and holy personages, boldly went to the court, reproached her
brother, and by her firmness opened his eyes and restored peace,
orthodoxy and morality in the distracted empire. Her brother’s
death in 450 left her, by the universal consent of the people, once
more ruler of the vast realm she had already so much benefited. Now
again she evinced consummate wisdom in her choice of Marcian, the
most renowned soldier and most talented statesman of the empire,
to be her husband and fellow-ruler. Under condition of preserving
her early vow of perpetual chastity, she admitted him to an entire
participation of her life and counsels, and together, with a
strong yet gentle hand, they upheld and protected the fathers of
the Council of Chalcedon. After three years of a wise and virtuous
reign, Pulcheria died, lamented by the thousands of the poor and
destitute whom she had never ceased to relieve, and honored by
the church as the “guardian of the faith, the peace-maker, the
defender of orthodoxy,” as the Chalcedonian fathers expressed
it. The historian Gibbon, whose testimony can hardly be deemed
interested, has thus outlined the history of her reign: “Her piety
did not prevent Pulcheria from indefatigably devoting her attention
to the affairs of the state, and indeed this princess was the only
descendant of Theodosius the Great who seems to have inherited any
part of his high courage and noble genius. She had acquired the
familiar use of the Greek and Latin tongues, which she spoke and
wrote with ease and grace in her speeches and writings relative
to public affairs. Prudence always dictated her resolves. Her
execution was prompt and decisive. Managing without ostentation all
the intricacies of the government, she discreetly attributed to the
talents of the emperor the long tranquillity of his reign. During
the last years of his life, Europe was suffering cruelly under
the invasion and ravages of Attila, King of the Huns, while peace
continued to reign in the vast provinces of Asia.” (_History of the
Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. vi. chapter xxxii.)

The holy Pope St. Gregory the Great did not owe less to the
influence and friendship of woman than Pope St. Leo. Among his
many and remarkable letters, those addressed to the Empress
Constantina and the Princess Theoclissa, wife and sister of
Maurice, Emperor of the East, are not the least admirable. The
emperor being both imbecile and miserly, and of a nature utterly
despicable, the only bulwark of orthodoxy against the heretics
lay in the strenuous and continued efforts of these two women in
favor of the church. When Phocus, a general of Maurice, freed
the indignant empire from its supine and debased ruler, his wife
the Empress Leontia took the place of the former princesses, and
continued their work of protecting the faith of the Councils.
In the West, where the Lombards were successfully laying the
foundation of the future power they were destined to wield, it
was chiefly to a woman that Gregory the Great looked to defend
the interests of religion, and saw among these half-reclaimed
barbarians the seeds of Christian chivalry. Theodolinda was his
pupil and correspondent, and by her care the future King of the
Lombards, Adoloaldus, was baptized and brought up a Christian. In
the matter of the great expedition which resulted in the final
conversion of England, the same Pope testifies by his letters
that Bertha, the wife of King Ethelbert, and Brunehault, Queen of
the Franks, were chiefly instrumental in aiding and countenancing
St. Augustine in his mission. He says to Brunehault: “We are not
ignorant of the help you have afforded our brother Augustine.... It
must be a source of great rejoicing to you that no one has had a
greater share in this work than yourself. For, if that nation [the
Saxons] has had the blessing of hearing the Word of God and the
preaching of the Gospel, it is to you, under God, that they owe it.”

The throne of Constantinople was to be honored yet by another
sainted empress, the worthy successor of Pulcheria, and, like her,
an able ally of the Pope and the orthodox patriarch of her own
capital. Once more, through the vices and indifference of men, a
heresy had arisen and flourished, the heresy of the Iconoclasts.
Great persecution had been suffered by the faithful, during the
reign of Leo, the husband of our heroine Irene, and the new
heretics, had completely triumphed. At his death, his widow became
regent for her young son. The clergy, the nobility, and especially
the army, were arrayed on the side of the Iconoclasts. Irene was
as prudent in action as she was zealous in heart. The persecutions
against the followers of the Pope were first merely suspended,
thought and speech were once more free, and gradually a reaction
began to take place. The patriarchal see of Constantinople becoming
vacant by the death of Paul, the finally repentant abettor of
the unhappy heresy, it was Irene who proposed the election of
Tarasius, the most popular, most pious, and most talented man
among her subjects. He, too, was the product of a wise and holy
woman’s training, and the name of his mother, Eucratia, is among
the saints. Having thus paved the way, the empress wrote to Pope
Adrian about the year 786, and begged him to assemble a general
council to further the interests of religion and cement the peace
of Christendom. The council, which was the second of Nicea, took
place according to this suggestion, upon which the Pope, through
his legates, formally congratulated the empress. The utmost success
having attended the sittings of the council, and the faith having
been triumphantly vindicated against the Iconoclasts and their
errors, the empress sent to entreat the assembled fathers to hold
one final and ceremonial sitting in Constantinople itself. She
procured an efficient guard among the orthodox cohorts of the
imperial army, and prepared an immense hall in the palace for the
gathering of the council. Ventura describes the scene thus: “The
Pope’s legates waived their right of precedence in favor of Irene,
and the astonishing spectacle was seen of a woman, accompanied
by a child twelve years old (her son), presiding over one of the
most august assemblies of the church. The sitting was opened by a
discourse by the empress, in which she spoke, both in her son’s
name and in her own, with so much eloquence, warmth, and grace,
that the greatest emotion was manifested throughout the assembly;
tears of joy flowed from the eyes of all present, and the last
words of Irene were followed by the most heartfelt acclamations....
The enthusiasm was at its height, when, in the assembly and also to
the people without, the decree or definition of faith made by the
council was read, and the empress claimed her right to be the first
to sign it.... It must never be forgotten that this great council,
as well as its consequences, which put an end to a great heresy
and restored Catholicism in the East, was the thought and work of
a woman, and that it was a woman-sovereign (_un empereur-femme_)
who alone by her discreet and courageous zeal knew how to blot out
and destroy the scandals caused by three men-sovereigns and even a
great number of bishops themselves.” (_Donna Cattolica_, vol. ii.
pp. 55, 56.)

Before the Empire of the East became totally degraded, another
sovereign, another woman, lent it the glory of her reputation. The
Iconoclasts, profiting by the treacherous support of succeeding
emperors, again renewed their hostilities against orthodoxy, but
were speedily checked once more by a brave Christian woman, the
Empress Theodosia, widow of Theophilus, and of whom Rohrbacher
says: “If in the West the temporal sovereigns were insignificant,
in the East they were detestable. There was but one exception, and
that was a woman, the Empress St. Theodosia. She began her reign
after the death of her unworthy husband--whom she had succeeded,
however, in converting on his death-bed--by threatening the
heretical patriarch, Lecanomantes, with the condemnation of the
coming council unless he consented to vacate his see and renounce
his errors. He refused, and the council assembled within the
walls of the imperial palace. The Iconoclast heresy was again
solemnly denounced, and the previous Council of Nicea confirmed.
For the countenance and protection afforded by her to the church,
the empress only asked as a reward that the prelates should pray
for the forgiveness of the sin of heresy which her husband had
committed. Theodosia celebrated this new victory of the church
with becoming solemnity, and instituted in its honor a festival,
which is observed to this day under the name of the ‘festival of
orthodoxy.’ When Methodius, the holy Patriarch of Constantinople,
died, she replaced him by St. Ignatius, the friend of the Pope, St.
Nicholas I. She made peace with the Bulgarians, whom the Pope was
interested in converting to the faith, and seconded his efforts
by procuring the conversion of the captive Bulgarian princess,
sister to King Bogoris, whom she afterward freed and sent back to
her brother. This princess became the Clotildis of her people,
and, together with Formosus, the Pope’s legate, and St. Cyril,
Theodosia’s envoy, effected the conversion of the whole Bulgarian
nation in 861.”

Other Danubian tribes also owed their conversion to Theodosia;
she sent missionaries to the Khazars and the Moravians, whose
chief specially addressed himself to her for instruction. Her
son Michael, when he came to the throne, renewed the horrors of
the pagan empire of Caligula and Domitian, persecuted his mother
and sisters, exiled and deposed the Patriarch Ignatius, and put
the heretic Photius into his place. One of his captains, Basil,
put a violent end to his infamous reign, and, though inexcusable
in the eyes of the ecclesiastical law, yet redeemed his act by
the utmost deference to Theodosia and devotion to religion. The
empire breathed again, and Theodosia’s counsels procured another
general assembly of the church at Constantinople, when Photius was
condemned and the rightful patriarch reinstated in his authority.
After the death of the empress, the heresy of Photius revived and
spread, and, schism becoming more or less general, the empire began
to degenerate, until its very name, the “Lower Empire,” became a
synonym for all degradation and hopeless ruin. Ventura, who says
truly that real sanctity is impossible in the bosom of voluntary
schism, attributes the degeneracy of the Empire of the East to
the want of strong and generous women, such as those whom we
have briefly sketched in this article, and asserts that the very
accumulation of evils which this scarcity of holy women has heaped
upon the church during some of the darkest periods of her history,
is in itself a proof of the paramount importance of woman in the
work of the propagation and protection of true religion.

We are now close upon the mediæval times, when the glory of the
sex shone forth again in the West, and counted as many champions
as there were kingdoms to convert, universities to endow, courts
to reform, and infidel powers to overthrow. The influence of
woman began to be recognized in society as it had always been in
the church; chivalry taught men to place the honor of woman next
in their estimation to faith in God, and equal with loyalty to
their king and patriotism to their country. We can find no more
beautiful, no more _Catholic_, expression of this sovereignty
of woman’s pure and ennobling influence, as consecrated by the
church’s approbation, and guarded by all that is noblest and
most generous in man, than the following extract from a modern
poet, whose inspiration, like that of all true artists, is drawn
perforce from the legends of Catholic antiquity. The poet of the
Holy Grail is also the poet of woman; the legends of the deeds of
the prowess of knights, whose names are perchance but myths as to
actual history, but nevertheless are human types of the exalted
ideal of the old Catholic days, are inevitably mingled with legends
of the vows of holy chastity, and the pure and stainless lives of
many of those renowned heroes of the field and tournament. Let the
following serve as an introduction to our next article, which will
treat chiefly of the great women of the Middle Ages:

    “For when the Roman left us, and their law
    Relaxed its hold upon us, and the ways
    Were filled with rapine, here and there a deed
    Of prowess done redressed a random wrong.
    But I was first of all the kings who drew
    The knighthood-errant of this realm and all
    The realms together under me, their head,
    In that fair Order of my Table Round,
    A glorious company, the flower of men,
    To serve as model for the mighty world,
    And be the fair beginning of a time.
    I made them lay their hands in mine, and swear
    To reverence the king as if he were
    Their conscience and their conscience as their king,
    To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
    To ride abroad, redressing human wrongs,
    To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
    To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
    To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
    And worship her by years of noble deeds,
    Until they won her; for indeed I knew
    Of no more subtle master under heaven
    Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
    Not only to keep down the base in man,
    But teach high thought, and amiable words,
    And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
    And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
    And all this throve.... I wedded thee,
    Believing, lo! _mine helpmate_, one to feel
    My purpose, and rejoicing in my joy.”
                          _Tennyson_, _Idylls of the King._




DEVOTA.


    Sweet image of the one I love,
      To whom your infant years were given
    (And still the faithful colors[61] prove
      A constancy not all in heaven):

    To me a violet near a brink,
      Far-hidden from the beaten way,
    And where but rarest flowerets drink
      A freshness from the ripples’ play:

    A lily in a vale of rest,
      And where the angels know a nook
    But one shy form has ever prest--
      A poet with a poet’s book.

    But poet’s book has never said
      What I, O lily, find in you:
    ’Twas never writ and never read,
      Though always old and always new.

    And ah, that you must change and go--
      The violet fade, the lily die!
    Let others joy to watch you grow;
      Let others smile: so will not I.

    Yet smile I should. Is heaven a dream?
      In sooth, he needs to be forgiven
    Who matches with the things that seem
      A deathless flower, that blooms for heaven.

    And while he mourns the onward years
      That sweep you from the things that seem,
    Let faith make sunshine on his tears:
      ’Tis heaven is real, and earth the dream.

FOOTNOTE:

[61] Children dedicated to the Blessed Virgin wear white and blue.




THE CARESSES OF PROVIDENCE.

FROM LA CIVILTA CATTOLICA.


Very recently, the Liberal Italian party, finding that their
Catholic opponents were in no wise damaged by arguments drawn
from a denial of God’s concern in human affairs, has changed its
tactics, and proposes now to convert us clericals by appeals to our
religious sensibilities. We are assaulted by a theological attack
_ad hominem_, which they tell us is so conclusive that, if we do
not acknowledge ourselves beaten, it is because we have lost our
reason and renounced the faith.

“You believe,” say they, “in the providence of God. You recognize
his hand in all the events of life, and you profess to bless and
bow to the divine decrees. Well, then, Providence, you perceive,
has smiled graciously on us and on our work--a work which you
execrate and detest. Providence is plainly on our side. He declares
himself for us and against you. Submit, then, to his decrees. Lay
aside this idle expectation of the triumph of your cause, which
is evidently opposed to the holy will of God. Accept accomplished
facts. Reconcile yourselves with Italy, our glorious new kingdom,
and cease, amid your noisy professions of religion, to rebel
against the will of the Most High.”

Such in its naked substance is the argument to which the Liberals
now exultingly resort; more especially since the breach of Porta
Pia and the successful picking of the locks of the Quirinal. They
hope in this way to convict us of apostasy from the faith, and
(what they deem still more atrocious) of an unpardonable outrage
against the laws of “the human understanding.”

“It seems incredible,” they go on to say, “that, after such
positive proofs of a special protection vouchsafed by Providence
to regenerate Italy, the clerical party should cling so stubbornly
to the hope of a resuscitation of the past--a past which, were it
not already irrevocably condemned by the logic of events, would be
condemned by their own theory of an all-seeing and all-wise God.”
This is the language in which the Jewish journal _L’Opinione_,
after taking Roman ground at the close of the year just elapsed,
expressed this very formidable argument. They had already uttered
it some hundred times before. Many sheets of less importance had
got up an industrious echo to this cry; and one in particular,
a petty Florentine print, undertakes to celebrate the new year
by magnifying “the caresses of Providence” bestowed upon the
little darling angel, Italy, born, as everybody knows, of the
wonderful shrewdness of the Italian people and their undying love
of liberty--a liberty, by the way, which never fails to exemplify
itself by a free and strenuous appropriation of a weaker neighbor’s
earthly goods. Strange indeed it is that men, who never were
known as professed believers in any other divinity than Mammon,
should now, after having derided for years, and with every mark of
blasphemous scorn, “the finger of God,” suddenly assume the office
of apostles of a new idea of Christian Providence. Strange it is
that only now, after the plunder of a city gained by battering
down walls and picking locks with forged keys--that these men,
we say, should chant the praises of the God they had defied, and
defend his holy decrees against the “scandalous negations” of the
Catholic Church. Strangest is it of all, that the prince of these
extraordinary apostles should be no other than the so-called Jew
proprietor of the _Opinione_--who is not even a Jew; for he has
always shown that he believes as little of the Old Testament as he
does of the New.

But--

    “To what infamies untold
    Hast thou man’s nature not controlled,
    Thou execrable greed of gold!”

Solid or not, this _argumentum ad hominem_ has for a certain class
of minds an air of great plausibility. At all events, it might
be well to look into it a little; for we may thereby throw some
light upon several important truths which nowadays need special
illumination. We let in the argument, therefore, as the new Jewish
and infidel philosophers present it; and we propose to give them,
in a nutshell, the proper answer to it. They will then understand
why Catholics not only refuse to surrender to this showing, but, on
the contrary, see in it reason to stand firm to their first faith,
and to cherish unceasing hopes of the speedy triumph of their cause.

Yes, gentlemen, we Catholics believe, with all our heart and soul,
in the holy providence of God. In this Providence we recognize
the origin and order of all created things. We make it indeed our
glory that we bless and humbly worship its adorable decrees. We
confess, therefore, without reserve, that what you choose to call
its “loving caresses” are really yours by divine appointment; and
the very decree which to you is the source of so much joy, and to
us of so much mourning, we adore as the undoubted manifestation
of his most holy will. All this we freely admit as truth, as
unquestionable, unanswerable truth. But while, in these explicit
terms, we confess this Catholic verity, we deny, in equally
explicit terms, that what you choose to call “caresses” are in
any sense _such to you_, or that the palpable proofs of that
“special protection” of which you make so vain a boast are proofs
of anything but the very opposite; nay, so false is it, that the
caresses you claim are marks of divine approval, that the very
assertion is a blasphemy most insulting to the sovereign providence
of God. To prove these propositions is an easy thing to any one who
knows his catechism; and the understanding of them easier still to
any one who believes as well as knows. To him who either does not
know his Christian primer, or, knowing it, will not believe, they
may seem incapable of either proof or comprehension. Should such a
case present itself, the fault is certainly not ours. A poet tells
us that:

    “Of winds the sailor ever loves to speak,
    Of arms the soldier, and the boor of swine;
    The astronomer, of planet, moon, and stars;
    Of palaces and piers, the architect;
    The juggling necromancer prates of ghosts,
    And the old harper of his well thrummed strains.”

If so, why is it that this Jew, instead of sticking like a worthy
Hebrew to his stock-list, takes to teaching us the Christian
catechism? And why is it that this worshipper of Voltaire, instead
of chanting hymns to Venus, reads us a lecture on what he knows
about the purposes of God? _Sutor ne ultra crepidam._

Nevertheless, we proceed to explain the propositions advanced
above.

Catholics acknowledge that every event, be it favorable or
unfavorable to their prayers, is consistent with the providence
of God. To Providence they refer evil as well as good, with this
difference, that good and unblamable evil they ascribe to the
decrees of his sovereign direction, but blamable evil they ascribe
to his permissive decree. In a word, they believe and confess that
God wills _positively_ all that comes to pass without taint of
moral evil, and wills _negatively_ (that is, he does not preclude)
what comes to pass so tainted by cause of man’s abuse of his
free-will. They nevertheless hold and profess that whatever evil he
permits, that also is ordained to good; so that nothing enters into
those most just and wise decrees that does not aim effectively at
the final design of the creation and redemption of mankind; which
design in this life is the church militant, and, in the next, the
church triumphant, the central point of his extrinsic glorification.

The reason, then, that Catholics hold and profess that God does
not and cannot decree, otherwise than _permissively_, moral
evil--that is, disobedience, injustice, or briefly sin--is that he
neither participates nor can participate in evil of this nature
which is essentially opposed to his infinite sanctity. He would,
in fact, participate therein if he willed it positively and not
merely negatively; whereas, permitting it only, he in no wise
participates, though he allows man, whom he had created free, to
make an evil use of the gift of liberty. He does not hinder him,
because neither is he so obliged, nor can the divine hindrance
of human freedom be exacted by the nature of man left free. With
all this, God is in no wise the less able to secure for himself,
always and in every case and from every human being, the external
glory which he reserved to himself when he created man. Because,
he who shall not glorify in heaven an infinite mercy granted to
the good use of the free-will, shall glorify in hell an infinite
justice merited by the abuse of this same free-will. Hence the
Almighty will not be shorn of the least shadow of that glory,
for which, among other things, he drew man out of the abyss of
nothingness.

Catholics, moreover, believe and confess that the effects of
moral evil are invariably directed by Almighty God to the good
of mankind. They serve to punish in order to amend, or else to
exercise in order to confirm. St. Augustine remarks, with his usual
perspicacity, that the life of a bad man is often prolonged not
only to afford an opportunity for his amendment, but to serve as
an occasion of sanctification to the good. _Ne putetis gratis esse
malos in hoc mundo, et nihil boni de eis agere Deum. Omnis malus
aut ideo vivit ut corrigatur, aut ideo vivit ut per illum bonus
exerceatur._[62]

Hence it is that Catholics, in all emergencies, even in the most
calamitous, nay, even in those caused by the worst iniquities of
unscrupulous men, do not fail to adore the goodness and justice of
Almighty God, and to acknowledge the inscrutable dispositions of
his most holy will. But they never think of imputing to him the
sins and transgressions of the wicked. These he neither wills nor
is he capable of willing them. He permits them only as subserving
his mercy or his justice.

It follows, then, that, in order to decide whether the easy
successes of certain definite transactions are successes due
to divine approbation, and palpable proofs of his gracious
protection, or whether rather they are not facilities that
Providence permits for the punishment of the wicked and for the
chastening of the virtuously minded, it is essential to see first
whether these definite acts are right or wrong, meritorious or
sinful; that is, conformable or unconformable to the law of eternal
justice, and to the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Now, certain it is that in those transactions which the enemies of
Christ regard as sanctioned by the manifest “caresses” of Almighty
God, Catholic Christians see nothing but acts of iniquity and sin;
and accordingly, while they accept them as permitted by God for
reasons and results full of justice and mercy, they nevertheless
esteem it the height of blasphemy to look upon such outrages,
however successful for the moment, as “caresses” bestowed by
Providence upon the very men who at other times deny his existence
or treat his word with open scorn and contempt.

We have thus, as briefly and as lucidly as we could, and with the
Christian catechism for our guide, explained to these Jews who are
no Jews, and to these philosophers who are no philosophers, the
sense of the propositions we affirm.

Perhaps they will now require of us to prove that the acts referred
to are acts of iniquity and sin. This is very much like asking us
to prove that the sun is shining, when it is evidently blazing
at mid-day. We let pass that the highest authority on earth has
pronounced, again and again, that the acts are simply acts most
sinful and sacrilegious. We let pass that the concurrent testimony
of all minds endowed with natural rectitude of judgment (not
excluding Protestants nor Israelites nor Turks) has confirmed and
reconfirmed the condemnations spoken already by Pope, by church,
and by the entire Catholic world. It is enough that the authors
and prime movers of these outrages proclaimed and stamped them as
dishonorable and base before they perpetrated them, and even in the
very act of their perpetration. Can these apostolic gentlemen, now
so anxious for the conversion of the Catholic Church, be ignorant,
for instance, that two of the Subalpine ministry, Visconti-Venosta
and Lanza, declared the invasion of Rome and the usurpation of
the Papal power acts of barbarism destitute of every semblance of
right? And are they not aware that they so avouched just one short
month before both invasion and usurpation were consummated by
burglary and breach?

Who can hope, then, to persuade a Catholic that these successful
shells, pick-locks, and jimmies have not been instruments of the
most iniquitous wrong-doing, seeing that these two men, in the
face of heaven and earth, averred its baseness themselves only a
few weeks before the formal consummation of the act? Perhaps, too,
our converters have never heard how their _divine_ Camillo Cavour
said one day to their other _divine_ Massimo d’Azeglio, who has
recorded it _ad perpetuam rei memoriam_: “If what we are doing
for Italy, you and I had done for ourselves, what a precious pair
of big _balossi_ we should have been!” The _Opinione_ knows too
well the sense of the Subalpine word _balosso_ that we should put
it into good Italian. The editor and his pharisaical colleagues
have learned, no doubt, the lovely dialect of the northern masters
they have chosen for Italy and for themselves. They can teach us,
we dare say, the full force of this fine word _balosso_; that it
means all that is contained in the words scamp, scoundrel, robber,
rascal, villain, ruffian, knave. Can Catholics, then, be easily
persuaded that the _facts accomplished_ by Azeglio and Cavour for
the regeneration of Italy have been free from sin and iniquity,
seeing that these two _divines_ have stigmatized them as the acts
of men bad enough to be _balossi_? For be it observed that Azeglio
himself admits that what is criminal in private life is no less
criminal in public;[63] showing (though we are losing time in the
attempt to throw light upon the sun) that our apostolic friends, in
order to justify the _accomplished facts_ resorted to for Italy’s
new birth, have been obliged to invent a modern social law the
converse of the ancient one ordained by God himself.

If this be admitted, what can prove more incontestably that the
acts complained of were acts of sin and iniquity; sin being any
act contrary to God’s commands, and iniquity an act opposed to the
justice he enjoins?

But Catholics may go further, and say to the apostles of our
conversion that not only are the means used for the _regeneration_
of Italy sinful and iniquitous, but that the _end_ itself
aimed at by the ringleaders of this pretended regeneration is
absolutely antichristian and diabolical, being nothing less than
the demolition of the Catholic Church and the annihilation of the
kingdom of God among men. Of course, the _end_ is simply absurd,
and rendered impossible by the excess of its absurdity. But
nevertheless, though it cannot exist as a thing attainable, it does
exist as a thing conceivable, and as such inspires the mad career
of Masonry, which pursues it with satanic rage and open ostentation
as the main objective point of the machinations of the sect.

Mazzini, to whom the _regenerators_ are indebted for their grand
_idea_, aimed as far ago as 1834 at the abolition of the temporal
power, without regard to cost. His argument was that the downfall
of this power carried with it, as a necessary consequence,
the emancipation of the human race from the thraldom of the
spiritual power. “The Vicars of Christ” he called “Vicars of the
Spirit of Evil, to be exterminated, never to be restored.”[64]
Visconti-Venosta, a member of the present Italian cabinet, wrote
to Mazzini, in 1851, that the rallying-cry of the _regeneration_
should be, “Down with the Monarchy, down with the Papacy.”[65]

Ferrari, the philosopher of the movement, proclaimed in 1853 that
the end it proposed was the stamping out of Pope and Emperor, of
Christ and Cæsar; the four tyrannies that Machiavelli had delivered
over to Italian hate.[66]

To make this matter short, though we might go on for ever, the
more rabid partisans of the _regeneration_ do not blush to say
that the essential end of the great Italian movement is the
emancipation of human consciences from the authority of the church,
by laying prostrate the colossus against whom Luther, Calvin, and
Henry VIII. ineffectually strove. They aim, in a word, at the
radical destruction of the entire Catholic Church; to which end,
nationality, unity, political liberty itself, were always to be
regarded as nothing more than the means.[67]

These preliminaries being understood, our free-thinking friends
ought to see that their argument, derived from what they call
“providential protection” to their sacrilegious acts, strikes the
Catholic mind as a shocking blasphemy, because it makes our blessed
Lord an accomplice in detestable transactions, and an instigator
to the worst of crimes--a deliberate plotter, in short, of the
ruin of that church which is the masterpiece of his wisdom, and
the object of his infinite love. We have no objections to their
saying that the anger of God has unchained their barbarous allies,
and for a time has left them free to do their worst against the
children of the church. They may say all this, and Catholics will
assent and even approve--not the _animus_, but the words. They will
exclaim with St. Jerome of old, when the barbarians of that day
were making havoc of the things of God: _Peccatis nostris barbari
fortes sunt_[68]--“In our sins the barbarians are strong.” But let
them not venture to say that Almighty God, because he allows them a
fatal facility of blasphemous impiety, protects and even caresses
this impiety. For religious men will answer them: Yes, he protects
and caresses you, as he protected and caressed the crucifiers of
his only-begotten Son.

And here we entreat the Israelitish editor of the _Opinione_ to pay
strict attention to what we have to say, inasmuch as it concerns
him in his nationality; since he is an Israelite by nature and
nation, and Italian only by the place of his accidental birth.

The synagogue, sustained by the coalition of Pharisees and
Sadducees, undertook to regenerate Judea by taking the life of
Jesus, Son of God, true God and true Man. The great sin of Jesus
Christ in the eyes of the synagogue was similar to that of the
church of Jesus in the eyes of the Masonic Order. He was the Son
of God and the Word of Truth, as the church is his spouse and the
organ of the truth.

But there stood many obstacles in the way of compassing his
death. First, there needed a lawful sanction, and there was none.
Secondly, it was necessary to take him captive, a very dangerous
undertaking, for he was always surrounded by throngs of devoted
followers and friends. Thirdly, it was necessary to keep the
people in good humor, or, as Jesus was their principal benefactor,
they might rebel against this public execution. Fourthly, it
was necessary to ascertain that the Romans, who had cognizance
of capital cases in Palestine, would connive at his trial for
life and at his sentence to death. Fifthly, they had to risk the
display of his miraculous power, for his miracles surpassed all
that had ever been seen in Israel. It must be admitted that these
difficulties were very formidable. Yet what happened? _Everything
was made easy._ The sanction of law was found in a tissue of lies
and political misindictments, successful beyond all expectation.
His capture proved the easiest imaginable, through the unexpected
treachery of one of his own disciples, who sold him for a bauble.
The populace was led with wonderful facility not only not to rise
to his rescue, but in a solemn _plébiscite_ to save the robber
Barabbas at his expense, and to sentence him to an ignominious
death. The Romans made some show, through Pilate, in his defence;
but after five times declaring him innocent of every charge,
condemned him to the cross, following the will of the synagogue to
the last; and finally Jesus, though challenged with insult to the
exercise of his supernatural powers, abstained mysteriously from
their use, and did nothing to withdraw himself from torture or
death. Could any greater facility of consummation be imagined than
was here shown in the _accomplishment_ of this tremendous deicidal
_act_? But will our Israelitish apostle have the heart to undertake
to win over Italian Catholics to the belief that the wonderful
_success_ of the crucifixion (permitted, as it undeniably was) is
to be construed as a caress bestowed by Providence upon a corrupt
and apostate synagogue, and as a palpable and unmistakable proof of
his protection of the bloody and treacherous council that sentenced
him to death?

Between the Jewish sacrilege directed against the adorable Person
of the Incarnate Word, and the Italian sacrilege against the Vicar
of that Word, there is but this distinction: that the Person aimed
at in the former was God present in his human nature, and the
Person aimed at in the latter was God present in his church.

In the days of Pontius Pilate and Caiphas, the Jews slew the
material body of our Blessed Lord: the latter-day Jews, in these
days of Lanza and Visconti-Venosta, would, if they could, slay the
Spiritual Body of the same Jesus Christ. And do you dare, wretched
Pharisees, to ask of us Catholic believers to recognize in the
facilities that have attended until now this monstrous sacrilege
of yours, this second deicidal act, the smiles of an approving
Providence, and the marks of a divine protection accorded to the
prompt success of your heaven-defying crime?

The capital error of the gross and impious sophism now the subject
of our comment, consists evidently in the assumption that easy and
unexpected success (in operations ordinarily of a very arduous
character) is a sure note of the divine approval, even when the
accomplished facts are manifest breaches of the Decalogue.

A proposition of this sort, if it had the least value, would serve
to sanction any atrocity, however monstrous, provided it were only
successfully and rapidly achieved.

Such wretches as Passatori, Ninco Nanchi, Carusi, and Troppmann
ought in this view to be regarded as protected and caressed by
Divine Providence. Every prosperous villain would only have to
quote to his judges the argument of the _Opinione_ to conciliate
their approbation, and to obtain from them not only an acquittal,
but an honorable testimonial in high praise of these favorites of
heaven.

True it is, however, that a striking and brilliant success dazzles
the judgment of men without faith, or of men with faith as sensual
as their flesh.

We Catholics, on the contrary, are rich in the possession of a
divine promise which keeps us cheerful and buoyant with hope in
the face of what seems like the final triumph of the wicked. And
this is more especially true when we have to deal with those who
plot against the church and its visible Head, _adversus Dominum,
et adversus Christum ejus_. Nobody that we know of has set this
promise in a truer light than P. Paul Segneri, and we take the
liberty to transcribe here for our readers two or three passages of
his, which are just so much gold to the purpose we have in view.

“‘The prosperity of fools,’ says Solomon, ‘shall destroy them.’
He does not say ‘destroys them,’ but ‘shall destroy them.’ Why
so? Because the prosperity of the wicked does not always produce
immediately its disastrous effects. Sometimes the reverse comes
after long delay. Wait patiently. You will see the end of what
seems to begin so well. Have you never read in the Book of Job how
that the Almighty takes pleasure in defeating the machinations of
the impious? He brings their counsellors to a foolish end.” Not to
a bad beginning. No; all seems prosperous at first. It is the end
that is disastrous. He lets them raise aloft their mighty tower
of Babel. But afterwards, in the confusion of their pride, they
disperse and are gone. He lets them build up the beautiful towers
of Siloe; but these fall, and the builders are buried beneath
the ruins. For want of this reflection, many men wonder at the
prosperity of the wicked. Even the prophets themselves address God
sometimes with tender reproaches. They almost accuse him, I might
say. We are apt to look too much at the beginning of things, and
not, like holy David, at the end. _Donec intelligam in novissimis
eorum._ As much as to say, they are so taken up with gazing upon
the comely golden head of their tall Babylonian colossus, that they
have not thought of lowering their eyes to see its brittle legs of
clay. Now hear me, and witness the establishment of the truth. If
ever since the birth of Christ there was a race of men who rose by
unscrupulous arts to enormous wealth and power, it was doubtless
the Greek emperors, tyrants as they may well be called. Now answer
me, Have there ever existed empires which have furnished subjects
for tragedy more truly horrible than theirs?

“Nicephorus succeeded at first by the employment of dishonest means
to usurp the imperial power, driving away the right inheritress,
Irene. What then? Crushed by a series of misfortunes, he began
to look upon himself as a modern Pharaoh, hardened by defeats.
Finally, vanquished and slain by the Bulgarians, his enemies made
a drinking-cup of his skull, and out of joy or derision used it
as such in the diversions of the camp. Stauratius by illegitimate
alliances, and Leo the Armenian by repeated high-handed rebellions,
succeeded in establishing themselves in the height of power. How
long was it before these two men died under the blows of the
assassin, the former in war, and the latter at the altar he had
profaned? Michael the Stammerer was so fortunate as to step, in
his famous conspiracy, from the dungeon to the throne; demanding
there the worship of his subjects, the chain still on his neck and
the fetters on his feet. Intoxicated by his success, he compelled
a holy virgin to share his bed. All Sclavonia revolted, his entire
army deserted him; nor yet repenting, he was literally devoured
by a malady the most disgusting. Theophilus was successful in
suppressing, for reasons of state, the veneration of sacred images;
but almost immediately after, on being shamefully defeated by
the Saracens, died of rage and intense mortification. Michael
III., regarded as another Nero on account of his licentiousness
and cruelty, succeeded so far as to put his mother and guardians
out of the way, in order to reign without opposition or control.
He ended his ‘prosperous’ career by kindling against himself the
hatred of his subjects, and encountered rebellion after rebellion,
in the last of which, in the midst of a drunken debauch, he paid
the forfeit of his life. Alexander attained a sort of success in
plundering the holy altars, and in appropriating the gold thus
obtained to his own private use; but very soon thereafter he was
seized with a sudden madness, and he had not held out a year when
he ended his life in a fearful vomiting of blood. What shall I say
of Romanus I.? He too was successful to all appearance; for, by
a stratagem of wonderful adroitness, he expelled the legitimate
possessor from the patriarchal see of Constantinople, and placed
in it a mere child, his own son. The year following he himself was
driven from the imperial throne by another son, and banished to a
lonely isle for life. So also fared it with Romanus II. Impelled by
the lust of dominion, he took the life of his own father by poison.
His own life was taken very shortly after, and by the self-same
means. Michael Paphlagonius, by infamous devices, carried his point
of usurping the throne. Seized suddenly with demoniacal obsession,
he could obtain no repose. Exorcisms and almsgivings were tried
in vain. He died as he lived, with his agony unrelieved. Michael
Calaphates was ‘successful’ in driving the empress into exile, that
he might reign alone; but the people rose against him at once,
stoned him, deprived him of sight, and dragged him through the
city streets more dead than alive. Diogenes and Andronicus, two
usurpers who had ‘succeeded’ in their treason, one by a courtesan’s
vile aid, the other by the arm of an assassin, came to the same
lamentable end.

“Now answer me! Can you look upon as truly successful the wicked
arts which brought these bad men to power? Speak out! Would you
be willing to enjoy their ‘prosperity’ if with it you had to
accept its reverse? Is there any one so stupid as to envy their
short-lived ‘good luck’? Rest assured that such has ever been
the fate of those who attain for a time their unhallowed ends by
iniquitous means. ‘The prosperity of fools will destroy them.’
Doubt it not, my friends. The prosperity of fools will most
assuredly destroy them. It is hardly worth while to labor longer
in the proof. All writings, all ages, all powers, attest in unison
this truth, that ‘Justice exalteth a nation’; and this other, that
‘Injustice leadeth a nation to misery and ruin.’ These are the
words of one who was the wisest among men; and elsewhere he says,
‘Man shall not be strengthened by wickedness’; and, again, ‘The
unjust shall be caught in their own snares’; and then, again, ‘They
who sow iniquity shall reap destruction.’”

Thus, by examples drawn from the annals of the Byzantines (a race
dear to our modern liberals), the eloquent Segneri points out the
end which, according to Holy Writ, awaits the criminal successes
of the wicked. If he had chosen to embrace a wider range of
history, he might have compiled an endless catalogue of examples
the most frightful; commencing with the dreadful success of the
crucifixion of our ever blessed Lord, of which the sequel was as
dreadful a retribution. The synagogue nailed the Messiah to the
cross, under the pretext that otherwise the Romans would come and
occupy Jerusalem. And _precisely because_ they did this wicked
thing, the Romans took Jerusalem and levelled it to the ground. So
that the very success of the Jews, which, execrable as it was, the
_Opinione_ would have adored as a protecting caress bestowed by
Providence upon Sion, ended simply in bringing upon the guilty city
a horrible siege and irremediable ruin.

We content ourselves, for our part, in citing the Roman Cæsars,
who, in the first three centuries, renewed ten different times,
and with all the incidents of success, the bloody persecution of
the followers of Christ. All of these, without a single exception,
came to a wretched end. When the fourth century arrived to witness
the triumph of Christianity, the descendants of the persecuting
emperors were found extinct by foul or violent deaths; the series
closing with Maximin breathing his last amid the agonies of poison
and the blasphemous howlings of despair, and with Candidianus (the
adulterous son of Galerius, adopted by Valeria, Maximin’s wife)
murdered by Licinius along with another brother, a sister in tender
age, and finally Valeria herself. It thus appears that the massacre
of the Christians, which our modern Caiphases would have celebrated
as an edifying “divine caress,” had this one effect after all,
viz., to bring around the lasting triumph of the persecuted cause.
It was the children of the slaughtered ones who were victorious in
the end; the progeny of the slaughterers died suffocated in the
blood which their guilty fathers had shed.

We might easily continue these examples, and recount, for
instance, the end to which a career of successful iniquity at
last conducted Julian the Apostate, the idol and exemplar of our
Italian regenerators. We might enlarge on the fates of Astolphus
and Desiderius, whose “patriotism” they so much admire. We might
with still more force bring out contemporary cases, the case
of Cavour, for example, withdrawn suddenly away by an ominous
death in the flower of life from the hosannas of the people he
had misled; the case of Farini, Cavour’s right-hand man, struck
also in life’s prime by a shocking frenzy which urged him to acts
incredibly revolting, and soon after to a most painful death; the
case of Fanti, the plunderer of Umbria, who, before he could die,
was tortured for a year with all the agonies of death; the case of
Persano, the bombarder of Ancona, who, after making shipwreck on
the sea of Lissa of his rank and reputation, avenged himself of
fortune by publishing the infamies of the successful revolution.
And to these we might add the cases of Pinelli, of Valerio, of La
Farina, and of a hundred others equally conclusive. We might even
quote examples among the living; of a certain _regenerator_, who,
in spite of his impious successes, roams incessantly from place to
place seeking a rest he cannot find--condemned, it would seem, to
endure the torments of Caina, Antenora, and Ptolomea in Dante’s
ninth circle of hell, and to realize in himself the fate described
by Alberigo:

    “This boon the sufferer hath, if boon it be--
    Ofttimes to know the pangs of parting breath,
    Ere Atropos shuts down the shears of death.”

To be brief, we shall confine ourselves to the two most
distinguished and most successful persecutors of popes--Frederick
II., a mediæval emperor of Germany, and Napoleon the First, a
French emperor of the modern sort. Both of these men, in the
studied outrages they inflicted, the one upon Gregory IX. and
Innocent IV., the other on Pius VII., were encouraged by such
marvellous successes that our Israelitish proselytizer would have
had them canonized as the very Benjamins of Providence. Suffice
it to say that Frederick II. had his political Cæsarism preached
into right divine by the most learned jurists of his day, just as
Napoleon I. made the most powerful monarchy of Europe kneel down
and adore his bloodier Cæsarism of the sword. Both the one and
the other returning from their triumphs, carried fortune, to all
appearance, chained for ever to their cars. The more they raged
against Christ’s Vicar, the more their victory seemed complete. The
greater the number of excommunications they incurred, the easier
seemed to be their subsequent encroachments. It was after the
last papal censure that Frederick gained the adhesion of several
powerful barons in Rome. It was after the Pope’s worst imprisonment
that Napoleon won his greatest battles, making them the subjects
of the most vainglorious boasts, that he had thus received from
the God of armies special marks of approbation--“caresses,” as the
_Opinione_ calls them, when bestowed upon the enemies of the church.

Yet where did they end, these lucky sacrileges, this prodigious
and prolonged prosperity of crime? Both these men outlived their
glittering fortunes. The false magnificence and grandeur for which
they had thrown away their souls, turned to ashes in their grasp.

King Henry, Frederick’s eldest son, dies in prison, leaving a
son who was struck dead by a blow from an unknown hand. Enzio,
his bastard offspring, created by him King of Sardinia, after
twenty-five years of imprisonment in a cage of iron dies a
miserable death. Ezzelino, his son-in-law closes with a horrible
end a life, if possible, of greater horror. His great champion,
Thaddeus of Suessa, is slain with every accompaniment of contempt.
Pier delle Vigne, his evil genius, has his eyes thrust out, and
commits suicide in his despair. Frederick himself, after surviving
all these horrors, is strangled by Manfredi, another of his
base-born sons, who, after bathing his gory hands in the blood of
Conrad, Frederick’s lawful son, is himself stretched dead on the
field of a dishonorable strife. To close this interminable tragedy,
Corradino, the last scion of the hated tyrant, ends on a felon’s
scaffold his seventeen short years of life. With this unfortunate
youth the dynasty of Frederick is closed. The empire passes over
into other hands, and Rodolph of Hapsburg reigns, the first of a
better line.

The fall of Napoleon I. is still remembered as an event of recent
date. Elated with his continual victories, he invaded Russia with
the most formidable army the world ever saw. Warned that he had
the fate of the excommunicated to encounter, he asked in scorn
whether his soldiers would drop their muskets at the sight of a
Papal Bull. Forced to retreat after a show of vain success, famine
and frost decimated his ranks, and his soldiers’ frozen fingers
refused to hold the interdicted arms. Unable to contend against
fast-increasing numbers, he found himself by a strange fatality
compelled to renounce the crown in the very palace at Fontainebleau
which he had turned into a prison for the Pope. The Holy Father
had quitted it to resume the throne. The fallen emperor left it
to accept in Elba an asylum which he begged as a shelter in his
friendless old age. Leaving his place of refuge, in a mad attempt
to resuscitate his fortunes, he incurred at Waterloo a ruin the
most disastrous ever known. Stripped of every resource, he was
dragged to a prison-cell on a miserable island, scarcely noticeable
in its vast expanse of sea. From this inhospitable rock, he was
permitted to contemplate the plenary restoration of the mysterious
Papal power, and simultaneously the downfall of all the thrones he
had presented to his brothers and next of kin. After spending, in
desolate captivity, the five years he had decreed of prison to the
blameless Pius VII., he gave up his tortured soul to meet the just
displeasure of his God. What more striking confirmation can we ask
of the truth of those awful words, “They who sow injustice” sooner
or later “shall reap its bitter fruits”?

It would not do to pass without notice the still living and
speaking case of Napoleon III. Who but he has been the foremost
leader of the _regenerators_ of unhappy Italy? The Gog and Magog of
our Italian pharisees! And are not these the men who fell down and
worshipped the divine prosperity of their master’s eighteen years
of empire? Have they not claimed it as a miracle of God’s favor,
a long and lasting “caress” of Providence, the possible failure
of which it would be impious to suspect? Have they not sung and
celebrated, time and again, the famous victory of Solferino as a
prodigy sent from heaven to show that the Almighty took the side of
Italy, and had declared against the Pope?

Well, now, what has become of this epopee of miraculous prosperity,
this note of ruin to Catholic Christianity, to the claims of the
Holy See, and (as justly we might say) to the repose and peace
of Europe? It came to naught in Sedan, in a military defeat and
a dynastic misfortune the most appalling that ever was known or
written of in the world.

And it _so_ came to naught precisely because of the “success” at
Solferino. That victory of Napoleon’s, chanted so loudly and so
often by the pious Jew editor of the _Opinione_ as an unmistakable
revelation of God’s decision in favor of Bonaparte and his new
Italy--that victory (when the hour of Sedan had come) was plainly
seen as the manifest cause of his every subsequent reverse. Who
can help perceiving now that, had not Austria lost the battle
of Solferino, won by France that Italy might be “made,” Austria
would not have lost the battle at Sadowa, achieved by Prussia that
Germany might be “made”? And had not Austria lost at Sadowa, is it
not plain that Napoleon would never have been dragged down into the
horrible catastrophe of Sedan? In this catastrophe we find the
meaning of the “approving smile” at Solferino. The “caress,” we
are told, was intended for the third Napoleon. For whom, then, was
intended the crushing dispensation at Sedan?

Will our kind converters to the new reading of the ways of
Providence reflect maturely on this matter? All genuine Christian
gentlemen, all admitted men of honor (except a few who were
misled), regarded the war of 1859, so well characterized by
the victory of Solferino, as iniquitous in its motives and as
anti-Christian in its scope. It was looked upon by all as a _magnum
latrocinium_, a godless scheme of robbery; but it had what its
perpetrators called “a great success.” Eleven years roll by, and
what do we see?

Napoleon III., at first so splendidly victorious by the force of
an act of larceny that dispossessed four princes and displaced
the Pope, is caught at last like a weasel in a trap, dethroned in
his turn, driven off in scorn, steeped to the lips in indelible
disgrace; all his marshals and generals, without a solitary
exception, ignominiously humbled, soundly beaten, and detained in
durance vile by a logical rebound from their first Italian success;
all his army, four hundred thousand strong, lately invincible,
now led into exile or captivity, to shiver with cold or to wince
under the epithets of scorn. Victorious France, in retribution
for her “new idea” of _nationality_, and to set the good example,
yields up the costly tribute of _two_ of her wealthiest provinces;
just the number she had stolen from Italy, on the strength of the
“new idea,” as her due for allowing Piedmont to absorb the entire
peninsula within her ravenous maw.

How is it possible not to recognize, in this unprecedented drama,
the real lesson of divine retaliation, the exclusive right of
Providence to repay--to exact eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and
life for life, when such extremity is required? Who will hesitate
to say with the poet:

    “The sword of God is strict, and cuts amain.
    But still in stated measure, time, and place,
    Till all things find their equal own again.”

And in this most memorable reverse of Napoleon III., we invite our
apostolic interpreters of Providence to note a special fact. The
fallen emperor not only lives to realize the forfeiture of all his
fame, differing herein from those who die before the loss, but has
to endure the bitterness of witnessing the demolition of all the
proud creations of his reign. He had raised France to the pinnacle
of earthly greatness, had just crowned, as he himself phrased it,
the glorious edifice his genius had successfully constructed.
France is now dismembered, dilapidated, a mass of melancholy ruin;
reduced to chaos militarily, morally, politically, and to a great
extent materially, if this last trait be deemed of much account.

He had decorated the palaces of St. Cloud and the Tuileries with
munificence more than Asiatic. They are stripped to the bare walls.
He rose, on the wings of the _plébiscite_, from obscurity to a
throne. The _plébiscite_ is now an obsolete absurdity. The treaty
of Paris, which crowned the triumphs of the East; the Chinese
victories and ovations at Canton and Palikao; the Mexican Empire,
the fruit of so much toil and treasure, the price of the good name
and fame of France; the Prague conventions, intended to defeat the
growth of Prussia into a vast and consolidated Germany--of all
these magnificent enterprises not a trace. In short, the countless
dazzling exploits of the prosperous reign of the third Napoleon
have vanished for ever like so many dissolving views. One work,
one only work survives--the Subalpine government of Italy, to
lick which hideous monster into shape the unhappy monarch threw
recklessly away his honor and his crown. We might pursue this
train of thought to its logical conclusion, but we refrain. Too
strict an application of the laws of logic might bring us into
conflict with other laws which we prefer not to provoke. But we may
perhaps venture to request our pious friends of the “Regeneration”
to undertake the argument themselves--an argument which runs on
almost of itself, being one of the kind which dialecticians call
reasoning from analogy. Let them look to it well, and say if there
be not better ground to be anxious about the life of their _Italy_
than there is to be solicitous about converting Catholics to the
modern dogma, that the voice of an accomplished fact is no less
than the voice of God; that the lucky consummation of a crime is
itself the signal of the divine applause. Let them reflect that
not a fact, which ceases afterwards to be a fact, can come into
being or go out of it, without, at least, the permissive sanction
of Almighty God. Let them pause and consider that the series of
events, opened by Providence in 1859, is not absolutely or finally
closed. Let them ever bear in mind that, when least it is expected,
Providence may complete the line of this analogy by dissolving into
nothingness the only remnant left of all the Napoleonic creations.
The world and the ages will then believe that not a single one
of the supposed marks of the divine “caress,” claimed by Italy’s
_regenerators_, was really a mark of favor; but simply one of the
many illustrations of the way in which the scorner is caught in the
midst of his devices: _In insidiis suis capientur iniqui_.

In what we have advanced, we have, as seems to us, fairly and
fully refuted the boastful syllogism of our adversaries. We shall
conclude by exhorting them to lay aside all hope of converting
Catholics by a show of blasphemous successes or an appeal to the
longest impunity of crime. Go on, gentlemen! Enjoy your fortune!
Vaunt as loudly as you will the triumphs you have secured over us,
over the church, over the rights of the Holy See. Do all this, and
welcome. But when you come to tell us that Providence is “caressing
your cause,” and ask our adhesion to this impiety, we warn you to
desist. Satan himself would not dare to give utterance to such an
insult, or even to harbor such a thought. Providence has allowed
you, in the abuse of your own free-will, a certain measure of
easy success; as he allowed it to the synagogue, to the Cæsars,
to Julian the Apostate, to Desiderius, and to all such of your
predecessors as were permitted for a time to triumph over Christ
and his commandments. And this he has allowed to you, not as to
his loved ones, but as to his persecutors, that you may be the rod
of his justice against the sins of the world. He will make this
to yourselves, if you repent not, a snare and a delusion; to the
church, an assurance of greater exaltation; and to all of us, a
call to better service and obedience. We as Catholics know that we
must bow beneath your blows. We bear the pain of them in peace,
because faith teaches us that even scourges are wielded by God, and
that his hand is to be kissed as much when it strikes as when it
strengthens. For this reason we can accept you as you are. And yet
we see in you no higher mark than that of our flagellators and the
exercisers of our patience; but be warned in time. God makes use
of his scourges, and then destroys them. We have made this plain
to you by innumerable examples. Beware! for the prosperous days of
God’s scourges end invariably in misfortune and disaster. Beware,
for the good times of the enemies of Jesus Christ and his church
have ever been as pitfalls with a covering of roses; yokes of iron
masked by a drapery of flowers. On the contrary, from her greatest
tribulations the church has ever issued brighter, lovelier, and
more radiant than before. She numbers as many victories as battles,
as many prisoners as foes. All the promises of God are for her and
against you, and all history attests that of these promises not a
syllable has failed. The church is our mother; her cause is our
own. We have, therefore, no fear for the result. You may scorn us,
you may strip us, you may deny us the protection of the laws. You
may tear us limb from limb during the brief occasion of your power.
But conquer us, no! In all eternity, you cannot. God has ordered it
that we shall be _your victors_. Rallying close to the Vicar of the
King of heaven, and faithful to the call of his immortal Spouse, we
shall announce to you, with front uplifted, that we have conquered
you; or (if that better pleases you) that Christ has conquered you
through us. Laugh to your hearts’ content at this faith of ours.
All your predecessors have done as much. Yet who triumphed in the
end? So certain are we of the victory that we scarce dare hasten it
by our desires. The thought of the bolts of divine wrath impending
over you appalls us, and we abstain, out of pity for you, from
asking what Dante, on a like occasion, prayed for in these words:

    “O God! when wilt thou give me to be blest
    To see thy vengeance, which, long hid, made sweet
    The sacred anger garnered in thy breast?”
                                         _Purg._, c. xx.

FOOTNOTES:

[62] In Psalm liv.

[63] See _Diary of C. Pisano_, fourth part, p. 125.

[64] _Ai giovani Italiani_, p. 15.

[65] See _L’Unità Italiana di Milano_, April 14, 1863.

[66] See _The Republican Federation of the Peoples_.

[67] See _Il Diritto_, July 31 and August 11, 1863.

[68] Epist. i. ad Eliod.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  LITTLE PIERRE, THE PEDLAR OF ALSACE; or, The Reward of Filial
      Piety. Translated from the French by J. M. C. With 27
      illustrations. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 236. New York: The Catholic
      Publication Society, 9 Warren Street. 1872.

The French can write charming stories, as every one knows. _Little
Pierre_ is one of the best we have seen in a long time--such a
one as enchants a child, and makes him or her unwilling to lay
it aside for supper or bed. It leads one through the romantic
scenes of Alsace and the country of the Rhine, has plenty of
stirring adventures, and, what is best of all, ends in a capital
and satisfactory manner: Pierre and his little sister happily
married, the old lady comfortable, Pierre a well-to-do merchant
at Niederbronn. The illustrations, twenty-seven in all, which
have been recut from the originals for the American edition, are
uncommonly well executed. Little Pierre is destined to become an
intimate friend of our young folks, to say nothing of Christine and
Lolotte. Perhaps the most comical scene in the book is where Little
Pierre is put by Madame Frank in the top of a Christmas-tree, with
the name of little Cecile pinned on his breast. The most touching
scene is the finding of little Lolotte in the wood, with her eyes
bandaged and her hands tied. We advise our young readers not to
rest until they get possession of this pretty book.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE MEN AND WOMEN OF THE ENGLISH REFORMATION, from the Days
      of Wolsey to the Death of Cranmer. Papal and Anti-Papal
      Notables. By S. H. Burke, author of “The Monastic Houses of
      England.” 2 vols. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.
      1872.

This is a work which fairly answers its title, and we have in its
two handsome duodecimo volumes sketches and descriptions so graphic
of the men and women of the English Reformation as to place them
most vividly before us.

Beginning with the unlovely correspondence of Henry VIII. with Anne
Boleyn, and recounting many interesting details of the divorce
question, the narrative passes on to a review of the leading
incidents and the principal personages of the reign of Henry.
The political murders of Sir Thomas More and of Bishop Fisher,
the death of Queen Katharine, and the fall of Anne Boleyn, are
described with fresh details of interest drawn from newly opened
sources of historic information.

On the subject of “Clerical Reformers and their Spouses,” there
is a very readable chapter, and, with a full disquisition upon
the “Religious Institutions of Old England,” we have startling
statements concerning the character of the “Monastic Inquisitors”
under that arch-villain, Thomas Cromwell, Henry’s Secretary of
State, as will open the eyes of such as are unaware of the depth of
infamy fathomed by the scoundrels who stole or wasted the wealth
of England’s grand mediæval charities and robbed the poor and the
sick of their sole heritage of succor and consolation. At the sight
of the suffering entailed by the destruction of the monasteries,
those glorious asylums of religion, charity, and learning, even
as enthusiastic a panegyrist of the Reformation as Froude cannot
help exclaiming: “To the universities, the Reformation had brought
with it desolation. _To the people of England it had brought
misery and want. The once open hand was closed._ ... The prisons
were crowded.... Monks and nuns pointed with bitter effect to the
fruits of _the new belief, which had been crimsoned in the blood of
thousands of the English peasants_.”

The second volume gives us the principal events and personages of
the end of the reign of Henry VIII. and of the reigns of Edward VI.
and of Mary Tudor; and effective use is made not only of authentic
documentary evidence which has come to light within the past seven
years, but also of the important, because impartial, testimony of
distinguished Protestant writers, such as Hook, Maitland, Brewer,
Blunt, and Stephenson. We commend the work as one of exceeding
interest.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE LIFE OF MARIE-EUSTELLE HARPAIN, the Sempstress of St.
      Pallais, called “The Angel of the Eucharist.” Second
      edition. London: Burns, Oates, & Co.; New York: The Catholic
      Publication Society. 1872.

This is one of the most interesting lives which we have read.
The lives of the saints always should be interesting, but often
the methodical and dry way in which they are, as we may say,
constructed, has a discouraging effect upon the reader greater than
that which the heroic virtues of their subjects can produce. This
is not the case with this memoir of one whom we may be allowed
to call a saint, though she has not yet been recognized as such
by the church, always prudent, and especially so with regard to
canonizations. Marie-Eustelle died in 1842, at the age of 28, and
belongs entirely to this nineteenth century, which is so ignorant
of its true glories. Her life is quite imitable in most respects,
as well as admirable, which is an additional reason for reading a
book that is so very readable.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE PARABLES OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST. With
      twenty-one Illustrations, from original designs by D. Mosler,
      H. Warren, and J. H. Powell, engraved by Holman and Bale. New
      York: The Catholic Publication Society.

The Rev. Mr. Formby, whose zeal, learning, and taste have so
enriched the library of Catholic books for the young, gives here a
popular work on the Parables, which will be wonderfully attractive.
The Parables are all given in full, with fine illustrations to
fix them on the mind, and explanations of their spiritual sense,
drawn from the holy fathers. These beautiful lessons of our Lord
cannot be too deeply impressed on minds to serve as subjects of
meditation, and, well understood, they will prove sources of many
graces. Outside the church, they remain to most “mere parables, not
unfrequently indeed admired, and even quoted, beautiful in their
way as anecdotes, but without in the least disclosing their true
meaning.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE SEVEN SACRAMENTS OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH; or, The Seven
      Pillars of the House of Wisdom. A Brief Explanation of the
      Catholic Doctrine of the Seven Sacraments, in connection with
      their corresponding types in the Old Testament. Illustrated
      with sixteen original designs by J. Powell, engraved on wood
      by the brothers Dalziel. By the Rev. Henry Formby, Priest of
      the Diocese of Birmingham. New York: The Catholic Publication
      Society.

Another of Mr. Formby’s charming books, “not meant as a book of
piety alone, but rather intended as a book of general popular
knowledge.” He saw clearly the want of our time. “The whole tone
and spirit of modern civilization is built upon the denial that
there either is or can be anything superior to itself, or, indeed,
anything that is not of its own order of things in the world.”
“The young mind cannot be too soon made aware of the contradiction
between the world and our Lord, and cannot be too soon and too
effectually brought up to love and abide by all that our divine
Lord has taught, and made firmly to disregard and despise all that
is contrary to it in the world’s doctrine, from the knowledge that
our Lord is greater than the world.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE SCHOOL KEEPSAKE, AND MONITOR FOR AFTER LIFE. By Rev.
      H. Formby. With illustrations. New York: The Catholic
      Publication Society.

This perfectly beautiful little gift for the young leaving school
is one so attractive in itself that it cannot fail to be kept; so
sound, so clear, so distinct in its matter, that it cannot but be
such a help as will gladden the guardian angel watching over the
child as it steps from the school into the busy world.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE DEVOTION OF THE SEVEN DOLORS OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN.
      Translated by the Rev. Henry Formby. New York: The Catholic
      Publication Society.

A devotion approved by the highest authority, commended by the
example of saints, and one full of consolation and piety, is here
presented in a form that will give it currency among many who had
overlooked it. No one can sorrow with Mary over the sorrows of
Jesus without a return on self, and a sense of what our sins, the
cause of all, demand on our part.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SCHOOL SONGS, to which music is adapted. Complete volume
      containing--Part I., The Junior School Song-Book; Part II.,
      The Senior School Song-Book. Edited by the Rev. Henry Formby.
      New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

Amid the abundance of bad books, it is delightful to find a
miniature volume like this of 200 pages, containing hymns, nursery
rhymes, ballads, and minor poems suited to the young selected
with care. The young must laugh and play; they will sing hymns
sometimes, touching ballads sometimes, nonsense sometimes; give
them all this to sing, but keep them from the immoral and low,
slangy songs that even our music stores are now flooding the land
with. We hope this little collection will sell by the thousand. It
is cheap and it is good.

       *       *       *       *       *

  WILD FLOWERS OF WISCONSIN. By B. J. Dorward. Edited by his son.
      Milwaukee: Catholic News Co.

The productions of our author, under the signature of “Porte
Crayon,”[69] have long been favorites of the Western public.
The late Dr. J. V. Huntington, a poet and critic of no ordinary
ability, sought him out and secured his contributions to the
St. Louis _Leader_. His poems are characterized by a beautiful
simplicity and spontaneity, genuine sentiment, and native good
sense. Other poets may exhibit the delicate touch of the artist
in elaborate and polished images, but the efforts of writers like
the present must be the inspiration of the moment, and the less
forethought they show, the more are they enhanced in value. To
change the figure, the wild flowers lose their hues and fragrance
if subjected to hot-house processes. The former excite our
admiration, the latter elicit our sympathy, and perhaps live longer
in the memory by those “touches of nature which make the whole
world kin.”

We bespeak a welcome to these flowers of song on the part of those
who love poetry in its native simplicity, who set a proper estimate
on all that is gentle, pure, and kind in the sentiments of our
common nature, noble and sublime in our common faith, and would
cultivate an indigenous literature worthy of the name.

Among many gems of thought and feeling, we can only particularize:
“To a Bird in Church,” “By the Rivulet,” “To the Memory of Dr. J.
V. Huntington,” “St. Mary’s of the Pines,” “The Datura,” and “A
Soldier’s Funeral.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  A SISTER’S STORY. By Mrs. Augustus Craven. Translated from the
      French, by Emily Bowles. Fourth American edition. 1 vol. 8vo,
      pp. 539. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

It is with pleasure that we announce the appearance of a fourth
American edition of this exquisite and charming book, whose
reputation and circulation have become world-wide. Even the
publications most hostile to our holy religion have been compelled
to eulogize it, although evidently feeling very uneasy about its
great and increasing popularity among non-Catholic readers. The
great discovery of a forgery in one part of the history which
the _New Englander_ fancied itself to have made, is known to a
great part of the reading public. This supposed _forgery_ was a
profession of faith by the subject of the story, differing in form
from one given in a French edition (14th of Didier, Paris), which
the _New Englander_ rather hastily concluded to be the genuine and
authentic form which Mrs. Craven had published. The _New Englander_
did not, however, express any suspicion that this forgery had been
perpetrated by the American editors--on the contrary, disclaimed
any such suspicion. Refinement of language, cautiousness in making
infamous charges against persons of high character, and similar
marks which denote gentlemanly and conscientious principles in a
literary man, are, however, unhappily too rare among the conductors
of the “Moral Spouting Horns” of the American press. Following
those instincts by which they are usually impelled, and imitating a
long series of precedents furnished by those who have been their
precursors in their honorable trade, several of these papers,
the _Independent_ leading off, accused the American editors and
publisher of the work with having forged a “profession of faith” to
suit themselves. Says the _Independent_ of Jan. 15:

  “The creed of this good Catholic was not half papistical enough
  to suit these American editors; so they have introduced into
  it not only what she did believe, but what, in their judgment,
  she ought to have believed. We desire to call the attention of
  THE CATHOLIC WORLD and the _Tablet_ to this translation. It is
  possible there may be some explanation of what seems to be an
  astonishing piece of literary knavery. If there be, we should be
  glad to hear of it.”

To this the publisher, in the “Literary Bulletin” of THE CATHOLIC
WORLD for April, replied that--

  “The Catholic Publication Society’s edition is printed exactly,
  word for word, from the first London edition, published by the
  respectable house of Bentley, in three volumes. If any deviation
  from the French was made, ‘The Catholic Publication Society’
  did not make it, but followed the London edition in good faith,
  knowing the high source from which it emanated. But as the
  writer in the _New Englander_ quotes from the _fourteenth French
  edition_, how does he know that the alteration may not have been
  made in that or previous French editions? We have written to the
  translator [Miss Bowles] in reference to this matter.”

But this did not seem to satisfy the _Independent_, for in its
issue of April 4 it reiterates its accusation of forgery as follows:

  “Let us ask once more (this makes three times) what our Catholic
  neighbor thinks of that forgery in one of the books of ‘The
  Catholic Publication Society’ which was exposed in the January
  number of the _New Englander_. We have looked in vain in the
  columns of the _Tablet_ for a denunciation of this pious fraud,
  and our diligent questioning has failed to elicit from that
  usually fair journal any reply.”

The Chicago _Advance_ is another paper that took particular
pleasure in re-echoing the “forgery”; but, unlike the
_Independent_, it notices the denial put forth in the “Bulletin” of
THE CATHOLIC WORLD, and says:

  “THE WORLD at last notices the forged prayer in the ‘Sister’s
  Story,’ brought to light by the _New Englander_, but affirms that
  ‘The Catholic Publication Society’ reprinted it verbatim from
  Bentley’s London edition; and rather improbably suggests that the
  alteration may have been made in one of the later French editions
  of the original. Meanwhile, the editor says that the translator
  [Miss Bowles] has been written to about it. We want THE WORLD to
  be sure to publish her reply.”

To which we reply: Here is the letter.

                                “5A DAVIES ST., BERKELEY SQ.,
                                   LONDON, W., March 18th, 1872.

“SIR: The ‘Profession of Faith’ in the first edition (3 vols.) of
_A Sister’s Story_ was the correct one, given me by Mrs. Craven
herself. I think she said it was incorrectly given in Didier’s
editions, having been copied from those commonly used. She was
very particular in writing it out herself for _A Sister’s Story_.
Mr. Bentley published the one vol. edition in a singular manner,
without referring to me at all, and I never knew why he had
shortened the ‘Profession.’ I have never compared the editions, but
possibly there are other mistakes.

                             “Your obed’t serv’t,
                                            “EMILY BOWLES.”

We do not think it necessary to add anything to the above. The
newspapers which have published remarks similar to those we have
quoted cannot make any apology which will entitle them to notice
on our part, and we take leave of them until we are compelled to
refute some new libel.

  Mr. P. DONAHOE announces for early publication: _Six Weeks
  Abroad, in Ireland, England, and Belgium_, by Father Haskins;
  _Sketches of the Establishment of the Church in New England_, by
  Father Fitton; _Catholic Glories of the Nineteenth Century: The
  Old God_, translated from the German; _Conversion of the Teutonic
  Race_, by Mrs. Hope, as well as several others.

  “The Catholic Publication Society” announce for early
  publication, in addition to the books already announced, Canon
  Oakeley’s two books, namely, _Ceremonial of the Mass_ and
  _Catholic Worship_. Also, _Aunt Margaret’s Little Neighbors; or,
  Chats about the Rosary_.

FOOTNOTE:

[69] This _nom de plume_, chosen without the knowledge of any other
appropriation of the name, was quite significant in the case of the
writer, as he at one time took portraits in crayon, though he has
since restricted himself to altar pieces in oil.




                        THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

                  VOL. XV., No. 87.--JUNE, 1872.

  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev.
   I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.




DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY.

NO. V.

PRIVATE DUTIES.


That part of our subject which is included under the title of the
present article is the most difficult, complicated, and extensive
of the several divisions under which we have classed the various
and weighty duties of the rich. A volume of the most carefully
prepared sermons, or a copious moral treatise, from the hand of a
master of spiritual and moral science, could alone do justice to
the demands of such a theme. The question to be answered, and it
is one which harasses many a heart and conscience, is, How shall
one live and govern his household amid the abundance of temporal
goods, so as to make his state in life subserve the great end
to which a Christian must direct all his thoughts and actions?
The solution of this problem is theoretically and practically
difficult. The language of Jesus Christ and the apostles in respect
to the difficulty is startling, and even terrifying. Our Lord said:
“_How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom
of God. For it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a
needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God_.” The
efforts which some critics have made to soften and diminish this
fearful declaration of Christ by changing “camel” into “cable,” or
making the “needle’s eye” to be a gate of the city, so-called, are
frivolous and futile. The figure is that of a laden camel before
the eye of a small needle, through which his driver is essaying
to make him pass. And its force consists precisely in the utter
and extravagant absurdity of the image which it presents to the
mind. It is intended to represent that which is violently contrary
to the laws of nature, and, therefore, impossible. And it is this
impossibility which is taken to illustrate the difficulty of a
rich man entering the kingdom of God. What follows elucidates and
completes the idea which our Lord intended to present before the
minds of all his followers. His astounded listeners exclaimed,
“Who then can be saved?” To whom he replied: “_The things that are
impossible with men are possible with God_.”[70] The power of God,
some philosophers tell us, can compress the substance of a camel
into such small dimensions that it can pass through the eye of a
needle. By that almighty power, and that alone, Christ teaches, can
a rich man with his substance pass through the narrow gate of the
kingdom of God.

St. James addresses to the rich the following terrible invective:
“Go to now, ye rich men, WEEP AND HOWL for your miseries that shall
come upon you.”[71] Similar passages might be multiplied, and the
comments and applications of the successors of the apostles, in a
similar strain, have filled the pages of the fathers and doctors of
the church, and resounded from the chair of truth, from the days
of the apostles to our own. Great numbers of the rich have been
impelled by the force of these alarming declarations to seek for
perfection and salvation by following the counsel which our Lord
gave to the rich young man. Let those who have the opportunity and
the vocation to do the same imitate their example; we will not
dissuade them, and let parents and others beware of dissuading,
much more hindering, any who are dependent on them from obeying
such a divine call. This is one of the duties of the rich, which
we will specify here in passing, that we may not be obliged to
recur to it hereafter--to give their best and dearest, their sons
and daughters, the most gifted, the most gracious, the most loved,
as Jephte gave his daughter, a sacrifice to God and the church,
whenever the Lord honors them by the demand. But it is not our
purpose to persuade any to follow the evangelical counsels. We
are speaking of the way of keeping God’s commandments in a state
of riches in the world. There must be a way of living a perfect
life; and gaining heaven, not merely “so as by fire,” but with
the abundant merit which wins a bright crown--in spite of the
possession of riches, and even by means of those riches. Wealth
is not an evil, but the abuse of wealth. Temporal goods are not
in themselves an obstacle to perfection and salvation, but the
sins and vices which are caused by attachment to them, and the
self-indulgence for which they afford the facility. The possession
of wealth increases a person’s responsibilities and dangers, but
at the same time augments his power of doing good and acquiring
merit. Human nature, left to itself, ordinarily swells up, through
the possession of either material or intellectual riches, to such
a huge bulk of pride, avarice, and sensuality, that it is like a
laden camel, or, as we may say, like an elephant with a tower full
of armed men on its back; and in this condition, submission to the
law of Christ is like passing through the eye of a fine cambric
needle. But God, with whom those things are possible which are
impossible to men, has not left human nature to itself. Through the
Incarnation and the cross, through regenerating and sanctifying
grace, through the aids of the Holy Spirit, Catholic faith, the
sacraments, the examples of the saints, Catholic principles and
education, the ennobling, purifying power of religion--human nature
can be kept, in the state of abundance and prosperity, as well
as in that of poverty and adversity, from the contamination of
worldliness and iniquity. Even more, it can glorify its state, and
turn it to the best and highest use, by the practice of the most
exalted Christian virtues. The proof of this may be seen in the
fact that this has been done in many thousands of instances, and is
being done now in every part of Christendom.

The principles upon which Christian sanctity in the great, the
noble, and the wealthy is based, are all summed up by the Apostle
St. James in this short sentence: “Let the brother of low condition
glory in his exaltation, _but the rich in his being low_,”[72]
which is more literally translated, “_in his humility_.” Humility
entitles the rich man to claim all the special blessings which are
so frequently and emphatically promised in the New Testament to the
poor. It is poverty of spirit, or interior detachment from temporal
goods for the love of God, and not mere exterior poverty, which
fits a person for the kingdom of God. The poor and lowly, if they
are possessed of Catholic faith, have so little of that which makes
the present life brilliant and attractive that they are forced by
a happy kind of necessity to find everything in the church and
their religion. They find their nobility in their baptism, their
glory in the sign of the cross and their Catholic profession, their
treasure in the blessed sacrament, their palace with its picture
gallery and service of gold and silver in the church, their royal
audiences at the ever open court of the King and Queen of heaven,
their gala-days and spectacles in the festivals and processions and
ceremonies of the ecclesiastical year, their ideal vision of coming
happiness in heaven. They are “rich in faith,” and “glory in their
exaltation” as the “heirs of God and joint-heirs with Christ.”
The rich must do voluntarily what the poor do from necessity.
They must quit the position in their own esteem which human pride
loves so dearly to take, of superiority over others on account of
accidental and temporal advantages, and come down to the common
level at the foot of the cross, where pride of rank and power,
pride of intellect, and pride of wealth are alike annihilated, to
make way for a true and lasting exaltation in the Son of God.

Here, then, is the first duty of the rich--to adopt inwardly,
profess openly, and act out consistently the same principles of
Catholic faith which are common to all Christians, and to place
their glory, their treasure, their heart’s affection, their end in
life, their hope of happiness, not in the transitory things of this
life, but in the kingdom of God; “_because as the flower of the
grass they shall fade away_.”

These transitory things, however, do last for a little while, and,
although worthless as a final end and object to live for, are
necessary and valuable as means. Private interpretation of the
Scripture might deduce from it that Christ intended to do away
with all power, rank, human science, art, commerce, wealth, and
civil or social polity, with marriage and the family even, and
thus extinguish this present world and this life to make way for
the next. This is not the interpretation of the church or the way
of Catholic practice. All these worldly, transitory things are
retained and made use of, notwithstanding that “the figure of this
world passeth away.” The rich man who is resolved to be a perfect
Christian needs, therefore, to know not only what esteem he is to
place on wealth and other temporal things in reference to the real
and final good, but how practically to use them for the attainment
of the same, and for helping his dependents and others to attain
it. The more we go into detail in regard to this matter, the more
difficult it becomes to draw lines and lay down practical rules.
A sound and well-directed conscience must at last be the guide of
each one, and it is a sufficient though not strictly infallible
guide to those who are instructed in good general principles.

One general principle which may be useful as a rule for application
to a great many particular cases is this: Those indulgences which
gratify the more refined and intellectual tastes may be more
freely made use of than those which gratify the senses. Another
principle, closely allied to this, is the following: Whatever has
an honorable or useful end is allowable; whatever merely gratifies
a selfish passion must be condemned and avoided. To apply these
principles as rules in certain important particular cases, let us
begin with the rich man’s house. The first fault and folly to be
avoided is extravagance. He ought not to embarrass his estate and
prejudice the interests of his family by spending more money on
his houses and the decoration of his grounds than he can afford.
If he does, his motive is ostentation, or some other inordinate
passion, and therefore worthy of condemnation. That there has been
a vast amount of extravagance in this respect in our country within
the past thirty years is obvious to every one. The outside show
of our towns and cities indicates an amount of wealth certainly
four times greater than really exists. A man who is governed by
Christian principles, with which common sense and sound reason
always coincide in so far as they are competent to judge of what is
right, will, of course, avoid all extravagance. More than this, he
will not take the lead in splendor and magnificence of buildings
and furniture, even if he has wealth enough to do so without
extravagance. On the contrary, he will choose to be rather behind
than before his compeers in this respect. We are not speaking now
of princes and magnates, but of private citizens. There is no
fitness, especially in a republic, in making private residences
palaces. It is proper to provide for all the conveniences of
domestic life. Moreover, architectural beauty in the construction
of houses, and taste and elegance in their furniture, give decorum
to life, and innocent and refining pleasure to those who behold
them, and a means of living to a large class of persons who are
especially fitted for a kind of work which demands artistic taste
and skill. We cannot draw the line precisely where mere useless
and luxurious pomp, show, and splendor begin. We can only say that
a man thoroughly imbued with Christian principles and sentiments
will be very anxious and careful to keep on the safe side of it,
so far as he is able to do so. But whatever degree of costliness
and splendor may be suitable or permissible in the residence of
any Catholic gentleman, whether he be a plain, private citizen
in our democratic republic, or a nobleman, prince, or monarch
elsewhere, everything should be made to conform not to a pagan,
but a Christian and Catholic, ideal. All that is even bordering
on heathen voluptuousness should be rigidly excluded. Works of
Catholic art should adorn the walls even of the most public and
splendid apartments. Every private room should have its crucifix,
its Madonna, its vase of holy water, its prie-dieu, and books of
prayer and devotion. An oratory, fitted up with the utmost elegance
and costliness that is suitable to the circumstances, should be
the shrine and chief ornament of the house. The library and other
receptacles for books should be pure of all that is tainted and
corrupting, and filled up with everything which Catholic literature
can furnish, both in English and in the other languages which
the members of the highly distinguished circle we have the honor
of addressing are supposed to know. In a word, the elegancies
and ornaments of life should be made to minister to intellectual
cultivation, to the education of the higher and more refined tastes
of the soul; and these should be made all subservient to that which
is highest of all--the culture and improvement of the _spirit_ in
the knowledge and love of the Supreme Truth and the Infinite Beauty.

Just at the moment of writing down these thoughts, we have come
across a beautiful sketch of the family of Count Stolberg, in
the pages of a German periodical. It is so appropriate as an
illustration that we will postpone any further continuation of our
subject, and finish the present article with a translation of the
sketch alluded to.[73]

  “It is singular (writes Count Stolberg) that I cannot remember
  ever to have heard in the house of my parents such words as
  money, competency, economy, expense, saving. At that time luxury
  had not yet become the fashion; and, even if it had been, the
  house of our parents was like an island. We lived separate from
  others, although scarcely adverting to the fact that our life
  was so retired. There was just as little said about making
  ourselves comfortable as about money and fashion. The modern
  luxury in chairs and sofas with all its ingenious contrivances
  was altogether unknown to us. All the articles of furniture, our
  dress, and the table were good and befitting our rank; but we
  might have said about all these things what Cyrus said at the
  table of Astyages about the customs of the Persians: ‘I do not
  know whether at that time all people remained longer children, or
  whether we ourselves only remained so.’ Count Stolberg’s father
  died in the year 1765, and the last anxious wish of his heart
  was that ‘his children might walk in the way of the Lord.’ How
  much, writes the count, this desire occupied the hearts of both
  my father and my mother! I can still hear my mother say that she
  envied no one so much as the mother of the seven Macchabees; that
  she was the most fortunate of mothers. It was her solitary wish,
  prayer, and effort that she might one day be able to say, ‘Lord,
  here are we, and the children whom thou hast given us’--it was
  the soul of her entire plan of education.

  “At the father’s death, the countess gave his Bible to the young
  Count Frederic, and wrote in it the following words: ‘This Bible,
  which your blessed father used on the very day of his death,
  consoling himself with the words, “Thou hearest, O Lord! the
  longing of those who cry to thee, their heart is sure that thou
  dost give ear to them,” must prove a great blessing to you, and
  continually stimulate you to love the Word of God, to venerate
  it, to make it the rule of your life, as he did, and to seek
  consolation in it to the end of your life. For this, may the
  Triune God give you his grace and benediction!’

  “The mother’s testament to her children, which was found after
  her death, in 1773, in her writing-desk, was as follows: ‘Dear
  children, cling to the Saviour, to his merits, to his faithful
  heart; and do not love the world or what is in the world. For all
  is passing, and but mere dust of the earth. Nothing can last with
  us through life and in death but the blood of Jesus, the grace
  of God, communion and friendship with him. Seek for this; do
  not rest until you possess it; and then hold it fast; this will
  help you through until we are with him; oh! let not one, not one
  remain behind. I will always watch over you, and will hasten to
  meet you with open arms when you come after me. Watch and pray!’

   “We can understand without difficulty from this how Count
  Stolberg could say, ‘Christ, the Saviour of the world, was the
  guiding star of my youth. Our parents desired nothing more
  earnestly than that we should seek him, love him, and confess him
  before the whole world. I have always regarded that as my highest
  duty, which necessarily led me into the Catholic Church.’”

In this sketch of Count Stolberg’s parents and early home, we
see the old-fashioned simplicity and piety of the best sort of
the ancient Lutheran nobility of Germany. There is a sombre and
austere character in the picture, partly belonging to the national
temperament, but chiefly due to that shadow of sadness which
Protestantism in its more earnest phase casts over the practice
of virtue and religion. The count himself, as is well known to
all, while preserving all that was good and truly Christian in
the principles and habits given him by his early education, cast
aside its sectarian prejudices and errors to embrace the Catholic
religion. In him, as the model of a perfect Christian gentleman
and scholar, to quote again the language of the writer in _Der
Katholik_,

  “was gloriously fulfilled the wish expressed by Lavater (a
  Protestant) in a letter to the count. ‘Become an honor to the
  Catholic Church! Practise virtues which are impossible to a
  non-Catholic! Do deeds which will prove that your change had a
  great end, and that you have not failed to gain it. You have
  saints, I do not deny it: we have none, at least none like yours.
  Be to all Catholics and non-Catholics a shining example of that
  virtue which is the most worthy of imitation and of Christian
  holiness.’”

We have been tempted into a digression which will, we trust, not
be ungrateful to our readers, and find that we have not been able
to bring our series of short articles to a close in the present
number, as we had hoped to do. We must therefore resume the same
subject after another month, and we trust that our gentle readers,
upon their summer excursions, will find time and inclination to
listen to one more brief moral instruction.

FOOTNOTES:

[70] St. Luke xviii. 24, etc.

[71] St. James v. 1.

[72] St. James i. 9, 10.

[73] From _Der Katholik_, for January, 1872.




ON THE TROUBADOURS OF PROVENCE.


    True hearts, that beat so fast, but now are still,
      The gracious days will never come again
    Ye loved and sang; your tender accents will
      Linger no more on the warm lips of men!
    Alas! your speech lies with ye in the grave!
      Yet where Montpellier’s skies their balm impart,
    And Barcelona wooes the southern wave,
      The student cons your pages when his heart
    Hungers for solace. Take it in kind part,
      Count it not loss, dear hearts, but loyalty,
    If I like him, though with a ruder hand,
      Am fain to cull your flowers too sweet to die,
    To waft their fragrance to a distant land,
      And bid them blossom ’neath a colder sky.




THE HOUSE OF YORKE.


CHAPTER XXX.

EDITH’S YES.

In the opinion of their old friends in Boston, the Yorke family had
lost something during their sojourn in the wilderness. It was not
that they were less charming, less kind, less well-bred, but they
were not so orthodox in religion. Mrs. Yorke, it is true, resumed
her regular attendance at Dr. Stewart’s church; but her husband
seldom accompanied her now, and, it was ascertained, absented
himself with her permission.

“I would not have him go for my sake, when he does not wish to go
for his own,” she remarked tranquilly.

The time had been when Mrs. Yorke would have been horrified at such
a defection, and would have called in the doctors of the church
to exhort the backslider. She was evidently growing lax in her
religious principles.

Melicent always accompanied her mother, and had the true
down-drawn, regulation countenance; but Clara was seldom seen in
their pew, and boldly answered, when questioned on the subject,
that she sometimes went to the Catholic churches to hear the music.
“I go wherever I can hear Wilcox play the organ,” she said. “I
never tire listening to him. Others play difficult music with
dexterity, and you admire their skill; but he plays the same, and
you forget that there is any skill in it. Such bewitching grace!
Such laughter running up and down the keys! Such picturesque
improvisations! He played last Sunday something that called up to
me a scene in Seaton--that bit of meadow on East Street, Edith.
There was some sort of musical groundwork, soft and monotonous,
with little blossoming chords springing up everywhere, and over
it all swam a lovely, meandering melody with the _vox humana_.
When the bell rang, at the Sanctus, he caught the sound, and ran
straight up into the stars, as though some waiting angel had flown
audibly up to heaven to announce the time of the consecration. It
is delightful to hear him. In his graver music, and his choruses,
I do not so much distinguish him from others; but he is the only
organist I know who gives an idea of the play of the little saints
and cherubim in heaven, their dancing, their singing, their swift
flights to the earth and back again, and all their exquisite loves,
and pranks, and delights--their very worship like the worship of
birds and flowers.”

Not a word about doctrines, about the iniquities of Rome, the
superstition of Papists, the idolatry of the Mass!

What wonder if these good people, who considered it blasphemy to
associate cherubic music with any more rapid motion than that
of the semibreve and minim, should think Miss Clara Yorke in a
dangerous way? It was hoped, however, that when Dr. Stewart and
Melicent were married, his influence would recall her to a sense of
duty.

The doctor did try, carefully, though, warned by his wife, and
by some sharp, though tacit, rebuffs from Mr. Yorke and Edith.
He spoke one day philosophically of the obnoxious _Review_, as
though there were no question of truth, but merely of cleverness
in handling certain subjects, and, in a careless _à propos_,
offered Mr. Yorke the loan of certain volumes, which, he privately
believed, would triumphantly controvert the controversialist. The
doctor had not read any of these Catholic authorities.

“Thank you!” Mr. Yorke replied. He wished to be friendly, and
really liked the doctor when he let theology alone. Besides, he was
dining there, and could not be disagreeable.

After dinner, Melicent slipped out of the room a few minutes; and
when her father went home, she said sweetly, “By the way, papa, I
put up those books the doctor spoke of to you, if you like to take
them now. They lie on the hall table.”

“Let them _lie_!” replied Mr. Yorke, with a glance and an emphasis
which were not even doubtful.

He might permit Dr. Stewart to exhort him, but he would not be
schooled by his own daughter.

There was but little to tell of the family for a while. Mr. Yorke
employed a part of his time in attending to Carl’s and Edith’s
pecuniary affairs, everything being entrusted to his management.
Patrick was his assistant occasionally, and was also Edith’s
coachman; for the only carriage they kept belonged to Edith.

Betsey was Mrs. Yorke’s special dependence. She was a sort of
housekeeper, as well as nurse. When the lady was ill, no one else
could lift, and serve, and watch as Betsey could; and when she was
in low spirits, Betsey could scout her vapors very refreshingly,
when the others increased them, perhaps, by indulgence. On all her
little journeys, Betsey accompanied Mrs. Yorke. Her quaint, country
ways were a constant source of amusement, her faithful affection
and sturdy good sense a staff to lean on.

Mrs. Yorke had, at the last moment, concluded not to bring the
young Pattens to Boston, but had secured them places with the
family who had taken her house. “I do not approve of children being
separated from their parents,” she had said, “and being placed in
such different circumstances that their childish associations seem
discordant to them. I know no situation more cruel than that where
a child is ashamed of its parents’ poverty and ignorance. Besides,
I think it my duty to rescue these poor Catholic girls.”

So Mary and Anne had been brought to Boston, and were now living in
a blissful state of affectionate gratitude toward their employers,
and rapture with their church.

In Seaton, Catholics were still in an almost Babylonish captivity.
Their church had been burned a few weeks after the Yorkes left
town; but toward spring they had a priest--not Father Rasle--who
came once in two months, and said Mass for them in a private house.
He was not molested.

Edith had not forgotten her friends there, and, among other gifts,
had sent to Mrs. Patten a small library, chiefly of controversial
books. So Boadicea was now investigating the Catholic religion. She
examined it severely and critically, through a pair of round-eyed,
horn-bowed spectacles, missing not a sentence, nor date, nor word
of title-page in those volumes. She meant to show everybody that
she was searching the subject in an exhaustive manner, and that the
doctors of the church would have to exert themselves to the utmost,
and bring all their learning and eloquence to bear, if they wished
to convince her. But, underneath this vain pretence, her heart
yearned to enter that fold where her lost little one had found
refuge, and where she had seen such examples of Christian endurance
and charity.

And so, with no event in the family save Melicent’s marriage, the
winter and summer passed away, and another winter came. In that
winter, Edith had news of an event for which she had been looking
and longing ever since Carl went away. His letters had all been
addressed to his mother, but in one of them, about Christmas-time,
came a note for Edith. He was in Asia, and his letter was dated at
Bangkok. He had been across Cambodia, from the Menam to the Mekong,
as far as the country of the savage Stiens. “And here, in this wild
place, my dear Edith,” he wrote, “I gave up, and was baptized. I
had thought, while talking with Monsignor Miche, vicar-apostolic of
the mission to Cambodia and Laos, that, as soon as I should reach
Europe, I would enter the church. Indeed, while I heard this, an
accomplished gentleman, tell of the persecution he had suffered
when he was a simple missionary in Cochin-China, the imprisonment,
the beating with rods which cut the flesh so that blood followed,
the asking for and taking himself the blows intended for a
companion too frail to bear more--a story, Edith, which carried
my mind back to St. Paul, yet which was told with a boyish gaiety
and simplicity--while I heard this, my impulse was to throw myself
at his feet, and ask to be baptized by his consecrated hand. But,
you know, enthusiasm does not often overcome me; and, since he
did not urge me then, the good minute went. When, afterward, he
exhorted me, I promised him that I would not long delay. But, when
I reached the Stien country, over that miserable route of swamps,
cataracts, and forests filled with wild beasts, and found another
soldier of Christ living there, in that horrible solitude, sick,
suffering, but undismayed, my Teutonic phlegm deserted me. The
chief citizens of Father Guilloux’s republic are elephants, tigers,
buffaloes, wild boars, the rhinoceros; and the most frequent and
intimate visitors at his house of bamboos are scorpions, serpents,
and centipedes. And yet, all the complaint this heroic man made
was that he had but few converts. The savages are so joined to
their idols, he said. Edith, tears ran down my face. My whole heart
melted. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘here is a savage convert, if you will
take him. I cannot stay one hour longer out of the church which
gives birth to such children!’ And so I was baptized. And, my sweet
girl, I thought then that, if the time should ever come when I
should be so happy as to make Edith my wife, I should like to have
the same saintly hands join us. I told Father Guilloux of you, and
he sends you his blessing. You see I have heard all about Mr. Rowan.

“And now I turn my face homeward, though my route will not be very
direct. Since I am here, where I shall probably never come again, I
think it best to carry out my programme. But the intention of it
is somewhat different; for I find that a Catholic does not need to
travel abroad to find out how men should be taught and governed.

“I am sure that you pray for me constantly; and, believe me,
your name has been as constantly uttered by me during the whole
length of my wanderings, and is strung, Edith on Edith, like a
daisy-chain, two-thirds round the world.”

It was thus Carl first told Edith his wishes; and, from the moment
of that reading, she considered herself betrothed to him.

She carried her letter to her aunt, who already knew from her own
letter that Carl had entered the church and, placing it open in her
hand, knelt before her while she read it.

Mrs. Yorke took the hands that trembled in her lap, and gazed into
the fair face uplifted to hers. Edith’s cheeks were like crimson
roses, her beautiful eyes shone through tears, her lips were
parted by the quickened little breaths that told of her quickened
heart-beats.

“There is no mistake this time?” Mrs. Yorke asked, smiling. “You
say yes with all your heart?”

“Aunt Amy,” Edith exclaimed, “I’m one yes from head to foot, and
the gladdest yes that ever was spoken!”


CHAPTER XXXI.

CLARA’S CHAPTER.

The second summer after their return to Boston, Clara went down to
spend in Seaton with Hester; and, late in July, the ship _Edith
Yorke_, Captain Cary, came sailing up Seaton River. The captain had
made a prosperous voyage to India, and, having nothing else to do
just now, had come down to Maine for a load of barrel-staves and
boxes. To his mind, the fresh pine and ash made a pleasing contrast
to his rich Eastern cargo.

Hester and her husband immediately made him at home with them.
Their house was not so full but there was room for him, if he could
live in the house with six boys.

“You can, perhaps, bear it better, since they are sure to be very
fond of you,” Mrs. Hester said. For the boys had clustered about
the sailor before he had been ten minutes with them.

Mrs. Cleaveland was wont to say that the masculine element in hers
and her mother’s immediate descendants would be rather overpowering
were its members not the salt of the earth.

“Poor little mamma was quite alarmed,” she said. “She protested
that, if Melicent’s husband or mine called her mother, she would
leave the country. So they are careful how they address her. Now, I
am made of sterner stuff, and nothing else makes me so proud as to
have all these boys call me mother.”

Hester’s boys presented rather an imposing array. There were Major
Cleaveland’s eldest, Charles and Henry, college-students of twenty
and twenty-two years of age, healthy, honest lads, not very clever,
but full of energy and good sense. They were favorites at college,
where the renaissance of muscle had destroyed the old empire of
hollow chests and pale cheeks, and established as the watchword
_mens sana in corpore sano_. Next to these was Eugene, now a
slender youth of fifteen, cleverer than his brothers, but somewhat
effeminate in character.

Then came Hester’s three boys, Philip, Carl, and Robert. The last,
an infant a year old, had been named by Edith for her father, and
he was, consequently, her dearest pet.

“And now my troubles begin all over again,” soliloquized Clara,
as she prepared to meet the sailor. “Captain Cary’s sudden flight
seemed to cut the Gordian knot; but his coming back makes the
affair more double-and-twisted than ever.”

She went to meet him, however, with an air of pleasant ease
which betrayed no sign of complicated emotions, and asked of his
adventures, and told all that had chanced to them during his
absence, in the most friendly manner.

Nor was the sailor less dignified, though the blush that overspread
his face when she first appeared showed a momentary agitation.

But this highly proper and decorous demeanor did not last long.
Before many days, Mrs. Cleaveland perceived that her boys were not
the chief attraction which Captain Cary found in her house. It was
plain that he was devoted, heart and soul, to Clara; and it was
plain, also, that Clara was fully aware of that devotion, and made
her sport of it, so Hester thought.

It was true, the young woman did take a very high hand with her
colossal admirer. She snubbed him, ordered him about, made him
dance attendance, fetch and carry, and, altogether, tyrannized over
him outrageously. And he bore it all with the magnanimous patience
of a great Newfoundland dog petting and bearing with the freaks of
a captious child. But he grew sober and silent, and lost his smiles
day by day.

Sometimes Clara’s mood changed, and there would be little flits
of sunshine, momentary gleams of kindness and penitence; but her
victim learned that he could not depend on the continuance of such
friendliness.

One day she had treated him so much worse than usual that, instead
of staying to bear her raillery, he left the room, and went out
into the garden where the children were playing. Clara seated
herself in the window presently, and watched him, saw him set
little Bob-o’-Lincoln, as they called the baby, on his shoulder,
so that the child could reach the branch of a tree, saw him gently
restrain and persuade Philip from throwing stones at the birds, and
talk to Carl and Philip, when they came to blows about something,
till they kissed each other. And through it all she read in his
face the indication of a heart sad and ill at ease.

A yellow-bird flew over the garden, and dropped a pretty feather
down. “Oh! that is what Aunt Clara likes,” cried Philip, running to
pick it up. “She puts ’em in her books for marks.”

He carried it to the sailor, who fastened it carefully in his
button-hole, posy-wise. Even the children had perceived that what
Aunt Clara liked was a matter of interest to their new friend.

A servant came out to call the children in to their early supper;
and Captain Cary, catching sight of Clara in the window, went to
her with the little feather in his hand. “Philip says you make
book-marks of these,” he said, and offered it to her.

There was no sign of coldness or resentment, neither was there any
of subservience. It was the patience and affection of a tender and
generous heart, and the self-respect of one who is not humbled by
the pettishness of another.

Clara dropped her eyes as she took the little offering. “Yes,” she
said gently; “and see the passage I am going to mark with it.”

The book she held was Landor’s _Imaginary Conversations_, open at
the dialogue between Æschines and Phocion.

The sailor bent his head and read: “Your generosity is more
pathetic than pity or than pain;” and, looking up quickly into her
face, to see what she meant, saw her eyes humid.

His face brightened a little, but he said nothing. He was like a
traveller among the Alps, who knows that a breath may bring the
avalanche upon him.

After a few weeks of this hide-and-seek, Hester was moved to
expostulate with her sister, whose conduct had astonished her. For,
however gay and reckless Clara might be in talk, exaggerating on
one side when she saw people lean too much to the other, and often
saying what she did not mean, taking for granted that she was too
well known to have her jests taken for earnest--in spite of this
liveliness and effervescence of spirits, she had never been guilty
of the slightest frivolity in her intercourse with gentlemen. Mrs.
Yorke had taught her daughters, or had cherished in them the pure
feminine instinct, to treat with careful reserve any man who should
show a marked preference for them, unless that preference was fully
reciprocated. Hester, therefore, felt herself called on to admonish.

“I must say, Clara, I think you do wrong,” she said. “Any one
can see that the captain sets his life by you, and you treat him
cruelly.”

“Do you wish me to marry him?” Clara asked in a cold voice.

“Why, no!” exclaimed her sister. “You two are not at all suited to
each other. But I would have you treat him kindly.”

“If I treat him kindly, he will think I like him,” Clara said
quickly.

“Oh! I don’t mean very kindly, but with calm friendliness,”
answered her preceptress.

“Calm friendliness!” repeated the culprit with emphasis. “Oh!
the airs that these little married kittens put on! Hester, seat
yourself there, and look me in the face, while I lecture you.
Fold your hands, and attend to me. Now, allow me to remind you
of two or three little facts. Firstly, I am two years older than
you. Secondly, I am not a staid married woman with six boys, and
I won’t try to act as if I were. Thirdly, you don’t know as much
about this business as you think you do. Fourthly, women who have
a great facility for being shocked on all occasions are, according
to my observation, very likely to be shocking women. Fifthly, if
you wish well to Captain Cary, you should wish to have him cease to
care about me; and the surest way to attain that end is to treat
him just as I am treating him. No man can long desire a vixen for a
wife. Sixthly”--and sixthly, Clara began to cry.

Hester, who never could bear to be blamed, had been herself on the
point of crying, but, seeing her sister’s tears, concluded not to.

“Why, what is the matter, Clara?” she asked in distress.

“The matter is that I am tired of being criticised,” answered her
sister, wiping her eyes. “I am tired of having people tell me what
I mean, instead of asking what I mean. I am tired of having people
whom I know to be not so good as I am, set themselves up to be
better.”

“I never meant to set myself up to be better than you, Clara,”
Hester began pitifully. “I--”

“Bless me! Are you here still?” exclaimed Miss Yorke, with a laugh
“I’d forgotten you. I was not talking to you at all, you little
goose! The truth is, Hester, I am getting as nervous as a witch.
You mustn’t bother me.”

Clara did seem to be nervous, and unlike herself.

Having failed in her attempt to admonish her sister, Mrs.
Cleaveland took occasion soon after to comfort the sailor.

“You must not mind if Clara seems a little hard sometimes,”
she said with gentle kindness. “She does not mean to hurt your
feelings. It is only her way. I know she thinks very highly of you.”

“Oh! I understand her pretty well,” he replied gravely. “Clara has
a good heart, and she never gives me a blow but she is sorry for it
afterward. I don’t blame her. I suppose she sees that I rather took
a liking to her”--he blushed up--“and that’s the way she makes me
keep my distance. I understand Clara. She suits me.”

He said this with a certain stateliness. Not even Clara’s sister
might blame her to him.

“Rather took a liking,” was Captain Cary’s way of expressing the
fact that he had surrendered the whole of his honest, generous
heart.

There were fires in the woods about Seaton that summer, and, August
being very dry, they increased so as to be troublesome. From
Major Cleaveland’s house, which stood on the hill-top west of the
village, they could see smoke encircling nearly all the horizon
by day; and by night flames were visible in every direction but
the south, where the sea lay. The air was rank with smoke, cinders
came on the wind when it rose, and vegetation turned sooty. Crops
were spoiling, farm-houses were threatened, and large quantities
of lumber were burned. People looked every day more anxiously for
rain, prayers were offered in the churches for it, and still it
did not come. The blue of the sky changed to brazen, the silver
and gold of moonlight and sunlight became lurid, the springs began
to dry up. Sometimes the day would darken with clouds, and they
looked up hopefully, and watched to see the saving drops descend.
But week followed week, and the refreshing messengers passed by
on the other side. More than once, when the sun was in the west,
it showed them through that canopy of smoke the dense black peaks
and rolling volumes of the thunder-cloud, and at night they could
see the beautiful lightning crinkling round the horizon, and hear
the music of far-away thunder that came down with pelting rain on
distant hills; but still their land was dry, their throats and eyes
inflamed, and the fires crept nearer.

Major Cleaveland came home to tea one night with an anxious face.
“They are afraid the fire will reach Arnold’s woods to-night,” he
said; “and, if it does, Marvin’s house must go, and there is danger
that some part of the town may burn. The wind is very high from the
northwest.”

Mr. Marvin, Mrs. Yorke’s tenant, had purchased her house and
land, and lived there, but the woods still bore their old name of
Arnold’s woods.

Later in the evening, while they sat looking out at the baleful
glow that grew every moment brighter in the northwest, Charles and
Henry Cleaveland came up from the village with later news. Half the
men in the town, they said, had gone out beyond Grandfather Yorke’s
place to fight fire. The firemen were all there, and Mr. Marvin
had his furniture packed ready to send away from the house at a
moment’s warning.

“And those poor Pattens!” Clara asked anxiously. “Have they wit
enough to save themselves? Has any one thought of them?”

The boys had heard no mention made of the Pattens. They supposed
that, if the family had common sense, they had left their house by
this time, for every one said that, unless there should be a shower
with that wind, the fire was not two hours distant.

Captain Cary leaned from the window, and looked overhead. The only
sign of sky was a cluster of stars in the zenith. All else was
smoke. “This wind will bring a shower pretty near, at least, before
the night is over,” he said. “It isn’t a wind out of a clear sky.”

“I must know about those poor creatures!” Clara exclaimed. “They
are so shut in that they would not be able to see which way to go,
if the fire should come upon them; and I am afraid no one will
think of them. Charley, if you will have the buggy out, I will
drive over to Mr. Marvin’s.”

“All right!” says Charley promptly.

Captain Cary had already risen. “I’ve been thinking that I’d go
over and help the men a little,” he remarked, with a moderate air,
as if he had been in the habit of fighting fire every day of his
life for recreation.

“But you will have to change your clothes,” Clara said. “That linen
will never do. Now, see which will be dressed first. I must take
off this organdie, of course. Hester, take out your watch and count
the minutes.”

She flew off merrily, her rose-colored cloud of skirts filling
the doorway as she went through, and Captain Cary walked quietly
after, one of his strides equal to three of her small steps. In
ten minutes they were heard again, opening the doors of their rooms
at the same moment, and Clara appeared in a plaided waterproof
suit, and a sailor hat set jauntily over the rich black coils of
her hair, and laughingly claimed the victory. “We opened our doors
at the same instant,” she said; “but I stopped to button my gloves,
and he has no gloves on. Never say again that a lady cannot dress
as quickly as a gentleman.”

Captain Cary displayed a pair of thick boots, for which he had
exchanged his summer shoes. “May I be allowed to see what you have
on your feet?” he asked.

She put out a foot clad in the thinnest stocking, and a low kid
slipper.

“I appeal!” said the sailor.

“And I give up!” she answered. “Now let me see if you are prepared
to go into Gehenna. Are those clothes all wool?”

She made him turn round, tried with her own fingers the texture
of his sleeve, ordered him to button his coat tightly at neck and
wrists, so that no sparks could get in, and gave him a woollen
scarf, which she commanded him to tie about his face at the proper
time. Then they went out together, dropping their laughter at the
door. For the wind blew in their faces a hard gale, and over the
northwestern horizon glowed an angry aurora, and in the zenith
still hung that cluster of stars.

They drove over to Mr. Marvin’s almost in silence. Carts partly
filled with furniture stood at the avenue-gate, and trunks and
packages had been set out on the steps, ready to be taken away.
Two little children stood in the door, crying with fear, while a
servant tried vainly to pacify them.

“Their mother told me to take them out to the village, to the
Seaton House,” she said to Clara. “And they don’t want to go.”

Mrs. Marvin was up in the cupola, watching the progress of the fire.

Clara reassured the little ones, put them and the girl into the
buggy with Charles Cleaveland, and sent them back home with him.

“But how are you to get back, Aunt Clara?” he asked.

“Oh! in the same way the people out here do,” she answered. “I
shall not be alone. Drive along, Charley. The horse won’t bear this
smoke much longer. He begins to dance now.”

As soon as they had gone, she started off through the woods.
Captain Cary had already preceded her, thinking that she meant to
await him at the house.

Down in the wood-path all was darkness, only a faint reflected
light showing where the path lay; but the tree-tops shone as if
with sunset, and the sky hung close, in a deep-red canopy. Now
and then the light steps of some wild creature, driven from its
forest home, flitted by, and its fleet shape was dimly seen for an
instant. The voices of men were heard, and the sound of axes, not
far away.

When she reached the opening where the Pattens’ house was built,
the whole scene burst upon her sight. The open square of ten acres
was as light as an illuminated drawing-room. Volumes of red smoke
poured over it, dropping cinders, which men and boys ran about
trampling out as soon as they fell. Some men were at work digging a
trench along the furthest side of the opening, others felled trees,
others dragged them away, and others sought for water, and threw it
about the barrier they were making. They worked like tigers, for,
scarcely two miles distant, the fire was leaping toward them like
a courser, or like that flying flame that brought the news from
Ilium to Mount Ida.

Clara’s eyes searched the space. “Do you know where the Pattens
are?” she asked of some one who stood near, but without looking to
see who it was.

“Here we be!” said a piteous voice in reply.

She turned her glance at that, and beheld Joe, with his children
clustered about him, standing beside the path. A large bundle lay
on the ground by them, containing their valuables, probably, and
they were all looking back, with the light in their faces.

She asked him where his wife was.

“She’s there fighting fire among the men,” answered Joe, with an
accusing gesture toward the workers. “I told her that it was my
place to be there, but she sent me off. She thinks now that I and
the children are down at the village; but I am going to stay to
protect my wife. It shall never be said that I deserted her in the
hour of danger.”

“Have you seen Captain Cary?” was the next question.

“That ’ere big sailor? Lor, yes! He’s been working like ten men.
There he is, chopping down a tree.”

Miss Yorke drew her mantle over her head, as a protection against
the cinders, and walked forward. The sky in front of her was like
the mouth of a furnace from which a fiery blast is rushing, and the
tree-trunks in the forest opposite showed a faint glimmer of light
beyond them. Some of the workers were retreating at that last sign.
The wind caught a burning branch, and bore it almost to her feet.
The men stopped to trample it out, then ran. Not more than half
their number remained.

“Good heavens!” she cried excitedly, “will he never start?”

As she spoke, a drop of water fell on her face. She looked up, and
another and another fell.

On the very frontier of the battleground, midway between the woods
that were on fire and those they tried to save, stood a tall maple,
its arms outstretched, as if inviting the enemy. Captain Cary was
cutting that tree down, swinging the axe rapidly in resounding
strokes. A few courageous men still lingered near, working with
renewed hope as they felt the scattering drops, and perceived that
the wind began to lull. But they gave a cry of alarm, and fled
also; for a fiery crest was suddenly lifted above the forest, and
the enemy was upon them. No one was left but Captain Cary, and his
work was not done. If there was a chance of checking the fire, it
was in having that tree down.

It bent slightly under the heavy strokes that smote it, and, as it
bent, a long, flickering tongue of flame shot across the space, and
curled around its topmost tuft of foliage, and devoured it in a
twinkling. Twigs, boughs, branches, all as dry as tinder, kindled
instantly, and the whole tree, wrapped in flame, toppled over, and
fell.

With a cry of terror, Clara Yorke lifted her face, that she might
not see that man perish; and, looking upward, saw the redness
vividly threaded with a blinding white light. Then there were a
rattle and a rumble, and the rain came down in torrents.

“God be thanked!” said a deep voice near by.

There stood Captain Cary, panting, blackened, scorched, torn,
wiping his face on his sleeve, and looking to see how much more
effectually fire could be fought by the powers of heaven than by
the powers of earth. The flames cowered down from the tree-tops
under that tumultuous descent, the brands and cinders died out,
hissing, and streams of water pursued the fire that fled along the
ground.

“Providence arrived just in time,” observed one of the men who had
gathered about him.

The sailor looked at him with a reproving glance. “Providence
always does arrive in time,” he said reverently.

Here Mrs. Patten, looking like one of those witches we see in
the play of Macbeth, not even lacking the long pole, made her
appearance about as mysteriously as those witches do.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “since the hour of peril has gone past, and
you must be fatigued by your exertions, I hope that you will take
shelter from the rain in my poor mansion. You shall be welcome to
such humble hospitality as I can offer you.”

They were nearly in darkness now, having only such light as came
from the frequent flashes overhead.

The sailor thanked her politely. “I shall be glad if you can lend
me a lantern,” he said; “for I want to get through to Mr. Marvin’s
as soon as I can. Somebody is there waiting for me.”

Mrs. Patten led the way, and the others followed. In the
semi-darkness, a smaller figure, which Captain Cary had not noticed
before, came close to his side, and slipped a hand in his arm; and
the “somebody” who should have been waiting for him at Mr. Marvin’s
said quietly, “You see, I cannot walk very well without help, for I
have lost one of my slippers.”

The sailor’s heart had not given such a jump when the burning tree
fell and just missed him, as it gave at the sound of that voice.

“You here!” he exclaimed. “What did you come for?”

“To see the fire,” replied Miss Yorke.

“And you are barefoot?”

“Oh! no,” she said cheerfully. “I have a Lisle-thread stocking,
what there is left of it, between my right foot and the sticks, and
stones, and briers, and thistles, and--so forth.”

He groaned out, “Oh! you poor little dear!” and seemed on the
point of saying something he was afraid to say, hesitated, almost
stopped, then stammered, “I suppose it would be impudent to offer
to carry you as far as the house, but I hate to have you walk that
way.”

“Oh! thank you!” answered Miss Clara. “I could not think, though,
of receiving so much assistance from any one but my husband, or the
one who is to be my husband.”

The sailor swallowed a great sigh, and they walked on, Clara
hobbling fearfully.

“I wish that he were here now, whoever he may be,” she said in a
plaintive voice, after a minute. “For, really--”

Her escort said not a word.

In a few minutes they reached the log-house, where Joe and the
children had already arrived; and, waiting only for the men to wash
the soot from their faces and hands, and to find a shoe which Miss
Yorke could keep on her foot, they set out again, with a lantern.

At Mr. Marvin’s they found Major Cleaveland’s carriage awaiting
them, and in twenty minutes they were at home, without having
spoken a word on the way.

But when they reached there, Clara looked anxiously at her
companion. “Can’t I do anything for you?” she asked.

He thanked her gravely. No, he needed nothing. She had better see
to herself.

She made a movement to leave the room, and did not go. She
lingered, looking to see what was the matter with him. He was in a
deplorable condition as to his clothing, his hair was singed, his
hands and face blistering in places; but that did not seem to be
the trouble. Neither was he angry. The deep thoughtfulness of his
expression forbade that supposition.

She chose to say, though, “I hope you are not offended about
anything.”

He seemed surprised, and recollected himself. “Why, no!” he
answered. “Have I been cross? Excuse me! I was thinking of
something.” He looked at her earnestly. “There is something I would
like to know--not because I am curious, or want to interfere in any
person’s private affairs, but because I think it might settle my
mind to know. I’ll tell you what it is, and I hope you’ll believe
that I don’t mean any offence, though it may sound impudent. You
must know, Miss Clara”--his eyes dropped humbly--“that I took
a liking to you at first. Of course I wasn’t such a fool as to
expect anything from you; but what you said back there in the woods
to-night showed me that I am a greater fool than I thought I could
be. Do you want me to stop now?”

“No,” Clara answered gently. “I would like to hear what you have
been thinking of, and to say anything I can to quiet your mind.”

“Well,” he went on, “I should feel better to know if you have any
man in your eye that you like. It’s none of my business,” he added
hastily, “but it might do me good to know the truth.”

Clara blushed to the forehead, but her laughing glance was raised
to his face.

“Yes, Captain Cary,” she said, “I have a man in both my eyes whom I
like and esteem.”

He was silent a moment. Perhaps his sunburnt face grew a shade
paler.

“That’s all I want to know,” he said then. “I thank you for telling
me; and I wish you every happiness that earth and heaven can give.”

He bowed, and took a step toward the door.

“Oh! you great stupid!” she cried out in a voice of ringing
impatience, and with a laugh that seemed to be on the verge of
crying.

The sailor turned at that, and drew himself up with proud
indignation. For the first time his eyes flashed on her, and she
saw how lofty he could be in self-assertion.

“Miss Yorke,” he said, “I’m but a rough man, not learned nor polite
enough to be the husband of an accomplished lady like you; but I’m
an honest man, and I won’t be scorned by any woman. My love may not
be fit for your taking, but it’s too good for your mocking. I know
what I am worth!”

“You do not!” she exclaimed. “You don’t know anything about it!”

He looked severely down upon her, but said nothing.

“I didn’t mean to mock you, nor treat you with any disrespect,” she
said. “You misunderstand me, Captain Cary.”

His face softened. “I suppose I do,” he replied. “You have a
laughing way, but I know you don’t mean any harm. Forget my rough
talk, and forget all I have said to you to-night.”

He went toward the door again.

“I shall not forget it,” she said. “I shall never forget that
one of the best of men liked me, yet was capable of deserting me
because I would not offer myself to him.”

He looked round as if he thought she had lost her senses. “Why,
Miss Clara, what do you mean?”

She clasped her hands, and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Did you
ever,” she asked, addressing, apparently, a wreath of stucco faces
there--“did you ever witness such obtuseness?”

He stared at her a moment, standing; then he sat down, and
continued looking at her intently.

“And did you ever witness such inconsistency?” she continued, still
to the stucco faces. “He pretends to like me, and in the same
breath tells me that he won’t have me--as if I had asked him to!”

“Miss Clara!”

She glanced at him disdainfully, and returned to her communication
with the ceiling. “I shall not, however, break my heart for him.”

Over the sailor’s weather-beaten face a soft, uncertain light was
stealing, as you may sometimes see the morning light steal over the
face of a rugged bluff, covering it with beauty.

“Clara,” he said--she had heard him speak to the little ones in
that low voice--“do you mean to say that you will marry me?”

“Captain Cary,” she replied, with an expression of excellent candor
and good sense, “how am I to marry a man who won’t ask me?”

Then Captain Cary asked her.

A week after that she was at home with her family; and the first
day, after dinner was over, when they sat quietly alone, she told
her story to her father and mother.

They could scarcely believe her in earnest, and fifteen minutes
were taken up with exclamations and expressions of incredulity.
Clara received it all with patience, and, at length, succeeded in
convincing her parents that, with their consent, she meant to
become Miss Clara Cary, “which will be the first alliteration I
ever purposely committed,” she said.

It happens too frequently that persons of an original turn of mind
are less understood by their familiar associates, and even by
their own families, than by strangers, and that those to whom they
naturally look for appreciation give it only when the example is
set them from abroad.

With all their affection for her, Clara’s parents often mistook
her, because they took for granted that they knew her perfectly,
and, therefore, never paused to examine. The consciousness of this
involuntary injustice on their part had increased her natural
impatience, and made her disinclined to explain herself; and, with
a perversity for which, they were half to blame, she sometimes
said what they evidently expected her to say, rather than what she
meant. It was not surprising, therefore, that the first reasons she
gave for her choice were superficial ones.

She liked brave, manly men, she said; and Captain Cary would give
her just that life of adventure which she would most delight
in. With him, that pretty old myth of women looking to men for
protection in danger would be realized.

“Why, papa,” she said, “when I go out with any of the nice young
men I know, if a dog barks, or a cow shakes her head at us, my
escort is more frightened than I am. I shall call the captain
Jason, and myself Medea--with a difference. There will be no
Creusa. We will go after the golden fleece, and bring it home to
put under little mamma’s feet. We will gather something for you in
every sea, and from under every sky,

  ‘As we sail, as we sail.’”

Mr. and Mrs. Yorke neglected to observe the one significant
sentence: “_There will be no Creusa_.” They did not object to the
sailor on account of his character or wealth, they said. They did
not even object because they would be so much separated from their
daughter, though that would be a grief to them; but they thought
the two incongruous in tastes and habits, and feared that Clara was
mistaking that for a serious and lasting affection which was only a
temporary artistic enthusiasm for a _unique_ specimen of mankind.

“I do not choose Captain Cary because he is rough, as you call it,
but in spite of his roughness,” Clara said. “Our tastes are not as
dissimilar as you imagine, though. He has great delicacy of feeling
and perception, and he is as true a gentleman as I ever knew. I
have always looked more to the spirit than the letter, and I can
perceive and admire a good mind and heart in spite of some outward
defects. I trust and believe in him entirely. If he is not honest,
then no one is. He is magnanimous and truthful. I don’t care if he
does not know Latin and Greek. One may know too much of them. He
pretends to nothing, and he never appears ignorant. I’m not ashamed
of him.”

“I did not know you were so much in earnest, Clara,” her father
said, looking at her with a smile of approval. “If you are really
satisfied with him, I have not a word to say against your marrying
him. Only I thought you would prefer a person who was more literary
and enthusiastic. Captain Cary is rather taciturn, and very sober.”

“But he can be roused,” Clara replied with animation; “and when
he is, it is something lyric. You remember, papa, Villemain’s
definition of the true ode, as distinguished from the conventional
one: ‘_L’émotion d’une âme ébranlée et frémissante comme les cordes
d’une lyre._’ It is no little factious stir at every touch, and
snapping at a blow, but ‘smitten and vibrating’ grandly on great
occasions.”

Mrs. Yorke gave a little sigh of expiring opposition. “One of my
chief objections,” she said, “was that it would look so _bizarre_.
If you do not care for that, then it is nothing.”

“Mamma,” Clara replied, “you would be astonished to know how little
thought I give to the opinions of the Rose-pinks and Priscillas and
pasteboard highnesses.”

And so the matter was tacitly settled.

But later, when Mr. and Mrs. Yorke sat together in the falling
twilight, Clara came in softly behind them, pushed a footstool
between their chairs, and sat there, holding a hand of each.

“Papa, mamma,” she said, “I want you to be satisfied that I am
doing nothing without thought, and that I have chosen wisely. I
tell you truly, Captain Cary is the only Protestant gentleman I
know whom I can marry, and would not be afraid to marry. Look how
the world is going. See what a frightful change has come over
Boston since we can remember. Why, I have heard stories of some of
our old acquaintances, people whom we thought respectable, which
have sickened me. Your other two daughters have married good men,
whom they can trust; but they are old-fashioned men, old enough to
be their wives’ fathers instead of husbands. But of that class of
men from whom you would think I might properly choose, would you
dare to have me choose? I would not dare. Marriage has no longer
any sacredness, except among Catholics. Other men desert or divorce
their wives for nothing, and do the most horrible things. I should
think that one-half the Protestant married ladies would look on
their husbands with terror and distrust; and I wonder how any girl
dares to marry. The weddings I’ve seen lately, instead of seeming
happy occasions to me, have seemed most sad and painful. I heard a
lady say this summer that in fifty years, or less, there would be
no marriage outside the Catholic Church.”

“Charles, it is but too true,” the mother said. “I am terrified
when I think of what is so evidently coming. It was the thought of
this which reconciled me to Carl’s being a Catholic.”

“I wish we were all Catholics!” Clara exclaimed. “Not that I know
or think much of theology; but it is better to believe too much
than too little, and they are on the safe side. If we were wrecked,
and our ship going to pieces, we would be glad of any vessel to
pick us up. We wouldn’t quarrel with the cut of her jib.”

Mr. Yorke smiled. “See how she already draws her illustrations from
the sea!” he said, and passed over her wish. “Well, Amy, she has
proved herself a sensible girl, has she not? and deserves that we
not only consent, but applaud.”

The mother’s answer was a silent embrace.

If the thought of either parent glanced with a momentary longing
toward that strong inviolate church, against which the fiercest
powers of hell beat in vain, which seems now to loom an ark indeed,
while the rising waves of sin are submerging all beside, they said
nothing.

Of the shock Melicent felt on learning of this engagement, we do
not speak. Edith received the news with delight.

Edith had also other sources of pleasure. She had good news
from Seaton. Mass was said there now once a fortnight, without
any disturbance; and Mrs. Patten, with all her family, had been
baptized. After that fire, which had so nearly swept away their
home, and had put their lives in peril, the poor woman hesitated
no longer. She had vowed that night, in the midst of her terror,
that, if her life was spared, she would ask to be admitted to the
church the first time the priest came again; and she kept her vow.
Edith carefully read the long letter written to her descriptive of
the occasion, and, through all its absurdities, rejoiced to see the
spirit of a sincere faith and obedience.

This baptism excited a good deal of comment in Seaton. It was
said that Boadicea had taken a stick to her husband to assist his
conversion, and that, at the beginning, poor Joe was no more a
Catholic than Sganarelle the wood-cutter was a doctor; but, however
that may have been, he certainly became afterward a most exemplary
Catholic, as far as he went. And it is likely that He who sees
through all outward forms, and scorns only the scorner, received
these humble penitents with a welcome as fatherly as that accorded
to any illustrious convert.

Through Father John, Edith had frequent news of her childhood’s
friend, and all she heard was such as to fill her with contentment.
He did not wish to hold direct communication with the world, but
to pursue his studies with but two thoughts in his mind--a God to
serve and adore, and a world full of sinners to save for God’s sake.

Mrs. Rowan-Williams, seeing that her son was not despised and cast
down, but rather elevated higher, and being convinced that, in some
way she could not comprehend, he was entirely satisfied and happy,
took comfort. She could not, however, any longer attend on a church
where his belief and profession might at any time be traduced, and
gradually, from staying at home on Sundays, began to go to his
church, to listen with curiosity, then with interest, then with
growing admiration, and, at last, to feel happy and at home there.

And in the spring, Carl was coming home.

    “Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet!
    Over the splendor and speed of thy feet.”

But not in idle wishing was the winter passed. There was work,
lightened by joyful anticipations, work persevered in in spite of
doubts and fears, and work dear and joyful for its own sake. And
thus the spring was earned.

The snows melted, the robins returned, tiny green leaves appeared,
and there came a day when they sat with their windows open. Every
one who passed by looked smiling; no one was sad that day, it
seemed, so delightful is the coming of spring. Up-stairs Clara went
about from room to room, singing snatches from a hymn to joy. Mrs.
Yorke and Edith, sewing and talking in the parlor below, smiled to
each other as they heard her.

    “Joy, thou spark of heavenly brightness,
      Daughter from Elysium!
    Hearts on fire, with steps of lightness,
      On thy holy ground we come.
    Thou canst bind all, each to other,
      Custom sternly rends apart,
    All mankind are friend and brother,
      When thy soft wing fans the heart.”

A letter had come from Clara’s Jason that morning. He was at Havana
when he wrote, and about sailing for England. In the fall he would
return to America, and then he and his lady were to sail in search
of the golden fleece.

The aunt and niece spoke softly together of her hopes and their
own, of their poor, of their friends, of the robins that twittered
just outside the windows, of the rose-vines that were so forward,
of the rainbows of crocuses in the yard, of the unexpected help
they had received in some benevolent projects of their own.

“People are so much better than one thinks,” Edith said. “It is
delightful how much goodness there is, and how kind almost any
one will be if approached in the right way. I have great hopes of
the world. There’s nothing like trying to be a saint one’s self.
If we should all try, there wouldn’t be a sinner on earth. If I
should try, perhaps some one else would, and then, may be, some
other person would be excited to try, and so it would go on round
the world. It seems to me that cheerfulness, and kindness, and a
helping hand, and a looking at the bright side, and a determination
to find a bright side, and, altogether, a persistent shining, is
what is wanted. Light is good, and joy is good, and pain is good
only because it may be the birth of delight. Great is gladness, if
the Lord is behind it!”

    “All mankind are friend and brother,
    When thy soft wing fans the heart,”

sang Clara, in the room above; then stopped, with a little outcry.

The two below glanced through the window, and saw a gentleman in
the street, near their steps. He walked slowly, looking straight
on, so that they saw his profile. They dropped their work, and
gazed at him steadily. Mrs. Yorke put her hand to her heart, Edith
held her breath, and two red, red roses bloomed in her cheeks.
Up-stairs, Clara made not a sound.

This gentleman’s step was light and firm, his figure graceful and
manly, his face sunburnt, and the bright spring sunshine found
golden lights in his hair and long moustache.

At the step he paused, then turned and came up, rapidly now, taking
off his hat, and looking eagerly, since he had ventured to look at
all.

Clara came flying down the stairs, and reached the parlor-door,
with her arms twined around the new-comer, leading him in triumph.
Mrs. Yorke, without rising from her chair, stretched her hands out
to her son.

“O Lord! let me never forget thee!” sighed Edith, waiting her
turn. “Let me never forget thee!”


CHAPTER XXXII.

EXEUNT OMNES.

It is spring again, and ten years have passed since that sunny
April day when we saw Carl Yorke come home from his travels--ten
years lacking a month, for it is early in March. The afternoon is
as still as any afternoon can be in a city. Not a twig trembles on
the bare trees, not a spray swings on the dry vines that drape all
the balcony railing. The sky is of a uniform gray, and so thick
that it seems to contain a deluge of snow. But the day is not a
gloomy one. The shadow seems protecting and tender, as when the
small birds are covered in the nest beneath the downy breast of the
mother-bird.

Standing on the pavement in front of Mrs. Yorke’s drawing-room
windows, one can catch glimpses of warmer color within, bright
curtains and cushions, and the soft crimson glow that comes from
an open fire.

A tall, broad-shouldered man comes to one of these windows, nearly
filling it, and looks out at the sky. He has a long beard streaked
with gray, and thick black hair streaked with gray is pushed back
from his sober, sunburnt face. While he makes his observations on
the weather, a slight figure of a woman comes to his side, drawing
more closely about her a white Shetland shawl, and giving a dainty
little shiver. She has a delicate face, and the hair that shows
under the black lace scarf she wears is a bright bronze, mingled
with silver.

“Then you do not think we shall have a great storm, Rudolf,” she
says, with another shiver. Mrs. Amy Yorke likes warmth and warm
colors, and only to see such a day chills her.

“No, dear!” (Captain Cary always calls his mother-in-law “dear,”
being forbidden on his peril to call her mother). “This great
parade of getting up a storm seldom amounts to much. When it’s
going to storm, it storms, and doesn’t stop to threaten. We
may have a little flurry, though, but it will be fair weather
to-morrow.”

“I do not care on our account,” Mrs. Yorke says. “We are all very
happy and comfortable, thank God! but I pity the poor.”

They retire, and presently another gentleman approaches the window,
and looks out. At first glance, one might think that Mr. Yorke has
not changed in ten years. The hair is scarcely more gray, the face
scarcely more wrinkled. But the second glance detects a certain
pallor of age, which has displaced the former bilious tint. A young
woman, dressed in gay, outlandish-looking silk, comes to his side.
A profusion of black curls are gathered back from her brunette
face, and fastened with a garnet chain, and a band of large
garnets, _en cabochon_, is clasped round her neck.

“Papa,” she says, “what do you see overhead?”

“Clouds,” replies Mr. Yorke.

She gives his arm a little squeeze. “Oh! but I don’t mean that.”

“What! you are playing Polonius to me?” asks Mr. Yorke. “Well, it
is neither like a camel, nor a weasel, nor a whale; it is a tent.”

“Oh! papa!” cries Clara, “put on your spectacles, your
second-sighted ones. You have no eyes at all. In that sky I see
crops for the fields, billows of grass, heaps of leaves for the
trees, foaming torrents for all the brook-channels, and no end of
violets, dandelions, buttercups, and ‘other articles too numerous
to mention.’”

Both turn their heads, with an affectionate smile, as Mr. Yorke’s
youngest daughter takes his other arm, and leans against his
shoulder.

Hester’s dress is black. Not a tinge of color nor an ornament
breaks the sombre monotony of her costume. But a white _ruche_ at
the throat and wrists shows that her widow’s weeds have been long
worn, and the smile on her lips, though plaintive, is not without a
dawn of returning contentment. It is now three years since Hester
took her children, and came back to live with her father and mother.

Why should we stand on the pavement? Open, sesame! We enter. The
whole family are gathered, and it is a gala-time; for Captain Cary
and his wife have just returned from their last voyage, and are
going to settle down in a home with foundations more stable than
green, wind-rolled waves; and, a greater event still, Carl and his
wife have just arrived from a four-years’ sojourn abroad. The
family are all very proud of Carl--not because he has represented
his country at a foreign court, not even because he has done so
with singular ability, but because he has been so truly just and
honorable as to have offended prejudiced partisans on both sides,
and won the applause of the few who believe that a man need not
blush to be called a traitor to his party, so long as he is true to
God.

“I am glad to see you with the minority, sir,” Mr. Yorke had
said in welcoming him home; “and to see that you can stand there
quietly, as well as firmly. I am tired of splutter.”

“I hope, sir,” Carl replied, smiling, “that you would not object to
my being with the majority, if the majority were right.”

Mr. Yorke shrugged his shoulders, and made one of his favorite
quotations: “_Il y a à parier que toute idée publique, toute
convention reçue, est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus
grand nombre._”

But, though forced to resign his position, Carl is not without
a vocation. He speaks and writes; and, such is the charm of his
tongue and pen, persons most severely castigated by them listen and
read with a sort of pleasure. If one must be dissected, there is
surely a certain satisfaction in finding the hand skilful and the
scalpel bright.

There is, indeed, danger that Carl might be too sharp, were it not
for his wife. But Edith is his first reader, and often, through her
influence, a sentence is softened, a sarcasm struck out.

“Love is stronger than hate,” she would say. “You have done only
half the good you might do, if, in convincing a man’s reason, you
at the same time inflame his will against you. You may make him
hate a truth of which he was before ignorant.”

This is one of the couples which rests the heart to see in this
world of discordant matches. Every taste and instinct is so in
harmony that all the smaller business of life goes on without that
jar which, in so many lives, makes a wrangle of pettinesses, and
withdraws the attention from all that is noble. And, in higher
characteristics, there is only that difference which enables each
one to correct the mistakes of the other.

Edith Yorke, at thirty-one, has not yet lost, she probably never
will lose, the simple earnestness of her childhood. It is the
same bud blossomed, and so fresh and lovely is she, they call her
the Rose of Yorke. She was much admired abroad. No other lady had
combined so sweet a stateliness, and such wit, with incorruptible
piety.

“I think,” she said, “that the reason why, while I kept my place
in society, I never once yielded to any pernicious dissipation or
extravagance, was because I was constantly afraid that I should.”

The evening shuts in, the curtains are drawn, and the room is in
a glow. The wind has risen suddenly, and the snow is coming down,
beating sharply with its tiny lances on the window-panes. But the
family only feel more keenly the delight of being all together and
at home.

“How cosy it is!” exclaims Clara, with a sigh of immense content,
as she hears the doors and windows rattle. “One feels so
comfortable in-doors when one knows that everybody out-doors is
uncomfortable.”

Mrs. Yorke, seated in her own especial chair, with Captain Cary
beside her, talks over housekeeping affairs with him, commends his
wish to live in the suburbs instead of the city, and does not doubt
that he will find fanning a delightful occupation.

Mrs. Yorke cannot now be made to acknowledge that she ever objected
to the sailor as a son-in-law. “Why, what should we do without
him?” she asks. “We should feel quite lost without this dear
Hercules of ours.”

Somewhat withdrawn, at one side, Carl is talking to Hester about
her boys. He advises her to send them to a private Catholic school,
and she has almost consented. She will ultimately consent. Opposite
them, Edith and Melicent talk together. Doctor Stewart is kept
at home by a rheumatism, which will not allow him to brave March
storms, and no one very much regrets his absence, least of all
the doctor himself. His efforts to prevent the whole family from
toppling over into Catholicism have not been agreeable to them nor
to him, and in their intercourse they feel a constant restraint.
But Melicent is highly pleased by the cordial interest with which
Edith has inquired concerning all her husband’s symptoms, and,
wishing to say something complimentary in return, observes, “I am
charmed with your little girl. She will be a great belle some day.”

“God forbid!” Edith exclaimed involuntarily.

Melicent recollected herself. “Yes, to be sure, it is a position
full of temptations. Still, she cannot help being admired.”

Edith’s face was very serious. “It is my dearest hope that my
Eugénie may be a religious,” she said, with a soft suffusion of her
eyes. “She would be such a lovely offering! Of course, I cannot
tell what the will of God may be; but if it should be this, I shall
be happy.”

“But how would Carl like it?” Melicent asked.

“When I first mentioned it to him, he recoiled,” was the answer.
“But when he thought more of it, he became reconciled, and now
he desires it as much as I do. We both feel that we would like
to present unspotted to God that which is to us most sweet and
precious. It may be the partial fondness of parents for their only
child, but it seems to us that she is too beautiful for anything
else.”

There was a chorus of children’s voices from the next room, where
Betsey Bates and a French _bonne_ were entertaining the little
ones, and presently the door was opened, and a little boy came in,
went to Mrs. Amy Yorke, and leaned on her lap. This child’s face
told at once who he was. Brown, ruddy, black-eyed, with thick black
hair which constantly fell over his forehead, gay and daring was
this four-year-old sailor. He was ocean-born and ocean-bred, he had
played with babes of all nations, chattered childish words in many
a tongue, and was at home everywhere. His mother privately called
him Captain Kidd; and his father had often sung to him the ballad
of that wicked sailor, when they sat on deck as their ship cleaved
the wave, and the fresh breeze sang in the rigging.

But, when night came on, there was one song that the child always
asked for, and his mother always sang before he slept. Many a
distant sea had heard that tender evening hymn to the Virgin, _Ave
Sanctissima_, which the mother sang in a tremulous voice, mindful
of home, and of the many dangers in her path. And, after a while,
it became a tacit understanding, that, when at evening he saw the
boy in his mother’s arms, with his blooming cheek laid close to
hers, and their black locks flowing indistinguishably together,
Captain Cary should come and stand, with bared head, beside the
two, and listen as though to a prayer while the hymn was sung.
Gradually his prejudices had worn away; and when he saw that mother
and son, so dear to him, and so inseparable, he recognized the
sacred and indissoluble union of the Divine Son with his Immaculate
Mother. “Besides,” the sailor reasoned in his own mind, “there must
be something more than commonly good in that religion which claims
such devotion from Dick Rowan and Edith Yorke, and which my Clara
thinks as good as any, and a little better.”

“I am glad that we are going to have a real home for the child, and
make a citizen of him,” his father said, as the boy went slowly
toward the door again. “Clara and I have been a little too easy
with him, I am afraid.”

“It is odd,” Mrs. Yorke remarked, “that of my daughters, Hester,
the softest, should be quite strict with her children, while Clara,
whom I should have thought would need a warning not to be so, is
almost too indulgent.”

“I could have told you that,” Captain Cary answered, glancing
across the room to where his wife talked with her father. “Clara’s
heart melts only too readily, I always knew. I never mistook her
disposition. And, if she is literary, she can darn stockings the
most neatly, and make a room look prettier, and get up the best
little supper of any woman I know.”

Charlie Cary, loitering toward the door, had scarcely reached it,
when it was pushed open, and--was it a human child, or a fairy, who
entered, and flitted across the room into Edith Yorke’s arms? A
little girl of five years, softly white and dainty, golden-haired
and hazel-eyed, and so exquisite in shape that one examined her
with delight. Her motions were full of a captivating grace, her
voice silvery-fine. She was vowed to the Virgin, and wore only
white and blue.

Charlie stopped inside the door to stare at her. He always did
follow her about, and watch her, as though she were some strange,
rare bird. He seldom volunteered to speak to her, and touched her
with timid care, like something he feared to break.

Carl Yorke crossed the room, and leaned on the back of his wife’s
chair. One could not see a more perfect group.

Edith bent over the child, her braids of shadowed gold touching the
pure gold ringlets. “What does mamma’s little girl want?” she asked.

The child, smilingly aware that all eyes were upon her, but too
much accustomed to love to be abashed by their gaze, lisped out
her question: “Isn’t Philip, and Charlie, and all of ’em got
guardian-angels?”

“Yes, my love!” answered Edith.

“There!” cried the child, with a glance of sparkling triumph at
Charlie.

She ran to him, and put her white arms around his neck in a hug of
congratulation, then, as light as air, whisked herself behind him.

“You’s got an angel, and he stands just so, and tells you what to
do,” she said.

She stood on tiptoe, showing a pink and white face beside his, and
two tiny hands on his shoulder. Then, with a bewitching laugh, she
ended her pantomime, and ran back to her mother.

Charlie did not take it well. “I haven’t got any old angel,”
he said doggedly. “My mother tells me where to go, and _Ave
Sanctissima_ takes care of us nights.”

A vivid red shot across Clara’s face as she drew the boy to her.
“It is true, Charlie, and I will tell you all about it soon,” she
said.

Should Edith’s child, should any other mother’s child, go guarded
by angels, and upheld by a religious trust, and her son be like a
heathen? All she had taught him had been such as pleased her fancy
only. _Sanctissima_ had been but a beautiful object to paint and
sing, not a real being to whom honor was due. “I’ll have Father
Rasle baptize this child before he is a week older!” she resolved.

Edith held out her hand to the boy, and looked at him with a
beaming smile. “Come, darling, and tell me about _Sanctissima_,”
she said.

“I’ve no objection,” Captain Cary said later that night, when his
wife asked his permission to have their child baptized by a priest.
“But you needn’t fret, Clara, at the boy’s speaking so. It is more
natural that a little yellow-haired girl should take to religion,
than that a great bouncing boy should.”

Father Rasle, it should be said, was at this time the pastor of a
city church.

This little scene ended, “I am glad to see, Clara,” her father
said, “that in what you write lately, you employ less pure color
for your men and women, and use secondaries and tertiaries more.
There is, of course, a vast difference between the good and bad;
but in this life, whatever they may become in the next, all are
human.”

“And yet,” she replied, “I am sometimes criticised for putting
spots on the sun, and giving an amiable trait to my villain. The
pretext for the criticism is that perfect examples and perfect
warnings are wanted. I think, however, that the spots on the sun
give most offence.

  ‘And if Jove err, who dare say Jove doth wrong?’”

“Nevertheless, stick to your tertiaries,” Mr. Yorke said, with
a decided nod. “The lump of glass that, seeing a flaw in the
diamond, went and smashed itself all to pieces, would have smashed
itself to pieces if it had not seen the flaw in the diamond. It
merely used that as a pretext for what it was predetermined to do.
It is one thing to admire an ideal character, and another thing
to imitate it; and many a lazy and insincere moralist would be
delighted to have you paint all your good characters so extremely
good that he could at once prove his piety by applauding, and
his modesty by not striving to emulate. There are, of course,
exceptions, dear souls who love to look at unadulterated goodness;
but they are so charitable they will forgive you the spots on the
sun, and so truthful they will not require you to be false in order
to please them. My belief is that those persons do great good whose
occasional missteps excite our courage to imitate the virtues by
which they retrieve themselves. There are other stronger beings,
who are outwardly without a fault; but they are exceptional, about
in the proportion of salt to your porridge. Suppose that I were
advised to go to the top of a high mountain. ‘I cannot go,’ I say.
My mentor points to a man who stands on the summit. ‘Perhaps he was
born there,’ I reply. ‘Not so!’ says mentor. ‘He climbed: see the
steps!’ ‘But,’ I still object, ‘he must be so much stronger than I
am. I should fall before I were half-way up.’ ‘He was as weak as
or weaker than you,’ says my adviser; ‘and he fell after a dozen
steps, and fell again and again; yet, there he is!’ Don’t you see
that if anything would take me up the mountain-top, that would?
No, Clara, I think that, in the long run, it’s best to tell the
truth. There may be ignorant souls who will thrive for a while on
pretence; but let them once find out that you have once pretended,
no matter how good the motive, and, from their very ignorance, they
will never be able to trust you again. If you want to be politic,
honesty is the best policy.”

“If people wouldn’t classify one so!” sighed the young woman
pathetically. “The science and order that are abroad appall me.
You cannot say nor do the smallest thing, but instantly somebody
pounces on you, and pins a label on your back before you can take
breath. One would think that we were dried specimens. Say that
you sometimes fancy your departed friends may hear you speak,
you are without delay set down as a spiritist, a table-tipper, a
planchette-roller, a spirit-seer, and everything that follows; say
that you think Catholics, and even priests, have some little chance
of being saved, presto! you are a Papist, you are a Jesuit, you
are going to poison Protestants, you want the Pope to be president
of the United States, you are going to muzzle the press, shut up
the public schools, destroy the Bible, put an end to free speech,
etc.; send Bridget to get your husband’s slippers, instead of going
after them yourself, and oh! you woman’s-rights woman, you! How you
are going to abuse your husband! How you are going to let him eat
cold dinners, wear ragged stockings, and come to grief generally!
Labelled you must be, if you put your nose above the earth. And
how your dear friends like to pin on the little pieces of paper,
and give you a pat at the same time, so that the pin shall prick!
There’s Miss Minerva, who wants to pick me to pieces, and, at the
same time, keep up a reputation for charity, goes round telling
everybody, and me among them, that I am impressionable, using the
word in a tone that makes it mean unprincipled, of no stability,
frivolous, inconstant; and that, because I have eyes and a heart,
I was delighted to find in a newspaper, not long ago, a little
extract which I am going to send her: ‘A strong mind is more easily
impressed than a weak one; you shall not as easily convince a fool
that you are a philosopher, as a philosopher that you are a fool.’
Papa, I insist on being eclectic!”

“Take breath, my daughter, take breath!” said Mr. Yorke
apprehensively.

Mrs. Clara took breath, and switched the last part of the
conversation off the track. “_A propos_ of colors!” she said.
“You remember I always liked to find out the relations of things,
and had the idea of a trinity in everything, before I heard of
Delsarte. And, by the way, I do not think that the theory is
original with him. It seems to me I have heard it before. You know
how he does; groups everything in threes, the parts of which are
co-existent, co-efficient, and co-necessary, and, as an instance,
gives space, motion, and time, neither of which can be computed
without the aid of the other two. See how I figure my Trinity with
the three colors: the color which signifies the Father is blue,
the contemplative color, the color of infinite space in which the
creation floats, the intellectual color, the color of faith; the
ensign of the Son is red, which is sacrifice and love; yellow is
for the Holy Spirit, and is the illuminating color. It is also
the color chosen by the Pope, who is the human voice of the Holy
Spirit. United, these three form white, which is the seal of the
Trinity. White is rest, peace, and bliss.”

“You are, then, a Catholic!” Mr. Yorke said, looking with keen eyes
into his daughter’s face.

She blushed, and was embarrassed. “Æsthetically, papa!”

He dropped his eyes, and a slight frown settled on his forehead.

“Papa,” she said earnestly, “there is nothing else!”

He smiled, but said nothing.

“Would you be displeased if I should be one in earnest?” she asked.

“I should be glad!” her father replied, and rose abruptly to meet
Melicent, who was going home.

The others withdrew, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Yorke with Edith and
Carl. They gathered closely together before the fire, the parents
sitting between their children, and, with hand clasped in hand,
talked lovingly and seriously far into the night.

When they parted, all had shed tears, but they were not tears of
sorrow.

“Good-night, my dear parents,” Edith said, embracing them. “You
have made me happy for all my life, and yourselves happy for all
eternity. I do not wonder that you find it hard to take such a
step, and renounce before the world the religion which you have
professed all your lives. You are not cowards; you have been
willing to suffer that Catholics might have their rights; but, you
know, ‘obedience is better than sacrifice.’”

“Perhaps it is a whim,” Mrs. Yorke said; “but I would like to be
baptized by that dear young man I used to love so, Mr. Rowan.”

“Young man!” Carl said, smiling. “He and I are about the same age,
and I am forty-three.”

“Forty-three!” echoed his mother in surprise. “And I am over
sixty! Charles, we are entering on our service at the eleventh
hour. We will not wait for Mr. Rowan. Let us not delay beyond
to-morrow.”

“Good-night, children!” said Mr. Yorke. “Yes, Amy.”

The next day was Sunday, and Carl and Edith went to High Mass.
Captain Cary’s “flurry” had passed with the night, and not a cloud
was to be seen. Little heaps and drifts of snow hid under fences
and trees, but the pavement was wind-swept. The sun shone joyously,
and, not far from it, a waning moon dissolved in its light.

There was the dear old church again, and, just going in under the
portal, Mrs. Rowan-Williams. She took holy water, and bowed before
entering her pew. The same hands were on the organ-keys, the same
soprano, bright as a sunbeam, broke through the cloud of bass and
alto, the same slow wreath of white-robed boys curled silently,
like incense, about the sanctuary, there were the same faces at the
altar. It was like coming home again.

But, before the _Veni Creator_, who was this coming from the
sacristy, palm to palm, draped in folds of spotless whiteness, and
showing, even now, through his measured steps, a familiar swing and
freedom? The chestnut hair, cut short, exposed the forehead, the
face was slightly thin, but bright and healthy.

The glance this priest cast over the congregation, as he went
toward the pulpit, was peculiar. It took in the number of his
hearers, but you would say that he saw their souls, not their
bodies. So many waiting souls to whom he was to carry a message.
Self so completely annihilated that even humility was forgotten,
he went on, wrapped in calm obedience, to speak the word that was
given him.

The subject of the sermon was the uses of pain; the argument, that
all real good comes through pain. The speaker’s voice was so clear
and strong that it was heard without effort on his part or the
listener’s, his tone was conversational, and his illustrations came
naturally from his old sea-life.

Real confidence in God can be shown, he said, only when we are
blind, and cannot see how our sufferings are to lead to any good
end. Then trust is possible, is deserving, is saving. Then we learn
quickly the lesson that God would teach us, and take a higher
place. Our Master does not put back any soul. If it remain long in
the region of trouble, it must be through its own stubbornness.

“We all suffer too much, because we afflict ourselves in trying to
escape pain, when we cannot escape it. The chalice of this bitter
sacrament is never empty, and never set aside. Friends and foes
alike give it into our hands, our dearest and kindest press it to
our lips, unaware, or in their own despite; the messenger of God
presents it. It is useless to struggle, for we cannot escape; it is
foolish to struggle; for in the bottom of that cup of bitterness is
a heavenly draught of sweetness.

“Lessons are on every side, the whole creation preaches to us. Even
the building of a ship is like the building of a saint. The pine
and the oak grow in the forest, they grow in rain and sunshine,
they swing their branches in the wind, and rock the birds to rest.
What is their end? To grow, and then to decay, and feed the roots
of succeeding trees with their crumbling remains. They grow only to
decay, and wish no better, and know no better, and, if better come,
it must come from some outside, wiser will.

“When the woodman appears, he is an object of terror, fancy, the
Manichee would tell you. At the blows of the axe, the whole tree
shivers, it trembles in every leaf, it falls with a groan. But its
tortures are not ended. The saw, the plane, the shave, the auger,
the adze, do each their work; and the mourning tree says, ‘I was
made to be tormented. I am covered with ruin, and good shall no
more come to me.’ Ah, then, how happy seem the far-away, peaceful
woods! how dear the little nests that have been clipped off, and
the intertwining branches of neighboring trees!

“But we are not like the tree. We know what hand lays us low, and
clips off the unruly wishes, the foolish, twittering hopes.

“Look at the home of the iron! It lies in darkness and mystery
underground, and hears the small streams trickle down or bubble up.
It knows and wishes no better. The miner comes with his pick, the
dark ore is dazzled with alien sunshine, is tortured by fire. In
its agony it becomes more terrible than fire, and presses and glows
to destroy. It replies with sparks to the blows of the hammer.

“Oh! for the cool dark, the whispering stream, the moveless rock
and earth! Its pain is to no end but that it may suffer, and ruin
has come.

“But we are not like the senseless iron. We know what Divine Miner
digs us out of our abasement, shows us the light of truth, and
moulds us into shape.

“At last the ship is built; its different elements are united into
one harmonious being; and then it fancies that it understands all.
It exults over the dull tree standing with its roots in earth, over
the brutish ore buried in the darkness. It stands in its stocks,
and grows in beauty, looks at the shining river that flows and
sings for ever, and sees the children play, and the days go by.

“But the end is not yet. Some summer morning the workmen come to
strike its props away. The tide comes up, and its song is the song
of the siren; a crowd gathers to mock at its ruin. It was raised,
then, only to be more cruelly cast down. One support after another
is struck away, prop after prop falls. The ship shudders, it has
learnt nothing from its lesson, it moans, it slips slowly, then
rapidly, then it plunges--whither? Into annihilation? No! into its
own proper element at last, into the bosom of the deep. The tides
bear it up, the winds of heaven wing its course; at last it is of
use.

“Take comfort, brethren, in your pain. He who permits it knows
well how hard it is to bear. When you are nailed to your cross,
the glorified flesh of the Man-God remembers its own agony. And,
suffer not only trustingly, and with resignation, but suffer with
courage. If you shrink and cover your eyes, you have hidden a ghost
in your life. When a sorrow comes to you, look it in the face; and,
by-and-by, the mask shall fall off, and you will see the face of an
angel.”

We have given but a sketch. The words are dry, but the sermon was
full of life.

When Carl and his wife walked homeward, Edith did not speak for
a long time. Whenever her husband looked at her, she was gazing
straight forward, and seemed absorbed in thought.

“Well, Edith,” he said at length, “what is it?”

She looked up into his face with those eyes so childlike still.

“I was wondering, Carl,” she said, “how I could ever have presumed
to call him Dick!”

And so we leave our Edith, as we found her, wondering.




FRAGMENTS OF EARLY ENGLISH POEMS ON THE BLESSED VIRGIN.


To Catholics ... it is a joy and a solace to look back into past
centuries, and remember that there were days when our poets drank
of a purer fount than that of Castaly; and made it their pride
to celebrate in their verse, not Dian nor Proserpine, but the
Immaculate Queen of Heaven. Of Chaucer’s devotion to this theme,
I have already spoken, but other poets before his time delighted
in dedicating their verses to her who, as she inspired the most
exquisite designs of the artist’s pencil, has also claimed not the
least beautiful productions of the poet’s pen. Thus, one sings of
her as ‘Dame Lyfe,’ and describes how

    “As she came by the bankes, the boughs eche one,
    Lowked to the Ladye, and layd forth their branches,
    Blossoms and burgens (new shoots) breathed ful swete,
    Flowres bloomed in the path where forth she stepped,
    And the gras that was dry greened belive.”

Others, according to their quaint fashion, mixed up English and
Latin rhymes in a style which, barbarous as it is, is certainly not
deficient in harmony. One little poem, ascribed to a writer in the
reign of Henry III., commences thus:

    “Of all that is so fayr and bright,
              Velut maris stella;
    Brighter than the day is light,
              Parens et puella.
    I crie to The, Thou se to me,
    Levedy, preye the Sone for me,
              Tam pia,
    That Ich mote come to The,
              Maria.”

            --_Christian Schools and Scholars._




THE LEGENDS OF OISIN, BARD OF ERIN.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.


VI.

OISIN’S GOOD CONFESSION.

    Not seldom, crossed by bodings sad,
      In words though kind yet hard
    Spake Patrick to his guest, Oisin;
      For Patrick loved the Bard

    In whose broad bosom, swathed with beard
      Like cliffs with ivy trailed,
    A Christian strove with a pagan soul,
      And neither quite prevailed.

    Silent as shades the shadowing monks
      O’er cloistral courts might glide;
    But the War-Bard strode through the church itself
      Like hunter on mountain-side.

    Yea, sometimes, while his beads he told,
      Fierce thoughts, a rebel breed,
    Burst up from the graves of his warriors dead,
      And he stormed at priest and Creed.

    His end drew nigh. ’Twas after years
      Had proved stern warnings vain,
    When dying he lay on his wolf-skin bed,
      And murmured a warlike strain.

    The Saint drew near: he gazed; then spake,
      “A fair child died one day:
    Four weeks had passed; yet, changeless still,
      Like a child asleep he lay.

    “They could not hide him in the ground
      Though hand and heart were chill,
    For round his lips the smile avouched
      The soul was in him still.

    “Then lo! a man of God came by
      And stood beside the bier,
    And spake, ‘A pagan house is this;
      And yet a saint lies here!

    “‘God shaped this child his praise to sing
      To a blind and pagan race;
    And till that song is sung, in heaven
      He may not see God’s face.’

    “Then thrice around that child he moved
      With circling censer-cloud,
    And touched with censer fire his tongue,
      And the dead child sang aloud.

    “Oisin! like larks beside thy Lee,
      So loud he sang his hymn:
    And straight baptized he was, and died;
      And, dead, his face grew dim.

    “So then, since Christ had caught to heaven
      The fair soul washed from sin,
    A little grave they dug, and laid
      The little saint therein.

    “And ever as fell the night, that grave
      Shone like the Shepherds’ star,
    With happy beam that homeward drew
      The wanderer from afar.

    “Oisin! thy Land is as that child!
      Thou call’st her dead--thy Land;
    For cold is Fionn, thy sire; and he,
      He was her strong right hand!

    “And cold is Oscar now, thy son:
      Her mighty heart was he--
    Oisin! let dead at last be dead;
      Let living, living be!

    “Her great old Past is gone at last:
      Her heavenlier Future waits,
    Yet entrance never can she find
      Till Faith unbars the gates.

    “Prince of thy country’s songful choir!
      Thou wert her golden Tongue!
    Sing thou her New Song--‘I believe!’
      Give thou to God her Song!

    Then suddenly that old man stood,
      And made his arms a cross:
    Within his heart a light that changed
      The earth to dust and dross:

    And, pierced by beams from those two hands
      Of Jesus crucified,
    His Erin of two thousand years
      Held forth her hands, and died:

    For all her sceptres by a Reed
      That hour were overborne;
    And all her crowns went down, that hour,
      Before the Crown of Thorn.

    As shines the sun through snowy haze
      Oisin’s white head forth shone:
    “In God the Father I believe,”
      He sang, “and Mary’s Son:”

    And, onward as the swan-chaunt swept
      Adown the Creed’s broad flood,
    In radiance waxed his face, as though
      He saw the face of God.

    Then Patrick, with his wondering monks,
      Knelt down, and said, “Amen,”
    While slowly dropped a sun that ne’er
      Saw that white head again.

    The rite complete, the old man sank,
      And turned him on his side:
    Next morning, as the Lauds began,
      “My Son,” he said, and died.




A SALON IN PARIS BEFORE THE WAR.


PART III.

ON THE BOULEVARDS.

Summer had come, and was nearly gone. Paris was deserted. As autumn
approached, lifting its fiery finger over the city, the _flaneurs_
disappeared. All those who could flee, fled. The faubourg had fled
long ago to its châteaux. The Chaussée d’Antin and the Champs
Elysées were fleeing _aux eaux_ or _aux bains de mer_ and the
boulevards, with their glittering shops and _cafés_ and theatres,
were left to the mercy of the tourist. Perhaps the tourist would
retort that he was left to the mercy of the boulevards. And,
perhaps he would be right. _Chignoned_ sirens, who dwelt in glass
cases surrounded by millions of glass vials ranged in rhythmic
color from the ceiling to the floor, so as to make the sirens
look as much as possible like the centre point of an elaborate
kaleidoscope, smiled through their crystal shell at the reckless
being who stood outside to peep and wonder. The door stood open. He
might not hear the siren’s, “Entrez, monsieur!” but there was no
being deaf to her smile; it drew him irresistibly.

“Would monsieur not like just to ‘gouter’ our last novelty, ‘cerise
à la Victor Noir?’ Would he not very much like to take some little
souvenir home to madame?”

Of course monsieur would. Weak mortal! He unbuttons his coat,
and straightway the bees which had sipped abundantly of native
porte-monnaies the rest of the year, alight on the purse of the
tourist, and suck it, if not dry, as nearly dry as they can.

Busy “dead season,” when stale bonbons and faded finery are brought
out, christened by new names, and sold to the barbarians across the
Channel. Paris does not want any more of it, but Londres, that city
which the English in their ignorance of the French language call
Lon-don--Londres will find it charming!

Gaily, busily the bees were plying their task. The long white lines
of Haussmann barracks glared shadowless in the fierce vertical sun;
gilded railings and balconies flashed in gingerbread magnificence;
the dome of the Invalides rose up against the cloudless blue
and blazed like a burning mount; the red heat poured down from
the zenith on the miles of _asphalte_ that meander through the
city, and pelted it till it softened and gave under your foot
like india-rubber. Even the lordly chestnuts of the Tuileries,
so carefully tended, so abundantly watered, were burnt brown and
red, and were shedding their leaves from exhaustion; not a vestige
of green was anywhere visible. The fountains were playing, but
even they had a tired, worn-out look, and the water seemed to go
on splashing lazily from mere force of habit; the flag was still
floating above the palace, the gray old palace blinking with
its myriad glass eyes in the sultry noon; the broad walks were
deserted, no little feet went pattering on the gravel, no merry
child-laughter rang through the shade to scare the swallows from
their cool siesta; the whole scene, lately so animated and bright,
had a weary, day-after-the-ball look that was premature in the
first days of July.

The bees of the boulevard were buzzing loud, and bestirring
themselves to good purpose. But, hark! What noise is that? Not
the cannon’s opening roar, nor “the car rattling o’er the stony
street,” but a sound that jars upon the lively hum, and makes the
hive suspend labor and hush itself to listen. It comes from the
Corps Législatif, first a faint surging sound, then a clamor as of
the waves rising and lashing themselves up for a tempest. Louder it
grows, and nearer. It crosses the tepid waters of the Seine, lying
low between its banks; it reaches the boulevards. At first the
cries are indistinguishable, a torrent of human voice, rolling and
heaving and rushing like the roar of a cataract, drowning all sense
in its senseless frenzy. On it comes, gathering strength in its
march, waking up the echoes of the _trottoir_, and making the crisp
leaves quiver and drop, and fly along the dusty pavement before the
vociferating multitude like straws before a bellows.

“What is it? Is it a revolution?” cried Berthe, as the horses,
laying back their ears, threatened mischief, and obliged the
footman to get down and hold them.

“I don’t know, madame,” said the man, looking up the Rue de la
Paix at the stream that was pouring along the boulevards, to the
sound of beating drums, and blaring trumpets, and all manner of
Parisian excitableness in the shape of noise. “It’s more likely
_une démonstration patriotique_; the horses don’t seem to like it,
or else we might drive up close and see.”

But Berthe’s curiosity was not proof against a certain mistrust of
the sovereign people. The noise might mean nothing more aggressive
than a _démonstration patriotique_, but in Paris patriotism has
many moods and phases, and innumerable modes of expressing itself,
and its attitudes, if always effective from a dramatic point of
view, are not always agreeable to come close to, and, whatever
the character of this particular one might be, Berthe preferred
admiring it from a respectful distance.

“Turn back, and drive home by the Champs Elysées,” she said.

But the tide had risen too rapidly. The Rue de Rivoli was
flooded. It had caught the delirium of the boulevards, and was
sending back their echoes with frantic exultation. Cabs and
omnibuses were seized with the sudden insanity, private coaches
caught it, foot-passengers, _gamins_, and _bourgeois_, and
_messieurs les voyageurs_ careering on the top of omnibuses, all
_en masse_ caught it, and shouted as one man: “Vive la France!
vive la guerre! A Berlin! à Berlin!” Ladies and gentlemen,
reclining in soft-cushioned carriages, started suddenly into
effervescence, waved hats and handkerchiefs, and cried: “Vive la
guerre! A Berlin!” Horses neighed, and dogs barked, and the very
paving-stones shook to the popular passion. All Paris shouted and
shrieked till the city, like a huge belfry, rang with thundering
salvos: “Vive la guerre! A Berlin! à Berlin!”

Berthe’s horses, scared anew by the uproar that was now close
upon them, played their part in the general row by plunging and
prancing, and eliciting screams of terror from the adjacent women
and children, while the coachman brandished his whip, and the
footman whirled his hat in the air, and shouted with all their
might: “A Berlin! à Berlin!” A troop of _gamins_ laid violent hands
on a Savoyard who was grinding away “Non ti scordar di me,” to
the delight of the _concierge_ in the nearest _porte-cochère_,
and, dragging him to the fore, bade him at once strike up the
_Marseillaise_. Luckily for his limbs, the despotic command was
within the limits of the Savoyard’s instrument. He turned its
handle, and began vigorously grinding out the Republican chant.
Every man, woman, and child within ear-shot took up the chorus,
“Marchons! marchons!” till the palpitating air throbbed and
thrilled with the passionate voices of the multitude.

Berthe was not long proof against the magnetic current that
was whirling round her. First terrified, then bewildered, then
electrified, she caught the intoxication, and yielded to its
impulse: “Vive la France! Vive la guerre!” And the fair hand waved
its snowy little flag from the window as the carriage moved slowly
past the Tuileries gardens.

Emerging into the broad space of the Place de la Concorde, the
horses seemed to breathe more freely, and, quickening their step,
tore at full speed up the Champs Elysées.

“What possessed me to shout and cheer with those madmen?” said
Berthe, soliloquizing aloud, and laughing at the absurdity of her
recent behavior. “I must have gone mad myself for the moment.
Vive la guerre indeed! Heaven help us! We shall hear another cry
by-and-by, when the widows and orphans and sisters of France hear
at what price her new laurels have been bought. Thank God I have no
brothers!”

“Madame la Marquise de Chassedot is waiting, madame,” said
François, as Berthe entered.

“Has she been waiting?”

“A short half-hour, madame.”

“What can she have to say?” thought Berthe.

Madame de Chassedot rose to meet her “with eyes that had wept,” and
extended her hands with an air that asked less for greeting than
for sympathy.

“Vous ange de la peine, madame!” exclaimed Berthe, her ready
kindness going forth at once to the sufferer.

The two ladies were not friends. They had met at Madame de
Beaucœur’s and Madame de Galliac’s; but only once had there been
a personal interchange of visits; Madame de Chassedot had called
on Berthe to thank her for the kindness she had shown to their
young kinswoman, Hélène de Karodel, “whom the family had indeed
of late lost sight of, but with whom they were delighted to renew
cousinship,” the marquise declared effusively, and as a proof
of this she was carrying off Hélène to the country to spend the
vacation with them. Berthe did not inform her that it had taken
all her own influence to induce the high-spirited young lady to
accept the hospitality so tardily offered. She returned Madame de
Chassedot’s visit; the latter soon left for the country, and they
had not met since.

“Oui, j’ai du chagrin,” said the marquise holding Berthe’s hand, as
she sat down beside her.

Berthe’s first thought was of Edgar. But the mother was not in
mourning. Whatever it was, the worst had not yet come.

“Your son is ill?” she said.

Madame de Chassedot shook her head. Then, after a pause, during
which she gave battle to her emotion, she looked at Berthe, and
said:

“He’s going to get married!”

“What! And is not that precisely what you wanted him to do!”
exclaimed Berthe.

“I wanted to make the match myself; but now he goes and does it
instead,” replied the marquise.

“Ah! It is a _mésalliance_, then!”

The fact was startling certainly, but less so than it might have
been, owing to certain rumors that prepared the public to believe
in any extravagance coupled with Edgar de Chassedot’s name.

“_Oh! mon Dieu, non!_ A thousand times no!” cried his mother with
quick resentment. “Edgar _a fait des bêtises_, but he is incapable
of dishonoring himself. Oh, no! The girl is of an excellent family,
she is even our own cousin.”

“It is her principles, then, or her--character that you object to?”
said Berthe with some hesitation.

“O dear! no. She is as pious as a seraph, and brought up like a
lily!” exclaimed the marquise.

“Is she a hunch-back, then, or lame, or blind, or what?”

“She is a beggar! A beggar who has not a sou to buy her own
trousseau. It is a beggar who has stolen the heart of my son!” And
tears of bitter, disappointed motherhood flowed down the cheeks of
the marquise.

“And her name is--?”

“Mademoiselle de Karodel!”

“What! Hélène? Hélène de Karodel, that brave, true, gentle creature
is going to be your son’s wife! And you in tears, and not of joy!
And you call her a beggar! A woman whose love, since your son has
been lucky enough to win it--and Hélène is not a girl to marry him
if he had not--would be a prize for a prince! And you, a Christian
mother, weep over it, and expect to be pitied! Really, madame, if
it were not laughable, it would be deplorable, not on your son’s
account, but on your own!”

Madame de Chassedot was so staggered by this unexpected sortie that
she was actually struck dumb. “Do you know,” she said, after a
pause, looking steadily at Berthe, and bringing out her words with
slow emphasis--“do you know, madame, that my son has four millions
of patrimony, and that he could have married any girl in France?”

“As to his marrying any girl in France, admitting that they were
one and all ready to marry Monsieur de Chassedot, was he ready to
marry them?” demanded Berthe significantly; “and as to his four
millions, they are the very reason why he should marry a girl who
had none. A woman who is as well born as himself, who is, you
admit, pure as a lily, and pious as an angel, and, moreover, quite
graceful and beautiful enough to satisfy your pride and his, and to
make her an ornament as well as a treasure in your son’s house--a
wife who will rescue him from much that I should fancy would have
given you greater cause for tears than his marriage with such a
woman as Hélène de Karodel. Candidly, _chère marquise_, I am so far
from sympathizing with you that, if I had heard this news in any
other way, my first impulse would have been to fly to you with my
congratulations.”

Madame de Chassedot’s tears were flowing still, but perhaps less
bitterly; she was going to speak when a noise of steps in the
ante-chamber made her rise hastily, and look round for a means of
escape.

“Into my bedroom!” said Berthe, pulling aside the _portière_.

The marquise pressed her hand, and disappeared through the cloud
of blue satin just as the drawing-room door opened, and Hélène
de Karodel, holding out her arms with a cry of joy, rushed into
Berthe’s.

It was something of a disappointment to Hélène to find that Berthe
already knew her secret. But there was much left to tell still.
Most of the tale was told with blushes and smiles, and tears
that had no brine in them. Her marriage was to take place in a
fortnight. Edgar, from family reasons, chose to precipitate the
_dénouement_, and his young Bretonne _fiancée_ had come up to town
to make the few bridal preparations that he could not possibly make
for her.

It happened unluckily to be Berthe’s day, so the usual stream of
visitors began soon to pour in, and broke up the _tête-à-tête_ of
the two friends.

The war was the topic of every tongue; but there was no mistaking
for enthusiasm the animation with which it was discussed. Some
indignantly repudiated and denounced the government, and protested
that, so far from being a popular war, it was universally condemned
as senseless, iniquitous, and ill-timed, and that there were not
ten men in France who would cry _Vive la guerre!_ unless they were
paid for it. Others, who had been on the boulevards an hour ago,
thought differently.

“There are madmen to be found in every city who are glad of an
opportunity to bark, and bray, and howl, and demean themselves
after the usual manner of madmen,” said the Austrian _habitué_,
“and Paris can muster as good a roll of lunatics on as short notice
as any city in Europe; but I don’t believe there were ten sane men
on the boulevards this morning who cried _Vive la guerre!_”

“I can assure you,” said Berthe, “I saw hundreds of
_comme-il-faut_-looking men, to all appearance in their right mind,
who were crying it frantically; so much so that I got quite carried
away, and actually shook my handkerchief, and shouted with the rest
of them.”

“Why did you shout, madame?” inquired the Austrian.

“Because, I tell you, I was carried away, I could not help myself.
The excitement was catching.”

“Of course it was. Most fevers are, especially malignant ones;
and if you asked nine-tenths of the crowd _why_ they shouted, the
answer, if they spoke the truth, would be precisely the same;
they could not help themselves, the excitement was catching. If
an arsenal blows up, who is to blame, the powder, the matches, or
yourself who fired the train? You might just as logically blame
the powder for blowing up, as the French people for marching and
bugling and _Vive-la-guerring_ when they hear the sound of the
trumpet.”

“Do you agree with monsieur?” asked Berthe addressing a
quiet-looking military man who had been listening in silence to the
conversation. “Are the people not really glad of the war?”

“It is difficult to say yet,” replied the soldier. “With the
people, all depends on how it turns out; success alone is in the
right.”

“But you do not contemplate such an absurd alternative as the
non-victoriousness of the French arms?”

There was a prompt general protest from the company. The military
man alone stroked his moustache with a meditative air, and was
silent.

“Answer me, I pray you, commandant,” pursued Berthe. “You are not
afraid of our troops being beaten?”

“Our troops are matches, if not masters, of the best troops in
Europe,” replied the commandant proudly.

“And our generals? We have no lack of good ones surely?”

“Not of veterans,” was the evasive rejoinder.

“Oh! the young ones will rise up as soon as they are wanted. We
shall have a new generation of heroes that will eclipse in glory
the _vieux de la Vieille_ themselves. As for you, you will come
back to us a marshal of France,” declared Berthe merrily.

The prophecy elicited gentle cheering and congratulations from
the ladies, while the men approved in their own way, joking the
commandant, and dubbing him _Monsieur le Maréchal_ on the spot.

“If it be not a futile or indiscreet question to put, may I ask
what you are going to war for?” demanded Mr. Clifford, addressing
himself to the company in general.

“For security of the dynasty,” replied a Legitimist.

“For the honor and security of France,” said the commandant.

“Do you separate them, M. le Commandant!” exclaimed the Legitimist
with mock horror. “I arraign you, _de par l’Empereur_, for high
treason against France!”

The circle laughed, and the Commandant, not caring to challenge the
_persifleur_, laughed good-humoredly, too.

“Shall I tell you, monsieur, why we are going to war?” said
the Deputy de la Gauche to Mr. Clifford. “We are going to war
to _désennuyer_ Paris. If Paris goes on much longer _ennuying_
herself as she has done for the last six months, she will make a
revolution!”

“That may be quite true,” returned his colleague of the Droite;
“but the preventive is rather violent; some milder form of
excitement might be invented for the _ennui_ of Paris than that of
taking her to Berlin for a distraction. It is hardly a sufficient
reason for plunging the whole nation into war. No, I prefer to
think we are going to fight for the honor of France, and it may be
for her aggrandizement.”

“Yes,” said Madame de Beaucœur, “M. le Maréchal will win his
_bâton_ by taking the Rhine for us!”

“Bravo,” cried in chorus the Legitimist, the Droite, and the
Gauche. “_Le Rhin! le Rhin! Vive le Rhin!_”

“I will be willing to shake hands with _ce gaillard lâ_, and to cry
_Vive l’Empereur_ myself, if he comes back with the Rhine in his
pocket,” declared the Legitimist with desperate patriotism.

And the sentiment was echoed by every one present. Orleanist,
Bourbonist, Bonapartist, and Republican all united in a common
thirst for the blue waters of the Rhine, and avowed themselves
ready to vote the war, whatever its motive, a wise war and a
righteous, if it gave the Rhine to France. All with one exception:
the old academician shook his head, and muttered some broken
sentences in which the words, _démence_, _fanfaronnade_, _ruine du
commerce_, _feu follet de la gloire_, _décadence des mœurs_, _jour
de rétribution_, etc., were audible through the general hubbub.

“What a people, _mon Dieu_!” murmured the philosopher to himself,
as, descending the softly carpeted stairs, cries of “A Berlin! A
Berlin dans six semaines! Vive le Rhin! Vive la guerre!” followed
him through the open door of Berthe’s apartment; “fitful as the
wind, passing from reason to madness, from heroism to absurdity, as
the weathercock turns with the breeze.” The word that touches our
vanity, touches every chord in our nature, and sets us in a blaze,
just as the spark fires the powder-flask. _Quel peuple? Mon Dieu,
quel peuple!_




REVIEW OF DR. STÖCKL’S PHILOSOPHY.[74]


We have already called attention to the necessity of providing
sound philosophical text-books and manuals in the vernacular
tongues, particularly the English, with which we are specially
concerned. We have also expressed our conviction that the only
philosophy which has any claim or fitness to be adopted in our
places of education is the scholastic philosophy. Those who are
capable of studying this philosophy in the more extensive and
elaborate works of our great Catholic authors, have all they need
for prosecuting their studies to any degree they please. More
elementary treatises and compendiums in the Latin language are
also at hand for those who can make use of them with facility. But
those who cannot do so need to have books in their own language,
and made level to their mental capacity and actual knowledge.
And even those who are able to study in Latin text-books may
derive great assistance from a good manual written in their own
vernacular, for many reasons which are obvious, especially if
they are not perfect in their knowledge of Latin. Besides this,
there are many persons whose education is already completed, who
would derive great pleasure and profit from a book of this kind.
The English and American educated world is so unfamiliar with the
ancient philosophy of the Catholic schools, that there is need
of an interpreter who can make it intelligible, and domesticate
it in our vernacular scientific literature. Numbers of educated
persons, and even clergymen, who are converts and have received a
Protestant collegiate education, or, if old Catholics, have not
been thoroughly taught philosophy according to the scholastic
method, have derived their information on the subject mostly from
the miscellaneous philosophical literature of England and America,
and perhaps, also, of France and Germany. In this miscellaneous
literature there is much that is valuable, and even of great
value, the product of highly gifted and cultivated minds imbued
with sound and elevated principles, containing a vast amount of
truth and conclusive argument. There is wanting, however, the
scientific precision, definiteness and fixedness of terminology,
and completeness, which are found only in the masters and disciples
of the scholastic method. Protestants, and to a great extent
Catholics also, have been at sea in philosophy ever since the
unfortunate epoch of the Lutheran schism. The evil began in that
fresh outbreak of paganism, miscalled _renaissance_; a revolt
against the science and the civilization founded by the Holy See,
the hierarchy, and the monastic orders, the only truly Christian
science and civilization; a retrograde movement of the most fatal
sort under the name of progression. The vain and frivolous scholars
of that period brought St. Thomas and the scholastic theology
and philosophy into contempt among the crowd of their followers.
They affected to be Platonists, because the philosophy of Plato
was at that time something strange and novel, and afforded them
the chance of displaying their knowledge of Greek. The leaders
of the religious revolt of the age of Leo X., at which time the
disorder culminated, pretended to go back to the Hebrew and Greek
Scriptures and the Fathers; where they could evade the contest
with scholastic theology, and make a show of learning and pure
Biblical and patristic doctrine for a considerable time. The
scholastic theology has, however, fully avenged itself. It has
defeated the enemies of the church who have attacked the Catholic
faith from without. Within the church, it has established its
supremacy, and subdued all those who have professed and endeavored
to substitute a new system of theology for the old, while retaining
the dogmas of faith. The pitiable and abortive effort to produce
a new _renaissance_, which occasioned so much both of scandal and
ridicule during the time of the Vatican Council, was marked by a
specially violent assault on St. Thomas and St. Alphonsus, the
two great doctors of the church in dogmatic and moral theology
respectively. The result has been the triumph of both. The Angel
of the Schools has gone up to a pinnacle of honor and glory above
that which he had ever before attained, and it is safe to predict
that his supremacy as the master of sacred science will never more
be seriously questioned. The great champion of the thoroughly
Roman teaching in doctrine, piety and morals, has been crowned
with the doctorate at the petition of a vast body of the men
highest in learning and office in the church. The great theological
controversies are substantially finished and settled, and Catholic
theology is very nearly complete. Philosophy is now the great
field for intellectual activity, and that consolidated union in
philosophical teaching which has been secured in theology is the
end toward which the efforts of all the ardent and loyal lovers of
the divine Truth should be directed.

This end can be secured only by following the same principles and
methods in philosophy which have effected and secured unity and
uniformity in theological doctrine. The scholastic philosophy
must accompany the scholastic theology. This is obvious, without
entering into the intrinsic merits of the question. No other system
has that authority, that general prevalence, that scientific
precision and completeness, that sanction of the rulers of the
church, the great teaching orders, and the body of directors and
professors of seminaries and strictly Catholic colleges, which
are requisite for producing unity and uniformity in instruction.
Those who do not follow the scholastic philosophy are divided into
small parties holding the most opposite opinions and mutually
hostile to each other; and these parties are again subdivided into
smaller sections. The subject matter of this difference is not the
mere corollaries and remote conclusions, or the high speculative
questions of philosophy, not essentially affecting its substance;
as is the case with the differences among strict adherents to
scholastic theology and philosophy; but the very substance, the
first principles, the guiding rules of philosophy itself. What
likelihood is there that any one of these systems will ever conquer
for itself sufficient territory or unite a sufficient number of
suffrages to become the reigning doctrine? The history of the
disputes which have gone on within and without the church during
three centuries, since the decay of the influence of scholastic
philosophy, may answer the question. Either we must give up the
hope of attaining unity, and let philosophy degenerate into a mere
theme of endless discussion among rival parties, like doctrine
among the Protestants, or we must range ourselves under the banner
of the ancient and still numerous and powerful school of the
Angelic Doctor.

The first of these alternatives we must decidedly reprobate, as
contrary to the Catholic sense, and incompatible with the respect
which is due to the judgment and authority of the church. It is
evident that philosophical instruction is regarded in the church
as highly important and necessary, and as an essential part of
Catholic education, more especially for those who are preparing for
the study of theology. The sense of its importance is increasing
instead of diminishing. Everywhere longer time and greater pains
are bestowed upon it, and we have been told that it is the desire
of the Sovereign Pontiff that the theological course should rather
be shortened if necessary, than that philosophy should fail to
receive its adequate proportion of the time allotted to the
curriculum of the ecclesiastical seminary. All this implies that
philosophy, like theology, is a true science, having its certain
principles, methods, and doctrines. And if this is so, we are to
look for it where the queen of sciences, whose herald and prime
minister it is--Catholic theology--announces her magisterial
teaching, and not in any particular school set up by private
authority. In fact, the scholastic philosophy is an intimate and
essential part of scholastic theology, which would be decomposed if
its other elements were separated from this one, and be resolved
into a mere collection of dogmas and doctrines without logical
coherence. We may infer, therefore, from the express sanction which
the church has given to scholastic theology, her approbation of
scholastic philosophy. This tacit and implied approbation is also
manifested in her practical action. The Holy See, the greater
number of bishops, and the body of those ecclesiastics in high
positions of authority who have control over strictly Catholic
colleges, sanction and establish the teaching of scholastic
philosophy, encourage works and authors professing to follow it,
and in many ways repress and discourage whatever is contrary
to it. More than this, the Holy See, during the reigns of our
present Sovereign Pontiff and his illustrious predecessor, Gregory
XVI., has repeatedly intervened by acts of supreme authority,
in which books, authors, systems, and propositions have been
censured and condemned on account of their teaching philosophical
errors contrary to the received doctrine, and either subversive
of or dangerous to the faith. The Fathers of the Council of the
Vatican were occupied during several months with discussions upon
fundamental questions of philosophy, the result of which is visible
in the decrees of the Council. The doctrines which all Catholics
are obliged to hold and teach have thus been to a certain extent
defined and declared, and the limits marked beyond which they are
forbidden to stray. We have occasion, at present, to specify only
two of the erroneous doctrines which have been thus condemned,
viz.: that which is called Traditionalism, and another commonly
known under the name of Ontologism. We notice these, because both
errors arose among sincere Catholics, and were the chief cause of
dissension concerning philosophical doctrines in our own ranks, so
that their condemnation has had a direct effect towards unity in
teaching, especially as most of the principal persons concerned
submitted obediently to the decision of authority. The first of
these errors was an extreme anti-rationalism, tending to subvert
and sweep away all philosophy, and upon this we have no need to
enlarge. The second was of far greater import, as it professed
to be a new and perfect philosophy, and was the most formidable
antagonist which the scholastic philosophy has ever had to
encounter. The question is still a living one, and the discussion
of it is not yet over. Moreover, it relates to the very foundation
of philosophy and theology, and has the most wide-reaching
relations, wherefore we feel it to be necessary to be very careful
and exact in what we say on the subject. That ontologism which
we call an error is a certain ideological doctrine professing
to be a true _scientia entis_, or science of being, and to be,
therefore, the true and only real metaphysic. It has received its
name from this profession of its advocates, and from common usage,
for the want of one more specific and definite. It must not be
supposed, however, that it is called an error on account of its
being ontological, as if there were no true ontology, since this
latter is the most essential part of philosophy itself. Nor is it
correct to say that the doctrine of all those who call themselves
ontologists by way of distinction from those whom they call
psychologists, but whom we prefer to designate rather as Platonists
in distinction from Peripatetics or Aristotelians, is a condemned
error. The condemned error, as we understand it, after carefully
examining and reflecting upon the matter for several years, is
a false and heterodox ontological doctrine, which radically and
principally consists in the affirmation of _a natural power in
the created intellect to know God in himself_, as infinite and
necessary being, or in any other ideal aspect. The essence of the
error consists in that part of the affirmation which is expressed
by the term _in himself_, denoting that the very idea which is the
object of the divine intelligence and is identical with it, and is
really the divine essence itself considered as intelligible, is the
idea of the created, and specifically of the human, intellect. The
falsity of the doctrine consists in this, that it substitutes an
imaginary intuition of God, which has no existence, for the real
intuition of the connatural object of the created intellect; and an
explicit cognition of God explicated from this intuition for that
cognition which human reason is actually capable of attaining, by
discursion from self-evident truths which the developed intellect
possesses as its first principles. It therefore overturns true
philosophy and natural theology, and destroys the very cause which
its advocates are most anxious to promote. It is heterodox, because
its logical consequences annihilate the distinction between the
natural light of reason and the supernatural lights of faith and
glory, and, by ascribing to the natural condition of the creature
that which belongs only to its deific condition, tend to annihilate
the essential difference between the Word of God and the creatures
of God, the Only Begotten Son of God and his adopted sons; thus
introducing pantheism by a covert road, into which Platonists
and mystics have always been in danger of straying unawares. The
authors and advocates of this doctrine have been, at least in many
cases, holy men of orthodox faith, who have strenuously denied
its logical consequences. Wherefore, the condemnation of their
opinions has been made in a very gentle and considerate manner, and
their personal character as Catholics has not been compromised,
unless they have shown a spirit of contumacious resistance to the
authority of the Holy See. They have not fallen into heresy, but
into philosophical error, and that in good faith, and before the
authority of the church had given judgment. Several of the most
distinguished among them have made a formal recantation of their
doctrine, others have done the same tacitly, and we may take it as
a settled fact that the ontologism condemned at Rome is banished
for ever from the Catholic schools.

It is equally certain, however, that there is an ideology,
distinct from that of the Thomist school, and frequently called
ontologism, which is not condemned. Its advocates profess to find
it in St. Augustine. It is probably contained in the doctrine of
St. Bonaventura. It is the doctrine taught in the later and more
mature works of the great and saintly Cardinal Gerdil, who was
in his youth a disciple of Malebranche the author of the theory
of the vision in God. And it is still maintained, under various
forms, by a considerable number of most respectable persons in
the church. Rosmini is well known as the author of a system which
bears an affinity to it, and, in a general sense, it may be said
to include all those Catholic teachers and disciples of philosophy
who are Platonists rather than Aristotelians. It is certain, we
say, that this ideology, distinct alike from that of the Thomists
and the pure ontologists, is not condemned. This is proved by the
answers given to queries on the subject by persons connected with
the Roman congregations, by the fact that the doctrines in question
are openly advocated in lectures and published works under the eye
of the Sovereign Pontiff, and by the express or tacit admission
of the opponents of ontologism. We have been informed also by a
distinguished prelate who was present at the discussions of the
Vatican Council, that such was the general understanding of the
bishops there assembled.

This ideology gives the human intellect an idea created by an
immediate illumination of God, and preceding all apprehension and
perception of particular, finite objects. It may be an idea of
God, of the infinite, of being, of the necessary and universal,
under any aspect, or under many distinct aspects; or it may be an
assemblage of ideas representing both the infinite, and finite
exterior objects. According to St. Bonaventura, it is an idea
representing God; according to Rosmini it is idea of _ens in
genere_. But in whatever way this theory of innate ideas may be
expressed, the intellectual object is always an image, something
created with and in the mind, and even where it represents God,
or the archetypal ideas of God, it is not identified with the
uncreated _ens_ of which it is the created image. The theory is
therefore free from the censures of the church. It is necessary,
however, for those who still adhere to the Platonic ideology to
be very careful and accurate in their expressions, in order to
avoid the likelihood of being understood by their readers to teach
condemned propositions. The looseness of language which is more
or less found in the more ancient authors; in all authors not
familiar with the scholastic method, unless they have a precise
terminology of their own, which is another difficulty in the
way of understanding them; and the abstruseness of the subject
itself, produce a great deal of misunderstanding. There is a great
deal of obscurity in the writings of Plato whenever he speaks of
ideology, and his disciples have inherited the same. It has been
quite possible, therefore, for writers whose doctrine is sound to
use the language and adopt many of the ideas of the celebrated
authors of the ontologistic party, without really apprehending
the nature and bearings of that erroneous doctrine which was at
the bottom of their whole system. These authors have frequently
expressed their ideas under terms and forms of expression borrowed
from St. Augustine, St. Bonaventura, Gerdil, Fénelon, and other
well-known doctors, prelates, and theologians. Very few of them
have elaborated their doctrine with sufficient completeness and
precision to make it easy to be understood. Those who have done so
have been the occasion of its precise formulation and condemnation
in the famous seven propositions. But, now that the supreme
authority in the church has distinctly specified what errors of
ontologism must be rejected as dangerous to faith, it is specially
important that every Catholic writer should be precise, accurate,
and clear in his language, so that he may not be misunderstood
even by the ordinary student or reader of philosophical essays.
The supreme, infallible authority of the Holy See has not, in
condemning certain errors, prescribed or defined what precisely
is the true ideological doctrine. Catholic philosophers must
therefore seek to come to as close an agreement as possible by
the way of reason. In order to do this, it is necessary that the
method and terminology sanctioned by ancient and general usage
should be strictly adhered to, since, otherwise, endless discussion
will be the only result. We think, moreover, as we have already
said, that this agreement can only be effected by means of the
ideology of St. Thomas. The church has not, indeed, formally
approved it, but, in our opinion, she has condemned that which is
its only logical alternative. Therefore, we trust in the power of
reason and logic to bring all master-minds into agreement with
St. Thomas, and in the authority of these teachers and leaders to
secure the adhesion of the great majority, who must ever be their
disciples. It is, we believe, ignorance or misapprehension of the
scholastic philosophy, as taught in the school of St. Thomas,
which has been the occasion of the attempt made by so many highly
gifted and noble-hearted men to fabricate out of Platonism a
better ideology. Disgust at nominalism, sensism, and psychologism,
abhorrence of the scepticism into which Hume and Kant sought to
resolve all knowledge and belief, have driven them to seek for a
self-subsisting, objective foundation of the ideal, separate from
and independent of the sensible. Irresistible logic has impelled
them by degrees toward the ultimatum which the pure ontologists
have reached; and which is simply the affirmation of God existing
in his attribute of absolute being, the infinite, or archetypal
truth, beauty, and goodness, to which Gioberti adds in the creative
act; as the immediate ideal object of the intellect. They have
supposed that this is the only alternative of the opposite extreme,
and have put aside the scholastic ideology as halting between the
two upon untenable ground. The opinion which they have of its
inconsistency and insufficiency is distinctly expressed in the
oft-repeated assertion that it is mere psychologism. This term
properly denotes any system which makes ideas mere subjective modes
of the mind. It is obvious that every species of semi-ontologism,
every theory of innate ideas, every system shaped out of Platonic
elements, which separates ideas from the sensible as the centre
of their concretion and their focus of visibility to the human
intellect, without locating them in God, is psychologism. But it
is not true of the philosophy of Aristotle and St. Thomas, that it
reduces ideas to this condition of subjectivity, no better than
that of the phantoms which arise in the imagination of the sleeper
or the day-dreamer. In this philosophy, the intelligible object
has a reality exterior to the mind, which it directly perceives,
and by which as a medium it attains self-evident and demonstrated
truths, having their foundation in the eternal truth, in the
infinite, in absolute being, in the Word, in God; who is the object
of the mediate intellectual vision of the mind, as the apostle
declares. _Invisibilia ipsius; per ea quæ facta sunt, intellecta,
conspiciuntur._ His invisible perfections are disclosed to our
sight, being perceived by the intellect through those things which
are made. _Videmus nunc per speculum._ We see even now, although
only in a mirror. The scholastic philosophy is not identical with
any merely sensistic, conceptualistic, or empirical system. It
does not reduce ideas to mere abstractions, make philosophy a mere
induction from the results of experience, or the knowledge of God
by reason the sum of an aggregate mass of probabilities. It is
not in any wise a system of subjectivism. On the contrary, it is
objective in the highest sense of the term, and truly ontological,
the real _scientia entis_, and not an imaginary one like that of
the so-called ontologists. If this be so, the whole ground of the
prejudice against the Catholic peripatetic philosophy falls away,
and there is no reason to desert the common teaching of the schools
for any other doctrine, either ancient or modern.

The four great masters in philosophy are Plato, Aristotle, St.
Augustine, and St. Thomas. Plato is rather a teacher of theology
and ethics than of metaphysics. His doctrine concerning God, the
immortality of the soul, and the moral ideal, is in many respects
purer and more sublime than that of his pupil. Yet Aristotle
deserves _par excellence_ the title of the heathen philosopher. The
name of _the dæmon_ given to him by his fellow-pupils on account
of his wonderful intellect well expresses what he really was--the
greatest intellectual prodigy that has appeared in human history,
the real creator of logical and metaphysical science. St. Augustine
followed Plato rather than any other heathen philosopher, and does
not appear to have been acquainted with the works of Aristotle.
Yet his philosophy as a whole was original; it was chiefly his
theology under a rational aspect; it was by no means a complete
and distinct system. St. Thomas, with the Aristotelian system
as a plan and basis, built the vast and sublime structure of a
Catholic philosophy. Although it may be true that he derived his
knowledge of Plato chiefly from Aristotle, and the latter may have
misrepresented his master; yet, through St. Augustine, he obtained
all that was really valuable in Plato purified and improved; and
has thus incorporated into his system everything, whether pagan
or Christian, which tradition had brought down to his time. As
Aristotle is the dæmon, St. Thomas is the angel of philosophy. It
is difficult to compare his natural gifts with those of Aristotle
in such a way as to make a relative estimate of the genius of the
two men. But in actual wisdom, enlightened as he was by revelation
and the Christian luminaries of the ages which preceded him, and
elevated above the natural capacities of man by the gifts of the
Holy Ghost, he is like the bright mid-day sun compared to the pale
orb of night. All other stars in the firmament must be content to
shine as lesser lights, and the brightest among them are only his
planets. Metaphysical genius of the highest order is the rarest of
gifts. Clement of Alexandria thought that the Greek philosophy had
not arisen without a special act of the divine providence which
was preparing the way for Christian theology. When we consider the
wonderful work accomplished by Aristotle, and the manner in which
his philosophy has become blended with the theology of the church,
we cannot fail to recognize the hand of God making use of the
human intellect in its most consummate perfection as the servant
of the Eternal Word in his mission as the teacher of divine truth.
Much more must we recognize the same divine hand in the genius and
work of St. Thomas. God does his work once for all. The apostles
finished their special work, the fathers finished theirs, and we
can have no more apostles or fathers of the church. The doctors
have done their work, and, although they may have left room for
successors, yet this is not in the sense that their work is to be
done over again. We do not believe there can ever arise another
St. Thomas to reconstruct more perfectly the edifice of theology
and philosophy in those parts which he has built, and these are
its essential and principal parts. Of theology we need not speak
particularly. Of philosophy, the principal parts are those which
give a scientific exposition of the rational basis of theology;
that is, which treat scientifically of the objective reality
of the intelligible which the human intellect perceives by its
natural power; of the first principles of reason; of self-evident
and demonstrable truth; of the process by which the mind ascends
from the knowledge of things to the knowledge of their highest
and creative cause, from the creature to the Creator, from the
visible and ideal world to God, from the knowledge of God through
the creation to the knowledge of God through revelation. It is
precisely here, as we have shown, that the dispute lies between
scholastic philosophy and ontologism. And it is precisely what
we claim for scholastic philosophy, that it gives us the true
science of ideology and theodicy, which satisfies reason and
accords with faith, and is really that which is implicitly and
confusedly possessed by the common sense of all men, especially
of all Christians, in proportion to the degree in which reason
is developed and instructed. This has been proved in the most
thorough and ample manner by F. Liberatore in his great work
_Della Conoscenza Intelletuale_, F. Kleutgen in his _Philosophie
der Vorzeit_, and F. Ramière in his _Unité de l’Enseignement
Philosophique_, as well as in other recent works of the same kind.

We will endeavor to give a statement as succinct and clear as
possible of the scholastic theory, in order that its opposition to
every form of sensism, idealism, and ontologism may be apparent.

In thought or cognition, we find by analysis these three, the
subject, the object, and the intellectual light; as in vision we
have the visual faculty, light, and the visible object. The subject
is the human intellect; the primary, immediate object is the
intelligible in the sensible, or the essences of sensible things;
the light is intelligence. It is a primary maxim that nothing
is in the intellect which was not first in the sense. Sensible
experience is therefore the starting point of thought. The thought
itself is the result of an active operation of the intellect upon
a passive impression which it receives from the object. This
active operation produces a similitude of the object (species)
in the mind, by which it becomes cognizant of the object itself
as distinct from and extrinsic to the subject. The intelligible
essence which is in the sensible object is distinguished and made
the object of apprehension by the process of abstraction. In this
intelligible essence, or what is called in common parlance “the
nature of things,” are contained the fundamental notions which are
the first germs of all intellectual processes, the first product
of the act of abstraction which is the beginning of intellectual
activity in the infant. In these notions are given the first
principles, the self-evident principles, the axioms of reason;
and with these reason is able to start the discursive process,
by which it demonstrates conclusions from premises, which in the
last analysis are intellections _a priori_ and self-evident. By
this reasoning process, the existence and attributes of God are
proved from the rational and material universe by the principle
of causality, which is one of the self-evident principles.
Self-consciousness begins as soon as the mind takes note of itself
as acting, and thus the subject becomes objective to itself without
any need of a species or impressed similitude of itself, because
it is itself, and present to itself, and more vividly cognizant of
itself in acting than of anything exterior to itself. The notions
derived from reflection on its own operations are thus added to
those which are derived by abstraction from sensible objects. The
immediate perception terminates only on particular individual
objects, but the notions obtained by abstraction are universal,
whence it is necessary to define in what consists the objective
reality of these universals. The universal is defined by Aristotle
as that which is one, but having aptitude to be contained in many.
That is, it is _genus_, with whatever is included under genus, to
wit, species, differentia, essential and accidental propriety.
For instance, the notion of man is the notion of a nature which
is one, but apt to be contained in an indefinite number of men.
It includes the genus animal, the species rational animal, the
differentia rationality, the essential propriety, or the entire
human constitution, mental and physical, and, in respect to the
varieties of race, the accidental proprieties which distinguish
each one from the others. All particular and individual objects
of cognition can be classed under these five predicaments of the
universal. The universal itself has its formal existence and
reality, as universal, only in the intellect. It is a conception of
the mind, formed by abstraction from the concrete and particular.
It is not, however, a mere abstract conception, but an abstractive
conception. An abstract conception is one in which a quality is
considered as separated by thought from any particular subject in
which it has residence, as goodness or sweetness. An abstractive
conception, as that of the human species, is one formed from
the consideration of men actually existing, in whom the species
is actually individualized. The conception has, therefore, its
foundation in the real object of mental intuition, the individual
man, and in him the whole that is contained in the universal
conception really exists. The conception is universal, because the
intellect perceives the intrinsic possibility of an indefinite
multitude of men in the very essence of man, as made known by
the existence of any one man in particular. This possibility is
something necessarily and eternally true, which is disclosed to
the intellect by means of its outward expression and realization
in the human race. That is to say, it is a thought which has
been expressed and communicated, by an intelligence in which the
possibility eternally and essentially subsists, to the human
intelligence. The foundation of the universal conception is
therefore in God. It is in God as archetype of man, as the reason
of the possibility of man’s nature, and the cause of his existence.
But the idea in God is totally different from the conception in
the mind of man. God understands the possibility of the existence
of man in the vision of his own essence, as imitable in this
particular form, and of his own creative power. But man cannot see
this idea as it is in God; he cannot compare the human type with
its archetype. He can only produce an afterthought of the divine
thought itself, a copy or imitation of the divine idea, which is
wholly inaccessible to his immediate vision, and is only known to
him inasmuch as it is manifested through the created type.

Let us take another example, that of a triangle. The figure
drawn on the blackboard is the sensible object. The conception
of a triangle is the intelligible object formed by abstraction,
and universal. In this conception are contained the general
notions of a point, a line, an angle; and in these notions are
involved several self-evident principles or axioms. From these are
demonstrated the various mathematical propositions of trigonometry.
It is easy to see that, in the intellectual process of the pupil’s
mind, the genesis and development of the act of cognition of
mathematical truth is precisely what has been above described. In
an intelligent and well-developed mind, many of the steps of the
process may be made with such ease and rapidity that they appear
to be instantaneous, and the conceptions gained are so clear and
evident that they appear like innate or intuitive ideas. But they
are not so, and this is made manifest enough in the case of dull or
slow-minded pupils. The conception of the triangle, with all the
mathematical truth which it contains, is necessary, universal, and
eternal. It has, therefore, its foundation in necessary being, or
in the divine intelligence. But it is in God in an eminent mode,
and formally only in the human intellect. Geometrical truth is
founded in the essence of God, who is the archetype of the triangle
and of every other geometrical figure. But that which the triangle
imitates the human intellect cannot see; the divine idea in which
mathematical truth as apprehended by us is eminently contained is
inapprehensible by any created mind; and the procession of the
divine thoughts expressed in quantity and its relations in a manner
intelligible to us, from the divine essence, is as much above our
understanding as the procession of the Holy Spirit from the Father
and the Son. It is impossible to think of mathematical conceptions
except as having objective verity, and equally impossible to think
of them as identical with the ideal being of God; they must be,
therefore, as St. Thomas teaches, concrete only in particular
quantities, but in their universality, _conceptus mentis cum
fundamento in re_.

It is the same with the conceptions of time and space. These
conceptions come from the apprehension of things which succeed or
coexist with each other. Real time and space are relations of real
and finite things. Ideal time and space are necessarily conceived
as illimitable. It is equally evident that these conceptions of
illimitable time and space are not purely subjective categories of
the mind, and that they are not, in the formality which they have
in our mind, either eternal realities in themselves or identical
with God. They have a foundation in the divine essence, which we
can demonstrate to be nothing else than the infinite possibility
of being imitated in created existences. But this is a conclusion
of reason, and not an intuition of the divine essence as infinite
archetype. In our minds, the conceptions represent space and time
as boundless extended locality and boundless successive duration,
as Locke and Clarke have so clearly set forth, and as every one
knows by his own reflections. As conceptions of the universal, they
have their existence, therefore, only in the mind, while their
foundation is in reality. They presuppose and demand an eternal
thinker and an eternal thought; we can see immediately neither
the thought nor the thinker as they are in themselves, but we
behold both mediately by the conceptions of the universal and the
necessary; which reflect in our minds the eternal thought of the
eternal thinker, the eternal idea of the eternal God.

In point of fact, ontologists are obliged to admit that the process
of the act of the cognition of the infinite is historically the
same in substance with that which we have just explained. Their
immediate ideal intuition is something involute and out of the
reach of consciousness, until contact with sensible objects,
reflection, experience and instruction bring it into the state of
evolution. On the one hand, this proves that it has no existence,
except in their own imagination. An innate or intuitive idea of
God would make his infinite splendor to shine on the mind with
such incessant and dazzling splendor, that the sunlight would
appear as darkness, and finite things as nonentities, before it.
It would be impossible to doubt or to forget it, if it existed.
On the other hand, this shows that the scholastic theory of the
origin of ideas and knowledge adequately expresses everything
which they can reasonably desire in respect to the relation of the
intellect to the infinite, or real and necessary being, as the
object of cognition. The idea of the infinite and the knowledge of
God are _virtually_ in the intellect, because the light of reason,
a participation of the divine light, gives it the potentiality
which can be reduced to act by union with the intelligible object.
The theory which ascribes to the newly created soul something
besides its rational capacity, which it brings with it as a kind of
form to vivify the sensible object, or keeps as a distinct ideal
object within itself, is wholly unnecessary and superfluous. It
is, moreover, not in accordance with the true doctrine respecting
the human soul as _forma corporis_. It belongs rather to that
imperfect philosophy which ascribes to the soul in this life a
separate and independent subsistence, into which the body does not
enter as an integral part of the personality, but which it merely
serves as a machine. The scholastic doctrine preserves the unity of
the essence and the operation of man, as a rational animal. That
an intellectual operation should begin from our senses, and the
mind commence its existence in its rudimental body as a _tabula
rasa_, is in accordance with our humble position in the natural
order. The capacity for gaining knowledge by the slow process of
experience and discursion is all that we have any right to claim
for ourselves. It is enough for us that we are rational, that “the
light of God’s countenance is signed upon us” by the impress
of an image of his intelligence upon our souls; and that we are
enlightened by “that light which enlighteneth every man coming
into this world” by receiving the power to know God as manifested
in his works. We are certainly a “little lower than the angels,”
who have no natural vision of God in his essence, and how are we
essentially inferior to them, except in the necessity of beginning
the process of intellectual cognition from the apprehension of
sensible objects? It still remains true that God is both the
author and the object of knowledge even in the natural order,
and that we naturally tend to the contemplation of his being and
perfections. But this process carried on for eternity could never
bring us to a point where we could obtain the faintest glimpse of
an intuitive vision of the divine essence. The capacity to attain
to this vision is wholly gratuitous and supernatural, a gift of
grace, an elevation of our nature above itself, and above the
angelic nature to a similitude with the divine nature. The actual
vision is reserved for the state of glory in which the blessed see
God in himself and all things in God. The scholastic philosophy
is therefore in conformity with Catholic theology, and a proper
preparation for studying and understanding this sublime science.
Every other system is either in discord with it, or deficient
in the perfect logical concord which ought to make the inferior
harmonize completely with the superior science.

The revival of scholastic philosophy, and the general consent with
which, in all parts of the world, those who lead in the great
work of Catholic education and instruction are uniting together
in promoting its study and exposition, are a most hopeful sign
for the coming age. It is especially encouraging to witness this
revival in Germany; and to see the powerful and heavily panoplied
champions of orthodox theology and sound philosophy coming forth
from the German schools, to meet and overthrow the boastful giants
of that land of colossal intelligence and learning; who defy the
armies of the living God and aim at an imperial domination over
the world of science, as its statesmen and warriors do over the
political world. They are but giants of condensed cloud, like
the genii of Arabian fable who escaped from the bottles of King
Solomon. The wisdom of Solomon subdued these genii, and it is the
true wisdom, _sapientia_, which must subdue the cloudy giants
of critical, historical, and philosophical sophistry; the Bruno
Bauers, Strausses, Döllingers, Kants, Hegels, and Büchners, who
make war on the old Bible, the old church, the old religion, the
old philosophy, the old God of Germany and Christendom. A nephew
of Hegel and pupil of Feuerbach asked the latter what was to be
done next, since the Kantian philosophy had ended in the complete
dissolution of all science. The reply was, that we must return to
common sense. The pupil followed the advice by returning to the
old God and the old religion. To bring back the next generation to
this old religion, and to educate in it the youth who have received
it by their baptism in the church, is the great task of Catholic
teachers. This can be done only by the aid of the old philosophy.
The attempts made everywhere, but especially in Germany, to do
this by a new philosophy and a new theology are all failures, and
end only in betraying the whole cause of the church to the enemy.
Those Catholic scholars of Germany who are sound and strong alike
in their faith and in their science are beginning to see this, and
are returning to the philosophy of the Angelic Doctor as the only
fit companion to theology, the true wisdom in the rational order.
Those who become the interpreters and teachers of this wisdom to
the young are the most valuable and efficient of all laborers in
the field of divine philosophy. They need to be thoroughly learned
both in theology and philosophy, and at the same time to have a
special gift for teaching and explaining doctrine in a condensed,
lucid, and attractive manner.

In all these respects, Dr. Stöckl is pre-eminent. He has the
vast and solid erudition of the great German scholars. He has,
moreover, an intellect which is remarkable both for strength and
clearness, a masterly reasoning faculty, great talent cultivated
by long experience for instructing young students, and a style
which represents his thoughts with the precision of a photograph.
The German language is, moreover, of such a nature that, while it
reproduces exactly the Latin terminology of scholastic writers, it
brings out the idea in a new and fresh form, in which it becomes
more intelligible to those who belong to the Teutonic race than
it is in the Latin dress. We have never yet met with a manual of
philosophy which seems to us so perfectly satisfactory as the
_Manual_ of Dr. Stöckl; and the speedy call for a second edition
which followed its publication, as well as the praise given to it
by competent authorities, proves that it has met the want which
has been felt in Germany as in Great Britain and America. Besides
the ordinary topics which are treated in our text-books, it
contains also treatises on political and social morals, and has a
companion volume of small size which contains a masterly treatise
on “Æsthetics.” We have noticed it especially for the purpose of
recommending it to the examination of those who are engaged in
promoting the study of the scholastic philosophy, as a suitable
work to be translated into English for the use of students. It is
perhaps too large for a college text-book. It contains about one
thousand pages octavo, and would require two years’ study, with an
ordinary class, to be properly mastered, in connection with the
_Manual of the History of Philosophy_, which is a volume of equal
size. Nevertheless, although a smaller text-book is needed for
the majority of pupils, this one would make an admirable work of
reference for more advanced scholars, and supply the other needs
which we have pointed out in the earlier part of our article as
calling for a book of this kind in the English language. The great
cost of translation and publication, coupled with the risk of a
small sale, makes it somewhat difficult to undertake the task we
have suggested as desirable. It cannot be done, of course, without
the author’s permission, which, we suppose, he will readily grant
to those who can give the proper guarantee for the faithful and
scholarly performance of the work. We intended, when sitting down
to begin this article, to make only a brief introduction of our own
to a translation of the author’s chapter on the “Origin of Ideas,”
as a specimen of the work. But we have not done so, as the reader
knows, and have been unwittingly led on over such a length of space
that we have left no room for any citations from the author, or
minute review of the different parts of his philosophy. We trust
that he will become speedily known to all lovers of the philosophy
of St. Thomas, which he has so ably presented and defended, and
we are sure that he needs only to be known to be most highly
appreciated.

FOOTNOTE:

[74] _Lehrbuch der Philosophie._ Von Dr. Albert Stöckl, ord.
Professor der Philosophie an der Akademie Münster. Mainz: F.
Kirchheim. 1869.




FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.


PART SECOND.

THE TRIAL.


XVI.

“The princess begs Mademoiselle Gabrielle to descend.” This message
was brought Fleurange by one of the servants of the princess, whose
attendants were a German valet de chambre, an Italian courier,
and a Russian waiting-maid. The latter, named Varinka, literally
belonged to the princess, being her slave. But Varinka, skilful and
intelligent like all the Russians of her class, kindly treated by
her mistress, to whom she was faithfully attached, and clothed in
her cast-off garments, did not look upon her condition as in the
least humiliating. In French she was called Mademoiselle Barbe,
in Italian the Signora Barbara, and she considered herself, and
indeed was regarded, as one of the most accomplished of servants.
Extremely exacting of all who were beneath her, and inclined
to be jealous of those she considered her equals, she at first
wished to class the princess’ new _demoiselle de compagnie_ among
the latter. But Fleurange, without even observing this, knew how
to take the place that belonged to her, and oblige Mademoiselle
Barbe to maintain a respectful deportment towards her. Barbara was
consequently inclined to dislike her, but, after some attentive
observation, she had sufficient wit to refrain. The fact was,
Fleurange’s activity relieved her from a part of her cares without
increasing them in the least (for the young girl never required
any one’s assistance), and used her influence in a way which every
one else profited by as well as Barbara. When the Princess was
recovering from one of the attacks of physical suffering that
all at once showed how unavailing were the comforts, luxuries,
and attentions that surrounded her, she dwelt constantly on her
illness, its cause, duration, and probable or improbable cure, and
under the influence of this preoccupation she became capricious,
whimsical, and almost impossible to satisfy. No one had ever
succeeded so well as Fleurange. Mademoiselle Barbe could not help
acknowledging, “She really has all the trouble of keeping madame in
a good humor, and we the benefit of it,” and this plain reasoning
made her decide to live at peace with the new-comer, and take
all possible advantage of the accommodating turn she noticed in
Fleurange, who thus unwittingly disarmed her enemy and converted
her into an ally, and almost a friend.

The princess’ message, which put an end to the young girl’s
pleasant dreams, was, it must be acknowledged, merely an invention
of Mademoiselle Barbe’s, who, being told by the courier it was
very delightful on deck, was suddenly seized with the desire of a
walk by moonlight. With this end in view, she sent the courier for
Fleurange. As before stated, she was sure Mademoiselle Gabrielle
would come down immediately without making any objections or asking
any questions, which was one of her meritorious qualities in the
eyes of this sagacious servant. “That young lady does not meddle
with what does not concern her, which, I must acknowledge, is very
agreeable,” she said.

As she had foreseen, Fleurange left her seat in the open air
without any objection, and went down to the ladies’ cabin, of
which the princess had exclusive possession. She found the invalid
asleep, and quietly took a seat beside her without questioning the
exactness of the message she had just received. Throwing off the
cloak she wore, she said: “Here, Barbara, put on this, if you like,
and go up and take the air. It is delightful on deck.”

It was by such pleasing good humor she had unintentionally made a
conquest of one who naturally regarded Fleurange as a rival, and
this, above all the qualities she possessed, was the charm that had
most power over the princess, and changed the sudden infatuation to
which she was liable (like most of the ladies of her country) into
something deeper and more permanent.

The Princess Catherine was lying on a couch, her head propped up
by several cushions, and her feet covered with a cashmere shawl.
In spite of her age and ill health, which had changed the outlines
of her face and form, beauty and grace had not disappeared without
leaving on her person traces much less fleeting than beauty itself.
Fleurange, looking at her face by the light of a lamp suspended
from the ceiling, could not help admiring her noble brow, and the
expressiveness as well as the still remarkable delicacy of her
features. Suddenly, as she thus sat contemplating her with more
attention than ever before, it seemed as if the face before her
awoke some indistinct remembrance--but before she could grasp the
idea that suddenly came into her mind, the princess opened her
eyes. Seeing Fleurange beside her, she smiled, and extended her
beautiful hand.

“You here, Gabrielle?” she said. “So much the better.”

“I was told you wanted me.”

“No; but I am very glad you are here.”

Fleurange bent down, and kissed the hand she held with an impulse
more affectionate than she had ever felt towards her before. The
princess seemed touched, and pressed her hand in return without
speaking. Then she went to sleep again. Fleurange remained with her
eyes fastened on her a long time, then she too lay down on a couch
at the other end of the cabin, to pass away the few hours that yet
remained before their arrival at Leghorn, which would be about
daybreak.

At that time, long before the era of railways, the route from
Leghorn to Florence, a long and dusty one, was not always traversed
in a single day, and our travellers stopped at Pisa for the
night. The princess no longer felt any interest in the places
she had visited so many times. She had only one wish, and that
was--to rest, and, once rested, to resume the journey. But it was
quite otherwise with Fleurange. Pisa was her birthplace. In Pisa
lay buried the mother she never knew. Here her father brought
her during the few happy days they passed together. How many
vicissitudes her young life had passed through since that time! How
many sorrows and joys she had experienced! How many ties she had
formed and broken! And with what interest she already dwelt on the
past at an age when others are only thinking of the future! As soon
as it was light, long before the princess awoke, Fleurange went to
pray beside her mother’s grave. Then she directed her steps towards
the Campo Santo, around which she slowly walked. Of all the places
she visited with her father, this was the one of which she retained
the most vivid recollection. The paintings of the Campo Santo are
like a poem which it is impossible to understand if ignorant of the
language in which it is written. This language she learned from her
father, and had not been allowed to forget it in her uncle’s house.
She remembered that her cousin, without ever having visited this
spot, was as familiar with all the paintings as herself. “How much
poor Clement would enjoy all these beauties of nature and art, and
these scenes of historic interest!” she said to herself. “How much
he would enjoy Italy!”

She might have added that, like many of his countrymen, he already
knew and loved

              “The land where the lemon-trees bloom,”

without ever having seen it. Many Germans have loved it with a
profound and material passion, fatal when satisfied by violent
possession, but reciprocated and fruitful when the forced and
hated union was broken and gave place to voluntary and acceptable
alliance.

Leaving the Campo Santo, Fleurange went into the church, the
wonderful Cathedral of Pisa, which cannot be compared to any other;
for, if there are any finer, it is doubted or forgotten as soon
as this is entered. Here Fleurange heard Mass, after which she
remained a long time on her knees, praying, thinking of all those
she loved, and looking around: and all this without losing her
spirit of devotion. This may appear strange to those who wish to
confine the soul’s impulse towards God within narrow and rigid
limits. It is nevertheless certain that, in a simple and upright
heart, a good will, a more ardent love of the eternal goodness, the
resolutions so properly called a firm purpose of amendment, all
these effects of prayer often spring from what does not naturally
seem destined to produce them. In those lands where religion and
the arts go hand in hand, and where the inspiration which guides
the painter and the architect is the same that draws the believer
to the foot of the altar, it often happens that a glance at a
fresco or painting aids the soul more than a sermon in its upward
flight, and in accomplishing the very act for which it is prostrate
before God.

It was thus Fleurange, kneeling on the pavement, holding her
closed book in her hand, meditated, looked around, and prayed.
Among the thoughts floating in her mind, there was one especially
which seemed to harmonize with everything around her: it was the
remembrance of the cloister of Santa Maria, and the friend of her
early childhood, whose features at this moment seemed to beam out
of some of the holy faces on the walls around her. She was once
more beneath the same sky, and sufficiently near to cherish a hope
of seeing her. At this thought her eyes overflowed with tears.
The remembrance of her childhood prevailed over all others, and
rendered her prayer more concentrated and more fervent.

Mild and saintly Madre Maddalena!--perhaps at this same hour you,
too, were praying--praying for the child that was still dear to
you: perhaps, afar off, you echoed her prayer and made it more
efficacious--the oft-recurring prayer now on Fleurange’s lips as
she was about to leave the church: “Our Father, ... lead us not
into temptation, but deliver us from evil!”


XVII.

For the first time since her illness, the princess rose above her
languor, and resumed the faculty of talking of something besides
herself. As they drew near the end of their journey, Fleurange
perceived she knew how to converse, and that the indifference she
sometimes manifested to what seemed most worthy of interest was
not the result of ignorance, but simply a preference for something
else. Like other people, she admired monuments, galleries, splendid
churches, and museums, but she preferred the shops where she could
procure the rarities she had a taste for, and liked to adorn her
house with for the admiration of others. She enjoyed the brilliant
sky of Italy and the comfort of its mild climate, so necessary to
her health; but, if these advantages had not been accompanied by a
sumptuous palace and a large circle of fashionable acquaintances,
she would have regarded her expatriation as an exile, and found
it but slightly mitigated by all the wonders of nature and art by
which she was surrounded.

Their journey at last came to an end. The princess descended from
her carriage at the foot of the magnificent entrance to her palace,
so overjoyed at finding herself once more at home that the last
traces of her recent malady disappeared as if by enchantment.

Numerous servants relieved Fleurange from the care of the light
baggage with which the princess’ carriage was always encumbered,
and she hastily followed her protectress up the broad steps
of white marble that led to the first story. Here a vast hall
ornamented with statues opened into apartments whose splendor
surprised the young girl. She had already visited more than one
palace in Italy with a similar display of grand proportions,
frescoes, ceilings richly painted and gilded, but she had never
seen anything comparable to the luxury of the furniture and the
richness of the long suite of rooms through which they passed. When
the princess came to the last, she stopped. This salon, smaller
than the others, opened, as well as the one next it, upon a large
covered terrace with frescoed arches, which, filled with flowers,
rare plants, and seats of all forms and sizes, resembled a garden
screened from the sun, and formed an appendage to the elegant
apartment they had just entered, which was the princess’ private
sitting-room. A table loaded with fruit-cake and ices stood in
the centre of the room. The princess threw herself on a _chaise
longue_. “We dine late,” said she. “I will take a biscuit and an
ice. Eat something also yourself. But first take off your hat, lay
down your satchel, and rest yourself. It is exceedingly warm.”

Fleurange attended to the princess’ wants, and then very willingly
took a slight repast, which the heat of the mid-day hour made quite
acceptable. While she stood taking an ice, the princess opened the
pile of notes and letters on a small table near her. She read the
notes first.

“Well, there are more people here than I expected. So much the
better! Let me look over my cards.”

She read out a succession of names of people from various
countries, with a running commentary on each which would have given
the impression that these people she was so glad to find again were
individually perfectly indifferent to her. Then she took up her
letters.

“Ah! at last!” she exclaimed, tearing open a large envelope. “Let
me see the date.--Now I am relieved!--Thank heaven, he is still
there!” She read about a page, and then suddenly cried: “In less
than a month? What, in less than a month?” Then she finished the
letter in silence, and afterward remained a long time without
speaking, but with an anxious and thoughtful look.

“Ah! Gabrielle, are you still here?” she said, rousing at last from
her reverie. “I beg your pardon.” She rang. “You must be shown to
your room. I advise you to take some repose. I shall do the same.
We shall see each other again at seven o’clock, which is my hour. I
expect hardly any one to-day, and shall wear my morning dress.”

Fleurange, thus dismissed, gladly followed the valet de chambre,
who answered the bell, through the salons and up the grand
staircase to the second story where her chamber was. There he left
her with a respectful bow, after pointing out the corridor that
gave access to the princess’ apartments without the necessity of
passing through any of the rooms.

The chamber to which she was taken was handsome and spacious,
but it seemed rather ornamented than furnished. Its size, its
painting and gilding would have allowed much more and much richer
furniture. But such as it was, it pleased the young girl’s fancy.
The broad and lofty window in a deep embrasure admitted floods
of light, but would have afforded no other view than the sky, if
three stone steps had not made it accessible. From the upper step
the eye looked down upon the interior court of the palace, which
resembled a cloister with its light colonnade. A limpid stream
flowed from a white marble fountain in the midst of velvet-like
turf and surrounded by rhododendrons. Birds were warbling in a
large aviary. All these things combined to make up a soft, pleasing
picture, crowned by the azure vault of heaven--a picture singularly
quiet and dreamy, and Fleurange remained a long time seated on a
stone seat within the embrasure, allowing her thoughts to wander,
as often happened, in vague regions, until a servant with her trunk
reminded her it was time to descend in more than one sense from her
elevation, and proceed to the matter-of-fact task of unpacking and
arranging her effects. About to commence, she found she had left
her satchel in the salon. As it contained her keys, she was obliged
to go for it, and she took the short passage which led directly
to the princess’ sitting-room; but, instead of returning the same
way, she could not resist the desire of examining again, alone
and at leisure, the sumptuous rooms she had only passed through
before. She went leisurely through them, admiring as she went, with
a mixture of childlike curiosity and an innate perception of the
beautiful, all the objects that were collected here in uncommon
profusion; but, notwithstanding the exquisite taste displayed, she
could not help observing the ostentation, which by contrast vividly
recalled the remembrance of the Old Mansion--the dear Old Mansion!
where simplicity was so happily combined with the magnificence of
art, where everything that charmed the eye appealed to the soul,
inspired serenity and peace, and inclined one to application and
study; whereas here, what met the eye and struck the attention
spoke of amusement, luxury, and pride.

This comparison made Fleurange melancholy. She ceased looking
around with interest, and was about to return to her chamber by
the grand stairway without continuing her explorations, when, in
crossing the hall, a large half-opened door opposite attracted
her attention, and she yielded to the curiosity of glancing into
the only apartment she had not seen. She pushed the door open,
and entered a room equally as large as the others, but which
seemed rather a study-room than a salon. The half-open shutters
allowed the volumes in Russia leather that lined the walls to be
seen, as well as the ebony book-cases on all sides. Furniture
systematically arranged and protected by coverings, tables loaded
with books placed in order as if no one had touched them for a
long time, everything showed this room was unoccupied, and had
not, like the rest, been prepared for the return of the mistress
of the house; but a certain atmosphere of studious repose pervaded
it which was more in conformity with Fleurange’s real tastes than
all the magnificence she had just beheld. She therefore advanced
some steps, looking around, and, the better to see the objects
scarcely to be distinguished in the obscurity, she went to one
of the windows and ventured to throw the shutters entirely open.
The strong light which at once filled the room revealed a picture
before her which she had not previously noticed. She glanced at
it, and--it is impossible to describe her feelings!--She could not
herself have found words to express her extreme astonishment and
the overpowering emotion that made her turn pale and then red
as she almost fell.--The picture thus suddenly revealed to her
was that which had played so important a part in her life--her
father’s last work--in a word, the Cordelia for which she had sat
so long ago, and which she had never heard mentioned since without
agitation!

For some moments she was overpowered by a thousand thoughts rushing
over her--thoughts similar to those she had so successfully
banished some months before by a supreme effort. It is not
astonishing they should be involuntarily reawakened now. The lively
curiosity with which she was filled was excusable, as well as her
impatience to know how this picture came here, and whose room
it was.--She felt she should soon know, and, with a heart still
throbbing, she closed the shutters, and softly left the room in
which she had just beheld this unexpected apparition, as it were.

She crossed the hall, and was at the foot of the stairs when she
met Mademoiselle Barbe in a great hurry, and in that stage of
fatigue bordering on ill-humor which, on a day of departure or
arrival, is to be seen (and not wholly without reason) in those on
whom rests the weight of packing and unpacking. Fleurange stopped
her nevertheless, having resolved to ask an explanation of the
first person she met.

“Barbara,” she said, “I have been examining all the rooms.”

These words brought a smile to the servant’s face, for she prided
herself on the splendor of her mistress’ palace.

“We are well quartered, aren’t we?” she said, with an air of
satisfaction.

“Yes, quite. Does the whole palace belong to the princess?”

“Certainly, from the garret to the cellar.”

“And she lives here alone?”

“Alone, of course, with Monsieur le Comte.”

“The count?”

“Yes; her son, who always lives with her when here. There--in that
room,” said she, pointing towards the door Fleurange had just
closed.

“Her son! What is his name?”

“Count George de Walden.”

“Count George de Walden?” echoed Fleurange, as if in a dream.

“Why, yes; that was the name of the princess’ first husband. Did
you not know it?”

“No, I did not.”

“He died young--that one. Madame, too, was young. She mourned for
him a long time, and then married again, but had no more children.
The prince is dead also, but--”

Just at that moment a servant appeared with an armful of packages
of all sizes, one of which fell from his hand. Barbara left
Fleurange abruptly, and sought relief from her fatigue in a severe
reprimand to the awkward man, more tired than herself.


XVIII.

Fleurange returned to her seat on the top of the three steps that
led to her window, and was again looking down on the quiet and
secluded court. But what a change had been wrought in her feelings
since she sat there half an hour before! What contrast between
this tranquil scene, which then harmonized so perfectly with the
serenity of her thoughts, and her present agitation of mind! She
endeavored to be calm, but for some time could not succeed. Was the
emotion caused by this unexpected discovery surprise and joy, or
regret and fear? She could not clearly decide, but it was a mixture
of all these different sensations; and she gave herself up for a
time to be buffeted by a whirlwind of contradictory thoughts. By
degrees they at last became clearer and more distinct. Fleurange
recalled the last time she heard Count George’s name mentioned, as
well as the resolution she made that day. That resolution had been
easily kept, thanks to all that had since happened to divert and
absorb her attention. She must still remain faithful to it under
entirely different circumstances. It was, however, no longer a
question of forgetting the very name of Count George, as she was
doubtless to see him, know him, and live under the same roof. But
what she must impress most seriously on her mind was--that he would
be as widely separated from her here in his mother’s house as when
he only lived in the world of her dreams. This of course would
be extremely difficult, but it was evidently a duty she owed to
herself. This point once established, her course was plain.

The gentle hand that guided her childhood did not try to extinguish
the exquisite though somewhat dangerous qualities with which she
was gifted. She did not stifle the liveliness of her imagination,
or the ardent tenderness of her heart, or the tendency of her
sentiments to extremes.

Madre Maddalena considered these precious gifts only dangerous in
the absence of two other qualities which she sought to develop in
Fleurange, with a care only comparable to that which is used (in
an inferior sense) in developing the human voice, and transforming
it into an instrument at once powerful, harmonious, and almost
divine. However musical a voice may be, one cannot sing without
correctness of ear, and the power of sustaining its clearness for
a long time without faltering. The divine harmony of the human
faculties also depends on the correctness with which the word
_duty_ is echoed in the soul, and the strength of character to
act upon it unhesitatingly and unfalteringly. These were the two
qualities that overruled all others in Fleurange’s nature, and had
hitherto preserved her from the dangers to which the others exposed
her.

More than two hours passed away: the shadows of the columns grew
longer beneath the portico: the evening star, herald of holy
thoughts in Fleurange’s soul, came out clear and brilliant in the
cloudless sky, reminding her of her accustomed prayer. She had
hardly finished it when the clock struck and abruptly recalled the
young girl to herself. She hastily opened her trunk, changed her
dress, and entered the dining-room the very moment the Princess
Catherine appeared.

Fleurange wore a plain dress of black silk. In the present state
of her wardrobe, she would have been embarrassed if required to
increase the elegance of her toilet, but she had not thought of
it on the present occasion, after hearing the princess say she
intended dining in her morning dress. She was, therefore, somewhat
surprised to see the garment thus designated was a flowing robe
of white cashmere richly embroidered with gold. Her coiffure was
a tissue of lace and gold, and she wore on her neck six strings
of magnificent pearls which hung down over her waist. But what
surprised and disconcerted the young girl more was the dissatisfied
look the princess gave her when she appeared. It was the first time
the kind and cordial greeting to which she had become accustomed
was wanting.

But it was no time to give or receive any explanations, for the
princess was not alone. There were two or three guests whose names
Fleurange afterwards learned: an old _savant_ named Dom Pomponio;
Signor Livio, a young artist: and the Marquis Trombelli, who was
somewhat of a bore. To tell the truth, they occupied an inferior
rank among the _habitués_ of the palace, but they preserved the
mistress of the house from the mortification of seeing the products
of her cook’s skill waste their sweetness on the desert air, as
well as the danger of dining without a sufficient number of guests
in a vast room, where a _tête-à-tête_ with Fleurange would have
been unsatisfactory. Not that she was by any means indifferent to
the quality of those she received in her drawing-rooms, but with
respect to her _convives_ she attached almost as much importance
to their number as to their worth, and only required in return the
ability of appreciating the exquisite dishes placed before them.

Notwithstanding the simplicity of her dress, Fleurange did not
escape notice. The man of letters talked a little more than usual
with the hope of dazzling her; the marquis directed his eye-glass
towards her several times; and the young artist ventured on some
words complimentary in their tone, but as she only replied in
monosyllables the conversation languished. The evening seemed long,
and the princess had yawned more than once, when she was suddenly
roused at hearing announced--the Marquis Adelardi! She made a
joyful exclamation.

The gentleman who appeared was about forty years of age. Fleurange
afterwards learned he was a Milanais. She immediately perceived
he was one of those men who converse well on every subject, and
know how to excite an interest in what they are talking about,
whether it be fashionable gossip, a political novelty, or a social
and literary question, and who have no other fault than that of
treating these subjects as if they were all of equal interest!

The atmosphere of the room at once changed. The Marquis Adelardi
had not been there a quarter of an hour before he found means of
setting off the indifferent elements of the circle to the best
advantage, making each one talk of what he knew the best. He passed
from politics to history, from the sciences to the arts, showing
himself capable of conversing on all these subjects, if not of
sounding their depths.

Fleurange silently listened to this conversation, which amused
her, but her interest redoubled and changed its nature when the
new-comer, drawing near the princess’ arm-chair, said:

“And when are we to see our George again?”

The princess replied in a pleased and yet half-anxious tone: “We
shall see him again soon, for the letter I received from him this
morning, written at St. Petersburg, announced his return at the end
of this month.”

“So much the better, I miss him everywhere, and every way, here.”

“And I assure you I do also, as you may imagine,” said the
princess, with a thoughtful air, as she played with her necklace of
pearls. “Nevertheless, Adelardi, you know as well as I it would be
better for him to remain where he is till the end of the year.”

“Come, my dear princess, give it up. I advise you to abandon the
idea of making a courtier of George.”

“That is not the only point.”

“Yes, I understand. You think the fair Vera--” Here the marquis
leaned forward, and exchanged some words with the princess in a low
tone. Fleurange only heard these: “And you know this is my only
wish.” It was the princess who spoke.

“And he?” said the marquis.

“He! You know him well.”

“But that is precisely the reason I should not have supposed him
insensible to such attractions as hers.”

“Yes, indeed, but it is never sure he is not absorbed by some fancy
not to be foreseen. Moreover, I believe if she had not been at
court--” Here the princess again lowered her voice.

“Do not worry. He will yield at last.”

“I truly hope so, but meanwhile acknowledge it would be better for
him not to return.”

“Yes and no. I am not sure it is very judicious to expose him to
compromise himself, as he is always tempted to do.”

The princess looked very grave. “You are right from that point of
view,” said she. “He really terrifies me often. But I think he
would become more prudent if obliged to be so. It is a necessity of
which one is at last convinced by living in Russia.”

The conversation was continued for some time in a low tone. Then
the princess declared herself fatigued, and an exception was made
to her custom of prolonging the evening to a late hour, and they
all retired.

Fleurange was about to do the same when the princess stopped her
and asked the reason of her simplicity of dress. “I am particularly
desirous,” she said, “that they who in some sort aid me in doing
the honors of my salon should be dressed stylishly--and I pay them
accordingly,” she added with the want of delicacy sometimes to be
remarked even in well-bred ladies with regard to their dependents.
It was a fault the princess was not often guilty of, but this side
of her nature became apparent when she was in a bad humor.

Fleurange blushed. “I beg your pardon, princess,” said she, “but I
cannot comply with your request--I cannot,” she repeated, her eyes
filling with great tears.

“What does all this mean?”

Fleurange hesitated an instant, but, obedient to her impulses,
always frank and simple, she related what the princess had hitherto
been ignorant of--the ruin of her family, and the motive that had
induced her to accept the place she now occupied.

“If I am obliged to expend the money I receive from you in
adorning my person; if I can only aid my relatives at the risk
of displeasing you, then--then--” And her voice faltered. “Alas!
madame, I should be obliged to seek elsewhere the means of--”

The princess did not allow her to finish. The young girl’s accent,
as she gave her simple account, excited her sympathies; her
dissatisfaction vanished, and the result of this little scene was
that Fleurange was allowed not only to dispose of a part of her
salary as she pleased, but the whole, on one condition, which the
princess insisted upon, and to which Fleurange was at length forced
to consent--that the princess, and she alone, should have the
direction of her young companion’s dress and ornaments.

From that time Fleurange was profusely provided with all that
could satisfy the singular requirement of her protectress, and at
the same time gratify her generosity, keenly stimulated by her
interest in the account she had just heard. Fleurange yielded with
a mixture of gratitude and repugnance, endeavoring to reconcile the
simplicity of her tastes with the elegant taste of the princess.
The result, however, was that, when she appeared for the first time
in public, the effect she produced far surpassed the expectations
of her who seemed to attach so much importance to enhancing her
beauty.

Elegance and luxury seemed really to be necessary elements of the
Princess Catherine’s existence, and as an inferior article of
furniture or hangings of any plainness would have been considered
out of place in her apartments, so Fleurange’s simple black dress
would have marred the prevailing harmony, and she regarded it as
a matter of importance to change what injured the general effect.
But she was by no means disposed Fleurange should cease to be her
_protégée_, which gratified her pride as well as her kind heart.

If the somewhat too enthusiastic homage paid the young girl at
her first appearance had been sought or even welcomed by her, the
princess’ humor would doubtless have been affected by it; but the
dignified modesty of Fleurange’s deportment soon modified the
admiration whose incense would only have troubled the purity and
elevation of her heart had vanity given it entrance.

Fleurange was not vain. This was one of her charms, and at the same
time a safeguard.

The princess’ observant eye soon assured her there was no cause for
fear. This increased her confidence in Fleurange, which soon became
boundless. It was the height of her wishes to be attended by one
whose beauty added to the attractions of her salon and gave her no
anxiety as to the consequences; to enjoy, herself, the charm of
Fleurange’s presence, her activity, and a thousand little talents
which made her useful at every turn; and this without requiring the
least vigilance on the part of herself, which would have greatly
annoyed her. She was glad she could now be indolent at her ease.
Fleurange wrote her notes, arranged her flowers, and completed
work she zealously commenced and then abandoned, and afterwards
complacently showed as her own. Fleurange was also ready to read to
her, with her harmonious voice and expression only the more rare
because perfectly natural, sometimes Italian or German poetry, and
sometimes articles in the reviews and journals; then, at the hour
of receiving visits, she was glad to absent herself, unless the
princess invited her to remain or sent for her. By thus following
her own judgment, she unwittingly fulfilled the secret wishes of
the princess, who was perhaps better pleased with the tact with
which she knew how to anticipate her desires than the promptness of
her obedience.

Meanwhile the days passed away, and it was more than a month since
their arrival at Florence. During this time Count George’s name was
mentioned a thousand times in Fleurange’s presence, but it ceased
to produce the effect she once wisely resolved to resist. Sometimes
she smiled to herself as she thought it possible, after knowing
him, she might be greatly astonished at his ever having occupied
her thoughts to such an extent. “Phantoms always vanish, they say,
when we approach and look them in the face.”

Such was the thought that crossed her mind, one morning, as she sat
alone in the small salon. The princess had gone out, and Fleurange
was seated at an embroidery frame completing some work. The thought
just mentioned was suggested by the news received that morning of
the certain arrival of Count George by the end of the week.

“Yes, reality puts all fancies to flight; and it is very probable,”
she continued, pursuing the course of her reflections, “when I
know him better--” She was suddenly interrupted by the noise of
hasty steps in the next apartment. Generally, no one came that way
without being announced. Surprised, Fleurange hastily rose to leave
the room according to her custom, but had scarcely started when she
found herself face to face with the person who entered.

It was he--yes, _he_--Count George!

She had not time to define her sensations. The effect she herself
produced surprised her, or, to speak more correctly, terrified her
so much that she remained motionless, silent, and astonished.

“Fleurange!--Great God! is it possible! Is it true? Fleurange!”
repeated he with an emotion more profound than that of joy. His
voice, no less than his features, was graven on the memory of
her who heard it. The name, the almost forgotten name of her
childhood, uttered in such a tone; the hand that grasped her own
as that of a friend he had found again, but with a look that made
Fleurange instinctively withdraw her eyes; his rapid questions,
incoherent replies, the eager, tender, passionate tone of his
words--everything in this meeting was sudden, ardent, and dangerous
as lightning!

A carriage was now heard; but, before the Princess Catherine
entered the salon, Fleurange had reached her chamber, pale and
ready to faint.

All the unreasonableness, the madness almost, of her former
thoughts, all that had seemed impossible, was in an instant
transformed into a sudden, unforeseen, and dangerous reality! What
had she just heard? What did he say? What! The thought of her had
followed him for a year; he had endeavored to banish it, but had
not succeeded; and now he had returned decided to make every effort
to find her again--to behold her once more whose image had been
constantly present in his mind!

Yes, he said all this!--And what she heard was the counterpart of
what she herself had felt and struggled against.--Poor Fleurange!
was it joy her pale and troubled face expressed? Was it a transport
of pride, or of tenderness, that caused her heart to beat so
painfully? Was it happiness that made her shed such a torrent of
tears?

Oh! no, the words so sweet to hear when it is lawful to listen;
the happiness of being loved when one loves--one of the greatest
in the world; the words so readily understood because they express
what one has so deeply felt; all that sometimes suddenly illumines
a life like the light of the sun, had just fallen on hers with the
brightness, instantaneousness, and danger of a thunderbolt!


XIX.

Count George de Walden possessed every exterior quality that could
please or fascinate, and, though it would not have been wise to
regard his chivalric air and the nobleness of his features and
manners as the sure indices of a soul exempt from egoism, it was
impossible not to be struck by his appearance, and difficult to
forget him after he was once seen. The lively impression he made on
Fleurange’s memory was not therefore so strange as might appear,
and there were more excuses for it than she found herself. What was
much more surprising was that, notwithstanding the charm with which
she was endowed, the impression was reciprocal, and, at the end of
a year, was not effaced.

We must not, of course, compare the simple, confused, and
involuntary feelings of a young girl with those of such a man
as Count George. Under the semblance of Cordelia, Fleurange had
been constantly before his eyes as well as in his imagination.
He passionately desired to behold her again. He resolved to find
her without examining his intentions as to the project, and
this tenacious preoccupation influenced more than he would have
acknowledged the decision he recently made in spite of his almost
pledged word.

Nevertheless, without being very scrupulous, the Count de Walden
would have thought twice before allowing himself to make such a
declaration to his mother’s companion as that with which he greeted
her. But he by no means expected to find in the Gabrielle sometimes
mentioned in his mother’s letters her whose singular name had
remained imprinted on his memory, as well as her wonderful beauty,
and the first moment of surprise deprived him of the faculty of
reflection. Then, seeing the young girl’s sweet face blush and turn
pale, seeing her charming eyes full of alarm, he uttered in spite
of himself the words he would perhaps have been better able to
suppress if she herself had been more successful at concealment.

But, as we have said, all this was quicker than thought. Five
minutes had not elapsed from the moment of his sudden appearance
before the princess, breathless with joy and haste, fell pale with
emotion into her son’s arms. George led her to her _chaise longue_,
and knelt beside her, and, while she was asking him--embracing
him at every word--sometimes why he had returned so soon, and
sometimes why he had kept them waiting for him so long, by degrees
he entirely regained his self-control. When, after a long hour’s
conversation, he found himself once more alone, he asked himself
if the vision he beheld at his arrival was a reality or a dream of
his imagination, and then, if he were pleased or not, that it had
appeared to him beneath his mother’s roof.

During this time Fleurange also regained her self-possession,
though slowly, and her first sensation was a kind of terror. “O
dear friends! why did I leave you?” she cried, with a feeling
analogous to that of one in the midst of a tempest, longing for
the security of land. She felt the need of protection even more
than at Paris with want staring her in the face, and more than ever
did her isolation and weakness make her afraid. She wiped away her
tears, folded her hands, and endeavored to reflect calmly, but it
was beyond her power to be calmed yet. Her surprise and agitation
had been, this time, too violent. In spite of all her efforts, the
accents still ringing in her ears filled her with an acute, almost
painful joy, which pierced her heart like a sword.

“No, no, I must not dwell on it,” she said, clasping her forehead
with her hands as if to stay the current of her thoughts.

All at once a new idea occurred to her: “What will he tell his
mother? What would she think? Would she be proud, haughty, and
disdainful as she sometimes knew how to be? Would she order her new
companion to leave her at once? What was to be the result?”

She was taking this new view of her position when Barbara, without
the usual formality of knocking, came rushing in with the eager air
of a person who brings news and a message.

“Mademoiselle Gabrielle,” she said, “the princess has sent me to
inform you of the count’s arrival, and that there will be a great
many at dinner. She wishes you to look your best.”

This message, in the midst of Fleurange’s reflections, was like
cold water on a furnace, causing a kind of effervescence, and the
confusion of her thoughts became more inextricable than ever. She
looked at Barbara as if she did not comprehend her.

“You were asleep, perhaps,” said she, noticing the young girl’s
pallor and bewildered look. “Are you ill?”

This question suggested an affirmative reply, and she told the
servant she would be obliged to remain in her room. She was
congratulating herself on this happy means of escape, when Barbara
explained:

“Remain in your room! Sick! Well, what an idea! And on a day like
this!--Madame would be pleased!--Come, mademoiselle, you know well
she would never consent to it!”

“But if my head aches so I can hardly raise it?” said Fleurange.

Barbara looked at her. Fleurange was not deceiving her. She had a
headache; she was very pale, and there was an unusual expression in
her eyes and face, but she was no less beautiful than usual; rather
the contrary.

“Come, Mademoiselle Gabrielle, you are not very ill, I know,” said
Barbara. “Make an effort, otherwise you may be sure the princess
will be up here, and then you will have to yield.”

This perspective reduced Fleurange to immediate submission.

“Then, Barbara,” she said, in a tone half plaintive and half
impatient, “let her tell me what to wear! Dress!--If she only knew
how I detest it!”

“Come, mademoiselle, there are many others who would be glad to be
in your place,” said Barbara in an ill humored tone.

At first she was very much opposed to all her mistress’ generosity
to Fleurange, but she soon softened, for the latter had a means
of conciliating her which she often made use of, and always at a
seasonable time.

“Here, Barbara, take this shawl. You may keep it. Come back in an
hour, and tell me what the princess wishes me to wear. That is
always the shortest way, and saves me the trouble of deciding.”

Barbara went away, but reappeared in an hour, bringing a dress of
sky-blue gauze and some silver pins.

“Here, mademoiselle, is your toilet for to-day. Dress
yourself quick; I am going to help you. Let me arrange your
hair.--There!--These bright pins have a fine effect in your black
hair. Now your dress, quick. The princess is already in the salon.
Monsieur le Comte also, and a great many others. You will be
late.--Come, what are you thinking of, Mademoiselle Gabrielle, to
sit down instead of completing your toilet?”

Fleurange was indeed at once agitated and confused. She walked to
and fro in her chamber, sat down, and rose up without any attention
to the appeals addressed her. At length she resigned herself to
let Barbara dress her as she pleased, and the latter, with a
natural taste for the art, acquitted herself so well that, when the
young girl, with a trembling hand, opened the door of the salon,
hoping to glide in unperceived among the numerous guests already
assembled, there was a general murmur of admiration. This added a
mortal embarrassment to her trouble.

If any one had asked her the color of her dress she could not
have told; but the idea suddenly occurred to her that Barbara
had perhaps arranged her hair and dress in a different and more
becoming way than usual, and she blushed, wondering what the
princess would think of her unaccustomed display.

But the princess did not appear to take any notice of her. Standing
in the centre of the room in the richest of dresses, she was doing
the honors of the house with her usual ease. All at once Fleurange
heard her name called: “Gabrielle!” It was the princess who
beckoned to her. Fleurange approached, but a mist veiled her eyes,
for she had seen from the first that Count George was beside his
mother.

“My bracelet is unclasped. Fasten it, Gabrielle,” said the princess
in her usual tone, at once kind and patronizing. Fleurange bent
down and clasped the bracelet.

“George,” said the princess, “this is Gabrielle of whom I have
often spoken to you. Gabrielle, this is my son.”

George bowed without attempting to speak. Fleurange did the same,
but a painful sensation made the blood rush to her face. For the
first time in her life, she felt tacitly guilty of a falsehood, or
at least of deception, and, though comforted by the certainty the
princess had no suspicion of what had taken place two hours before,
a flash of haughty displeasure escaped from her eyes as she raised
them and turned away her head.

Count George looked at her attentively for an instant, then became
thoughtful, and it was only with an effort he took any part in the
conversation at table. But in the evening, thanks to the Marquis
Adelardi, whose friendship he valued and whose mind was in sympathy
with his, he became more animated, and in his turn shone almost
as much as his brilliant interlocutor; but he did not approach
Fleurange, and did not even seem once to look towards her.

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




ART AND RELIGION.


God reveals himself to all the faculties of the soul. We not
only know him as truth; we also love him as beauty. As he is
infinite truth, so is he perfect beauty. Without the existence of
God as absolute truth, science is impossible. Science, which is
co-ordinated knowledge, can never be well grounded unless it rest
upon the eternal and first cause, which is God. God as truth is at
the bottom of all knowledge; as beauty, he is the ideal present to
the soul in every conception of art.

Art is the expression of ideal beauty under a created form.
The philosopher, in his meditations, seeks the true, which he
translates into formulas; the artist in his impassioned love seeks
the beautiful, which he makes to live on canvas, to breathe in
marble, to speak from the living page.

The end of art is not to imitate nature. On the contrary, in the
presence of natural beauty it looks beyond to the type, the idea
of a still higher beauty. Hence the artist is not a mere copier of
nature; for he is enamored of an ideal that disgusts him with all
that he beholds in the real world. The aim and despair of his life
is to give to this ideal a form and a sensible expression. Ideal
beauty is that which disenchants the soul of the love of every
created thing, and which in the presence of reality lifts it up to
a higher love. It is a gleam from the face of God reflected through
the blue heavens, the starry sky, or whatever in nature is grand or
beautiful. It is the eternal allurement and eternal disenchantment
of the noblest souls. True beauty is ideal beauty, and ideal
beauty is a reflection of the infinite. Hence art, which aims to
give expression to this beauty, is essentially religious, and tends
to elevate the soul from earth to heaven, and bear it away toward
the infinite.

It is the ideal side of natural beauty that gives to it its
religious power.

The view of the beautiful in nature creates in us a longing for
heaven, because the image of God is reflected from all those
objects which so inspire the soul. When, in the spring-time we seat
ourselves on the border of a lake in whose tranquil waters, as
in a vast mirror, are reflected the green woods and the laughing
meadows, the trees and the plants and the flowers; into whose bosom
the rippling waters of rill and rivulet are flowing, all joyous
like children that run to meet their gentle mother, whilst the
quiet winds whisper to one another from leaf to leaf, as if afraid
to dispel the enchantment of the spot--does not, in such an hour,
a mysterious solitude creep over the soul, and free it from the
distracting thoughts of life, giving it power to raise itself on
the wings of contemplation to the very throne of God? The sight
of true beauty always reminds us of heaven. Seated on the border
of that enchanted lake, man grows sad and thoughtful, a sweet
melancholy takes hold of him, because he has caught a glimpse of
home, but is still an exile. When, on a summer’s evening, the sun
has sunk to rest, and not a breath creeps through the rosy air, but
all nature is bowed in silent prayer, and the stars come out one
by one, the guardians of the night--in this heavenliest hour, who
has not been impressed by a sense of the infinite, the unmistakable
presence of God, before whom heaven and earth, “from the high
host of stars to the lulled lake and mountain coast,” grow still,
absorbed in adoration?

There is also in the grand and rugged scenes of nature an immense
religious power.

The ocean, the desert, high mountains and mighty rivers, storm
and darkness, with the voice of thunder and the lightning flash,
all speak of God, and in their presence man bows in homage to the
omnipotence of his Creator. Hence the child of nature, however rude
and imperfect his idea of God, is essentially religious in his
aspirations.

Man must isolate himself and become absorbed in his own abstract
and empty thoughts before he can lose consciousness of the
ever-abiding presence of the Creator. For every creature is a
revelation of heaven to the human soul, reminding it of its origin
and high destiny. If nature leads us to God, why may not art have
the same power, since both are expressions of the same eternal
beauty?

Before considering this question, we wish to advert to the immense
power and universal influence of art.

Few can enter into the sanctuary of science--even the rudest mind
when brought in contact with ideal beauty by the creative power
of art--but feel its force and its inspiration. Art is the most
lasting of national glories. Indeed, we may say that without art
there is no glory either national or individual.

The greatest deeds and the proudest names sink back in death unless
art embalm them in poetry or in song, give them immortality on the
speaking canvas or in the breathing marble.

Brave men lived before Agamemnon, but they are forgotten, for
their names never shone on the poet’s page. Those nations are most
glorious in which art attained its highest development.

The muse of Homer, the eloquence of Demosthenes, and the chisel of
Phidias, have done more to immortalize Greece than the deeds of
her proud heroes. The greatest human actions are in themselves but
little removed from the commonplace affairs of everyday life; but
the creative power of art transforms them and invests them with
a charm which the reality never possessed. The primeval forests
of Kentucky, in the day when its name was the “dark and bloody
ground,” witnessed many a deed of human daring and of warlike
prowess equal to those of Achilles and Hector under the walls of
Troy; but art with its celestial wand never transfigured those
deeds on the poet’s page, and they are forgotten, buried with the
leaves that overshadowed them. The life of man is short, even that
of a nation is not long; but art dies not, and has moreover the
divine power of conferring immortality upon all that it touches.
Shakespeare is worth more to the glory of England than all the
victories of all her generals. Dante, Raphael, and Michael Angelo,
with innumerable other names which represent the highest artistic
power, have made Italy the consecrated land of poetry and of song,
the home of beauty and of all loveliness--the native country of the
soul.

Time alone, which is the approver of all things, can give to art
its full power, and it is only when we consider it in the past
that we become aware of its great influence in the history of the
human race. The present is always a vulgar time; too real to be
beautiful. The present is the slave of power and wealth, but these
soon disappear, and art remains for ever. The first impulse in the
movement which has carried the European mind to its present state
of enlightenment was given by art in conjunction with religion. The
study of the Grecian and Roman models, in poetry, in eloquence,
and in architecture, fired the nations of Europe with a love of
artistic perfection, and consequently greatly contributed to our
present civilization. The historic power of art is in some respects
greater than that of history itself. Few men know history as a
science--the masses are brought into contact with the heroes of the
past by poetry and by song.

Has God, who has given to art a universal mission in the
development of man’s moral and intellectual nature, banished its
elevating influence from the sphere of religion? It would be
foreign to our present scope to discuss the actual and possible
perversions of art. There is naught on earth so holy that the free
will of man may not turn it to evil. The fact that a thing may be
abused simply proves that it has a right and proper use. The abuse
comes from the free agency of man; the use is the mission given by
God, which is always holy and elevated.

The direct aim of art is the expression of infinite beauty under a
created form, and hence a true work of art should elevate the soul
to the contemplation of heavenly beauty. This contemplation of the
divine ideal disenchants us of the things of earth; which truth is
expressed by the old proverb, that there is no great genius without
melancholy.

He whose soul habitually contemplates the ideal world is
necessarily saddened by the reality of life, which is so
infinitely beneath the elevation of his thoughts.

There is nothing sensuous in the idea of true beauty. Its property
is to purify and moderate desire, not to inflame it. Hence art
addresses itself less to the sense than to the soul. It seeks to
awaken not desire, but sentiment. Chastity and beauty seek each
other. Chastity is beautiful, and beauty is chaste.

These considerations go to show that art, the end of which is the
expression of beauty, is in its tendency moral and elevating, and
consequently religious.

There can, then, be no just cause of antagonism between religion
and true art, as there can be no contradiction between theology and
real science.

Far from being enemies, religion and art are allies. This truth
the Catholic Church has ever proclaimed. She has stigmatized no
one of the arts. In her universal life, she has a mission for each
and every one of them. Her churches are not alone the temples of
the living God--they are also the home of the arts which point
heavenward.

The Christian religion in its dogmas and aspirations is essentially
spiritual. The Catholic Church is the great and only successful
defender of the distinction between spirit and matter. By her
teachings and practices, she has rendered man more spiritual, and
consequently more beautiful. By awakening him to the consciousness
of the diviner and more ethereal part of his nature, she has
developed in him the instinct of art, which is essentially
spiritual because its soul is the ideal.

The more we meditate upon the nature of art, the more thoroughly
are we convinced that true art is the sister of true religion.
Protestantism, protesting against many truths, also protested
against the alliance of religion and art. We speak of the
Protestantism of the past; for no man knows what Protestantism
is to-day. It is anything and everything, from semi-Catholicism
down to naked infidelity. It has become mere individualism, and
may consequently no longer be spoken of as an organization. The
Protestantism which is dead objected to the alliance of religion
and art because it conceived them to be of opposite nature and
contrary tendency. Religion is the worship of God in spirit and in
truth, and Protestantism looked upon art as purely material.

But in this as in other matters, the Protestant view was based upon
a misconception both of religion and of human nature. If man were
wholly spiritual, his religion would also be purely spiritual.
But matter forms part of his nature. Even that which in him is
most spiritual--thought--has its sensible element. An idea is an
image, whence it follows that we cannot even think without forming
to ourselves a mental representation of the thing thought of. No
human act can be purely spiritual. The law of our being is that we
rise from the visible to the invisible, from the sensible to the
supersensible. An invisible and purely spiritual religion would
be to us an unreal and intangible religion. An invisible church
is a contradiction in terms, and without a church there can be
amongst men no authoritative religious teaching. Neither religious
nor intellectual life, in our present state, can exist without
language, and language addresses itself directly and primarily
to the senses. It is therefore impossible for man to express the
spiritual without making use of the material. Hence art, which
seeks to adumbrate the infinite under a finite form, in this simply
conforms to the universal law of man’s nature, which in all
things, even in thought, subjects him to matter.

Is not Christianity based upon this fact? Did not God take unto
himself a visible and material nature in order to manifest to
the world his invisible power, and beauty, and holiness? Is not
the Christian religion a system of things invisible, visibly
manifested? The end of religion is spiritual, but in order to
attain this end it must possess a visible and material element.
This fact of itself gives to art a religious mission of the highest
order.

This mission is to proclaim to the world Jesus Christ and him
crucified and glorified--by poetry, by song, by painting, by
architecture, in a word, by every artistic creation of which genius
is capable.

Jesus Christ is the beau ideal of art--the most lovely and
beautiful conception of the divine mind itself. He is the visible
manifestation of God, the all-beautiful.

Purity, and gentleness, and grace, with power and majesty, all
combine to make him the most beautiful of the sons of woman, the
fairest and the loveliest figure in all history, to whom the whole
world bows in instinctive love and homage. There is a shadow on the
countenance of Jesus which gives to it its artistic completeness.
It is sorrow. There is something trivial in gaiety and joy which
deprives them of artistic effect. The cheek of beauty is not divine
except the tear of sorrow trickle down it. Hence to preach Jesus
Christ and him crucified is not to preach perfect religion alone,
but also the perfect ideal of art.

Christian science, which is theology, has as its object the dogmas
of the church. Christian art relates directly to religious worship,
but it has incidentally a doctrinal significance. If we consider
eloquence an art, which we may do, for true eloquence is always
artistic, we must concede that it holds a most important place
in the church of Jesus Christ. He blessed eloquence and bade it
convert the world when he spoke to the apostles these memorable
words: “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations.” The divine command
was to preach the Gospel, not to write it. The living word spoken
by the divinely commissioned teacher has alone borne fruit in the
world, converted the nations, and changed the face of the earth.
Eloquence must be spoken. If you take from it its voice, you take
away its soul. It is the cry of an impassioned nature, in which
love, and faith, and deep-abiding conviction are enrooted. Add to
this purity and holiness of life in him who speaks, and let him
be in earnest, and he will be eloquent. Eloquence in the mouth of
a consecrated teacher has a sacramental power. It is one of the
divinely established ordinances for the propagation of religious
truth, and for the conversion of a soul to God.

Poetry, too, is consecrated to the service of religion. The muse
never soars her loftiest flight except when lifted up on the wings
of religious inspiration. The most poetic word in language is that
brief, immense word--God. It is the sublimest, the profoundest, the
holiest word that human tongue can utter. It forms the instinctive
cry of the soul in the hour of every deep emotion. In the hour
of victory, in the hour of death, in the ecstasy of joy, in the
agony of woe, that sacred word bursts spontaneously from the human
heart. It is the first word that our mother taught our infant lips
to lisp, when, pointing to heaven, she told us that there was God
our Father, and bade us look above this base, contagious earth.
When the mother for the first time feels her first-born’s breath,
in tenderness of gratitude she pronounces the name of God; when
in utter helplessness of woe she bends over the grave of her only
child, and her heart is breaking, she can find no relief for her
agonizing soul, until, raising her tearful eyes to heaven, she
breathes in prayer the name of God.

When two young hearts that are one vow eternal love and fealty, it
is in the name of God they do it; and the union of love loses half
its poetry and half its charm except it be contracted before the
altar of God and in his holy name.

When the mother sends her son to do battle for his country, she
says, “God be with thee, my boy!”

When nations are marshalled in deadly array of arms, and the
alarming drum foretells the danger nigh, and the trumpet’s clanguor
sounds the charge, and contending armies meet in the death grapple,
amid fire and smoke and the cannon’s awful roar, until victory
crowns them that win; those banners that were borne proudly on
till they floated in triumph over the field of glory are gathered
together in some vast temple of religion, and there an assembled
nation sings aloud in thanksgiving: “We praise thee, O God! we
glorify thee, O Lord!” How often has not God chosen the muse of
poetry in order to convey to the world his divine doctrines! The
Bible contains much of the sublimest poetry ever written. Some of
the Psalms of David, portions of Job and Isaias, equal in deep and
lofty poetic feeling anything that Dante or Milton wrote. And did
not these privileged minds also receive their highest inspirations
from religion?

We may not separate poetry from music. Music is poetry in tones.
It is the language of feeling, the universal language of man. The
cry of joy and of sorrow, of triumph and of despair, of ecstasy
and of agony, is understood by every human being because it is
the language of nature. All the deep emotions of the soul seek
expression in modulation of sound.

Cousin says: “There is physically and morally a marvellous relation
between a sound and the soul. It seems as though the soul were an
echo in which the sound takes a new power.”

Byron, too, seems to have felt this:

                  “Oh! that I were
    The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,
    A living voice, a breathing harmony;
    A bodiless enjoyment, born and dying
    With the blest Tone that made me!”

At the awakening call of music, the universal harmonies of nature
stir within the soul. The ancients were wont to say that he who
cultivates music imitates the divinity, and St. Augustine tells
us that it was the sweet sound of psalmody which made the lives
of the monks of old so beautiful and harmonious. God is eternal
harmony, and the works of his hand are harmonious, and his great
precept to men is that they live in harmony. Did not Jesus Christ
come into the world amid the choral song of angels? Would you,
then, banish music from the church of Jesus? No art has such power
as music to draw the soul toward the infinite. It would seem as
though the sounds of melody were the viewless spirits of heaven,
calling us away from earth to our true home in the mansion of our
Father. Whosoever has enjoyed the rare privilege of being present
in the Sistine Chapel, during Holy Week, when the melodies of Leo,
Durante, and Pergolesi, on the _Miserere_, are sung, has felt the
immense power of religious music. For a moment, at least, he has
quitted this earth, and the voice of song has borne his soul in
ineffable ecstasy to the very throne of God. As music develops
religious sentiment, so religion gives to music its sublimest
themes. To her, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mozart owe their divinest
inspirations.

Painting, too, asks to be received into the temple of religion.
What sentiment is there that the painter cannot express? All nature
is subject to his command--the physical world and the moral world.
His muse soars from earth to heaven, and contemplates all that lies
between them. Above all, the human countenance divine, that mirror
of the soul, belongs to the painter. His brush, dipped in the light
of heaven, gives to virtue its own celestial hue; to vice, its
inborn hideousness. He expresses every emotion of the human heart,
every noble love, every lofty aspiration, every dark and baneful
passion. Aristotle, the most comprehensive mind of the pagan world,
affirms that painting teaches the same precepts of moral conduct as
philosophy, with this advantage, that it employs a shorter method.
Christian painting began in the Catacombs. In the rude pictures of
that subterranean world we find the chief doctrines of Christianity
reduced to their most simple expression under forms the most
touching.

Painting there represents the Phœnix rising from its ashes, emblem
of the immortality of the soul and of the resurrection of the body;
the good shepherd bearing upon his shoulders the lost sheep, which
teaches with touching simplicity one of the most beautiful of our
Lord’s parables; the three youths in the fiery furnace, signifying
the providence of God for those who fear and love him; Pharao and
his hosts engulfed in the Red Sea, proclaiming to the faithful that
God is the avenger of those who put their trust in him. These and
similar subjects were peculiarly adapted to inspire courage in the
hearts of the Christians of the first ages, when to be a follower
of the cross was to be a hero.

As men of genius and learning by their life-long labors show
us the divine beauties and perfections in the character of
Jesus in new bearings, so the art of painting throws around his
history an intenser light. His divinity is as manifest in the
“Transfiguration” of Raphael as in the famous sermon of Massillon.
His ineffable sufferings on Mount Calvary and the Godlike power
which consented to death, but conquered agony, are as vividly and
feelingly portrayed on the canvas of Rubens as in the unequalled
and inimitable discourse of Bourdaloue. No one can look upon the
“Last Supper” by Leonardo da Vinci without being inspired with a
most sublime conception of that holiest event. Can we think of the
passion and death of the Saviour without forming to ourselves a
mental image corresponding to the scene? If, after all, we must
have a picture, why not take that of genius rather than trust to
our own tame plebeian fancy? And then, for those who cannot read or
meditate profoundly, for the poor whom Jesus loved, what master is
like painting?

St. Basil declares that painters accomplish as much by their
pictures as orators by their eloquence.

The church as a lecture-room will interest only the cultivated few;
the church as the temple of art sanctified by religion is the home
of worship for the multitude.

Religion, if it be anything, must be popular, which science can
never be, and which art always is. Then, in the name of the
religion of the poor, let architecture advance to raise to God the
temple of majesty and beauty, the democratic palace of the people,
where the prince and the beggar sit side by side as brothers, a
basilica prouder and loftier than that of the sceptred monarch.




A FETE-DAY AT LYONS.


Some writer has remarked that “there is no purgatory in France,”
meaning thereby to illustrate the great extremes of piety
and irreligion in the national character; and, although on a
broad ground this assertion is by no means orthodox, yet it is
practically true to a certain extent, and nowhere perhaps are these
traits more noticeable to a stranger than in the time-honored city
of Lyons. Here faith and disbelief walk side by side through all
grades of society, each stronger and more resolute from its very
proximity to the other; and when the tide of revolution swept over
France, nowhere have the excesses been greater or religion more
monstrously profaned than here; and yet nowhere has faith been
more profound, more edifying, and more uncompromising. The blood
of its early Christian martyrs has been a wonderful leaven and has
worked well, and the thousands of pilgrims who yearly tread the
heights of Fourrière, the extraordinary solemnity and fervor of the
exterior devotions and religious ceremonies, show that there is a
countercurrent stronger and more powerful than any opposing force
that infidelity can bring to bear against it.

It is to give a few impressions made by these latter
characteristics of this old city that we now recall some
reminiscences of a visit there several years ago. The antiquity of
Lyons, and its many monuments of interest, are quite sufficient to
induce a traveller to linger on his route, and a week can be easily
filled in exploring the city proper and its environs.

Like many of the European cities, its streets are narrow, and the
houses high and badly ventilated; but a great change has taken
place in regard to these defects within the last ten years, and a
renovation without mutilation has opened its thoroughfares, adorned
it with beautiful squares, fine bridges, broad and handsome quays,
and placed it on an equal footing with any city in Europe in regard
to its sanitary advantages.

Dating as far back as the Christian era and beyond, there are
many remnants of its Roman origin yet to be seen, which have been
carefully preserved through its various vicissitudes. Christianity
was here planted in blood; and under the Roman emperors, three
persecutions of Christians took place, which numbered forty-five
thousand martyrs on their crimson pages; and this is why faith
has taken such deep root, and why it opposes itself so firmly to
those subtle influences of the day which threaten to endanger a
birthright so dearly bought.

To us Americans who are only familiar with Lyons in its commercial
bearings, and from the superior quality of its manufactures which
find their way into our market, the fact that its inhabitants are
a lettered as well as a business people is rather a matter of
surprise; and we gaze in wonder at its magnificent buildings,
devoted to the fine arts, its lyceums, colleges, academies of
science, schools and institutions of every kind for instruction and
the development of the finer tastes; and the riddle is solved by
knowing that their manufactures, their commerce, their business,
occupy only a part of their lives, and by no means constitute the
sum total, as is so nearly the case in this country. This repose is
very attractive to us Cisatlantic people, who lead such restless
lives; and the lovely summer days that we spent in the old city
enjoying this tranquillity are never to be forgotten.

We were awaiting the celebration of the _Fête du Saint
Sacrament_,[75] which is usually kept with so much solemnity in
the provinces. On the eve of the feast we made the ascent of Mont
Fourrière, though not in the garb of humble pilgrims, “with sandal
shoon and scallop-shell,” but in the more commonplace character of
sightseers from the Western World, attracted to this height by the
far-famed shrine which crowns its summit, and by the many historic
associations that cluster round it.

On our way up we visited a cemetery which almost hangs by the
mountain-side, and from which there are lovely views in every
direction. It made a strange impression, this city of the dead, so
far above the noise and clatter of the busy world below. It was
so still, nothing broke the silence except our footsteps along
the gravelled walks. One tomb especially attracted our attention:
it was fairly buried and hidden by the quantity of fresh flowers,
and the crosses and wreaths of immortelles which covered it. While
wondering who could be the silent occupant of a grave so much
loved, a lady approached in deep widow’s mourning, leading two
little children, clad in the same sombre hue. They came and knelt
at the tomb. Our question was answered, and we moved silently away,
sorry for even the momentary intrusion we had been guilty of. Near
the cemetery is the church of St. Irenée, which contains the bones
of 18,500 Christians, martyred by order of Septimius Severus, 193
A.C. The remains of its ancient crypt are also shown, which dates
back to the second century. There is also a well in this crypt, in
which it is said these bones were found. The roughly paved road
then leads up to the Chapel,[76] and Terrace of Notre Dame de
Fourrière. We found we were just in time for the Benediction of the
Blessed Sacrament, which was given here every afternoon during the
Triduum which preceded the feast.

This little chapel was not remarkable either for its architectural
finish nor for the richness and perfection of its ornamentation;
it is plain, very plain indeed, but the marvellous number of its
_ex-votos_, the gilt and silver hearts which actually burnish its
walls, the crutches and other instruments suggestive of disease
which hang around, tell of the moral and physical burdens which
have been brought here and left, and of the weary, sorrowing
souls who have wandered up this rocky height, who have made their
deposit, and returned singing alleluias.

    “There is one far shrine I remember
      In the years that have fled away,
    Where the grand old mountains are guarding
      The glories of night and day.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “It is one of Our Lady’s chapels,
      And though poorer than all the rest
    Just because of the sin and the sorrow,
      I think she loved it the best.

    “There are no rich gifts on the altar,
      The shrine is humble and bare,
    Yet the poor, and the sick, and the tempted
      Think their home and their haven is there.”[77]

A fine terrace is just at the side of the chapel, and the view
magnificent from the parapet which guards its eastern face. Just
beneath lies Lyons in all its stateliness, traversed by two superb
rivers from north to south, and prominent among its most striking
points is the grand old Cathedral of St. Jean, which stands
directly at the base of the mountain.

The surrounding country is a succession of lovely landscapes, and
beyond, looking far away, a hundred miles off into Switzerland,
the glorious Alps, with Mont Blanc’s snowy peak towering far
above all, bound the horizon. We were fortunate in getting this
view in perfection, for frequently a veil of mist and fog shuts
out entirely this latter part of the tableau. On ascending the
belfry of the chapel, we found the panorama yet more extended and
enchanting. In every direction the views were entirely unbroken
and uninterrupted. Seven rich provinces of France unfolded their
scenery before our delighted eyes. At the extreme edge of the
southern horizon rose Mont Pilat; at the west, the mountains of
Forey and Auvergne; toward the north, Mont d’Or; and on the east,
the Alps, in their eternal mantle of snow, completed a picture that
could not be surpassed. Every prominence had caught the golden
light of the sinking sun, and the shadows that had crept into the
valleys only enhanced the coloring of the scene and made the effect
more striking.

A Jesuit college, with its garden and appurtenances, is an
appendant on the southern side of the terrace, and we crossed over
to take a peep at their chapel, well knowing the good taste and
exquisite finish which are usually displayed in their churches.
There we found them also holding a Triduum, and, their service
being a little later than that of the other chapel, we had the
pleasure of attending Benediction a second time. Here the music was
delightful and the chapel a gem. It was very small, and seemed to
be lit entirely from the altar, which was ablaze with wax-lights
and natural flowers; there appeared to be no external light to
enter at all, and yet from its miniature size none of its details
were lost, and, with the accessories of the solemn service then
going on, it was the embodiment of beauty and inspiration.

When we turned our footsteps downward, the shadow’s had lengthened,
and were fast creeping out of the valleys, and by the time we
reached home the heights of Fourrière, which we still had in sight,
were shrouded in gloom.

The next morning we were awakened by the booming of cannon, which
announced the inauguration of the _fête_.

We hurried through breakfast, so as to reach the cathedral in time
for the procession. In the square opposite our hotel, an altar had
been erected, and we passed several others on our way, but their
decorations, at this early hour, were not quite complete.

Everything wore a festive look, and everybody was out in holiday
attire, flags and banners were flying, and the façades of some of
those immensely high houses were festooned from top to bottom with
crimson and yellow hangings. One building in especial was very
effective; it was the Palais de Justice, which is on the right bank
of the Saône, and which we faced in crossing the bridge to the
cathedral. Its extended front of Corinthian pillars was draped
in crimson cloth, which contrasted finely with the gray stone of
which it was built. A little to its left is the old cathedral,
stately and grand in its sombre livery of centuries. It has seen
generations pass away, emperors and empires, kingdoms and kings,
and yet it stands to-day intact, and ready to do duty for another
hundred years, unless demolished by the sacrilegious hand of the
iconoclast of the nineteenth century.

On reaching the _place_ in front of the cathedral, we found a
large crowd awaiting the procession. In a short time the sound of
martial music was heard, and presently several officers rode up on
horseback to open a passage through the crowd.

The procession was escorted by a troop of cavalry and military
band, and preceded by a number of lovely children, dressed in
white, with silver wings, their hair flowing, and scattering
flowers as they passed along. As it entered the church, the
organ pealed forth, filling the vast aisles with its magnificent
harmony. Then Pontifical High Mass began, in all the grandeur of
the especial ritual which is attached to this church, and which
is the oldest in France, having been introduced here by one of
the first bishops of Lyons; the liturgy is also different from
that ordinarily used, and the ceremonies are of the most imposing
character. The band, placed in a remote part of the church, played
at intervals during the service, and the harsh and deafening sounds
which are usually the result of brass instruments in a close
building were lost in the immense space, and only the sweetest
strains swept up through the nave and aisles.

In like manner the glare of day fell through the richly stained
windows in a mellow and subdued light, which diffused itself
generally over the church.

A very pleasant American writer[78] has said: “If we could only
bring one thing back from Europe, that one thing would be a
cathedral.” And truly these old monuments have a prestige to
which persons of all creeds must pay tribute; and the veriest
scoffer lifts his hat with reverence as he enters, and feels
the influence of that wonderful atmosphere which pervades their
hallowed precincts. After Mass we prolonged our walk home to see
the decorations of the city. The altars were now entirely finished,
and dressed with a profusion of natural flowers.

In the afternoon the procession passed round the city in a line
with the altars, at each of which benediction was given. In their
liturgy there are four special hymns for each of these stations or
_reposoirs_, and, when the latter exceed that number, the chants
are repeated until they have all been visited. There is generally
one altar in each ward or district of the city, to satisfy the
pious devotion of those who cannot attend service at the church.

In the evening illuminations and fireworks completed the
festivities of the day--of a day whose minutest detail showed how
true “_the Rome of Gaul_” had been to the colors which she unfurled
nearly seventeen hundred years ago on the ramparts of paganism.

Since then I have seen other _fêtes_ in other lands, but none have
left the impression of the first which I saw inaugurated in the old
Cathedral of St. Jean, under the shadow of Mont Fourrière.

FOOTNOTES:

[75] Corpus Christi.

[76] This chapel is built on the site of the ancient _Forum Vetus_
of the Romans erected by order of the Emperor Trajan. A part of
the chapel is built of the stone that was left of its ruins. It
is now, and has been for more than a thousand years, a celebrated
pilgrimage.

[77] Procter.

[78] Hillard.




HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.


THIRD ARTICLE.

THE MIDDLE AGES.

The middle ages were undoubtedly the epoch during which the
influence of woman upon the gravest affairs and most important
issues in the history of the church was most widely exercised.
There was hardly a single country in Europe that was evangelized
and reclaimed from social barbarism without the direct intervention
of the power of women, and wherever the inevitable excesses of a
system in the main both useful and honorable, such as the feudalism
of the middle ages, had to be checked or corrected, it was always
done through the merciful intercession of holy and generous
women. To begin with the country whose daughters have ever been
foremost in zeal for the cause of religion, France, we have a
long list of queens whose names are conspicuous in the annals of
church history. They were no less honored in their own day than
they have been since the voice of the faithful has proclaimed
them saints. When the French monarchy was in its first military
and elementary stages, the young Frankish conqueror, the heathen
Clovis, who had just forced the ancient Gauls of the province of
Rheims to bow before his power, found at the court of Gondebaud,
King of Burgundy, the niece of that prince, Clotildis, a Christian
maiden, renowned for her learning in matters of theology, and for
her undaunted stand against the Arianism of her uncle’s court. St.
Gregory of Tours, says Ventura,[79] represents her as evincing
the most varied and reliable knowledge of Christianity, and
especially of the questions at that time lately decided at the
Council of Nicæa. She knew equally how to combat paganism on her
husband’s part and Arianism upon her uncle’s, and displayed all the
self-possession of a great apologist, with the theological science
of a doctor of the church. This was as early as the year 493, not
long after Clovis won the great battle of Tolbiac against the
Alemanni, and became a Christian, according to his vow, made during
the engagement, to the “Son of the living God, thou whom Clotildis
worships.” The queen then sent for St. Remigius, the Bishop of
Rheims, to instruct and baptize her husband. She instructed the
women of her court and family herself, and showed herself most
zealous in the propagation of the faith. The ceremony of baptism,
and the anointing of the king which followed it, were performed,
by the queen’s care, with extraordinary solemnity. She herself
walked in the procession between the king’s two sisters, the one
formerly a pagan, the other an Arian. The first, the Princess
Albofleda, renounced the world and consecrated her virginity to
God, thus giving a first example to the numerous royal maidens of
France who have since left the court for the cloister. Clotildis so
fired her husband’s heart with her holy enthusiasm that he built
and endowed the church of SS. Peter and Paul in Paris, now called
St. Genevieve in honor of the sainted shepherdess who, later on,
shared with Clotildis herself the title of patroness of France.
Clovis was afterwards buried in this church. The Visigoths and
Burgundians, who were Arians, were shamed into less inhuman ways
by the example and widespread influence of the victorious Clovis
and his Christian warriors; the foundations of the great French
monarchy were laid by the evident desire of the neighboring tribes
to coalesce with the Franks; the future Catholic monarchy of Spain
was consecrated by the heroic zeal and suffering of Clotildis
the younger, the only daughter of Clovis, married to the Arian
Amalaric, King of the Visigoths, in Spain, and the mitigation of
many lawless and still half-barbarian acts during the reigns of her
sons was successfully undertaken; so that it may be said with truth
of this period of history that its chief glory was the supremacy of
woman. Clotildis died at Tours, where for many years she had lived
in solitude and humility, entirely ignoring her high rank, and
employing her influence over her sons in exhortations to preserve
the peace of their respective kingdoms, to protect the poor, and to
treat them as brethren. But great as her services to religion and
civilization had been, the church was not destined to suffer by her
death, for a long succession of imitators of her virtues took her
place from century to century, and protected the interests of that
church whose champions cannot fail her as long as principle and
honor exist in the world. Radegundes, the daughter of Bertarius,
King of Thuringia, and the captive of King Clotaire I. (fourth
son of St. Clotildis), was instructed in the Christian faith at
the court of the latter, whom she afterwards married. Her great
delight during the short period of her court life was the care of
the sick in the hospital of Athies, which she had founded, and the
alleviation of the miseries of the poor. She endeavored to restrain
the lawlessness of the court; but, when her husband caused her
brother to be treacherously assassinated, as Butler tells us,[80]
in order to possess his kingdom of Thuringia, she was so grieved
at the time that she begged for leave to retire into a monastery.
Here her influence was greater than it had been at court. The great
abbey of Poitiers was founded and the first abbess, Agnes, chosen
by her. She enriched the church of this monastery with numerous
gifts, and sent ambassadors to the Emperor Justin of Constantinople
to obtain a relic of the True Cross. This being given her, she
had it placed in a shrine, to which it was carried in solemn
procession. She had already invited to Poitiers many learned and
holy men, among others the orator and poet Venantius Fortunatus,
who on this occasion composed the famous processional hymn “Vexilla
Regis Prodeunt,” which is now one of the most prominent features of
our liturgy. Thus, to a woman’s inspiration do we owe one of the
hymns of world-wide renown, synonymous with the name and practice
of Catholic Christianity. Butler tells us that Radegundes herself
was a good scholar, and read both the Latin and Greek fathers.
She procured for her monastery the rule and constitution of St.
Cesarius of Arles, and had it confirmed by the Council of Tours,
assembled 566. Here again, in the letter of Cesaria, the abbess
of the monastery of St. John, at Arles, we have a most remarkable
instance of the great discernment and prudence of a woman in
her management of a numerous community. She gives the strictest
cautions against all familiarities and partiality in a religious
community, and also enjoins that each nun should learn the Psalter
by heart and be able to read well. Biblical learning is thus
proved to have been ever foremost in the minds of the pioneers of
monasticism. But Radegundes, so great was her anxiety to make her
monastery of Poitiers a perfect work, repaired to Arles herself,
and studied the rule personally for some time, in order to help the
Abbess Agnes in establishing it the more effectually. After the
death of her husband, and during the shameful disturbances caused
by the famous Fredegonda, the mistress of Chilperic, Radegundes
became once more the support of orthodoxy and of the persecuted
bishops of the realm. Among other proofs of the high esteem in
which prominent churchmen held this great woman, let us cite the
letter addressed to her by the assembled bishops of the Council
of Tours, wherein they say: “We are rejoiced, most reverend
daughter, to see such an example of divine favor repeated in your
person; for the faith flourishes anew through the efforts of your
zeal, and what had been languishing through the wintry coldness of
the indifference of this age, lives again through the fervor of
your soul. But as you claim as a birthplace almost the same spot
whence St. Martin came, it is no wonder that you should imitate in
your work his example and teaching. Shining with the light of his
doctrine, you fill with heavenly conviction the hearts of those who
listen to you.”[81]

The tradition of constant faith and resolute orthodoxy on the part
of the queens of France was upheld in the century following that
of Radegundes (the seventh), by Bathildis, the wife of Clovis
II.; the friend of Eligius, Bishop of Noyon, and of Owen, Bishop
of Rouen. Both of these had been placed in responsible positions
at court through the influence of Radegundes--the co-operator of
Genis, the holy almoner, who subsequently became Archbishop of
Lyons, and the wielder of great power through the complaisance
of her husband. Bathildis was pre-eminently the support of the
episcopate and the refuge of the poor. She had herself been a
captive, being by birth an Englishwoman, and having fallen to the
lot of Erchinoald, the first officer of the King of Neustria,
who treated her very kindly. Ventura says of her: “At the death
of her husband, having been entrusted with the regency of the
kingdom and the guardianship of her three little children, the
oldest only five years old, she acquitted herself of this double
office with such wisdom and prudence that even the great nobles
and statesmen could not withhold their admiration and respect.
With such counselors as the holy bishops Eligius, Owen, and Leger,
it is not astonishing that she should have succeeded in banishing
from the church in France the shameful simony which, through royal
connivance, had hitherto dishonored it, and abolishing in civil
matters the unjust and vexatious taxes that were grinding down the
people. She multiplied hospitals, monasteries, and abbeys. The
famous monastery of Chelles owes its origin to her.... But the
most important of all her foundations was that of Corbie, which
afterwards became so celebrated in France, and where this queen,
as zealous for the propagation of science as for the strengthening
of religion, established under able masters, gathered from all
parts of the world, a system of the most complete literary and
scientific education. This monastery, next to that of Lerins, was a
true university and a centre of enlightenment. The regency of this
woman renewed the glories and wonders of the reign of Pulcheria.
Never had sovereign so exerted herself for the welfare of her
people, both religiously, scientifically, and politically. But her
greatest glory, which has not been sufficiently recognized, was ...
that, contrary to the cold calculations of a false philosophy, she
dared to do what no man had done before her. She abolished slavery
in France (where it still subsisted), and was the first Christian
sovereign who proclaimed as a national principle ... that a slave
becomes free on setting his foot on the soil of France!”[82]

Between Bathildis and Blanche of Castille, from the seventh to the
thirteenth centuries, there was no lack of holy and learned women
in France, but it would be impossible to enumerate them all. “The
mother of St. Louis, though the church has never formally canonized
her, stands out as one of the grandest figures in ecclesiastical
history. Her stern and unflinching devotion to religious principle,
instilled early into the mind of her son, sowed the seeds of
sanctity in the exceptional life of that holy king. Her talents
were no less remarkable than her austerity. Her marriage at the age
of fourteen with Louis VIII., King of France, gave her the high
position to which her birth, her genius, and her beauty entitled
her. This union was the model of Christian marriages, and her
historian, the Baron Chaillon, says that during the twenty-six
years it lasted she and her husband were never separated for a
single instant, and that not the slightest shadow darkened the
serenity of their intercourse. Even at an early age and before
her husband’s accession to the throne, her father-in-law, Philip
Augustus, did not refuse to take and follow her advice in matters
of state importance.”[83] At her husband’s death she became, by
his desire, regent of the kingdom. Ever eager to put her son’s
personal prestige foremost, she carefully initiated him into the
affairs of the realm, and accustomed him early to appear in his
royal character in public. She wisely averted the ever-impending
coalitions of the great vassals of the crown against the royal
authority. She continued the war against the Albigenses, whose
dissensions were ruining the kingdom; she obtained the annexation
of the territory of the Counts of Toulouse to the crown, and
quelled the revolt of the Duke of Brittany, who ended by gladly
recognizing his fealty to her son. When she committed to Gaulthier,
the Archbishop of Sens, the mission of treating for the hand of
Margaret of Provence for the young king, these were the severe
instructions she gave him: Only to propose the marriage formally
after he had well studied the character of the young princess, and
had well satisfied himself as to the stability of her principles,
the purity of her life, and the sincerity of her religion. Butler,
in his life of St. Louis, says of the queen: “By her care, Louis
was perfectly master of the Latin tongue, learned to speak in
public, and to write with elegance, grace, and dignity, and was
instructed in the art of war, the wisest maxims of government, and
all the accomplishments of a king. He was also a good historian,
and often read the works of the Fathers.” Thus it will be seen
that, without departing from the strictest feminine delicacy, a
woman may be the sole responsible preceptor of a statesman and
warrior, and yet leave no stain of “petticoat government” on his
education, nor any suspicion of undue asceticism on his belief.

Concerning the dissensions of the nobles and vassals who refused to
be present at the young king’s coronation, Butler says: “The queen
regent put herself and her son at the head of his troops, and,
finding means to bring over the Count of Champagne to his duty,
struck the rest with such consternation that they all retired....
The whole time of the king’s minority was disturbed by these
rebels, but the regent, by several alliances and negotiations,
and chiefly by her courage and diligence, by which she always
prevented them in the field, continually dissipated their cabals.”
Of the negotiations with the Count of Toulouse, a dangerous and
powerful vassal, Butler gives these details: “In the third year
of her regency, she obliged Raymund, Count of Toulouse and Duke
of Narbonne, to receive her conditions, which were that he should
marry his daughter Jane to Alphonsus, the king’s brother, who
should inherit the county of Toulouse, and that, in case they
should have no children by this marriage, the whole inheritance
should revert to the crown, which last eventually happened.” The
same author says of Margaret of Provence “that she surpassed
her sisters in beauty, wit, and virtue.” In 1242, after the
majority and marriage of her son, Blanche founded the monastery
of Maubuisson. Louis was remarkable for the even-handed justice
with which he protected the serfs against the encroachment of their
feudal lords, and on one occasion refused to allow Mgr. Enguerrand
de Coucy the privilege of being tried by his peers, and condemned
him to death by the ordinary process of law, for having arbitrarily
hanged three children who had been caught hunting rabbits in his
woods. He afterwards spared his life, but deprived him of all his
estates and exacted from him an enormous fine, which he employed
in building and endowing a mortuary chapel where Mass should be
offered every day for the souls of the murdered children. The rest
of the fine was divided into several foundations for hospitals and
monasteries. In 1248, St. Louis, according to a vow he had made
in sickness, set out for the crusade against the Sultan of Egypt,
leaving his mother once more regent of France. Ventura says of her
during this second regency that, “being in France in the body, yet
in the East in spirit, and following mentally her heroic son in his
dangerous undertaking, she seemed to multiply herself. Entirely
absorbed in the care of the home government of a great kingdom,
that she might make justice, order, and peace supreme therein, she
was also participating none the less entirely in the great struggle
between the Cross and the Crescent, ... and it is impossible to
entertain a correct idea of the wisdom, forethought, and activity
of which Blanche, during those five years, gave proof, thus being
enabled to send aid in kind, in arms, and in money, to the army in
the East, yet without taxing and unduly oppressing the people at
home. Thus she did not neglect the smallest details in order to
assure the success of an expedition in which the rational honor of
France as well as the triumph of Christianity was engaged.” Ventura
then goes on to remind the would-be “emancipators” of woman that,
throughout her arduous duties, Queen Blanche, notwithstanding her
immense governing powers and her proud experience of fifty years,
did not hesitate to take as a trusted friend and counsellor the
learned Archbishop of Sens, Gaulthier-Cornu. Of this latter prelate
and statesman, a contemporary historian has said, “As long as his
power was in the ascendant, fraud and dishonesty hid their face,
while peace and justice reigned.” Blanche of Castille died before
her son’s return from Egypt, and hastened to pronounce her vows of
monastic consecration to God before she breathed her last, on the
first of December, 1252.

We must now go back some centuries to place before our readers a
fugitive account of those French princesses who exercised in Spain
a true apostolate. We have already mentioned the younger Clotildis,
but Indegonda, the daughter of Sigisbert, King of Austrasia, and
Rigontha, the daughter of Chilperic, King of Neustria, remain
to be noticed. They were married to two brothers, the former to
Hermenigild, the latter to Reccared, sons of Levigild, King of the
Spanish Visigoths. Indegonda suffered great persecutions from her
husband’s step-mother on account of her religion, the second wife
of Levigild being a bigoted Arian, and it was even a long time
before Hermenigild consented to become a Catholic. When at last
Indegonda had obtained this happy conversion, she herself and her
husband’s uncle, the holy Leander of Seville, were exiled, and
Hermenigild so persecuted by his father that, having been betrayed
by the Greeks and deserted by the Romans, he fell a victim to
Arian vengeance, and, after suffering torture and imprisonment, was
cruelly put to death by order of Levigild himself. This barbarian
king, however, repented his unnatural cruelty before he died,
and, recalling his brother-in-law Leander, entrusted him with the
care of his remaining son Reccared. Rigontha, the wife of the
young prince, had suffered great injustice at the hands of her
own father Chilperic, the lover of the too famous Fredegonda. She
had succeeded in converting her husband, and, together with his
uncle Leander, exercised a salutary influence over him. Reccared
assembled the Arian bishops of his kingdom, and spoke to them
so persuasively that they acknowledged themselves willing to be
reconciled to the church. The province of Narbonne, at that time
under his dominion, followed his example, while the neighboring
tribe of the Suevi, also Arians, speedily joined the church. A
council was then assembled at Toledo, and the intimate union of
Spain with Catholic interests was founded on a solid and reliable
basis.

It is told as a pleasantry of some shrewd critic of modern times
that, whenever he saw or heard a disturbance of any sort, his
unfailing question was, “Who is she?” being certain that, whatever
might be the effect, a woman was sure to be the cause. If this
is unfortunately no longer a libel on the sex in this distracted
century, at least we may point back to the so-called dark ages, and
proudly say, with a certainty far more absolute than that of our
cynical contemporary, when we read of any great consummation in the
history of religion and civilization, “Who was she?”

Not long after the death of Blanche of Castille, another Spanish
princess, the daughter of Peter III. of Aragon, and the niece of
St. Elizabeth of Hungary, took up the tradition of holiness, which
seemed the birthright of the royal maidens of mediæval times. Her
father attributed his success in his undertakings against the
Moors to her prayers and early virtues. At twelve years old she
was married to Denis, King of Portugal, to whom she was not only
a most faithful wife, but whom she succeeded, by her meekness and
silent example, in winning back from his sinful courses. She is
praised by her biographers for her ascetic virtues, and for her
utter disregard of her earthly rank. But what concerns us more
is to look into the influence she held on social and political
affairs. Among these it is impossible not to reckon her charities,
for private charity has often much to do with public honesty and
morality. Butler tells us that she “made it her business to seek
out and secretly relieve persons of good condition who were reduced
to necessity, yet out of shame durst not make known their wants.
She gave constant orders to have all pilgrims and poor strangers
provided with lodging and necessaries. She was very liberal in
furnishing fortunes to poor young women, that they might marry
according to their condition, and not be exposed to the danger of
losing their virtue. She founded in different parts of the kingdom
many pious establishments, particularly a hospital near her own
palace at Coimbra, a house for penitent women who had been seduced
into evil courses, at Torres-Novas, and a hospital for foundlings,
or those children who for want of due provision are exposed to
the danger of perishing by poverty or the neglect and cruelty of
unnatural parents. She visited the sick and served them with her
own hands, ... not that she neglected any other duties, ... for she
made it her principal study to pay to her husband the most dutiful
respect, love, and obedience, and bore his infidelities with
invincible meekness and patience.” Let us stop to note this last
sentence, which no doubt by many of our chafing sisters of this
age may be misunderstood. This meekness was not a want of spirit;
it was the effect of “the subordination of our inferior nature
to reason, and of our reason to God,” as one of the most lucid
and most sympathetic of American exponents of Catholic truth once
expressed to the writer the whole duty of man upon earth. It was no
passiveness, no supineness, but the heroic endurance of the martyr,
who is more concerned at another’s sin than his own wrong, and who
does not consider that reprisal and resentment are efficient means
to win the sinner back. When a woman stoops to retaliation, she
forgets the dignity of her sex, and, if _she_ forget it, who can
she expect will remember it?

We may also be allowed to say one word about the numerous
foundations constantly mentioned in the lives of these great
Christian women of past ages. It is perhaps the general belief
that nothing but monasteries were endowed in early times. We
have sufficiently shown how fallacious such belief would be.
Institutions of every kind, in which Catholic ingenuity was
multiplied till it embraced every need and provided for every
contingency, were sown all over the Christian world. The East was
not forgotten, and, indeed, even the great orders of the Templars
and the Hospitallers were originally nothing but organized bodies
for the defence and shelter of the pilgrims who flocked to the
holy places. Such charities as tended to diminish the temptations
to crime were foremost among the many originated during the middle
ages. We have only to refer to history to prove this. Even had
these foundations been confined to monasteries, we must remember
that the conventual abodes of old united in themselves nearly
all the characteristics of other institutions, and in the less
favored districts virtually supplied their place. Besides being
the only secure and recognized homes of learning, the solitary
centres of education, they were also the refuge of the homeless or
benighted wanderer; the asylum of the oppressed poor, of threatened
innocence, and of unjustly accused men; the hospital of the sick,
the sure dispensary of medicines to the surrounding peasantry, and
the unfailing granary of the poor during troublous times or years
of famine. There was hardly one want, physical or spiritual, that
could not find ready relief at the monasteries of both monks and
nuns, so that in founding such retreats it is no exaggeration to
say that orphanage, asylum, reformatory, hospital, and school were
comprised within their walls.

We must return to the great queen whose munificence has led us into
this digression, and resume, as was our purpose from the beginning,
the rigid relation of mere historical facts to which we more
willingly entrust the cause than to the most eloquent apologies.

When Elizabeth’s son, Alphonsus, revolted against his father and
actually took up arms, she made the most prudent efforts to mediate
between them, for which the Pope, John XXII., greatly praised her
in a letter he wrote to her on the subject; but, certain enemies of
hers having poisoned her husband’s mind against her, he banished
her to the town of Alanquer. She refused all communication with the
rebels, and at last was recalled by her penitent husband. Butler
says: “She reconciled her husband and son when their armies were
marching one against the other, and she reduced all the subjects
to duty and obedience. She made peace between Ferdinand IV., King
of Castille, and Alphonsus della Corda, his cousin-german, who
disputed the crown; likewise between James II., King of Aragon, her
own brother, and Ferdinand IV., King of Castille, her son-in-law.
In order to effect this last, she took a journey with her husband
into both these kingdoms, and, to the great satisfaction of the
Christian world, put a happy end to all dissensions and debates
between those states.” During her husband’s illness, which followed
soon after, Elizabeth nursed him most devotedly, and ever exhorted
him to think of his spiritual welfare. Her husband’s death was
the end of her public career as queen--a fitting proof of the
little value she placed upon the distinctions for which half the
world is periodically laid in ashes. Her son, Alphonsus, and her
grandson, also named Alphonsus, the young King of Castille, having
again proclaimed war upon each other, Elizabeth set out to meet
and reconcile them. She died on the way, in 1336, having obtained
peace through her exhortations to her son, who attended her at her
deathbed. Thus peace and brotherly love among princes and nations,
as well as among the individuals of her own immediate circle, was
ever nearest the heart of this great and admirable woman. How well
it would be if she were taken as a model by the women of our day,
and if her influence could be followed by the reward which our Lord
himself attached to the noble office of peace-makers!

Turning to England, once the Island of Saints and the home of
religious learning, we see the influence of woman most peremptorily
asserted. There is Bertha, the daughter of Charibert, King
of Paris, and wife of Ethelbert, King of Kent, whom we have
already mentioned, with Brunehault, as being the apostles of
the faith in England, and the zealous helpers of Gregory and
Augustine. Rohrbacher says of her that she contributed mainly to
the conversion of her husband and of the whole nation, and St.
Lethard, her almoner and Bishop of Senlis, greatly aided her.
There is Eanswide, her grand-daughter, the child of Eadbald, who
was also converted later on and became abbess of the monastery
at Folkestone, as Butler tells us. There is the great Edith, or
Eadgith, the daughter of King Edgar, who in the tenth century was
the ornament of her sex and the marvel of men. “She united,” says
Butler, “the active life of Martha with the contemplation of Mary,
and was particularly devoted to the care of the sick. When she
was but fifteen years old, her father pressed her to undertake
the government of three different monasteries, of which charge
she was judged most capable, such was her extraordinary virtue
and discretion. But she humbly declined all superiority.... Upon
the death of her brother, Edward the Martyr, the nobility who
adhered to the martyred king desired Edith to quit her monastery
and ascend the throne, but she preferred a state of humility and
obedience to the prospect of a crown.” Another Edith, the daughter
of the great Earl of Kent, Godwin, became the queen of Edward the
Confessor, with whom she lived by mutual consent in perpetual
virginity, according to a vow the king had made many years before
his marriage. Reading, studying, and devotion were her whole
delight. Edward’s mother, Emma, is ranked among the saints, and
was mainly instrumental in the religious and learned education
of her son. Ventura, in his admirable work on Woman, which has
become, as it were, a text-book for all those who are truly
interested in the theme and history of woman’s greatness, draws
attention to the fact that it was under the reign of Edward the
Confessor--who is credited by prejudicial historians with “womanly”
weakness, and who, on the contrary, was such an irrefragable proof
of what the grave and wise influence of good women can do--that
the equality of all men before the law was first recognized as a
principle. Edward’s niece, Margaret, the wife of Malcolm, King
of Scotland, was also a most eminent and influential princess.
Her husband, whose confidence in her was unbounded, deferred to
her in every particular of state government, whether internal or
external, secular or religious. Their children’s education he left
entirely in her hands, and, while she carefully surrounded them
with masters well versed in all the knowledge then attainable, she
was no less solicitous for the improvement of the nation. Butler
says of her: “She labored most successfully to polish and civilize
the Scottish nation, to encourage among the people the useful and
polite arts, and to inspire them with a love of the sciences.... By
her extensive alms, insolvent debtors were released, and decayed
families restored, and foreign nations, especially the English,
recovered their captives. She was solicitous to ransom those
especially who fell into the hands of harsh masters. She also
erected hospitals for poor strangers.” Her daughter Maud, who was
the first wife of Henry I. of England, followed in her footsteps,
and was highly revered, both during her life and after her death,
by the two nations to which her birth and marriage linked her. Two
great hospitals in London, that of Christ Church, Aldgate, and of
St. Giles in the Fields, are due to her munificence and foresight.

We have no space to mention many of the Anglo-Saxon princesses who,
either on the throne or in the cloister, swayed great political
issues and protected learning while they shielded the virtue of
their sex. We must leave the Island of Saints for other kingdoms
whose queens were conspicuous not only in procuring the conversion
of these realms to Christianity, but also in the territorial
aggrandizement and material prosperity of the countries they
governed. Bridget, Queen of Sweden, the famous author of the most
interesting revelations ever written, was no less remarkable
personally than fortunate in her many and distinguished children.
Warriors and crusaders, holy wives and consecrated virgins, she
offered them to God in every state, and instructed each with
particular care. A pilgrimage to Rome in days when the journey
from Scandinavia to the south was more an exploration than a safe
pastime was bravely undertaken by her in her widowhood, and the
foundation of her order and chief monastery at Vatzen is certainly
one of the most boldly conceived systems known to the world. The
monasteries of this order were double, and contained a smaller
number of monks and a larger of nuns, divided by so strict an
enclosure that, although contiguous, the communities never even
saw each other. In spiritual matters, the monks held authority,
but in temporal the nuns governed the double house; and in fact
the monks were only attached to the foundation in a secondary
degree of importance, and for the greater spiritual convenience
of the cloistered women. Such subordination goes far to show how
the pretended inferiority of woman is really an unknown thing in
the church. The fanaticism and bad faith of later times affected
to see an abuse in this system, and most of these monasteries were
destroyed at the Reformation, but Butler says that a few exist yet
in Flanders and Germany. St. Bridget’s works have been printed and
reprinted from age to age, and have seemingly never lost what may
be styled in modern parlance their popularity. She also procured
a Swedish translation of the Bible to be written by Matthias, the
Bishop of Worms, who died about the year 1410. She was altogether
one of the most prominent women of the fourteenth century, and no
unworthy successor to the central figure of the preceding age,
Catherine of Sienna, of whom we shall have to speak briefly later
on.

Two empresses of Germany deserve a passing notice here--Mathilda,
the wife of Henry I. called the Fowler, and her daughter-in-law,
the famous Adelaide. The former had been educated by her
grandmother, who bore the same name as herself, and who was the
abbess of the monastery of Erfurt. Once again we have a woman of
genius, prudence, and great governing powers coming forth to rule a
disturbed empire--and from what school? The world will hardly dare
to call it unenlightened or narrow-minded; yet it was a monastery.
During her husband’s wars against the Danes and Hungarians, then
(it was in the ninth century) nothing better than barbarians,
Mathilda was several times left regent, and Ventura tells us “that
public affairs did not prosper less, the country was not less
tranquil, nor the people less contented, because it was a woman who
steered the helm of the state. When the emperor returned, he found
everything in perfect order. The empress relinquished the functions
of regent only to resume her former place of intercessor for the
unfortunate, protectress of prisoners, and wise auxiliary to
justice.” Adelaide, Princess of Burgundy, renewed in the following
century the glories of Mathilda’s reign. She was married to the
son of the latter, after having been for a short time the Queen
of Lothair, King of the Lombards in Italy. Ventura says that her
zeal for the public good and her love of the people gained her the
appellation of the “mother of her kingdom.” After her husband’s
death, Adelaide, says Butler, “educated her son Otho II. with
great care, and his reign was happy as long as he governed by her
directions.” His mother became regent after his death and that of
his wife, and her biographer, Butler, tells us that she “looked
upon power as merely a difficult stewardship, and applied herself
to public affairs with indefatigable care.”[84]

The middle ages are so fruitful a field for historical details of
the greatness of woman, that we find our materials crowding one
upon the other in too great a profusion for our present limits.
But some great figures in what we may call the Christian Pantheon
of woman cannot be passed over without a word of notice. The
tenth century gave another holy empress to Germany, Cunegonda,
the wife of Henry II., himself a saint, and a descendant of St.
Mathilda. His sister Giselda married King Stephen of Hungary, upon
the express condition that he would endeavor to christianize his
people. Cunegonda, who reigned for a short time between the death
of St. Henry and the election of his successor, proved herself
as competent to govern a realm as the greatest man; these are
Ventura’s own words. The story of Elizabeth of Hungary has been
eloquently told by the author of the _Monks of the West_, and
pictorial art has handed down from generation to generation the
touching legend of her life. Married early to a prince remarkable
for his piety and generosity, she was able to indulge in her
favorite pastime--working for and serving the poor. We, in these
days, seem to think that philanthropy, the “love of man,” is an
invention coeval with the erection of gossiping committees and
wrangling “boards”; but, when we look back upon the history of
our race, we are forced to remember that when man was loved for
the sake of God, spiritually as well as temporally, and when the
old-fashioned virtue of “charity” was not ashamed to own its
created--not self-existent--origin, a broader system of benevolence
was spread over Christian earth, and more daring undertakings
were cheerfully and successfully carried through. Elizabeth of
Hungary was not untried by adversity, and after her husband’s death
suffered cruel persecutions from her brother-in-law Henry, with
the undaunted fortitude which a good conscience ensures and which
God’s grace strengthens. We are told of her that she spoke little
and always with gravity, and especially shunned tattlers. Women
are always being taxed on one side with ridiculous frivolity in
speech, and urged, on the other, to a contradiction of the charge
by the pedantic phraseology of surface science. We have not alluded
in these pages as often as we should have done to the great love
of silence which distinguished the great women whose memory is
honored. Whether as religious or as seculars, the useful employment
of time and a discreetness of conversation were the two special
and similar characteristics of their widely different lives, and
thus they provided for the devotions and the acts of charity which
shared so large a portion of their days and nights. They were never
idle or even uselessly occupied, and we know but few women of our
own generation who could truthfully say the same of themselves.
What powers, what energy, do we not see wasted in superfluous
social duties; for while, as our modern phrase goes, they _kill
time_, they are also engaged in stifling, dwarfing, or destroying
the higher powers of their mind. Solitude, silence, meditation,
these are essentials to a well-balanced mind; but how many minds
there are who voluntarily go on, not heeding, until the world and
its claims, its sham triumphs, and its petty rivalries upset this
balance and obscure the mind’s eye! There are as many women whose
intellect is wrecked on the shoals of Fashion with its “laws of
the Medes and Persians,” as there are others whose sensibility is
stranded on the rocks of Woman’s Rights Conventions with their
reckless disregard of all natural ties and time-honored duties.

Poland presents us with several instances of heroic womanhood
during the middle ages. Dombrowka, the daughter of Boleslas, Duke
of Bohemia, married Mieczylas, Duke of Poland, on condition of
his becoming a Christian. By her example he not only became a
religious, but a pure, merciful, and just, man. His wife could not
forget her own countrymen while evangelizing her new subjects,
and it was to her repeated solicitations that Bohemia owed the
establishment of the Archiepiscopal See of Prague. Christianity,
which in those times we might call the dower of the royal maidens
of Europe, was first carried into Hungary by the marriage of
Adelaide, the sister-in-law of Dombrowka, to Geisa, chief of the
Huns. This Geisa was father to St. Stephen, of whose exemplary
queen, Giselda, we have already spoken. Of another Polish princess,
Hedwige, the wife of Henry, Duke of Silesia and Poland, we are told
that by her prudence and persuasiveness she succeeded in delivering
her husband, who had been made a prisoner by her uncle, and in
obtaining peace between these two princes. Even in our own days,
have we not had recent examples of the high esteem in which the
mediation of woman was held in a Catholic country by a Catholic
sovereign? Who can forget that delicate diplomatic missions have
been confided in past years to a woman who was the incarnation of
social charm as she was also the most devoted and uncompromising
enthusiast in the cause of the Catholic religion--the Empress
Eugenie! This Hedwige, who, in 1240, was so instrumental in raising
an army with which to encounter the heathen hordes of Tartars
who threatened at that time to destroy civilization in Europe,
was succeeded by another queen of the same name as the saintly
Cunegonda of Germany. It was she who towards the beginning of
the fourteenth century, as Dlugossius, her biographer, and the
Bollandists relate, was the first to provide for the working of
the salt mines of Wieliczka, which afterwards proved an infinite
source of wealth to the kingdom. She also cheerfully contributed
the _whole_ of her princely dowry to the equipment of an army
to be led against the Tartars who had made a second raid upon
the frontiers of Poland. But the greatest heroine of the country
whose women are to this day the bravest under misfortune, and
the most faithful to their religion, was another Hedwige, to
whom Poland is indebted for her territorial aggrandizement and
some of the most interesting as well as useful of her public
institutions. Born a princess of Hungary, the elective crown of
Poland was offered to her when she was only eighteen, and, when
her marriage became a matter of national importance, she made,
_herself_, a choice which only her own consummate prudence and
foresight could have justified. Jagellon, Grand Duke of Lithuania
and the surrounding barbarous provinces, became her husband, on the
conditions, proposed by Hedwige, that his entire domains should
be incorporated _for ever_ in the kingdom of Poland; that his
people should embrace Christianity; that Christians who had been
enslaved should be set free; that certain Polish provinces once
alienated should be restored, and that all Lithuanian treasures,
whether hereditary or conquered by Jagellon from his enemies,
should be appropriated for the benefit of the kingdom of Poland.
Here is a treaty in which a kingdom is consolidated and a dynasty
established, through the unassisted efforts of the genius and
prudence of a woman. Hedwige founded numberless hospitals, schools,
churches, and monasteries; the great cathedral of Wilna and seven
episcopal sees also owe their origin to her. Only through her death
and her husband’s good-natured but weak indifference when once her
influence was removed was a great monastic institution abandoned,
which had for its object the study and preservation of the Slavic
languages and peculiar rites. The University of Prague was already
in her day a world-famed seat of learning. Hedwige, in concert
with the King of Bohemia, founded and endowed in that city a
spacious and magnificent college, where the youth of Lithuania were
gratuitously received and provided for during their academical
course. Education was certainly as gravely thought of in those
days as in our later times, when we boast of its benefits being
so _widely_ diffused. Whether it is as _deeply_ impressed on its
ordinary recipients, let the recent “commemorations” at Oxford
proclaim. Dlugossius says the college (which exists to this day)
was called the Queen’s House, “a name which is in itself an undying
monument to the memory of this great woman, whose worthy thought
it embodied, and charity it still expresses; remaining for ever
a living testimony to the world of the merits of its illustrious
foundress.” Boniface IX., who reigned during the last decade of the
fourteenth century, corresponded with Hedwige, upon whom he relied
as the principal support and auxiliary of religion in her realms.
She was always appealed to as mediatrix between the king and his
subjects, as also by the vassal nobles among themselves. What
the king could not do by threats, she accomplished partly by her
persuasive exhortations, partly by her grave and majestic demeanor.
Her historian relates that she even quelled a popular rising, and
put down the abuses which had given occasion to it, before the king
had time to march an army into the disaffected district and reduce
it by force. Once, while her husband was fighting in Lithuania,
the Hungarians, her own countrymen, invaded Poland and captured
several towns. “She no sooner heard of this,” says Ventura, “than
she assembled the nobles and barons, improvised an army on the
spot, and, without losing an instant, herself led it on to the
frontiers. There, to the great astonishment of her generals, she
displayed the military talents and bravery of an old warrior. It
was she who directed the sieges, organized the sallies and attacks,
and gave battle on the open ground, while the whole army obeyed
her enthusiastically, proud to serve under a woman-general. She
conquered the enemy at every encounter, wrested from them the
important stronghold of Leopol, took other cities, and not only
repossessed herself of the Russian territories usurped by the
Hungarians, but also added to the kingdom of Poland a vast tract
of country which voluntarily surrendered itself to her rule.”[85]
Hedwige is perhaps less known than other renowned women of the
middle ages, and therefore we have been led to speak more at
length of her extraordinary powers. It would be useless to remind
the reader that she was no less remarkable for the modesty of her
private life and the austerities and charities of her secret life
than famed for the wonderful and versatile talents displayed in
her public career. Chastity and devotion invariably accompany all
greatness in Catholic womanhood, but, as we shall have occasion to
illustrate this fact later on, we will not now stop to consider it
in its evident bearings on the vexed question raised by certain
indiscriminate apostles of the rights of woman.

We cannot pass over, among the prominent women of mediæval times
the famous Countess Mathilda, of Tuscany, the friend and ally of
Gregory VII., Hildebrand the Reformer. Rohrbacher calls her the
modern Deborah, and adds that in Italy, whose princes were mostly
traitors to the cause of truth and patriotism, “one man only,
during a long reign of fifty years, showed himself ever faithful,
ever devoted to the church and her head, ever ready to second them
in efforts for the reformation of the clergy and the restoration of
ancient discipline, ever prompt to defend them, sword in hand, from
their most formidable enemies, never allured by bribes, intimidated
by threats, or cast down by adversity, and this _one man_ was _a
woman_, the Countess Mathilda.”

Her donation of Tuscany, the Marches, Parma, Modena, Reggio, and
various other cities and lands, to the Holy See, is a fact that
stands alone in history, and is simply the most momentous act of
practical devotion which the Chair of Peter ever received. This
generous and unreserved gift, first made to Gregory VII. in 1077,
and confirmed in 1102 to Pascal II., is the unparalleled expression
of the whole nature of woman, in its thoroughness, its spirit
of martyrdom, its enthusiastic and unerring instincts, towards
the good and the true. Henry IV. of Germany, having incurred
excommunication, was reconciled to the Pope through the good
offices of the great countess, and met him for that purpose at
the fortress of Canossa, then a fief of the Countess of Tuscany.
Ventura says of her that she was as learned as she was pious, and
as solicitous for the propagation of science and the interests
of literature as for the reformation of clerical abuses and the
consolidation of the church. She multiplied schools and colleges
over her dominions, but the crowning work of her great reign was
the foundation of the famous University of Bologna, confessedly
the best seat of learning in Europe for many centuries. Mathilda
gathered together all the enlightened and talented masters of her
age in this time-honored and world-renowned university, and in
honor of her munificence it has remained a custom to this day to
allow women to graduate there, to take a doctorate, and “profess”
in public any of the learned faculties. Women, we are told by
Ventura, the earnest panegyrist of the sex, have taken advantage of
this custom at all times, and even up to the present day, when (in
the beginning of this century, we believe) the celebrated female
professor, Tambroni, taught Latin and Greek within the Bolognese
university. Cardinal Mezzofanti, the great linguist, was at one
time her pupil.

We have been led so far in the search, however superficial, for
instances of the greatness of woman, as recognized, protected,
and rewarded by the church, that we have reached a limit to our
explorations in this article without mentioning any of the great
women of the middle ages save those of royal descent. There are
many who claim our attention, and whose influence over public
affairs and the minds of men was not less than that exercised by
the royal matrons and maidens we have cursorily named. Some were
destined to mingle in political struggles, others owe their fame
to their learning, one of them to actual feats of arms, and all to
the spirit of chivalry which rendered a woman inviolable and sacred
wherever honor was known and laws revered. But this spirit itself,
what was it save the offspring of that higher spirit of reverential
homage ever inculcated by the church towards that sex which gave a
mother to our God?

Before taking up the subject of the status of woman within the
church after the sixteenth century, we may, perhaps, return for a
brief space to the Catherines of Sienna, the Joans of Arc, and the
Genevieves of ecclesiastical history.

FOOTNOTES:

[79] _Donna Cattolica_, ii. p. 74.

[80] _Lives of the Saints._

[81] _Life of St. Radegundes._ By Busslère

[82] _Donna Cattolica._

[83] _Donna Cattolica_, vol. ii. p. 104.

[84] _Lives of the Saints._

[85] _Donna Cattolica_, p. 174.




BRYANT’S TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD.[86]


The appearance at this time and in this country of a first-rate
translation of the _Iliad_ is an event of much significance.
Through the exaggerated praise which London critics bestow on our
dialect poetry, there runs a quiet assumption that our culture is
narrow and unsound. Our oaten pipe is well enough, but our lyre
disjointed and unstrung. To such insinuations Mr. Bryant’s work
is a complete and final rejoinder. We shall find it easy to show
that he has made the best translation of Homer in our language,
and with one exception the very best extant. In the face of such
an achievement, it will henceforth be preposterous to sneer at
American scholarship.

Winged words the Homeric poems may well be called, which, fledged
in the dawn of time, have not yet faltered in their flight across
the centuries. Their superiority as works of art is not more
unquestionable than is their procreative power. They have ever
been--to use Milton’s words--as lively and as vigorously productive
as those fabulous dragon’s teeth. The history of Greek letters, we
might almost say, is the genesis of the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_.
Upon them Aristotle based his canons; from them the Attic tragedy
drew her inspiration and her argument. To the same source the most
delightful of Greek historians referred his style and his method,
while the choir of lyric and erotic poets confessed their debt to
him who “gave them birth, but higher sang.” The direct action of
the Homeric poems upon the masters of the Latin literature has been
compared to that of the sunlight, but their indirect influence
through the medium of Athenian models was pervasive and quickening
as the solar heat. The development of poetry among Western nations
can be accurately measured by the thoroughness with which they have
assimilated Homer. The _Orlando_ and the _Lusiad_ repeat the story
of Ulysses. Even minor excellences of the _Iliad_ are reproduced in
the _Jerusalem Delivered_. Milton and Goethe have drawn copiously
from the same stores. Nor is there a single modern poet of the
first rank, with the exception of Shakespeare, whose obligations to
Homer are not manifold and obvious.

It is true that the eighteenth century, which sought to shatter
so many idols, chose to depreciate these poems. Embellished by
Pope, dissected by Fontanelle, and patronized by Mme. Dacier, they
fell, it must be confessed, upon evil times. It is a suggestive
commentary upon the self-styled _siècle du goût_ that the autocrat
of letters could pronounce the _Iliad_ “une poème qu’on admire,
et qu’on ne lit pas.”[87] To the author of the _Henriade_, Homer
was only a _beau parleur_. It is now many years since the stigma
went home to roost. Perrault and La Motte Houdart, who knew him
only in the rags and gyves of an obscure translation, point with a
satisfied smirk to the “coarseness” and “barbarism” of Homer. One
is reminded of those Philistine lords who flung their jests at
Samson Agonistes while he leaned against the pillars in Gaza.

Of living English poets, the strongest and sweetest acknowledge
gratefully in Homer a source of their melody and strength. The
fragment of an epic which is perhaps the Laureate’s best work was
presented by the author as “faint Homeric echoes.” From Homer,
quite as truly as from Chaucer, has the _Earthly Paradise_ caught
its genial sunshine and bracing air. The world, we presume, would
have lost nothing had Mr. Swinburne read Euripides less and the
_Iliad_ more. A timely reaction has set in against the morbid
self-consciousness and the hankering after glitter and novelty
which are sure precursors of decay. Of that reaction, Matthew
Arnold, who in childhood was taught to reverence Homer, has been
the prophet and protagonist. With the same movement the temper and
discipline of Mr. Bryant’s mind place him in active sympathy. We do
not doubt that it was the aim of his _Iliad_ to elevate and purify
the taste of his countrymen. The success which his translation has
already achieved augurs for it not a little influence upon the
national literature.

To the thoughtful artist, Schlegel could suggest nothing more
useful than the study of casts from the antique. A faithful
version of the _Iliad_ opens whole galleries of casts. The
sculptor Bouchardon, we are told, was discovered reading Homer in
a translation, and that a sorry one. “Ah, monsieur!” he exclaimed,
“depuis que j’ai lu ce livre, il me semble que les hommes ont
quinze pieds de haut.”[88] We know what Keats beheld upon looking
into Chapman’s _Homer_, and we know that the quarry from which he
hewed _Hyperion_ is not yet exhausted. Of the thousands who will
now listen for the first time to the story of Achilles, it may well
be that some will kindle at what they hear. They will know how to
thank Mr. Bryant that those flames which blazed over Troy, leaping
from headland to headland, have once more borne a message across
the sea.

Since the beginning of the seventeenth century, repeated attempts
have been made to translate the master-poems of the Greek and Latin
literatures into English verse. We suppose it will be acknowledged
that those attempts have for the most part failed. The truth is
that translation as commonly practised in England cannot properly
be called an art. There are no fundamental principles universally
recognized as the conditions of its development. It is still hardly
more than a trick, in which one succeeds better than another, but
each proceeds upon a method of his own. Who has prefaced his work
with such a definition of translation as criticism can admit to be
exhaustive and final? We might have expected so much from Hobbes.
We do not find it. Dryden’s cardinal idea, that translation is “a
kind of drawing after the life,” has never been literally accepted
by others. It did not uniformly govern himself. The face seen and
the face drawn both appeal to the brain through the eye, whereas
even those English translators who aim to infuse the identical
thought, feeling, or fancy of their original have recourse to
media of sensual metaphor, sometimes modified, sometimes distinct
from those employed in their author’s language. On Sir George
Cornewall Lewis’ view of translation we will not dwell, because we
are not sure that we understand it, and at least cannot conceive
the practical application of it. It is enough for us that he
heartily commended as an instance of right treatment Hookham
Frere’s _Aristophanes_, which is clever, fresh, and racy enough,
but certainly not Attic. There is another theory, that we should
ask ourselves what our author _would_ have said had he been writing
in English. One objection to this is, as Mr. Newman remarks, that
no two men would agree in their answers to such a question. Homer,
if an Englishman and writing in our tongue, would unquestionably
have given a different turn and tinge to his verse from that which
it takes in Greek. But are we not bound to make the province of
translation, as discriminated from paraphrase, the reproduction
of what an author did actually say? Certainly the aim of Homeric
translators into our tongue should be, not of course to compass
the effect produced upon an Athenian reading Homer in the age
of Peisistratos or upon a consummate scholar capable, we will
say, of _thinking_ in Ionic Greek, but to make upon Englishmen
or Americans of average culture an impression nearly identical
with that which they derive from the _Iliad_ itself. Achieve
this, and they who are themselves not scholars will at least be
assured that they are reading Homer, not Sotheby or Pope. Such an
aim does not seem too ambitious, but it has never been attained,
rarely approached, in English. A radical error runs through all
our metrical versions of the classic poets. Literal accuracy is by
some repudiated, attempted by others, and occasionally secured in
detached passages, but is always subordinate to the attainment of
harmonious numbers and agreeable diction. Whenever literal accuracy
seems likely to conflict with these, it is sacrificed. Now, if
it be true that such sacrifice is frequently inevitable, then a
genuine translation of the _Iliad_ is an impossibility. But this we
are reluctant to admit. The matchless version of Voss has proved
that it is possible to be at once literal and musical, to preserve
in one Germanic language at least as much of the Homeric flavor
as Germans of average culture can detect in the original. Perhaps
one clue to his success is to be found in his employment of the
hexameter. A profound artist, he could not fail to recognize the
inextricable connection of rhythm and cæsura with the shape and
play of thought. He saw that in some subtle sort the metre _is_
the poem. We have not abandoned the hope of seeing the hexameter
one day naturalized in English. Mr. Kingsley’s _Andromeda_ showed
a marked improvement on _Evangeline_, and what the Laureate might
do in this way is sufficiently clear from his _Ode to Milton_,
where he has grappled successfully with alcaics, undoubtedly the
most intricate and difficult of dactylic measures. The distinction
between quantitative and accentual metres has been pressed too far
by men who have wanted patience to cope with those peculiarities
which render our language somewhat intractable to dactylic verse.

Almost every familiar scheme of English metre has been applied to
the reproduction of Homer. We have had Chapman’s fourteen-syllable
line, the rhymed couplet of Pope and Sotheby, the unrhymed iambics
of Cowper, Mr. Worsley’s Spenserian stanza, the ballad movement in
seven beats of Mr. Newman, and many more. One or two of these are
noble English poems, but as translations none can be compared with
the work of Voss. We should have said, before the appearance of Mr.
Bryant’s volumes, that a new version of the _Iliad_ executed upon
one of the old plans and in one of the old metres was not called
for. The attempt of Lord Derby to vie with Cowper in blank-verse
had proved singularly unfortunate. Failing to accredit the scholar,
its publication belittled the statesman. It is not with such a
performance that the conservative party can match Mr. Gladstone’s
_Homeric Age_. We should not highly commend Mr. Bryant were we to
say that he is every-way more successful than Lord Derby. He has,
in our judgment, surpassed Cowper, and that was no easy task. The
associations, indeed, connected with what is known as blank-verse,
render it to an English ear somewhat unsuitable to a poem like
the _Iliad_, which presents an infinite variety of incidents and
situations quite as often trivial as dignified. Still, Cowper,
although his muse, stooping to certain homely details, discovers a
sort of prudishness which is highly amusing, is generally vigorous
and noble where energy and majesty are required, and had hitherto
been the least unsatisfactory of Homer’s English translators. In
examining Mr. Bryant’s work we shall mainly confine ourselves--so
far as English writers are concerned--to a collation of Cowper and
Lord Derby. We have neither space nor inclination to quote from
the rhymed versions. Faithfully to reproduce Homer in rhyme was
declared by Pope to be impossible, and Mr. Worsley’s _Odyssey_,
delightful as it is, has not availed to set aside the judgment.

It would be easy to misinterpret the views which have governed Mr.
Bryant’s work by his application of Latin names to the Homeric
deities, and the reason which he assigns in the preface for this
practice. It is true that he is countenanced by Lord Derby, but
we think we had a right to expect more from his scholarship. We
cannot but deem them both in the wrong, and to our mind the error
is serious and far-reaching. The denizens of Homer’s Olympus are in
the strictest sense personal gods. Such superhuman attributes as
they severally possess are sharply defined, the degree and scope of
their authority, except, perhaps, in two instances, clearly marked.
They live the life of men, eat, drink, love, quarrel. They exhibit
the most passionate interest in the war which rages before Ilium.
They are bitter and unscrupulous partisans, wheedle, lie, bargain,
rebel, in the cause of their _protégées_. They forsake their
dwellings to take part in the debates of mortals, mix in the fight,
are pierced with spears, and the celestial ichor flows precisely
like human blood. In short, they resemble rather the demigods of a
later mythology, and are rarely invested with that awful sublimity
and mystery which enshroud most of the elder Roman divinities.
Even in the _Theogony_ of Hesiod, the attributes of certain gods
have undergone a degree of alteration which it is tax enough to
bear in mind. To insist upon confounding Ares, Aphroditê, and
Athenê with Mars, Venus, and Minerva, deities which, as enshrined
in the literature purely and distinctively Latin, are as native
and peculiar to Rome as her language, is to mystify the reader
who knows anything of either. It appears to us as unreasonable to
rename the gods as to miscall the heroes of the _Iliad_. Surely it
is no apology for the confusion of things essentially distinct that
the practice has been in some sort naturalized in our literature.
So are the legendary chronicles of the kings of Rome, so are the
distorted portraits of Shakespeare’s histories. A manifest error
cannot plead undisturbed possession. Moreover, it is now many years
since English scholars have labored to educate their countrymen
up to something like discrimination between the Greek and Latin
mythologies. Their task is well-nigh done. Lemprière’s Dictionary
is at length obsolete, and the volumes of Grote are in the hands
of every schoolboy. If the prevailing excellence of Mr. Bryant’s
work had not disarmed us, we should be disposed to protest against
the repetition of an error, as well as against the presumption of
national ignorance, by which it is excused. It is certainly matter
of regret that such an objection should lie on the threshold of a
work in most respects so sound and scholarlike.

The new version begins well:

    “O Goddess! sing the wrath of Peleus’ son
    Achilles; sing the deadly wrath that brought
    Woes numberless upon the Greeks and swept
    To Hades many a valiant soul, and gave
    Their limbs a prey to dogs and birds of air.
    For so had Jove appointed, from the time
    When the two chiefs--Atrides, King of men,
    And great Achilles--parted first as foes.”

Seven hexameters in eight lines of blank-verse--certainly a
remarkable instance of compression. Except ἡρωων, πασι (almost
an expletive), and προ in προιαψεν (which, perhaps, is faintly
suggested by “swept”), not a word of Homer is omitted, not a word
is added. “Birds of air” is an accurate translation of οἰωνοισι.
“Parted first as foes” is exceedingly close. There is but one
error, διος is rendered “great.” To this word no moral attribute
whatever is attached in the Homeric poems. It is equivalent to
“high-born” or “noble” (as Cowper gives it) in the primitive
sense of that word. Lord Derby makes it “godlike,” which is quite
incorrect. If there be a fault in the lines just quoted, it is a
certain coldness. They hardly lift us to the height of the great
argument. But for conscientious fidelity to the original, these
lines have not been approached in English, and are in this respect
fully equal to Voss. Hear, for instance, Cowper, who requires an
extra line:

    “Achilles sing, O Goddess, Peleus’ son,
    His wrath pernicious, who ten thousand woes
    Caused to Achaia’s _host_, sent many a soul
    Illustrious into Ades premature,
    And heroes gave (so stood the will of Jove)
    To dogs and to all ravening birds a prey.
    When fierce dispute had separated once
    The noble chief Achilles from the son
    Of Atreus, Agamemnon, King of men.”

This is pitched in the right key, although the finest line, the
fourth, is perhaps too suggestively Miltonic. In his scholarship
Cowper is loose. “Who” is grammatically wrong and æsthetically a
blunder. It is not Achilles, but Achilles’ wrath that Homer means
to sing. “Host,” “ravening,” “fierce,” “chief,” “Agamemnon,” are
merely supernumeraries. “Illustrious” was inserted, we presume,
for rhythmical reasons; it does not translate ἰφθιμους. “Stood”
for ἐτελειετο is fine; Mr. Bryant fails to convey the notion of
fulfilment, of inevitable accomplishment, which the word seems
to carry. The antithesis between ψυχὰς and αὐτους, significant
as regards the Homeric theory of a future life, is quite lost in
Cowper, while it is cleverly projected in Mr. Bryant’s lines.
“Premature” preserves the force of the preposition in προ-ιαψεν,
which ought not to be overlooked.

It may be well now to quote Lord Derby. He needs _ten_ lines:

    “Of Peleus’ son, Achilles, sing, O Muse.
    The vengeance deep and deadly whence to Greece
    Unnumbered ills arose, which many a soul
    Of mighty warriors to the viewless Shades
    Untimely sent, they on the battle plain
    Unburied lay, a prey to ravening dogs
    And carrion birds, but so had Jove decreed.
    From that sad day when first in wordy war
    The mighty Agamemnon, King of men,
    Confronted stood by Peleus’ godlike son.”

This is hardly worth criticising in detail. First, why “Muse”?
“Vengeance” is bad for μηνις. “Deadly” translates οὐλομένην well
enough, but “deep and deadly” suggests the harrowing phraseology of
the _Ledger_ romance. “Viewless Shades” is possibly poetical, but
Homer chooses to be geographical--he says Ἀις. “They on the battle
plain unburied”; we cannot find this in the Greek, but it accounts
for one extra line. “Ravening” and “carrion” raise Cowper’s
expletive to the second power. “Sad day”! And so it was, but to
call it so is almost maudlin. Ἐριζω does indeed mean to wrangle,
but “wordy war” is petty and poetastic. “The mighty Agamemnon”!
Homer is satisfied with _Atrides_. And now we will see if it be
possible to give this magnificent prologue measure for measure,
line for line, almost word for word. Hear Voss:

    “Singe den Zorn, O Göttin, des Peleiaden Achilleus,
    Ihn der entbrannt den Achaiern unendbaren Jammer erregte,
    Und viel tapfere Seelen der Heldensöhne zum Ais
    Sendete, aber sie selber zum Raub’ ausstreckte den Hunden
    Und den Gevögel umher--so ward Zeus’ Wille vollendet,
    Seit dem Tage als einst durch bitteren Zank sich entzweiten
    Atreus’ Sohn der Herrscher des Volks und der edle Achilleus!”

The figurative _entbrannt_ for οὐλομένην is not to our taste.
_Bitteren_ is superfluous, and _sendete_ imperfectly translates
προιαψεν. Otherwise these lines are flawless.

We pass to the sixth book, to a passage which Pope and Chapman
have done well, Sotheby on the whole better, where even Hobbes
grows tender, where every translator has sought to do his best.
The parting of Hector and Andromache is a scene (if we except the
_Alcestis_) unique in classic literature. When we consider the
state of society depicted in the Homeric poems, the figure of
Andromache seems anomalous and inexplicable; or rather she almost
constrains us to recast our notions of the social framework in
which we find her set. In her the sexual passion is refined and
sublimated to that noblest form of conjugal love which is thought
to be peculiar to the civilized and christianized descendants from
the chaste German stock. Through the historical ages of Greece, in
the Roman Republic and Empire, we seek in vain a pendant to this
portrait. The ideal would seem to have been lost. The painter who
drew Alexander’s favorite could not have limned Andromache; he who
sang _Ariadne in Naxos_ would have failed to understand her. To
recover the type, we must descend to a much later age--to Raphael
and to Wordsworth. The sweetest words in our language--sweetheart,
helpmate, wife--describe Andromache. She is not the wanton idol of
a despot’s caprice, nor the dull victim of a convenient Athenian
marriage, nor the selfish _protégée_ of the cynical Roman law. She
might have been bred in a Christian world and blessed an English
home. We quote twenty lines from Mr. Bryant:

     “She came attended by a maid who bore
     A tender child--a babe too young to speak--
     Upon her bosom, Hector’s only son,
     Beautiful as a star....

            *       *       *       *       *

                             The father on his child
     Looked with a silent smile. Andromache
     Pressed to his side meanwhile, and all in tears
     Clung to his hand, and thus beginning said:
     ‘Too brave! thy valor yet will cause thy death!
     Thou hast no pity on thy tender child,
     Nor me, unhappy one, who soon must be
     Thy widow. All the Greeks will rush on thee
     To take thy life. A happier lot were mine,
     If I must lose thee, to go down to earth,
     For I shall have no hope when thou art gone,
     Nothing but sorrow. Father have I none,
     And no dear mother....
     Seven brothers had I in my father’s house,
     And all went down to Hades in one day.

            *       *       *       *       *

                               Hector, thou
     Art father and dear mother now to me,
     And brother and my youthful spouse besides.’”

No man, we imagine, who examines the above lines will question the
general accuracy of Mr. Bryant’s scholarship. They are at once the
most succinct, literal, and beautiful reproduction of Homer’s words
which has been achieved in English. As Americans, we are proud of
them. Cowper, indeed, had finely rendered this passage, and it is
possible that some persons unfamiliar with the Greek and habituated
to the movement of the _Paradise Lost_ may prefer his inverted
construction and sonorous phrase. We will not quote him, however,
but rather choose to pay Mr. Bryant the highest homage in our power
by placing beside his lines the version of Voss:

        “Die Dienerin aber ihr folgend
    Trug an der Brust das zarte, noch ganz unmündige Knäblein.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Hektor’s einzigen Sohn, dem schimmernden Sterne vergleichbar.
    Siehe, mit Lächeln blickte der Vater still auf das Knäblein,
    Aber neben ihn trat Andromache Thränen vergiessend,
    Drückt ihm freundlich die Hand, und redete also, beginnend,
    Seltsamer Mann, dich tödtet dein Muth noch und du erbarmst dich
    Nicht des stammelnden Kindes, noch mein des elenden Weibes,
    Ach, bald Witwe von dir, denn dich tödten gewiss die Achaier
    Alle mit Macht austürmend; allein mir ware das Beste
    Deiner beraubt in die Erde hinabzusinken; denn weiter
    Bleibt kein Trost mir übrig, wenn du dein Schicksal erreicht hast,
    Grau nur und nicht mehr hab’ ich ja Vater und liebende Mutter.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Sieben auch waren die Brüder mir dort in unserer Wohnung,
    Und die wandelten all ‘am selbigen Tage zum Ais.’”

We doubt if these lines can be surpassed except by the Greek
itself. They echo the melody of Homer. Mr. Bryant, of course,
relinquished the hope of competing with him in this respect when
he adopted iambic verse. In point of compression, however, and
literal accuracy, we shall find him not inferior. There are in
both versions some imperfections. “Tender” (_zarte_) may perhaps
stand for ἀταλαφρων although it represents but partially that
exquisite epithet. Cowper omits this word altogether, and Lord
Derby substitutes something of his own, “all unconscious.” To our
mind Mr. Bryant’s “too young to speak” is most felicitous for
νηπιον αὐτως. The word, however, in many passages of the _Iliad_
shows no trace of relation to επος, and means simply “under age,”
as Voss gives it. The force of the adverb is nicely preserved in
the German. Both versions make ἁγαπητον “only” (_einzigen_). The
line of the _Odyssey_ (b. ii. 365) seems to us conclusive against
the propriety of this translation. We prefer Cowper’s “darling.”
And now we come to the famous simile, ἀλιγκιον ἀστερι καλῷ. Mr.
Bryant, following Cowper, writes “beautiful as a star.” But Homer
is far more picturesque than this. He shows us the bright cheeks
and glancing eyes of Hector’s boy gleaming from his nurse’s bosom,
as a star gleams. “A fair star”--Lord Derby would make it a planet,
“morning star” he calls it. But stars that twinkle and glimmer
are most alluring to the eye, are the fairest, and therefore Voss
is right--_schimmernden Sterne vergleichbar_. Mr. Bryant is not
successful in the next line. We cannot like “silent smile.” Can a
smile be other than silent? Neither can Voss match Cowper’s

          “The father silent eyed his babe, and smiled.”

“Pressed to his side” is vivid, where Cowper and Voss are tame;
“clung to his hand”--the Greek is yet stronger, “grew on his hand.”
Voss was certainly drowsy when he could render this “pressed kindly
his hand.” Andromache’s touching first word is quite lost in the
“Dear lord” of Lord Derby. Cowper’s “My noble Hector” is even
worse. The truth is that Δαιμονιε is uttered by the young wife
in tender reproach, and this is conveyed in good measure by “too
brave,” but _seltsamer Mann_ is perfect. “Tender child”--Cowper
and Lord Derby write “helpless.” Voss’ _stammelnden_ is based, we
presume, on _Il._ 2, 238, where some command of speech more or less
articulate seems to be conceded to νηπιαχοις. The next four lines
of the new version are close and felicitous, but θαλπωρη is not so
much “hope” as “comfort”; and “when thou art gone” hardly expresses
the thought in ἐπει ἄν συ γε ποτμον ἐπισπῃς, whereas the German
delivers it faithfully. We have reached finally a wonderful couplet
which fairly throbs with passionate devotion. Here is the Greek:

    “‘Ἑκτωρ, ἀταρ συ μοι ἐσσι πατηρ και ποτνια μητηρ,
    Ἠδε κασιγνητος, συ δε μοι θαλερος παρακοιτης.’”

Which we may venture to render thus:

    “‘Hector, united in thee still, find I my worshipful mother,
    Father and brother in thee, O blooming Hector, my husband!’”

Voss is exceedingly sweet:

    “‘Hector, O du bist jetzo mir Vater und liebende Mutter,
    Auch mein Bruder allein, O du mein blühender Gatte!’”

Derby:

    “‘But, Hector, thou to me art all in one,
    Sire, mother, brother, thou my wedded love.’”

Cowper:

    “‘Yet, Hector, O my husband, I in thee
    Find parents, brothers, all that I have lost.’”

Bryant:

                                “‘Hector, thou
    Art father and dear mother now to me
    And brother and my youthful spouse besides.’”

Lord Derby’s version is curiously bad. Strange that one striving
to utter to modern ears words which in the _Iliad_ seem to break
from the heart should go out of his way for “sire” and “brethren”!
And for “wedded love,” it is not only incorrect, but mawkish, and
therefore in this place detestable. Cowper likewise is weak and
false. “Parents” is intolerable; ποτνια and θαλερος are overlooked.
And in exchange for those adjectives we have “all that I have lost”
(pure Cowper). Mr. Bryant does very much better, but he is again
somewhat cold; and coldness here is hardly pardonable. He was
determined to give the last line literally; but to put παρακοιτης
in the vocative, as Voss has done, makes the verse literal enough
and more glowing. Both Voss and Mr. Bryant are wrong in ποτνια. The
active participle (_liebende_) is out of the question, and even
“dear” conveys an erroneous impression of the relations subsisting
between mother and daughter in the Homeric age. Ποτνια predicates
a sentiment of respect and reverence, and is often associated
with the names of deities. For an exact analogue we must go back
to English domestic life in the last century. We shall find it in
what was then a household word--“honored mother.” We must do Lord
Derby the justice to say that he had hit upon the translation in
line 413. It is a pity that he did not repeat it here. Θαλερος has
proved a stumbling-block to most translators. It is a beautiful
word: and placed with exquisite propriety in the mouth of a young
wife who gazes on the bravest face and noblest form in Ilium. Mr.
Bryant’s “youthful” is not absolutely wrong, but it is rather
the impression which youth and health make upon the eye, their
visible glory, their “purple light,” which Homer makes in θαλερος.
_Blühende_ gives it exactly. We wish that with these perfect words
Andromache might have vanished from literature. The later myths
dishonor her. It seems a crime against nature to recount of this
woman that

              “Victoris heri tetigit captiva cubile,”

and that Hector’s widow bore children to the son of Achilles.
Surely instinct would have taught her the tenet of a later
philosophy: “We are in the power of no calamity while death is in
our own.” Not in Euripides and Virgil, but rather in Racine, would
we follow the fortunes of that Andromache whom we knew by the Scæan
gate.

Let us glance next at the concluding lines of the eighth book. They
have been translated by Tennyson, and it may be interesting to
contrast his version. Mr. Bryant writes:

    “So high in hope they sat the whole night through
    In warlike lines, and many watch-fires blazed
    As when in heaven the stars look brightly forth
    Round the clear-shining moon while not a breeze
    Stirs in the depths of air, and all the stars
    Are seen and gladness fills the shepherd’s heart,
    So many fires in sight of Ilium blazed
    Lit by the sons of Troy between the ships
    And eddying Xanthus: on the plain there shone
    A thousand; fifty warriors by each fire
    Sat in its light. Their steeds beside the cars--
    Champing their oats and their white barley--stood,
    And waited for the golden morn to rise.”

Tennyson renders the same passage thus:

     “And these all night upon the ridge of war
     Sat glorying; many a fire before them blazed;
     As when in heaven the stars about the moon
     Look beautiful when all the winds are laid

       *       *       *       *       *

                            ... and all the stars
    Shine, and the shepherd gladdens in his heart.
    So many a fire between the ships and stream
    Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy,
    A thousand on the plain, and close by each
    Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire.
    And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds
    Stood by the cars waiting the thronèd morn.”

Some may prefer the general effect of the Laureate’s lines, but
our American version adheres quite as closely to the text. We
are surprised, however, to find “warlike lines.” Mr. Tennyson’s
alternative translation, “ridge of war” is an exact reproduction of
the Greek, ἀνα πτολεμοιο γεφυρας. “Bridge,” which he first wrote,
is post-Homeric. Lord Derby’s phrase is close enough, but wanting
in pictorial power:

    “Full of proud hopes, upon the pass of war
    All night they camped, and frequent blazed their fires.”

If one care to see what sad work may sometimes proceed from a
true poet, here is Cowper’s version of these lines--ten words are
required to misconstrue three:

    “Big with great purposes and proud they sat,
    Not disarrayed but in fair form displayed
    Of even ranks, and watched their numerous fires.”

The familiar simile of the moon and stars in the above passage is
sharply and faithfully reproduced by Mr. Bryant, whereas Tennyson’s
“look beautiful” for φαινετ' ἀριπρεπεα is both loose and weak.
“All the winds are laid”; Cowper says “hushed.” Either is closer
than Mr. Bryant’s phrase. Lord Derby’s translation of παντα δε τ'
ειδεται ἀστρα is ambitious and clumsy--“Shines each particular
star distinct.” The last six hexameters are given in seven lines
of our version. Tennyson has compressed them into six, but with
the sacrifice of Τρωων καιοντων, which the other neatly expressed
by “Lit by the sons of Troy.” We could have dispensed with the
Laureate’s “towers,” but are delighted to find ἐυθρονον preserved
in “throned.”

To some readers our criticism may have seemed to dwell too nicely
on details; but, if they will reflect a moment, they will perceive
that this is itself a guarantee of sincerity. We propose to give
grounds for our opinions, that others may accept them knowingly, or
refute them, if they can. To flood with general praise or spatter
with vague abuse belongs to the Cheapjacks of literature. Moreover,
no American needs to be told that Mr. Bryant is a poet. Men do
not ask whether his _Iliad_ is a delightful poem, but whether it
truthfully photographs Homer. That question, if we may judge from
his performances, the average magazine critic has preferred to
evade.

From the extracts already presented, it is manifest that our
American translator has followed the text of his author with
a scrupulous exactitude which required unusual self-command
from a poet of original powers; yet he is often so truly and
nobly poetical that many will overlook the superiority of his
scholarship. Most countries of Western Europe have produced
several translators of the _Iliad_. But in each language one has
eventually obscured the rest, and thenceforward kept unchallenged
a niche in the national literature. Some such pre-eminence among
English versions belongs, in our judgment, to Mr. Bryant’s work.
For conscientious adherence to the text, his version has no rival
in our tongue, and ought, in justice, to be compared with Voss. In
point of scholarship, Cowper had shown himself much stronger than
Pope, but his translation beside Mr. Bryant’s _Iliad_ seems to us a
paraphrase. Both are masters of blank-verse, but Cowper is a pupil
of Milton, while Mr. Bryant’s diction and rhythm are his own.
The iambic pentameter is, in his hands, surprisingly plastic. We
should not have supposed it capable of such happy adjustment to the
shifting mood and varying pitch of the original; yet we cannot help
a regret that this version was not executed in hexameters. We are
quite sure that the achievement was possible to the author of this
translation.

In such extracts as we have yet to make from Mr. Bryant’s work, we
propose to compare him, not with his English rivals whom we hold
him to have excelled, but with some of those translators who are
most highly esteemed in other countries.

Few lines of the _Iliad_ have been more frequently imitated than
those which paint with the tints of Albano the girdle of Aphroditê.
The incident which calls forth the description is well known.
Determined to lull the vigilance of Zeus and rescue her darling
Greeks, Herê flies to her toilet. The most truthful of poets puts
no faith in beauty unadorned, and himself performs the part of
tire-woman. It occurs, however, to Herê that her lord is already
familiar with the resources of her wardrobe, and the fear of a cold
or careless eye leads her to borrow of Aphroditê. She receives
a talisman, but precisely what this was is--to men, at least--a
riddle. It was an embroidered strap, so much is certain; but how
used, and where? Belt or waist-girdle it was not, for that Herê had
on. It was plainly a slender and dainty thing, or how could she
hide it in her bosom? For our part, we believe it to have been a
breast-band (_Brustgürtel_) worn just under the breast, although a
French commentator with much heat pronounces this view an insult to
the figure of the goddess. The one translator competent to decide
so nice a question was Mme. Dacier. Unhappily she throws no light
on it. Mr. Bryant turns the passage thus:

    “She spake, and from her bosom drew the zone
    Embroidered, many-colored, and instinct
    With every winning charm--with love, desire,
    Dalliance, and gentle speech that stealthily
    O’ercomes the purpose of the wisest mind.”

We must object to “zone.” Mr. Bryant has just given (_Il._ 14, 181)
the same name to a broad, heavily-fringed belt which Herê is now
wearing. But Homer makes a difference, calling that ζωνη and this
ἱμας. Voss likewise is here somewhat careless, rendering both words
by _Gürtel_. “Dalliance” translates a stubborn word, and projects
the idea which lay at the root of ὀαριστυς. Let us turn to Voss:

    “Sprach und löste vom Busen den wunderköstlichen Gürtel
    Buntgestickt; dort waren die Zauberreize versammelt.
    Dort war schmachtende Lieb’ und Sehnsucht, dort das Getändel,
    Dort die schmeichelnde Bitte die oft auch den Weisen bethöret.”

How neatly ποικιλον and κεστον are compressed in _buntgestickt_!
_Wunderköstlichen_ is, of course, mere padding. _Schmachtende_
likewise is superfluous. Neither can we altogether like “befool”
for ἐκλεψε νοον. Mr. Bryant’s phrase is certainly more felicitous.
On the whole, it must be conceded that Voss flickers in these lines.

When Mme. Dacier brought out her _Iliad_, it was affirmed on all
hands that Homer could never, in the nature of things, be presented
in French verse. From that verdict an appeal has from time to
time been taken, but the decision has never been reversed. Mme.
Dacier’s stiffness and the flippancy of La Motte are indeed equally
intolerable. We decidedly prefer to any metrical version in French
the prose translations of Bitaube and Dugas Montbel. Both are
in the strictest sense belles-lettres works, and are generally
accurate and spirited. Bitaube portrays the girdle thus: “En même
temps elle détache sa ceinture riche d’une superbe broderie. Là se
trouvent réunis les charmes les plus séduisants; là sont l’amour,
les tendres désirs, les doux entretiens et ces accents persuasifs,
qui dérobent en secret le cœur du plus sage.” There are some
adjectives here for which Homer is not responsible.

Monti’s version is well known. It has been called the golden ring
which links the Greek and Italian literatures, and is ranked
with Caro’s _Æneid_. Beside _La Morte d’Ettore_ it appears a
meritorious work. No doubt the climax of false taste was reached
when Cesarrotti, who had executed a good translation in prose,
proceeded to metamorphose the _Iliad_ into a strange monster which
he called The _Death of Hector_. We will not quote Monti now, for
in this place he is tame and redundant. Yet he has skilfully hit
with _favellio_ a secondary meaning of ὀαριστυς. The French have
a word from the same root, _babil_; but we have nothing in English
which so happily expresses the _cooing_ of young lovers. Tasso’s
reproduction of these lines is exquisite. He is depicting Armida’s
girdle. It was fraught, he says, with--

    “Teneri sdegni, e placide, e tranquille,
      Repulse, cari vezzi e liete paci,
    Sorrisi, parolette, e dolci stille
      Di pianto, e sospir tronchi, e molli baci.”

After the short, swift strokes of Homer, this picture seems almost
florid with _concetti_. But each poet meant to epitomize the charms
he had beheld in life. The countrywomen of Tasso were skilled in
lovers’ sleights, whereas the simple virgins of Homeric times
had never heard of the _gai scavoir_. If we may trust Brantôme,
who knew something of Italian manners in that age, the dames of
Sienna were quite competent to instruct Aphroditê in the arts of
fascination.

The range of Homeric similes is not limited to the phenomena of
sky, river, and ocean, to the familiar experiences of the forge,
the vineyard, and the chase. The lightning play of fancy and memory
and the emotions of the heart are submitted to the same scrutiny,
and portrayed with like felicity. “Rapid as thought” has become the
tritest commonplace in every European language, but the guise which
the simile originally wore in Homer is still novel and effective.
Incensed at the trick which has just been cleverly executed, Zeus
orders Herê back to Olympus. Then Mr. Bryant:

    “He spake, the white-armed goddess willingly
    Obeyed him, and from Ida’s summit flew
    To high Olympus. As the thought of man
    Flies rapidly, when having travelled far,
    He thinks, Here would I be; I would be there--
    And flits from place to place.”

“Willingly” is supported by Voss’ _willig_, but has no correlative
in the Greek. The context, moreover, shows that Herê departed
in a pet, and her peevishness finds full vent when she reaches
Olympus. Mr. Bryant omits to translate φρεσι πευκαλιμῃσι. For this
phrase Voss gives _spähenden Geiste_, deriving the adjective from
πευκη, by which, with Buttmann, he understands the _pointed_ (not
_bitter_) fir-tree. But if Schneider be right, these words are
equivalent to πυκα φρονεοντων in the description of the girdle just
quoted. The root would then be looked for in πυκνος, and the latter
phrase might find an analogue, though not an exact one, in our
“close schemers.” These details are worthy of notice, for Chapman,
mistaking the primitive sense of this adjective, has utterly missed
the point of the simile. The perversity of Hobbes is ludicrous. He
condenses Homer after this fashion:

    “This said, went Juno to Olympus high,
    As when a man looks on an ample plain
    To any distance quickly goes his eye.”

Voss and Mr. Bryant are in this place so much alike that we will
not collate the German, but give instead Monti’s blank-verse:

    “Disse e la Diva dalle bianche bracchia
    Obbediente dall’ Idea montagna
    Al Olympo sali. Colla prestezza
    Con que vola il pensier del viatore
    Che scorse molte terre le rianda
    In suo segreto e dici, Io quella riva
    Io quell’ altra toccai.”

_Scorse_ and _rianda_ are pictorial, and perhaps sufficiently
literal. We like also _suo segreto_ for “close mind.” Altogether
the version is neat and animated, but less compact than Mr.
Bryant’s. Both are quite as faithful as the prose of Bitaube and
Montbel. The former writes: “Il dit, et Junon soumise à son époux
s’élève des sommets d’Ida sur Olympe. Tel que le rapide essor de
la pensée de l’homme lorsqu’ayant parcouru des pays d’une vaste
étendue, et se rappelant en un moment tous les objets qui l’ont
frappé, il dit en lui-même, j’étais ici, j’étais là.” It will be
observed that Mr. Bryant’s “Here would I be, I would be there!”
reproduces the optative εἰην. So does the _Dorthin möcht ich, und
dort_ of Voss. An alternative reading is ἠηv which Bitaube and
Monti have preferred. The verb, however, should then be in the
third person, not the first as they give it. The imperfect would
impart to the thought a slightly different tinge, and make the
traveller rather retrace in memory than revisit it in desire. If
this reading be accepted, we might, perhaps, venture to present the
passage in this form:

    Thus he pronounced; and Herê, the white-armed goddess, obeyed him,
    Down from the summits of Ida speeding to lofty Olympus,
    Darting as darteth the mind of a man who whilom has travelled
    Up and down on the earth, in close thought ponders his travels,
    Here was he now--now there!--still aiming in many directions.

In the battle which opens in the twentieth book culminates the
action of the poem. Achilles now enters the field, and Mr.
Gladstone has justly remarked that we seem never to have heard
of wars or warriors before. To frame his central figure, Homer
summons from Olympus the whole hierarchy of heaven. Amid thunder
and earthquake, the gods are seen rallying to either side. No part
of the _Iliad_ is pitched in a loftier key. Nowhere is a translator
more strongly impelled to put forth all his powers. We quote Mr.
Bryant:

              “From above with terrible crash
    Thundered the father of the blessed gods
    And mortal men, while Neptune from below
    Shook the great earth and lofty mountain-peaks.
    Then watery Ida’s heights and very roots,
    The city of Troy, and the Greek galleys, quaked.
    Then Pluto, ruler of the nether world,
    Leaped from his throne in terror, lest the god
    Who makes the earth to tremble, cleaving it
    Above him, should lay bare to gods and men
    His horrible abodes, the dismal haunts
    Which even the gods abhor.”

We ought not, perhaps, to dislike the expansion of πατερ
ἀνθρωπων τε θεων τε in the second line, for the epithets added
are themselves hardly more than formulas. The next four lines
exhibit Mr. Bryant’s best work. Their vigor and elegance are not
extraneous, but wrought with patient fingers out of the text
itself. “Leaped from his throne in terror” is a melancholy falling
off. This indifferent line must stand for three Greek verbs which
render with startling accuracy the staccato movement of fear. We
give from Voss the three hexameters which depict the panic of
Aïdoneus:

    “Bang auch erschrack dort unten des Nachtreichs Fürst Aldoneus,
    Bebend entsprang er dem Thron, und schrie laut dass ihm von oben
    Nicht die Erd’ aufrisse der Landerschüttrer Poseidōn.”

_Nachtreich_ is not quite equal to “nether world,” but really these
lines are incomparable. Beside them even the prose of Montbel seems
a little wide of the text: “Dans ses retraites souterraines le
roi des ombres Pluton frémit; épouvanté il s’élance de son trône,
pousse un cri, de peur que le terrible Neptune entr’ouvrant la
terre ne montre aux dieux et aux hommes ces demeures terribles en
horreur même aux immortels.”

We are unable to speak without contempt of the _Morte d’Ettore_,
but it is right to state that Cesarrotti’s prose translation of
this passage is perhaps the closest extant. Monti’s verse will be
found less literal:

                                “Tremonne
    Pluto il re de sepolti et spaventato
    Die un alto grido, e si gitto del trono
    Tremendo non gli squarci la terrena
    Volta sul capo il crollator Nettuno
    Ed intromessa collaggiù la luce
    Agli Dei non discopra ed ai mortali
    Le sue squallide bolge, al guardo orrende
    Anco del ciel.”

Homer says nothing of _intromessa luce_. The words are no doubt
transferred from Virgil’s paraphrase--

               “Trepidentque immisso lumine Manes.”

Longinus, in his treatise _On the Sublime_, had quoted this
passage of the _Iliad_, and Boileau in a translation of that work
has reproduced it with considerable care. Boileau had positively
condescended to defend Homer, but it is plain that his own theory
of translation was that accepted by his age. La Motte has stated it
in his ode. He tells Homer that he proposes

    “Sous un nouveau langage
    Rajeunir ton antique ouvrage,”

and deeming the unconscious energy of his author _un peu sauvage_
engages to _régler son ivresse_. From Boileau no engagement was
required. His Muse was too thoroughly the _grande dame_ ever to
forget herself, and even in Pythian convulsions retained a measure
of decorum. We shall find his version at once droll and impressive.
It is, so to speak, a Greek myth treated by Paul Veronese:

    “L’enfer s’émeut au brait de Neptune en furie
    Pluton sort de son trône, il pâlit, il s’écrie
    Il a peur que ce dieu dans cet affreux séjour
    D’un coup de son trident ne fasse entrer le jour
    Et par le centre ouvert de la terre ébranlée
    Ne fasse voir du Styx la rive désolée
    Ne découvre aux vivants cet empire odieux
    Abhorré des mortels, et craint même des dieux.”

To us no book of the _Iliad_ is more delightful than the
twenty-fourth. There are many scenes in which we would willingly
linger not alone for the tender pathos with which the poet has
informed them, but also for the light they throw on the social
ethics of the later as well as primitive Greek world. The figure
of Achilles weeping through the long night the loss of the
beloved Patroclus is the immortal type of that devoted friendship
which illumines with a peculiar radiance the stream of Hellenic
biography. In the incessant warfare of sympathy with selfishness,
friendship between man and man seems to have played something of
the master _rôle_ which in modern times has been engrossed by
the passion of love. Again, Helen in her lament over Hector’s
corpse lets fall some bitter words that deserve to be weighed in
connection with the peculiar attitude which Menelaus maintains
throughout the poem. They would assist us to understand her
strangely equivocal position, as well as the conception of the
marriage relation which obtained in the Homeric age. We have space,
however, but for a single extract. We will choose Priam’s prayer
to Achilles. How often and with what careful hand these lines have
been reproduced in English is well-known. In French there are no
less than ten metrical versions, to say nothing of prose. To poets
of every nation this passage has remained a bow of Ulysses which
many have been eager to grasp, but none save Voss has hitherto had
sinew enough to bend. The circumstances under which the prayer is
made are inexpressively affecting. The fate of Troy has at length
compelled the combat of Hector and Achilles. From the walls of the
city Priam has beheld the fatal issue. The pride and prop of his
old age, the bulwark of his kingdom, lies dead and dishonored in
the hostile camp. Conducted by Hermes, Priam passes the sentinels,
and gains the quarters of his foe. He enters, springs toward
Pelides, clasps his knees, and kisses those “slaughter-dealing
hands” which had slain so many of his sons. Then Mr. Bryant:

    “Think of thy father, an old man like me,
    God-like Achilles! on the dreary verge
    Of closing life he stands, and even now
    Haply is fiercely pressed by those who dwell
    Around him, and has none to shield his age
    From war and its disasters. Yet his heart
    Rejoices when he hears thou yet dost live,
    And every day he hopes that his dear son
    Will come again from Troy. My lot is hard,
    For I was father of the bravest sons
    In all wide Troy, and none are left me now!

       *       *       *       *       *

                            Oh! revere
    The gods, Achilles, and be merciful,
    Calling to mind thy father, happier he
    Than I; for I have borne what no man else
    That dwells on earth could bear--have laid my lips
    Upon the hand of him who slew my son.”

Had these lines been pointed at by the legend, we could well
understand why Solon should have burned his epic. Let us not stay
for criticism, but, with eyes fixed on the Greek, give our ears to
Voss!

    “Deiners Vaters gedenk! O gottergleicher Achilleus,
    Sein des Bejahrten wie ich, an der traurigen Schwelle des Alters,
    Und vielleicht dass jenen die umbewohnende Völker
    Drängen, und niemand ist ihm Jammer und Weh zu entfernen.
    Jener indess so oft er von dir dem lebenden höret
    Freut er sich innig im Geist, und hofft von Tage zu Tage
    Dass er den trautesten Sohn noch seh’ heimkehren von Troja.
    Ich unseliger Mann die tapfersten Söhn’ erzeugt’ ich
    Weil im Troegebiet, und nun ist keiner mir übrig!
    Scheue die Götter demnach, O Peleid! und erbarme dich meiner
    Denkend des eigenen Vaters! Ich bin noch werther des Mitleids:
    Duld’ ich doch was sonst kein sterblicher Erdebewohner
    Ach die die Kinder getödtet die Hand an die Lippen zu drücken.”

We hold that it lies not in the power of translation to surpass
these lines of Voss. They are truly marvels in photography. To
every Homeric line corresponds a German hexameter. In every verse
the emphatic word stands where Homer placed it. The very pauses
are for the most part preserved. The translator has not retrenched
a word. He has scarcely added one. He has certainly not added
an idea. On the nice propriety of his diction, and his perfect
sympathy with the _feeling_ of the Greek, we need not dwell. In
these respects Mr. Bryant must be ranked next to him--with an
interval, perhaps, but next. His “dreary verge of closing life”
skilfully interprets an ambiguous phrase which Voss has chosen
to retain. Again, _unseliger Mann_ is somewhat cold, whereas
“my lot is hard” has caught, so to speak, the genuine accents
of heartbreak. “And every day he hopes that his dear son,” etc.
Readers of the _Holy Dying_ will recall the touching picture of a
drowned sailor rolled upon his floating bed of waves, while at home
_his_ father “weeps with joy to think how happy he shall be when
his beloved boy returns into the circle of his father’s arms.”

Voltaire has somewhere asserted that Homer never drew a tear. Yet
even he could not behold this scene unmoved, and himself entered
the lists as a translator. His version of this passage embodies
the principles which he maintained ought to govern translators of
Homer. It forms a curious chapter in the history of taste. Achilles
turning discovers Priam, “ce vieillard vénérable,”

    “Exhalant à ses pieds ses sanglots et ses cris
    Et lui baisant la main qui fit périr son fils;
    Il n’osait sur Achille encor jeter la vue,
    Il voulait lui parler, et sa voix s’est perdue,
    Enfin il le regarde et parmi ses sanglots
    Tremblant, pâle, et sans force, il prononce ces mots.
    ‘Songez, seigneur! songez que vous avez un père--’
    Il ne put achever. Le héros sanguinaire
    Sentit que la pitié pénétrait dans son cœur,
    Priam lui prend les mains, ah prince! ah mon vainqueur?
    J’étais père d’Hector, et ses généreux frères
    Flattaient mes derniers jours, et les rendait prospères.
    Ils ne sont plus.”

These lines are not altogether without merit, but no man,
we suppose, who possesses what has been termed a historical
_conscience_ will allow them to be poetic. The elements of the
scene are there, but they are worked up in accordance with the
tricks and traditions of the _Comédie Française_. To the eye of
Voltaire, Priam was simply an antitype of the _père noble_, and
must assume the attitude and demeanor appropriate to that _rôle_.
In short, the verses are conceived in the spirit of his age, and
exhibit his best manner. But read them after the Greek, and what
fresh point they impart to the familiar words, “In old times men
wrote like orators, but now like rhetoricians.”

From Voltaire to Monti is a long stride toward Homer’s Olympus.
The Italian has infused much sweetness into this passage. And it
is a native, not a grafted, sweetness. Writing in blank-verse, he
neither needs nor claims the license of French translators; yet we
sometimes miss Mr. Bryant’s terseness and simplicity; as in the
initial lines:

    “Divino Achille ti rammenta il padre
    Il padre tuo da sia vecchiezza oppresso,
    Qua io mi sono! In questo punto ei forse
    Da potenti vicini assediato
    Non ha chi lo socorra e all’ imminente
    Periglio il tolga.”

To appreciate this version one needs only to glance at
Cesarrotti’s. Priam’s first three words--Μνησαι πατρος
σοιο!--comprise the most effective exordium in literature. They are
true projectiles shot from soul to soul. Let us see if they are
easily recognized in the _Morte d’Ettore_:

                        “Ah pieta, grida,
    Divino Achille! Il padre tuo t’implora
    Per tuo padre, pieta!”

Is it possible to place artist and word-monger in sharper
antithesis? The success of his mission--perhaps his life--depends
upon the first impression. Conceive royal Priam whining forth
“Pity, pity!” like some professional beggar mumbling his worn-out
lies. Homer said simply, “Think of thy father, Achilles!” The
words, like the stroke of Moses’ rod, split the stubborn heart, and
pity gushed forth in tears.

It must be admitted that Mr. Bryant’s lines are not always invested
with the impassioned fervor and glowing life which have rescued
the works of his English predecessors from oblivion. But it
will often be found that where they were most spirited they were
least Homeric. It is inevitable that a conscientious workman who
resolves to copy his model in the minutest details will produce at
times a _mosaic_ rather than a _casting_--his materials will seem
pieced and not fused. But we are sure that the sweetness of Mr.
Bryant’s verse will delight the general reader, while scholars will
appreciate his self-control. Animation is desirable, but fidelity
is indispensable; and they who truly love the _Iliad_ will prefer
Homer in marble to Pope and Chapman in the flesh.

Over all translators of the _Iliad_, we confess that Voss is
paramount; but no other version with which we are acquainted
will bear a sustained comparison with Mr. Bryant’s. The latter’s
obligations to Voss are undoubtedly great; but he has well-nigh
cancelled the debt, for the next worker in the field will owe much
to him. It may be that translation is not the highest function of
genius; yet where it is nobly fulfilled it deserves and commands
our gratitude. Nor is this all. It is something more than a figure
of speech--the fine figure of Politian’s--by which Homer, assisting
in the person of Ganymede at the banquet of the gods, is made to
distribute to his best lovers some portion of his own ambrosia.

FOOTNOTES:

[86] _The Iliad of Homer._ Translated by Wm. Cullen Bryant. Boston:
Fields, Osgood & Co.

[87] “A poem people admire without reading.”

[88] “Ah, monsieur! since reading that book men seem to be fifteen
feet high.”




SPAIN: WHAT IT WAS AND WHAT IT IS.


A nation vegetating on old memories; a people for two centuries
priest-ridden, just beginning to awaken and show some signs of
the enlightenment of the age; a government liable to change every
twenty-four hours; an empty treasury shifting from one to another
incapable ministry; and, above all, a ridiculous pretension and
holding to such an Old World phrase as national honor--such is the
ordinary run of opinion on Spain. What is it coming to? What is its
destiny? Has it a destiny in these busy, practical days? Or is its
life played out long ago, and the nation simply drifting downwards
into the yawning gulf of insignificance where many another has been
swallowed up?

Have Catholics an interest in the question?

Yesterday, when mention was made of Spain, the enlightened world
lifted up its eyes and hands in pious protestation against such an
outrage on our nineteenth century of civilization. A superstitious
race given to the worshipping of graven images, hoodwinked by the
priests, those inveterate enemies of progress; no free-will among
them; no understanding; nothing but memory. To-day all is changed.
The dawn long delayed of enlightenment has come at last to the
unhappy land--has come accompanied by the usual signs. Churches
have been rifled, the sanctuary has been desecrated, the Jesuits
have been scattered, nuns and monks have been robbed of their homes
and driven naked into the world, blood has flowed freely, murder
has been done. So, to-day the world smiles, and rubs its hands,
and hopes better things for Spain.

That it was a great nation we all acknowledge, and the title is
a true one. It was not alone a mighty nation; those buried under
the Eastern sands were mighty nations, yet their workings in this
world were as barren of fruit as the shifting covering that has
hidden them away, without an oasis to redeem their barrenness.
China might be called a mighty nation, but it has walled itself in
from the world by the most narrow-minded and selfish policy, and we
have had to fight our way through good and evil up to our present
standard without a helping hand from it. Russia is a mighty nation,
and we look anxiously to the development of its vast power, but
up to the present its only effect on the world has been that of
brute strength. But Spain has been pre-eminently a _great_ nation;
that is, a nation that has done much for its own and others’
development, in all that can make peoples sound, intelligent,
prosperous, and happy.

Looking back at its history as far as we can look back, we find
the same characteristics in the race as we find to-day; above all,
that intense, all-absorbing nationality which has kept it unmixed
and unconquered. Hannibal courted its alliance; the Roman failed
ever to subdue it thoroughly. Great stubborn resistances to the
Empress of the World stand out now and then in clear relief from
that dim background--awful sieges wonderfully sustained, where the
women play an equal part with the men. We shall always find these
Spanish women leading the van in the hour of their country’s
danger. The victories gained over them resembled the victory of
Pyrrhus. The Romans went and the Moors came, and fastened on the
heart of the kingdom, populating and flourishing there, sucking
out its life. They built their cities and their palaces in the
fairest spots in the land. Powerful, warlike, rich, with immense
resources, they laughed at the handful of men, kingless, skulking
among rocks, and starving for liberty. But that handful will not
surrender what is their own while one arm can be raised to defend
it. They are true to one another as Spaniards and as Catholics now;
for a new element is in them binding them more firmly than the
very blood that is common to their veins--religion, the religion
of Christ, which they have seized upon with all their passionate
nature, never to relinquish. Inch by inch the Moors are driven
back over the sea. They were invaded again by a more terrible foe
than all--more terrible even than France in her deep distress has
lately seen. Bonaparte had drained the country of its armies, had
emptied its coffers, and taken away its king, all under the shadow
of friendship and alliance. When he held it thus powerless in his
hands, he sent in his armies, and impudently set his brother on
the throne. Kingless, moneyless, defenceless as they were, the
people rose up, the women again leading the van, and the priests
inflaming all. Bonaparte was driven out. The priests, for all their
hoodwinking, can be good patriots, it seems. The London _Times_,
the mouthpiece of the enlightenment of the age, certainly no great
friend to Spaniards and Catholics, contrasted the conduct of
France during the late invasion with that of Spain. France, in her
sorest straits, was never so hard pushed as Spain when the first
Napoleon entered; yet a nation of over 30,000,000 could not rid
themselves of half a million. There was no Carthagena, no Saguntum,
no Saragossa--no approach to such. And the _Times_ confessed that
France failed because she possessed neither the patriotism nor the
religious enthusiasm of the Spaniards. Such examples has Spain
given to the world of the purest patriotism, the first element of
greatness in a nation; of a self-reliance that, when all seems
lost, will not look without for aid, but to itself.

She has not ceased her working here. In no department has she
been backward. Science owes her much. Literature is enriched by
her authors. The inspirations of Murillo are the embodiment of
all that our religion can feel in its deepest moments; before his
canvas, the Christian prays, the infidel cannot scoff. She has
given soldiers of the noblest type; statesmen the most benevolent
and enlightened. The Spanish constitution in itself is from days
remote admirable for equipoise and justice. In England they are
just approaching the Spanish marriage laws. A Spanish merchant will
tell you that for the generality of commercial questions he is his
own lawyer, so clear and well-defined is the law.

What do we Catholics owe to Spain?

First of all, that high example of unswerving faith and devotion to
the Holy See through ages of evil report and good report. The great
heart of the nation is not moved by events that will come under our
notice after. She has not only given a host of theological writers,
but, what is still better, a host of theological actors--notably
the Order of St. Dominic and the Society of Jesus, the names of
which are enough to recall our debt.

To the Old World she opened up a New. Here Spain had a mission
that is rarely given to nations. She failed, though the monarch
sent priests to accompany the soldiers, to temper the conquest of
the sword by that of the cross. How well the warriors of Christ
demeaned themselves, our Bancroft and Prescott tell us.

She failed; but who shall cast the first stone at her? That nation
only which has subdued another by Christian love and the weapon of
the cross--a phenomenon that has not yet appeared even in these
blessed days.

We hear much of the cruelty of these Spanish settlers, of their
selfishness, of their greed of gold.

We must make a little allowance for the days in which they lived.
Men were untutored then; peace congresses (save the mark!) were
unknown; an _Alabama_ case would either have been let alone or
settled by the sword long ere it could have grown into a mere
talking difficulty; men did not consult lawyers on the nice
distinctions of _meum_ and _tuum_. The Spaniards landed, and
held their own by cruelty, oppression, and rapine, no doubt. We,
with all our enlightenment, have followed their example pretty
faithfully; except that, for men like the saintly Las Casas, we
despatched an agent that worked a speedy conversion--fire-water.
We have taken root here and grown up, and are a great nation,
spreading out in all directions, wealthy, prosperous, enlightened,
with civilization at our finger-ends, and Bibles willy-nilly in
every one of our schools. Yes, we are a decided improvement on the
Spaniards. But a hundred years ago there existed a race in this
country to whom the land that we tread upon belonged. Where is
that race now? A wretched remnant of it scowling and prowling on
our outskirts; we are killing them off. We heard of them the other
day joining in the great hunt. The most enterprising and powerful
of our journals, one that has fitted out a purely benevolent
expedition to Africa, sent its correspondent down to record it
all. We had an “idyl of the plains”; the course of our great
enlightenment and progress was drawn in fanciful colors, with this
correspondent for central figure, riding for miles and miles under
the stars to tell us at our breakfasts of the exact position of a
soldier throwing an ornament round the neck of a savage maiden, and
the evident appreciation the savages exhibited of champagne.

Spain failed in her mission, great and glorious as it was. Have we
succeeded better? Has England, in India, or Tasmania, or wherever
she set her foot?

Gold brought its own curse. When wealth comes unasked, few men will
labor. The “Eldorado” filled the dreams and stopped the life of the
Spaniards. One by one her rich possessions dropped from the parent
nation, till Cuba was the only one left, and Cuba wishes to go also.

She has become a second-rate power in Europe, if so high--the
kingdom “on whose dominions the sun never set.”

And here, with this glance at her past history to call to mind
what she was, what she has achieved, the truly great elements that
were always in her, we turn to look at her as she is; to consider
her present bearing on the church, for we Catholics must always
look at all things with a Catholic eye, knowing, as we do, that
our religion is the one religion upon which the salvation of this
world hangs; that, if the world is to be saved by us, we can never
put our faith upon the shelf and enter the world as worldlings. The
Spirit of God must permeate and pervade all people, all places,
all things, at all times; and when that is accomplished, and not
before, then will the world be saved.

Spain groaned under the rule of Isabella, or rather under the
rule of her rulers. She was a woman far “more sinned against
than sinning.” We are apt too often to blame the victim for the
circumstances which make the victim. From her infancy a tool in the
hands of unprincipled men; forced to marry a man utterly worthless
in every respect; almost without one true friend, without a soul
for her woman’s heart to cling to. We accuse her of all the evils
created, fostered, encouraged by a host of powerful men, who used
her as a chess-piece; while she stood, their game was safe. The
revolution more than smouldered; but O’Donnell, at once a statesman
and a soldier, kept it down. Narvaez, crafty and bold, succeeded
him, and in turn went. These men, particularly the latter, in
striking at their own foes, left a bitter legacy of hatred and
revenge to the queen. What all foresaw came to pass--the last
rising which ousted her. Prim came in; the nation’s destiny was at
last in its own hands; now for the millennium.

Prim commenced it--a likely man for such a purpose. A bold,
unscrupulous adventurer, whose chief virtue was his reckless
bravery; no great talker; not a man who would astonish you by the
wisdom of his words, but quick to decide, speedy to execute; a
very soldier whose “voice was in his sword”--such was Prim. He
found himself adored by the soldiers, glorified by the people. He
did not care for the latter: when they wished to tear the crown
from his cap on his entry into Malaga, he would not let them; he
declared himself in plain words for monarchy from the beginning.
He found the cortes split up into parties. Many for Don Carlos,
a strong body, who if not crushed would have their king; so Prim
resolved to crush them. A few for Montpensier; another few for
Don Alfonso, the queen’s son; neither worth bothering about,
Prim let them alone. A small compact party of republicans, very
ably led; nearly all young, enthusiastic, lawyers many of them,
excellent speakers, excellent fighters at a pinch, too. This was
a dangerous party, who had been most instrumental in putting Prim
where he was. He dared not turn round on them at once, the people
were still armed. He coquetted with them. They were young, and
many unfledged, eager to try their lungs, fond of the sound of
their voices. Spain should be governed only as Spain wished; she
should have a model constitution; freedom of the person, freedom
of the press, freedom of religion, freedom of everything. No more
conscriptions, only a few more thousands just to enable the army
to quell those troublesome Carlists. He threw them a constitution,
a model indeed in its construction, fit for Utopia, but scarcely
for the wild spirits then raging in Spain. He let them wrangle
over that, and turned himself to the army. He had always been
popular with the soldiers; he moved everybody up a grade; by this
means he created all the colonels, and the army was his. With this
weapon secure in his grasp he could beat them all, and he did. He
played them off, one against the other, in the cortes; he knew,
split up as they were, the elements too opposed to coalesce, they
would never agree about any single thing or any single person; he
suggested this and he suggested that; if they would not take his
suggestions, that was their fault. One thing was clear, they must
support him, or anarchy would ensue. The Carlists left the chamber
to fight. Precisely what Prim wanted; he had encouraged it, in
fact; the sooner, the better for him, as he could the more easily
crush them. He did so, cruelly and mercilessly. In the meantime,
he was all honey to the republicans. But at last they began to see
that they had been hoodwinked; that there was no hope of a republic
from Prim; that the monarchy they hated would come in again, and
all their efforts prove fruitless. Prim demanded the arms of the
people--the arms which had been distributed to enable him to crush
the monarchy. The republicans in their turn left the chamber to
fight; and well they fought, too, against the overwhelming forces
that Prim sent to quell them; for no half measures would do for
Juan Prim. Those men who rose and fought so tenaciously at Cadiz,
at Jerez, at Malaga, Valencia, had been well schooled beforehand
by the preachers of the age. “You are poor, and your children will
be poor after you. The labor of your hands goes to dress the fine
ladies of the rich; to fatten lazy priests, who do nothing for
a living; to set those brave gentlemen on horseback, who think
themselves made of other flesh and blood than yours. We will change
all that when the queen is driven out. We will all be equal, and do
equal work or no work. Our men are men as theirs are; our women are
women also.”

The queen was driven away; the friars, and the Jesuits, and the
nuns banished. The government seized upon their houses and what
was in them; of course it was not robbery when the government took
them. Still the poor were not a penny the richer. These plausible
doctrines had seized upon their simple minds. It was something
worth fighting for, and they fought. No Paris barricades were
ever defended with half the fury and obstinacy displayed by those
Andalusians--the mountaineers and villagers whose fathers and
grandfathers had harassed, surrounded, and captured a force of 4000
or more, under one of the First Napoleon’s generals. Still, we
hear of none of those outrages at which the world sickened lately
in Paris. “Aqui nadie se roba caballeros”--“Gentlemen, no one robs
here,” was the first cry at Cadiz. A commandant of the forces was
struck down in the midst of the revolutionists by a shot. They knew
him well, and that he was going to fight against them; yet they
were the first men to take him from the street and care for his
wounds. There is all that is noble, generous, and faithful in the
heart of this people, which it only requires a wise government to
draw out.

They were beaten on all sides. They dared not rise in Madrid, for
Prim kept his forces there, as a centre, menacing the country. In
the midst of all this distraction, we see one flash of the old
spirit that, however it might split against itself, was one against
a common foe. Cuba saw its chance, and, though many concessions had
been made, it would have liberty at once. Prim had quite enough to
do at home; his hands were full with Carlists and republicans. We
lent our sanction to the Cuban claims, with an after-eye to our
own interests; and our minister made some representations that
never quite came to light. Prim made no answer to them, at least
in words. But, notwithstanding the dearth of money and of men, the
strain at home requiring every nerve to sustain it, the old Spanish
blood was true to itself. Volunteers sprang up in crowds; and
force after force was shipped, is shipped still, to the island,
ostensibly to quell a rebellion that never held a position from
the first. A nation that can act so in such a moment must have
something in it.

Before taking leave of Prim, in turn the hero and the terror of
the revolution, much as we deplore that the destinies of such a
nation at such a crisis should have fallen into the hands of such a
man, we cannot help paying a tribute to his never-flagging energy,
dauntless courage, and prompt decision. Men laughed at Prim, at his
speeches, and wondered how he ever gained his position. Speaking
on the deficiency of the national treasury, and utterly unable to
tide over those rocks on which all governments break--figures: “I
know we shall be able to meet the deficiency,” said Prim, “But
how?” asked the deputies. “I do not know exactly how; but I have
a _feeling_ in my breast which convinces me;” the words are from
memory, but they convey the substance. Men laughed, but Prim stood
his ground; and gradually the question, “What will Spain do?”
merged into that of “What will Prim do?” A better man and a wiser
statesman, neither very difficult to obtain, would have availed
himself of such an opportunity to heal his country’s wounds. Prim
could not do this; he did not know how; but he was at least “wise
in his generation.” He could not save the sick man; he did the next
best thing, he kept him from killing himself. The foolhardiness of
the man was his destruction. He had often had warnings, but he knew
not what fear was, and took no precautions.

“To have the republic is easy,” said Castelar, the leader of the
republicans, after one of his defeats, to Prim. “We have only to
kill one man.” “Nothing but a thunderbolt kills me,” retorted Prim,
“and of those very few fall.”

The thunderbolt fell and crushed him, but failed to crush what it
was aimed at, the monarchy. Amadeus landed just in time to learn
that his right-hand man was gone--a fearful venture for a young
king and his queen. But he braved it royally; and though the race
of Victor Emanuel can never find much favor in our eyes, this
son of his, we confess, has borne himself through trying scenes
like a king and like a gentleman, nobly supported by his brave
and Catholic lady. That he was never elected by the people is
clear; that, notwithstanding his personal merit, he is not likely
to stay long where he is, is the surmise of all. If a telegram,
without the slightest foundation in fact, announced his expulsion
to-morrow, not a man in the world would disbelieve it. The people
can feel no sympathy with a man who has no sort of title to their
ancient crown; who is a perfect stranger to them, and almost to
the world; who after the hawking of their throne about Europe, was
forced upon them against their will. Besides, the Italians, of all
European nations, are despised in Spain. They are considered there
as good singers, dancers, cooks, and such like, but not the men for
anything manly or great: how much less for the throne of Ferdinand
the Catholic! “King Macaroni the First” was the burlesque that
greeted Amadeus on his arrival in the capital. With him we will
not trouble ourselves further, but with the revolution that gave
occasion to the accident of his accession, and which will displace
him to-morrow or the next day.

Spain undoubtedly was in a bad state under the _régime_ of
Isabella. The question is, Has she bettered herself by driving out
the queen? The new order came in with a grand flourish of trumpets.
Progress was the watchword: the “Progressistas” were Prim’s party
till he broke them up. We have touched already on the blood shed
in civil strife for this party and for that, but there are other
things to consider. Education is the word of the day; let us see
what the revolution effected in this direction.

The Jesuits under great difficulties were organizing colleges
and missions; they were straining every nerve to educate and
improve the people, and were just beginning to make some headway
when the revolution came; and of course the first “abuse” to be
abolished was the Order of Jesus--that order that flourishes
even in Protestant countries like England, where the government,
under such a chancellor as Mr. Lowe, grants them a pension for
their observatory at Stonyhurst. They had to fly the country;
their establishments were all broken up and seized upon by the
government. A case in point:

At Port St. Mary’s, between Cadiz and Jerez, the gentlemen of the
town, seeing the good effected by the Jesuits in their missions,
and feeling it in the improved conduct of the men they employed, as
more than one of them assured the writer, united and raised funds
sufficient to build a magnificent college which they presented to
the society. The government, then of Isabella, had nothing to do
with it. When the revolution broke out, there were three hundred
students there, many of them from the first families of Spain.
In addition to these, forty of the poor children of the district
were admitted to the course of studies free. The Jesuits were
banished, and escaped with their lives, thanks to the courage
of a noble-hearted gentleman of the town and his sons, who at
the risk of their own lives and property gave them shelter till
Topete himself went and conducted them to the sea. The college was
closed and seized by the government. The gentlemen who built it
demanded the building to be used at least for educational purposes,
no matter under whom. To all their remonstrances a deaf ear was
turned; and the college stands tenantless to this day. Those who
had the means sent their children out of the country to England,
France, or elsewhere. Many could not, and for them there was no
remedy. Their children must do without education while the work of
enlightenment goes on.

They drove out the friars and the nuns destitute into the world;
seized upon their property, and possessed themselves of their
treasures, the vessels of the sanctuary, vestments, paintings,
gifts given in expiation of sins or propitiation of heaven by
men and women long ago resting in their graves. Not a year back
the writer, then in London, saw an announcement in the _Times_
of the accession of some rare Spanish jewelry to the curiosities
of the very interesting Museum at Kensington. He went, and found
the ornaments that had decked the images and altars of the Virgen
del Pilar at Saragossa, neatly arranged in two large cases, each
ornament ticketed off as in a Jew’s shop, with the estimated value
underneath in sums varying from over a hundred, sometimes over two
or three hundred, pounds downwards. This sacrilegious robbery was
repeated throughout the country--a dangerous example to the poor,
whom they had indoctrinated with the pernicious ideas so prevalent
in these times, the climax of which we saw the other day in Paris.

There was to be no state religion, and the clergy no longer to be
salaried by the government. We must observe how all these movements
strike at the church first; as is right they should do, for, that
power destroyed, there is an end to morality, and the rest is easy.
After a fierce and prolonged debate, in which the republicans came
out in their true colors, and gave utterance, not the greater
number happily, to open-mouthed blasphemy not simply against the
church, but against the God whom Protestant and Catholic adore in
common, the motion was not carried. The Catholic Church continues
the church of the state, as it is the church of the whole nation.

“There are three things I hate intensely (_que me odian_): God,
the monarchy, and phthisis,” said an alcalde in the north. It is a
comfort to know that the wretch who said this craved a priest on
his dying bed when attacked by the last object of his hatred, and
God, ever merciful, allowed him one.

Emilio Castelar, the prime mover in the motion, spoke differently.
He is the leader of the republicans: young, gifted beyond measure
in all that can give a man influence among his fellows, a
marvellous orator, whom the whole cortes, from the prelate to the
red-hot republican, listens to spell-bound when he speaks. His
attacks on Prim were terrible, unceasing, unsparing; he lashed the
cortes into foam; but Prim, conscious of his power, had a dry,
sarcastic manner of meeting them that took a good deal of the
eloquent edge off. On the religious question Castelar said, “For
my own part, if I chose any religion, it would be the Catholic, in
which I was born and in which my mother died. A Protestant I could
never be: it is too frigid for me.”

Liberty of the press, in these days the bulwark of our rights,
liberty of public discussion, were proclaimed. The press was free
to attack everything and every institution we consider holy. The
republican papers poured forth floods of blasphemy unchecked. The
Carlist, the Catholic organs alone were suppressed. Villaslada,
the editor of the _Pensamiento Español_, the leading Carlist and
Catholic newspaper, which bears the Holy Father’s blessing on its
page, was forced to fly the country, and his papers seized. He has
since returned, and has now a seat in the cortes. His offence was
attacking the government and advocating the cause of Don Carlos at
a time when Prim professed to await the expression of the will of
the people to declare the king. So much for free discussion.

It would be tedious as well as profitless to take every item in the
catalogue of a nation, and contrast them now with what they were
before the overthrow of the Bourbon line. Certain it is that, bad
as things were in Spain under Isabella, they are worse at present.
Her commerce has deteriorated wofully. “We know not what to expect
in Spain at any moment. The men we employ have been so preached to
by the apostles of the revolution that they are ready to turn on us
we know not when. We dare not keep a large stock on hand. We are
trying to sell things off even at a sacrifice, we get our money
safe banked in England, and, if the revolution and ruin come, well,
at least we shall have some provision for our wives and children.”
That is how any merchant will speak to-day on Spanish affairs.

“The shortest road to peace is through the revolution,” said
Villaslada, and that is the opinion of all the thoughtful men the
writer has met. They look upon a revolution as inevitable, the
passions of the people have been so tampered with. It is hoped for
that the people may sicken of their illusions; that the fury may
waste itself; that the blood-letting which must follow may allay
the fever, may open their eyes to the Utopia which their frenzy
pictures.

It is a sad state for such a nation. It makes us anxious about the
question we asked at the beginning, What is its destiny? Its debt
is increasing as its credit declines. And yet the nation might be a
great nation still.

Its foreign possessions it can do without. To get rid of Cuba
would really be a relief. The advantages which the island
affords for commerce by no means compensate for the continual
anxiety it causes--the support of an army and a fleet. Spain is
self-sufficient. With an area similar to that of France, her
population is only one-third as large. The country if worked could
produce corn enough to feed more than half Europe. Magnificent
forests of chestnut and mahogany, soft groves of orange and olive
trees, clothe and beautify the soil. Splendid rivers roll through
the land, while bays and safe harbors indent the coast. In a little
district perhaps not more than ten miles square grows the wine
that supplies the whole world with sherry. Spanish wool holds its
own in the mart. The people are intelligent, peaceful, and moral
by nature. In no country can an inferior talk to a superior as
freely without passing beyond the bounds as in Spain. Beautiful,
historic cities are scattered through the land. Treasures of art
are in their churches and galleries, refining the feelings and
quickening the intellect. Their language is music; their climate
delicious; their soil fruitful; land and living cheap. Their fleet
is a formidable one; the Biscayan mariners for boldness and skill
are unsurpassed, tossed as they are from infancy in the cradle
of their bay, where the wide-spreading Atlantic is for ever wroth
that it can go no further. The bravery and discipline of their
army is within our recollection. That the energy of the race has
not died out is proved by the war in Morocco, the speedy quelling
of the revolution, the readiness of the nation to engage in war
with such a power as ourselves, where the final issue could not
be for a moment doubtful; but that much derided phrase “national
honor” kept them true to themselves and their traditions, and we
were wise enough not to provoke a contest with a people ready to
sell their lives so dear. Yet with all these advantages, their
course to-day is a downward one, and will continue so until one of
two governments comes--either a man like the First Napoleon or a
Bismarck, who to the iron will of Prim shall add a genius which the
latter neither possessed nor pretended to possess; strong enough to
grind down if necessary, but great enough to lift up. To such a man
both Spain and France to-day present fields ripe with opportunity.

Or, for Spain at least, where there is still great faith and
reverence for what is great and true, where happily materialism has
not yet seized upon the hearts and the intellect of the people,
a government that, instead of striking at the church which still
is the church of the nation, and sapping the roots of Catholic,
that is, of all morality, should call that church to its aid, and
say to the people, “Your God shall be my God”--such a government
would have from the start the greatest ally it could hope for in a
religious people. Let it tell the people boldly that it shall have
liberty, but not license, that it shall march with the age, that
its great possessions are gone, never to return; but that at home
it has resources that cannot fail, which only require the working
to make them produce a hundredfold; a government which shall
educate the children in religion, and from their infancy pour into
their souls lessons of truth. Such a government might regenerate
Spain. Such is partly the programme of Don Carlos. But he is the
disciple of another school. Could he unlearn a little the doctrines
of his school, Don Carlos holds the best chance to-day not only of
occupying the throne, but of occupying the hearts and hopes of the
nation.

And here we close with a remark on the failure of revolutions to
work their purpose.

“The driving out of one unclean spirit to make room for seven more
unclean,” is the history of all movements that have ever upset a
throne which tradition has set in the intellect of the people,
which custom has rooted in the soil, which has literally “grown
with their growth and strengthened with their strength,” and even
declined with their decline or caused it, which is _of_ them. It
is a strange fact, but history bears it out. As we have shown,
the Spaniards drove out their queen, and for a moment held their
destiny in their own hands. The French drove out the Emperor, and
held their destiny in their hands. Is either country the better for
their action? In great contrast to these stands out Germany, before
the war composed of a number of independent or semi-independent
peoples. They united and placed themselves under the yoke, and
present to the world a combination so great, so powerful, so
irresistible by any single state save Russia or our own, that the
world was convulsed by it, and the face of Europe changed in a day.
Whether it will last or not is foreign to our present purpose. Men
should “count the costs” before they overturn any government.
It is a hard thing to change a nation. Even though you present
something better, you must combat rooted prejudice, immemorial
tradition, every spontaneous feeling that rises, before your idea
can hold the popular mind. Look at the slow spread of Christianity.
People would not give up their gods of wood and stone. Our Lord
cast out devils before their eyes. “It is by Beelzebub you cast
them out,” they cried. But the agents of revolution generally begin
on the other side. They cast in devils. They uproot everything
that is stable; they undermine morality; they teach men to scoff
at everything; to obey no law. Man is free, and this world is his
to do as he likes with. Who says no? The priest? The priest and
the monarchy go hand-in-hand to bind free-born nations down in
superstition and slavery. So they work, and, when their harvest is
ripe, they reap their reward. They hack at everything right and
left. But demons are powerful only to destroy, and they have raised
those that they cannot lay, save by blood and iron, as Prim did, as
Trochu and the rest were compelled to do. “And the last state of
these nations is worse than the first.”

We were saved from a like fate because the monarchy was never
known here; our constitution was not a new one, it was in the
intelligence of the people from the first, and its exponent was
George Washington.

People with their own destiny thrust upon them can do nothing with
it. Men have brooded for years under evil government, and when that
falls a thousand quacks are ready, each with his panacea for the
cure of the nation’s woes, and one is as likely as another. As for
the nation at large, it wants to be governed. It cannot sit down
and think, the matter out, rejecting this and choosing that. The
first that is ready, if it happens to be good, good; if not, so
much the worse. They have already knocked one government on the
head; why should they stop at a second, or a third, or any number?
And so step in cruelty and oppression on the one side, lawlessness
in every form on the other. It is better to cure than to kill;
better to reform than to overthrow; and if we must overthrow, let
us do it like men and not like fiends. If the joint is rotten ere
you displace it, see that you can replace it. The monarch is the
key-stone of the constitution in lands where monarchy prevails.
Remove that, and the whole fabric is shattered. You must build
anew. You may build better; at all events, time is lost; most
likely you will build worse; strengthen, reform the old--beware how
you destroy it.




OFFICIAL CHARITY.

FROM REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.


In these times, all is laical--that is to say, in accordance with
modern language, everything is bound to bear the stamp of the
state. No contract is possible without the intervention of the
state; no marriage exists without the ratification of the state; no
school can be opened without the sanction of the state. In short,
the state puts its iron clasp on all that man possesses, even his
personal liberty and right. Henceforth, then, in the name of those
immortal principles which consecrated the absolute and illimitable
liberty of the human family, are abolished the most sacred rights
of man--liberty in the bosom of the family and individual rights.
In the name of liberty, the state confiscates all; it proclaims
itself, without ceremony, the original author of all its laws. It
is the god-state.

It is astonishing that, following a parallel exaggeration, the
state has come to proclaim itself alone capable of exercising
charity, as it is alone capable of teaching it! Logic ought to
forcibly bring about this result. The state which adjudicates to
itself the monopoly of direction, can it not also adjudge to
itself the monopoly of the charity?

Yes, charity has become a monopoly of the state. What is it, then,
other than _official_ charity? Give alms if so be, but do not
forget to pass them through the hands of the state. It is it alone
that can distribute your generous gifts. Found hospitals if you
will, but on the express condition that you are to abandon them to
the hands of the state, who will administer them as masters. Such
is in substance the idea of official charity, centralizing in the
hands of the state, and administering through its functionaries,
the benefits and alms given in a spirit of self-sacrifice.

Very well! The church has never exercised a similar tyranny. She
has crushed the heathenish proposition of the _Syllabus_, “39. The
state, from being the source of all good, enjoys a right which is
not circumscribed by any limits,” and, always free from the errors
which she points out, the church has never imposed any act that
even appeared as a simple pretext to accuse her of inconsistency.
Though divinely commissioned to guide men, enlighten and direct
their intelligence, their will, and all their steps, the church
has never believed it her right to say to her faithful: “Put your
alms into my hands; I alone know how to properly distribute them.”
No! assiduous in stimulating charity, active in giving it birth,
the church contents herself with encouraging the sacrifices that
holy love inspires, and to show herself happy in having children
who evince in so tender a manner the sentiment of Christian
brotherhood. An exquisite sense reveals to her that charity
delights in secret and mystery; a marvellous delicacy teaches her
that the poor and the unfortunate neither consent to pour out their
griefs indiscriminately, nor to have their wants relieved by every
hand.

Thus, in reference to works of charity, the supremacy of the church
consists in helping to accomplish that which the spontaneous
piety of her faithful confides to her, and to exercise an exact
surveillance over the faithful accomplishment of the charitable
dispositions shown by her children who are numbered among the
dead. Inviting, encouraging, thanking, and supervising--such is
the _rôle_ of the church. If she welcomes with gratitude the
faithful who select their pastors to dispense their bounty or for
a go-between in their good works, she does not impose it upon them
as a duty to confide alms to the care of bishops or of priests. And
all doctrine tending to create a similar obligation is rejected by
canon law as tainted with an odious exaggeration. Now, then, we
have a right to reject the pretensions of the state over charity.
Under what title does it place itself between the man who gives
the alms and he who receives it? Is the sanctuary of charity less
sacred than the domestic hearth? And if the home is inviolable,
should not the secrets of charity be equally so?

We protest against official charity with all the energy of
indignation. We proclaim it as an injury alike to the rich who give
and to the poor who receive. The demonstration does not appear
difficult.

Nevertheless, before undertaking it, we hope to interest our
reader in placing before his eyes the sentiments of a judge whose
views modern politicians do not ordinarily challenge. Portalis,
every one knows, elevated the rights and prerogatives of the state
high enough. “The state is nothing if it is not all,” said he,
one day, before the legislative body. Here is certainly a witness
unsuspected of partiality for the theory we are about to defend.
Listen, then, to what he said himself to the proposition of
official charity.


I.

Let it be remembered here, that one of the most constant
preoccupations of Napoleon I. was to centralize everything into
his own hands. The emperor wished to the letter to know all and to
govern all. Not content with having created the formidable monopoly
of the universities, he had even dared to try his hand at flattery
in pretending to treat religious affairs as a simple department of
his vast administration. Could it, then, be hoped that his ambition
respected the liberty of charity? Napoleon, then, dreamed very
seriously of controlling its exercise. Portalis hindered him.

The good sense of this celebrated counsellor of the emperor
refused on this occasion to consent to the caprices of his
master. Portalis declared fearlessly that official charity was the
product of a hollow, weak brain, altogether an Utopia of one’s own
creation to amuse the leisure hours of some philosopher seeking a
distraction.

“Certain men,” wrote he to the emperor, “more jealous of their own
attributes than of the public good, believe in finding abuses in
all establishments that are not of their own creation. They scorn
the good in the hope of finding the better; they imagine that all
is resolved by calculation, and that, with two or three general
maxims, they could reconstruct the world. With such ideas, states
are disorganized. Such minds exhibit a greater power to destroy
than an ability to construct.

“It is said with truth that the laws would be nothing without
morals. It is, then, in the morals that the power of the laws
will be sustained, that is to say, it is necessary to study the
direction of the minds of men; that they should know the common
affections of the human heart, and not govern by metaphysical
abstractions and submit to cold calculation those things which
cannot be other than the result of zeal, devotion, and of
virtue.”[89] This was adroitly cautioning the emperor against
the deleterious influences of that sad philosophy which sought
to control him. Applying these principles to those hospitable
communities that irreligious passions wished to banish, Portalis
subjoined:

“The associations with which are connected so many touching
memories were recommended to the considerate attention of your
majesty by the gratitude of the people. Experience speaks loudly
in favor of the imperial decrees which have authorized these
associations. It is not, then, to balance between the vain theories
of an infatuated sophist and the real assistance that charity
administers to suffering humanity.”[90]

“These miserable objections derive their source ... in the vain
theories of which experience has demonstrated the illusion.”[91]
It is, then, clear that official charity found no advocate in
Portalis. It presented to him the too evident imprints of a lying
and anti-Christian philosophy. We will continue our citations.


II.

Portalis was convinced that religion only could induce charity. He
believed that in this case religion only is capable of receiving
and executing the mandates of charitable bequests.

“Your majesty,” wrote he again, “in your great wisdom has desired
to leave the care of the poor under the guard of religion. She has
undertaken the service that is accompanied with so many sacrifices
and discouragements, which could not be guaranteed but by the most
elevated and the most generous sentiments. She has dispersed the
false systems of men who would wish to enjoy the benefits of the
great work we see in operation under our eyes, in draining with
as much imprudence as ingratitude the source from which they are
furnished.”[92]

The experience he had besides superabundantly apprised him of what
reason made him sensible. He had seen the works of the state and
that of the religious bodies. Doubt, then, was no longer possible.
It became manifest to him that, generally speaking, charity could
only be duly administered through consecrated hands. Listen to his
grave remarks:

“His majesty, in his travels, has convinced himself that all the
hospitals confided to simple civil administration languish; that
the poor there are often treated with negligence, and even with
cruelty, by mercenary agents. In consequence of this, he has
directed me to send the Sisters of Charity to all the departments
beyond the Alps, and in all other places where they have not
been.”[93]

Is it properly to Napoleon that the honor of such an initiative
reverts? Was it not Portalis who inspired him? He sent very few.
It is always the imperial counsellor giving, under his report,
absolutely all the confidence to the clergy and to the church.

“It is constantly urged that the ecclesiastics and the bishops
have appropriated to their own benefit; but are laic functionaries
impeccable? Men, wherever they may be, commit abuses because they
are men; but it is clear that there will be less abuse in all
things when each kind of administration shall be left to men who
by their office and their position have the largest means and the
greatest interests for right administration.”[94]

“It is argued that the needs of the poor are sufficiently
guaranteed by the civil administrators of the hospitals. I am not
only surprised, but also grieved at this assertion. They overlook,
then, all the great good for which humanity is indebted to the
Sisters of Charity, to the hospital nurses, and also to many
societies of estimable women who, by their tender piety, have
consecrated themselves to the service of the poor. The public
administrators are forced to depend upon the care of agents, to
those mercenaries whose frauds are beyond scrutiny, and who possess
no virtues. The spirit of charity cannot be supplied by the spirit
of administration. Other management must disburse the revenues,
other means must console or help the sick.... One must be possessed
of very little philosophy to believe that the cold solicitude of an
administrator can replace the generous care of ardent charity....
The service of the poor, as they are attended to in the hospitals
and outside of them by religious associations, is not a simple
administration or the effect of a simple management. It requires a
continual succession of night-watching, privation, danger, nausea,
painful and disinterested fatigue. This service demands a great
abnegation of self, which could not be sustained save by motives
superior to all human considerations. In an association, forces
are combined to multiply resources; they encourage each other by
example, and are enlightened by counsel; they are directed by rules
which call them to duty and guarantee its observance. They receive
novices whose health, character, and disposition are tested,
and to whom they transmit with the knowledge of the subject the
daily lessons of experience. All these means of recruiting and
encouraging, of direction and perpetuity, are wanting when the
service of the poor rests upon passing administrations, or with
salaried agents who can be arbitrarily replaced at any moment
by others. To achieve a permanent good we must have permanent
institutions.”[95]

This is certainly a complete and beautiful explanation of religious
associations. The experience of more than half a century has
not lessened the value of these reflections of Portalis; on
the contrary, it would be easy to enumerate the frauds, the
misrepresentations, and the wastefulness which too often occur in
administering to the wants of the poor, but we forbear the recital
of the afflicting details. Portalis had but too much reason to
condemn.


III.

In another point of view, Portalis reproved official charity. It
seemed to him irreconcilable with the rights of donors to the poor,
who wish to feel free in the distribution of their alms, and also
with the rights of the poor, who do not consent at first sight to
make acknowledgment of their misery.

“This would be,” said he, “destroying the character of charitable
commissions, and perhaps even destroying their usefulness, in
transforming them into exclusive institutions. Benevolence breathes
as it wishes and where it wishes. If you do not let it respire
freely, it stifles or becomes weakened in the midst of those who
are disposed to its exercise. I argue that it would show a false
estimate of the interests of the poor to isolate them in any way
from the religious souls who would protect and assist them. Such
people desire to place their alms in a religious organization,
which will not dispose of them in any other establishment. Far
from prescribing limits and imprudent conditions to benevolence,
I would, on the contrary, open all avenues that benevolence might
select for itself, and through which it shall choose to extend
itself.”[96]

“The administration of alms is not and cannot be the exclusive
privilege of any establishment whatever. Alms are free and
voluntary gifts. He who gives can do no more. He is the one to
charge the dispenser of his own liberality. The man who is able
to give alms, and has shown his willingness to do so, can ask
himself the simple question, To whom belongs their administration?
To him or to them whom the donor will have charged to make the
distribution? There is not and there cannot be any other rule in a
similar matter. To do away with this rule would be to dry up the
source of the charity.

“How is it possible to think that religious organizations should
be excluded from the right of administering the alms which they
receive? Under such a system, they might as well assert that they
are not allowed to receive alms, that is to say, they would have to
destroy the natural liberty of those men who lay aside a portion
of their income to devote to charity, from charging the agents of
their own alms and their liberality.”[97]

As for the poor themselves, Portalis thought, with reason,
that many among them refused to receive assistance from any
administration whatever, and this is why he wished that a portion
of the accumulated alms might be left to the disposition of the
curates of the parishes:

“Because these alms could be profitably disposed of to those poor
who from circumstances and misfortunes have met with reverses and
change of position, and who, not wishing to acknowledge their
misery to the administrators of benevolent institutions, their
equals and sometimes their enemies or rivals, go to seek from their
pastors the consolations that sustain their courage, and obtain
assistance that does not humiliate them. It is to this interesting
use that the alms are generally consecrated by the religious
organizations and the priests.”[98] Thus Portalis reasoned that,
even for the interests of the poor, official charity should be
energetically repulsed.

IV.

Meanwhile, if the objection should arise that, after all, these are
but opinions, and that simple opinions are not sufficient always
to impede the action of the state in what it believes to be its
rights, Portalis meets this objection, and in a decided tone he
asserts clearly that the state enjoys no right over the exercise of
charity. Here are his own words, which we recommend to the minds of
modern statesmen:

“The principal office of authority is to dispose of to advantage
the gifts that are offered to it, to cause them to prosper in
protecting them. It rarely originates them. We have not yet
replaced among a multitude of reforms the institutions that have
been overturned. Experience brings us back every day to the
principles that we have too easily abandoned.”[99]

“This would be but imperfectly to understand the human heart, and
hinder its free respiration in the things that law can protect
indeed, but which sentiment alone commands. The office of a
magistrate is to watch over the essential duties of a citizen,
but, in works of supererogation, he must allow great latitude to a
liberal arbitration.”[100]

A remarkable avowal, above all, from a lawyer of the temper of
Portalis, who willingly elevated into a dogma the omnipotence of
the state. He has, however, said: “No, the omnipotence of the
state does not go so far as that; and that for the very simple
reason that the state could exact from its citizens only the
observance of precepts imposed by the natural and divine laws. It
can never compel them to submit to obligations that nature has
never created.”

Is it to say that we refuse to the state the right of showing
itself benevolent and charitable? God forbid! If the state would
practise boundless liberality, we would bless it. If it would
be the protector of all the works destined for the relief of
unfortunate humanity, we would exalt it with transport. But never
to make this protection a monopoly, otherwise the benefaction would
change to tyranny.

Listen to M. Charles Périn, who has treated with as much depth as
sincerity the difficult problems of political economy:

“The action of the state in giving assistance will not be free from
danger, inasmuch as it would have a purely preventive character....
That the state intervenes to assure by its civil existence the
duration of those institutions founded by the free inspirations
of private charity; that it assures itself that the conditions of
the foundations for which it calls its meetings contain nothing
which repudiates the rules of public order; that it exercises
over the administrations of those foundations a watchfulness that
prevents abuses and which secures the observation of the essential
rules of the institution, without annulling the free action of
those who have received the mission of donators to represent
them among the poor, and continue the work of charity which has
inspired them--under these conditions, the intervention of the
state will become a benefit, because then she does no more than aid
liberty.”[101]

Here is also the doctrine of the great Bishop of Arras, Mgr.
Parisis:

“That which governments can and ought to do to aid charity is not
to disfigure, to dry up, and to destroy it in making it entirely
legal, but to reanimate it by all possible means in maintaining it
Christian, in preserving the sentiment, and everywhere encouraging
efforts in its regard, to make not rulers, but auxiliaries, not
oppressors, but friends.”[102]

Admirable formula, that the politicians of the present day should
study a little more!

We have placed before the reader the sentiments and doctrines of
Portalis touching official charity. We do not think that we could
give higher authority. We have found in the alleged proofs good and
solid reasoning. We record a true demonstration.

We have been reluctant heretofore to discharge this great duty. Why
we take up the subject at this late period is to expose the vices
and the dangers of official charity.

FOOTNOTES:

[89] _Travaux sur le Concordat, etc., Rapport du 24 Mars, 1807._

[90] _Ibid._

[91] _Ibid._

[92] _Ibid._

[93] _Rapport sur les Fabriques d’Eglise, Juillet, 1806._

[94] _Ibid._

[95] _Rapport du 24 Mars, 1807._

[96] _Rapport du 16 Avril, 1806._

[97] _Ibid._

[98] _Rapport du 16 Avril, 1806._

[99] _Ibid._ _Rapport du 24, Fructidor an XIII._, 11 Sept., 1805.

[100] _Ibid._

[101] _De la Richesse dans les Sociétés chrétienne_, t. i. p. 498.

[102] _La Democratie devant l’Enseignement catholique_, p. 107.




THE CHURCH AND THE PRESS.


The following item of news is clipped from a recent number of a
leading New York publication:

  “The proposition is under discussion to establish in this city a
  new anti-Catholic paper, partly devoted to opposing the religious
  tenets of the Romanists, but still more their supposed attempts
  to secure political control in the country. It will support the
  ultra-Protestant position of the Bible in the public schools, and
  will be backed, it is expected, by a large subscription among the
  three or four secret anti-Roman Catholic societies that exist in
  this country.”

We do not know what truth there may be in this report. It is
intrinsically probable that the establishment of an “anti-Romanist”
periodical is in contemplation, because there is always a large
politico-religious party in the United States whose chief principle
is bitterness against the Catholic Church, and there are certain
reasons why such a party just now should be especially active.
The Catholic element in our population is rapidly increasing, and
many circumstances have recently combined to bring its numerical
strength into prominence. A moderate estimate makes it not less
than six or seven millions. The published returns of the census
of 1870 have not thus far furnished any statistics of religious
belief, but they give some facts from which we can get at least an
idea of the rate at which the church in America is growing. There
were, for example, in 1870, no fewer than 1,855,779 persons of
Irish birth in the United States, and of these the preponderance of
Catholics over Protestants was so large that the Protestant element
may as well be disregarded. In Ireland, the ratio of Catholics
to Protestants is at least as high as four to one, and here the
proportion is still greater, because emigration is largely from
the Catholic counties; probably the whole number of Irish-born
Protestants in the United States does not equal 200,000. The
German-born population, according to the same census, is 1,690,533.
In Germany, about three-fifths of the inhabitants are Catholics,
but emigration takes place rather more from the Protestant than
from the Catholic districts, so that competent judges estimate
that the Catholic Germans in this country are only two-fifths of
the entire number. That would give us, for Catholics of German
birth, 676,213. Then there are 193,504 natives of other Catholic
countries, including 116,402 Frenchmen, but not counting Swiss,
Poles, Canadians, and others of whose religious belief we have
no means of making an estimate. A great many of the French and
Italian immigrants are either Protestants or people of no religious
profession at all; and, upon the whole, we prefer to leave out
of consideration these 193,000 settlers of the Latin race,
balancing with them the Protestant Irish. Now, the census shows
that for every foreigner in the country there are two native-born
inhabitants of foreign parentage. According to this rule, we ought
to have 3,711,558 descendants in the first generation of Irish
immigrants, and 1,352,426 descendants of Germans. Supposing,
therefore, that the children are brought up in the faith of their
parents, there ought to be the following numbers of foreign-born
Catholics and Catholics born in this country of foreign fathers and
mothers:

        Irish birth           1,855,779
        Irish parentage       3,711,558
                              ---------
            Total Irish                  5,567,337
        German birth            676,213
        German parentage      1,352,426
                              ---------
            Total German                 2,028,639
                                         ---------
            Grand total                  7,595,976

This, of course, is too high an estimate. Unfortunately, a great
many of the descendants of Catholic immigrants are not brought up
in the faith. Protestant associations, mixed marriages, the want of
priests and churches in a large part of our territory, the general
deficiency of schools, the influence of an overpowering Protestant
tone in society, politics, and literature, and the inadequacy of
the Catholic press thus far to meet the intellectual needs of the
day, have robbed us of many of the descendants of the Catholic
settlers--how many it is impossible to say. On the other hand, it
must be remembered that the figures we have given refer only to
immigrants and a single generation of their descendants. Irish and
German Catholics, however, have been pouring into the country ever
since the Revolution, and their descendants in the second, third,
and later generations must be counted by hundreds of thousands.
Then we have the offspring of the original Catholic settlers of
Maryland and of the French posts along the Mississippi Valley from
the Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico, and the Spanish Catholics along
the Pacific coast; and, finally, we have thousands of converts,
whose number is increasing in a constantly growing ratio. All these
elements must far outweigh the loss by neglect and perversion.

Then, the movement to extend Catholicism among the colored people
of the South has occasioned no little alarm in the Protestant
sects. It was thoroughly discussed at the General Council of
Baltimore six years ago, and especially attracted, as our readers
know, the Christian zeal of the late Archbishop Spalding. The
English Church has come to our aid by sending us missionaries
for this special work, and there is every reason to believe that
in this long-neglected field, now open to us by the abolition of
slavery, we shall reap an abundant harvest. Everybody perceives
that for a long time to come, if not permanently, the colored
people will hold a preponderance of power in several of the
Southern States. As they advance in education and material
welfare, their influence will enormously increase. In many
districts, they are evidently destined to be the ruling race, for
they are improving in culture, and can no longer be overlooked by
the social or religious philosopher. Whether they shall be Catholic
or Protestant is a momentous question, not only to their own souls,
but to the country.

But not only is the formidable number of the Catholics of the
United States a subject of increasing anxiety to the sects, their
attitude towards political parties presents some new and perplexing
problems. Heretofore they have exerted no special influence as
Catholics upon political affairs. As a general rule, at least in
large cities, an immense majority of them have adhered to the
Democratic organization, but without giving the slightest Catholic
tendency to Democratic principles and objects. They have been
swallowed up and lost in the party rather than incorporated with
it; they have given it votes, and got little or nothing in return.
Why this has been so we need not now inquire; for it has become
evident that a general reconstruction of parties is close at hand.

The next Presidential election will not be so much a contest of
principles as a trial of strength between the personal adherents
of the rival nominees; and before the end of another four years we
may expect on both sides a new declaration of political faith, a
new setting up of standards, a new mustering of opposing camps, so
that the fight hereafter shall be not for a candidate, but a cause.
Republicans and democrats alike are looking for a new departure,
and we cannot help being interested in what the new symbols of
party orthodoxy are to be.

Of course, as a religious body our duty is now, as it always has
been, to keep aloof from partisanship. We have observed this duty
religiously in the past; we shall observe it no less strictly
hereafter. But Protestants do not comprehend our position in the
matter, and they are watching eagerly for indications of the new
alliance which they take it for granted we must contemplate. More
than this, certain sections of them are acting upon the assumption
that we must naturally rank ourselves as their political enemies,
and are striving to give a distinctly anti-Catholic tendency to
state and national legislation. What are we to do if they succeed?
What must be our attitude if the school question, for example,
become a leading topic in state politics, or if the broad question
of national education be incorporated with the dogmas of the coming
political parties? Leaders on the Republican side have already been
trying the temper of the people on this point, and it is not at
all impossible that organizations may be made so uncompromisingly
hostile to us that we shall have to raise our own standard and
define our lines. Protestants see all this more clearly than
Catholics, and hence the instinctive gathering together of the
sects, the renewed bitterness of some of their leading journals,
such as the New York _Times_ and _Harper’s Weekly_, the attempt
to exclude our charities from the state aid to which they are
fairly entitled, the attacks upon our schools, and the plans for
an anti-Catholic crusade by the establishment of no-Popery organs.
A paper of the class indicated in the extract at the head of this
article would not, indeed, be a formidable enemy. The people
at least have no taste for the violent, old-fashioned style of
controversy; but, as one indication among many of the drift of
Protestant sentiment, the establishment of a professedly and
distinctively anti-Catholic paper as a political engine would be
significant.

If evil times are coming, how are we prepared to meet them? If
our schools are to be attacked, our asylums and hospitals starved
out, our children led away from the church and the parish school
by the strong arm of the government, our young men and young
women corrupted by hostile literature, the newspapers given up to
falsehood and misrepresentation about our faith and practices, we
who are seven millions strong are surely not to sit idle and strike
no blow in our own defence. The pulpit cannot be our only guardian.
Before the altar we listen to instruction in our religious duties,
we learn of the mysteries of our creed, we are roused to penitence,
to charity, to the love of God and man; we do not look there for
guidance in our duty as citizens, or for the answer to the slanders
of our enemies. Our priests have a more sacred function to perform;
there is still a work which, from the nature of the case, they
cannot do. The Catholic cause must be upheld not only in the shadow
of the sanctuary, but in the very midst of the hostile camp. The
most eloquent sermon cannot reach a man who will not go to church.
The most complete refutation of a slander will do no good if the
slanderer and those who believe in him never hear the answer. But
newspapers go everywhere. Their readers are not confined to any
one sect or any one party; and when disputes arise which affect
the relations of Catholics to the secular government and to their
Protestant brethren, the heaviest of the fighting must always be
done by the daily, weekly, and monthly press.

In an article published over a year ago, we touched upon this
subject in connection with the duty of American Catholics
towards Catholic literature. Our remarks were generally approved,
we believe, but they called forth some little criticism of an
unfavorable character which, upon the whole, we were not sorry to
see. It is an encouraging sign of development when the religious
press shows vitality enough to discuss something else than the
commonplaces of controversy which have formed the staple of
Catholic and Protestant polemics for generations. It is high time
for us to apply to our own publications a little of that free
examination which we have bestowed upon others, and to let argument
among Catholic writers be something more than the foolish wrangling
of ambitious rivals. In the article to which we have alluded, we
said that few of the Catholic papers had a circulation of more
than 10,000; and some people found fault with us for that. We wish
we could give them 25,000 or 50,000 apiece; but it will not mend
matters to say that all Catholic papers are powerful organs of
public opinion, when we know that they are nothing of the sort.
Most of them are doing excellent service within their own sphere;
but why affect to deny that their sphere is a narrow one and
their means are small? We have tried to impress upon the Catholic
public the duty of supporting the Catholic press to the utmost of
their ability. We have shown that where Protestants attack us in
a million printed sheets, we give a feeble answer in perhaps ten
thousand. We number 8,000,000 souls, yet our newspapers with very
few exceptions languish for want of readers, and our colleges are
not creating a literary class among the laity. This is one side of
the picture, but there is another. If the public is doing little
for the papers, are the papers doing much more for the public? We
dare say they are doing what they can; but how much is that? What
Catholic journal have we capable of meeting _Harper’s Weekly_,
for instance--we do not mean in argument, but in influence? As
we write, the current number of that periodical is laid upon our
table. It contains a long article on “Romish Cruelty,” telling
how in a Pennsylvania town “the Roman Catholics formed a plot to
murder” a school-teacher. “The priest aided in encouraging the
dangerous spirit of the people, and the assassins seem to have
been urged on to their dreadful deed by the open countenance of
the Romish Church.” The writer comes to the conclusion that “no
one’s life is any longer safe who ventures to doubt the divinity
of Mary or the supreme prerogatives of the Pope.” This is only a
sample of many similar slanders which the unprincipled publishing
firm of the Harpers are spreading all over the country. What are
we doing to counteract them? Surely, we cannot afford to let them
go unanswered, and we leave it to any Catholic to say whether
there is a single publication of our creed in the United States
which we can depend upon for a prompt and thorough reply to such
falsehoods, in such form and manner as to convince not merely
the Catholic, but the Protestant public. We must confront our
assailants on their own ground. If they tell us that a priest and
his parishioners in an obscure Pennsylvania town have conspired to
murder Protestant school-teachers, we must be able to show, and
to show at once, that the incidents never occurred, or that the
interpretation placed upon them is unwarranted. We ought to have
our sources of information as well as our enemies. We need our
news-gatherers and investigators, who shall answer falsehood not
with indignant invective, but with fact. This is not the work for
a monthly magazine, but for a much prompter sort of publication.
Long before the true story of such an affair could be told in THE
CATHOLIC WORLD, it would have been succeeded by a new slander. The
poison would have run through the public veins, and it would be
too late for the antidote to overtake it. Newspapers ought to do
this work, and we suppose they would do it if they had the money;
but investigations are expensive, and when the force of a Catholic
organ consists of nobody but the editor, who writes all the fourth
page, and the assistant, who makes up the rest of the forms with
a paste-pot and a pair of shears, there is of course no reporter
who can be sent away on excursions. The New York _Times_, which
has long rivalled _Harper’s Weekly_ in bigotry and anti-Catholic
malice, allows a correspondent to take up this story, repeat it as
a well-ascertained truth, and enforce the lesson that “a faithful
son of the Romish Church cannot be a law-abiding citizen of this
free Republic.” We dare say scores of Union newspapers will follow
the example of the _Times_; and, meanwhile, if a few weekly
Catholic papers succeed in getting at the truth of the incident,
we may depend upon it their refutation of the falsehood will never
reach Protestant ears. It is time for us to understand that calumny
cannot be conquered by such means as we now employ, and that
practically our enemies are having everything their own way.

Catholic questions of the most momentous character are now
agitating the whole continent of Europe. Germany is shaken by
the problems of education; Italy, by the contest between the
rights of the Vicar of Christ and the usurpations of the godless
Sardinian monarchy. The Döllinger party are encouraged by some
of the secular powers to attempt a new heresy. France and Spain
are both vexed by infidel and persecuting political factions.
England even and Ireland have their Catholic difficulties arising
out of the relations between the state and the schools. All the
intelligence which reaches us on these important topics comes
from the worst sources. The cable reporters who collect European
news for transmission through the telegraph are usually not well
informed on Catholic subjects, and not always honest. When they
touch upon religious matters, they are habitually, even though
not intentionally, untruthful. The impression conveyed by their
meagre and blundering dispatches is almost always the direct
reverse of the right one, and the press telegrams from Rome
especially are marvels of ingenious and bold falsification. All
the European dispatches printed in American newspapers are sent
from London. They are dated at various cities on the Continent, but
they all come from one central office in the English metropolis,
and they are obtained there from a Jewish news-agency which has
relations with the Continental press. Thus, they really give merely
the statements of a few French, Italian, Spanish, and German
journalists, and these are almost invariably journalists of the
anti-Catholic party. In Italy, the mendacity of the anti-Papal
press is almost beyond belief; and probably there is no class of
persons anywhere so utterly unscrupulous, so wedded to lying, as
the radicals of Italy when they speak of the Pope or the Papal
Government. The German Liberal and Protestant press is only a
little better. It has magnified and misrepresented the Döllinger
movement, and distorted, in the grossest manner, the story of
the school question in Prussia. Elsewhere, on the Continent, the
difficulty is the same. A vigorous press is constantly battling
against us, and it is from this press and this press alone that
we get our European news. The mail correspondence of American
secular newspapers is colored by the same influences which deform
the telegraphic summaries. The lie which is insinuated to-day by
a cable dispatch will be rubbed in by a letter in due course of
the post. Here, again, our enemies have things all their own way.
The best of our weekly papers, indeed, do something to correct
the falsehoods of the daily journals, but the great difficulty
still remains; they cannot reach the general public. Fisher Ames
said that “a lie will travel from Maine to Georgia while the truth
is putting on its boots.” But, if the lie has the advantage of a
daily newspaper and a telegraph under the Atlantic Ocean, whilst
the truth must trust to steamships, and post-offices, and a small
weekly paper or a monthly magazine, what hope is there that the lie
can ever be overtaken?

Secular literature is almost entirely in Protestant hands, and in
a thousand unsuspected ways it is infusing into our intellectual
system the poison of indifferentism, or infidelity, or miscalled
liberalism, and teaching our young people to divide themselves
between two incompatible lives--an active Protestant life, which
absorbs all their busy and productive hours, and a sluggish
Catholic life, which is confined to Sunday mornings and a few
great festivals. What is the Catholic press doing to correct
these literary influences? What is it doing to cultivate the art
of criticism? If we want to know the characters or the literary
merits of a new book, shall we turn to the journals of our own
faith, or to the _Tribune_ and the _World_? Our periodicals (with
a few honorable exceptions) rarely give any notice at all to the
productions of secular book-houses, while magazines and books
bearing the imprint of a Catholic publisher are generally reviewed
in some such style as the following:

  “This sterling periodical has now reached its eleven thousandth
  number, and has improved with every issue since it was started.
  The present number alone is worth a year’s subscription. No
  Catholic family can afford to be without it. Price 25 cents.

  “The enterprising publishers, Messrs. Jones & Robinson, have just
  got out in the elegant style for which they are celebrated a new
  edition of _Barney O’Toole: a Tale of ’98_. This is a work of
  great learning, and no Catholic library is complete without it.
  We are deeply indebted to the liberal publishers for sending us
  a copy. It is elegantly gotten up. For sale, in this city, by
  Michael Smith. Price 50 cents.”

This sort of journalism is worse than a waste of ink and paper.
It is a direct injury to the cause it is intended to serve. There
is no reason why a book that is badly printed and shabbily bound
should be described as “elegantly gotten up”; nor why every
number of a magazine should be called the best ever printed; nor
why everything published at a Catholic house should be declared
essential to the spiritual welfare of every Catholic family. But
there is a reason why Catholic journalists should tell the plain
truth, and sometimes the whole truth, if they expect to obtain
influence in an intelligent community.

The time has come when a vigorous, enterprising, well-conducted
press is essential to every community in the United States. No
man in this country can do without his newspaper. He must keep
abreast of the age; he must know what happens in politics, finance,
trade, literature, art, and society, and he must know it promptly;
otherwise the current of the world flows past him, and he is left
idly floating in the pools by the shore. We cannot afford to ignore
this imperative want; it is a necessity created by conditions of
society far beyond our control; and it is by no means a necessity
which we ought to regret. Our task should be not to oppose this
demand for newspapers, but to satisfy it more thoroughly than
it has ever been satisfied yet. We are numerous and rich enough
to create a Catholic periodical literature which shall be the
glory of America, and, next to the church and school, the noblest
defence of Catholic principles. We are numerous and rich enough to
make newspapers which shall meet every demand of the most active
and intelligent and best educated citizen; which shall give our
own people the most palatable as well as the most nourishing
intellectual food, and enforce from our adversaries a respect which
is not now paid us. In the providence of God, we believe such a
press will some day be built up in America, and then we shall
wonder how we lived and kept our faith so long without it.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  THE HOUSE OF YORKE. By M. A. T. 1 vol. 8vo, pp. 261. New York:
      The Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

A thoroughly good American novel was, we suppose, a literary
event which was looked for by nobody who had much knowledge of
what had been done in that direction, or who had thought much
about the causes which produce the painful thinness of most of
our native literature. It is true enough, as Dr. Holmes says,
that Protestantism in its last analysis means “none of your
business,” and what it means at the root it means more or less
in every branch and stem, every leaf and flower. And in America
especially, which has, so to say, no history and no traditions,
and whose vast material resources tempt its children to believe
that the world has been started afresh for them on a different
basis from that which underlies older civilizations, one of the
most patent and most unpleasant results of the theories on which
the new civilization was founded has been the barrenness, the
hopeless mediocrity, of the literature which it has produced.
How was it possible that a people who, as a people, recognized
no absolute authority in any matter whatsoever, even in those of
fundamental importance, and who had engrained in their minds the
conviction that everybody’s opinion, especially in matters of
taste and of religion, was as likely to be true as his neighbor’s,
should produce a characteristic and thrifty national art and
literature? Lawlessness, a lack of respect for authority, and, in
most instances, a provincial ignorance that in these matters there
was any recognized authority, were what made the weakness of our
efforts in this direction. There were a few writers and a few works
of acknowledged ability. In fiction we have had Cooper, and we
had also an _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, but that the latter owed much of
its success to the local evil with which it dealt was evidenced by
the inferior merit of the works from the same hand which preceded
and which followed it. In the limits of a book-notice it is, of
course, not possible to do more than to intimate a conviction
that literature and art, like civilization and public morality,
rest securely only when they are built upon Catholic truth. Here
in America there was ample room and opportunity to prove the
opposite proposition if it could be proved, and to show that on a
foundation of criticism and negation a strong and sightly structure
could be reared. There was no lack of ability in our writers,
and there was occasional genius; but, when what they did was not
an evident imitation of some foreign model, it generally showed
incompleteness, a lack of definite conceptions, and an unpleasant
awkwardness and indecision of purpose. We are speaking now only
of what is known as light literature--essay-writing, fiction, and
poetry.

To find, therefore, a distinctively American novel which one can
honestly praise as a work of art, is something at which one may be
legitimately surprised as well as pleased; and that we have, at
last, in _The House of Yorke_, such a novel, is what nobody who
has read it attentively will be at all likely to deny. The true
story intertwined with the fictitious one is, as it should be in
a work of fiction, so skilfully subordinated to the main current
of the novel that it in no way mars the catholicity which is the
first element in all genuine art. Pettiness and provinciality
are the two rocks on which novels “founded on fact” are most apt
to strike; particular facts get such a prominence in them that
the larger truth which art demands is lost sight of. Our author
shows, however, a thorough mastery of her materials and an accurate
perception of what are the proper means to an end. She shows, too,
an unusual degree of insight into character and a trained skill
in delineating it. All her personages live: not one of them is an
imitation of some other novelist’s creation. Their individuality
is preserved, too, without recourse to tricks of speech and
gesture--they are always themselves, because in the mind of their
creator there existed a clear and definite image of each of them.
That she has studied herself and other people very closely is
evident as well when she brings her characters into action as when
she analyzes their motives. The book is full of bits of delicate
insight, as, for instance, where she says of the impetuous Dick
Rowan that “his soul had, indeed, always been more tranquil than
his manner.” The whole of this character, though, and especially
the story of his vocation, may well enough be given as an instance.

She knows, too, how to be dramatic without becoming sensational,
and how to be thoroughly delicate and reserved and yet make an
interesting love story. Her style is easy and unembarrassed, and
always level with the occasion, whether in dialogue, description,
or moralizing, and her book is one to be as well liked by the
ordinary novel-reader, purely for the interest of the story, as by
those who are more attracted by its lofty purpose and by the skill
with which that purpose is carried out.

       *       *       *       *       *

  DISCUSSIONS AND ARGUMENTS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. By John Henry
      Newman, sometime Fellow of Oriel College. London: Basil
      Montagu Pickering, 196 Piccadilly. 1872. (New York: Sold by
      The Catholic Publication Society.)

This is another volume of the uniform series of Dr. Newman’s
works. It contains an essay on the manner of catholicizing the
Church of England, one on Anti-Christ, one on the analogy of
Creed and Scripture in respect to the difficulties of each, one
on Secular Knowledge as a means of moral improvement, one on the
Defects and Excellences of the British Constitution, and one on the
argument of the _Ecce Homo_--the last two essays only having been
written since the conversion of the illustrious author.

The republication of Dr. Newman’s Catholic writings is only
something which might have been expected, and which would be
considered by all as desirable. The same might be said of his
previous works, so far as these contained no heretical or
uncatholic statements and opinions. But the entire republication of
his Anglican writings was something novel in its way, and rather
calculated to startle the mind of one who had not considered the
very weighty motives which have induced the author to make this
bold stroke. These writings could not have been suppressed. To
a very great extent, they are substantially sound, as well as
masterly in thought and style, with only an accidental mixture of
error. Even those which are in their substance and scope directly
anti-Catholic are important documents in the history of polemics.
By their incorporation with a complete series of the doctor’s
works, they are reduced to the category of those arguments and
objections against the faith which are incorporated into systems
of theology for the purpose of exhibiting both sides of the
controversy, and bringing out the truth in its contra-position to
error. The work of Dr. Newman’s life has been a most remarkable and
providential one. He has reasoned himself up from Protestantism,
through Anglicanism, to the Catholic Church, speaking aloud, and
in tones to command attention, during the whole process. It is
impossible to estimate the influence for good which he has exerted
as an instrument in the hand of God in bringing back Protestants to
the fold of the church. The preservation of the complete history
of his intellectual progress is therefore something which tends
entirely to advance the cause of truth, and to illustrate the
glorious conclusion which he finally drew from his premises and
proved with such power of reasoning and charm of rhetoric. The
present volume contains many things of the greatest intrinsic
value, besides what is valuable for the reasons above given,
especially the essay on Creed and Scripture, in which the present
downward slide of the English toward infidelity is distinctly
predicted.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CONSTANCE SHERWOOD. An Autobiography of the Sixteenth Century. By
      Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 1 vol. 8vo, pp. 284. New York: The
      Catholic Publication Society.

Our first feeling on reading this book was regret that we have so
few similar publications in this country, where the subjects so
admirably discussed in it are of such deep and lasting interest.
To English-speaking people at least, no matter in what land,
the persecution of Catholics during the reign of Elizabeth, the
malignant attempts of her able courtiers to destroy utterly the old
faith among her subjects, and the heroic struggles and sufferings
of the people, particularly of those of the better class, form one
of the most interesting, if painful, chapters in the entire modern
history of the church. The rebellious and anti-christian spirit of
the Eighth Henry descended with fourfold malice on his not unworthy
daughter, and a host of recreant prelates and rapacious nobles had
sprung up around the throne whose abject subserviency to royal
authority was in proportion as they possessed or expected lucrative
church livings and the spoils of dismantled schools, convents,
and almshouses. Her penal laws made even the secret observance of
the forms of worship an offence punishable by torture, death, and
confiscation, while the minister of God was legally proclaimed a
traitor, hunted down by professional informers, and, when caught,
summarily executed with all the cruelties of the most barbarous
ages. But while the fagot and the gallows had no terrors for the
devoted priest, the loss of court favor, beggary, imprisonment, and
the rack were as persistently disregarded by a large number of the
nobility and commoners with a steadfastness and resignation which
remind us of the days of the early martyrs.

It is to illustrate this period in English history, this contest
between ill-gotten and despotic power on one side, and constancy,
zeal, and piety on the other, that _Constance Sherwood_ has been
written by one who has already done good service in the cause of
our holy religion, to the great credit of her sex and country.
As a work of art, the book does not exhibit that strong dramatic
power or depth of coloring which characterized the efforts of Sir
Walter Scott when treating of the same epoch in _Kenilworth_; but
it more than compensates us for these deficiencies in the greater
truthfulness of its portraiture of historical personages, and its
exquisite delineation of those purely fictitious, who, with all
their human weaknesses and spiritual strength, are fittingly held
up to us as types of Christian excellence. So delicately, indeed,
and so nicely defined are some of Lady Fullerton’s touches that we
have sometimes found ourselves going back over the pages of her
tale to be assured that we had caught aright the gentle allusion or
implied meaning in all its significance. Constance Sherwood, who is
supposed to relate the story of her life and times, appears to us a
most attractive creation of the author, but the character of Ann,
Countess of Arundel and Surry, we venture to say could only have
been drawn by a highly gifted, sympathetic, and virtuous woman, so
conformable is it in its leading features to well-authenticated
facts and so delicately finished in its imaginary details.

Though an historical novel, necessarily devoted to grave and often
painful matters, and plentifully strewn with moral and theological
reflections, there is just enough of romance and feminine gossip
in its pages to enlist the attention and excite the sympathies of
the more sentimental and less seriously inclined readers. Human
passions, hatred, jealousy, and remorse, friendship, love, and all
the other concomitants of everyday life, are neither ignored nor
obtruded, but are made subservient to the main design of the work,
which is to teach us true Christian principles by exhibiting to
our view the virtues and constancy of our co-religionists of other
times. The style of the autobiography, as the design of the book
required, is slightly tinged with the quaint phraseology of the
period, which, however, does not lessen, but rather adds to, its
attractions, and the illustrations which accompany this edition are
excellently designed and executed. As a well-written book, uniting
amusement with sound instruction and pure morality, we consider it
every way worthy to be placed in the hands of Catholic readers.
Particularly feminine in its tone and healthful in its tendency, it
is in every way vastly superior to even the best works of fiction
of which the secular press has become so prolific.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF ST. FRANCIS XAVIER. By Henry James
      Coleridge, S.J. Vol. I. Burns, Oates & Co. 1872. (New York:
      Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Father Coleridge has a happy talent for biographical composition
and historical sketching. The letters of St. Francis give to this
biography a most decided advantage over all others with which we
are acquainted, and the original portion of the _Life_ is equal in
merit and interest to the best specimens of biography which the
English language possesses. We would be greatly obliged to the
author if he would collect and publish in a volume the various
sketches of distinguished persons, such as Suarez, De Rancé, etc.,
which he has from time to time printed in _The Month_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE WORKS OF AURELIUS AUGUSTINE, BISHOP OF HIPPO. A New
      Translation, edited by the Rev. Marcus Dods, M.A. Vol.
      III.--Writings in Connection with the Donatist Controversy;
      Vol. IV.--The Anti-Pelagian Works of St. Augustine. Vol.
      I. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. 1872. (New York: Sold by The
      Catholic Publication Society.)

The first two volumes of this series containing _The City of God_,
received a favorable notice in a former number of this magazine,
in so far as an examination which was distinctly said to be only
“cursory” warranted us in expressing an opinion. A very opposite
criticism, accompanied with some strictures upon THE CATHOLIC WORLD
for its favorable notice, from the pen of a learned and acute
writer in the _Boston Pilot_, occasioned a considerable stir for
the time, and we were requested by several persons to re-examine
the work more carefully, and express a more matured and decisive
judgment. We took the trouble to make the examination, and take
this occasion to reiterate the opinion we at first expressed. A
similar judgment was expressed by the _Dublin Review_, and, as
there seems to be a general consent among critics on the subject,
we think that all those who wish for a good translation of _The
City of God_ may consider it certain that the one edited by Mr.
Dods is not only an elegant but an accurate version of this
splendid work. There are one or two mistakes in the translation,
and we remember noticing one decidedly anti-Catholic note, but
these slight faults may be pardoned in a work of such great
excellence and value. We have had no time as yet to collate any
portion of the translation of the two new volumes before us with
the original text. The quality of the translation of the preceding
volumes, however, is a fair guarantee for the fidelity and elegance
of the present one. The scholarship and reputation of the editors
are a sufficient security that they will spare no pains to do
their work well, and the works of St. Augustine afford very little
room for any serious mistakes in regard to his real meaning. It
is in the interpretation of his meaning and deduction from his
principles that there is room for error, and that the grossest
heresies have been manufactured by Lutherans, Calvinists, and
Jansenists from a perversion of his doctrines on original sin,
grace, and free-will. These heresies are now very unpopular and
not at all dangerous. In respect to the constitutive principles of
the Catholic Church, as opposed to every species of Protestantism,
there is no room for mistaking or perverting the doctrine of St.
Augustine. We cannot think of any way of convincing educated
persons in England and the United States of the identity of the
modern with the ancient Catholic Church more efficaciously than
that of giving them the chance to read extensively in the works of
the great Doctor through the medium of a good translation. We are
rejoiced, therefore, that English scholars should engage in this
work and in those of a similar kind. The quantity of pure Catholic
literature thus disseminated by Protestants and among Protestants
in England, and to some extent in America also, is truly inspiring.
The republication of choice specimens of old English literature by
an antiquarian society in London, the translation of the Venerable
Bede’s _History_, the abbreviated _Lives of the Saints_ from
the Bollandists, and other books of the same character which are
multiplying with an inconceivable rapidity, show what an avidity
the English palate is acquiring for this most wholesome and
pleasant medicine. The editors frequently seek to counteract the
effect which their inward misgiving warns them these books must
produce, by remarks of their own in notes and prefaces, for which
their readers will care but little. Sometimes they avoid almost or
altogether this futile procedure, and provide the Catholic reader
with a valuable book in English which is a considerable accession
to his library, and is free from anything which can offend his
eyes--a service for which they have our sincere thanks. The volumes
which are at present under notice are not, we regret to say,
unexceptionable in this respect. The Preface to the anti-Pelagian
works speaks in a very inexact and misleading manner upon the
supposed differences of the Eastern and Western theology, upon the
judgments of the Pope in the case of Pelagius, and the relation
of the teaching of St. Augustine to Protestant doctrine. The very
meagre sketch of the Donatist schism prefixed to Vol. III. is long
enough, nevertheless, to permit the author to indulge in the only
amusement which can make an English Protestant perfectly happy,
and to get off the little squib he always carries in his pocket,
“the despotic intolerance of the Papacy, and the horrors of the
Inquisition.” A Catholic scholar cares nothing for the flippant and
superficial cavils and sneers of theological amateurs who venture
to criticise and judge the Fathers, the Popes, and the church of
God. But he does not like to have a book in his library which has
such blots on it. The editors may say that they consult the tastes
and convenience of Protestants and not of Catholics. Very well.
It is convenient, however for Catholics to have certain works of
standard value in an English translation, and it is the interest
of _publishers_ to provide them with the same. If the publishers
could furnish an edition in which the text alone was given, without
the disfiguring incumbrance of prefaces and advertisements, for
the convenience of Catholic purchasers, their splendid series
of patristic works would undoubtedly find a much more ready and
extensive sale than it is now likely to have among the clergy and
studious laity of the Catholic Church in Great Britain and the
United States.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE BETROTHED. By Alessandro Manzoni. 1 vol. 12mo. New York: The
      Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

“The Catholic Publication Society” has done a good work in
publishing a new edition of Alessandro Manzoni’s world-renowned _I
Promessi Sposi_, which has been for many years before the public.
It was first published in 1827. Since then the author has increased
the size and interest of the volume by a thrilling description of
the devastations of the plague in Milan in 1630.

While the author charms by the ease and simplicity of his style,
the story is no less remarkable for originality and vigor.

Above all, the purity of the pages and the religious tone that
pervades the narrative give an additional interest to the story of
the rustic life of the hero and heroine.

This is the best known of the author’s works, and deservedly
popular.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FRENCH EGGS, IN AN ENGLISH BASKET. Translated from Souvestre by
      Miss Emily Bowles. London: Burns, Oates & Co. (New York: Sold
      by The Catholic Publication Society.)

This book comprises some fifteen short, readable, and well-varied
stories, illustrating life and manners among the humbler classes
in France, originally written by a very successful _littérateur_
of that country, and accurately translated by the English editor.
They are not moral tales in the usual acceptation of that much
misused term, for the writer neither puts prosy sermons in the
mouths of babes nor interlards the discourse of simple peasants
with profound theological reflections, but they are natural and
healthful in their tone, humorous as well as pathetic in design,
and the reader will be dull indeed who is not able to draw his
own moral from them. As a gift to young people, this volume
would be very appropriate, and, if not exactly suited to the
breakfast-table, will no doubt be found worthy a place in the
boudoir or drawing-room.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SERMONS BY FATHERS OF THE SOCIETY OF JESUS (in England). Vol. II.
      By the Rev. Thomas Harper. London: Burns, Oates & Co. (New
      York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.) 1872.

These sermons are very peculiar and original, and are
specially adapted for the perusal of the most intelligent and
educated persons. The first series, composed of discourses for
Christmas-tide, is on “Modern Principles,” as contrasted with truly
Christian principles deduced from the great fact and doctrine
of the Incarnation. The one on “The Last Winter of the World”
has especially attracted our attention. The second series is a
condensed and yet eloquent _résumé_ of a great part of Catholic
philosophy and theology respecting the great first truth of the
being of God. The volume is a remarkable and an admirable one, most
suitable for the times, and we earnestly recommend it to those
who desire to find religious reading of the highest intellectual
quality, which is at the same time really profitable for the
spiritual good.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MAGGIE’S ROSARY, AND OTHER TALES. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 208. New York:
      The Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

We know of no book of this class recently issued from the press
which contains more pleasing and useful reading than this.
Equally instructive and entertaining, its perusal cannot prove
otherwise than acceptable to those for whose especial benefit it is
published. It is admirably adapted for a premium, and we hope that
in the coming distributions it will occupy that prominent place
which its intrinsic merits deserve. It is a handsome volume of over
200 pages, got up in that style which “The Publication Society” was
the first to introduce--a style of mechanical excellence and simple
elegance.

       *       *       *       *       *

  VIA CRUCIS; or, The Way of the Cross. Translated from the German
      of the Rev. Dr. Veith, Preacher of St. Stephen’s Cathedral,
      Vienna. By the Very Rev. Theodore Noethen. Boston: Patrick
      Donahoe. 1872.

Did any one ever see a book on the Passion of Christ and not wish
to buy it? The very title appeals to the heart. It is because we
would go on for ever trying--but in vain--to sound the depths of
that fathomless ocean of divine love and mercy.

We cannot have too many books on this great theme, that there
may be some adapted to every cast of mind: now emotional, again
embodying every tender legend and the pious imaginings of saintly
hearts, or full of profound reflections on the great scheme of
salvation through the sufferings of our Lord. Every person should
have at least one such book in which to bathe his world-weary
soul from time to time. In these days, when ease, luxury, and
self-indulgence of every kind seem to be the great aim of life, the
image of the Divine Sufferer cannot be too constantly presented to
the mind, with its lesson of mortification and self-crucifixion.

Protestants often say the Blessed Virgin has been made by Catholics
to supersede our Lord in the economy of grace. Let such read this
book, and see on whom we rely for salvation, and how Christ and
him crucified is preached in all the purity of the Gospel in the
great Catholic centre of Vienna.

This book is the last of a series of works on the Passion which
have already been noticed in our columns. The author being now
blind, it was dictated to his amanuensis. Under such circumstances,
his great familiarity with the Holy Scriptures is the more
striking, showing that a knowledge of the sacred volume is not
quite a Protestant monopoly.

A calm, dignified, thoughtful tone pervades the whole volume. The
piety is not strained; it is elevated, but not _exaltée_; there is
no false sentiment, nothing to offend the most fastidious taste.
A few quotations will give an idea of the author’s style and
suggestiveness:

  “He who lives within and for himself, who only makes use of
  others for the sake of adding to his own pleasure, is ignorant
  of the first principle of charity or of true life, which cannot
  be obtained without sacrifice and without entering morally into
  communion with thee.

  “It is by no means necessary that true humility must spring forth
  from the consciousness of guilt, like a flower whose root grows
  only in the mire; its true foundation is the acknowledgment of
  the relation in which spiritual beings find themselves to their
  Creator, Lord, and gracious Ruler.

  “Whether or not my bodily life shall one day bloom again in
  the transfigured state of happiness, will depend upon my moral
  fidelity, which keeps my spirit, while on earth, in thy holy
  grace.

  “Fall not into the common error of imagining that a negative
  state of existence is compatible with the duties of a Christian.”

  “This narrow gate, which alone leads to true life, but which many
  do not wish to enter because they shun the work of self-denial
  and privation, what is it but the entrance into the communion of
  thy death and life--into thy grave!”

This work was intended particularly for Lent, but is suited to
any season. As the church, on the most joyful of festivals, never
fails to show forth the Lord’s death at the altar, so the thought
of the Passion should never be absent from the soul. The heroine
of _The House of Yorke_, alluding to a picture of St. Ignatius of
Loyola, says: “He looks as though he were present when our Lord was
crucified, and could not forget the sight.” “We were all present,”
exclaimed Rowan. “How can we forget it?”

So, too, when three old men came to the Abbot Stephen to ask what
would be useful to their souls, he was silent awhile, and then
replied: “I will show you all I have: day and night, I behold
nothing but our Lord Jesus Christ hanging from the wood.”

This ably translated work, with its excellent binding, its soft
paper so grateful to the eye, and its clear print, is a credit to
our enterprising New England publisher.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE POPE OF ROME AND THE POPES OF THE ORIENTAL ORTHODOX CHURCH.
      An Essay on Monarchy in the Church, with special reference to
      Russia. From original documents, Russian and Greek. By the
      Rev. Cæsarius Tondini, Barnabite. London: Longmans & Co. (New
      York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

The conversion of Count Schouvaloff, a Russian nobleman, and his
profession in the Barnabite order, was the occasion of awakening
a great interest in the conversion of Russia among his religious
brethren. The most conspicuous among them for his zeal and efforts
in this direction is F. Tondini. In the present volume he has given
a full and accurate account of the organization of the Russian
Church, supported by numerous citations, and evincing the thorough
knowledge of the author on the subject. The utterly secular
character of the Russian state church and the degrading enslavement
of its hierarchy under imperial authority are clearly shown. The
efforts which have been made to throw dust in the eyes of the
American public on this subject make this book quite seasonable,
and we recommend it to the attention both of our Catholic readers
and of the amateurs of Russo-Greek Christianity.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE PASSION PLAY. By the Rev. Gerald Molloy, D.D. Boston: Patrick
      Donahoe.

Dr. Molloy, of Maynooth, has described the Ammergau Passion Play
with great skill, accuracy, and beauty of language, and has
enriched his work with a number of very good photographs, which
add much to its interest. The republication has been executed in
very pretty style, and the volume is in every sense attractive
and interesting, worthy of a place on every table, and most
appropriate as a premium or gift book. We trust it may have the
wide circulation it deserves.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Boston: J. R.
      Osgood & Co.

A most reverently, carefully, and skilfully executed reduction of
the evangelical narrative within a small poetical picture. The
greater portion is an almost literal translation of the sacred
text, and there are also a few passages of exquisite original
poetry. Mr. Longfellow has in no way tampered with or marred
the beauty of the divine original, and his copy is itself a
masterpiece. All Catholics may read this poem without fear of
finding anything which is not in perfect consonance with their
faith. It is a beautiful offering to Christ from a place where he
has received many insults, and we trust that he may give the best
of all rewards to the one who has made it.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A MANUAL OF ENGLISH LITERATURE: A Text-book for Schools and
      Colleges. By John S. Hart, LL.D., Professor of Rhetoric and
      of the English Language and Literature in the College of New
      Jersey.

The arrangement of this work is simple and adapted to practical
use, and one may see at a glance the whole history of the English
tongue. The different authors are well grouped in connection with
conspicuous public events, which show at once the time in which
they flourished, and the influences, political or educational, with
which they were surrounded. Living writers have also received their
share of attention, and are appropriately classified according to
the subjects they have treated. There are a few authors omitted
(among others Gerald Griffin, the most _characteristic_ of Irish
novelists) who deserve mention, and who will no doubt receive
attention in another edition. We think that Dr. Hart deserves
the thanks of the community for his valuable labors. Among many
studies, surely there is none more important than that of our own
language. There are many of our public men who would do well to
learn better the genius of their mother tongue. It is certainly
desirable to know and speak foreign languages, but far more
necessary is it to understand the wealth and beauty of our own--so
little known and so poorly appreciated by many of our speakers or
writers. We are glad to learn also that Dr. Hart has in preparation
a book upon American literature.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN CALIFORNIA. By W. Gleeson,
      M.A., Professor in St. Mary’s College, San Francisco, Cal. In
      two volumes. Illustrated. San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft & Co.
      1872. pp. 446, 351.

A work of this size on the church in California excites
astonishment, so recent does the growth of that State seem; but the
history of the church in California dates far back, and is full of
interest and edification.

The discovery of the country, the strange journey of Cabeza de
Vaca, the adventurous exploration of the Italian Franciscan,
Mark, of Nice, and of those who followed him, and an account of
the Indians, form the opening chapters of Mr. Gleeson’s work. He
then devotes some space to the question whether St. Thomas ever
visited America, a point discussed some years since by the Count
Joannes when simple George Jones. Another chapter is devoted to
the examination of early Irish missions on the northwest coast of
America, the object of the author being to show the possible source
of certain Christian traditions found among the California Indians.
Garcia in his _Origen de los Indios_, Lafitau in his _Mœurs et
Coutumes_, Boudinot in his _Star in the West_, and many other
writers, have traced these analogies, but it seems to us were often
misled by taking as primitive Indian traditions ideas acquired
after missions were established.

The remainder of the first volume is devoted to the great Jesuit
mission in Lower California, founded by the German Father Kühn or
Kino and the Italian Father Salvatierra, a mission which excited so
much interest that a special fund was gradually formed by devoted
Catholics for its support, and which, under the title of the Pious
Fund of California, long maintained religion there, and will
still do its part if a sense of justice prevails with the Mexican
Government. Of this mission, which lasted to the suppression of the
order, Mr. Gleeson gives a valuable account. Three works exist on
it, that of Fr. Venegas in Spanish, of Fr. Begert in German, and of
Fr. Clavigero in Italian, and there are also some communications on
the _Lettres Edipantes_ and other collections.

The second volume is devoted to Upper California, or what is now
the State of California. After the fall of the Society of Jesus,
the Spanish government sent the Dominicans and Franciscans to
continue its labors in California. The Dominicans took Lower
California, but our author does not dwell on their labors,
apparently not having met the _Tres Cartas_ giving an account of
them.

The labors of the Franciscans, who, under Father Juniper Serra,
peopled Upper California with missions that were the wonder of that
age of unbelief, for they began and rose during the latter part
of the last century, is given in a most interesting manner. No
missions ever rose with greater celerity, and, though missionaries
laid down their lives in the struggle, the land was christianized
and the wild savages became thriving Christian communities,
self-supporting and gradually advancing in civilization.

If their rise is one to cheer the heart of the believer, there is
nothing in history so sad as the utter destruction of missions and
people in a few short years. The happy Indians who by thousands
filled the missions in peace and plenty are represented by a
handful of debased and fast vanishing outcasts. The civilization
of the nineteenth century may be a very fine thing, but it is only
necessary to read the history of the California mission to accept
the Syllabus heartily.

If we find any fault with this portion of Mr. Gleeson’s work, it
is that he has not given place enough to the linguistic labors of
the missionaries amid the perfect Babel of languages in California.
Several of their grammars and dictionaries have been printed by
one of the first Catholic writers who treated in English of this
mission, and it cannot be that the great California libraries
do not contain the works of Father Sitjar, Cuesta, and others,
or of the distinguished living missionary of California, Father
Mengarini, whose philosophical study of the Selish language makes
him the highest authority with American and European scholars.

The sad state of the church both as to its white and red children
during the Mexican rule, and the erection of the See of California,
are next treated of by our author.

The annexation to the United States and the discovery of gold
brought in an entirely new element. The Mexicans were but few;
the incoming tide of emigration was both Protestant and Catholic,
the new government Protestant. Of this, the actual church of
California, the reverend author gives an account full of edifying
details, although he has allowed himself too little space to give
such sketches of some of the various institutions as we should
desire.

The Appendix is a partial review of the accounts of the
American mounds and an attempt to show a similarity between the
mound-builders and the _Tuatha dè Danaans_ in Ireland; but such
theories have been too often raised and fallen to accept this. Our
Indian is the type of primitive man; as he was found by our first
explorers, he used stone arrow and spear heads and knives; made
his shell-beads; boiled and cooked by heated stones, just as the
earlier races on the Eastern continent did, if we are to believe
the lessons from the tombs of that part of the world. Side by
side, you cannot distinguish the stone arrowheads and implements
of America, Ireland, France, Denmark, and Germany, and we can only
conclude that all men were of one family, and ascended the scale of
civilization by similar steps.

This work is enriched with many illustrations, a portrait of Father
Salvatierra, many views of the missions as Duflot de Mofras found
them, the quasi-portrait of the venerable Father Juniper Serra in
Palou’s life of that great missionary, and diagrams of some Western
mounds.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HISTORY OF THE KINGDOM OF GOD UNDER THE OLD TESTAMENT. Translated
      from the German of E. W. Hengstenberg. Edinburgh: T. &
      T. Clark. (For sale in New York by Scribner & Co., 664
      Broadway.) Vol. I.

The highest encomium we can pass upon the works of Hengstenberg
is to mention the fact that they are several times referred to in
terms of great praise in the _Theology_ of the illustrious Jesuit,
F. Perrone. He is certainly equal to any Protestant theologian
of this century in learning and critical ability. In regard to
soundness of doctrine and the actual value of the results of study
contained in his works, we consider him to be far superior to any
of those Protestant authors with whose writings we are acquainted.
Indeed, we may say that his works are almost indispensable to
the student of those departments of theology concerning which
they treat. The great and praiseworthy end of Hengstenberg was to
destroy German neology with its own weapons, and he has effectually
accomplished the task.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LECTURES ON THE CHURCH. Delivered in St. Francis Xavier’s Church,
      New York. By Rev. D. A. Merrick, S.J. New York: P. O’Shea.

Fr. Merrick’s _Lectures_ are logical, solid, and, at the same
time, easy to be understood. He refutes the Protestant doctrine on
the Rule of Faith, and establishes the Catholic rule, ending with
the culminating point of the supremacy of the Pope in government
and doctrine. The proofs of the latter from English history are
remarkably appropriate and well put. The style of the reverend
author is pure and pleasing, and the book, which is of very
moderate size, is tastefully printed. It is therefore admirably
suited for general use, and we bespeak for it a wide circulation.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE RELATION AND DUTY OF THE LAWYER TO THE STATE: A Lecture
      delivered before the Law School of the University of the City
      of New York, February 9, 1872, by Henry D. Sedgwick.

This is an eloquent and philosophical contribution to the question
of questions in this city: Are we advancing or retrograding in
legal and judicial probity and learning? The author speaks like an
honest lawyer jealous for the high name of his profession; but
proclaiming the follies of men or corporations in the lecture-room
never has nor ever will put an end to them. The lawyers on and
off the bench are no more corrupt than other classes of the
community, but they are more conspicuous, and more reprehensible
in consequence. Corruption, like all _catching_ diseases, when it
finds shelter among legislators, will soon find its way to the
lawyer’s library and to the bench of the judge.

We cordially endorse the admonition and compliment contained in the
following:

“Set before you, rather, if you need an example, those who, with
an earnestness and a determination never surpassed, have grappled
with and overthrown the band of thieves who had seized the public
coffers. No future enemy of the commonwealth can be more wily, nor
can be entrenched in his lair with greater cunning, than the men
who lately possessed our municipal government. Whoever that future
enemy shall be, however warily he spring, however secretly he
strike or stab, O’Conor can exclaim, ‘Contempsi gladios Catilinæ,
non pertimescam tuos.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

  PHYSIOLOGY OF THE SOUL, etc. By Martyn Paine, A.M., M.D., LL.D.,
      etc. New York: Harper & Brothers.

Dr. Paine is a very venerable gentleman who is a remarkable
instance of intellectual activity and industry continued into a
very advanced age. We sincerely admire the boldness with which
he denounces materialism and professes his belief in the Bible.
We do not agree with him in his opinion that the Holy Scripture
requires us to reject the common theories of modern geologists, and
therefore regard his attempt at a scientific refutation of those
theories as something which we may leave to the consideration of
experts in geological science. That part of his work which has
most value in our eyes is the one which treats of the distinct
existence and spiritual nature of the soul, a subject which is
handled in an able and ingenious manner.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SPECTRUM ANALYSIS. Three Lectures by Profs. Roscoe, Huggins, and
      Lockyer. New Haven, Conn.: Charles C. Chatfield & Co. 1872.

These lectures are very interesting, and give an excellent account
of what is perhaps the greatest real discovery of modern science;
also of its application to the determination of the chemical and
physical constitution of the sun and other celestial bodies. Their
authors are men eminent in the scientific world, who have specially
distinguished themselves by their researches in this particular
department of investigation.

       *       *       *       *       *

  REPORTS ON OBSERVATIONS OF THE TOTAL SOLAR ECLIPSE OF DECEMBER
      22, 1870. Conducted under the Direction of Rear-Admiral B. F.
      Sands, U.S.N., Superintendent of the U. S. Naval Observatory,
      Washington, D. C. Washington: Government Printing Office.
      1871.

These reports, like those on the eclipse of the preceding year in
the United States, noticed in THE CATHOLIC WORLD of April, 1870,
form a valuable contribution to the literature of solar science.
They are by Profs. Newcomb, Hall, Harkness, and Eastman, the first
of whom was stationed at Gibraltar, the rest at Syracuse. The
observations were in all cases somewhat interfered with by clouds,
which, however, broke away sufficiently at the moment of totality
to allow the skilful and practised observers to obtain many
interesting results. It is on such occasions that the qualities
required for a good practical astronomer are put to the most severe
test; a moment of nervousness may lose that for which he has spent
months in preparing. It hardly needs to be said that, in this
instance, the test was well sustained. Prof. Harkness considers
his conclusions as to the composition of the corona, spoken of in
our previous notice, to be borne out by his observations on this
occasion. The sun really seems to be the wearer of an iron crown.
The descriptions of the general appearance and effects of the
eclipse are of course the most interesting to unscientific readers.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HALF-HOUR RECREATIONS IN POPULAR SCIENCE. No. 1. Strange
      Discoveries Respecting the Aurora, and Recent Solar
      Researches. By Richard A. Proctor, B.A., F.R.A.S., author
      of _The Sun_, _Other Worlds than Ours_, etc. Boston: Lee &
      Shepard. New York: Lee, Shepard & Dillingham.

This, as implied in the title, is the first of a series of papers
on subjects of modern science by various well-known writers in
that department. It is expected to publish one such “recreation”
every month, at the price of twenty-five cents, which would seem
to be enough, or $2 50 a year. Enough, at least, it will be for
the speculations of such men as Mill, Spencer, Huxley, and Darwin,
who are promised among the “eminent European scientists” in the
prospectus. The present number, however, is a very good one, having
in it a great deal of information, some valuable suggestions, and
no humbug; and the next will be, perhaps, even better, as it will
contain an explanation of the wonderful modern discovery known as
“Spectrum Analysis.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  HALF-HOURS WITH MODERN SCIENTISTS--Huxley, Barker, Stirling,
      Cope, Tyndall. New Haven, Conn.: Charles C. Chatfield & Co.
      1871.

We have in this a publication somewhat similar to the _Half-Hour
Recreations_ noticed above; there are, however, five numbers
instead of one bound up together. It might be said of them, as
of other such, that their facts and strictly physical theories
are interesting, and their philosophical ones rather otherwise.
Professors Barker and Tyndall furnish the best papers of the five,
particularly the latter, who is a thoroughly scientific man,
having, besides his talent, the great advantage of prudence.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LEGENDS OF THE PATRIARCHS AND PROPHETS. By the Rev. S.
      Baring-Gould, M.A. New York: Holt & Williams.

This collation of Rabbinical and Mohammedan legends has been made
with great judgment and taste. The legends are very curious and
interesting, some of them very poetic and beautiful. The book is
one of very great value to the scholar, and most entertaining and
amusing for the general reader.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CHRISTIAN FREE SCHOOLS. The Subject Discussed by the Rt. Rev.
      Bernard J. McQuaid, D.D., Bishop of Rochester. At Rochester,
      N. Y. (New York: For sale by the Catholic Publication
      Society.)

We can only call attention to this important pamphlet at present,
hoping to take up the subject in earnest at a future time. The
pamphlet is replete with important testimonies of statesmen and
Protestant ministers, which make it very serviceable to those who
wish to write or speak on the same subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

  WALKS IN ROME. By Augustus J. C. Hare. New York: George Routledge
      & Sons, 416 Broome Street. 1871.

This, in a qualified sense, is a readable and valuable guide to
the Eternal City. It contains a great deal of information about
the historic sites of old Rome, a good deal about the galleries
in which the intelligent Protestant visitor is supposed to be
interested, and something also about the restaurants, livery
stables, etc., to which it would be rash to assume that he is
indifferent. It likewise contains a good deal about the churches
and holy places, giving some interesting facts, together with
various remarks and stories characterized by the usual dense
ignorance and stupidity as to the dogmas and practices of the
Catholic Church which may be said to be the special glory of the
“reformed” Anglo-Saxon. The principal value of such commonplace
productions is that they suggest the necessity of having a good
manual on a somewhat similar plan for the use of people who really
want to see and understand Rome when they visit it.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TRAVELS IN ARABIA. Compiled and arranged by Bayard Taylor. New
      York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1872.

This is another volume of the _Illustrated Library of Travel and
Exploration_ series, and is nearly all taken up with Palgrave’s
narrative of his travels in Arabia. It is well illustrated.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LITTLE JAKEY. By Mrs. S. H. De Kroyft. New York: Hurd & Houghton.

A simple story and a sad one of the short yet not uneventful life
of a little German, an inmate of the New York Institution for the
Blind. It is written in a pleasing and unaffected style.

       *       *       *       *       *

  AUNT FANNY’S PRESENT; or, The Book of Fairy Tales.

  WOODLAND COTTAGE, and Other Tales. Philadelphia: Peter F.
      Cunningham.

We recommend these neat little volumes with pleasure to those about
to select books for their children.


P. F. CUNNINGHAM announces as in press: _Marian Howard; or, Trials
and Triumphs_. _The Divine Life of the Blessed Virgin Mary_: Being
an Abridgment of the _Mystical City of God_. _Life of St. Augustin,
Doctor of the Universal Church._




                        THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

                  VOL. XV., No. 88.--JULY, 1872.

  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev.
   I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.




THE PROGRESSIONISTS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.


CHAPTER I.

THE WAGER

The balcony of the _palais_ Greifmann contains three persons who
together represent four million florins. It is not often that
one sees a group of this kind. The youthful landholder, Seraphin
Gerlach, is possessor of two millions. His is a quiet disposition;
very calm, and habitually thoughtful; innocence looks from his
clear eye upon the world; physically, he is a man of twenty-three;
morally, he is a child in purity; a profusion of rich brown hair
clusters about his head; his cheeks are ruddy, and an attractive
sweetness plays round his mouth.

The third million belongs to Carl Greifmann, the oldest member of
the group, head _pro tem._ of the banking-house of the same name.
This gentlemen is tall, slender, animated; his cheeks wear no
bloom; they are pale. His carriage is easy and smooth. Some levity
is visible in his features, which are delicate, but his keen,
glancing eye is disagreeable beside Seraphin’s pure soul-mirror.
Greifmann’s sister Louise, not an ordinary beauty, owns the fourth
million. She is seated between the young gentlemen; the folds of
her costly dress lie heaped around her; her hands are engaged with
a fan, and her eyes are sending electric glances into Gerlach’s
quick depths. But these flashing beams fail to kindle; they expire
before they penetrate far into those depths. His eyes are bright,
but they refuse to gleam with intenser fire. Strange, too, for a
twofold reason; first, because glances from the eyes of beautiful
women seldom suffer young men to remain cool; secondly, because a
paternal scheme designs that Louise shall be engaged and married to
the fire-proof hero.

Millions of money are rare; and should millions strive to form
an alliance, it is in conformity with the genius of every solid
banking establishment to view this as quite a natural tendency.

For eight days Mr. Seraphin has been on a visit at the _palais_
Greifmann, but as yet he has yielded no positive evidence of
intending to join his own couple of millions with the million of
Miss Louise.

Whilst Seraphin converses with the beautiful young lady, Carl
Greifmann cursorily examines a newspaper which a servant has just
brought him on a silver salver.

“Every age has its folly,” suddenly exclaims the banker. “In the
seventeenth century people were busy during thirty years cutting
one another’s throats for religion’s sake--or rather, in deference
to the pious hero of the faith from Sweden and his fugleman
Oxenstiern. In the eighteenth century, they decorated their heads
with periwigs and pigtails, making it a matter of conjecture
whether both ladies and gentlemen were not in the act of developing
themselves from monkeydom into manhood.

“Elections are the folly of our century. See here, my good fellow,
look what is written here: In three days the municipal elections
will come off throughout the country--in eighteen days the election
of delegates. For eighteen days the whole country is to labor in
election throes. Every man twenty-one years of age, having a wife
and a homestead, is to be employed in rooting from out the soil of
party councilmen, mayors, and deputies.

“And during the period these rooters not unfrequently get at
loggerheads. Some are in favor of Streichein the miller, because
Streichein has lavishly greased their palms; others insist upon
re-electing Leimer the manufacturer, because Leimer threatens a
reduction of wages if they refuse to keep him in the honorable
position. In the heat of dispute, quite a storm of oaths and ugly
epithets, yes, and of blows too, rages, and many is the voter who
retires from the scene of action with a bloody head. The beer-shops
are the chief battle-fields for this sort of skirmishing. Here,
zealous voters swill down hogsheads of beer: brewers drive a brisk
trade during elections. But you must not think, Seraphin, that
these absurd election scenes are confined to cities. In rural
districts the game is conducted with no less interest and fury.
There is a village not far away, where a corpulent ploughman set
his mind on becoming mayor. What does he, to get the reins of
village government into his great fat fist? Two days previous to
the election he butchers three fatted hogs, has several hundred
ringlets of sausage made, gets ready his pots and pans for cooking
and roasting, and then advertises: eating and drinking _ad libitum_
and _gratis_ for every voter wiping to aid him to ascend the
mayor’s throne. He obtained his object.

“Now, I put the question to you Seraphin, is not this sort of
election jugglery far more ridiculous and disgusting than the most
preposterous periwigs of the last century?”

“Ignorance and passion may occasion the abuse of the best
institutions,” answered the double millionaire. “However, if beer
and pork determine the choice of councilmen and mayors, voters have
no right to complain of misrule. It would be most disastrous to the
state, I should think, were such corrupt means to decide also the
election of the deputies of our legislative assembly.”

The banker smiled.

“The self-same manœuvring, only on a larger scale,” replied
he. “Of course, in this instance, petty jealousies disappear.
Streichein the miller and Leimer the manufacturer make concessions
in the interest of the common party. All stand shoulder to shoulder
in the cause of _progress_ against Ultramontanes and democrats, who
in these days have begun to be troublesome.

“Whilst at municipal elections office-seekers employed money and
position for furthering their personal aims, at deputy elections
_progress_ men cast their means into a common cauldron, from which
the mob are fed and made to drink in order to stimulate them with
the spirit of _progress_ for the coming election. At bottom it
amounts to the same--the stupefaction of the multitude, the rule of
a minority, in which, however, all consider themselves as having
part, the folly of the nineteenth century.”

“This is an unhealthy condition of things, which gives reason
to fear the corruption of the whole body politic,” remarked the
landholder with seriousness. “The seats of the legislative chamber
should be filled not through bribery and deception of the masses,
nor through party passion, but through a right appreciation of the
qualifications that fit a man for the office of deputy.”

“I ask your pardon, my dear friend,” interposed the banker with
a laugh. “Being reared by a mother having a rigorous faith has
prompted you to speak thus, not acquaintance with the spirit of
the age. Right appreciation! Heavens, what _naïveté_! Are you not
aware that _progress_, the autocrat of our times, follows a fixed,
unchanging programme? It matters not whether Tom or Dick occupies
the cushions of the legislative hall; the main point is to wear
the color of _progress_, and for this no special qualifications
are needed. I will give you an illustration of the way in which
these things work. Let us suppose that every member is provided
with a trumpet which he takes with him to the assembly. To blow
this trumpet neither skill, nor quick perception, nor experience,
nor knowledge--neither of these qualifications is necessary. Now,
we will suppose these gentlemen assembled in the great hall where
the destinies of the country are decided; should abuses need
correction, should legislation for church or state be required,
they have only to blow the trumpet of _progress_. The trumpet’s
tone invariably accords with the spirit of progress, for it has
been attuned to it. Should it happen that at a final vote upon a
measure the trumpets bray loudly enough to drown the opposition
of democrats and Ultramontanes, the matter is settled, the law is
passed, the question is decided.”

“Evidently you exaggerate!” said Seraphin with a shake of the head.
“Your illustration beats the enchanted horn of the fable. Do not
you think so, Miss Louise?”

“Brother’s trumpet story is rather odd, ’tis true, yet I believe
that at bottom such is really the state of things.”

“The instrument in question is objectionable in your opinion, my
friend, only because you still bear about you the narrow conscience
of an age long since buried. As you never spend more than two
short winter months in the city, where alone the life-pulse of
our century can be felt beating, you remain unacquainted with the
present and its spirit. The rest of the year you pass in riding
about on your lands, suffering yourself to be impressed by the
stern rigor of nature’s laws, and concluding that human society
harmonizes in the same manner with the behests of fixed principles.
I shall have to brush you up a little. I shall have to let you into
the mysteries of _progress_, so that you may cease groping like a
blind man in the noonday of enlightenment. Above all, let us have
no narrow-mindedness, no scrupulosity, I beg of you. Whosoever
nowadays walks the grass-grown paths of rigorism is a doomed man.”

Whilst he was saying this, a smile was on the banker’s countenance.
Seraphin mused in silence on the meaning and purpose of his
extraordinary language.

“Look down the street, if you please,” continued Carl Greifmann.
“Do you observe yon dark mass just passing under the gas-lamp?”

“I notice a pretty corpulent gentleman,” answered Seraphin.

“The corpulent gentleman is Mr. Hans Shund, formerly treasurer
of this city,” explained Greifmann. “Many years ago, Mr. Shund
put his hand into the public treasury, was detected, removed for
dishonesty, and imprisoned for five years. When set at liberty,
the ex-treasurer made the loaning of money on interest a source
of revenue. He conducted this business with shrewdness, ruined
many a family that needed money and in its necessity applied to
him, and became rich. Shund the usurer is known to all the town,
despised and hated by everybody. Even the dogs cannot endure the
odor of usury that hangs about him; just see--all the dogs bark at
him. Shund is moreover an extravagant admirer of the gentler sex.
All the town is aware that this Jack Falstaff contributes largely
to the scandal that is afloat. The pious go so far as to declare
that the gallant Shund will be burned and roasted in hell for all
eternity for not respecting the sixth commandment. Considered in
the light of the time honored morality of Old Franconia, Shund,
the thief, the usurer and adulterer, is a low, good-for-nothing
scoundrel, no question about it. But in the light of the indulgent
spirit of the times, no more can be said than that he has his
foibles. He is about to pass by on the other side, and, as a
well-bred man, will salute us.”

Seraphin had attentively observed the man thus characterized, but
with the feelings with which one views an ugly blotch, a dirty page
in the record of humanity.

Mr. Shund lowered his hat, his neck and back, with oriental
ceremoniousness in presence of the millions on the balcony. Carl
acknowledged the salute, and even Louise returned it with a
friendly inclination of the head.

The landholder, on the contrary, was cold, and felt hurt at
Greifmann’s bowing to a fellow whom he had just described as a
scoundrel. That Louise, too, should condescend to smile to a thief,
swindler, usurer, and immoral wretch! In his opinion, Louise should
have followed the dictates of a noble womanhood, and have looked
with honest pity on the scapegrace. She, on the contrary, greeted
the bad man as though he were respectable, and this conduct wounded
the young man’s feelings.

“Apropos of Hans Shund, I will take occasion to convince you of
the correctness of my statements,” said Carl Greifmann. “Three
days hence, the municipal election is to come off. Mr. Shund is to
be elected mayor. And when the election of deputies takes place,
this same Shund will command enough of the confidence and esteem
of his fellow-citizens to be elected to the legislative assembly,
thief and usurer though he be. You will then, I trust, learn to
understand that the might of progress is far removed from the
bigotry that would subject a man’s qualifications to a microscopic
examination. The enlarged and liberal principles prevailing in
secular concerns are opposed to the intolerance that would insist
on knowing something of an able man’s antecedents before consenting
to make use of him. All that Shund will have to do will be to
fall in under the glorious banner of the spirit of the age; his
voting trumpet will be given him; and forthwith he will turn out a
finished mayor and deputy. Do you not admire the power and stretch
of _liberalism_?”

“I certainly do admire your faculty for making up plausible
stories,” answered Seraphin.

“Plausible stories? Not at all! Downright earnest, every word of
it. Hans Shund, take my word for it, will be elected mayor and
member of the assembly.”

“In that event,” replied the landholder, “Shund’s disreputable
antecedents and disgusting conduct at present must be altogether a
secret to his constituents.”

“Again you are mistaken, my dear friend. This remark proceeds from
your want of acquaintance with the genius of our times. This city
has thirty thousand inhabitants. Every adult among them has heard
of Hans Shund the thief, usurer, and companion of harlots. And
I assure you that not a voter, not a progressive member of our
community, thinks himself doing what is at all reprehensible by
conferring dignity and trust on Hans Shund. You have no idea how
comprehensive is the soul of liberalism.”

“Let us quit a subject that appears to me impossible, nay, even
unnatural,” said Gerlach.

“No, no; for this very reason you need to be convinced,” insisted
the banker with earnestness. “My prospective--but hold--I was
almost guilty of a want of delicacy. No matter, my _actual_ friend,
landholder and millionaire, must be made see with his eyes and
touch with his fingers what marvels _progress_ can effect. Let us
make a bet: Eighteen days from now Hans Shund will be mayor and
member for this city. I shall stake ten thousand florins. You may
put in the pair of bays that won the best prizes at the last races.”

Seraphin hesitated.

“Come on!” urged the banker. “Since you refuse to believe my
assertions, let us make a bet. May be you consider my stakes too
small against yours? Very well, I will say twenty thousand florins.”

“You will be the loser, Greifmann! Your statements are too
unreasonable.”

“Never mind; if I lose, you will be the winner. Do you take me up?”

“Pshaw, Carl! you are too sure,” said Louise reproachfully.

“My feeling so sure is what makes me eager to win the finest pair
of horses I ever saw. Is it possible that you are a coward?”

The landholder’s face reddened. He put his right hand in the
banker’s. “My dear fellow,” exclaimed he jubilantly, “I have just
driven a splendid bargain. To convince you of the entire fairness
of the transaction, you are to be present at the manipulation
that is to decide. Even though you lose the horses, your gain is
incalculable, for it consists in nothing less than being convinced
of the wonderful nature and of the omnipotence of progress. I
repeat, then, that, wherever progress reigns, the elections are the
supreme folly of the nineteenth century; for in reality there is no
electing; but what progress decrees, that is fulfilled.”


CHAPTER II.

THE LEADERS.

The banker was seated at his office table working for his chance
in the wager with the industry of a thorough business man. Whilst
he was engaged in writing notes, a smile indicative of certainty
of success lit up his countenance; for he was thoroughly familiar
with the figures that entered into his calculations, and, withal,
Hans Shund invested with offices and dignity could not but strike
him as a comical anomaly. “Happy thought! My father travels half
of the globe; many wonderful things come under his observation,
no doubt, but the greatest of all prodigies is to be witnessed
right here: Hans Shund, the thief, swindler, usurer, wanton--mayor
and law-maker! And it is the venerable sire _Progress_ that alone
could have begotten the prodigy of a Hans Shund invested with
honors. My Lord Progress is therefore himself a prodigy--a very
extraordinary offspring of the human mind, the culminating point
of enlightenment. Admitting humanity to be ten thousand million
years old, or even more, as the most learned of scientific men have
accurately calculated it, during this rather long series of years
nature never produced a marvel that might presume to claim rank
with progress. Progress is the acme of human culture--about this
there can be no question. Yes, indeed, _the acme_.” And he finished
the last word in the last note. “Humanity will therefore have to
face about and begin again at the beginning; for after progress
nothing else is possible.” He rang his bell.

“Take these three notes to their respective addresses immediately,”
said he to the servant who had answered the ring. Greifmann
stepped into the front office, and gave an order to the cashier.
Returning to his own cabinet, he locked the door that opened into
the front office. He then examined several iron safes, the modest
and smooth polish of which suggested neither the hardness of their
iron nature nor the splendor of their treasures.

“Gold or paper?” said the banker to himself. After some indecision,
he opened the second of the safes. This he effected by touching
several concealed springs, using various keys, and finally shoving
back a huge bolt by means of a very small blade. He drew out twenty
packages of paper, and laid them in two rows on the table. He undid
the tape encircling the packages, and then it appeared that every
leaf of both rows was a five-hundred florin banknote. The banker
had exposed a considerable sum on the table. A sudden thought
caused him to smile, and he shoved the banknotes where they came
more prominently into view.

The blooming double millionaire entered.

“Sit down a moment, friend Seraphin, and listen to a short account
of my scheme. I have said before that our city is prospering and
growing under the benign sceptre of progress. The powers and honors
of the sceptre are portioned among three leaders. Everything is
directed and conducted by them--of course, in harmony with the
spirit of the times. I have summoned the aforesaid magnates to
appear. That the business may be despatched with a comfortable
degree of expedition, the time when the visit is expected has
been designated in each note; and those gentlemen are punctual in
all matters connected with money and the bank. You can enter this
little apartment next to us, and by leaving the door open hear the
conversation. The mightiest of the corypheuses is Schwefel, the
straw-hat manufacturer. This potentate resides at a three-minutes
walk from here, and can put in an appearance at any time.”

“I am on tiptoe!” said Gerlach. “You promise what is so utterly
incredible, that the things you are preparing to reveal appear to
me like adventures belonging to another world.”

“To another world!--quite right, my dear fellow! I am indeed about
to display to your astounded eyes some wonders of the world of
progress that hitherto have been entirely unknown to you. Within
eighteen days you shall, under my tutorship, receive useful and
thorough instruction. This promise I can make you, as we are
just in face of the elections, a time when minds put aside their
disguises, when they not unfrequently shock one another, and when
many secrets come to light!”

“You put me under many obligations!”

“Only doing my duty, my most esteemed! We are both aware that,
according to the wishes of parents and the desired inclinations
of parties known, our respective millions are to approach each
other in closer relationship. To do a relative of mine _in spe_ a
favor, gives me unspeakable satisfaction. I shall proceed with my
course of instruction. See here! Every one of these twenty packages
contains twenty five-hundred florin banknotes. Consequently, both
rows contain just two hundred thousand florins--an imposing sum
assuredly, and, for the purpose of being imposing, the two hundred
thousand have been laid upon this table. Explanation: the mightiest
of the spirits of progress is--Money.

“All forces, all sympathies, revolve about money as the heavenly
bodies revolve about the sun. For this reason the mere proximity
of a considerable sum of money acts upon every man of progress
like a current of electricity: it carries him away, it intoxicates
his senses. The leaders whom I have invited will at once notice
the collection of five-hundred florin notes: in the rapidity
of calculating, they will overestimate the amount, and obtain
impressions in proportion, somewhat like the Jews that prostrated
themselves in the dust in adoration of the golden calf. As for me,
my dear fellow, I shall carry on my operations in the auspicious
presence of this power of two hundred thousands. Such a display
of power will produce in the leaders a frame of mind made up of
veneration, worship, and unconditional submissiveness. Every word
of mine will proceed authoritatively from the golden mouth of the
two hundred thousands, and my proposals it will be impossible for
them to reject. But listen! The door of the ante-room is being
opened. The mightiest is approaching. Go in quick.” He pressed the
spring of a concealed door, and Seraphin disappeared.

When the straw-hat manufacturer entered, the banker was sitting
before the banknotes apparently absorbed in intricate calculations.

“Ah Mr. Schwefel! pardon the liberty I have taken of sending for
you. The pressure of business,” motioning significantly towards the
banknotes, “has made it impossible for me to call upon you.”

“No trouble, Mr. Greifmann, no trouble whatever!” rejoined the
manufacturer with profound bows.

“Have the goodness to take a seat!” And he drew an arm-chair quite
near to where the money lay displayed. Schwefel perceived they were
five-hundreds, estimated the amount of the pile in a few rapid
glances, and felt secret shudderings of awe passing through his
person.

“The cause of my asking you in is a business matter of some
magnitude,” began the banker. “There is a house in Vienna with
which we stand in friendly relations, and which has very extensive
connections in Hungary. The gentlemen of this house have contracts
for furnishing large orders of straw hats destined mostly for
Hungary, and they wish to know whether they can obtain favorable
terms of purchase at the manufactories of this country. It is a
business matter involving a great deal of money. Their confidence
in the friendly interest of our firm, and in our thorough
acquaintance with local circumstances, has encouraged them to apply
to us for an accurate report upon this subject. They intimate,
moreover, that they desire to enter into negotiations with none but
solid establishments, and for this reason are supposed to be guided
by our judgment. As you are aware, this country has a goodly number
of straw-hat manufactories. I would feel inclined, however, as far
as it may be in my power, to give your establishment the advantage
of our recommendation, and would therefore like to get from you a
written list of fixed prices of all the various sorts.”

“I am, indeed, under many obligations to you, Mr. Greifmann,
for your kind consideration,” said the manufacturer, nodding
repeatedly. “Your own experience can testify to the durability of
my work, and I shall give the most favorable rates possible.”

“No doubt,” rejoined the banker with haughty reserve. “You must
not forget that the straw-hat business is out of our line. It is
incumbent on us, however, to oblige a friendly house. I shall
therefore make a similar proposal to two other large manufactories,
and, after consulting with men of experience in this branch,
shall give the house in Vienna the advice we consider most to its
interest, that is, shall recommend the establishment most worthy of
recommendation.”

Mr. Schwefel’s excited countenance became somewhat lengthy.

“You should not fail of an acceptable acknowledgment from me, were
you to do me the favor of recommending my goods,” explained the
manufacturer.

The banker’s coldness was not in the slightest degree altered by
the implied bribe. He appeared not even to have noticed it. “It
is also my desire to be able to recommend you,” said he curtly,
carelessly taking up a package of the banknotes and playing with
ten thousand florins as if they were so many valueless scraps of
paper. “Well, we are on the eve of the election,” remarked he
ingenuously. “Have you fixed upon a magistrate and mayor?”

“All in order, thank you, Mr. Greifmann!”

“And are you quite sure of the order?”

“Yes; for we are well organized, Mr. Greifmann. If it interests
you, I will consider it as an honor to be allowed to send you a
list of the candidates.”

“I hope you have not passed over ex-treasurer Shund?”

This question took Mr. Schwefel by surprise, and a peculiar smile
played on his features.

“The world is and ever will be ungrateful,” continued the banker,
as though he did not notice the astonishment of the manufacturer.
“I could hardly think of an abler and more sterling character for
the office of mayor of the city than Mr. Shund. Our corporation
is considerably in debt. Mr. Shund is known to be an accurate
financier, and an economical householder. We just now need for
the administration of our city household a mayor that understands
reckoning closely, and that will curtail unnecessary expenses, so
as to do away with the yearly increasing deficit in the budget.
Moreover, Mr. Shund is a noble character; for he is always ready to
aid those who are in want of money--on interest, of course. Then,
again, he knows law, and we very much want a lawyer at the head of
our city government. In short, the interests of this corporation
require that Mr. Shund be chosen chief magistrate. It is a
subject of wonder to me that progress, usually so clear-sighted,
has heretofore passed Mr. Shund by, despite his numerous
qualifications. Abilities should be called into requisition for
the public weal. To be candid, Mr. Schwefel, nothing disgusts me
so much as the slighting of great ability,” concluded the banker
contemptuously.

“Are you acquainted with Shund’s past career?” asked the leader
diffidently.

“Why, yes! Mr. Shund once put his hand in the wrong drawer, but
that was a long time ago. Whosoever amongst you is innocent, let
him cast the first stone at him. Besides, Shund has made good his
fault by restoring what he filched. He has even atoned for the
momentary weakness by five years of imprisonment.”

“’Tis true; but Shund’s theft and imprisonment are still very fresh
in people’s memory,” said Schwefel. “Shund is notorious, moreover,
as a hard-hearted usurer. He has gotten rich through shrewd money
speculations, but he has also brought several families to utter
ruin. The indignation of the whole city is excited against the
usurer; and, finally, Shund indulges a certain filthy passion with
such effrontery and barefacedness that every respectable female
cannot but blush at being near him. These characteristics were
unknown to you, Mr. Greifmann; for you too will not hesitate an
instant to admit that a man of such low practices must never fill a
public office.”

“I do not understand you, and I am surprised!” said the
millionaire. “You call Shund a usurer, and you say that the
indignation of the whole town is upon him. Might I request from you
the definition of a usurer?”

“They are commonly called usurers who put out money at exorbitant,
illegal interest.”

“You forget, my dear Mr. Schwefel, that speculation is no longer
confined to the five per cent. rate. A correct insight into the
circumstances of the times has induced our legislature to leave the
rate of interest altogether free. Consequently, a usurer has gotten
to be an impossibility. Were Shund to ask fifty per cent. and more,
he would be entitled to it.”

“That is so; for the moment I had overlooked the existence of
the law,” said the manufacturer, somewhat humiliated. “Yet I
have not told you all concerning the usurer. Beasts of prey and
vampires inspire an involuntary disgust or fear. Nobody could find
pleasure in meeting a hungry wolf, or in having his blood sucked
by a vampire. The usurer is both vampire and wolf. He hankers to
suck the very marrow from the bones of those who in financial
straits have recourse to him. When an embarrassed person borrows
from him, that person is obliged to mortgage twice the amount that
he actually receives. The usurer is a heartless strangler, an
insatiable glutton. He is perpetually goaded on by covetousness
to work the material ruin of others, only so that the ruin of his
neighbor may benefit himself. In short, the usurer is a monster so
frightful, a brute so devoid of conscience, that the very sight of
him excites horror and disgust. Just such a monster is Shund in the
eyes of all who know him--and the whole city knows him. Hence the
man is the object of general aversion.”

“Why, this is still worse, still more astonishing!” rejoined the
millionaire with animation. “I thought our city enlightened. I
should have expected from the intelligence and judgment of our
citizens that they would have deferred neither to the sickly
sentimentalism of a bigoted morality nor to the absurdity of
obsolete dogmas. If your description of the usurer, which might
at least be styled poetico-religious, is an expression of the
prevailing spirit of this city, I shall certainly have to lower my
estimate of its intelligence and culture.”

The leader hastened to correct the misunderstanding.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Greifmann! You may rest assured that we
can boast all the various conquests made by modern advancement.
Religious enthusiasm and foolish credulity are poisonous plants
that superannuated devotees are perhaps still continuing to
cultivate here and there in pots, but which the soil will no
longer produce in the open air. The sort of education prevailing
hereabout is that which has freed itself from hereditary religious
prejudices. Our town is blessed with all the benefits of progress,
with liberty of thought, and freedom from the thraldom of a dark,
designing priesthood.”

“How comes it, then, that a man is an object of contempt for acting
in accordance with the principles of this much lauded progress?”
asked the millionaire, with unexpected sarcasm. “We are indebted to
progress for the abolition of a legal rate of interest. Shund takes
advantage of this conquest, and for doing so citizens who boast of
being progressive look upon him with aversion. A further triumph
secured by progress is freedom from the tyranny of dogmas and the
tortures of a conscience created by a contracted morality. This
beautiful fruit of the tree of enlightened knowledge Shund partakes
of and enjoys; and for this he has the distinction of passing for
a vampire. And because he displays the spirit of an energetic
business man, because his capacity for speculating occasionally
overwhelms blockheads and dunces, he is decried as a ravenous
wolf. It is sad! If your statements are correct, Mr. Schwefel, our
city ought not to boast of being progressive. Its citizens are
still groping in the midnight darkness of religious superstition,
scarcely even united with modern intellectual advancement. And
to me the consciousness is most uncomfortable of breathing an
atmosphere poisoned by the decaying remnants of an age long since
buried.”

“My own personal views accord with yours,” protested Schwefel
candidly. “The subversion of the antiquated, absurd articles of
faith and moral precept necessarily entails the abrogation of the
consequences that flow from them for public life. For centuries the
cross was a symbol of dignity, and the doctrine of the Crucified
resulted in holiness. Paganism, on the contrary, looked upon the
gospel as foolishness, as a hallucination, and upon the cross as a
sign of shame. I belong to the classic ranks, and so do millions
like myself--among them Mr. Shund. Viewed in the light of progress,
Shund is neither a vampire nor a wolf; at the worst, he is merely
an ill-used business man. They who suffer themselves to be
humbugged and fleeced by him have their own stupidity to thank for
it. This exposition will convince you that I stand on a level with
yourself in the matter of advanced enlightenment. Nevertheless,
you overlook, Mr. Greifmann, that, so far as the masses of the
people are concerned, reverence for the cross and the holiness of
its doctrines continue to prevail. The acquisitions of progress
are not yet generally diffused. The mines of modern intellectual
culture are being provisionally worked by a select number of
independent, bold natures. The multitude, on the other hand, still
continue folding about them the winding-sheet of Christianity.
The views, customs, principles, and judgments of men are as yet
widely controlled by Christian elements. Our city does homage to
progress, pretty nearly, however, in the manner of a blind man that
discourses of colors.”

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




A HISTORY OF THE GOTHIC REVIVAL IN ENGLAND.[103]


We purpose giving in this article a sketch, as far as our limited
space will allow, of a costly and beautiful work published in
London under the above title. Many of our readers will perhaps
turn willingly to the history of a movement which is not without
its echo in America, and which the future bids fair to foster
and popularize wherever the Anglo-Saxon tongue and spirit have
sway. A work treating of such very modern and recent events in
the history of art is not easily reducible to salient divisions;
yet, having to be brief, we must necessarily endeavor to be clear,
and we will, therefore, pick out a few prominent ideas, which, we
hope, will be more interesting to the general reader than the mass
of technical detail in which Eastlake’s book naturally (and very
properly) abounds. We have also to promise that we wish only to
state and quote facts, or such anecdotes and professional opinions
as give our history an individual interest, not to drag up the
vexed questions which have made the venerable words “Gothic” and
“mediæval” signs of warfare and contradiction. This is a pure
chronicle of accomplished facts, and addresses itself only to such
as already lean to the æsthetic principles of those “dark ages”
of spiritual light which gave us along with Monasticism the great
conservative power. Feudalism--the progressive power, the check
on royal autocracy, the guardian of Magna Charta, the parent of
constitutional liberty.

Passing by the history and literature of Gothic art since its decay
in the sixteenth to its full revival in the nineteenth century,
we are attracted by the subject of its symbolism, over which such
fierce and sometimes ludicrous battles have been fought; but,
even before the symbolism of the art, its very origin was made a
subject of curious dispute. For instance, the author of this work
says: “In the beginning of this century, various arguments were
rife. The style was Gothic; it was Saracenic; it had been brought
to England by the crusaders; it had been invented by the Moors in
Spain; it might be traced to the pyramids of Egypt. One ingenious
theorist endeavored to reconcile all opinions in his comprehensive
hypothesis that the style of architecture which we call cathedral
or monastic Gothic was manifestly a corruption of the sacred
architecture of the Greeks and Romans, by a mixture of the Moorish
or Saracenesque, which is formed out of a combination of Egyptian,
Persian, and Hindoo!”

Of symbolism, and the intimate union of the religious and artistic
spirit, Eastlake says: “In modern days, we have unconsciously drawn
a distinction between religious art and popular art. In the middle
ages, they were thoroughly blended;” but he goes on to infer from
this blending that, according to the old adage, “Familiarity breeds
contempt,” there was no reverential and spiritual idea whatever
embodied in the work of the mediæval carvers and architects. We,
by the light of our faith, the heirloom of the very times we
speak of, believe him to be either unconsciously prejudiced or
mistaken. He seems to scout the idea of the deviation of the line
of the chancel from the line of the nave, an occasional feature
in some old churches (for instance, the Abbey of St. Denys, near
Paris), being a symbol of the inclination of Our Lord’s head upon
the cross. It is but a tradition, a pious belief, it is true; but
why throw doubt upon it? If it really was meant as a symbol, he
asks why was it not so in all churches? And if the triplet window
typified the Trinity, why were two or five light windows used?
Simply because the symbol was optional, yet none the less a symbol.
From the old symbolism of the forgotten artists of past days,
we come to the miscalled “Pre-Raphaelite” naturalism of modern
architects. Ruskin with all his merits, of which we will speak more
fully further on, had an exaggerated tendency to find in carving an
exact copy from nature, and to condemn anything in that line that
did not absolutely reproduce some organic form. Eastlake himself
expresses his own views on the subject in the following words: “In
the gable [of St. Finbar’s, Cork], ... a seated figure of Christ
is to occupy a vesica-shaped panel, with angels censing on each
side. Of these works, executed by Mr. Thomas Nicholls from Mr.
Burges’ design, it is not too much to say that no finer examples of
decorative sculpture have been produced during the Revival. They
exactly represent that intermediate condition between natural form
and abstract idealism which is the essence of mediæval, and indeed
of all noble art.” From this subject we are led to the kindred one
of the contrast between old work and new. Our author repeatedly
returns to this point. Here are some amusing sayings about the
deplorable ‘tameness’ of modern sculpture: “The Roman Catholic
churches erected at this period (1850) had one decided advantage
over those designed for the Establishment, viz., the richness of
their interiors.... A tamely carved reredos, generally arranged
in panels to hold the Ten Commandments (!), a group of sedilia
and a piscina, with perhaps a few empty inches in the clerestory,
were, as a rule, all the internal features which distinguished an
Anglican church from a meeting-house.” So that wherever art is
concerned, an unconscious tribute is naturally offered to the
church! Again and again, our author vigorously denounces the dead
imitation of living and forcible models, which is in the spirit
of a “Chinese engraver who should undertake to imitate, line for
line and spot for spot, a damaged print.” “Every one,” he says,
“who has studied the principles of mediæval art, knows how much
its character and _vitality_ depend upon the essential element
of decorative sculpture, of the spirit of what Ruskin has called
‘noble grotesque,’ in its nervous types of animal life and vigorous
conventionalism of vegetable form.... To copy line for line, even
when sound and fresh from the chisel, and yet preserve the spirit
of the original, would have been difficult in the best ages of art.
The mediæval sculptors never--to use an artistic phrase--repeated
themselves. If the conditions of their work required a certain
degree of uniformity in design, they took care to aim at the
spirit, but not the letter, of symmetry.... They took the birds of
the air and the flowers of the field for their study, but seemed
to know instinctively the true secret of all decorative art, which
lies in the suggestion and symbolism, rather than the presumptuous
illustration of natural form.” “Since,” continues Eastlake, “we
cannot ‘restore’ the thoughts and stamp of the artists of old, we
should the more sedulously watch what we have left of such traces,
and prop up and secure that which a little common care might
long preserve to us.” Of an unfortunate modern carver, he says:
“Impartial critics who compare the mediæval carving with its modern
substitute will probably consider the neat finish and anatomical
correctness of Westmacott’s groups a poor exchange for the earnest
and vigorous, though somewhat rude, treatment of the old design.
King George’s loyal subjects thought they knew better than those of
King Edward; ... their work was not clever; it was not interesting;
it was not lifelike; it was not humorous; it was not even ugly
after a good honest fashion--it was deplorably and hopelessly
_mean_.... All these accidents combine not only to deprive the
building of scale, but to give it a cold and _machine-made_ look.
In a far different spirit the mediæval designers worked.... Fifty
years ago, ... there was naturalistic carving and there was
ornamental carving, but the noble _abstractive_ treatment which
should find a middle place between them, and which was one of the
glories of ancient art, had still to be revived.” In whimsical
pursuance of his subject, he says elsewhere that before Pugin’s
days “an architect would no more have thought of introducing a
porch on the south aisle which had not its counterpart on the
north, than he would have dared to wear a coat of which the right
sleeve was longer than the left.” Ruskin, too, seems to have
thought a _coat_ a very effective instrument of illustration: here
is his version of the likeness between the tailor’s and the modern
architect’s occupations. “A day never passes,” he says in his
_Seven Lamps of Architecture_, “without our hearing our English
architects called upon to be original, and to invent a new style;
about as sensible and necessary an exhortation as to ask of a man
who has never had rags enough on his back to keep out the cold
to invent a new mode of cutting a coat. Give him a whole coat
first, and let him concern himself about the fashion afterwards.
We want no new style of architecture. Who wants a new style of
painting or of sculpture? But we want _some_ style.” To return to
Eastlake’s strongly accentuated views of mediæval carving: he has
summed them up in one sentence, as terse and vigorous as the old
sculptural handiwork itself. “During the Revival,” he says, “it
took a decade of years to teach workmen to carve carefully. It
took another to get them to carve simply. We may expect more than
a third to elapse before they have learnt to carve nobly.” With
one more quotation which is too humorous to miss, we will close
this part of the history of the Revival: “There is no want of
manipulative skill or of imitative ability, but from some cause or
another there is a great want of spirit in the present carver’s
work. The mediæval sculptor, with half the care and less than half
the finish now bestowed on such details, managed to throw life and
vigor into the capitals and panel subjects that grew beneath his
chisel. The ‘angel choir’ at Lincoln is rudely executed compared
with many a modern bas-relief, but the features of the winged
minstrels are radiant with celestial happiness. There are figures
of kings crumbling into dust in the niches of Exeter Cathedral
which retain even now a dignity of attitude and lordly grace which
no ‘restoration’ is likely to revive. Our nineteenth century angels
look like _demure Bible-readers, somewhat too conscious of their
piety to be interesting_. Our nineteenth century monarchs seem (in
stone, at least) _very well-to-do pleasant gentlemen_, but are
scarcely of a heroic type. The roses and lilies, the maple foliage
and forked spleenwort, with which we crown our pillars or deck
our cornices, are cut with wonderful precision and neatness, but
somehow they miss the charm of old-world handicraft.... The truth
is, that in the apparent imperfections of some arts lies the real
secret of their excellence. For instance, the superior _quality_ of
color which long distinguished old (stained) glass from new was due
in a great measure to its streakiness and irregularity of tint.”
We would here submit to the talented and enthusiastic author that
the _spirit_ of ancient art, the loss of which he so vehemently
deplores, is intimately connected with that Catholic symbolism he
so cavalierly dismisses. The Reformation took away the reality
of faith from the souls of modern Christians; it could not but
weaken likewise the realization of faith which for so many ages had
inspired the hands of Christian artists. A noble orator, who is
as much an artist in soul as he is a priest in fact, and in whom
Ireland and Irish America claim equal pride, said from the pulpit
very recently, and in a church of New York, that animal painting,
the lowest of the products of brush or pencil, was hardly known in
its present development before the famous Reformation. The first
painter who took to this earthy style was a German Lutheran in
Naples, an emissary of the growing intellectual “disfranchisement”
of the sixteenth century; and his fellow-artists, who hitherto had
never looked lower than heaven itself for their models, would not
speak to him, nor recognize him as one of themselves, saying in a
tone of contempt, “There goes the man who paints cows and horses!”
As the old spirit died away, the forms of art grew downwards
more and more till we were reduced to roots and herbs, onions
and cabbages, and foaming tankards of beer, and were expected to
find for these some words of praise on account of their fidelity
(shall we not rather say _servility_?) to nature. Even now, the
correct texture and pattern of a bed-quilt or a woman’s dress is
a thing strained after by modern painters of supposed merit. In
the face of this three hundred years old debasement of art, who
could expect to revive the spirit of mediæval carving without first
reviving that of mediæval faith? And here we are naturally led to
speak of Pugin, the great apostle of the Gothic Revival, the most
mediæval-spirited of all its known leaders; the man whose art, in
fact, was the instrument of his conversion. Although Eastlake tends
towards depreciating the part and influence of our religion in this
artistic crisis, and although, as he most truly and fairly says,
our ceremonial, like our faith, can associate itself indifferently
to any style, and therefore is sovereignly independent of any, yet
it remains no less true that the Catholic Church is so exclusively
the real patroness of art that no artist-soul can fail to be
attracted and won by her. Overbeck, the great German painter, who
established in Rome a school that revives and rivals the glories of
Perugino, Giotto, Mantegna, and Fra Angelico, was an artist before
he became a Catholic, but he found himself unable to teach his
art-ideal without the spirit which of old had created that ideal.
So it was with Pugin.

France and England have an equal claim to the honor of being the
mother of the noblest, most earnest, truest artist, who has shared
the vicissitudes and anxieties of our modern (and more beneficial)
Renaissance. His father was a French refugee, an architect of
great merit, who had been associated in the early part of this
century with Nash, the reigning architect of that time. Pugin’s
youth seems to have been very adventurous; at all events, it shows
the irrepressible energy of his nature. He was an enthusiast of
the noblest type; his life was influenced by the purest motives.
So, with all his genius and, as far as the educated public was
concerned, his popularity, he was not overburdened with this
world’s goods. His work on _Contrasts_ (of which we have had the
privilege of seeing some of the original illustrations in etching)
is thus noticed by Eastlake:

  “In 1836, Pugin published his celebrated _Contrasts_--a pungent
  satire on modern architecture as compared with that of the middle
  ages. The illustrations by himself afford evidence not only
  of great artistic power, but of a keen sense of humor. To the
  circulation of this work, we may attribute the care and jealousy
  with which our ancient churches and cathedrals have since been
  protected and kept in repair. In estimating the effect which
  Pugin’s efforts, both as an artist and as an author, produced
  on the Gothic Revival, the only danger lies in the possibility
  of overrating their worth. The man whose name was for at least
  a quarter of a century a household word in every house where
  ancient art was loved and appreciated--who fanned into a flame
  the smouldering fire of ecclesiastical sentiment--whose very
  faith was pledged to mediæval tradition--such a writer and such
  an architect will not easily be forgotten so long as the æsthetic
  principles which he advocated are recognized and maintained....
  Notwithstanding the size and importance of some of his buildings,
  it must be confessed that in his house and the church at Ramsgate
  one recognizes more thorough and genuine examples of Pugin’s
  genius ... than elsewhere.”

The list of his works is really so extensive that we must confine
ourselves by preference to one or two whose beauties we have had
personal opportunities of admiring.

Of these, happily, that of Ramsgate is one. “The whole church,”
says our author, “is lined with stone of a warm color, the
woodwork of the screens, stalls, etc., being of dark oak. The
general _tone_ of the interior, lighted as it is by stained glass,
is most agreeable, and wonderfully suggestive of old work....
The church of St. Augustine may be regarded as one of Pugin’s
most successful achievements. Its plan is singularly ingenious
and unconventional in arrangement. The exterior is simple but
picturesque in outline. No student of old English architecture
can examine this interesting little church without perceiving
the thoughtful, earnest care with which it has been designed and
executed down to the minutest detail.”

Omitting the technical description, which would be unintelligible
to the non-professional reader, we will merely remark upon one
or two interesting circumstances which combine to make St.
Augustine’s Priory doubly dear to the Catholic and artist heart.
The founder lies buried in one of its side chapels, beneath a
lovely mediæval tomb, his figure carved in the monumental repose
which characterizes the shrines of former days. And truly before
these calm effigies of death, which modern taste calls _stiff_,
and for which it has substituted the nude and affected statues of
weeping nymphs and cupids, no Christian can fail to be reminded of
the solemnly triumphant question, “O grave, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?” The church that Pugin loved is now
served by the old monastic order, whose history is identified
in England with most of the wonderful productions of the art
he followed--the Benedictines. The plain chant, so intimately
associated with that ancient art, is alone used at all the services
of the church; and near the Pugin Chantry is an image of Our Lady,
before which, on an iron stand of exquisite design, are constantly
burned the tapers of the faithful. Were it not for the modern
dress of the worshippers, nothing in the church would indicate
the change between the fourteenth and the nineteenth century.
Close to it stands the architect’s own house, a gem of domestic
Gothic architecture, now occupied by Pugin’s widow and son, himself
an enthusiastic artist. It is impossible to describe the house,
save by a comprehensive expression. It has a _sympathetic_ and
_Catholic_ air: one is reminded of the days when artists loved
their faith and their art in themselves, without after-thoughts
and without interest; when they saw God in their work instead
of a patron or a human encourager; when they would no more sell
their principles and compromise their æsthetic beliefs, than they
would sell their soul to the Evil One. We have had the pleasure
of experiencing familiar intercourse with this truly Christian
household, and of partaking of its graceful hospitality. We have
seen the very dining-room etherealized into a fane of art, as
the table appeared laden with silver flagons of antique design,
and decked in the centre with the virginal blossoms of lily and
jessamine. This purity of taste and absence of vulgar redundancy
or vanity in ornament produced upon us a most indelible and quaint
impression. If it be true that the surroundings of home refine
the mind and open it to the most perfect sense of the beautiful,
these neighbors of St. Augustine’s Priory should consider
themselves among the most favored in this age of almost hopeless
utilitarianism.

St. George’s Catholic Cathedral at Southwark, London, is also one
of Pugin’s great works. The ceremonies of the church are performed
with more precision in this cathedral than in almost any modern
one in England, and the building wonderfully lends itself to their
performance. During Holy Week, all the Protestant world of art and
fashion crowd its aisles, and admire equally its architectural
solemnity and suggestiveness, and the impressive ritual to which
it forms so noble a frame. The Church of St. Michael’s Priory,
near Hereford, also a Benedictine foundation, is most beautiful
and most “Puginesque” (to quote the appropriate word-coin of our
author, Eastlake). The simplicity of its nave and aisles contrasts
well with the richness of its choir; the stone reredos, a true
“carven dream of angels,” represents the adoration of the Divine
Host by the winged inhabitants of heaven; the altar is rich with
marble columns and small sculptured capitals of most ingenious
workmanship; the stalls rival those in the old Flemish churches
(and Flanders was the birthland of perfect carving); and the
peculiar arrangement which leaves a free space between choir and
nave, separated from each by a vaulted arch, has a very happy
effect. There are fully thirty monks in the monastery, and the
plain chant is heard in all its glory at the prescribed hours of
the divine office.

We have lingered too long over these reminiscences, and will now
hasten on to the few other points of interest, which our limited
space has allowed us to make note of, in Mr. Eastlake’s book.

A few quotations that carry one from the consideration of the dry,
technical aspect of the Revival to that of its spirit and vitality
will not be unacceptable, we believe, to the general reader. Here
are two contrasting portraits of modern and mediæval life: “Seen
in their present state, some half-modernized, some damaged by time
and wilful neglect, others spoilt by injudicious restoration, many
of these ancient mansions are but dimly suggestive of their former
magnificence. It was Nash’s aim to represent them as they were in
the days when country life was enjoyed by their owners, not for a
brief interval in the year, but all the year round; in days when
there were feasting in the hall and tilting in the court-yard;
when the yule-log cracked on the hearth, and mummers beguiled the
dulness of a winter’s evening; when the bowling-green was filled
by lusty youths, and gentle dames sat spinning in their boudoirs;
when the deep window recesses were filled with family groups, and
gallant cavaliers rode a-hawking; when, in short, all the adjuncts
and incidents of social life, dress, pastimes, manners, and whatnot
formed part of a picturesque whole, of which we, in these prosaic
and lack-lustre days, except by the artist’s aid, can form no
conception.” On the other hand, here is what the shocked vision
of a modern artist has suggested to the author of the _Gothic
Revival_:

“Mr. Ruskin looked around him at the modern architecture of England
... and saw public buildings copied from those of a nobler age,
but starved and vulgarized in the copying. He saw private houses,
some modelled on what was supposed to be an Italian pattern, and
others modelled on what was supposed to be a mediæval pattern,
and he found too often neither grandeur in the one nor grace in
the other. He saw palaces which looked mean, and cottages which
looked tawdry. He saw masonry without interest, ornament without
beauty, and sculpture without life. He walked through the streets
of London, and found that they consisted for the most part of
flaunting shop-fronts, stuccoed porticoes, and plaster cornices. It
is true there were fine clubs and theatres and public institutions
scattered here and there; but, after making due allowance for their
size, for the beauty of materials used, and for the neatness (!) of
the workmanship, how far could they be considered as genuine works
of art?”

And here let us stop to point out how it has been invariably the
aim of the Revival to banish the false and the meretricious from
art; how it has waged relentless war against shams, against the
aping in perishable clay of that which the ancients, Greek as well
as mediæval, always carved in indestructible stone or marble.
Unfortunately, the only residue of mediævalism that has as yet
filtered its way down to the masses of the population is strongly
tinged with a taste for showiness at the expense of intrinsic
worth, and the flimsiness of “Gothic” sea-side lodges and Cockney
villas has become a by-word. Eastlake deplores the rigid adoption
in such hybrid edifices of the bands of colored brick (chiefly
red and yellow), which should be used with great discretion, but
which obtained a too quick popularity when Ruskin first pointed out
their prominent part in Italian decorative Gothic. In a foot-note,
he says: “In the suburbs this mode of decoration rose rapidly
into favor for Cockney villas and _public taverns_, and laid the
foundation of that peculiar order of Victorian architecture which
has since been distinguished by the familiar but not altogether
inappropriate name of the Streaky Bacon Style.”

With how many such buildings are we unhappily acquainted! In this
city, we have seen counterparts to the villas here mentioned--nay,
churches and public halls, with iron-work that calls itself Gothic,
and does not know that it is but modern “Franco-Assyrian!” But let
us not do injustice to the more enlightened disciples of Pugin and
of Ruskin, who are covering this new land with buildings which, if
they last two or three hundred years, will rival those of the lands
from whose cathedrals they were copied. A sister to the marble
cathedral of Milan will soon be finished for the Catholics of New
York, not so elaborate, perhaps, but purer in style and spirit.
Others are eagerly competing in this new race of art, and the city
of the Dutch emigrants will one day hold fanes that will remind
their children of Flanders and of Holland.

Although the Catholic Church can afford to dispense with outward
ceremonial, or adapt herself to a different arrangement of church
architecture, and yet remain, in custom, in doctrine, essentially
immutable, such is not the privilege of the dominant church in
England. Therefore it will not be surprising to any one to know
how much the revived taste for art contributed some time ago to
the revived sense of decorum in the services of the Episcopalian
denomination. Eastlake gives us a graphic description of spiritual
desolation in the ante-Gothic days in the country parishes of
England:

  “In country districts, a bad road or a rainy day sufficed to
  keep half the congregation away even from Sunday services. Of
  those who attended, two-thirds left the responses to the parish
  clerk.... Cracked fiddles and grunting violoncellos frequently
  supplied the place of the church organ. The village choir--of
  male and female performers--assembled in the western _gallery_
  (!). When they began to sing, the whole congregation faced
  about to look at them; but to turn towards the east during the
  recitation of the creed, or to rise when the clergy entered
  the church, would have been considered an instance of abject
  superstition. No one thought of kneeling during the longer
  prayers. Sometimes the Litany was interrupted by thwacks from
  the beadle’s cane as it descended on the shoulders of parish
  schoolboys, who devoted themselves to clandestine amusement
  during that portion of the service. When the sermon began, all,
  except the very devout, settled themselves comfortably to sleep.
  The parson preached in a black gown, and not unfrequently read
  the communion service from his pulpit.”

We have seen in a country church in Rutland--one of the midland
counties of England--some lingering tokens of this curious state
of things. Most of the other churches of that neighborhood have
been magnificently restored, and very much Catholicized, at least
in externals. This exception to the rule is in a small parish, and
is noticeable for a very curious ancient monument, half sunk in
the earth, and covered by a recess of the church wall itself. It
is supposed to be that of the founder, who chose this position as
typical of his having been a _support_ to the building: at least
this was the suggestion of a friend of ours, an architect of the
type of Pugin--a Christian artist in the true sense of the word.
The interior of the church was a sad contrast to its beautiful
outward proportions: high whitewashed pews filled it, hiding the
base of the columns, thrusting their wooden cornices into and
over the _piscinæ_, and covering from view the old brasses and
monumental slabs on the stone floor. A row of hat-pegs (will it be
believed?) ran round the whole church at a convenient height, and
rare must have been the decoration appended to them on a Sunday.
The “altar plate”--pewter pots hardly a stage better, and certainly
a degree duller, than those highly-polished vessels which were no
doubt in more constant use in the neighboring tavern--was kept in a
worm-eaten old oak chest at the bottom of the church. The communion
table _was_ a table; and indeed Cromwell himself might have walked
in and felt satisfied that there lurked no “Popery” there. By the
bye, why does ignorance always call beautiful art “Popery”? Is it
not through some higher and unconscious knowledge which forces
itself into expression, like the sibyl’s prophecies, upon reluctant
and unbelieving lips?

Eastlake speaks of Westminster Abbey as liable to many of the
abuses which he deplores in country churches. “Westminster,” he
says, “was not then (1826) as now guarded by circumspect vergers,
who are stimulated to additional vigilance by the sixpences of
the faithful. There was scarce a monument in the place which had
not suffered from ruthless violence, for at that time or not long
before, the choristers made a playground of the venerable abbey,
and the Westminster scholars played at hockey in the cloisters.”

It is time to mention a few of the architects of the more modern
phase of the Revival, and of some of their works, those especially
which find a place among the fine engravings of Eastlake’s valuable
book. Butterfield is selected as one of the foremost, and as the
only leader after Pugin whose influence is yet appreciably felt. He
is thus eulogized by our author. “It is especially characteristic
of Mr. Butterfield’s design that he aims at originality, not only
in form, but in the relative proportion of parts.... This indeed
is the secret of the striking and picturesque character which
distinguishes his works from others which are less daring in
conception and therefore less liable to mistakes. Mr. Butterfield
has been the leader of a school, and it is necessary for a leader
to be bold.” Of the church of All Saints, in London, built by the
same architect, Eastlake says: “The truth is that the design
was a bold and magnificent endeavor to shake off the trammels of
antiquarian precedent, which had long fettered the progress of the
Revival, to create not a new style, but a development of previous
styles; to carry the enrichment of ecclesiastical Gothic to an
extent which even in the middle ages had been rare in England;
to adorn the walls with surface ornament of a durable kind; to
spare, in short, neither skill, nor pains, nor cost in making this
church the model church of its day--such a building as should
take a notable position in the history of modern architecture.”
Further on he says of him that there is “a sober earnestness in his
work widely different from that of some designers, who seem to be
tossed about on the sea of popular taste.... He does not care to
produce showy buildings at a sacrifice of constructive strength.
To a pretty, superficial school of Gothic and fussy carving, he
never condescended.... His work gives one the idea of a man who
has designed it not so much to please his clients as to please
himself. In estimating the value of his skill, posterity may find
something to smile at as eccentric and much that will astonish as
daring, but they will find nothing to despise as commonplace or
mean.” Several engravings are given of details of his work on the
church of St. Alban’s (a high ritualistic stronghold in London)
and at All Saints’ and Balliol Chapel (Oxford). Of Carpenter, an
architect who died in his prime, we find the following flattering
notice: “No practitioner of his day (1840-50) understood so
thoroughly the _grammar_ of his art.... As a pupil he appears to
have given remarkable attention to the character and application
of mouldings.... A knowledge of the laws of proportion, of the
conditions of light and shade, and the effective employment of
decorative features are arrived at by most architects gradually
and after a series of tentative experiments. Carpenter seems to
have acquired this knowledge very early in his career, so that
even his first works possess an artistic quality far in advance of
their state, while those he executed in later years are regarded
even now with admiration by all who have endeavored to maintain
the integrity of our old national styles.” Mr. Beresford Hope was
a true and enthusiastic patron of Carpenter’s artistic career. Of
the many works of this talented man, whose life was unfortunately
so short, our author chooses a large college in Sussex as the
one most worthy of an engraving. Its proportions truly denote a
mediæval spirit. Eastlake places Goldie among the later revivalists
of note, and gives a fine engraving of his Abbey of St. Scholastica
at Teignmouth. The building certainly looks massive and extensive
enough for an ancient monastic structure, though the use of the
before-mentioned bands of colored brick seems too profuse for that
chasteness of design which is surely the highest standard of taste.
Goldie is the architect of St. Mary’s Cathedral at Kensington,
London, the Pro-Cathedral of the Archiepiscopal See of Westminster.
Although we have heard many criticisms passed upon this specimen
of his skill, we are by no means capable of giving any opinion,
especially as we have not had the opportunity of seeing it.
Eastlake gives a view of its western doorway, and goes on to say
that the “interior is remarkable for the height of its nave,” a
detail which receives but too little attention in many modern
buildings. “The roof,” he says, “is ceiled, and follows the outline
of a trefoil-headed arch--a form not often adopted, but here
peculiarly effective. There are many incidents in the design of
this church which are very ingenious and original.... Every detail
throughout the work, even to the novel gas-standard, bears evidence
of artistic care.”

We fear that, beyond naming these few artists, the richness of
our remaining material will not allow us to go deeper into their
merits. Yet there are many others, as well or less known, whose
conscientious, enthusiastic carrying out of their beautiful
principles lends powerful aid to their theory. Hanson and Hadfield,
among Catholic architects, and Street and Scott among Anglicans,
are well worthy of mention, and since Barry was the ostensible
restorer of the Houses of Parliament, we must of course give him
a place in this short review. But there is one name which from
intimate and pleasant acquaintance we would fain single out, and
which is honorably mentioned by Eastlake as belonging to one who
with several of his Catholic brethren “have done their best, each
in their several ways, to secure honest and substantial work, and
to keep clear of that tawdry, superficial style of design which
brings discredit on the Gothic cause.”

This is Charles Buckler, the son and successor of John Chessel
Buckler, a most finished artist and wonderful draughtsman, who, it
may be said with peculiar significance, has let his mantle fall on
the heir to his name and art. If any one would see in modern days
that oneness of being between faith and art, let him look for it
in the life and works of this gifted architect. The most rigorous
purist could find no fault in a man who takes for his model the
simplicity of the thirteenth century, and in whose manner and
address a corresponding simplicity and sweetness are ever manifest.
A priest by the vocation of art, as his two brothers are by the
vocation of faith and by union with one of the most art-loving
orders in the church, he works more willingly for churches and
other ecclesiastical buildings than for the houses of the great,
and finds his highest gratification in offering to each church
he designs some spontaneous gift of his genius, the carving of
a _piscina_ or the pedestal of a font. His little church of St.
Thomas à Becket, at Exton in the county of Rutland, is a specimen
of his design which we believe he himself would not be unwilling
to call a representative one. It is the only Catholic Church in
the county, and so may claim to interest those who otherwise
might not care to examine it. The foundress, as devoted a lover
and patroness of art as she was a holy and noble-minded Christian
matron, lies buried near the high altar. The church is built in the
traditional cross-shape, and has an absidal end pierced by several
beautiful windows, the stone tracery of which is in the style of
the thirteenth century. The rose-window at the west end is copied
from one in the (now Protestant) cathedral of Lausanne, where the
writer saw the sketch of it made at the foundress’ desire, by
the architect to whom the future building of the church was to
be entrusted. The beautiful and simple porch to the north of the
church, the little belfry where an old bell found among the ruins
of the old manor-house of Exton rings the daily Angelus of restored
Catholic belief, the spacious and massive vault, where a plain
stone altar is erected for Masses for the dead; the side chapel
of St. Ida, the patron saint of the foundress; the Lady chapel,
with its more elaborate yet chastely traceried window; the soft
surroundings of garden, plantation, and terrace, with the view on
the opposite hill of the old church, once Catholic, which three
hundred years of false belief have only surrounded with a more
touching pathos, as of a noble captive chained to a meaner rival’s
car--all this, and the knowledge that within the Tudor mansion
which has replaced the ruined manor dwell the family of the
foundress, and especially the one destined to finish her church and
enshrine her memory therein, makes this personal recollection of
St. Thomas’ fane and its charming architect very hallowed and sweet
to think on. Many pray in this church, of which the stone interior
with its carven and arched tribune, and its broad oak-panelled
western recess, is as lovely as its exterior with its high roof and
broken outline--many pray there to whom this recollection is as
dear and as holy. May those who have prayed with us remember us in
their prayers, both he who has borne the burden of the day and its
heat, and they to whom he has taught the way of taking up the same
cross and bearing it to the same fruitful and happy end!

John Chessel Buckler, the father of our friend, was the second of
the three designers chosen out of the hosts of competitors on the
occasion of the rebuilding of the Houses of Parliament. Eastlake
says of him: “The especial merit of Buckler’s design--second
only to that of Barry _in the opinion of the judges_--was that
it avoided the multiplication of detail.... The plan in general
arrangement was considered picturesque.... Mr. Buckler obtained
credit for the purity of his ornamental details.” He also built
Cossey Hall for Lord Stafford, and his son is now continuing his
work. No wonder that the spirit of mediæval days should have
descended on this favored family, since their dwelling-place for a
long time was the matchless old city of Oxford. There is a magic in
that name that has a creative artistic suggestion in its very sound.

The late controversy as to Pugin’s part in the Houses of Parliament
must be too well known to be revived here. Suffice it to say
that the volume published by Barry’s sons as a vindication of
their father’s genius was of itself conclusive, and proved too
much for his reputation. Hardly a single engraving illustrative
of his unassisted efforts was such as could commend itself to
a purist in Gothic art, while the one part of the Houses of
Parliament which was entirely his own (the unbroken front on the
Thames River), though imposing at first sight, was the weakest
point of the work as regards the true principles of art. Still,
as Eastlake observes, it was a great victory for the Revivalists,
and an important fact in the history of the Revival, that such
a characteristically national work should have been confided to
Gothic architects. It gave the cause both weight and popularity,
and threw more in the way of the masses what before had been too
much of a luxury and fancy of privileged intellectual orders. And
yet, before the old style could be really popularized, it was
necessary that the taste for it should be carefully educated by
the firm hand of uncompromising art. Eastlake descants thus on
the liberty left in the architect’s hands: “He may make an art of
his calling, or he may make it a mere business; and in proportion
as he inclines to one or the other of these two extremes, he will
generally achieve present profit or posthumous renown.” Further
on he stigmatizes one of the earlier Gothic Revivalists in these
terms: “In instances where he ought to have led, or at least to
have tempered and corrected the vitiated taste of his day, he
simply pandered to it.” Let the reader pause to apply this to the
great majority of modern artists, and to deplore the interested
and debased motives which have robbed God of so much glory and the
moral world of so much support. And without travelling into the
region of other arts, we find among the adjuncts of architecture
sufficient proof of degeneracy. Eastlake very justly remarks that
the interior of houses is given up to upholsterers and decorators
who too frequently are allowed to execute their work independently
of the architect’s control. “We enter,” he says, “a Renaissance
palace or a Gothic mansion, and find them respectively fitted
up in the style of the nineteenth century, which is in point of
fact no style at all, but the embodiment of a taste as empirical,
as empty, and as fleeting as that which finds expression in a
milliner’s fashion-book.” And again: “There is perhaps no feature
in the interior of even an ordinary dwelling which is capable of
more artistic treatment than the fire-place of its most frequented
sitting-room, and yet how long it was neglected! The Englishman’s
sacred ‘hearth,’ the Scotchman’s ‘ain fireside,’ the grandsire’s
‘chimney-corner,’ have become mere verbal expressions, of which
it is difficult to recall the original significance as we stand
before those cold, formal slabs of gray or white marble enclosing
the sprucely polished but utterly heartless grate of a modern
drawing-room.”

Of course, like all arts, especially those of a more directly
spiritual tendency, architecture has suffered from caricatures,
sometimes hostile, sometimes blunderingly friendly. The ancient
Gregorian chant and the real “Pre-Raphaelite” school of Christian
painting have likewise suffered in this way. One might quote the
well-known saying, “Defend me from my friends!” Eastlake puts the
same thought into these words: “The barbarous and absurd specimens
of modern architecture which have been erected in this generation
under the general name of Gothic, have done more to damage the
cause of the Revival than all that has been said or written in
disparagement of the style.”

Of the many buildings of merit hidden away in poor and remote
localities, Eastlake makes cheering mention. He says:

  “There are, perhaps, few professions, and certainly none within
  the realm of art, exposed to such unequal chances of that
  notoriety which should attend success, as the profession of
  architecture.... One man’s practice may take him for years of
  his life into remote rural parishes where, except by the squire
  or parson, his work may long remain unappreciated.... There are
  districts in London in which, if a new building is raised, it
  stands no more chance of being visited by people of taste than
  if it had been erected in Kamschatka. Yet those outlying regions
  ... contain some of the most remarkable and largest churches
  which have been built during the Revival.... It was required to
  make those structures the headquarters of mission-work in poor
  and populous localities. Mr. James Brooks had no easy task before
  him; there was but little money to spend on them, yet they were
  to be of ample size, and, for obvious reasons, dignified and
  impressive in their general effect.... It must be admitted that
  the effect in each case is extremely fine. There is much in the
  character of Mr. Brooks’ work which reminds one of Butterfield.
  An utter absence of conventionality, ... a studied simplicity
  of details, ... a tendency to quaint outlines and unusual
  subdivisions of parts--such are the chief characteristics which
  distinguish the design of both these architects, who manage to
  attain originality without condescending to extravagance, and to
  secure for their works a quiet grace, in which there is less of
  elegance than of dignity.”

A view of the interior of St. Chad’s, in one of the London suburbs,
is given, in which one can trace even a certain richness of altar
decoration allied to the noble proportions of the massive pillars
and tall arches. This church seems to bear a monastic look about
it.

The church of St. Columba, in the same neighborhood, presents many
of the same characteristics, and Eastlake says of it that the
“real excellence of this work consists in grand masses of roof and
wall, planned and proportioned with true artistic ability.” It is
curious--and ridiculously realistic--to see in the engraving given
of this church the contrast of the grand abbey-like pile with the
wooden walls of an enclosed but unoccupied piece of ground, covered
with the obstreperous advertisements of popular London papers, of
Horniman’s “best black tea,” of theatres and bill-posters, and
contemplated by a few shabbily-dressed women, a mason carrying a
hod of mortar, and a very old cart-horse standing with his ungainly
vehicle at the door of the vestry.

These hidden churches have their touching meaning for Christian
minds--a twofold meaning indeed--and one which is often overlooked
in this utilitarian age. There they stand, beautiful and unvisited,
built for the glory of God more than for the admiration of men, and
no less solid, no less symbolical, no less perfect in proportion
and distribution because the silent God is their only visitor. How
much does this all-absorbing reference to the great Master of all
art govern the work of the success-hunting generations of our day?
Again, these beautiful churches stand as representatives of God’s
sacraments, God’s graces, God’s invitations, unheeded by those
to whom they are offered, unfelt even by many who live in their
very shadow, and coldly received at best by those who grudgingly
take advantage of them. Or, again, they are the symbol of the
hidden soul, beauties scattered in seemingly desert places in the
spiritual world, of the hearts that watch with God in the midst of
the turmoil of earth, of hearts whose unbroken hymn of love is
never silent, because of the babel of tongues that, to all but the
ear of God, seems so resolutely to drown it.

There are two more remarks to be made, with which we will close
this sketch, which we have perhaps prolonged beyond the bounds of
the kind reader’s patience. It has been said--we know not with what
technical truth, but certainly with a beautiful suggestiveness of
truth--that one of the great principles in Gothic architecture is
that every curve should be the perfect segment of a circle--that
is, that every curve, if continued, should inevitably describe a
perfect circle. If this be so--and we have always assumed that it
is--is not this meaning deducible from it, that it is the mission
of art to tend to the highest perfection, and the mission of
grace--the heavenly art--to fashion every single insignificant
action in such a mould that it should visibly be but a part in one
grand perfect whole of heroic sanctity?

And the second remark is this:

The Gothic revivalists have been accused of retrogression towards
so-called barbaric forms of art. Exactly the same reproach was
once made to an eminent convert--we believe a German. “My dear
friend,” said an anxious companion to him, “how could you abandon
the religion of your fathers?” “Simply, my dear fellow,” was the
quick and humorous response, “that I might embrace that of my
grandfathers.”

We leave the application to the public, pointing out to them
at the same time that to denounce the civil and ecclesiastical
architecture handed down to them by the founders of civic liberty
in Flanders and Germany, and the founders of Christian morality in
France and England, Spain and Lombardy, would be to lay themselves
open to the reproach of another witty convert, who said to his
father, when the latter was lamenting his son’s change of faith:
“Take care, or you will make out that three hundred years ago our
ancestors were nobodies.” The reply silenced the proud bearer of a
proud--and Catholic--name.

FOOTNOTE:

[103] _A History of the Gothic Revival in England._ By Charles L.
Eastlake, F.R.I.B.A., Architect. London: Longman & Green.




THE LAST DAYS BEFORE THE SIEGE.


PART I.

AWAKENING.

Berthe was holding a council about bonnets with her maid and Mme.
Augustine when I went in. The complexion of the sky, it would seem,
was a grave complication of the question at issue; it was of a
dull leaden color, for, though the heat was intense, the sun was
not shining outright, but sulking under a heavy veil of cloud that
looked as if it might explode in a thunder-storm before the day was
over.

“What a blunderer you are, Antoinette!” exclaimed Berthe
impatiently. “The idea of putting me into pearl-color under a sky
like that! Where are your eyes?”

Antoinette looked out of the window, saw the folly of her conduct,
and proposed a pink bonnet to relieve the unbecoming sky and the
gray costume. The amendment was approved of; so she left the room
to fetch the bonnet.

“She is a good creature, Antoinette; but she is wonderfully
absent-minded,” remarked Berthe.

Mme. Augustine sighed, smiled, and shrugged her shoulders.

“What will you, Madame la Comtesse? Every one is not born an
artist.”

“Every one who is born with eyes in their head can use them if they
have any sense,” said Berthe; and she took up the ivory puff on her
dressing-table, and began very deliberately shaking out delicate
white clouds of _poudre à la violette_ over her forehead and cheeks.

We were going together to a marriage at St. Roch, and we were to be
there at _midi précis_, the _faire-part_ said, so I had to remind
Berthe that, if the business of powdering and puffing proceeded at
this rate, we might save ourselves the trouble of the drive. With
the sudden impulse that carried her so swiftly from one object
to another, she dropped the puff, snatched her pink bonnet from
Antoinette, put it on, fastened it herself, seized her gloves and
prayer-book, and we hurried down-stairs and were off.

On turning into the Faubourg St. Honoré, we found a crowd collected
in front of the _mairie_. Berthe pulled the check-string.

“It’s news from the _frontière_!” she exclaimed eagerly. “If we
were to miss the wedding, we must know what it is!”

She sprang out of the brougham, and I after her. The crowd was so
deep that we could not get near enough to read the placards; but,
judging by the exclamations and commentaries that accompanied the
perusal by the foremost readers, the news was both exciting and
agreeable.

“_Fallait pas nous effrayer, mes petites dames_,” said a _blouse_,
who had seen us alight, and saw by our faces that we were alarmed.
“We’ve beaten one-half of the Prussians to a jelly, and driven the
rest across the Rhine.”

“The _canaille_! I always said they would run like rabbits the
first taste they got of our chassepots,” exclaimed a lad of
fourteen, who halted with arms akimbo and a basket of vegetables on
his head to hear the news.

“And these are the chaps that marched out of Berlin to the cry of
_Nach Paris! nach Paris!_ The beggars! They were glad enough to
clean our streets--aye, and would have cleaned our boots in their
moustachios, and thankful, just to turn a penny that they couldn’t
make at home,” cried the first speaker.

“_Nach Paris_ indeed!” cried the lad with the vegetables. “Let them
come; let them try it!”

“Let them!” echoed several voices. “We’ll give them a warm welcome.”

“Aye, that we will,” declared a pastry-cook from the other end of
the _trottoir_; “and we’ll treat them well; we’ll serve them up
_aspic à la bayonette et petits-pois à la mitrailleuse_.”

This keen joke was received with hilarity and immense applause, and
the pastry-cook, with his _bonnet de coton_ perched on one side,
strode off with an air of commanding insolence, like a man who has
done his duty and knows it.

The remarks of the crowd, if not very lucid, were sufficiently
conclusive as to the character of the placard that held them gaping
before the _mairie_. The news was clearly good news: so, satisfied
with this broad fact, Berthe and I jumped into the brougham and
continued our way to St. Roch.

But it seemed as if there was a conspiracy against our getting
there. Before we came to the Rue Royale, we were blocked in front
by a troop of recruits, marching down from the boulevards to the
Rue de Rivoli. Flags, and banners, and bunches of tricolored
ribbons hoisted on sticks floated at intervals above the moving
mass, and the stirring chant of the “Marseillaise” kept time to the
roll of drums and the broken tramp of undrilled feet. The shops
emptied themselves into the street; buyers and sellers rushed
out to see the recruits and greet them with cheers and embraces,
while many joined in the chorus, and shouted enthusiastically,
“_Marchons, marchons, pour la patrie!_” the recruits every now
and then, with an utter neglect of all choral harmony, relieving
their pent-up patriotism by hurrahing and _Vive-la-France_-ing with
frantic energy.

“Poor devils!” exclaimed a tradesman, who stood near us watching
the stream flow past. “How many among them will ever set eyes on
Paris again, I wonder!”

“Ah, indeed,” said his wife; “but, all the same, it’s a proud day
for them this, whatever may come of it. If our _gamin_ were but a
few years older, he would be stepping out with the best of them,
and, who knows? he might come home with a pair of gold epaulets to
his coat.”

“Tut, woman,” retorted the man sharply; “there is plenty of food
for powder without him.” And he went back to his shop.

“What a horrible thing war is when one comes to think of it!” said
Berthe, turning suddenly round with a flushed face. “Every man
going by there is the centre of another life--some, perhaps, of
many lives--that will never know happiness again if he is killed.
It is a dreadful scourge. Thank God, I have no brothers!”

The way was cleared at last, and the carriages were able to move
on. The noise and clamor that rose on all sides of us grew louder
and wilder as we proceeded. One would have fancied the entire
population had been seized with _delirium tremens_. The news of
a victory coming unexpectedly after the first disasters of the
campaign had elated the popular depression to frenzy, and, as usual
with Paris, there was but one bound from the depths of despair
to the wildest heights of exultation. Flags were thrust out of
windows and chimney-pots, an eruption of tricolor broke out on the
fronts of the houses, and the blank walls were variegated with
red, white, and blue, as if by magic. Innumerable _gamins_ cropped
up from those mysterious regions where _gamins_ dwell, and whence
they are ready to emerge and improve the opportunity at a moment’s
notice; the bright-faced ragged young vagabonds mustered in force
on the pavement, formed themselves into an impromptu procession,
and marched along the middle of the street, bawling out the
“Marseillaise” at the top of their voice; older _gamins_ caught
the infection, and bawled in response, and turned and marched
with them. At the corner of the Place Vendôme, a citizen, unable
to restrain the ardor of his patriotism, stopped a _fiacre_, and
jumped up beside the driver, and bade him stand while he poured
out his soul to the _patrie_. The cabman reined in his steed, and
stood while the patriot spouted his improvisation, stretching out
his arms to the column--the “immortal column”--and pointing his
periods with the talismanic words, “_Invincible! Enfans de la
France! Terreur de l’ennemi!_” and so forth. No speaker in the
forum of old Rome ever elicited more inspiriting response from his
hearers than the citizen patriot from the motley audience round his
cab. Again and again his voice was drowned in vociferous cheers and
bravos, and when he was done and about to descend from the rostrum,
the cabman, altogether carried away by the emotions of the hour,
flung his arms round the orator, and pressed him to his heart,
and then, addressing himself to the assembled citizens, defiantly
demanded if their fellow-citizen had not deserved well of them; if
there was any danger for the _patrie_ while she could boast such
sons as that! The appeal was rapturously responded to by all, but
most notably by a native of the Vosges, who tossed his cap into the
air, and caught it again, and cried vehemently: “_Prafo! prafo!
Fife le pourgeois! fife la padrie!_”

If the words had been a shell scattering death among the listeners,
their effect could not have been more startling. Like lightning the
spirit of the crowd was changed; its joy went out like the snuff of
a candle; for one second it swayed to and fro, hesitating, then a
yell, a hiss, and a scream shot up in quick succession.

“A spy! a traitor! a Prussian! _A l’eau! à la lanterne!_” And away
they flew in hot pursuit of the luckless Alsatian, whose German
accent had raised the devil in them. The orator stood by the column
alone in his glory, pelted by the jargon of cries that shot across
him on every side from the boulevards and the many streets running
out of the Place. “_Marchons! à l’eau! à Berlin! un espion!_” It
was like the clash of contending tongues from Babel.

This was our last adventure till we reached St. Roch. As might have
been expected, we were late. The wedding was over, and the bride
was undergoing the ceremony of congratulations in the sacristy.
We elbowed our way through the throng of guests, and were in due
time admitted to embrace the Marquise de Chassedot, _née_ Hélène de
Karodel, and to shake hands with the bridegroom, and sprinkle our
compliments in proper proportion over the friends and relatives on
both sides.

At the wedding breakfast, the conversation naturally turned, to the
exclusion of all other topics, on the happy event which had brought
us all together; but as soon as the bride left the table, to change
her bridal dress for a travelling one, everybody, as if by common
consent, burst out into talk about the war and the news that had
thrown the city into such commotion. The cautious incredulity with
which the bulletin was discussed contrasted strangely with the
tumult of enthusiasm which we had just witnessed outside. It was
quite clear no one believed in the “famous victory.” Some went
so far as to declare that it was only a blind to hide some more
shameful disaster that had yet befallen us; others, less perverse,
thought it might be only a highly colored statement of a slight
success. As to the authorities, it was who would throw most stones
at them. The government was a rotten machine that ought to have
been broken up long ago; it was like a ship that was no longer
seaworthy, and just held together while she lay at anchor in the
port, but must inevitably fall to pieces the first time she put
out to sea, and go down before the wind with all her crew. The
only exceptions to the rule were those government officials who
happened to be present, and these were, of course, the life-boats
that had been left behind by the stupidity of the captain. But this
had always been the way. In the downfall of every government,
we see the same short-sighted jealousy--the men who might have
saved it shoved aside by the selfish intriguers who sacrifice the
country to their own aims and interests. Some allusion was made
to the threatened siege of Paris; but it was cut short by the
irrepressible merriment of the company. The most sober among them
could not speak of such an absurdity without losing their gravity.
It was, in fact, a heavy joke worthy of those beer-drinking, German
braggarts, and no sane Frenchman could speak of it as anything else
without being laughed at. As a joke, however, it was discussed, and
gave rise to many minor pleasantries that provoked a good deal of
fun. An interesting young mother wished the city might be invested
and starved, because it would be so delightful to starve one’s
self to death for one’s baby; to store up one’s scanty food for
the innocent little darling, and see it grow fat on its mother’s
_dénouement_. A young girl declared she quite longed for the
opportunity of proving her love to her father. The Grecian daughter
would be a pale myth compared to her, and the daughter of Paris
would go down to posterity as a type of filial duty such as the
world had never seen before. The kind and quantity of provisions
to be laid in for the contingency gave rise to a vast deal of fun.
One young _crévé_ hoped his steward would provide a good stock
of cigars; he could live on smoke by itself, rather than without
smoke and with every other sort of nourishment; but it should
be unlimited smoke, and of the best quality. His sister thought
of buying a monster box of chocolate bonbons, and contemplated
herself, with great satisfaction, arrived at her last _praline_,
which she heroically insisted on her brother’s accepting, while
she embraced him and expired of inanition at his feet.

“Do you intend to stay for the tragedy, madame?” said the gentleman
who was to live on smoke, addressing himself to Berthe.

“If I believed in the tragedy, certainly not,” she replied; “but I
don’t. Paris is not going to be so obliging as to furnish us with
an opportunity for displaying our heroism.”

“Not of the melodramatic sort,” observed her Austrian friend, with
a touch of sarcasm in his habitually serene manner; “but those
who have any prosaic heroism to dispose of can take it to the
ambulances, and it will be accepted and gratefully acknowledged. I
went yesterday to see a poor fellow who is lying in great agony at
Beayon. His mother and sisters are watching him day and night. They
dare not move him to their own home, lest he should die on the way.
He lost both arms at Gravelotte.”

Berthe shuddered.

“Thank God, I have no brothers!” she murmured, under her breath.

“What is to be the end of it all?” I said. “Admitting that the
siege of Paris is an utter impossibility, half Europe must be
overhauled before peace is definitely re-established.”

“So it will be,” asserted the Austrian, coolly. “Wait a little, and
you will see all the powers trotted out. First, Russia will put her
finger in the _mêlée_, and then England’s turn will come.”

“I hope England will have the sense to keep out of it,” said
Berthe; “she would be sure to get the worst of it, fighting
single-handed, as she would do now.”

“That’s precisely why Russia will take care that she does not keep
out of it,” remarked the Austrian.

“And what would Russia gain by England’s being worsted?”

“She would gain the satisfaction of paying off old scores that have
rankled in her side these fifteen years. Do you fancy that she
has forgotten that little episode in the Crimea, or that she is
less bent on revenge because she doesn’t blast and blow and wake
her enemy’s suspicions by threatening to annihilate her and so
forth? Not a bit of it! Russia doesn’t boast and brag and put her
victim on the _qui vive_; but quietly holds her tongue, and keeps
her temper, and bides her time. When she is ready--and the day is
not, perhaps, very remote--she will pick a fight with England;
and the day the war is proclaimed, every pope and peasant in Holy
Russia will light a candle to his holy images; and when the news
comes in that England is thrashed, they will light as many as will
illuminate the whole of Europe.”

“_Après?_” I said.

“_Après_ what, madame?”

“When they have thrashed her, as you say, what will they do with
her?”

“Do with her? Annex her.”

He looked me straight in the face without a smile on his; but
I could not believe he was speaking seriously, and I burst out
laughing.

“The position of the conquered territory might offer some
difficulties in the way of annexation,” I said, presently; “but
we will assume that the obliging Providence of pious King William
interferes in behalf of his Muscovite brother, and overcomes all
obstacles by land or by sea, and that the doughty little island is
constituted a colony of the czar’s dominion: what would he do with
it? What earthly use would it be to him?”

“Use!” echoed the Austrian, elevating his eyebrows with a
supercilious smile. “In the first place, he might make it a little
_succursale_ of Siberia. There is a whole generation of those
unmanageable, half-mad Poles safely walking about this side of
Europe, plotting and dreaming and rhapsodizing. Only think what
a convenience it would be to their father, the czar, if he had a
centre of action so near to them! He could catch them like rabbits;
and then, instead of hawking them over the world to Nerchintz
and Irkoutsk, he could sentence them to perpetual sciatica, or
chronic lumbago, or a mild term of ten years’ rheumatism, in the
isle of fogs, _versus_ the mines, and the knout, and all the rest
of the paternal chastisements administered in Siberia. Then, over
and above this immense accommodation, he might have his docks in
England; he might make the naughty Poles learn of his English
subjects how to build ships, till by-and-by the navy of Holy Russia
would be the finest in the world, and big, top-heavy Prussia would
shake in her shoes, and hot-headed France would keep still on her
knees, and all Europe would bow down before the empire of Peter
the Great. Use, indeed! Let Russia catch England, and she’ll find
plenty of use for her.”

“Yes,” I said; “just so; let her catch her.”

It was near three when the wedding-party broke up and Berthe and
I drove away. We found the excitement abroad still unabated. At
many street corners, patriots were perorating to animated crowds;
tongues innumerable were running up and down the gamut of noise
with the most extraordinary variations. There is always something
stirring in the sight of great popular emotion; but this present
instance of it was more threatening than exhilarating. You felt
that it was dangerous, that there were terrible elements of
destruction boiling up under the surface-foam, and that the
chattering and shouting and good fellowship might, in a flash
of lightning, be changed to murderous hate and a madness beyond
control. It was madness already; but it was a harmless madness so
far. Was it nothing more? was there no method in it? I wondered,
as we beheld the people haranguing or being harangued, rushing and
gesticulating, and all showing, in their faces and gestures, the
same feverish excitement. Were they all no better than a cityful
of apes, chattering and screaming from mere impulse? Was it all
quackery and cant, without any redeeming note of sacrifice and
truth and valor; and would all this fiery twaddle die out presently
in smoke and dumbness?

We had turned down to the Rue de Richelieu, and were coming back,
when our attention was arrested by a body of volunteers marching
past the Place de la Bourse. They were in spruce new uniforms, and
they were singing something that was not the “Marseillaise,” or “La
Casquette au Père Bugeaud,” or any other of the many chants we had
been listening to; altogether, their appearance and voices roused
our curiosity, and Berthe desired the man to follow in their wake,
that we might find out what kind of troops they were, and what they
were singing. They turned up the Rue de la Baupe to the Place des
Petits Pères, and there they entered the church of Notre Dame des
Victoires, as many of them as could find room, for they numbered
several thousand, and nearly half had to remain outside. The great
front doors were thrown up, and remained open, so that those who
were in the Place could see all that went on within. The soldiers
were upon their knees, bare-headed, and a venerable old priest
was speaking to them; but his voice was so feeble that what he
said was only audible to those close to the altar-steps where he
stood. There was no need to ask now who these men were, or whence
they came. None but the men of Brittany, the sons of the men who
went out to death against the ruthless soldiers of Robespierre,
to the cry of _Dieu et le Roi!_ were likely to traverse Paris,
bearing the cross at their head, and make the ex-votos of Notre
Dame des Victoires shake on the walls to the stirring old Vendean
hymns. None but the descendants of the men “whose strength was as
the strength of ten, because their hearts were pure,” would dare
in these days of sneaking, shamefaced Christianity to commit such
a brazen act of faith. The volunteers were accompanied by a great
concourse of people, mostly relatives and friends, but they all
remained outside, leaving the church quite to the soldiers. It was
a strange and beautiful sight to see all these brave, proud Bretons
kneeling down with the simplicity of little children before the
shrine of the Virgin Mother, and singing their hymns to the God of
Hosts, and asking his blessing on themselves and their arms before
they went out to battle. When they came out of the church, with the
curé at their head, all the people of a common impulse fell upon
their knees in the Place to get his blessing; the men received it
with bare heads and in silence; the women weeping, most of them,
while some lifted up their hands with the old priest and prayed out
loud a blessing on the soldiers. Then he spoke a few words to them,
not to the soldiers only or chiefly, but to all, and especially
to the women. He bade them remember that they too had their part
in the national struggle, and that they might be a noble help or
a guilty hindrance, as they chose. Those who had husbands, or
sons, or brothers in the ranks would understand this without any
explanation from him. But there were very many amongst them who
had no near relatives in danger, and who fancied that this would
exempt them from sharing the common burthen, and that they could
stand aloof from the general anxiety and pain. It was a selfish,
pagan feeling, unworthy of a daughter of France, and still more
of a Christian. There could be no isolation at a time like this.
All should suffer, and all should serve. Those who happily had no
kindred of their own at the frontier should adopt in spirit the
brave fellows who had left none behind. They should care for them
from a distance like true sisters, helping them in the battle-field
with their prayers, and in the camp and the hospital by their
active and loving ministration; let such among them as were fit and
free to do it, go and learn of that other sisterhood of the diviner
sort how to serve as they do who serve with the strong, pure
love of charity; let those who could not do this give abundantly
wherewith the stricken soldier might be healed and comforted on
his bed of pain; if they could not give their hands, let them give
their hearts and their money; let them help by sacrifice--sacrifice
of some sort was within the reach of all. He blessed them again at
the close of his little exhortation, and then every one got up. The
Bretons fell into rank, and, rending the welkin with one loud cry
of _Dieu et la France!_ set out to the Northern Railway. Berthe and
I had been kneeling with the crowd.

“Let us follow and see the last of them,” she said, and we got into
the brougham and went on at a foot-pace.

The scene at the station was one that will never be forgotten by
those who witnessed it. The pathos of those rough farewells, the
lamentations of some of the women, the Machabean courage of others,
the shrill crying of little children, the tears of strong men, who
tore out their hearts, feeling it like men, but bearing it with
the courage of soldiers and the exulting hope of Christians: it
was a sight to make one’s heart glad to rapture or sad to despair.
Some of the volunteers were of the noblest families in Brittany,
others were workingmen, farmers, and peasants; there was the same
mixture of classes in the throng of people that accompanied them;
the pure accent of the most cultivated French, crossed here and
there with the coarser tones of the Vendean patois; side by side
with the suppressed agony of the chatelaine, who strove to hide
her tenderness and tears from the gaze of bystanders, you saw the
wretched sorrow of the peasant wife, who sobbed on her husband’s
neck and clung to him in a last embrace. There was something more
heart-rending in these humbler farewells, because one felt the
sacrifice was more complete. If this was a last parting, there was
nothing for either to fall back upon.

I lost sight of Berthe as soon as we alighted, and indeed I forgot
her. My whole thoughts were absorbed in the scene going on around
me. It was only when the bell rang, and the soldiers passed out
to the platform, leaving the space comparatively empty, that I
looked about for her, and saw her in the middle of the sidewalk
with her arms round a young girl, who was sobbing as if her heart
would break. It appeared that she was just a fortnight married to
a Breton lad of her own age, nineteen; they had worked hard and
saved all their little earnings these five years past in order to
get married; and now, just as they were so happy, he had gone away
from her, and she would never see him again; he was certain to
be killed, because he was so good and loving and clever. Berthe
pressed the poor child to her heart, and committed herself to the
wildest pledges for the safe return of the young hero, and finally,
after evoking a burst of passionate gratitude from the girl, who
half-believed her to be a beneficial fairy sent to comfort her,
Berthe exacted a promise that she was to come and see her the next
day, and we set our faces towards home.

We drove on for a little while in silence, looking each out of our
separate window, our hearts too full for conversation. I saw by
Berthe’s eyes that she had been crying. I felt instinctively that
there was a great struggle going on within her, but, though my
whole heart was vibrating in sympathy with it, I could not say so.
Presently she turned towards me, and exclaimed:

“And I was thanking God that I had no brothers! Blind, selfish fool
that I was!”

She burst into tears, sobbing passionately, and hid her face in
her hands. The change in her bright and volatile spirit seemed to
make a change in all the world. I could not accuse the people, as I
had done an hour ago, of being mere puppets, dancing to a tune and
throwing themselves into attitudes that meant no more than a sick
man’s raving. It seemed to me as if the aspect of the city and the
sound of its voice had quite altered, and I all at once began to
hope wonders of and for the Parisians. One could not but believe
that they were striving to be in earnest, that the mother-pulse
of patriotism, so long gagged and still, was now waking up, and
beating with strong, hot throbs in the hearts of the people, and
that, once alive and working, it would break out like a fire
and burn away the unreality and the false glitter and the tragic
comedy of their lives, and serve to purify them for a free and
noble future. No; it was not all cant and tinkle and false echo.
There was substance under the symbolizing. There were men amongst
them who worshipped God, and were proud to proclaim it. There were
hearts that seemed dead, but were only sleeping. Paris was dancing
in mad mirth like a harlequin to-day, but to-morrow it would be
different--the smoke and the flame would go out, leaving behind
them the elements of a great nation burnt pure of the corroding
dross that had choked and held them captive so long.

On arriving at home, Berthe found a costume which had just come
from M. Grandhomme’s laid out on her bed. At any other moment, the
sight would have claimed her delighted attention, but she turned
from it with a feeling of indifference now, almost of disgust.
Antoinette, who had been puzzling over some new trick in the tunic,
took it up in a flurry and was for trying it on at once, to see
how it fitted and whether the novelty became her mistress, but
Berthe, with a movement of impatience, told her to put it away,
that she was in no mood for attending to _bétises_ just then. The
girl opened her eyes in astonishment. A costume of Grandhomme’s,
that cost eleven hundred francs, to be called a _bétise_! It was
flat profanity. She left the room with a painful presentiment that
something very serious was amiss with Madame la Comtesse.

A soon as Berthe was alone, she began to think. It was a new
experience in her life, this process of thinking, and she was
hard pressed by it, for it was no vacant reverie that she was
indulging in, but a sharp, compulsory review of her past and
present existence--and the result was anything but soothing. Her
life up to this day had been the life of a human butterfly, gay,
airy, amusing, very enjoyable as regarded herself, and harmless
enough as regarded her fellow-creatures. She had drunk her fill
of the good things of life, enjoying herself in every possible
way, but legitimately; she was incapable of wronging or hurting
any one; she was extravagant in her dress and other luxuries, but
her fortune allowed this, and she made no debts. So far, her life
was blameless, and indeed, if she compared it with that of many
of those around her, it was a very respectable one. But suddenly
all her theories had collapsed, and her comfortable standard
been upset. It turned out that she had a soul somewhere, though
she had forgotten all about it, and been living, as if happily
free from that incumbrance, in selfishness and folly, that were
counted by this newly revealed standard little short of guilt.
It was an unexpected discovery, and a most unpleasant one. That
exclamation which had escaped her twice, and the thought of the
great general sorrow, kept ringing in her ears like a warning and
a reproach--“Thank God, I have no brother!” Who, then, were these
men that she had just seen going forth in voluntary self-devotion
to fight for her, and those who, like her, could not depend on
themselves? Was there such a thing in Christendom as a woman or a
man who had no brothers? Yet Berthe had believed herself to be this
impossibility; she had been living up to it in utter forgetfulness
of her brethren, ignoring them as a heathen might, or using them
coldly for her own selfish purposes, to work for her and minister
to her interests or her pleasures. There were some people whom
she loved, but it was a love that narrowed to self; those who
were disagreeable, or stupid, or bad she disliked, and, unknown
to herself perhaps, despised. There were no wide sympathies in
this discarded soul of hers for the great family of mankind; for
the publicans and sinners and the lepers and the blind and the
lame; she was kind-hearted, but suffering, to touch her, must be
seen through some æsthetic coloring; the miseries and follies and
infirmities of a prosaic kind that abounded on all sides of her
she turned from in disgust, she avoided them like noisome things
that belonged to creatures of an inferior clay and had no kinship
with her more refined and privileged individuality. “Sacrifice is
within the reach of all of you; you must help by sacrifice,” that
old man had said. What a strange sound the words had! What did he
mean? Sacrifice! Was there any place in her life for such a thing?
She looked round at the azure hangings of her room, at the bright
mirrors that reflected her figure in a dozen varying aspects, at
the costly goods and trinkets that littered her dressing-table,
at the couches and chairs of every modern contrivance inviting
the body to luxurious repose, and she saw that her nest was fair
to look at, but too full for this unbidden guest called sacrifice
to find a place in it. Her eye wandered absently from one object
to another till it fell upon a pale ivory figure on a velvet
background, fastened to the wall, and half-shrouded by the curtains
of the bed.

“I am young; it is not too late; I will begin life afresh,” said
Berthe, rising and moving restlessly across the room; “I will begin
to-morrow, no, to-day--now.”

She went close up to the bed, and stood for a moment with clasped
hands, her lips moving in quick, low utterances, and then fell upon
her knees before the pale, thorn-crowned head looking down upon her.

They never knew it, but this conquest of a noble woman’s life was
perhaps the first victory won by the Breton soldiers who set out to
battle that day!

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




AFTER READING MR. TUPPER’S PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.


    On wisdom’s steed sit Solomon and Tupper,
    The saddle one bestrides, and one the crupper.




AN ESSAY ON EPIGRAMS.


Who nowadays writes epigrams? The species _epigrammatist_ seems
to be well-nigh extinct. Now and then some Herr Professor, whose
learning is less ponderous than common, after due incubation
hatches what he calls a _Sinngedicht_. But his achievement is too
often a paraphrase, if not a literal translation, of some Latin
original. At intervals, too, Thorold Rogers, clergyman and social
reformer, flings into London journals some explosive squib couched
in verse, but the missile is tolerably harmless, and draws far
less attention than a telegram. No doubt before the invention of
the newspaper the epigram, so easy to remember and so incisive in
its effect, was no mean engine of cajolery, or calumny. But the
days are gone when such weapons were effective in the political
arena, and either conquered a pension or provoked a _lettre de
cachet_. Byron, who worshipped Pope, and deemed everything his
master had done worth doing, sometimes ventured into Martial’s
province, but rarely successfully, except in _Don Juan_. A score
of epigrams might be culled from that poem which would answer all
the conditions of a rigorous definition. Since Byron, no poet of
eminence has condescended to this form of art. Tennyson indeed is
terse and telling, as is proved by the facility with which we quote
him; yet he seems as incapable of epigrams as Morris, of whom most
of us, much as we like him, can with difficulty remember a line.
Browning might write them if he chose, but he does not choose, and
so it is that the old epigrammatist lingers only in some isolated
representative, as the dodo did in Madagascar, or like that
Tasmanian survivor whose present existence is clouded with a doubt.

Epigrammatists may perish from the face of the earth, but the
epigram is immortal. It well deserves to be so. What form of wit
imparts so much pleasure to so many persons? If the world could be
fairly polled, it might be found that some tiny epigram has yielded
more genuine delight than the most ambitious works of genius, as,
for instance, the _Paradise Lost_. If there is one Latin author who
is still read for hearty amusement, it is Martial, and even the
candid schoolboy who declines to be charmed by the _Iliad_ can see
some fun in the _Anthology_.

It would probably pose most persons to be suddenly called on to
define an epigram. And no wonder, for every great scholar since the
manuscripts of Martial were recovered in Western Europe has tried
his hand at a definition, and none except Lessing has grasped it.
The literal meaning is, of course, _inscription_, and the word
was originally applied to the writing on a monument or tomb. But
in later times the word obtained in Greek rhetoric and poetry the
peculiar significance which in English distinguishes the epigram
from an epitaph, and in German the _Sinngedicht_ from a mere
_Aufschrift_ or _Ueberschrift_. We shall at once lay our finger
on this peculiar significance by answering the question, why the
Greeks had but one word where the Germans have two?

We need hardly say that it could be neither a poverty of language
nor a contempt for precision which led the former to content
themselves with the original term. If there is anything notorious,
it is that the Athenian never suffered a new idea, or the finest
shade of deviation from an old idea, to shiver in the cold of
paraphrase, but straightway clothed it with a snug, warm word, cut
and fitted to the shape. We may be sure that a sense of some nice
propriety, the recognition, perhaps, of some just and suggestive
metaphor, induced him to attach the name of _epigram_ to a
particular class of little poems, without any direct reference to
their fitness for inscription on memorial stones.

The fact is, that every genuine epigram is divisible into two
distinct parts, of which the first answers precisely to the
monument or tomb on which the primitive _epigram_ was written,
and the second to the inscription proper which the monument bore.
To _surprise_, and thereupon to _explain_, to secure the twofold
delight which springs in curiosity and ripens in gratification, was
the purpose of the inscribed monument, and is still the aim of the
true epigram. Let us apply this to some faultless type, like that
stanza by Sir William Jones:

    On parent knees, a naked new-born child,
    Weeping thou sat’st, while all around thee smiled;
    So live that, sinking to thy last long sleep,
    Thou then may’st smile when all around thee weep.

It is plain that the first two lines awaken _curiosity_, excite
_interest_. They answer to the graceful shaft which arrests the
eye and allures the step. They win us to approach and investigate,
to look for some further revelation, to ponder on the lesson
which the last two lines convey. In a word, attention is first
secured, and then rewarded. Let the reader test this analysis in
other instances, and he will find it essential to the epigram
that both these feelings, the _longing_ of expectation and the
_satisfaction_ of it, should be evoked, and in this order. All
the other qualities which have been supposed to be peculiar to
the epigram, but are really common to many sorts of short and
witty poems, may be easily deduced from this definition. Thus,
the more terse and vigorous are the lines which introduce the
subject, the more potent will be their appeal to curiosity, and
the more tenacious their hold upon our interest. Architecturally,
the monument will be more impressive. On the other hand, the
more novel and delightful is the concluding thought, or the more
felicitous and pointed the expression of it, the more complete
is our satisfaction, the more amply do we feel repaid for our
pains in deciphering the inscription. It follows likewise that
the second half, or _thought_, of the epigram must interpret the
_fact_ embodied in the first, otherwise the inscription, instead of
explaining the particular monument which bears it, serves merely to
point us to another. So much for the veritable _Sinngedicht_. Of
the pseudo-epigram there are many varieties, but the two commonest
are those which awaken curiosity without appeasing it, or else
instruct without enlisting attention. Without stopping to point
out the flaws in many little poems, more or less witty, more or
less compact, which are falsely called epigrams, we shall perceive
the accuracy and value of the above definition by glancing at some
famous models of the true form. In all the examples we may cite, we
will give the originals, that they who do not like our version may
make a better for themselves.

Let us begin with a couplet from Wenicke, who has written so much
and so well in this way as to merit the name of the German Martial:

    Du liebest Geld und Gut, noch so, dass dein Erbarmen
    Der Armen fühlt. Du fliehst die Armuth, nicht die Armen.

We have not been able in this instance to preserve both the rhyme
and the metre, and prefer to keep the latter. The lines convey a
noble eulogy.

    Thou lovest gold and goods, yet so that thy compassion
    Feels for the needy still, shunning need, and not the needy.

Here are two more from German sources. We have forgotten who wrote
them, but our readers may remember. The turn of the thought in the
second is novel and rather pretty:

    Ihr sagt, die Zeit vergeht!
    Weil Ihr das falsch versteht.
    Die Zeit ist ewig: Ihr vergeht!

    We say. Time passes! Is it so?
    Time waits! ’Tis only we who go.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Schon vier Mal kam ich, deine Diener sprachen
    Du seist nicht da, man liess mich nicht herein.
    Mein Kind! um eine Göttin mir zu sein
    Brauchst du dich ja nicht unsichtbar zu machen.

    Four times I called, the servant said,
    “She’s out!”--I might not see my maid.
    To seem a goddess, dear, to me,
    Invisible thou needst not be!

The greatest of German poets are not ashamed to stoop to epigram,
and sometimes aim to reproduce the metre which Martial preferred.
Of the following essays in elegiacs the first three are by
Schiller, the others by Emanuel Geibel:

    Glaubt mir, es ist kein Märchen, die Quelle von Jugend sie rinnet
    Wirklich und immer! Ihr fragt, wo? In der dichtenden Kunst!

    Trust me,’tis more than a fable; the Fountain of Youth springeth ever
    Jocund and fresh as of old! Where? In the art of the bard!

       *       *       *       *       *

    Glücklicher Säuglung! Dir ist ein unendlicher Raum noch die Wiege!
    Werde Mann, und dir wird eng die unendliche Welt.

    Happy the soul of a babe, finding infinite room in the cradle!
    Grown to be man, he will find narrow the infinite world.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Willst du dich selber erkennen, so sieh wie die Ander’n es treiben!
    Willst du die Ander’n versteh’n, blick’ in dein eigenes Herz!

    Man, wilt thou study thyself, scan keenly the conduct of others!
    Aiming to know other men, turn the eye in on thy heart!

       *       *       *       *       *

    Doppelte Schwing hat die Zeit. Mit der Einen entführt sie die Freuden,
    Doch mit der Anderen sanft kühite den thränenden Blick.

    Time in a dream I beheld twi-winged, with one silently stealing
    Joy, with the other he fanned kindly the tear-swollen eye.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Darin gleichet der Dichter dem Kind. Es erscheint das Bekannte
    Ihm wie ein Wunder: Bekannt’ blickt das Geheimniss ihn an!

    Dwells in a poet the child, who still with a feeling of wonder
    Eyes the familiar; to him still looks familiar the strange.

       *       *       *       *       *

The grand-master of epigrammatists, Martial, with the proud
humility of conscious power, confessed himself a pupil of Catullus.
But it was rather his purity of diction and naïve simplicity which
Martial borrowed from the elder poet, not the point and sparkle
of his epigrams, which are of right his own. The minor poems of
Catullus include few which are strictly epigrams, and of these only
two or three admit of distillation into a modern language. We give
one which is addressed, like most of his amatory verse, to Lesbia.
In this instance we abandon the attempt to reproduce the Latin
elegiacs.

    Lesbia mi dicit semper male, nec tacet unquam
    De me. Lesbia me, dispeream, nisi amat!
    Quo signo? Quasi non totidem mox deprecor illi
    Assiduē, verum dispeream, nisi amo.

    Always my Lesbia treats me ill,
    By this I’ll swear she loves me well!
    How so? I’m rude to her, but still
    I’ll swear I love my Lesbia well!

While we are on the subject of lover’s whims and inconsistencies,
we venture to give an experiment of our own. At least we may claim
the expression, although the thought, if we remember rightly,
belongs to Moore:

    Love halts, you said, but will not stay,
    And soon fares on his pilgrim’s way.
    A pilgrim, yes! O’er wave and sand,
    His eye still sought the Holy Land,
    Welcomed each altar, as he passed,
    Until he found the Shrine at last.

Before we come to Martial, let us pause a moment over the Greek
_Anthology_, of which some parts, no doubt, were written later
than his day, but others must share with Catullus the honor of
suggesting to the brilliant Spaniard the right conception of the
epigram, as well as the appropriate treatment. Unlike Horace,
however, Martial rarely condescended to borrow either thought or
expression from a foreign source. We may say of him, and more
truthfully, what Denham said of Cowley, that he “melted not the
ancient gold.” Perhaps the most famous epigram in the _Anthology_
is that on a picture of Pythagoras. It has been a dozen times
translated into Latin or expanded in Greek, but generally with
indifferent success:

    Αὐτὸν Πυθαγόρην ὁ ζωγράφος ὃν μετὰ φωνῆς
    Εἶδες ἂν εἴγε λαλεῖν ἤθελε Πυθαγόρης.

Most of the versions require four lines, and some eight, to project
the idea, and only two that we have seen matches the original in
compression; here is one of them, by Hugo Grotius:

    Ipsum Pythagoram dat cernere pictor et ipsum
    Audires sed enim non cupit ipse loqui.

The objection to this is--and it lies to the Greek as well--we are
asked to imagine that Pythagoras expressly desired to be depicted
silent, in other words, requested the painter _not_ to perform an
impossibility--which is very like an absurdity. The true idea, and
one that gives point and beauty to the compliment, is rather this,
that since a prime tenet of the Pythagoreans was the maintenance of
a thoughtful silence and a wise reserve, it would have been false
to the mental posture of the man, and therefore bad art (supposing
it to have been possible) to have represented him otherwise than in
speechless meditation. We have attempted to give some such turn to
the thought in English elegiacs.

    There Pythagoras stands to the life! Be sure we should hear him
    Speak--but Pythagoras taught wisdom in silence to muse.

It is no mean honor to be indisputably the first in any line of
art, and certainly within the field of the epigram Martial is
prince of poets. He conceived the form of poetry to which he
devoted his life to possess much more of dignity and importance
than we incline to allow it, and he did much to make good his
claim. He held towards previous epigrammatists the same commanding
position which Dante holds towards Sicilian and Provençal poets,
or Marot towards the Trouvères, and he wrought the epigram to that
climax of perfection from which progress means nothing but decline.
He filed and fitted his lines with a punctilious care which we
should expect to betray itself, yet his verse flows with a limpid
ease through which the eye seeks in vain the labor that smoothed
the channel. We may call him in simple justice what Bulwer called
Addison:

    Exquisite genius, to whose chiselled line
    The ivory’s polish lends the ivory’s shine!

To hope to reflect in a translation the gleam and edge of Martial
would be absurd. We shall merely aim in a general way, while
preserving the metre, to sketch the outlines of the central
thought. If our readers miss the bloom on the rose, we at least
cannot help them. They must seek the garden where it grew, and
pluck it for themselves.

In the course of a long residence in Rome, Martial seems to have
suffered the usual vicissitudes of authors, and sometimes in
moments of eclipse found his friends more willing to reproach than
to relieve him. He fancies he detects a reason for it:

    Genus, Aucte, lucri divites habent iram.
    Odisse quam donasse vilius constat.

    Auctus, the rich count wrath a gain:
    That to hate costs less than to give is plain.

In the time of Domitian a round portion was as essential to the
marriage of a Roman virgin as it is now with French ladies of
condition, who must either endow or derogate. The Latin prototype
of the Belgravian mother must have had grievous cause of complaint
when the state bestowed prizes on such as were at once husbands
and fathers. The following epigram, however, takes a more elevated
view, and strikes the key-note of Tennyson’s rhapsody in the
well-known lines of _The Princess_:

    Uxorem quare locupletem ducere nolim
    Quæritis. Uxori nubere nolo meæ!
    Inferior matrona suo sit, Prisce, marito!
    Non aliter fuerint femina virque pares.

    Why so reluctant, you ask, to wed with a woman of fortune?
    Friend, I would marry a wife, not have a wife marry me!
    Trust me, the rule is sound, let the woman owe all to her husband,
    Thus shall they, man and wife, each owe the other nothing.

Here is a playful innuendo which has often been copied. Marot’s
version is exceedingly neat, but somewhat coarse, so our readers
must take ours in place of it:

    Nubere vis Prisco, non miror, Paula, sapisti!
    Ducere te non vult Priscus, et ille sapit!

    Jill fancies Jack for a husband--truly a sensible woman!
    Jack has no fancy for Jill--truly a sensible man!

No epigram of Martial’s is more admired, and none seems to us
more admirable, than that which chronicles the magnanimous act of
Arria, who showed her husband the way to death. She lived in the
time of Messalina, but the deed was worthy of Lucrece. Perhaps the
traditional fortitude and fashionable stoicism of Rome might have
paused contented with the historical fact, but modern sentiment
cannot fail to welcome the touch of tenderness in the concluding
line. We place beside it _The Death of Portia_ because the two
poems are pitched in the same key. The latter, however, is a mere
_historiette_, told with rare force and fervor, but without the
point and turn which distinguish a true epigram. To recur to our
metaphor, the monument is a noble one, but the superscription is
wanting. Our readers will observe that Martial’s Portia follows her
husband to the grave, while she precedes him in Shakespeare’s play.

    Casta suo gladium cum traderet Arria Paeto,
    Quem de visceribus traxerat ipsa suis;
    Si qua fides, vulnus quod feci non dolet, inquit.
    Sed quod tu facies hoc mihi, Paete, dolet!

    Paetus reluctant to die wavered; him Arria marking
    Brued in her bosom the sword, which to her husband she gave;
    Think not, she cried, that my wound bears with it aught that
      is painful!
    That which thou dealest thyself, _that_ will be painful to me!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Conjugis audisset fatum cum Porcia Bruti,
    Et subtracta sibi quæreret arma dolor,
    Nondum scitis, ait, mortem non posse negari
    Credideram satis hoc vos docuisse patrem
    Dixit et ardentes avido bibit ore favillas,
    I nunc, et ferrum, turba molesta, nega!

    Portia, thy Brutus is dead! they told her. She in her anguish
    Silently sought for a sword--kindness had hid it from her.
    Dream ye, officious, she cried, that death will admit of denial!
    Truly I trusted my sire, Cato, had taught ye better!
    Pausing she thrust in her mouth live coals, and eagerly swallowed;
    Go, ye officious, refuse Portia a useless weapon!

In so far as the modern epigram is modelled upon Martial, we
should expect it to flourish with especial luxuriance in the
classic literature of France. Modern French, of all the daughters
of Latin, inherits the most terseness and precision, and adapts
herself with peculiar ease to a compact and pregnant style. The
burst of admiration for the ancients which deserved the name
of Renaissance, and rose in Ronsard and Du Bellay to a fervent
and naïve enthusiasm, was tempered by Malherbe and Boileau to
a cautious study of principles and the elaborate finish of
expression. It is a significant fact that Malherbe during the most
fruitful period of his life, from twenty to forty-five, composed on
the average but thirty-three lines a year. Waller had such examples
in his mind when he urged his countrymen to prune their style:

    Our lines reformed and not composed in haste,
    Like marble polished, would like marble last.

Malherbe himself made but few epigrams, and none comparable to the
familiar stanza in the elegy which he wrote to console a friend.
Translating it is like handling a butterfly:

    She bloomed in a world where the sweetest that blows
            Is the first to decay;
    And rosebud, her life was the life of a rose,
            The space of a day.

Of French epigrammatists, the most voluminous are Clement Marot and
Jean Baptiste Rousseau. The latter has left four books of epigrams
which are rarely deficient in point, but often diffuse and cold.
Here is one:

    They burn my books, you say, they give
    Death to the child who only asked to live:
    Your own in peace will draw their breath,
    They’re sure to die a natural death.

We have seen that French and German are rich in epigrams, but we
incline to think our own literature richer still. From Sir John
Harrington downwards the line of epigrammatists was unbroken, until
it succumbed to the contempt with which the Lake poets regarded a
style so repugnant to their own. It might be not uninteresting to
trace the growth of this modest flower in our English soil, but
we have already overrun the limit we had set ourselves, and the
English epigram must wait another opportunity. But one word more.
The initial lines of an epigram, which are addressed to curiosity,
whether from ignorance or a mistaken love of conciseness, are often
omitted, and a clumsy substitute is provided in the _lemma_, or
explanatory title. Should this happen to be changed or lost, the
poem becomes absurd or unintelligible. Take, for instance, this
from the German:

    Prythee lend, little Lycon, thine eye to Agathē!
    Blind, shalt thou then be Cupid, thy sister Venus be!

This would seem sheer nonsense if we did not know that it was
written on two children, who, otherwise lovely, had but one eye
apiece. The Greek quatrain from which this couplet was extracted is
a perfect epigram, and, needing no introduction, contains in itself
both the fact and the thought. Even in the case of an epitaph,
honestly designed to be graven on a tomb, the best models require
no lemma. It is so, for instance, with Ben Jonson’s lines on the
Countess of Pembroke:

    Underneath this marble hearse
    Lies the subject of all verse,
    Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother:
    Death, ere thou hast slain another
    Half so good and fair as she,
    Time will fling a dart at thee.




FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.


PART SECOND.

THE TRIAL.


XX.

Notwithstanding the princess’ apparent indifference, she was not
so inexperienced as to imagine that Fleurange’s presence in the
same house could be wholly exempt from danger to her son at his
age and with his temperament. At the same time, anything that
would change the actual current of her life would have annoyed
her, and what was opposed to her wishes was seldom looked upon as
possible. Nevertheless, she carefully watched George for two or
three days, and soon felt reassured, and the more so because he was
seldom disposed to secrecy with her. Without allowing himself to be
directed by his mother, he did not try to conceal his opinions from
her, and, even at the risk of sometimes greatly displeasing her, he
suffered her to read the depths of his heart without any special
effort to baffle her penetration. But this time the result of the
princess’ observation was of a nature to reassure her completely.

George spoke to Fleurange without affectation, and with no
appearance of eagerness. He never showed her any attentions
excepting acts of politeness he would have shown any one else. He
never sought her society, and, if he looked at her and sometimes
spoke of her beauty, as every one else did, it was with more
reserve and coldness than others. Hence the princess concluded with
double satisfaction that George’s thoughts were otherwise absorbed,
and, as this accorded with her wishes, she allowed herself the
comfort of not doubting it, and returned to the repose of her
indolent life.

As to Fleurange, the effect of Count George’s manner was singular.
Naturally frank, honest, and courageous, she had an invincible
repugnance for all kinds of dissimulation, and for some days, by
the very fact of his manifesting two different aspects, he lost
in her eyes a part of his dangerous prestige. Which of these two
aspects was genuine? Was he acting a part now, or was he acting
on the day of his arrival? This very doubt brought pride to the
aid of reason, and helped her regain her customary self-control.
By degrees the impression of the first day grew fainter, and she
almost succeeded in effacing from her memory the scene Count George
himself seemed to have so completely forgotten.

Whether it was so or not, the princess, as we have said, ceased
following her with anxious eyes, and the young girl, freed from the
restraint she felt at first, ventured by degrees to take some part
in the general conversation, even when he was present. She soon
abandoned herself to the pleasure of intercourse with a mind which
inspired her with fresh interest on every subject--to which nothing
seemed indifferent or unknown. In this respect he resembled the
Marquis Adelardi, but he was more ardent and less sarcastic, and
could not, like him, leave an interesting subject to dwell on the
backbitings of a clique or the gossip of a salon. They were very
intimate, nevertheless, and, without actual similarity, they were
sufficiently in harmony to enjoy being always together and never to
clash.

They were, however, equally enthusiastic on one subject--that
of politics. Elsewhere this would probably have greatly wearied
Fleurange, but here it interested her in spite of herself. Count
George expressed his sentiments with a certain elevation of tone,
and, without always perfectly understanding all that was discussed,
she felt excited by the lofty independence of his opinions, his
love of liberty, and his tendency to take, everywhere and always,
the part of the weak and the oppressed. These are prominent
political features which women at once catch without difficulty,
and which win their sympathy in every cause or discussion into
which they enter. Therefore Fleurange, while listening with silent
interest, sometimes felt carried away by ardent sympathy with the
charm of his captivating eloquence, the effect of which was as
powerful as it was new.

The marquis was no less interested in contemporary history than
his friend, and discussed it quite as willingly, unless it was a
question concerning his own country. In that case he became silent,
and it was almost impossible to sustain the conversation.

Fleurange seldom took any part in the conversation, which in fact
was not often directed to her. From the time of Count George’s
arrival she had never found herself alone with him. But one evening
the princess’ salon was as usual filled with company. Fleurange,
seated at a table, was pouring out the tea. This was one of her
customary duties. Each one came to ask for a cup, and but few
occupied the seats around the table. Among these was the Marquis
Adelardi, who, on this occasion, began discoursing with the young
artist Livio and Dom Pomponio on ancient and modern art in Italy.
Count George drew near and listened for some time in silence, then
joined in the conversation. A chair near Fleurange was vacant.
He took it, and for some time the discussion was carried on with
animation. Fleurange was listening with her elbow on the table
and her eyes cast down. She did not say a word, nor did she lose
one that was uttered beside her. The conversation passed from
Italy to Germany, and they spoke of the school of art there, now
beginning to produce some great paintings. Count George suddenly
pronounced the name of Julian Steinberg, saying that this artist’s
most remarkable production was to be found in Professor Ludwig
Dornthal’s gallery at Frankfort.

Fleurange, of course, was aware he knew her friends, but there
had never been any occasion for speaking of them, and these names
suddenly mentioned before her gave her a thrill. She hastily looked
up, and with difficulty repressed the exclamation already on her
lips. This movement did not escape the notice of him who caused it.
He allowed the conversation to die away. After some moments the
others left the table. He alone remained an instant.

“Mademoiselle Gabrielle,” said he, “tell me if I involuntarily
vexed you or wounded your feelings just now.--It was by no means
intentional--”

Fleurange eagerly interrupted him: “Oh! no, assuredly not”; and
these words were followed by an explanation which the young girl
gave as fully as she did frankly. Count George thus learned for
the first time her relationship to the Dornthals. The subject once
commenced soon led to a new and more important revelation. Since
the first day, for more than one reason easy to understand, the
picture of Cordelia had not been recalled by either. Now, becoming
more confidential and rendered more expansive by the charm of
awakened remembrances, Fleurange ventured to tell him what an
influence on her life his becoming the owner of her father’s last
painting had had, and in a tone of emotion she thanked him for the
happiness of which he had been the involuntary cause.--

But she soon stopped suddenly: her heart, as on that first
day, beat with agitation mingled with alarm; for, while she
was speaking, Count George’s eyes, fixed on hers, resumed the
expression she had not seen since that day, and once more, as then,
she heard him pronounce her name in a tone she had striven to
forget.

“Fleurange!--Oh! is not what you have told me wonderful? What! this
Cordelia has transformed your life as it has mine? Tell me if this
is not a proof of the destiny we should not seek to avoid?”

Such were the words he articulated in a low tone; but he stopped in
his turn. Fleurange’s deep blush changed into a frightful paleness.

We have remarked that the word duty resounded in this young girl’s
soul in a tone singularly correct and powerful. The words she had
just heard caused rather the striking of a signal of alarm than the
dangerous emotion they were calculated to produce. She remained
silent an instant, during which George gazed at her motionless and
incapable of uttering a word.--At length she succeeded in calming
the involuntary agitation of her heart, and, raising her beautiful
eyes, calm and grave, she looked at him with an air of proud
dignity which would have suited a queen had the most obscure of her
subjects forgotten the distance that separated them.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said she, “I appeal to your better self: is
this the language you should address a poor orphan who is under
your mother’s protection and in her _service_?”

The profound respect in the eyes that lowered before hers was a
sufficient reparation for Fleurange. But the tenderness and sorrow
mingled with this respect made his mute response perhaps more
dangerous for her to whom it was addressed than the ardent words
that preceded it. She rose immediately, nevertheless, without
adding another word, and left the salon to appear no more that
evening.


XXI.

Count George remained longer than he was aware of in the place
where Fleurange left him. At last he felt a light touch on his
shoulder. It was Adelardi who thus disturbed his reverie.

“What are you thinking about, George?” said he. “You could not
be more absorbed in contemplating that tea-cup, if it were one of
the magic vases you told us about, the other day, from which your
countrymen turn out prophetic symbols.”[104]

The count looked up, smiling: “Your comparison is not
inapplicable,” said he, “for it was precisely of the future I was
thinking. Yes, I would like to know my fortune, and, if I had any
faith in the charm to which you allude, I would immediately have
recourse to it.”

He rose as he spoke and glanced around the room. The salon was
brilliant and full of company. His mother, even more elegantly
attired than usual, seemed to be regarding with satisfaction
the numerous groups of stylish ladies, men of all ages, and
notabilities from all lands gathered around her. Nothing justified
the wearied look of him who should have aided in doing the honors
of the evening, still less the following words:

“What an insupportable crowd! If you have had enough of it,
Adelardi, as I have, let us go to my room and smoke a cigar in
peace.”

“Agreed on the last point. As to the other, it is your humor for
divination that makes you regard things in such a light.--Come,” he
continued when they were established, one in an arm-chair and the
other on a _dormeuse_, in the apartment where we once accompanied
Fleurange--“come, George, without being a fortune-teller, shall I
try to predict the future you are seeking to know?”

George lighted his cigar, and, after smoking a few moments in
silence, he said: “You are no fortune-teller, Adelardi, I am
aware, but you would not be an Italian without a certain talent for
divination. Come, I am willing: try your skill. You know you have
long had the right of saying anything to me.”

“Well, to begin--but first allow me to ask why you have kept a
curtain over that picture since your return?”

“Do you remember what that painting represents?”

“Certainly, it represents Cordelia at the feet of King Lear, who is
asleep.”

“Did you ever examine it carefully?”

“Yes, George, very carefully, so that--here, I can spare you the
trouble of answering the question I just asked. I know now why you
conceal it.”

“Let us hear.”

“You cover it for fear people will be struck with the resemblance
of Cordelia to the original.”

George did not immediately reply. “If you have guessed aright,”
said he at length, “should I be obliged to acknowledge it?”

“Yes, in the game we are playing. There must be mutual frankness,
or we must give it up.”

“Well, Adelardi, let us go on, since we have commenced.”

“I am willing and, even at the risk of offending you, I shall now
go to the bottom of the subject. I acknowledge that till now you
have succeeded in concealing the feelings that for the time control
you. I think I am the only one who has discovered them, unless
perhaps the one who has inspired them.--But I am not certain on
this point. I cannot fully read that young girl’s character.”

“It is, in fact, a character which men like us, Adelardi, seldom
have an opportunity of studying.”

“I acknowledge it, and that is why your impressible nature has been
taken by surprise and received a lasting impression. Moreover, in
spite of the conclusions that might be drawn from that painting,
your meeting here was accidental. You had not the least idea in the
world of finding your Cordelia under your roof otherwise than on
canvas.”

“Now you are no longer divining, for you learned that from me.”

“Yes, but I believed you, which another of less experience perhaps
would not have done. And then, this unforeseen and surprising
meeting lent to your previous fascination somewhat of an aspect of
fatality.”

George blushed a little as he recalled what he had said to
Fleurange some minutes before, but did not interrupt him.

“Fatality,” pursued Adelardi, “signifies something irresistible;
irresistible means that, without hesitation, without scruple,
without remorse, you are going to abuse the ascendency you only
know too well how to exercise.”

“Go on,” said Count George.

“Well, George, sermons from me would be quite out of place, and I
would not venture on one to you; but, at the risk of your finding
it strange from my lips, I must tell you that, to ensnare a noble
creature like her, or even blemish by a word the halo of goodness
and purity that surrounds her, would be infamy in my eyes.”

“And you think me capable of such infamy, Adelardi? I have reason
to thank you.”

“Come, George, swear that you are not thinking of it.”

“Of what?”

“Of her.”

“Of her? I cannot swear that. But I am astonished that the
respect you feel for her in spite of yourself--an unusual thing,
indeed--you think me incapable of.”

“Then what are you thinking of, George?”

George made no reply, and, after a moment’s silence, the marquis
resumed in a graver tone:

“My dear friend, being forty years old--that is, nearly fifteen
years older than you--I think I may be allowed to say that, if in a
choice between infamy and folly, folly is preferable, it would be
well to reflect that the least follies are the shortest, and the
worst of all are those which are irreparable.”

“We are forgetting our _rôles_, Adelardi. I have no avowals or
revelations to make you. You undertook not to tell me what I ought
to do, but to predict what I shall do.”

“Well, here is my horoscope, dictated, I acknowledge, as much by
what I desire as by my penetration. You will escape from this
folly, and keep the promise you have made.”

George’s brow grew dark. “A promise my mother doubtless
commissioned you to remind me of?”

“No; I speak to you as a friend, and quite spontaneously. If
it were at your mother’s request, I should certainly have no
hesitation about acknowledging it.”

“She certainly reminds me often enough of it herself. This supposed
promise has long been a settled fact with her.”

“Supposed?”

“Yes, supposed, for it is a subject on which I never said anything
positive.”

“Nothing? Come, George, be honest, or let us stop.”

“No, let us go on. I sometimes feel the need of opening my heart.
Well, I acknowledge that, when I met Vera de Liningen for the first
time two years ago, I was struck with her beauty and still more
charmed with her wit, and had I then remained in her neighborhood
I might have found it difficult to give her up. In that case my
fate would doubtless have been decided by this time. I should
have submitted to the yoke, and not only be married, but perhaps
have the honor of a position at court, clothed in some of those
dignities to which the husband of a favorite maid of honor might
aspire.”

“Well, my dear friend, considering that this maid of honor is rich,
noble, and one of the fairest ladies at court, and that you were
then somewhat dazzled, and she made no secret of her preference for
you, I do not see that this result would have been a very fearful
one.”

“No, I acknowledge it. If I had never left St. Petersburg, perhaps
I should have found happiness there on these terms. Now, whether
fortunate or unfortunate, I do not know, but, having breathed a
different atmosphere, I could no longer live in that. A thousand
feelings, a thousand sympathies, a thousand opinions, which I
have insensibly acquired would make me regard the gilded chain
of a court life as the worst of slaveries. This alone would have
sufficed to check the words on my lips which Vera perhaps expected
to hear, but which she knows well I never uttered. As to the
conjectures of the world, what do I care for them?”

“You acknowledge, however, that that is not the only cause of the
rupture?”

“No, if there has been a rupture: that motive was not indeed, or is
not, the only one.”

“I really suspected it, and I could not tell you which of the two
motives I deplore the most.”

“Truly, Adelardi,” said George impatiently, “I cannot help
thinking your great solicitude very singular. You once told me the
manner of contracting marriage in Italy made you decide to remain
a bachelor, and now you are as scandalized at seeing me choose the
lady of my taste with some disregard of received notions, as the
Marquis Trombelli himself could be!”

Adelardi smiled.

“That is not all, and what I have to say is still stronger. I am
neither pleased nor satisfied with the political _régime_ under
which it has pleased Providence to give me birth, and it is you,
Adelardi, you! who are astonished at this and annoyed!--I might
ask you, in my turn, why you do not return to Milan, like a loyal
subject, to enjoy the paternal government under which you would be
permitted to live?”

The expression of sprightly good-humor that characterized the
marquis’ physiognomy suddenly changed to one grave and almost
sombre.

“Stop, George,” said he in an agitated voice.

“Pardon me, Adelardi, but truly there are subjects on which I
cannot conceive why we should not agree.”

Adelardi remained some minutes without speaking, then with an
apparent effort resumed:

“Listen, George. I have a most sincere friendship for you, and you
would not doubt it if you knew what it costs me to prolong the
subject to which our conversation has led, but perhaps it will not
be unprofitable for you to listen to me. Allow me to say a few
words on a subject you know I generally avoid, having sufficient
control over myself to be silent on certain points, but not enough
to speak of them with coolness. When I was young, younger than you
now are, I was carried away with an enthusiasm only known to those
whose country is enslaved. Yes,” he continued with an emotion quite
unusual with him, “a country, prosperous, glorious, honored, and
powerful, doubtless merits a devotion no noble heart can refuse;
but to feel this devotion transformed into a wild and painful
passion, one must see his country crushed and humiliated. It must
be trodden under foot in the dust, and its name effaced from every
memory--refused the very right of bearing a name, and even of
existence!”

“Ah! I easily comprehend such a sorrow, Adelardi,” cried George
with an accent of earnest sympathy.--“I understand it but too well.
But Italy is not the only down-trodden country in Europe, and
the chance which binds a man to such a land does not oblige him
to participate in its excesses, nor forbid him, I imagine, from
deploring them!”

“I will reply to that presently, George. But let me finish what
I was saying, for this conversation will never be renewed. Under
the influence of this passion, as well as others, alas! of my age,
rank, and country, I yielded to the folly of a culpable course, or
at least I gave reason for suspicion, and, like many others of more
worth than I, and a great many whom I surpass, I suffered, as you
know, imprisonment, confiscation, and exile, one after the other.
I do not regret these trials, for when we cannot serve our country
there is a certain pleasure in suffering for it, but what I regret
is having merited them.”

“Merited?”

“Yes, certainly, for I belonged for a time to one of those secret
societies which are our ruin. Like many others, I naturally
thought myself excusable--the impulse to which I yielded seemed
so powerful! the aim proposed, so noble! Well, George--” The
marquis stopped a moment, and then continued with evident pain, but
earnestly: “Well, I tell you there is neither courage, nor honor,
nor virtue, nor loyalty, nor probity, nor anything that can render
a man worthy of respect, or even of esteem--nothing, I say, that
can resist the empoisoned atmosphere of those accursed places. My
punishment was tardy, for my denunciation only took place after I
left, but I was justly punished for entering them!”

George, affected and surprised, made no attempt to interrupt him.

“The most satisfactory act of my life,” pursued Adelardi, “an act
that required more courage than to confront death in any other way,
was to leave openly, with contempt and horror, those with whom I
found myself for a moment thus connected!”

While he was talking, he traversed the room in an agitated manner.

“Since that time,” he continued more calmly, “I have incurred
several dangers unnecessary to mention, and suffered in various
ways you are aware of. Now, I live here away from my native city,
separated from my relatives, and convinced that the day which
will change the fate of Italy will never dawn in my time, though
I am certain the day will come, and especially certain its most
dangerous enemies are not its rulers--not even its most rigid
rulers--but those false and perfidious men who are called its
friends, its heroes, and sometimes its martyrs!”

The marquis now took his seat beside George, and, pressing his
hand, said: “This is quite enough concerning myself. Let us come
back to you, whose position, you will acknowledge, it would be
absurd to compare with mine.”

“I do acknowledge it; and yet, Adelardi, you would regenerate your
country, and I would transform mine.”

“Yes; but in spite of all the defects you say tarnish his reign,
history will represent your sovereign, you may be sure, as one of
the most noble and most sympathetic representatives of that supreme
power so difficult to wield.”

“Well, that is precisely what discourages me. To realize my dreams,
the successor of Alexander I. must have all his virtues and not one
of his defects. You will acknowledge this is not what the future
seems to promise.”

“Let us not begin to draw up his horoscope, but rather listen to
my final counsel. In spite of your dreams, your aspirations, your
opinions, and your lofty sympathies, I am persuaded nothing will
ever induce you to take part in any culpable enterprise in your
country. Yes, George, believe a reformed conspirator: avoid all
contact with those who, less scrupulous than you in their deeds,
make use of nearly the same language, and be sure that, when we
come to suffer condemnation, it is infinitely disagreeable to feel
it is merrited by foolish imprudence, and that we are the victims
of no one but ourselves.”

Their long conversation had widely digressed from the point they
started from. It was now too late to resume it. But the Marquis
Adelardi resolved to return to it another time, and obtain George’s
entire confidence. He fully comprehended his present danger, and
regarded it as a duty imposed by friendship to aid him in resisting
it. But, in spite of the acuteness of his discernment, he did not
foresee that she who was the source of this danger would know
better than any one else how to dispel it.


XXII.

While this conversation was taking place, Fleurange was in her
well-known seat at the top of the stone steps, looking out on
the moonlit court and the long shadows of the pillars under the
portico, listening to the murmur of the fountain, the only noise
that disturbed the silence of the night, and breathing the vague
odor of orange blossoms that embalmed the air.

Several months had elapsed since the day of George’s arrival--the
day when the vague dreams in the depths of her soul seemed for a
moment transformed into reality, but only to vanish, however, as
quickly as they appeared. Now she was agitated and troubled anew,
but differently and more profoundly than the first time.

What was she thinking of under the influence of this agitation and
trouble?--Why did her eyes wander so pensively around when the
night was so brilliant, and in her ears still vibrated the words
which, in spite of herself, made her heart beat with triumphant
joy?--Shall we tell what she was thinking of? And the place to
which, by one of the inexplicable caprices of the imagination not
under the control of the will, her thoughts had now flown? Was it
to the Cascine where, the evening before, Count George on horseback
lingered so long beside his mother’s _calèche_? Was it to one of
the galleries where more than once he had pointed out beauties
concealed from superficial observers, but so well understood by her
to whom they were revealed? Or was it to the very salon they had
just left, and was she now thinking of that last glance from which
she turned away her own? No; the place to which her memory now
reverted was the garden of the Old Mansion--the hour she recalled
was the last she passed there! The moonlight was as brilliant that
night, the air as mild, and the flowers as odorous, but the word
‘farewell’ seemed everywhere, written and changed the beauty of
the evening into sadness. Farewell, without hope and for ever!
echoed the transcendent splendor of this night in Italy in sadder
accents--Farewell!--once more, farewell! yes, farewell!

She must tear herself away from this spot only too dear! and break
the charm only too dangerous! This was clearly evident.

An instant, only an instant, she allowed her thoughts to dwell
on the happiness she must for ever renounce. She allowed her
imagination to depict it--such as it might be were it not
forbidden--and then, with a clearness and sincerity in which no
exultation mingled, she acknowledged she would purchase it at
the price of every sacrifice except that which her conscience
forbade her make. Yes, to live near George without remorse to
become his wife with the consent of his mother, seemingly so
impossible--to purchase such a destiny, she felt nothing would seem
formidable--she would joyfully welcome poverty, the severest labor,
even death itself!

Many people of experience will smile at such language, and declare
these are imaginary sacrifices that, under the influence of
passion, the young are very willing to make, but which, luckily,
are but rarely put to the test. We admit it, and, without stopping
any longer to consider the improbable future which Fleurange thus
invoked, we can also bear witness that in view of these imaginary
trials she bravely prepared herself to make the sacrifice actually
before her. And these same people of experience will acknowledge
this was the most difficult of all. First, because it was real and
not imaginary, and also because it is always easier to make great
sacrifices for the sake of love than to renounce love itself,
which renders them so light and sometimes so sweet!

Yes, she must no longer hesitate; she must once more break the
rejoined thread of her life--and what a painful rending of the
heartstrings this time! She must go away, and never to return.
After what had just occurred, there was no longer any possible
illusion or security. By remaining, she would be false to
every obligation, gratitude, and her position with regard to
the princess, imposed upon her. Yes, she must go, but how--on
what pretext? Alas! and her _brothers_--must she renounce the
sweet satisfaction of aiding them, a joy the generosity of the
princess had so kindly promoted? This last remembrance confirmed
her resolution. Certainly, after so many benefits, she must
not in return cause her any mortification and grief, no, not
even displeasure and anxiety. She must leave at whatever cost,
and without allowing the princess to suspect the motive of her
departure; and yet she must obtain her consent. This was the great
difficulty, for she foresaw a lively resistance.

“What shall I do?--what shall I do?” repeated poor Fleurange with
perplexity. “O my God, my God! thou wilt aid me, for what I seek is
the means of accomplishing thy will: what I desire is to know it.”

While the young girl was thus thinking, struggling, and praying,
the hours flew. Once she left her seat in the window, but, feeling
unable to sleep, only exchanged her evening dress for a morning
one, then, without observing the lateness of the hour, returned to
her seat, and again took up the thread of her reflections. Suddenly
she heard steps in the corridor leading to the private staircase,
and in a moment there was a sharp knock at her door. It instantly
opened. It was Barbara.

“What!” she said with an air of surprise. “You still up at this
late hour?”

“Yes,” said Fleurange, “I was not sleepy, and--”

Barbara interrupted her:

“So much the better, for the princess is ill and wants you
immediately. Come, quick, quick, mademoiselle, for you know I am so
frightened when she has these attacks that I lose my wits.”

Fleurange was at the head of the stairs before Barbara finished
speaking, and, in a minute more, at the princess’ bedside. It
was evidently one of the severe and painful attacks to which she
was subject--and the first since her return. Fleurange at once
bethought herself of Dr. Leblanc’s minute directions, and her whole
manner was transformed. Instead of waiting and obeying, she at once
resumed the direction: every one obeyed her, and her quiet firmness
soon calmed the fright which prevailed among all the servants of
the house when illness, and illness under so frightful a form,
invaded the luxurious rooms to which they were accustomed. George
himself was not exempt. He was the first to hasten to his mother’s
bedside, and now he was supporting her head, which was thrown back,
and endeavoring to hold her hands, which quivered convulsively,
but, unaccustomed to such a spectacle, he was trembling in spite of
himself. His habitual courage seemed here of no avail.

Fleurange perceived it, and motioned for him to give her his place,
or rather, she took it without his being able to prevent her. He
remained motionless beside her, while with wonderful courage and
skill she was mastering the fearful paroxysm.

“Speak to her again,” said George. “When she hears your voice, or
you place your hand on hers, she grows calmer at once.”

“Be quiet,” replied Fleurange, “and leave her to me. Do not remain
here, I beg of you.”

At this injunction, George left the bedside, but not the chamber.
He remained in an obscure corner, leaning against the wall,
watching his mother’s altered face by the light of the shaded lamp.
All traces of remaining beauty, preserved by the most skilful arts
of the toilet, had suddenly disappeared. In an hour she had grown
ten years older. Frightful convulsions contracted her features, and
her eyes, staring wildly around, seemed to be regarding with an air
of reproach all the objects accumulated for her comfort, but now so
powerless to aid her.

This spectacle made George shudder. He was regarded not only as a
man of acknowledged bravery, but as one whose courage was almost
rash. He had braved death a thousand times without sufficient
motive, and confronted perils from the very love of danger itself.
But this kind of courage has nothing in common with that which
enables the eye to look calmly on suffering and death--not of an
heroic kind which rouses our enthusiasm, but such as we witness on
all beds of sickness, and which awaits us!

Thus beheld, the spectacle excited George’s horror. He turned away
with the repugnance of a nature delicate and noble, but perverted
by selfish indulgence, and which at all times was more capable
of brilliant proofs of devotedness than of obscure sacrifices.
Notwithstanding his tender affection for his mother, it is very
probable he would not long have endured the painful impression
he received, if the dim light which obscured everything had not
enabled him to discern the movements and features of her who so
efficaciously replaced him at the bedside. He therefore remained
where he was, contemplating Fleurange’s calm and simple attitude
with admiration. She had already dismissed several women whose
services were superfluous, and by degrees re-established order
and tranquillity around her. Barbara was still going to and fro,
bustling about and giving proofs of her good-will, but unable to
disguise the terror she could never overcome when she saw her
mistress a prey to these severe attacks. On this account, she did
not feel in the least displeased at Fleurange’s intervention, and
it was with secret joy she now heard the order for her to retire.

“It is nearly four o’clock,” said Fleurange, looking at the
magnificent clock opposite. “She is a little calmer: go and lie
down, Barbara.”

“And you, mademoiselle?”

“I? I shall remain here. I shall not stir till seven o’clock. Then
the physician will return. After his visit I shall go to bed, and
you can take my place.”

This calm and precise order was not one which Barbara wished to
hear the second time. She hastened to place an arm-chair near the
young girl, and a table with the remedies she might need, and went
out without suspecting Fleurange was not entirely alone with her
sick mistress.

George hesitated for an instant: to leave Fleurange to watch
alone seemed almost cruel; to remain unbeknown to her, almost
treacherous. He therefore decided to leave the obscure corner he
occupied, and softly approached the bed.

Fleurange, hearing his footsteps, turned quickly around, and began
to tremble. The slight noise he made was sufficient to awaken the
patient, which caused a renewal of her sufferings, and the spasm
from which she had but just rallied became more violent than ever.
For some moments George’s presence and aid were not useless, but
while she preserved her coolness he lost his, and seemed unable to
endure the sight of the suffering he could not lessen.

“Mother! my poor mother!” he cried with anguish, “look at me! give
me one look!”

“Try to be calm,” whispered Fleurange, and she added, almost in
his ear: “Do not say a word, not one--there must be calmness, and
absolute silence.”

“Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” murmured the sick woman with agitation.

Fleurange put her arm under her mistress’ head, and supported it
with one hand, while she pressed her icy hands with the other.

“O Gabrielle! do not leave me! never leave me,” continued the
princess in an unnatural tone.

Fleurange buried her face in the pillow against which she was
leaning, while another voice whispered beside her: “Oh! no, never.”

After a moment she raised her head. “Leave us now, Monsieur le
Comte. I beg you to go.”

There was an irresistible authority in her tone, but George
hesitated an instant. She repeated, “I beg you to go,” and he
obeyed without reply as if she had uttered a command.

When he left the sick-room, he felt relieved like one to whom
restraint--even the most trifling--is insupportable. Feeling the
need of fresh air, he passed through the salon and went out on the
terrace.

It was already daylight. He walked a few steps, inhaling the
perfume of the flowers with which the terrace was filled, then
stopped a long time, leaning on the balustrade with his arms
folded, looking at the clear sky growing radiant under the first
touches of Aurora. Without asking himself the reason, he was eager
to shake off the effects of the spectacle he had just witnessed.

And yet George had a great deal of heart, whether this word
signifies tenderness or courage. It would have been extremely
unjust to doubt it, but he felt a constant need of finding
in exterior objects the gratification of his faculty of
enjoyment--developed to the utmost degree of delicacy, which made
him equally susceptible of contrary impressions. This faculty was
neither low nor vulgar in its tendency. What attracted George was
genuine beauty, which alone gave a charm to the interests of the
world. Vice under an ignoble aspect was as repugnant to him as
ugliness. In his eyes, the aspect, the only aspect, of sickness,
pain, and death was repulsive. He was absolutely ignorant of the
mysterious and divine power which sometimes transforms them to the
spiritual eye and makes it look beyond the exterior circumstances
of life. Such freedom, such independence of external influences,
were unknown to him who attached so much importance to liberty and
independence! And when it is thus, there is in the soul, however
generous, a hidden germ of weakness and egoism which we are
surprised to see suddenly manifested at a later period, even in
those who display the most lofty sentiments and give proofs of the
most impetuous courage.


XXIII.

The following days were marked by the progress, the crisis, and
finally by the decline of the princess’ malady. The effect of
care and suitable remedies was soon manifest and convalescence
established. But this was the most trying time for those in
attendance, and a time when Fleurange’s presence was more
necessary than ever. She had directed everything from the first
with intelligent devotedness. They had all yielded without any
difficulty to her authority--even the invalid herself, incapable
of resisting her. But the latter now resumed, with her strength,
the exercise of an obstinate and whimsical disposition. It was
precisely during a similar phase of her previous illness that
her young companion acquired the favor she enjoyed. Fleurange
felt it would have been a thousand times easier to have left her
when she was nearly unconscious, than at a time when she was so
indispensable that her services were in constant requisition. She
alone could relieve her from the exertion of writing a letter or
receiving a visit. She alone knew how to arrange her books and
flowers, and the thousand trifles that surrounded her, in a way
to please her critical eye and capricious taste. And, above all,
it was owing to her that the evenings passed away without _ennui_
while the princess was forbidden by the physician to receive
any company except her most intimate friends. This was the time
Fleurange was called upon to read. There was a charm in her voice
and accent which the cultivated taste of the princess never wearied
of.

“Really, Gabrielle,” said she, one evening, after the young girl
had ended one of the passages she had selected--“really, it is an
exquisite pleasure to hear you read. Come, George, attend to what
we are doing, if you please. Lay aside that review in which you are
so absorbed, and come nearer. She has just read me Dante’s sonnet,

    ‘Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare
    La Donna mia,’[105]

in a way really worth listening to.”

There was a moment’s silence. A large screen veiled the light from
the princess’ eyes, which were still weak. Fleurange was seated on
the other side of this rampart. She blushed, for she was quite well
aware it was not on the book, in which he pretended to be absorbed,
the young man’s eyes were fastened while she was reading the sonnet
she had just finished.

“I have not been as inattentive as you suppose, mother,” said
George at length. “Besides, these lines would attract my attention
under any circumstances:

    ‘E da per gli occhi una dolcezza al core
    Ch’ intender non la puo chi non la prova.’”[106]

George had approached the table, and the expression of his eyes did
not allow Fleurange to mistake the application of these lines.

Alas! for a month she had been forced to accept--let us use the
right word--to enjoy the presence of him whom she had resolved
to fly from, and been obliged for the time to lay aside all
consideration of her own position in view of the duties which had
devolved on her towards the princess. But her resolution had not
for an instant faltered. Every day the sacrifice would doubtless
be more painful, but consequently the more necessary. What she
only waited for now was the propitious moment, and the means of
accomplishing it.

The Princess Catherine was now really convalescent, and able
to bear the displeasure Fleurange felt obliged to cause her.
Therefore, the same evening the little scene we have just
related took place, she resolved not to yield another day to the
considerations that had hitherto restrained her. To remain any
longer where she was would henceforth be deliberate treachery.

What she had nearly decided upon was to confide everything to Dr.
Leblanc, who was now fulfilling a promise made the year before
at the Old Mansion and visiting her friends at Heidelberg. He
understood her position with respect to the princess better than
any one else, and would know how to aid her in giving it up. He,
better than any one, could arrange everything for her return among
her relatives without betraying the motive she was so anxious to
conceal. But it was painful to decide on speaking of George even to
him. The letter was commenced but not yet finished, and the hour of
delay was passing.

She laid the book on the table and was absorbed in silent
reflection. The princess was dwelling on the thoughts suggested by
the reading, and her son, as he answered her at random, sought to
read the expression of the downcast eyes that so carefully avoided
his.

At that moment an unexpected message surprised them all. The
princess’ valet de chambre, who was the porter, wished to inform
Mademoiselle Gabrielle there was a young gentleman in the hall who
requested to see her.

“A young gentleman?” exclaimed the princess and her son at the same
time, and with no less astonishment than Fleurange.

“A young gentleman?” repeated she. “Did you ask his name?” Yes, the
valet de chambre had asked, but had forgotten, and stammered out
some name as unintelligible as unknown to Fleurange. She rose. “I
will see who it can be,” said she.

George had already arisen, and the princess exclaimed: “Gabrielle
must not go down alone at this hour. Rogues often find their way
in, in this manner, at night.--Last evening, before dark, an
unknown person entered a shop, and while the owner’s back was
turned--” The princess became unnecessarily nervous over this
slight incident.

“If you will allow me,” said George, “I will ascertain who it is.
Trust to me, and await here the information I will bring you.”

Fleurange made no objection. She knew no one and expected no one,
and was sure there was some mistake.

George was not gone more than ten minutes from the room. When he
reappeared, his face was lit up with an expression of joy.

“It is really a young gentleman,” he said, “and it was really you
he asked for, mademoiselle. And I, for my part, was also happy to
shake hands with Julian Steinberg. It was he. He has just arrived
at Florence with his wife.”

“Julian!--Julian and Clara!” cried Fleurange, overjoyed. She sprang
up at once, forgetting the princess and George, and everything
except the unexpected pleasure of seeing these beloved faces again.

Count George stopped her: “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,
Steinberg only wished to know when his wife could see you. I took
the liberty of telling him that my carriage, which is at the door,
would take you at once to the hotel where they are stopping, and he
has gone to tell her she will have the pleasure of seeing you this
very evening.”

“Oh! how kind you are,” cried Fleurange, beside herself. “How many
thanks I owe you!”

But she bethought herself that the princess did not like
anything of which she did not take the initiative, and under
no circumstances did she ever forget herself. Before the shade
that began to gather on her brow could be perceived, Fleurange
approached her.

“Monsieur le Comte is very kind,” said she; “but I should do better
to wait till morning, should I not, princess? It is only nine
o’clock, and you need me at least an hour longer.”

The princess was already partly mollified by these words, and
completely so by the grace with which her son protested he should
be angry if she did not clearly prove to him that she thought him
capable of replacing Mademoiselle Gabrielle at least for an hour.

“Come, mother, you can endure to hear me read in my turn, can you
not? I readily acknowledge my powers are not equal to what we have
just had. But, if the contrast is disagreeable to you, it will not
be the first time we have passed an hour together to our mutual
satisfaction, and that I have been able to make my conversation
acceptable to you.”

These words, uttered with a caressing grace as he knelt at his
mother’s side, appealed directly to the weakest point in her
maternal heart. The princess idolized her son. He was the joy and
pride of her life. But though full of deference and affection,
he was constantly eluding her. This woman, so imperious towards
all others, felt she had scarcely any authority over her son,
and endeavored to acquire an ascendency over him by all the
persuasiveness and skill she possessed, as if this ascendency were
not her natural right. Since George returned last he had been more
reserved than usual. Hitherto he had been able to frustrate all
her efforts to obtain his entire confidence, to which he sometimes
yielded, and which amply atoned for the long intervals of reserve
so painful to her.

On this occasion she caressingly passed her hand over her son’s
beautiful hair, and smilingly replied: “Naughty boy, you know
well what to depend upon.” Then turning to Fleurange: “Go. I am
quite willing you should go and welcome your cousin. I can for
the present do without you. Go, but come back in an hour. I shall
expect you at ten,” she added, looking at the clock.

The permission was not very graciously accorded, but Fleurange did
not profit by it the less eagerly. She did not leave the room,
however, without an involuntary look of gratitude at him who had so
well divined her wish, and so successfully seconded it.

                         TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[104] This allusion refers to a playful superstition practised in
Russia on New Year’s Eve. It consists in pouring melted wax into a
basin of cold water, and drawing predictions from the figures thus
produced.

[105]
    “So gentle and so modest doth appear
    My Lady.”
           --_Vita Nuova_, Charles Eliot Norton’s Translation.

[106]
    “She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes
    Which none can understand who doth not prove.”
                                                    --_Ibid._




HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.

FOURTH AND LAST ARTICLE.

THE MIDDLE AGES.


It has been asserted by women in the present day that the state
needs salvation and reform, and that through their use of the
political franchise this end will be mainly accomplished. Perhaps
they think that no state was ever in such danger before, and that
they themselves are the pioneers of an order of things entirely
new, under unprecedented circumstances. They should study history
to see whether they really are without predecessors. What would
they say to Genevieve, the shepherdess of Nanterre, the heroine
of the sixth century, the woman of whom St. Germanus said,
while giving her the veil of virginity and the honorary title
of deaconess, “This woman will one day be a joy and an example
even to men”? What would they say to her bravery and daring when,
during the siege of Paris by the barbarian and heathen Franks
(it was before their conversion by Queen Clotildis), Genevieve
alone encouraged the affrighted peasantry, and promised relief
to the threatened city? She had supplies transported by means
of river-boats to the besieged, and for ten years, while the
ever-renewed alarms of desultory attacks from the Franks continued,
she succeeded in sparing Paris the horrors of a famine. When the
barbarian chief, Childeric, at last entered the town, Genevieve
interceded so successfully in behalf of the inhabitants that none
of them were molested.

Every one knows the history of Joan of Arc, over whom more
passionate recriminations have been flung at each other by rival
historians than any other woman, save Mary, Queen of Scots,
has provoked. The general and unbiassed verdict of the greater
portion of the public in general has coincided with the national
decision of patriotic Frenchmen. As a heroine, her name will go
down to all ages, and she has earned her fame well, but how? Do
any of her biographers say she was bold and unwomanly, a fast and
dashing beauty, or a reckless adventuress? No; for they tell us
she was modest in her demeanor, fond of being with and talking to
little children, very sparing of her own comfort, but lavish of
her poor means for others, ready and willing to keep the flocks,
and to help her family in tilling the soil. Divinely warned of her
coming mission, she was yet most reluctant to put herself forward,
and required much pressing from her spiritual superiors to induce
her to act upon the heaven-sent suggestions. It would take us too
long to follow her through her unparalleled career; but one thing
strikes us as foremost in all the vicissitudes of her successful
military life--her extreme gravity and majesty, shielding her
love of chastity. All the doctors of the University of Poitiers
concurred, at the express desire of King Charles VII. of France,
in a strict examination of her previous life and character, and it
was chiefly her spotless reputation of virtue that inclined them to
believe in her mission. During her camp life she never neglected
her daily religious duties; the oldest and gravest veterans were
her only companions and advisers, and after nightfall she never,
on any pretext, consented to converse with a man. Before she had
taken command of the army the French had been invariably beaten by
the English in every encounter; after her accession to the supreme
command, her countrymen were as invariably victorious. Her enemies
laughed at the girl-general, but, strong in her faith, Joan of
Arc overcame the scoffers. When she had taken Orleans, her first
order was that all immoral women who had surreptitiously followed
in the ranks of her soldiers should be summarily dismissed, as it
was only to punish such licentiousness that God had allowed those
great misfortunes to come upon France. Between Orleans and Rheims
there were several towns and forts to be wrested from the English;
Joan intrepidly attacked and reduced them, while Rheims itself
surrendered without a blow. The young virgin follows the king to
the cathedral, where he is crowned and anointed, and in a few days,
so great is the moral influence of her undaunted and triumphant
patriotism, that many other towns, and Paris itself, submit to the
legitimate authority of Charles VII., and France is saved. On the
principles of modern strategists, a patent of nobility, an alliance
with the crown, a grant of broad estates, would have been hardly
sufficient for the ambitious saviour of her country; but Joan of
Arc, hardly was the king reinstated in his realm, begged leave to
retire into her former solitude, insisting with mournful eagerness
that “her mission was over.” She neither coveted nor asked any
reward; such as were offered she refused. Against her own better
judgment, but according to the king’s command, she continued to
lead his armies, though she was no longer buoyed up by her former
joyous confidence in the promises divinely made to her. God has
tried her by the severe test of adversity, and she showed herself
as eagle-spirited under her reverses as she had been in her
prosperity. Betrayed by her own countrymen into the hands of her
enemies, she suffered incredible indignities, but never raised
her voice in self-defense, save when her honor was questioned or
attacked. Solicitous only for her precious treasure of consecrated
virginity, she looked death fearlessly in the face, and mounted
the scaffold calling in a firm voice on God and his saints. She
would be called by no title save “La Pucelle,” that is, “Joan
the Virgin.” An aide-de-camp, John of Aulon, who was constantly
near her during her campaigns, often said that he believed no
purer woman breathed than Joan of Arc. Ventura draws attention to
her extraordinary activity and bodily endurance, her long fasts
and severe abnegation. He says that she was a phenomenon, but
that, although her rare combination of qualities seemed almost a
miracle in any single human being, yet such qualities are quite
reconcilable in perfect womanhood. He says she was “brave as a
warrior, and tender as a mother; wise as an old man, learned as a
doctor, and simple as a child; pure as an angel, and redoubtable as
a great conqueror.”[107]

Many historians thought it worth their while to treat in
detail of her life and career: Fleury and Rohrbacher, in their
_Ecclesiastical History_; Lebrun Charmette, in his _Life of Joan
of Arc_; Jules Quicherat, in his work on her trial, condemnation,
and rehabilitation; Guido Görres, in his German life of her;
Voltaire, in his cowardly _Maid of Orleans_. She has been made
into a representative character, and stood in Voltaire’s eyes for
the Catholic Church and the Catholic tradition concerning woman.
Görres mentions the eulogium pronounced upon her by an envoy of the
Bishop of Spires, who plainly calls her the messenger of heaven and
saviour of France.

It has been noticed that France during the middle ages was the most
civilized of nations. It was because the spirit of chivalry had
made greater progress among the French, and the spirit of chivalry
sprang from the deeper source of religious enthusiasm. The spirit
that dictated the crusades was the same that exalted woman; the
respect for woman and the duty of a knight to protect the sex, even
those of it who were unknown to him or those whom the fortune of
war had placed in his power, were lessons learned in childhood and
inculcated at the same time as fidelity to his religion and loyalty
to his sovereign. In every woman a knight recognized a queen: the
elder were to him the image of his mother, the younger of his
sister; in every female form he reverently saw the similitude of
the great Virgin, “whose Son shall be called Emanuel--God with us.”
And in order that such should be the attitude of man towards woman,
woman was educated in a manner that should make her _deserve_ such
homage.

Think not, sisters of our utilitarian age, that our ancestresses
were ignorant and foolish women, swayed by the dictates of cunning
priests, and kept as toys to beguile the idle hours of rough
warriors. Their education, unlike our modern uniform regulations,
was varied and suited to their talents; some cultivated learning,
others the arts, many were skilful in medicine, especially in the
use of herbs, and the treatment of wounds. The fairy embroidery
that we hear so much extolled was not their only accomplishment:
they could spin for all useful household purposes, and work for
the poor of their neighborhood, which home manufacture was a great
saving of both time and money. They were often elegant poets, and
indeed frequently carried off prizes in rhyming contests. The “Jeux
Floraux” of Toulouse, one of the great mediæval institutions of
Provence, were established by a learned and accomplished lady of
noble lineage, Clémence Isaure, herself a poetess of no little
merit. The prize, we believe, was generally a golden violet, and
was awarded every year to the successful competitor, whether man
or woman. Tournaments owe all their romance to the presence and
influence of woman, without which they would have fallen to the
level of the brutal Roman games of old. The beneficial influence
exerted by the women of the old feudal families, who always
remained on their own estates and cultivated relations of mutual
kindliness with their poorer neighbors and vassals, resulted
in the unique spectacle of the Vendean insurrection, in which
peasants and nobles were leagued together against the misguided
satellites of “Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality.” Elsewhere,
throughout France, women had become court puppets, and lived in
Paris as absentees from their property, where iniquitous agents
oppressed their tenants in their name; court favor and patronage,
a rivalry of frivolous gossip and scandalous adventures, had
displaced in their imaginations the noble but obscure triumphs of
the Lady of the Manor surrounded by her “children,” as she terms
her dependants; corruption, first sown by the influence of the
German Reformation, then fostered by the growing infidelity of
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, had insinuated itself
into the world of women, and through them had spread to the whole
system of society. The last spark of the spirit of chivalry shone
out in the determined stand made by the Breton peasantry against
the invasion of principles that held nothing sacred and taught
no authority save that of force. But what a grand testimony to
the influence of woman was the downfall and disorganization that
followed the French Revolution, and under the ruins of which they
are still half-buried! When woman wishes to take up again her
ancient crown, her true, “divine right,” she has but to stretch her
hand across the chasm of ’89 and the great breach of the sixteenth
century, and resume, with the sacred respect of home duties and
the reverence towards consecrated and voluntary chastity, the
sceptre of undisputed sway so triumphantly wielded by Joan of Arc,
Catharine of Sienna, Hedwige of Poland, and Mathilda of Tuscany.

Among the religious of various orders to whom the Christian world
looks up with well-merited veneration is the Blessed Juliana,
a Hospitaller nun of the diocese of Liege. It was through the
revelations made to her in prayer, and through her repeated
entreaties, that the feast of Corpus Christi was first instituted,
one of the most essentially Catholic feasts of the calendar. In
1266, it was first celebrated at Liege, but its observance was
discontinued in consequence of the machinations of a hostile
clique. In 1264, Pope Urban IV. solemnly approved and instituted
it, and commanded the great doctor Thomas Aquinas to compose an
office for it. This office is the same used by the church to-day.
Juliana herself was dead, but her friend and companion, Eva, had
not failed to continue her work, and the Pope himself did not
disdain to send her a special copy of the Bull of Institution,
with a letter in which he refers the accomplishment of the great
work to her and her deceased friend. Ventura gives us lists of
holy prelates whose mothers formed and educated them to virtue
and sanctity, but mentions especially the aid afforded Boniface,
the Apostle of Germany, by his female co-laborers. Lioba, the
chief of these, was a noble Saxon lady, and was educated at
Winburn, in England. Eadburge, an abbess, sent Boniface many
presents of clothes and other necessaries for his expedition to
Germany, and also, says Ventura, many manuscript copies of the
Bible to distribute them among his neophytes. Lioba was well
versed in Latin, and could write verses in that language. Boniface
begged her superiors to let her go to Germany, to establish,
says Butler, “sanctuaries and nurseries of religion for persons
of her sex in the infant Church of Germany.” Prudent, zealous,
and learned, she soon founded house after house of fervent
nuns, and spread the blessings of education over the hitherto
barbarian lands she visited. “Kings and princes,” continues
Butler, “respected and honored her.... Charlemagne often sent for
her to his court of Aix-la-Chapelle, and treated her with the
highest veneration. His queen, Hildegardis, took her advice in
the most weighty concerns.... St. Boniface, a little before his
mission into Friesland and his martyrdom there, recommended her
in the most earnest manner to St. Lullus and his monks at Fulda,
entreating them to have care of her with respect and honor.” She
died in extreme old age in the year 779. “Her education,” says
Ventura, “embraced civil and canon law, theology and philosophy,
natural sciences and literature, and, in some measure, the art of
government.” Rohrbacher says “that it would have been desirable
had all the clergy of Germany possessed the knowledge of St.
Lioba, for many of them were ignorant to the point of not knowing
how to administer the sacrament of baptism.” Three centuries
later, Hildegardis, a noble German lady, vindicated the claims
of her sex to the most sublime of gifts. Intellectually endowed
and gifted with great firmness of character, she became the
mother and foundress of the monastery of St. Rupert, in the Rhine
provinces, where kings and statesmen repaired to her for advice
and instruction. The revelations received by her, after being most
rigorously examined by a council assembled at Treves, were solemnly
approved by Pope Eugene III., assisted by St. Bernard. Rohrbacher
calls her “the St. Bernard among women.” Her correspondence was
immense, and her writings have been collected and published with
care. In the thirteenth century, Gertrude and Mechtildis, of noble
Saxon descent, claim our attention. They were sisters, and both
governed immense monasteries. Alban Butler says of the former: “In
her youth she studied Latin, as it was then customary for all nuns
to do; she wrote and conversed in that language, and was versed
in sacred literature.... How much soever she gave herself up to
contemplation, she neglected not the duties of Martha, and was
very solicitous in attending to the necessities of every one....
Her short book of _Divine Insinuations_ is perhaps the most useful
production, next to the writings of St. Teresa, with which any
female saint _ever enriched_ the church.” Her prayers to the Sacred
Heart show how this characteristic devotion, afterwards perfected
and made public by another holy woman, Mary Margaret Alacocque,
first presented itself to a woman’s mind, and found a home in a
woman’s heart.

It may be gratifying to many women to learn that the city and
University of Oxford have for patroness, and in mediæval times
honored as such, the Saxon maiden, Frideswide, whose church and
monastery, after having undergone many vicissitudes, are now known
as Christ Church College. Ursula, the virgin martyr of Cologne, is,
according to Butler, “patroness of the famous College of Sorbonne,
and titular saint of that church. Several religious establishments
have been erected, under her name and patronage, for the virtuous
education of young ladies. St. Ursula, who was the mistress and
guide to heaven to many holy maidens whom she animated to the
heroic practice of virtue, is regarded as a model and patroness
by those who undertake to train up youth in the sentiments and
practice of piety and religion.” The Ursuline institutes for the
education of girls are renowned throughout Europe, and even to
this day are powerful auxiliaries of the church in the training of
youth. Later ages have not been behind in emulating the sixteenth
century, which, seven hundred years after the death of Ursula, so
nobly commemorated her triumphs in the institution of the Ursuline
Order. The Nuns of the Visitation, and still later those of the
Sacred Heart, have continued the work of Christian education up to
the present day.

The beginning of the twelfth century leads us to Delphina and her
husband Elzear, both of Provençal descent, and holding high office
at the court of Naples and Sicily. Butler says of them that “no
coldness for so much as one moment ever interrupted the harmony or
damped the affections of this holy couple. The countess [Delphina]
was sensible that the devotions of a married woman ought to be
ordered in a different manner from those of a religious person....
The care with which she looked into the economy of her house was
a sensible proof of the interior order in which she kept her own
soul. Nothing was more admirable than her attention to all her
domestics, and her prudent application to the preservation of
domestic peace.”[108] These two devoted followers of Christ were
always ready to assist and protect the poor; they lived together
in perpetual virginity, and gave themselves up entirely to their
self-imposed duties of charity. King Robert of Sicily showed his
esteem of Elzear by making him his son’s governor. In this office
he exercised his influence as irreproachably as he had done in
other positions, and the counsels of his wife were ever at hand
to assist and cheer him. At his death his widow retired into a
monastery.

Another remarkable woman of the middle ages was Catharine of
Genoa, who towards the latter end of the fifteenth century became
a model for her sex in each of the states of life to which women
are called. As a virgin, a wife, and a widow, her life was perfect
in its sincere subordination to the will of God. Her marriage was
unhappy, and she suffered much from her husband’s brutality, his
extravagance and licentiousness. She trusted to a higher power
than the civil courts for her vindication and reward, and after
her husband’s death gave herself up to active works of mercy. She
devoted herself to the care of the sick in the great hospital
of Genoa. Of this house, says Butler, she lived many years the
mother superior. Her charity could not be confined to the bounds
of her own hospital; she extended her care and solicitude to
all distressed sick persons over the whole city, and employed
proper persons with indefatigable industry to discover, visit,
and relieve such objects. Here we see a woman governing and
managing a most important national institution, guarding its
temporal interests, and watching over its spiritual relations
with the utmost care and most delicate discrimination; showing a
talent for government which would do good credit to the best men,
and preserving withal the greatest humility and modesty both of
thought and demeanor. Does the church deny the sex any legitimate
opening for its energies? Judge for yourselves, sisters, and answer
impartially. Does she not, on the contrary, enable it to do that
which, outside her, is next to impossible? Cannot a woman wearing
the distinctive badge of one of her orders pass unmolested where
no other woman however pure, however earnest, could go without at
least risk of insult; and does she not invest with the dignity
of an organized association efforts which, made singly, would be
barely removed from Quixotism?

We have long delayed speaking of Catharine of Sienna, the St.
Teresa of mediæval times, one of the most energetic and wonderful
women the world ever produced. Ventura calls her a “missionary and
apostle,” and Butler says that her influence was so great that no
one ever approached her who went not away better. She was only
eighteen, when, after suffering the hardships of her humble home
during her childhood, she took the veil in the Third Order of St.
Dominic. The most hardened sinners could not withstand the force of
her exhortations; thousands flocked from distant places to hear or
only see her, and were converted by her words or example. At the
earnest suit of the citizens of Pisa, she went to their town, and
it is related that the confessions of those she reclaimed from evil
courses were so numerous that the priests of the town had much
trouble to attend to them. The Florentines and Perugians having,
in 1375, leagued together against the Holy See, the Pope, Gregory
XI., who at that time was living at Avignon, sent an army into
Italy and interdicted the rebellious principalities. The country
fell into such intolerable confusion that, to end the chaotic state
of things, the Florentines submitted to the Pope. They first sent
for St. Catharine, who was met at the city gates by the chiefs of
the magistrates. The negotiations were entrusted to her, and the
ambassadors who followed her to Avignon received orders to sign and
confirm whatever decision she should make. The Pope and cardinals
received her at Avignon with great marks of distinction; and the
Pontiff said after his conference with her: “I put the affair
entirely into your hands, only I recommend you the honor of the
church.” The heads of the church were seemingly not afraid to trust
the gravest issues in a _woman’s_ hands!

Catharine exerted all her powers of persuasion to induce Gregory
XI. to return to Rome, and after her departure wrote urgent letters
to him on this subject. Twice, both at Avignon and at Sienna,
learned prelates and doctors disputed with her, vainly trying to
find her wanting either in learning, in sincerity, or in humility.
They were obliged to confess themselves in the wrong. She had
many disciples, both men and women, one of whom, Stephen, the son
of a senator of Sienna, became her secretary and afterwards a
Carthusian monk. The Pope commissioned her to go to Florence, and
try once more to pacify the troubles which the insincerity of the
government of that state was always rekindling. “She lived some
time in that factious place,” says Butler, “... and showed herself
always most undaunted, even when swords were drawn against her.” At
length she effected the long-wished-for reconciliation, though not
under Gregory, but his successor, Urban VI. Some of his discourses
have been collected, and compose the treatise _On Providence_.
When Urban VI. had been elected, there followed a great schism,
during which anti-popes usurped the chair of Peter, and the whole
Italian peninsula was violently distracted. She wrote to several
countries and princes in Urban’s favor, and also to the Pope
himself, entreating him to restrain his somewhat hasty disposition
for the sake of the peace of the church. Many treatises and other
writings of hers are still extant. She died at the early age of
thirty-three in 1380, in Rome, where Urban had called her to help
and advise him. She predicted the schism and other calamities,
and whether this gift be ascribed, as reverent believers would
wish, to the favor of God who allowed her a prophetic vision of
the future, or, as the hard-headed philosophy of modern times
would dictate, to the superior discrimination of an extraordinary
woman, it is equally an honor to her and a title to especial and
enthusiastic remembrance. Another woman concurred in the work of
St. Catharine of Sienna, Bridget of Sweden, to whom we have already
referred. She too prophesied the coming disasters of the church;
she too pressed Gregory XI. to go back to Rome. Catharine was once
commanded to harangue the Sacred College, in order to procure peace
and unity among them. “This unique example,” says Ventura, “showed
the powers of eloquence and the depth of the wisdom of this young
Christian heroine.” As a means to reunite Christendom and perhaps
avert what she prophetically foresaw, she urged upon Gregory XI.
the advisability of inaugurating a new crusade, and, when told
in amazement that first the Christians themselves would have to
be reconciled, answered with consummate tact and prudence: “Holy
Father, the expedition will be so popular that in itself it will
unite them. Few men are so depraved as to be unwilling to serve God
by means to which they are passionately attached. To separate the
burning brands is virtually to quench the fire.”

She traced a plan of pacification as the basis of the policy she
wished the Pope to adopt, urging the necessity of peace, and adds,
“Let it not be a supine, weakling peace, but, on the contrary, an
active, organizing state of things, in which bad and mercenary
pastors will be summarily punished and all scandals swept away.”
The vigorous foresight of this woman is a greater marvel than
her holiness. In her we have a noble example of the heights of
intellect to which the grace of God can lead a woman’s nature, and
we might almost close our argument with this crowning figure of the
moral Joan of Arc of Italy. Yet, lest we be met with the objection
that all this greatness is part of a lost system, and that a new
dispensation has superseded the church’s championship of the sex,
we must, in justice to our own times, recall a few of those facts
which since the Renaissance have repeatedly testified to the
recognized influence of woman in political and social spheres.

Take, for instance, Isabella of Castile, the protectress and friend
of Christopher Columbus, the great queen to whom Spain first owed
the proud position of mistress of the seas and queen of the New
World.

Columbus had offered his services to several kings and governments;
it was a _woman_ who alone treated his projects as sublime
realities and had faith in the future he prophesied. When he
returned from his first expedition, it was she who received
him with greater honors than those rendered to the old Spanish
nobility; it was she who upheld him in his new speculations
and furnished him the means to prosecute further discoveries.
Long before he had gained her favor, it was again a woman whose
intelligent appreciation had encouraged him in weary labors, his
mother-in-law, Madame Peristiello, herself the widow of a famous
navigator, the discoverer of the Islands of Madeira and Porto Santo.

Isabella governed her hereditary dominions of Castile herself,
while her husband, Ferdinand of Aragon, administered his own; but
not long after their marriage, so persuaded was he of her superior
talents for government, that he gave up his kingdom to her care.
The final expulsion of the Moors from Catholic Spain was her
conception, was carried out by her personal influence, and owed
its success mainly to her inspiring presence among the Christian
besiegers of Granada. The great Captain Gonsalvus of Cordova,
who seconded her most admirably in her gigantic undertaking, was
sought out and patronized by her on account of the genius she
discovered in him; the great legislator, Cardinal Ximenes, owed
his elevation to her, and was forced by her to accept the great
dignities which were to enable him to reform and aggrandize the
country. Fernando Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, was likewise
her special _protégé_, and indeed no better proof could be had of
the omnipotence of her personal influence in Spain than the fact
that after her death these great men were either forgotten or,
worse still, persecuted. Without the queen’s knowledge, Ferdinand
had listened to the detractors of Columbus, and degraded him from
his post of viceroy over the newly discovered lands in America.
Isabella indignantly interfered and had him reinstalled in his
dignities, but when, shortly after, his protectress died, he was
again imprisoned, and fell the victim to Ferdinand’s ingratitude.
As to Gonsalvus of Cordova, he then, after the queen’s death, was
disgraced, and sent, under a pretext of hypocritical regard, to
occupy the post of a viceroy at Naples.

One of Isabella’s biographers, Desormeaux, says that “_to_ the
graces of her sex the queen of Castile added the greatness of a
_hero_, the profound and able policy of a _minister_, the views
of a _legislator_, the brilliant qualities of a _conqueror_, the
honesty of a _good citizen_, and the uprightness of a perfect
_magistrate_.” Ventura quotes this with these italics. Rohrbacher
calls her a _true king_, drawing attention to her indefatigable
zeal in seeing to all affairs herself, and in constantly
encouraging her troops by her presence on horseback among them.
He repeats her praises in almost the same words as Desormeaux.
Innocent VIII. granted her the formal title of “Most Catholic
Majesty”; Cardinal Ximenes said that the world would never see
again a sovereign so inflexibly just; Peter of Anghiera, the
professor of the palace-school for the youth of the nobility,
lamented her as “the refuge of the good, the sword raised against
the guilty, the mirror of rigid virtue.”

Placed at the beginning of modern times, on the threshold of the
church’s momentary eclipse, and of the decadence of public morality
all over Europe, she stands out in bold relief a champion of the
church, which, in proud gratitude to her sex, has been her champion
in return.

St. Teresa, whom all ages and creeds agree in accepting as an
extraordinarily gifted woman, was another of the shining lights of
Spain at this time. She too was a Castilian; her influence was no
less widely spread than that of Isabella, and, if anything, it has
lasted longer and more visibly. One of the greatest orders of the
church acknowledges her as its reformation, and, for all practical
purposes, even as its foundress. The Carmelite Friars speak of
her as “our holy mother,” as the ancient Benedictines speak of
Benedict as “our father.” The writings of St. Teresa are among
the most important spiritual treasures of the church. Her health
was for many years a grievous trial to her, and her temptations,
as recounted by herself, seem to have been neither light nor few.
In the reform so urgently needed among the lax followers of the
Order of Carmel, she was systematically opposed by many influential
persons and superiors of her own as well as of the opposite sex.
After a sort of novitiate of twenty years of unceasing efforts to
attune her soul to the practice of mental prayer, she began her
agitation in favor of reform under disappointing circumstances,
but, triumphing with time over many of her opponents, at last
procured the assistance of powerful colleagues. Many of these were
women. In 1562, she was established in a convent where the reform
was first practised. Butler says, “The perfection and discretion of
her rule eclipsed all former reformations of her order.” She next
founded two monasteries for men according to the reform. At Medina
del Campo, at Pastrana, at Durveo, she founded communities of men;
at Valladolid, Avila, Salamanca, Alva, of women. It is impossible
to enumerate her many other foundations. When her co-laborers,
the priests Gratian, Marian, and others, gave up all for lost on
account of the ceaseless opposition they encountered, she alone
remained firm and hopeful, saying, “We shall suffer, but the order
will stand.” She also said that the cross was “the secure and
beaten road” to lead their souls to God. Women are proverbially
called weak, and said to be unwilling to forego luxuries or court
trials; yet how Teresa vindicated her sex in her heroic resolve to
“let justice be done, though the heavens fall”! Her contemporary,
Bishop Yepez, tells us that her deportment was not less agreeable
than edifying, that her prudence and address were admirable, and
speaks no less of her gracefulness, dignity, and charms than of
the gravity, modesty, and discretion of her conversation and
carriage. Truly a most _womanly_ woman, who could take upon her
man’s responsibility without forfeiting the beautiful attributes of
her sex. Like in this to the Catholic Church, Catholic womanhood
has _all_ that is claimed by women outside the church, and not only
that, but she adds far more, just as the church holds whatever
truth is held by the different sects, and infinitely more beside.
Teresa died in 1582, having lived to see sixteen convents of
Carmelite nuns, and fourteen of friars, founded and successfully
organized. The impress of her noble work is undying; she had the
talents of the unhappy Luther, but dedicated them to a worthier
cause, and, now that the same number of centuries have passed over
their respective graves, the woman’s name is universally honored
even by her conscientious opponents, while the man’s is execrated
in many a community whose original constitution was derived from
his teachings.

In the same century as Teresa lived another great reformer and
Christian agitator, St. Cajetan, of Thienna, who owed to his
admirable mother his enthusiasm and ardent zeal for holy things.
He showed by his foundations how highly he esteemed woman’s virtue
and integrity; one of his chief aims being to establish refuges
for fallen women, and asylums for those whose honor was endangered
through poverty and destitution. But one of his greatest works
would never have been accomplished if a noble and wealthy woman had
not generously taken its fulfilment upon herself: namely, what is
called in Catholic Europe the “_Mont de Piété_,” an untranslatable
and most touching synonym for our more repulsive pawn-shops. These
institutions were established to counterbalance the shameful system
of usury in vogue at the time, and were so controlled by the state
that the needy masses should be benefited by them instead of
being duped. To the Countess of Porto is Italy indebted for these
much-needed reforms. Mother Ursula Benincasa, the foundress of an
order called the Theatine Hermits, was, according to Ventura, the
bulwark of orthodoxy in the kingdom of Naples. She was the first to
unmask the heresiarchs Bernardin Ochino and Peter Vermillo, who had
begun to preach Protestantism under the cloak of reform. St. Philip
Neri examined her and encouraged her in her labors, and the city of
Naples reveres her as its protectress.

One of the best known and best loved saints of modern times
is St. Francis of Sales. One of his most popular works is his
_Introduction to a Devout Life_--the most useful, readable, and
intelligible manual of devotion ever written for persons living in
the world. Yet this would never have been written save for a woman,
to whom were addressed the letters from which it was subsequently
compiled. He treats in this work almost exclusively of the duties
of women, and chiefly of women of the higher classes--those of whom
it is said by too many, in their excessive severity, that they are
debarred by the circumstances of their life from real Christian
work. St. Francis’ _Treatise on Divine Love_, a longer work, is
modelled much on the same plan. The woman whose soul he thought
worthy of inspiring these efforts was Madame Jeanne Françoise de
Chantal, the grandmother of another gifted and well-known woman,
the charming Madame de Sévigné. Her domestic life, during the
years of her happy and holy marriage, was a model of severity and
order. Regular hours were assigned for everything in her household,
every duty and employment discharged with, great order, and the
spiritual and moral welfare of her servants attended to with the
minutest solicitude. Butler says that order is an indispensable
part of virtue; and what is more worshipped (in theory!) among our
modern women-reformers than this very quality! But here we have it
exhibited in a saint: is it the less attractive for that? When her
husband was absent, she refrained from visiting and entertainments,
and was at all times conspicuous for shunning, as far as the
duties of her position would allow, all useless and frivolous
occupations. Again, we have Butler commending her for this, and
adding that “to make a round of amusements and idle visits the
business of life, is to degrade the dignity of a rational being
and to sink beneath the very brutes.” Is this not the language
held by the modern advocates of a reform among women? Thus we see
that, in everything to which reason points, the church not only
stands up for the rights of woman, but also that her ministers and
exponents have even forestalled the “newly discovered movement,”
both by word and example, many centuries ago. Jeanne Françoise
de Chantal lost her husband after several years of marriage, and
gave herself up to the care and education of her children. To this
task, which she superintended with the gravest diligence, she
applied herself for several years, until her eldest daughter’s
marriage. Then she entered the religious life, leaving her son
under the guardianship of her father, but retaining herself the
privilege of still superintending his studies. Her Congregation of
the Visitation soon after became a regularly constituted order,
and she and some companions, under the auspices of St. Francis of
Sales, took their solemn vows at Annecy, in 1610. In the same year,
she stayed for several months at Dijon, arranging family affairs
and watching over her son’s studies. She also founded convents in
nine or ten prominent towns in France, and, between 1619 and 1622,
governed the convent in Paris, where she at first met with and
overcame serious difficulties. Her son, whose marriage had been her
special care and work, was killed in 1627, in the religious wars
then desolating France, and her daughter-in-law and son-in-law (the
husband of her eldest daughter) died not long after. Her fortitude
under these trials was worthy of the Roman and Spartan matrons of
old, and her tenderness for those more bereaved than herself, a
model of Christian grace. Her aptitude for directing souls was very
remarkable, and her bravery in tending the body in sickness no less
so. During the pestilence at Annecy her efforts were ceaseless,
and her prayers for its cessation full of fervent belief. In 1638,
the Duchess of Savoy sent for her to Turin to found a Convent
of the Visitation, and treated her (to her great mortification)
with the greatest honor. The same happened in Paris, where a royal
mandate had also summoned her. It is impossible to calculate the
influence this energetic woman has had upon the modern destinies
of Catholic Europe, both during her busy and fruitful life and
since her death, when the houses of her order have multiplied to an
enormous extent, and for some time monopolized almost entirely the
education of the upper classes of women. If they no longer hold the
first place among such institutions, another order, no less useful
and especially designed for this one end, has successfully taken up
their work, the Congregation of the Sacred Heart.

The seventeenth century gave birth to another institution even
more perfect than that inaugurated by the Baroness de Chantal,
that of the Sisters of Charity. This is perhaps the only Catholic
foundation against which the malice of the church’s opponents--of
all shades of belief and unbelief--has never dared to raise its
voice. Not the most improbable tale of scandal has been hurled
at these women; not the remotest trace of a sneer has ever been
pointed at them; infidels on their death-bed, philanthropists
who scouted the Catholic ideal, soldiers on the field of battle,
physicians whom they outdo in zeal in the worst hospitals--all are
agreed on the unimaginable and gigantic heroism of the Sisters of
Charity. They alone, of all nuns, are allowed to walk the streets
of London without the least concealment of their distinctive
dress, and all over the world there is not a queen whose royal
robes are more respected than the simple peasant-like costume of
the daughters of St. Vincent of Paul. Louise de Marillac was the
saint’s first great helper in this noble work. Their rule is one
that might serve women of the world, so entirely spiritual and
interior is its nature. “Let them have,” it says, “the houses of
the sick for their monastery, the rooms of the poor for their cell,
the parish church for their conventual chapel, for grating the fear
of God, and holy modesty for their veil.” The Countess of Soigny,
who assisted St. Vincent in his missions among the agricultural
poor in 1616; Madame de Goussault, who suggested to him the
formation of an organized body of ladies to attend regularly on
the sick of the present hospital in Paris, the Hôtel Dieu; Madame
de Polaillon, who herself supplemented his labors by visiting
the sick, and teaching the ignorant country population herself,
under the disguise of a peasant woman, and who finally took upon
herself to found, under his direction, the Institute of Mercy for
the reformation of abandoned women; the Queen-Regent, Anne of
Austria, who nominated him to a post of great moral influence, and
consulted him in all ecclesiastical affairs; Mesdames de Marillac,
de Traversai, and de Miramion, who were the life and soul of his
immortal Foundling Institution--these and many others, of all
classes and all ages, were the real and earnest fellow-laborers to
whose zeal, under God, he owed the success of his many admirable
enterprises. Whatever amelioration the lot of man has undergone
has always been traceable either to a woman’s suggestion or at
least her practical co-operation. One woman, whose name should
not be forgotten in the catalogue of Vincent of Paul’s spiritual
lieutenants, is that of Marie de Gournay, the wife of a small
wine-seller, a most holy and discreet woman. M. Olier, a priest of
that age, has left us her panegyric in glowing terms: “All the
good which is done at this time passes, so to speak, through her
hands; all the great undertakings of our day are somehow referable
to her. Although her birth and position are obscure, yet she is
the counsel and the light of the most illustrious persons in
Paris.” He then names the great ladies of the court who ask her
advice in spiritual matters, and adds: “There are no apostolic men,
no missionaries, who fail to go to her for instruction. Father
Eudes, a famous preacher, consults her frequently. The General of
the Oratorians does the same. Mademoiselle Manse, whom God has
inspired to go out to Canada to help in the propagation of the
faith there, undertook this work only after receiving Marie de
Gournay’s approbation. She it is who directs M. de Coudray, who
is working for the Levant missions and the defence of the church
against the Turks.... A certain counsellor of state takes her
advice in all things, and has worked in consequence much to the
benefit of the church. The chancellor of the kingdom, according to
her persuasions, is very zealous in the extirpation of heresy and
the defence of the church. I pass over many names as illustrious as
these, the position of their bearers precluding me from mentioning
them.” M. Olier’s own conversion was due to her predictions and
timely warnings, and through his vocation her influence was greatly
spread in the work of reforming the ecclesiastical seminaries of
France. The historian Rohrbacher only mentions her as a power
on the side of religious reform. The College of Vaugirard and
the Seminary of St. Sulpice, now the two foremost educational
institutes of Paris, were the fruits of her prayers and counsels.

The end of the reign of Louis XIV. was remarkable for the happy
and beneficial rule of a woman, his wife, Madame de Maintenon,
whose rigid virtue and wise influence were boons no less prized
by the nation than by the sovereign. Before her marriage with the
king, she was the queen’s true and loyal friend, and exercised the
influence she even then possessed over Louis XIV. wholly in his
consort’s favor. She never would accept gifts from him, and indeed
told him plainly that he had not the right to give her anything.
The great institution in which she was interested, and which owed
its foundation to her, was the Free School of St. Cyr, for the
daughters of poor gentlemen. It was in this school that many of the
heroines of the French Revolution were educated. Fénelon avowed
that he looked to her as the king’s conscience. Racine wrote at
her suggestion his masterpiece, _Athalie_, and broke through the
senseless tradition which deified and consecrated in poetry crimes
which, told in prose, would have made any modest _man_ or woman
blush. Fénelon’s determined stand against the king’s encroachments
on religious liberties left him without a friend in the fickle
court of Versailles; Madame de Maintenon boldly ranged herself on
his side and exerted all her influence in his favor.

We have come so near to the days of our fathers that we must stop,
as on the confines of well-known and well-worn subjects. The heroic
and _manly_ character of Maria Theresa, the fortitude of Louise de
France, the Carmelite nun, the calm bravery of Marie Antoinette
and Madame Elizabeth, are facts too well known to need repetition.
Perhaps it may not be so with the origin of the Propagation of
the Faith, which was begun at Lyons in 1822 by a few humble
working-women, instinct with the spirit of Martha, and undeterred
by the first obscurity of their good works. We might mention women
who have influenced literature and made a name that will never be
forgotten--Eugénie de Guérin, Lady Georgiana Fullerton, Countess
Ida Hahn-Hahn, and many others; especially of late the charming
authoress of the _Récit d’une Sœur_. Is it necessary to speak of
the numberless convents where girls of all classes are thoroughly
educated, and in which the teachers, were they men, would shine
as college tutors and holders of professional chairs? In fact, if
we had time and space to go through the modern world, as we have
explored the ages of our ancestors, we should find no less vitality
among women, no less determined championship of the sex on the part
of the church. Let us end by a tribute to one of the noblest works
of charity ever undertaken, that of the Little Sisters of the Poor,
the earthly guardian angels who live in such evangelical poverty
that, when they have _begged_ the _remains_ of rich men’s tables to
feed their infirm and aged charges, they humbly and cheerfully make
their own scanty meal from the _refuse_ of these very remains. In
days when luxury has _created_ wants destructive to human strength
and health, let us honor above all these heroines of charity who
live as the angels, and almost make us forget that their bodies are
still under the law of the flesh and require fleshly sustenance.

With this picture of the very _ne plus ultra_ of charity, let us
close our catalogue of woman’s perfections in the kingdom of grace,
knowing well that we leave many an act of heroism unrecorded, many
a sacrifice “hidden with Christ in God.”

We have seen what the church has done for woman: we have seen
what woman has done for and in the church. It is at the sex’s
option to continue this mission. The cultivation of its highest
faculties is a duty it owes to the church and society. Mothers
will be doubly mothers if they develop their sons’ moral nature,
as they are bound to do, through the education of their own; the
wife is solemnly bound to become truly her husband’s “helper, like
unto himself”; daughters and sisters have a work to do in their
homes far above the preparation of a meal or the smoothing over of
domestic troubles; all women, of whatever age, class, or mental
calibre, have their _vote_ to give in the great election that will
decide the victory of the church or the world. If women vote for
vice, the world of men will be bad; if for virtue, society may be
regenerated: theirs is the casting vote, the decisive move. Let it
be upward, sisters--let it be God-ward!

FOOTNOTES:

[107] _Donna Cattolica_, p. 295.

[108] _Lives of the Saints._




MISS ETHERIDGE.


While I was spending a summer in a pleasant town in Connecticut,
I became very much interested in an invalid lady, who used to be
drawn past my window in one of those small vehicles which seem both
chair and carriage. The lady did not look ill by any means. She
sat erect, and gazed about her with a lively air, betokening good
health and spirits. She was always richly dressed, and wore her
silks, velvets, and laces with the air of one well used to such
raiment. Many of those meeting her bowed with deference, which she
returned with courteous grace and a high-bred manner. Sometimes she
would stop her little carriage while a friend chatted with her, and
seemed always to make herself very agreeable, as I judged from the
pleased faces of her listeners. Frequently I would see ladies and
gentlemen walking by the side of her carriage as her maid slowly
pushed it along. I met her very often in my walks, and sometimes
I strolled a little way behind, observing this stately dame, so
afflicted and yet so favored apparently by fortune and misfortune.

She was a very handsome woman of about fifty years of age. Her
silver-gray hair was abundant and beautiful, crowning her with a
dignity beyond the power of any artificial adornment to bestow. The
carriage of her head was proud and erect. Her features were clear
cut and handsome, and the delicate tint of her complexion seemed
almost to belong to youth. She appeared to me like a fine picture
of a court dame in some bygone time, because, with all the air of
style investing her, she was not dressed in the fashion of the day.
In this was shown a fine, nice taste; whatever was her infirmity,
it seemed to place her so removed from the frivolity of her sex
that an affectation of fashion in her attire would have been
unbecoming.

Being so much interested in this lady, I made inquiries, and soon
learned much of her former history. She was a Miss Etheridge,
afflicted with incurable rheumatism, of that kind which renders the
victim almost helpless. She could not stand on her feet or change
her position without the help of others. She could only imperfectly
use her hands, and yet her health was good and her intellect
vigorous. She had been, only a few years before, an active,
energetic woman, remarkably self-reliant and helpful to others. She
had been a beauty and belle in her girlhood, and always a woman
commanding the homage and respect of all who knew her.

But now, what a sad ending of a favored life! “Bound with chains,”
she said to me, for, waving ceremony in view of her great
affliction, I called upon her and cultivated an acquaintance which
I never regretted. Debarred as she was from all occupation, she was
very fond of society. Her hands, once very beautiful, as former
portraits showed, were now so distorted and weakened as to be
unable to hold any but the lightest books or pamphlets for reading,
and that not very long at a time. So, in her luxurious apartments,
surrounded by every alleviation that wealth could bestow, this lady
passed many lonely hours and days--hours of intense weariness of
both body and mind. Sitting in her massive, high-backed chair, she
looked like a fine picture and showed no sign of her infirmity; yet
how her poor limbs ached from the mere lack of change of posture,
only those similarly affected can tell. An intimacy sprang up
between us so easily that I was often present at times when her
attendants moved and dressed her; and then it was that I became
aware of the extent of torture to which she was subjected by the
mere moving of a limb. Much of her time she passed lying in her
bed, from an intense dread of the severe ordeal of being moved. I
have passed hours sitting by her bedside, reading to her and in
conversation with her, and by this means came to know much of her
state of mind and religious feeling.

I admired the fortitude and patience with which she bore her
burden, yet it did seem to me quite as much Spartan endurance as
Christian meekness or acceptance of the will of God. Hers was
a heroic nature, with some pious yearnings uncultivated. She
chafed like a caged lioness, but was too proud to whine or repine
in any cowardly fashion. She was an Episcopalian of the firm,
old-fashioned type that eschews both Ritualism and Evangelicalism.
To be as the bishops and clergymen of her family, who had supplied
the church of her affections for generations with clerical stock,
seemed to her just the right medium, and in clinging to this
standard she simply starved her soul. She knew me to be a Catholic,
a “Roman Catholic”--for she also claimed to be a Catholic, an
“Anglican Catholic,” as I also had once done. I, being a recent
convert, felt enthusiastic even while timid on this subject.
I had passed through the ordeal of estrangement from friends,
been exposed to misunderstanding of my motives and all the whips
and stings to which those who take this step are subjected, too
recently not to be very sensitive about laying myself open to the
charge of endeavoring to proselyte another. I loved Miss Etheridge
and her society too well to risk her displeasure, or by speaking
overmuch of my own faith to give any handle for her relatives
to turn against us. She, on her part, was too truly polite to
ever make any unpleasant allusions to the subject. And yet how
much I longed for her to know what a sure trust and support she
_could_ have if she only _would_! When I heard her involuntary
moans, my prayers went up for the intercession of the Mother of
Sorrows, again, and yet again. And I knew all the time that _that_
intercession she rejected with scorn. Nothing I could have said
to her would have been so unwelcome as a prayer to the Blessed
Virgin in her behalf. Yet I did ask that tender intercession, and I
believe the All-Pitying Woman above was touched with compassion for
the proud, suffering woman who would not ask her aid.

On one occasion, when our conversation had drifted along to the
subject of the next life, she remarked that to _her_ the bliss to
be desired was to be “unchained--‘delivered from the body of this
death.’”

“My dear friend,” said I, “if you die before I do, my regrets will
be tempered by the thought that your ‘earthly clogs’ are cast off.”

“Ah! if there is a purgatory,” she often said, “I am enduring mine
here. What has been my sin more than another’s, that this should be
thrust upon me!” And at these times the tone of her voice and the
expression of her face showed the impatient, unchastened fire of
the haughty, rebellious spirit.

But had she none of the consolations of religion? Protestants are
not pagans. No, indeed. This lady had her books of devotion in
profusion. Her elegant Book of Common Prayer and her Bible lay
always at hand. Other books also were on her table--“Counsel for
the Sick-Room,” and kindred works, of which she contemptuously
remarked that they were written by persons in good health, who
found it very easy to bear patiently the pains and crosses of
other people, but who might possibly not be such fine Christian
philosophers if they had to endure all this themselves.

In her palmy days of health and strength she had been a communicant
in the Episcopal Church, and now, when, according to the teaching
of that church, she needed still more the nourishment for her
soul’s health, she declined availing herself of the privilege.
This always seemed to me very strange, knowing full well as I
did what her church taught her, and what in all consistency she
should do. But on this topic my lips were closed. Her pastor was
a timid young man, who visited her at intervals, but who was
afraid to urge anything upon her which she seemed not to wish. I
found from her own and others’ conversation concerning him that he
regarded his highest duty to his flock to be that of preaching to
them, and their highest duty to come to church and listen to him.
To give him as little trouble as possible, and leave him as much
time to himself as they could, was to make themselves agreeable
parishioners. He delighted in having certain enthusiastic and
well-disposed ladies conduct Sunday-schools, societies, charities,
visiting of the sick, and all other troublesome matters; thereby
relieving him of all need to bother himself and take his thoughts
from the fine sermons which he delighted to elaborate in his study.
His wife and children claimed much of his attention, and through
them society had its demands on him. In short, he liked to be very
comfortable, and much money “donated” by good and kind people went
to put him and his family in the enjoyment of ease and refinement,
which money might, I often thought, have helped to build schools
and charities. I, however, cared for the success of this reverend
gentleman’s ministrations only as they affected my friend Miss
Etheridge. I think he regarded me with distrust and disfavor. He
always spoke of me as a _pervert_ and _Romanist_, but as he was a
thorough gentleman, and as Miss Etheridge was a lady who always had
her own way accorded her, no unpleasant collision ever occurred
between us. I was one who never listened to his preaching, and
therefore was uninteresting to him, except as I might influence one
of his fold. Seeing no signs of this dire result of my intimacy,
he accepted it passively as one of the circumstances which he must
submit to, if not approve.

One day I was returning from Miss Etheridge’s house, when I met two
Sisters of Charity, just about entering a poor, low dwelling not
far from the rich one I had just left. Having a slight acquaintance
with the sisters, I stopped to exchange a few words with them, and
to ask what was their mission of mercy in this abode.

“Oh! we are going in to see poor Mrs. McGowan,” said one of them.
“Her time passes very tediously at the best, and she likes to have
us come and read to her. Will you go in and see her?”

“What is the matter with her, sister?” I asked, as I turned in at
the gate, responding to the invitation.

“Chronic rheumatism,” said Sister Francina--“the saddest case!
so helpless and so lonely as she is! She has had it five years,
growing worse all the time.”

And now we were at the door of this victim of the terrible tyrant
whose power I had witnessed in the house of her rich neighbor. I
need not say how interested I was at once.

Poor, ignorant, Irish, and childless was Mrs. McGowan--but a
Catholic. Very mean were all her surroundings, but very decent and
cleanly. She was a woman but little older than Miss Etheridge, and
in some respects not unlike her. Education and high breeding and
polish were lacking, but some look in her face and complexion, and
especially in the poor twisted hands, constantly reminded me of my
friend. Here the silver-gray hair was almost covered by the hideous
wide-frilled cap which elderly Irish women consider so decorous.
Her plain dark cotton gown presented a contrast to the rich massive
folds of Miss Etheridge’s heavy silk robe. No high, carved,
cushioned chair supported her, but she sat on the side of her bed,
with her hands patiently folded in her lap. Miss Etheridge always
had her maid within call.

Bright-eyed, rosy Maggie Maloney I see her now, tenderly brushing
a fly from her mistress’ forehead, or fanning her, or handing
her books, a handkerchief, glass of water, or whatever else was
required. But here, from morning till night sat poor Mrs. McGowan,
depending for all such little offices on the kindness of her humble
neighbors and their children. Her husband was a poor mechanic, who
left her every morning after assisting her to dress, and lifting
her from her bed to the seat by the bedside. After this, a kind
woman, her nearest neighbor, performed all the services necessary
for her.

And so her weary hours passed. Equally helpless with Miss
Etheridge, how very different were her surroundings! No fine
pictures upon which to rest her weary eyes hung upon these walls.
Here only a low ceiling and bare walls, with one small window from
which she gazed, seeing what she might of the passers-by. No maid
to obey her slightest demand; no exquisite music-boxes, to the low,
sweet tinkling notes of which she might listen; no birds, pictures,
books, flowers, fine furniture, hangings, and carpets contributed
what they might to soften _her_ hard lot. Poor Mrs. McGowan had
none of these. Bare, cold, hard, and pitiless seemed her position,
and yet she appeared to me the happier woman of the two. A serene
contentment and cheerful acceptance of God’s will seemed to sustain
her. Miss Etheridge was surrounded by relatives who vied with each
other in their attentions to her, and were devoured by jealousy
of each other as her favor inclined capriciously, sometimes to
one, sometimes to another. Indeed, I often thought this lady
could not really tell between them all what was done for love
of her and what for interested motives, she having a fortune to
bestow as she pleased. Mrs. McGowan also had her relatives, but
they were hard-working people, nieces and cousins who lived at
service, and who came to see her at intervals of time and stayed
as long as they could be spared. Stout men would lend their strong
arms occasionally to carry her to some other part of her little
dwelling. This was all the change of scene she had been able to
obtain for years.

The similarity and dissimilarity in the lot of these two women
chained my attention. My interest in the one increased my interest
in the other, and I was thus led to compare their different ways of
bearing their sufferings.

I could not help seeing that Mrs. McGowan was the happier of
the two, despite her poverty. Why was this? I could not think
it entirely proceeded from a more cheerful temperament, because
Miss Etheridge was far from being a morose or despondent woman.
But Mrs. McGowan performed to the best of her ability all her
religious duties. Regularly her parish priest came to her to hear
her confession and administer to her the Blessed Sacrament. To all
of us comes a time in our lives when we feel the need of something
more than our own or any human support, and such aid from above
this humble sufferer accepted in simple, childlike faith and
trust, while her proud sister-in-need disdained to receive it. No
wonder that one was stronger to bear her heavy affliction than the
other. Of what avail was Miss Etheridge’s superior education and
cultivation to loosen or lighten her “chains”? They clasped her
quite as closely and pitilessly as those of her ignorant neighbor.
And while Christ himself was the soul’s health of the one, only a
cold, bare formula of religious observance was offered to the other.

I longed to bring Miss Etheridge to the sense of this, so plain
to myself. But hesitating always in my sensitiveness as to how
my motives might be construed, I mused long upon the best way of
introducing the subject. I at last concluded to get her to pass
Mrs. McGowan’s door in my company. This was very naturally and
easily accomplished, and I, walking by her side, told her of Mrs.
McGowan, and pointed out her little dwelling. Mrs. Etheridge was
interested at once, and, stopping her carriage by the gate, I
went in, and told Mrs. McGowan to look out of the window at her
guest. She already knew of Miss Etheridge and her affliction,
and, with the keen, quick sympathy of her race, responded at once
to the demand upon her. I felt the tears come up to my eyes so
involuntarily and uncontrollably, that I stepped back so that Miss
Etheridge might not perceive my agitation. It was touching to see
these two, so far removed in social position, so near in a common
suffering, talking of their feelings to each other. Miss Etheridge
never forgot her dignity for an instant, and Mrs. McGowan, who had
been a servant in her youth, did not presume, but acknowledged by
her manner her appreciation of the superiority of her visitor, and
yet with delicate tact tendered her pity and sympathy. Through the
open window her voice came kindly, and her face looked cheerfully
to Miss Etheridge, who was able to perceive also how homely and
mean were all the surroundings of her fellow-sufferer.

“You are better cared for than I am, ma’am, and likely you will
last longer; but sure, my pains would be as great in a palace as
they are here. It is the Lord’s will, and I must be content.”

“May the good Lord help you, and me too,” said Miss Etheridge.
Her proud face softened with a tender pity, and her voice had
a tremulous vibration in it, as of some hidden chord in her
heart stirred now, perhaps, for the first time. She seemed very
thoughtful and silent on our way back, and I thought she was more
patient with her attendants as she was lifted out of her carriage
and placed in her usual chair.

After this she sent or carried to Mrs. McGowan many presents of
little delicacies and comforts, and the gratitude which the poor
woman freely expressed seemed to please Miss Etheridge more than
anything else. It became a hobby with her to contrive some new
comfort and pleasure for Mrs. McGowan.

“Ah! ma’am,” said the poor soul, “an’ what can the likes of me do
for you? I have nothing to give you but my prayers,” which I doubt
not she did give in no scant measure. I often thought that she
enlisted powerful intercessions in behalf of Miss Etheridge which
that lady would not have secured for herself.

One day, as we stopped by the little window, the sweet face of
Sister Francina looked out at us. I glanced quickly at Miss
Etheridge, but that high-bred lady showed no prejudice, whatever
she might feel. She was looking kindly and courteously, bowing
her head to the sister, even before I could speak the words of
introduction. The sister, led on by Miss Etheridge’s cordial
manner, and her sincere interest in one of whom she had heard so
much, held quite a sprightly conversation with us. She spoke of
the frequency of her visits to Mrs. McGowan, and praised the poor
woman’s uniform patience and cheerfulness and piety.

A few days after this, I was astonished by Miss Etheridge asking
me if it would be against rule for Sister Francina to visit her. I
replied, “As you are an invalid, I think not.” Then Miss Etheridge
asked me if I thought I could not induce her to come. “I will try,”
I replied.

“I wish it,” she said--“I wish it very much. I think I may have the
few comforts I can enjoy, and I _will_.”

This was uttered in a tone of such decision and defiance that
I almost felt that I myself was supposed to oppose her in the
matter. But the tone was really against the bitter opposition
she knew she was courting, both for herself and me, from her
anxious and affectionate relatives. The having of her own way
and asserting herself on any subject, only added a spice to her
enjoyment of what she attained, but it placed me in an awkward
position toward her family. I knew that it would seem to them that
I had urged this visit of Sister Francina, or at least brought it
about by more direct means than was really the case. True, I was
the instrument, but Miss Etheridge used me more voluntarily than
they would believe. I did not like to be regarded in the light in
which I was sure I would be viewed--as an undermining and scheming
emissary of Rome. But, on the other hand, I did not like to be
cowardly in refusing to procure for Miss Etheridge so very innocent
a pleasure. If she were merely whimsical in her wish to have the
sister visit her, still, why not let her be indulged? It was the
sister’s mission to visit the afflicted, and here was an appeal to
her charity, and to mine too. So I plucked up my courage, which was
backed up by my affection for Miss Etheridge, and soon brought
Sister Francina to her. It was as we anticipated. The family were
up in arms about this visit. One would have supposed that I had
brought a wolf, or “roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour,” to
Miss Etheridge, instead of meek, gentle, innocent Sister Francina,
strong only in her holy faith. But if no one else was brave, Miss
Etheridge certainly was. She expressed herself so pleased at the
sister’s visit, that she asked it as a personal favor and charity
to herself that the sister would come often. With great delicacy,
the sister was urged to accept a generous gift for the mission
in which she was engaged. And Sister Francina did come; not very
often--Miss Etheridge and her family could not think she presumed
upon the encouragement she received--but still often enough to
endear herself to Miss Etheridge more and more. The family were
rampant, but powerless. Still Miss Etheridge chose to have me walk
by her carriage. Still she would go and talk to Mrs. McGowan, and,
doing so, she met at last Father B----. He was going in at the gate
just as we, from an opposite direction, came around the corner of
the house. I knew him at once, and told Miss Etheridge, asking if
we should go on, which I supposed she would prefer. I was surprised
at her expressing her intention to stop. She had in her lap a
basket of fruit which she wished to leave for Mrs. McGowan, and,
“if the priest would not object to her, she certainly would not
shun him.”

Father B---- was a convert himself from the Anglican ranks. He bore
about him all the genial _bonhomie_, the polished bearing, and
gentle dignity which is characteristic of that class of Protestant
clergy. Miss Etheridge had never been personally acquainted with
him, but, having heard him preach in the bygone days when she
went to church and his eloquence charmed Protestant audiences,
she retained still a curiosity, if nothing more, concerning him.
This at least was no stern-browed ascetic with the odor of a
sanctity she could not appreciate about him, but a kindly, social
gentleman, with many little points of sympathy whereon to begin an
acquaintance. Father B----, seeing no repulse, readily responded
to Miss Etheridge’s overtures of good-will. She certainly found
her mind disabused of many previous notions of this priest at
least. On the whole, I felt glad of the meeting. It thawed some
remaining reserve on our part in discussing the differences
between us in faith. I told her frankly how I had been led, step
by step, into the fold wherein I now rejoiced to be. How my first
dissatisfaction in the Episcopal Church had arisen from witnessing
the utter inability of the pastor to withstand lay interference in
matters which belonged exclusively to the clergy. How two wardens
in open enmity still partook of the sacrament, in defiance of the
rubric which bears upon the case, and which the rector never dared
to enforce. How I had heard such various teaching and explaining
of the creed, services, articles of religion, and everything
appertaining to the whole system, that it seemed to me like the
confusion of tongues “worse confounded.” That the desire to embrace
in the Anglican fold such opposing elements as Calvinism on the
one hand, and pure, “primitive,” and mediæval Christianity on the
other--to be Ritualistic and Evangelical at the same time, worked
such mischief and rebellion that I had longed for some authority,
some utterance which had the ring of the true metal, and some fold
wherein I might be _at rest_.

Miss Etheridge listened very patiently, very thoughtfully. I
hardly expected so little opposition to all I said. She granted
the force of my objections, but wondered at my being able to
acquiesce in all which I had now accepted. I replied that perhaps
what I had accepted would not seem to her so very unreasonable
if she came to examine and understand it as I did; that nothing
dispelled prejudice like an acquaintance with and analysis of the
objectionable subjects; that the effect was frequently like that
produced by examining some supposed spectre which has frightened
us in the dark, and which we find to be only an innocent optical
illusion.

After this, I refrained from obtruding any more of my religious
views upon Miss Etheridge, until one day when she asked me to read
_Morte d’Arthur_ to her, and I came upon the passage:

    “Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
    Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice
    Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
    For what are men better than sheep or goats
    That nourish a blind life within the brain,
    If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
    Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
    For so the whole round earth is every way
    Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.”

I remarked that Tennyson had, with a poet’s insight, spoken like
a true Catholic. Miss Etheridge denied that it was Tennyson’s own
belief advanced, but only that of King Arthur, the words being put
into his mouth by the poet as fitting for him, the same as any
writer would make any Catholic speak, or as he might put very evil
words into the mouth of a blasphemer.

“True,” I said; “but while an author must make his characters
speak according to their supposed faith, he is not obliged to
give such forcible words to them in opposition to his own private
belief. He is hardly likely to do so. He may screen himself behind
his characters, or he may betray himself through them. We may guess
at his own leanings more or less accurately, and he may contradict
himself. Here certainly the poet seems in favor of prayers for the
dead.”

“But is it prayer for the _dead_ Arthur, after all?” said she. “Was
he not only going away ‘to the island-valley of Avilion?’”

“Tennyson has named the poem _Morte d’Arthur_, and it is so
accepted and understood,” I replied.

She acquiesced in this, but still opposed with true Protestant
unbelief and persistency the idea that any good could come from
prayers for the dead.

I told her that, even while I had been a Protestant, this had
always seemed to me a tender and affectionate practice of Catholics
to try to reach and help those on the other side of the grave, and
that, even if it were unavailing, it was at least harmless, and I
could never understand why it should be denounced as wicked. That
it benefited the souls of those who prayed, at least, if not those
for whom they prayed.

“My dear Miss Etheridge,” said I, “is the thought that I might pray
for the repose of your soul after your death offensive to you now
in life?”

She was silent only a moment. That she could be the object of such
prayer was probably then presented to her mind for the first time,
and startled her somewhat. Then she said:

“Why, no; certainly not. I cannot but regard it as a kind and
loving thing to do, even if a useless one.”

“But you would not do as much for me,” I rejoined.

“Ah,” she said evasively, “you will not be neglected; be sure of
that.”

Only about a week after this we heard that Mrs. McGowan was ill.
The blinds were closed at her window, and Father B---- and the
sisters went oftener than usual to see her. I too went back and
forth, and brought Miss Etheridge tidings of how Mrs. McGowan bore
her sufferings; of all that was done for her spiritual and bodily
comfort, of all that was hoped and all that was feared, and at last
of her death.

This affected Miss Etheridge more than one could have supposed
possible. It was touching to witness her sadness. That this proud
lady, so widely separated in everything but the same infirmity
from this poor Irishwoman, should truly grieve for her awakened
in me a greater admiration for Miss Etheridge’s noble heart than
I had before entertained. She seemed restless and anxious to be
doing something still for the poor woman. She asked me if I did not
think it could be managed that she could see Mrs. McGowan once more
before her burial.

I told her it could without difficulty, and so it was done.
Respectfully the crowd parted for her little carriage as it made
its way through the humble assemblage which is sure to be around
the house of death among the Irish. Willing arms carried her to the
side of the coffin, whereon her own gifts--a cross and crown of
beautiful flowers--had been placed.

In silent dignity she gazed at the face and hands of the
dead--curiously at the lighted candles and emblems of the faith
of the departed, and at the habit which covered the body, now
straightened in the rigidity of death.

She was very composed, and soon signified her desire to be conveyed
to her carriage, and in silence she returned to her home. I thought
Miss Etheridge showed, in this act of going to pay the last mark
of respect to her humble friend, true heroism and charity. She was
a mark of curious observation to a crowd of people with whom she
had no sympathy, and her helplessness and peculiar infirmity made
her more sensitive to the notice and notoriety which she knew her
going would bring upon her; and yet she had the courage to brave
such results. Only a true lady, lifted above all vulgar fears and
considerations, would have done this. No _mean_ soul would have
desired so to do.

“The chains have fallen off her now,” she said to me. “I wonder
if she remembers and thinks of me. You think of her as being in a
different state from that which I have been taught to believe as
that of the departed; but we will not argue about it now. I only
want to do for her yet--something which I do believe she would,
poor soul, have done for me, had I gone first. It pleases me to do
what she would in life have liked to think would be done for her,
whether availing or unavailing.”

And with this apologetic remark, Miss Etheridge actually placed in
my hand a large sum of money to convey to Father B---- for Masses
to be said for the repose of the soul of Mrs. McGowan. I was truly
astonished. Was this the fruit of our reading of _Morte d’Arthur_?
If so, I blessed the day we did it. But I was afraid of being
hopeful overmuch, Miss Etheridge might never advance beyond this
liberal yielding of a stubborn prejudice. It was the last thing she
could do for her poor friend, and her generous soul took pleasure
in doing it. I was afraid that this was all; and for a time it
seemed to be all.

The summer passed into autumn, and I was recalled to my city home.
I parted with Miss Etheridge with great regret, and the more so
because she could not write to me, save by the hand of another. I
promised to write to her, and she said that I should get tidings of
her from time to time in some way. “According to my message shall
my scribe be,” she said, and so we parted.

I did write from time to time, and I had a brief note now and
then, written by Miss Etheridge’s business agent, telling me of
her continued good health, but increasing infirmity. But during
Easter-tide I received a longer missive, written in the delicate
penmanship of Sister Francina. “According to my message shall my
scribe be,” she had said to me, and now I knew her meaning, for the
message was that she was a Catholic.

As I folded up the letter, the words came to my mind:

              “These through great affliction came.”




DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY.

NO. VI.

PRIVATE DUTIES--CONTINUED.


The life of that class which in fashionable parlance is called
“society” in the capitals and great towns of Europe, and especially
in Paris, the capital of the _beau monde_, is the most opposite
to the ideal of the Christian life that can exist without being
essentially criminal. The same remark applies, of course, to the
imitation of it among ourselves. We have implied that it is not
essentially criminal. Not that it is possible to doubt the vast
amount of moral evil existing in its bosom, but that this evil
is not in the very nature of the mode of life intended, in such
a way that all those who are engaged in it must necessarily live
in sin. The nature or essence of this mode of life consists in
making the pursuit of social and other pleasures, in themselves
innocent and lawful, a regular and habitual occupation, instead
of an occasional relaxation. It is possible to do this, without
grievously neglecting those duties which are of positive obligation
in one’s state of life, and without neglecting the precepts of
religion. It is, nevertheless, difficult to do it for a long time.
It is a dangerous kind of life to lead. And precisely because it
is dangerous, the church is indulgent to those who are involved
in it, allows them to receive the sacraments with the greatest
liberality, and encourages them to approach these sources of grace
frequently, in order that they may be preserved from sin. Some,
especially women under the authority of parents or husbands who are
worldly minded and imperious, are involved in such a life against
their own inclination, others are kept in it by their own levity
and weakness of character and the force of habit and fashion. The
former ought to receive the sacraments as frequently as possible,
in order that they may triumph over the obstacles in the way of
attaining that degree of perfection to which they aspire. The
latter ought to do the same, in order that they may live in the
state of grace and save their souls. This is a doctrine which
gives scandal to rigorists and Pharisees, and frequently the
persons who are inwardly the most corrupt are the most rigoristic
in their opinions. But the Catholic Church, which has cast out the
Jansenistic leaven as a detestable and deadly poison, cares not for
Pharisaic scandal, and does care for the soul of the imperfect and
the sinner, whom she acknowledges for her children.

Indulgent as the church is to those who are weak and imperfect
Christians, or who even fall often into sin, provided they are
always trying to rise out of it again, she never ceases to hold up
her ideal of the Christian life in all its perfection before her
children, and to admonish and persuade them by the most powerful
motives to copy it in their actions. All those who really aim at
being good Christians are uneasy in a worldly life, and generally
withdraw from it, to a great extent, when they become sobered by
age and experience. Those who are fervent have a great dislike for
it, and have always done their utmost to emancipate themselves
from its servitude and frivolity. It is a dangerous kind of life,
and one which becomes wearisome and insipid after a time even
to those who have no taste for anything better. To pass all the
months which are spent in town, with the exception of a few weeks
in Lent, in a round of balls, parties, visits, and theatre-going,
and to dawdle away the summer in the inanities and _ennui_ of
a fashionable watering-place, is to make existence as flat and
unprofitable as it can well be--to exhaust its flavor as well as
waste its substance. The satire of Thackeray is only simple truth,
and it is enough to direct to the page of the novelist for a full
illustration of the moral we wish to point, without referring
the jaded votaries of fashion to any more tedious species of
literature. It is necessary to distinguish among the fashions and
pleasures of the world those which are positively immoral from
those which are innocent in themselves, and only noxious when they
are inordinate and excessive. It is a matter of strict obligation
to shun the former altogether. Immodest dances and fashions of
dress, licentious plays, excess in eating and drinking, are sinful
in themselves, and lead to the grossest sins. It is a simple matter
of fact that society among the higher classes, in the nations
of Christendom, has been for a long time, and still is, deeply
affected by the moral corruption into which the pursuit of pleasure
as the occupation of life always tends to resolve itself. Paris,
the modern Babylon, has led the way, and the world has followed
Paris. This corruption is the chief cause of the miseries with
which society has been scourged and is now threatened. From the
court of Louis XV. the first step was to the Place de Grève, the
second to the burning Tuileries. Petroleum, which will one day burn
up the world, is the oil which bubbles up in the bosom of a corrupt
Christian aristocracy, the product of the wickedness of the higher
classes in Christian society, who have turned away from a true
Catholic life to the life of pagans, or a life for this world only.
A _beau monde_, indeed, it is! It is against such a _beau monde_ as
this, with its whole complex of heresy and immorality, infidelity
and licentiousness, intellectual pride and low materialism,
outward splendor and inward contempt of all dignity or authority,
superficial gaiety and real, haggard misery, all closely affianced
and affiliated together, that Pius IX. has been perpetually
fulminating his condemnation. But we may go further back and
higher up than Pius IX. to St. Peter himself, and find the same
denunciation of heresy, revolt, and luxury, as allied vices,
expressed in much severer language than that of his successor. In
his second Encyclical Epistle, the Prince of the Apostles writes as
follows:

  “The Lord knoweth how to deliver the godly out of temptation; but
  to reserve the unjust unto the day of judgment to be tormented.
  And especially those who _walk after the flesh_ in the lust of
  uncleanness, and _despise governments_, audacious, pleasing
  themselves, they _fear not to bring in sects_, blaspheming, ...
  _as irrational beasts_, naturally tending to the snare, and
  to destruction, blaspheming those things which they know not,
  they shall perish in their corruption, receiving the reward of
  injustice, _counting pleasure the delights of a day_, stains
  and blemishes, _flowing in delicacies, rioting in their feasts
  with you_, having eyes full of adultery, and of never-ceasing
  sin: alluring unstable souls, having their heart exercised with
  covetousness, sons of malediction; ... these are fountains
  without water, and clouds tossed with whirlwinds, to whom the
  mist of darkness is reserved. For, _speaking swelling words of
  vanity_, they allure in desires of the flesh of riotousness
  _those who had escaped a little from them who converse in error:
  promising them liberty_, when they themselves are slaves of
  corruption; for by whom a man is overcome, of the same also he is
  the slave. For, if having fled from the pollution of the world
  through the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, being
  again entangled in them, they are overcome; _their latter state
  is become unto them worse than the former_.”[109]

We may see this exemplified in Rome at the present moment, in
Victor Emanuel, Hyacinthe, Gavazzi, the Jews Arbib and Jacob Dina,
the venders of infidel and licentious prints, sectarian preachers,
chiefs of the Garibaldian faction, and courtesans, all knotted
together like a pyramid of rattlesnakes, to hiss against the Holy
Father, the representative on earth of Christ and God. And this is
the modern world, as opposed to the true Christian society, the
church. It is an apostasy worse than heathenism; “for it had been
better not to have known the way of justice, than, after having
known it, to have turned back from that holy commandment.” This
apostasy shows itself more glaringly in the Rome of Victor Emanuel
and his _buzzurri_ than elsewhere, but it is the same throughout
the modern world. And in this world Catholics must live, and live
either superior to it, or its slaves. If they are contaminated by
it, their moral corruption leads them directly to the loss of faith
as well as the loss of grace. The infidelity into which numbers of
the higher classes on the Continent of Europe have fallen during
the past century is notorious. We have had some of these degenerate
Catholics among ourselves, retaining the name of Catholic as a kind
of national and family heirloom, but denying and mocking at all
the mysteries of faith, resisting and thwarting the bishops and
priests who founded our American churches, and generally crying
out for a priest in their last moments, while their relatives
are chiefly anxious for the pomp of a requiem, a solemn funeral
procession, and a monument in consecrated ground. Love of the world
has made others, who have had a better education in their youth,
become apathetic and alienated from their fellow-Catholics and the
church, as they have grown rich. And some have openly apostatized,
in order to profess a _more genteel religion_. The inordinate love
of wealth, pleasure, and honor, brings the will into collision
with the practical, moral law of the church, and thus implants an
aversion to the Catholic religion and the spirit of revolt against
it. These dispositions prepare the way for the revolt of the
will, and through the will of the mind, against the doctrine and
authority of the church, and eventually for a total abjuration
of allegiance to God. The sinner is always called in the ancient
Scriptures _a fool_, because he prefers this world to the next,
creatures to the Creator; and “_the fool hath said in his heart,
there is no God_.” The only consistent alternative is, therefore,
the total abjuration of folly, complete subjection to the law of
wisdom, and the regulation of the whole life in conformity to its
dictates. The fashions and customs of the world, when they are
contrary to Catholic principles, must be wholly renounced and
despised. Nay, more. When they are absurd, ridiculous, contrary to
reason and good sense, one who has a proper respect for himself and
a just independence of character ought to neglect and disregard
them, unless doing so involves a greater inconvenience than that
caused by conformity. Those who profess to be governed by the law
of Christ ought to regulate their table, their household order,
their dress, their social customs, their pleasures and amusements,
and all the minor morals of life, by a Christian standard, and not
by the standard of a corrupt world. To be ashamed and afraid to
do this is disgraceful cowardice. It is for Christians to subdue
the world and compel it to conform, at least outwardly, to their
standard; not to submit to its galling and degrading servitude. If
this cannot be done, let them cut the world, in so far as their
relative duties and necessary obligations towards it will permit,
and form their own separate society; as they have frequently been
forced to do since Christianity was founded. It is necessary to
keep the law of Christ, it is necessary to be wholly conformed in
mind and conduct to the doctrine and spirit of the church, it is
necessary to merit the kingdom of heaven; but it is not necessary
to be fashionable or to please the world. Moreover, to be truly
honorable, it is necessary that one should esteem his Catholic
profession as his greatest glory, and not tarnish it by sentiments
or conduct unworthy of a Christian. Most of those Catholics in this
country who are now living in ease and affluence are descended from
ancestors who sacrificed everything and suffered untold hardships
for their faith; and what do they deserve if they dishonor the
blood of the martyrs by becoming the slaves of the wicked power
which persecuted them?

We desire now to apply all that we have said in a special manner
to the education of children--the most important of all the
private duties of heads of families. What we have to say on this
head applies in general to all parents in comparatively easy
circumstances, but in some particulars to those only who are
wealthy in the strict sense of the term. The weighty obligation
rests on all Catholic parents of bringing up their children in the
faith and in virtue, in view of the great end of life, which is to
glorify God here and to enjoy him hereafter in heaven. This is a
difficult task in itself, especially so in the present age and in
this country, and in some respects more difficult for those who
are rich than for any others, excepting, perhaps, the very poor.
The children of the rich in this country are generally brought
up in great self-indulgence, excessive liberty, and according to
a precocious method. They are prepared for a kind of life which
requires great wealth, and, at the same time, their prospects of
possessing it with permanent security are very precarious. We
might adduce many considerations going to show that it is almost
to be regarded as a calamity rather than an advantage to be born
of rich parents in this country. If we had accurate statistics,
they would, in our opinion, show that very few of the children
and descendants of wealthy families have remained in affluent or
even easy circumstances. The majority of those who are rich are
children of parents who were poor, or, at least, dependent on their
own exertions for a living. A great number of the children who
have been brought up with the expectation of inheriting a fortune
have become poor, and far too many have gone altogether to ruin.
The sons of the rich are exposed to the danger of being ruined by
the vices into which they easily fall, and by the indolent and
inefficient character they too frequently form, together with
the reverses of fortune which are not fatal to energetic men,
yet are ordinarily fatal to those whose habits are effeminate.
Their daughters are exposed to the same reverses of fortune,
to the miseries resulting from unhappy marriages, and to the
consequences which follow from personal habits of extravagance and
self-indulgence. Most of these miseries flow from a bad education,
and those which proceed from no such cause and are among the
inevitable evils of this earthly life, are made unbearable and
desperate by the effects of a bad education.

So far as temporal well-being is concerned, parents ought to aim at
preparing their children to take care of themselves after they are
grown up. All boys, no matter how rich their fathers may be, ought
to be prepared for some profession or business in which they can
make their own fortune, or, at least, a living, and they should be
compelled to take care of themselves when they become men, without
any more help from their fathers than is sufficient to place them
in the way of doing so. This is the only way to perpetuate wealth
in families, for, if children are trained up to live in leisure
on the fortunes which they are to inherit, the largest fortunes
will soon be lost by division and subdivision, even if they are
not scattered by dissipation or mismanagement. Daughters should be
educated in such a way that they can be their own housekeepers,
or even earn their living by their education and accomplishments,
if the reverses of their parents or the disasters of married life
bring them into straits and difficulties.

This result can only be secured by keeping children in the state
and under the discipline of childhood so long as they are children
in age. Obedience, industry, self-denial, simplicity of dress and
diet, moderation in amusements, and a strictly and purely Catholic
education--such are the only means of preparing children either for
a condition of wealth or for one of poverty. Our American children
who are reared in the families of the rich are generally brought
out of the nursery and the school-room too young: they are too
highly fed, too much indulged, have too many amusements, and are
_blasé_ before they are fully grown. Is it judicious for Christian
mothers to dress their little daughters like ballet-dancers for
their children’s parties? To send their sons with billets of
excuse from their lessons to school after taking them overnight
to the opera or theatre? What can be expected of children who are
allowed to sleep late, to eat daintily and excessively, to read
all kinds of trash, to dress extravagantly, spend money, go about
with liberty, and indulge in pleasures which keep them up late
at night? Such a life has a worse effect than merely to make the
character effeminate. It directly fosters the most morbid and
destructive propensities of the weak and fragile human nature,
and leads to vice and death. We do not speak of those cases where
parents lead their children to ruin by the direct influence of
impious or immoral conversation, or an example which is flagrantly
bad. There are some such who would seem to set to work with an
express purpose of corrupting and ruining their children. But our
present purpose is with those who may be supposed to read our
articles attentively and seriously, and who cannot, therefore, be
suspected of anything worse than weakness, or error of judgment. It
is against this weak following of the common fashion, the common
maxims, the common current of the world, that we warn those parents
who wish to be good Christians and to bring up their children well.

The highest and ultimate end of education is the attainment of
the chief good to which the soul is destined, and to which it
has received the right in baptism. The principal obligation of
Catholic parents is, therefore, the education of their children in
the principles and practices of the faith and law of the church.
And this leads us to speak of the obligation of the rich, the
educated, and all the influential laymen of the Catholic Church
in this country, to bestir themselves in the work of Catholic
education. Schools and colleges, purely and thoroughly Catholic,
and fully sufficient to give all the requisite kinds and degrees
of instruction which are needed by our youth, must be multiplied
and sustained. It is a fixed and settled doctrine of the church
that education is by divine right under the care and jurisdiction
of the hierarchy. Those who teach the contrary are unsound in
doctrine, and good Catholics are bound in conscience to give no
heed to their opinions on this point. It is, moreover, a point
also settled by the highest authority in the church, viz., that of
the bishops of those countries where mixed education is a subject
of practical moment, and of the Holy See, that mixed education is
dangerous. This is the judgment of the bishops of Germany, Ireland,
England, and the United States. As an instance, we cite the
language of the Irish bishops in a resolution passed unanimously at
Maynooth, August 18, 1869, in which they say:

  “They reiterate their condemnation of the mixed system of
  education, whether primary, intermediate, or university, as
  grievously and intrinsically dangerous to the faith and morals
  of Catholic youth; and they declare that to Catholics only,
  and under the supreme control of the church in all things
  appertaining to faith and morals, can the teaching of Catholics
  be safely entrusted.”

The decrees of the Councils of Baltimore are of the same tenor, as
is likewise the official action of the bishops of England.

Pius IX., in his _Syllabus_ of Dec. 8, 1864, condemned the
proposition (No. 48):

  “Catholics may approve that mode of education of youth which is
  disjoined from the Catholic faith and the power of the church,
  and which concerns itself exclusively, or at least primarily,
  with the knowledge of natural things and the ends of earthly
  social life.”

In accordance with this decree, the Holy See has repeatedly sent
instructions to the Irish and English bishops, directing them to
oppose mixed education, and has prohibited ecclesiastics from
holding any office in the Queen’s colleges of Ireland. We are
warranted, therefore in reiterating the declaration made by F.
O’Reilly, of whom the _Dublin Review_ says, “hardly a theologian
can be named in these islands whose name carries with it so much
weight”--that the view which Catholics do take or ought to take
of mixed schools is, that they are “objectionable, dangerous,
ineligible.”[110] In fact, nearly all the Catholics of rank and
wealth in England, the Duke of Norfolk included, have foregone the
advantages of the universities in obedience to this teaching. The
same is true in Ireland, and F. O’Reilly says that “the Catholics
of Ireland _as a body_ (including the upper and middle classes)
repudiate and condemn mixed education as at variance with their
religious principles, views, and opinions.”

We cannot carry out any further, at present, the topic we have
here briefly introduced, but must confine our remarks to the duty
which is devolved on the wealthy Catholics of the United States by
these decisions of the rulers of the church, which, we take for
granted, they most cordially desire to have fully carried out in
practice. We said just now that they must bestir themselves in the
work of Catholic education. This applies to education in all its
various degrees, but we wish to speak more especially of colleges
for the higher grades of instruction. It is not enough for the
opulent parents whose sons are sent to college, to send them to a
Catholic college and pay a high price for their instruction. There
is a great difficulty in the way of maintaining and improving
our colleges which cannot be met in this manner. If our colleges
are to rely on a revenue derived from the pupils, the tuition
fees must be placed so high that all but the sons of the wealthy
are practically excluded from them. Officers of the army and
navy, lawyers, physicians, and others in similar positions, are
frequently embarrassed by the inadequacy of their incomes to meet
the expenses of a mode of life suited to their social rank. The
great cost of education makes it very nearly impossible for them to
send even one boy, much more several, to the schools and colleges
which are the most eligible. Besides, there are many other parents
in still more moderate circumstances, who have sons desiring, and
fitted for profiting by, the best education. The sons of the rich
are not ordinarily the most eager and diligent students, and, if
a college is exclusively or chiefly composed of youths of this
class, they themselves will degenerate into the most superficial
scholarship, and the college will fail of accomplishing the chief
part of the end for which it is established. Education ought to
be made cheap and accessible to boys and youths of all classes.
This cannot be done without large endowments and revenues. If the
task of earning the money necessary for the vast outlay which must
be made, is left on the shoulders of the clergy and religious
orders, they must necessarily demand a very high price for their
instruction, and thus become the teachers of the sons of the
rich almost exclusively. It follows from this, by strict logical
sequence, that the laity must bestir themselves to active efforts,
and take the burden off the shoulders of the clergy. It is unjust
that a body of men who have sacrificed their lives to the good of
the laity, and who give them the fruit of their talents, their
learning, and their labors, for no compensation beyond their modest
and single livelihood, should be forced to furnish or to beg the
means of buying the grounds, erecting the buildings, and carrying
on the operations of colleges and schools for the convenience of
the rich and leisured classes; and paying, besides, the expenses of
those youths who are without resources, that they may fill their
own places when they are worn out by work. It is the interest of
the laity to provide education for their children, and to provide
for filling up the ranks of the priesthood. The opulent and
influential laity are therefore bound to take an active part in the
work. And, as things are at present, we see no way of doing this
after an organized method, except by associations like that of the
“Catholic Union” of New York. We trust that this respectable body
will take up this matter in earnest, and we urge upon all those who
care for their posterity, their country, and their religion, to
co-operate generously and zealously with it in whatever enterprises
it may undertake, which will certainly be under the highest
ecclesiastical sanction, and managed by men of the greatest ability
and worth.

The topics so briefly discussed in the series of short articles
which we now bring to a close require, as we have already remarked,
volumes and not pages. We are glad to see that one volume, written
with the ability for which its author has already become renowned,
has already been published, which handles some of these topics
and others kindred to them. We allude to the _Sermons_ of F.
Harper, already briefly noticed in this magazine, and now strongly
recommended once more to all who have read our remarks on “The
Duties of the Rich” with interest. We trust that other writers will
follow F. Harper’s example, and that some of the valuable books on
the same class of subjects which exist in other languages will
be translated. It is not, however, by books and essays alone that
the minds and hearts of Catholics of the educated and leisured
classes in society can be sufficiently imbued with Catholic
principles and the Catholic spirit. It is by the living and
divinely commissioned teaching of the preachers of the Word of God,
in their parochial instructions, in the addresses which they have
the opportunity of making on extraordinary occasions, and in the
sermons and conferences of general missions and special retreats,
that the higher as well as the humbler members of the fold are most
efficaciously taught. Pius IX. has given the example and the model
of the preaching most necessary and useful for our times to all who
bear his commission, thus fulfilling in a most extraordinary way
the divine commandment to St. Peter--_Pasce oves meas, pasce agnos
meos_. By his personal teaching he has formed the _élite_ of the
Catholic laity of Europe on the model of their glorious ancestors
of the ages of faith, and not a few of our own countrymen have gone
to drink the pure water of life at the same fountain-head. Imbibed
at the fountain-head or at the rill, it is the only water that can
give health to nations or individuals. We can scarcely hope that F.
Burke’s fine apostrophe,[111] “Be it thine, O Columbia! to place
again the golden circlet of his temporal royalty on the brow of the
Vicar of Christ!” will be literally fulfilled. But we trust that
the spirit of it will not lack that accomplishment which will prove
that the eloquent son of St. Dominic has a sparkle of the prophetic
gift. It requires no inspiration, but only ordinary foresight, to
see the prospect of a rapid and almost measureless increase of
wealth, and of all that belongs to the splendor of a nation, in
the next half century of the United States. The Catholic Church
will largely share in it. And may those who enjoy this prosperity
be as true and loyal to the church and to God as their humble and
persecuted ancestors!

FOOTNOTES:

[109] 2 St. Peter ii. 9-20.

[110] _Dublin Review_, April, 1872, p. 413. _Month_, March-April,
1872, p. 179. See the entire article of F. O’Reilly, which is
admirable.

[111] In his lecture on _The Prisoner of the Vatican_, at St.
Paul’s Church, New York.




FAITH THE LIFE OF ART.

FROM AN ADDRESS BY CESARE CANTU BEFORE “THE ARCADIA.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.


There is in man the memory of a perfection with which he was sent
forth from the hands of his Creator; and, sick of the tameness,
coarseness, and unseemliness which surround him, he feels a craving
to fashion himself after a picture of his imagination conformable
to the idea he possesses of the beautiful--a type which combines
the first and last excellence of being; which it is his to enjoy,
since he has a conception of it, and to which he ought to be able
to arrive, since he aspires towards it. Thus from remembrance
and the feeling of a hereafter is born poetry; is born art: the
realization of the ideal under sensible forms, wherein intellectual
beauty takes precedence over the physical beauty of nature. Both
speak a language which lifts us up to the absolute beauty--God;
of whom creation is an image and symbol. And, moreover, religion
discloses an ideal world which is not contained under external
phenomena.

Man in his fallen state built a wretched hut or scooped out a cave,
wherein to shelter his wife and little ones; but, when he wished to
give worship to the Deity, he erected an altar and decked it with
festoons: he roofed it in, and strengthened it with beams, which
he hastened to adorn, forming cupola, shaft, and capital. History
bears witness that the fine arts were born in the temple, not in
the hut of Vitruvius; that they owe their origin to the aspiration
of a faith, not to the mere fulfilment of a want.

The temple wherein is offered the perpetual sacrifice of the
victim of expiation is a visible profession of faith. The most
grand and characteristic expression of the architecture is
displayed in the imitation which man fabricates of that temple
of the universe which was built by the hands of God. And as its
solidity typifies the duration which every one attributes to true
religion, so it outlives the hands which raised it up. How much
of what antiquity has bequeathed us consists of temples, such as
the pile of Salsetta, the pagodas of Coromandel and Ellora, the
Propylæi, the colossi of granite and porphyry, the obelisks and
pyramids of Egypt--for sepulchres are religious--and the shrines
which were discovered in the millennial forests of America. This
great Rome, the capital of the universe, was a city of fanes and
altars, when Horace reproached it, as a cause of its decay, with
having neglected the worship of the gods. The more fully the idea
of a religion is capable of adapting to itself the forms of the
organic world, the more artistic will that religion become.[112]
The symbol, which is an outward and material exposition of an idea,
and the mystic representation of the divine essence, by means of
external objects to which it is linked by ties that are arbitrary
and remote analogies, ill accords with the beauty which is the
representation of a specific idea to which it corresponds.

Among the Hindoos, the Egyptians, and the Hebrews, the beauty
of form gave place to the requirements of the emblem. Thus art
stood still, being forced to reproduce fixed types; its object
was not to copy nature, but to inscribe ideas. The three-eyed
Siva, the four-headed Brama, the elephant-headed Ganesa, the
hundred-armed giants and hundred-breasted goddesses, can scarcely
be called beautiful. In the religion of the Greeks, where the
life of the deity was confused with the natural, and found its
perfection in man, art holds the first place. The symbol vanished
before the beautiful ideal, which was wrought after a rational
measurement. They cut down those colossi of other peoples to the
due proportions, and shaped their monstrous divinities into a human
likeness. Extricating themselves from hieroglyphics, the choice of
expression and attitude was left to the inspired imagination.

Corruption, ever widening since sin first broke the harmony
between the intellect, the will, and the power of action, created
a heaven of false gods, differing in form and in worship, and
filled the earth with their temples. This variety favored art,
and to it we owe those wonders of the Parthenon, the temple of
Theseus, Pallas Athene, Olympian Zeus, the Didimeon. And though
antiquity has handed down to us very few paintings, the greatest
part of the statues which enrich the museums are those of the
gods. Surely Phidias much have believed in “Zeus thundering in
heaven” when he wrought that statue before which Greece was struck
with wonder.[113] Hence with reason did Emericus David say that
archæology might be defined as the recognition of religion in its
connection with art.

Though the form grew more refined, the idea hidden beneath it grew
more and more corrupt, until it became a worship of force, animate
and animating, which had turned its back upon the Author of being,
and wasted that spiritual breath which is the soul of the statue.
Art materialized, like science, like life itself, called down the
mercy of an unknown God to appease offended justice.

In the fullness of time, humanity was lifted up from its lowliness
by God taking it to himself. Faith grew clear; hope, strong;
charity lived again. Christendom became civilized even by means
of its worship, when art and poetry united in rousing it to
faith and enthusiasm. No longer, as in a religion that allured
the senses, did art debase itself by flattering the passions and
fanning the instincts; its aim now was to curb and purify them;
not to multiply the enjoyments of the fortunate, but to comfort
the unhappy; to lift up to heaven eyes weighed down by suffering,
or dazzled by wealth, or wavering with doubt; to point out that
sublime eternity which hides itself under seeming dissolution or
waning beauty; to turn mind and action to that after-life wherein
alone the present finds its significance.

This regeneration of art began in the Catacombs, where the
persecuted children of Christ expressed, somewhat rudely perhaps,
their dogmas and their hopes; the exploits of the martyrs, whose
agony of shame and death they prepared themselves to imitate. There
the vermilion with which they painted the throne of God triumphant
signified “new conquests, and glory won after still greater trials.”

When from darkness it was able to step forth into the light of
day, art, restored to the temple of its birth, set the feeling
which produced above the mere beauty of the production. It lost in
harmony, but gained in expression, in lifting up human nature even
to the type of moral perfection, to the supreme ideal--God made man.

Then from every side, whatsoever had life came in answer to the
call to play its part in the grand drama of Christianity. And art,
aiming not merely at the beautiful, but at the true and the good,
united with the whole of civilization in expressing that aspiration
after perfection whose desire is never-failing but ever unfulfilled.

In the earliest artistic records which have reached us from the
Catacombs, such as mosaics, miniature paintings, and certain pieces
of sculpture, the idea is set above the form. There is a celestial
purity in them, as though, producing the beautiful instinctively,
they cared not to portray an enticing elegance of the members, the
force and posture of outward life, but rather the expression of the
soul, holiness of thought and deed, and

                      “That sweet light
    Pointing the road which leads to heaven’s height.”[114]

Hence certain images of the saints and of Mary, rude in shape and
coloring, have won the veneration of the people, and inspired that
calm content which comes from God and lifts to God.

A bolder fancy produced the edifices, constructed at first on
the style of the basilicas, and then modified into that order of
architecture which from its planes or arches was called Roman or
Lombard, and finally Gothic.

He who can only admire the Greek and the Roman styles finds in
the Gothic merely ignorance of caprice; with its shafts tapering
aloft in slender grace, or short and heavy, or in clusters; its
capitals where the crude cabbage-leaf creeps in side by side with
the graceful acanthus; its members incoherent, and made out of
proportion; a crowd of small obelisks and tabernacles, buttresses
and enormous water-spouts; bracketed statues and windows of a dizzy
height, sometimes parted into two, sometimes curved into a rose or
twisted into a trefoil; and its figures of uneducated fancy, an
eyesore to the lover of classic harmony.

But in its variety reigns a system far above the order of the
Greeks; derived in part from the basilicas, in part from mystic
allegory. Its ornaments are the productions of our climate, the
strawberry, the parsley, the fig, the oak-tree; as the Arab
uses his palm, the Chinese his inverted coral. Its forms are
symbolic. The number three regulates even those portions of the
structure which are secondary. On the plan of a cross rises the
triangulation of the edifice; and a hundred obelisks, lifted up
equally to heaven, express the concordant homage of love and of
faith. In its dedication everything was allegoric of the origin
of true worship; of the mystic destiny of the church; of the fact
that it is not a building of stones but a living edifice, whose
corner-stone is Christ, whose members are the faithful, whose space
is filled by God, like the universe of which it is an image.

In this association of the real with the symbolic world, of the
fitness of parts in themselves foreign with the united expression
of Christianity, the middle ages produced what those of Leo X., of
Louis XIV., of Napoleon, could not produce: they created a novelty.
Architecture was sacred as in its opening, and those wonders of a
beauty most sublime and spiritual were not wrought at the decrees
of princes, but at the inspiration of faith and charity.

The Gothic made its first grand essay in the holy time of St.
Francis of Assisi, and this became the chosen order of the
Franciscans, as the Basilican was of the Benedictines, and the
mixed architecture of a later date of the Jesuits. St. Francis and
his children, with that greatness which inheres in simplicity,
accompanied by an ascetic spirit, came to imitate nature and true
men rather than to copy types or antique art. But in those days,
the whole of society was animated by faith, and built upon the
dogma of the expiation. The laical body was in harmony with the
ecclesiastical; prayer mingled with warlike exploits; the home
was at peace with the church; the banner bore the same device as
the altar. The plastic art, side by side with poetry, penetrated
every turn of life. Religion was the universal and, as it were,
only inspirer of the artist. Theophilus dedicated his “Lombard
Tract” to holy pictures, missals, vases, the window-panes of the
church, and, step by step, he elevated the mind of the artist
to the God from whom _art emanates_. The artistic confraternity
proposed in their constitutions the purity and independence of
art. That of the Siennese painters, of 1355, said: “By the grace
of God, we are to rude men, who know not letters, manifestors of
the miraculous things worked by the virtue and in the virtue of
the holy faith, and our faith is founded principally in adoring
and believing one God in the Trinity, and in God infinite power
and infinite wisdom, and infinite love and mercy.” In a like sense
says Bufalmacca: “We aim at naught else than to make saints by our
frescoes and pictures, and by so doing, in spite of the devils,
to make men more devout and better.” Philarete designed a city on
the conception of the “Nisi Dominus Ædificaverit,” wherein the
church founded on the cross should be superior to the palace of the
prince, rich with pictures, religious, symbolic, allegorical, and
historic. There was a portico devoted to sacred history; close by
were memorial monuments of heroic Christians, namely, the churches
of St. Francis, St. Dominic, St. Augustine, St. Benedict. There
was a gymnasium wherein to educate the youth, chiefly with prayer,
fasting, and the holy sacraments. Without the fortifications,
the city had an advanced guard, to wit, holy hermits, who should
watch it with the mightiest of arms--prayer. And Brunelleschi
said of Santa Maria del Fiore: “Recollecting that this temple
is sacred to God and the Virgin, I trust that in erecting it in
memory of them it will not cease to infuse knowledge where there is
need of it, and to aid by power and wisdom and wit whoever shall
accomplish such work.” In like manner, Giovanni Villani inscribed
his _Chronicles_ “to the reverence of God and of Blessed St.
John, in commendation of our city of Florence.” How often has the
painter given us his own portrait on his knees, or with some verse
recommended himself to God and the saints! Beneath a picture in the
Venetian gallery we read:

  “Gentile Bellino, with filial love of the most holy cross,
  painted this.”

And beneath another picture of Gian Bellino:

    “Sure Gate of Heaven, lead my mind, guide my life:
    All the works which I perform are committed to thy care.”

We may perceive a like inspiration in Giotto, Mino da Fiesole,
Benedetto da Majano, Boninsegna da Siena, Simon Memmi, L’Orgagna,
the Pisani, Franco Bolognese, and other spiritual artists, who
attained a perfection to which the moderns in vain aspire. On the
tomb of Blessed Angelico was written:

    “Let me not be honored because I was a second Apelles,
    But because I distributed all my gains among thy poor, O Christ!”

I leave it to others to decide with what justice that period
styled itself the Renaissance when men passed from originality to
an imitation of the classic schools--not by divining and catching
their inspiration, but by following in their footsteps. And so we
find in passing from Dante to Polizanio and Sannazzaro, from Giotto
to Dello, the metamorphoses of Ovid accomplished! In this study of
the classics, what they gained in form they lost in conception. The
Medici mixed up portraits with Venuses and Pallases, mythological
subjects with scenes drawn from nature. Lorenzo the Magnificent
caused Pollajolo to represent the strong limbs of Hercules,
Signorelli to paint nude divinities, and public beauties were
taken as the models of saints. At such profanation, Fra Girolamo
Savonarola was struck with grief and horror; and, as well to mend
manners as to disinfect literature, he sought to regenerate art by
restoring it to the bosom of God.

The spirit that he inspired outlived his funeral pyre: and Luca
della Robbia, Lorenzo di Credi, Verocchio, Cronaca, Baccio della
Porta, painted from chaste images and devout subjects. Ghirlandajo,
Pinturicchio, the renowned Masaccio, held faith in the religious
mission of art, as did that Umbrian school which spake to the heart
rather than the senses, beneath the wing of the neighboring Assisi.
From Gentile di Fabriano came Perugino and Raphael, and the first
Venetians, among whom it is no longer a scandal to say that Gentile
Bellino was not inferior to Titian.

Raphael has been called the most marvellous union of all the
qualities which make the others severally great: design, color,
power of chiaroscuro, perspective effect, imagination, style; above
all, expression, and that grace which is the beautiful of beauties.
Not only were his first essays, when still a faithful disciple
of the Umbrian school, works of faith; but also those which he
wrought in his zenith, such as the Attila, Heliodorus, and the
miracle of Bolsena. His delight was in symbolic subjects, theology,
jurisprudence, philosophy, poetry, representing ideas in his
figures. When he preferred to follow his imagination and models to
tradition, he strayed away, as in the commissions of Chigi, and the
beautiful story of Psyche; but later on, when he fled from Rome,
he turned himself to the grand Transfiguration, from the midst of
which he passed to behold it in heaven.

And Michael Angelo? Others have been loud in their praises of the
strength of his joints, the relief and play of his muscles, the
foreshortening, the anatomic fidelity, the expression diffused
through the whole person; but I can never cease wondering how in
the Sistine Chapel he has portrayed the two extreme points of the
life of the human race--the creation and the last judgment; and
that indefinable of melancholy and veneration in the Moses which
sought no model and has found no rival. It is natural; for, from
the Bible, the _Divine Comedy_, and ascetic meditation, he drank in
the inspiration wherewith to ennoble human nature.

Their school passed away in the conceits of the licentious age
which came after--in the figures caught in the very act of standing
to be copied; in flimsy drapery, substituted for the old garments
majestically simple; the infinity of shallow conceptions, frivolous
allegories, and wanderings from the practical road of Vasari; in
the immense pictures of Cortona, Arpino, Lanfranco, the frenzies of
Luca Giordano, and convulsed attitudes of Fiammingo, Spinazzi, and
the genius, erratically great, of Lorenzo Bernini--such things as
these they preferred, I will not say to nature, to which they shut
their eyes, but to so many noble exemplars. They were seized with
the mania of novelty, of surprises, with the idolatry of the form
at the cost of the conception. So they turned from poetic beauty to
what is so inferior--the merely symmetrical.

The most renowned works of the great masters were inspired by
religion: the delicate cherubini of Angelico, the gates of
Ghiberti, the Moses and the Pietà of Buonarotti, the Last Supper of
Leonardo, the Assumption of Titian, the marvellous improvisations
of Tintoretto. From religion Raphael drew those epics which compose
the Vatican galleries and the library at Sienna. To it Correggio
devoted his cupolas, with all their grace and force of chiaroscuro.
Therein Annibale Caracci found his Communion of St. Jerome, and
Domenichino his, which is one of the three great paintings in Rome,
and that Madonna del Rosario where he more clearly displays his
intention of contrasting the sorrows of earth with the joys of
heaven. The Christ of Carlo Dolce and the Madonnas of Sassoferrato
and Murillo are in every household. Maratta was called Carlo of the
Madonnas. And in my own province[115] particularly, the paintings
of Luino, Cesare da Sesto, Gaudenzio Ferrari, Andrea Solaro,
Salaino, Marco d’Oggiono Moretto, the Procaccini, the Campi, and
that Borgagnone, as great as he is little known, are marked by a
religious unction and devout simplicity.

The churches are indeed galleries, or rather harbors from the
vandalism of would-be restorers and the robbery which is according
to law. In them we find the best models of architecture; and since
the unknown authors of the greater cathedrals, and the whole
families of the Campiani at Milan, Bregno and Lombardi at Venice,
Pedoni at Cremona, Rodari at Coma, Pellegrini of Tibaldo, we have
no design better than the sanctuaries of Rho and Caravaggio, the
Fontana in the chapel of the Presepio, the Sanmicheli in the
cathedral of Montefiascone, the Palladio in the Church of the
Redeemer at Venice.

But besides the finish of the sculpture, the glass was stained
with historic subjects, the pulpits and windows marvellously
adorned, the goldsmith’s art was displayed in the ornamentation of
candlesticks, lamps, busts, and canopies, which brought into play
the art of engraving.

The care of recording on tombs the nothingness of human
greatness makes them the truest portraits of the character of
each age. In those of the middle ages the figures are austere,
with hands crossed on the breast, awaiting the trumpet-call of
the resurrection; in the sixteenth century they are pompous,
inappropriate, even immodest.

The cloisters were built upon the most beautiful heights, where
the soul, absorbed in the admiration of nature, was of itself
lifted up to chant the praises of the God who created it. The
porticos were vast tableaux worked by the greatest artists. And
here, while you would suggest to me the John Baptists of the
Discalced Friars, and the Filippo Benizzi in the Annunciation at
Florence by Andrea the faultless, the Holy Solitude, the Camaldoli,
Carthusian monasteries, Alvernia, Vallombrosa, and the sublimity
of Grottaferrata, let me call to your minds our own Lombardy the
sanctuaries of Saronno by Luini, of Varallo by Gaudenzio, the Holy
Mount by Mancalvo, the Carthusian monastery of Garignano by the
great Daniel Crespi, before which Byron was struck with wonder and
with fear. In fine, even in the delirium of art in the sixteenth
century, which are the greatest monuments of sculpture? The St.
Bibiana of Bernini, the St. Cecilia of Maderno, the Susanna of
Fiammingo, the St. Bruno of Houton, from which number we must not
omit the Attila of Algardi. The Assumption of Forli by Cignani
still remains the noblest work of the past age. Since it is a
far easier thing to copy a form than to create a conception,
many have reduced art to imitation. And we see it said that the
type of the Eternal Father is taken from Jove, the Saviour from
Antinous, from Niobe the Mother of Sorrows, and from the Farnese
Flora and the terra cotta Faun, St. Cecilia and St. Joachim; and
it appears equally ridiculous to call one of these imitators a new
Phidias or new Apelles, as for Angelo Mazza to entitle himself
Homer Redivivus. Winckelmann praised Raphael for a head of Christ
“which set forth the beauty of a heroic youth without beard,”
while he criticises Michael Angelo “for having taken his figures
of the Saviour from the barbarous productions of the middle ages.”
With equal discrimination Vasari, of all the wonders of Giotto
at Assisi, can only admire “the very great and truly marvellous
effect of one who drinks standing, but bent down to the earth,
at a fountain.” Very little have these advanced the theories of
Cicognara and Giuseppe Bossi, and the icy grandeur of David,
Gerard, Girodet, and the other imperialists, followed here by
Benvenuti, Cammuccini, Bossi, Diotti, and their like. Fabre, the
French painter, was discussing with Alfieri on a crucifixion which
he was about to paint. After speaking for some time on the type
he ought to choose, he concluded: “Do you know what? I will paint
the head of the Belvedere Apollo, give him a beard, and behold it
done.” Alfieri had the good sense to reply: “If you would succeed
in that, paint a dying Apollo, but not a God who redeemed us.”

After Battoni, the last painter of note of the mixed school, Mengs,
went back to the antique with a mediocrity at once pedantic and
fastidious. But Traballeschi and certain artists of second name,
such as De Maria, Franchi, Ferrari, Torretti, and of higher mark,
Andrea Appiani in the cupola of San Celso at Milan, were the men
who paved the way for the regeneration. Canova[116] undertook to
regenerate art chiefly with classic models, but at least with
enthusiasm. But how far do his Venus, Perseus, Theseus, and even
Psyche, fall behind the Magdalen, and the mausoleums of Maria
Christina, Ganganelli, Rezzonico, and Pius VI.?

Bartolini, a more careful observer of nature, gave an impulse
to the new art, nor is the fault his if he plunged from the
conventionalities of the academy into a prosaic realism. But,
restricting myself among a multitude of sculptors, to the notice
of one or two, who has not admired the Dolorosa and Triumph of the
Cross of Duprè, the Archangel of Finelli, the Deposition from the
Cross, and the tomb at Castelfidardo of Tenerani? These men opened
up a new era, where the worship of ideas prevailed over that of
mere form, combating the servility of the past and the materialism
of the present, aiming at a beauty not at variance with morality--a
beauty perceptible to the reason. I confine myself to the Italians,
but what a pleasure it would be to me to touch upon Munich and the
school of Düsseldorf, and that of Berlin; and Cornelius, Schadow,
the Bohemian Fuhrich, and the Frenchmen Lehmann, Pradier, Flandrin,
and a noble band of others like to them.

So likewise I confine myself to the plastic arts; but were we to
treat of poetry, we could say something of Tasso, crowned in
death, of Perfetti, the laureate of Benedict XII., and Corilla of
Pius VI. Or of music, born also in the church and there perfected
before it went to amuse the court and theatre, whence it returned
with profanity into the church; so that there was nothing left but
to abandon it, if Palestrina had not shown how to wed reverence of
speech with harmony, and reconcile devotion with art. Do you know
of aught more wonderful than the Moses and Stabat of Rossini, the
Crucifixus of Bellini, or the Ave Maria of Donizetti?

And hence you will conclude that where art has ever been welcomed
and cherished, was under the care of the Popes, in this Rome of
ours, which, in the words of Petrarch, is

    “The symbol of the heavens and the earth,
    The Saviour’s image, by all men revered.”

Perhaps there has not been a Pope who has not raised some edifice
or given rise to some sculpture or painting.

Eugenius IV. wished to consecrate Fra Angelico bishop; Julius II.,
who secured his splendid dominions from the Po to the Garigliano,
was ever in the company of Bramante, Michael Angelo, Perugino,
Giulio Romano, and commenced the Vatican Museum by placing there
the Apollo, the Laocoon, the Ariadne and the Torso. What shall I
say of Leo X., who seemed to wish by the triumph of art to “give
the lie” to Germany, which accuses Catholics of ignorance and
dearth of civilization? The German reformer on his arrival in
the midst of the artistic wealth of Rome, only perceived therein
profanity, idols, and as it were an absence of reason, and a Pope
making an ostentatious pomp of religion and pretending to the
austerity of Paul and Hilarion in the time of the Farnese and
the Medici. Adrian VI. seemed like a prodigy, a monstrosity, so
accustomed were the minds of men to connect the idea of a pope with
that of a Mecænas of the arts.

They have ever made their palaces a sanctuary of the arts, and
as it were a harbor from the wrecks of time and the greed of
speculators and kings, who paused at the threshold of the Vatican,
resounding with the prayers of all the ages and the blasphemy of
this.

With still greater intelligence, the pontiffs of the past age
collected together the masterpieces, and the Museo Pio Clementino,
and the illustrations of it executed by Winckelmann and Ennius
Quirinus Visconti, became the envy and the model of all foreigners.

Rome, relying on the veneration which the nations entertained
for her, and which kings felt they owed her as the fount of all
authority, set her face against a new age, wherein might alone is
right, and reason speaks on the side of vast battalions and by the
mouth of artillery. What was the outrage which most of all grieved
the Romans? The spoliation of the museums; for the people were
disgusted with kings, nobles, and prelates, but not with the arts.

But the end of injustice is never far removed, and, as victory
had borne them away, victory restored to Rome her popes and
her monuments. Pius VII. who had filled the post left bare by
spoliation, after his return, among other works, built the new wing
across the Belvedere gallery. He left to us the Museo Chiaramonti,
a gallery of paintings, few in number, but each a masterpiece,
and the long gallery of antique inscriptions, arranged after the
manner of the great Morcelli. Gregory XVI. gave us the Christian,
Egyptian, and Etruscan museums, filled with the contents of the
mysterious vaults of Latium, and the numerous vases, so wondrous,
of Etruria and the Campagna, which had just come to light. He
commenced the rebuilding of St. Paul’s, restored the Coliseum,
excavated the Basilica Julia, refitted the Lateran Palace. Poletti
the architect assisted him, aided by Agricola, Paoletti, Finelli,
Tadolini, Botti, Tajetti, Sabatelli, Serani, Minardi, Coghetti,
Bengoni. And as at first, Poussin, Mignard, Ponget, Claude
Lorraine, Le Gros, Valedier, Quesnoy, Laboureur, Monot, Brill,
Agincourt, etc., so afterward came the illustrious foreigners,
Ingres, Thorwaldsen, Gibson, Pettrich, Frederick Overbeck, Voigt
the engraver. From here were taken the statues of Hiram Powers
for the Capitol of Washington, not to mention the objects of art
carried away by the 80,000 foreigners who flock hither from all
parts every year to gaze on the wonders of Rome. A Prussian society
took up its quarters here, to illustrate the new and antique
relics, in rivalry with our Archæological Academy. And the names of
Fea, Nibby, Canina, Bartolomeo Borghese, Visconti, win reverence
from the whole scientific world.

What can I say of Pius IX. that is not known to the whole world?
Let me call to your minds what took place in the midst of the
acclamations which greeted his accession. A deputation from the
Society for the Propagation of the Faith being presented to him,
when among the deputies he found the name of Overbeck, the most
faithful representative of Christian art, he called him to himself,
and gave him his special benediction, accompanied by words of
holy affection. At his wish the court of the Quirinal, where Pius
VII. was arrested, was painted; there is Overbeck’s Christ at the
moment when the Jews thought to cast him from the mountain, and he
escaped from their midst: thus representing at once the perils
which are past and those which are to come.[117] Nor can I forget
the emotion with which the Holy Father lamented to me the deaths,
so close upon each other, of Poletti, Tenerani, Overbeck, and
Minardi; nor the pleasure with which I recall the rearrangement he
effected in the entire museum of the Vatican, and the marvellous
statue of Augustus from the Villa of Livy with which he endowed it,
and the metal colossus of Hercules, purchased with his own money,
the Claudius of Lanuvius, and the Apoxiomenos in Parian marble,
restored by Tenerani, and placed in the Vatican in 1851. There he
placed also the Pomponia Azzia, found in the Appian Way, and the
Ceres disinterred at Ostia, which he substituted for a poor Diana.

It was the time when at his simple summons all the bishops
of the world hastened to the Vatican council. Magnificent
spectacle!--which Rome alone can offer to the world, of all the
representatives of the church united to discuss freely the truth
which the Pontiff should proclaim infallibly. Those prelates, in
the moments of their repose, were wont to admire on all sides the
care which Pius IX. had lavished upon art. Here the circus of
Caracalla restored, and the portico of Octavia disinterred; there,
in the Roman forum, the portico of the _Dii Majores_ and the apsis
of the Basilica of Constantine. In another spot the Basilica of St.
Paul is restored, the arena of the greatest artists in painting,
sculpture, stained glass, and mosaics. He opened the confessions
with their wealth of marbles and metals, in the two patriarchal
basilicas, the Lateran and Liberian. He restored the mausoleums of
St. Constantia, St. Clement on the side of Celio, St. Agnes, St.
Cecilia, Santa Maria in Trastevere, St. Lorenzo without the walls,
with the paintings of Fracassini, Mariani, and Grandi. Mariani
painted St. Lucy of the Banner and Santa Maria in Aquiro, and
Gugliari St. Augustine. Podesti and Consoni drew for the Vatican
Palace the portraits of the most famous ecclesiastics of ancient or
modern times; among which stand out the Martyrs of Fracassini, who
has painted but too little. All these works gave rise not only to
the ancient use of medals, but also to public monuments, such as
the column of the Immacolata, the works of Poletti, and the statue
cast from cannon by De Rossi.

In 1852 was formed a commission of archæology to chiefly examine
the Christian monuments,[118] and explore the Catacombs, the
theatre of those scenes of sacrifice, love, and resignation wherein
society was regenerated, and where now De Rossi convinces us that
scholarship and wit are not enough for speech, but that piety has
a secret of its own to touch on things which are better felt than
described.

The Egyptian Museum was increased by the monuments collected
by Clot Bey. To the Etruscan were added statues, candelabra,
sarcophagi from Bolsena, Tarquinia, and Viterbo. The Christian
Museum of the Lateran was founded, to which the reopened Ostia sent
mosaics, sarcophagi, and epigraphs. The Nomentian and Appian Ways
were excavated still further, as far as Bovilla. And the emporium
of marbles, the site of the seven cohorts of Virgil at Monte Fiore,
and the ruins of the Palatine--which the Pontiff himself visited
suddenly, giving an unexpected joy to the workmen, in the month
of the celebration of Rome’s birth--attest how inexhaustible are
the riches of this city, which, not to mention the seven great
galleries, is indeed one vast gallery. And these excavations,
whether designed or accidental, disclose a wealth ever beyond
expectation, as is seen in the piazza of the Holy Apostles, the
grove of the brothers Arvali, especially in the Church Della Pace,
the piazza Navona, on the Monte Luziale, and in the new cemetery of
the Jews.

That the Pontiff has not been behindhand in works of practical
utility, we see in the Acqua Pia, in the palace of the house of
reform, the military and civil hospitals, and that of peace,
the tobacco manufactory, the adornments of the Pincio, the
penitentiary, the bridges over the Tiber, the Piazza Pia and
elementary school, and a new city commenced on the Viminal and
Esquiline.

And while on this point, we see in the Exposition of the Baths of
Diocletian, which Michael Angelo repaired with a respect not always
shown by his followers, an example of a character which Rome alone
of all the world can produce; and this collection of the objects
of Catholic worship was the most beautiful hymn which the Pontiff
raised against the blasphemy which precedes violence. This was a
thought of the Pontiff’s. It was executed by his command, and at
his own expense. He inaugurated it, closed it in person, and with
his own hand distributed the prizes. Just indeed was the homage
which the artists of every nation then represented in Rome paid
to Pius IX., in the jubilee of his pontificate, the expression of
which he left exposed for many days in the gallery of Raphael,
where Mantovani, Consoni, and Galli at this day emulate the
wondrous decorations of Sanzio and Giovanni da Udine.

The popes and ministers of the church have watched over art with
special care, lest this chosen daughter of God should be sacrificed
to his enemy. And now, what is left? In the face of these glories,
how much misery saddens us! All the manifestations of the supremacy
of materialism over what is spiritual are multiplied, and hence
so many edifices purely industrial. The fever of making and
unmaking on the spur of the moment, the race for life without the
enjoyment of the least repose, have reduced art, which at first
was an enthusiasm, afterwards a taste, now to a fashion and a
luxury, bereft of the mighty force of our ancient community and the
great-minded and holy faith of our fathers. What the romance is to
history, the novel to the epic poem, the drama to the tragedy, the
portrait and its kind are to the great artistic works and historic
paintings, lost in common and epigrammatic subjects, and tortured
with minutiæ.

And this is not the end. He who preserves a sense of shame, of
charity, of faith, must either behold with loathing, or close his
eyes, when he sees the pencil of the lithographer and even the pure
light of heaven prostituted to dishonor whatever he has held most
holy in faith and life, to tempt the senses with foulness that
Sodom would have denounced. As they have made poison distil from
their inkstands, so, with vile ignorance or hateful forethought,
they have made art a pander for impurity and a school for the
barricades and petroleum. From such frenzy, which terrifies the
most daring and causes the most thoughtless to reflect, we hope
that men will return to conscience; and in a world which, in order
to cherish a better faith in its own greatness will believe no
longer in God, this hope is sustained by seeing the Martyrs, of
Giovanni Ferrari; the Angels above the Dead Christ, of Tabacchi;
the Christian Martyr, of Argenti; the Assumption, of Morelli and
Grigioletti; the Saint Joseph, of Bertini; the Saint Clair, of
Mancinelli; the Saint Lucian in Prison, of Ceccarini; the Ecce
Ancilla Domini, of Brioschi.

And you, as many of you as have authority and dignity, labor hard
with the pen, the voice, example, and precept to prevent the youth
not yet contaminated with this new licentiousness, nor yet drunk
with that perfume which lulls before it suffocates, from turning
renegades to the spirituality of art. Make them improve the feeling
rather than the style of their productions. Make them disavow the
causes whose effects we groan under, and which Providence has
allowed so long to afflict us. Make them rise above the prejudices
of the journals and the abjectness of officials, as well as the
mercenary motives of a utilitarian world and from practices which
make a trade of art. Let them never forget the lofty mission of
art, and that the form is merely a garb and outfit to clothe the
moral idea. For beauty is the perfection of being, perceived by the
spirit, felt in the heart, and its handmaid is truth, represented
with love. And, without doubt, for him whose aim is truth, the
best way of finding it is in subjects and deeds of religion. Let
us banish, then, indifference, which slays love and genius alike,
and that cold calculation which smothers trustful faith. The time,
the people, the man best fitted for the culture of art, will be
those whose life, at once profound and active, shall not be bound
down, but indeed lifted up by beliefs that are fixed and by customs
that are right; who combine fidelity to nature with the impulse
of enthusiasm; retaining power over matter, with due regard to
historical and moral proprieties; exciting that emotion which is
not unaccompanied by pleasure, but pleasure mingled with admiration.

Restore, I entreat you, art to its great principles! Fill life
again with those sweet illusions and great delights, making a
language of the deepest thoughts of a civilization ever more
refined, and so accustom us to realize the ideal, to ennoble
humanity! Give it back to its great office, to bear witness to
right belief, and to give joy to the little ones, who are our
brethren in Christ!

FOOTNOTES:

[112]
    God’s writ unto our weakness bendeth down,
    And with an inner meaning hands and feet
    On him bestows whose being knows no bounds.
    So holy church an aspect human gives
    To Michael and to Gabriel and him
    Who made Tobias whole.
                          Dante’s _Paradiso_, iv.

[113] Cicero (_De Oratore_) says that Phidias, when sculpturing a
Jove or Minerva, had no model from whom to copy. But in his own
mind he set up a certain wondrous type of beauty which came to him
by intuition, and, enwrapt in its contemplation, urged art and hand
to produce its likeness. It is precisely “that fixed idea which
comes into my mind” that Raphael spoke of.

[114] Petrarch.

[115] Lombardy.

[116] Canova made the observation to Napoleon that the artistic
monuments of Rome are religious, or placed under the guardianship
of religion. Religion had saved the treasures of antiquity in the
time of the barbarians, and multiplied them anew in later days.

[117] Overbeck’s principal work, perhaps, is the great piece in the
Frankfort Museum, where he has represented the triumph of religion
in art. He himself has explained it in a little book.

[118] A foreign artist said to me that in his archæological
researches he did not stop at Rome, because there there was nothing
mediæval. Didron, in his _Archæological Bulletin_, counts here
fifty Gothic constructions, and declared that in monuments of the
middle ages Rome was no less rich than Rouen, the most Gothic city
in France.




MAX MÜLLER’S “CHIPS.”[119]


Mr. Max Müller, the learned German professor, and Fellow of All
Souls’ College, Oxford, wrote, and in 1868 published, a collection
of essays on the science of religion which he calls _Chips from a
German Workshop_. He tells us this title was given him by the late
Chevalier Bunsen, who, on advising him to undertake the translation
of the Sacred Book of the Brahmins, the _Rig-Veda_, bade him give,
from time to time, to the public some chips from his workshop. The
intensely absorbing and delightful nature of his studies is to be
seen very clearly by these specimens. They embrace two of the most
important and most attractive branches of human science--that of
the varied forms of human thought in its relations to God; and
that of the multifold languages of the earth, and their mutual
relations. Prof. Müller’s philological investigations are confined
chiefly to the Indo-Germanic family, and confirm beyond possibility
of cavil the intimate connection between the many branches of
that family--the Sanskrit, the Brahmanic language in use at
present, the Persian, the Greek, the Latin with its offshoots, the
Italian, the French, and the Spanish, the Celtic and the English.
In exemplifying what he says on this subject, he speaks of the
meaning of the word _Veda_. Rig-Veda, he tells us, means praise of
knowledge or wisdom--_Rig_ or _Rich_ signifying _praise_ or _hymn_,
and _Veda knowledge_ or _wisdom_. He calls our attention to this
word _Veda_ in support of the theory of the connection of the Aryan
or Indo-Germanic group of languages. The root of it, or the word
deprived of its final vowel--_Ved_--is to be seen by substituting
the interchanging consonants in the English words _wit_, _wot_,
the German _weiss_, Gothic _vait_, Anglo-Saxon _wat_, Greek οἶδα,
to which may be added the Latin word _video_, _to see_, evidently
closely connected with this Sanskrit word signifying to know, for
knowledge is intellectual vision.

What impresses us most, at first sight, is the practical conclusion
to be drawn from the advanced state of philological studies. We
have here a striking proof of the unity of the race of man. Max
Müller speaks of this proof in favor of the unity of the Aryan
races as beyond gainsaying; words are there to establish the truth.
Now, if we see such differently constituted peoples--such as the
English and the Hindoo, the French and the Persian, the Celt and
the Italian--all members of one family, can any one be so rash
as to wish to exclude from fellowship with that family the tawny
Arab, the swarthy Malay, or the dark son of Africa, simply because
they are to be classed under the heads of Semitic and Turanian? It
is well known among physiologists that the differences of facial
angles and cranial thickness constitute nothing essential; while
the investigations of national thought and customs, hitherto veiled
by unintelligible languages, tend continually to demonstrate
and confirm the unity of man, to show that all men are of one
common stock, of one man and of one woman, all made after the one
type--that which exists, as the Bible tells us, in God. So far,
in fact, is real science from doing harm to revelation, that when
it attains its perfection it confirms the truths that have been
revealed. Whence we may draw this conclusion: that men who are wise
will take care to have revelation for their guide, even in science;
they will, it is clear, be saved from going astray, since their
ultimate examinations confirm its truth. It is not unfrequently
the case that the eager scientific man, by a logical process,
draws his conclusion without the slightest suspicion of error in
his premises. It is no wonder he is tenacious of his conclusion;
but how often are his ideas overthrown by “chance,” that strange
discoverer of more than one great treasure of the human race! And
how often sober, thoughtful men, meeting to determine the basis on
which they stand, have to say, as did the Geological Congress of
Paris in 1867: “_The state of the science is not such as to enable
us to make deductions wholly free from danger of error_”! or,
certainly it is most just that we should love science and follow it
faithfully, but always with an eye to that old and familiar adage,
“It is human to err.” There is really nothing after all that saves
a man from mistakes and confusion so much as a proper estimate
of his own conclusions, and a readiness to have them corrected
by others. It is a habit of mind that distinguishes really great
men, like the sounder portion of the Prehistorical Congress of
Bologna, in the autumn of 1871: “There is nothing in prehistorical
discoveries that is in contradiction with revelation.” Bacon has
bid us all put aside the _idola_, and thus free our minds from
prejudice. We should begin by banishing the idol of _self_, the
reliance on our own judgment, so as to be ready at once to abandon
cherished ideas, and to look on the principles of science as more
or less liable to be one day, by further investigation, shown to be
other than we think them. This is all the more important because
_false_ principles always do practical harm, and, if nothing else,
they retard the attainment of what we are searching for, in putting
us on the wrong path. We do not wish to be thought to condemn all
scientific principles as one day liable to be proven false. There
are some, the essential agreement of whose subject and predicate
absolutely excludes all danger of error, others which the constant
experience of the human race has shown to be true, such as, for
instance, the mathematical, and many of those that form the basis
of natural science. These do not contradict revelation, and will
never be proven false. The history of the past, however, is too
full of the _débris_ of systems of every kind that any one of
solid information should not take warning from them, and be on
his guard against looking on any proposition in natural science
as irrefragable which the concordant testimony of men since the
enunciation of it has not shown to be so. The Ptolemean system,
after an undisputed sway, yielded before the assaults of Copernicus
and Galileo, and its solid spheres, whose music filled the poet’s
mind with delight, and charmed the privileged spirits to whom it
was given to hear it, came down in awful ruin, and their sounds
were hushed for ever. Then those whose years did not begin with
the century can recall how eagerly they drank in the doctrine of
the imponderable principles; and lo! what has become of them? The
progress of the age has substituted for it the teaching of the
unity of forces, and motion answers for them all. The solidity of
the sun and its dark spots, under the telescope and the combined
investigations of astronomers, have disappeared, and gaseous
substance and interruption in its continuity have taken the place
of both. And in the recent brilliant discoveries in regard to
the constituent gases of the sun, who is to make us sure that the
lines in the spectrum, by which we profess to know the existence
in the sun of certain determinate objects, may not be produced
by other causes of which we know nothing? All these theories, we
grant, have great probability in their favor, and we do not cite
them with any intent to discredit the labors of the gifted men who
have formed them; but it is wise not to look on them as the end
of all investigation and beyond all controversy. As we think of
these vicissitudes of science, there occur to us, though not in a
spirit of disregard for true science, the words written long ago:
“I have seen the trouble which God hath given the sons of men to be
exercised in it. He hath made all things good in their time, and
hath delivered the world to their consideration, so that man cannot
find out the work which God hath made from the beginning to the
end.” (Eccles. iii. 10, 11.) This, however, is a digression; let us
return to our _Chips_.

By far the most important topic treated of by Prof. Müller is the
knowledge of God existing among the varied nations of men. He gives
great weight, and deservedly, to the result of his observation
in this respect, and we can readily understand why he should lay
so much stress on the importance of the study of the “science of
religion,” or the comparative study of the different religions of
the earth. As a matter of erudition, it must always be a subject
of the greatest interest, not only in itself, but also because it
serves to illustrate the words of the Apostle to the Romans, ch. i.
18-20: “For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all
ungodliness and injustice of those men that detain the truth of God
in injustice: because that which is capable of being known[120] of
God is manifest in them: for God hath manifested it unto them. For
the invisible things of him, from the creation of the world, are
clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made; his
eternal power also, and divinity, so that they are inexcusable.” We
shall have occasion to return to these words. Here we may remark
that this knowledge of God that transpires in all the citations
the learned Orientalist has laid before us, is nothing more than
what as Christians we expected to hear. But in this connection we
have to say that the contrary effect is produced to that intended
by Prof. Müller. This corroboration of the words of St. Paul,
uttered more than eighteen centuries ago, and proclaimed long
before by the author of the Book of Wisdom, ch. xiii., proves that,
so far from the religions of the earth meriting praise for their
reference to a Supreme Being, they deserve to be censured because
they detained the truth in darkness--in injustice. The words of the
Professor are: “We shall learn [from this comparative study] that
there is hardly one religion which does not contain some important
truth; truth sufficient to enable those who seek the Lord, and
feel after him, to find him in the hour of their need.” The first
portion of this assertion is true; the second is incorrect in its
expression, and dangerous in its tendency. It is incorrect in its
expression, inasmuch as it attributes to these religions, as such,
the possession of truth--not all, to be sure, but some truth. We
say, on the contrary, that the truth contained in these various
religious systems is the common inheritance of the human mind.

The light of Almighty God’s countenance shines on us all, no matter
who we are. The Psalmist asks: “_Quis ostendet nobis bona?_” and he
answers: “_Signatum est super nos lumen vultus tui Domine!_” It is
wrong, therefore, to give credit to a false system for the truth it
has enveloped in darkness. And the reason of this is palpable. If
we turn to the words of the apostle, as given above, do we find him
giving credit to the false religions of mankind for the truth they
contain? Anything but this. He says: “The invisible things of him,
from the creation of the world, are clearly seen, being understood
by the things that are made; his eternal power also, and divinity,
so that they are inexcusable. Because, when they knew God, they
did not glorify him as God.... And they changed the glory of the
incorruptible God into the likeness of the image of a corruptible
man, and of birds and four-footed beasts, and of creeping things.”
Here we have a sentence pronounced against these very religions our
author speaks of as containing sufficient truth to enable those who
seek the Lord and feel after him, to find him in the hour of their
need. The apostle condemns them because “they detained the truth of
God in injustice.”

This is to be said of these false religions even at their best.
But what is to be said of them when we take into consideration the
immense majority of those among the heathen do not attain to any
refined spirituality, but are engrossed in the material, sensual
forms of idolatry, like the conservative Parsees, so graphically
described in the book before us? We must therefore conclude that,
granting Prof. Müller intended to refer to man’s natural knowledge
or his reason as a means of knowing God, to which the apostle bears
witness, he has used an incorrect form of speech in attributing
to these religions efficacy in finding God. It would have been in
every way better to write that, in spite of the errors of these
various systems, there was still light enough left to man, through
his reason, to lead him to God--a truth not only substantiated by
the teaching of theologians, but, as we have seen, expressly laid
down in Holy Writ.

We have said the assertion of our author is not only incorrect in
its form, but dangerous in its tendency. That tendency, with all
respect to Prof. Müller’s expressed opinions, is latitudinarian;
it would lead one to think that, after all, the heathen and all
professing a false religion are in a comparatively safe state. If
this be so, why do we find the apostle assaulting those systems so
uncompromisingly, and asserting that the heathen are inexcusable?
And how do we reconcile with this theory the words of the Gospel,
“Unless ye be born again of water and the Holy Ghost, ye shall not
enter into the kingdom of heaven”? True, there is the _baptisma
flaminis_, the resource of those who have not the blessing of the
actual sacrament; but even this requires a rejection, absolute or
implied, of the false system, and the act of faith in the true
God, accompanied by a firm will of doing whatever it may be known
he asks of a sincere soul. The language of the great theologians
is certainly not in any way favorable to the safety of those who
follow a false religion. They tell us that those who among the
pagans of old were saved, were justified by their faith in a true
God and in the Redeemer to come. The doctor of grace, the great
St. Augustine, whose intellect was one of the most remarkable of
any age, says in _Serm. 3 on the 36th Ps._, “All who were just,
from the beginning of the world, have Christ as their head. For
they believed he was to come, whom we believe to have come already;
by faith in him they were saved, as we are.” Then, in the _Comm.
on the 128th Ps._, he writes: “Has the church only existed now?
The church is of old; from the time the saints were called the
church is on earth. Once it existed only in Abel, and was warred
against by a wicked and perfidious brother, Cain. Once the church
was only in Enoch, and he was taken away from the wicked. Once the
church was only in Noah’s house, and it suffered from all those
who perished by the flood, and only the ark floated on the waters
and escaped to the dry land. Once the church was only in Abraham,
and we know how much he suffered from the wicked. The church
existed only in Lot, and in his house in Sodom, and he bore with
the iniquity and perversity of the Sodomites, until the Lord freed
him from them. The church began to exist in the people of Israel,
and it suffered at the hands of Pharaoh and the Egyptians. And in
the very church itself, amid the people of Israel, there began to
flourish a number of holy souls: Moses and other saints suffered
from the wicked Jews. We come at last to our Lord Jesus Christ; the
Gospel has been preached, and he has said in the Psalms: ‘I have
brought the tidings, and I have spoken, and they are multiplied
beyond number.’” (See also the writings of the same father against
the Donatists.) The same idea of the necessity of faith in Christ
is found constantly in the teaching of the church and in the
writings of the fathers.

We ask after this, who deserve most credit as exponents of the
essential requisites of salvation--the early fathers of the
church, who explain the words of the apostle, “Without faith it
is impossible to please God,” in the sense we have here in St.
Augustine, and which too is had in the ancient Athanasian Creed;
or gentlemen like our author, whose ideas of Christianity, even
when they express them clearly, differ so widely from what was
once held as revealed truth, and who moreover cannot come to an
understanding among themselves as to what the truth of Christ is?
And if we must give the preference to the former, what are we
to say of an _opinion_ that serves to lull people into a false
security regarding that which is, of all things, the most vital in
its importance and consequences?

Prof. Müller rightly says that the knowledge of the false religions
of the world makes us appreciate more the Christian religion. Had
he taken the view we have given, he would have had a vastly greater
appreciation of it. He would not have put it in comparison with
other religions, as differing from them by a superior degree of
excellence, but would have shown that they differed essentially,
as right differs from wrong, as truth from error, and therefore
he would, while speaking charitably of individuals and leaving
them to the judgment of God, infinitely just, have condemned and
rejected these false systems of worship as the curse of the unhappy
race of Adam. As we have said before, we are not inclined to
charge Prof. Müller with the full consequences of his assertions,
since in several places of his work he gives his unqualified
acknowledgment of the claims of Christianity. Still we cannot but
look on his loose assertions as the result of the rationalistic
spirit that has begun so rapidly to pervade the most conservative
of English universities. Only a few years ago, when called to give
his testimony before the Board of Inquiry of the House of Lords
regarding the state of the universities, Canon Liddon said that
this tendency to rationalism had come in with the change in the
system of studies and the introduction of the higher philosophical
branches, and that it was making headway among the students in a
marked manner. Nor, when we see those at the head of the university
decide, as they did lately, that the Thirty-nine Articles are not
to be insisted on for examination except in case of those who
are candidates for the honorary degrees, and when we hear in our
own country a board of Anglican bishops declare that the word
“regeneration” in the formula of infant baptism does not imply
any moral change in the one baptized--it does not seem to us that
we are doing Prof. Müller injustice in thinking that he, a lay
professor in the university directed by the Anglican Church, has,
it may be unconsciously, taken in not a little of the leaven of
rationalism.

To this may be referred his translation of the text of St. Justin,
_Ap._ i., § 46, when he makes this Christian philosopher say,
“Christ is the first begotten of God, and we have already proved
him to be the very Logos (or _universal Reason_) of which mankind
are all partakers.” In the Edit. of the Congr. of St. Maurus of
the _Works of St. Justin_, this word universal does not occur; the
Greek text has simply the accusative “Logon,” and the Latin simply
“Rationem.” Certainly all Catholic theologians hold this doctrine
of St. Justin, and teach that the _Logos_ or _Verbum_ or _Ratio_
is the definite wisdom of the Godhead, by which God understands
himself and all things in himself, and that all created wisdom or
reason is but a participation of that Infinite Reason or Word. But
in these days, when the locutions, _universal soul_, _universal
intellect_, _universal being_, are used so much in a pantheistical
sense, we think an author can hardly find fault with those who very
probably misunderstand him when he uses expressions so liable to be
misinterpreted, and charge him with some tendency which he seems
in other places to disclaim. It seems to us the learned professor
should have taken all the greater care in his translation, as St.
Justin (in his _Ap._ ii. § 7) disclaims expressly all pantheistic
teaching, which he declares to be “foreign to all sound thought,
reason and mind.”

To show we do not wish to be unfair to this distinguished scholar,
we will do him the justice to cite his condemnation of the
pantheistic spirit of the times. He is speaking of Barthélemy St.
Hilaire’s _History of Buddhism_, and he quotes the words of the
preface of that writer:

  “This book may offer one other advantage, and I regret to
  say that at present it may seem to come opportunely. It is the
  misfortune of our times that the same doctrines which form
  the foundation of Buddhism meet at the hands of some of our
  philosophers with a favor which they ill deserve. For some
  years we have seen systems arising in which metempsychosis
  and transmigration are highly spoken of, and attempts are
  made to explain the world and man without either a God or a
  Providence, exactly as Buddha did. A future life is refused to
  the yearnings of mankind, and the immortality of the soul is
  replaced by the immortality of works. God is dethroned, and in
  his place they substitute man, the only being, we are told, in
  which the Infinite becomes conscious of itself. These theories
  are recommended to us sometimes in the name of science, or of
  history, or philology, or even of metaphysics; and though they
  are neither new nor very original, yet they can do much injury to
  feeble hearts.”

And a few lines further on:

  “It would be useful, however, if the authors of these modern
  systems would just cast a glance at the theories and destinies
  of Buddhism. It is not philosophy in the sense in which we
  understand this great name, nor is it religion in the sense
  of ancient paganism, of Christianity, or of Mohammedanism;
  but it contains elements of all worked up into a perfectly
  independent doctrine; acknowledges nothing in the universe but
  man, and obstinately refuses to recognize anything else, though
  confounding man with nature in the midst of which he lives. Hence
  all those aberrations of Buddhism, which ought to be a warning to
  others.” (P. 203, vol. i.)

We have one other charge against the learned professor for what,
though savoring a little of rationalism, more particularly
regards the Catholic Church. He says that “as the Oriental creeds
degenerated into grosser forms, so Christianity degenerates into
Jesuitism and Mormonism” (p. 185). We grant that the author is
striving to be fair to the pagans, and shows an unwillingness to
condemn them as a whole on account of the corrupt practices of a
portion of them. But in doing so he has shown himself most unjust
to a distinguished Order in the Catholic Church, whose piety,
virtue, and learning claim for them everywhere from Christians a
tribute of respect and gratitude, and nowhere more so than in our
own free land. It is really lamentable to see what we must call a
total want of knowledge in a person of such extensive information
and real ability as Prof. Müller. ’Tis strange that it did not
occur to him that there was a great incongruity in coupling the
Society of Jesus with the corrupt and sensual community of the
Mormons, and it is only another lesson to put us on our guard
against prejudice, which has so wonderful a power in perverting the
judgments of men so worthy of respect for their zeal in the cause
of truth.

This undeserved condemnation of the Jesuit Fathers is not the
only error into which Prof. Müller’s dislike of Catholicity has
betrayed him. On page 190, he speaks of the Buddhist ceremonies,
and in a foot-note refers to the work of the Abbé Huc in which he
describes his travels in China and Thibet, and remarks the curious
coincidence between the rites of the religion of the Grand Lama and
the forms of Catholic worship. Our author tells us that the Abbé
Huc pointed out the similarities between the Buddhist and Roman
Catholic ceremonials with such _naïveté_ that, to his surprise, he
found his delightful _Travels in Thibet_ placed on the _Index_. We
confess our surprise at this information. We never heard of the
abbé’s work having been signed with “the black mark of Peter,” but
we have heard the book very highly praised by persons who would
hardly have praised it had there been anything in it to merit the
censures of the church. We have too at hand a copy of the _Index_
coming down to six years after the publication of the _Travels in
Thibet_, but after a careful search have not been able to find
in it the name either of Abbé Huc or of this work. Moreover, it
strikes us as very unlikely that this writer should have suffered
for what has been stated pointedly by authors of the church from
the first ages down to our time. Had Prof. Müller turned his
attention to Tertullian’s book, _De Præscriptione Hæreticorum_, he
would have found at § 40 the following passage:

   “Who is to interpret the sense of what may further heresy?
  The devil, forsooth, whose office it is to distort the truth;
  who rivals by the mysteries of the idols the very actions of
  the divine sacraments. He too baptizes some as believers and
  faithful; he promises the putting off of sin by the laver;
  and, if I remember aright, Mithras there signs his soldiers
  on the forehead, celebrates the offering of bread, and uses
  the image of the resurrection, and gains the crown through the
  sword (martyrdom). What shall I say more? that he destines his
  high-priest for the nuptials of but one (wife)? that he has
  his virgins? that he has his celibates? But if we consider the
  superstitions of Numa Pompilius, if the priestly duties, emblems,
  and privileges, the sacrificial service and instruments, and the
  vessels of sacrifice, and the strangeness of their expiations
  and votive gifts, has not the devil manifestly imitated the
  observances of the Jewish law?”

In the seventeenth century Natalis Alexander, in his
_Ecclesiastical History_ (vol. ii. diss. iii. art. 3, § 3, No.
vii.) replying to the objections of Spencer, in his Dissertation
No. 3 on the _Ritual Laws of the Hebrews_, says: “It is far more
probable that the devil, the rival of God, inspired the heathen
to use in the rites of their divinities, or to carry about with
solemn pomp, arks or mystic vases containing something hidden
(arcanum),” than that the Israelites took their idea from them;
and further on: “Who does not see that the conclusion can be
drawn by just and better right? Therefore, the beaten vases had
their origin in the rivalry of the evil spirit seizing on all
that was splendid in the worship of God, and turning it to his
own worship.” There are besides several rites well known to have
existed among the heathen after the coming of Christ that bear so
close a resemblance to Christian and Jewish forms, that we are
warranted in following those archæologists who attribute them to
imitation of the usages of revealed religion. Take, for instance,
the taurobolium or criobolium, or baptism by the blood of a bull
or goat. In this ceremony the person undergoing it was placed in
a pit with a kind of sieve over his head, through which the fresh
blood of the animal was made to fall upon his whole body. What
is this but the corruption of baptism, the idea of redemption
through blood, and of the sprinkling with blood that took place
by divine command in the old law? It stands to reason that as the
Christian religion gained influence, paganism would, by seizing on
what was marked in it and perverting it to its own uses, strive to
regain its credit by an imitation which in some way would deceive
the ignorant. Prof. Müller can see from this that Catholics are
not unaccustomed to making such contrasts, and that they are far
from fearing them. And as for the case in point, history tells us
that St. Thomas evangelized India and very probably the countries
adjacent to it, while we know that St. Francis Xavier, as narrated
in his life, found decided traces of Christianity among some of
the Indians, though they had not the priesthood. This being the
case, we can readily comprehend how the followers of Buddha should
have adopted many of the forms in use among Christians, even the
recitation of psalms, which we know from the New Testament to have
been in use among the apostles, who, we are told, “went out from
the supper-room after reciting a hymn with their Master.”

Such are the remarks we have thought well to make in the interest
of truth in regard to these volumes of Prof. Müller, which, aside
from these objectionable features, are full of learning and of
interesting information, imparted in an easy and elegant style.
They will be of value to the scholar, especially to those whose
occupations do not allow them to consecrate much time to researches
such as those in which the professor is engaged. They will have the
effect of confirming the believer in the truth of Christianity, and
of making him thankful for the gift of a faith that has saved him
from such fearful enthralment of mind and body as he beholds his
fellow-men condemned to in the many forms of Eastern paganism. It
is true those who are not favorable to positive religious teaching
will wrest not a little of what is said to their own damage--a
danger we have tried to point out. Still, the learned author will,
after all, be justified in remarking that, if such be the case, it
is but another exemplification of the fact that the serpent draws
poison from the same plant from which the bee sips its honey.

FOOTNOTES:

[119] _Chips from a German Workshop._ By Max Müller. New York:
Scribner & Co.

[120] See Kühner’s _Gr. Grammar_, translated by Messrs. Edwards
and Taylor, London and New York, 1859, § 234 (i.), with regard to
the force of the verbal adjective. The word in the Greek text of
Tischendorf, _Ed. Sept._, is γνωστὸv.




TO WORDSWORTH.


    Great poet, I have tasted and admired
      These many years, but _known_ thee only now--
      With nine-and-twenty winters on my brow,
    And much beside that oft thy page inspired.
    I find in thee a freshness long desired:
      And take thy song as migrant bird a lake,
      Which first she shunn’d, yet could not all forsake,
    Till, last, she nests there--never to be tired.
    To nature I have ever turn’d with love,
      But now more fondly, from the world of men.
      ’Twas erst for sympathy: with Byron then:
    But now, with thee, religiously--to prove
    The sweets of contemplation, and emove
      In other minds high thought and holy ken.

  MAY, 1872.




TRUE GREATNESS.


There is a singular power in that pithy summons of the exordium
to the preface of the Mass--“Sursum Corda.” It stirs the deepest
feelings of the human heart. Human nature is keenly sensitive to
every appeal addressed to her true instincts. Man needs not to
be told that he possesses the _power_ of fixing his thoughts on
things superhuman, educing from them principles of action, and
shaping thereby his manifold relations with society. It is in
stimulating this latent energy, and lovingly decoying it up to its
most congenial atmosphere, that we experience the tender force of
“Sursum Corda” as a touching address to our innermost self.

Axioms are beyond demonstration. But man, no less than science,
has his own living first principles, and their evidence is of such
a clearness as to be but obscured by ratiocination. For instance,
it is always agreeable to our better nature to give praise where
praise is due. Heathen wisdom has beautifully witnessed to this
homely truth: “Palmam qui meruit ferat.”[121] The inspired son
of Sirach makes it an imperative duty: “Let us now praise men
of renown, and our fathers in their generation.... Let the
people show forth their wisdom, and the church declare their
praise.”[122] If we should be asked to expound the philosophy of
this noble instinct, we should be obliged, we apprehend, either
to mystify what is self-evident, or super-illustrate it by the
equally undemonstrable fact that greatness of character challenges
universal admiration. It is like the golden sunset of Italy,
or the many-tinted beauty of the rainbow. We feel, one and all,
impelled to do it unsolicited homage.

Further, we secretly covet and thirst after it. For, by a cardinal
law of our being, we fain would appropriate and monopolize
whatsoever we deem worthy of admiration. Concerning the particular
qualities of which true greatness is made up, there may be some
difference of opinion. What is indisputable is that its attainment
is the result of sustained effort; that that effort is itself a
fertile source of pleasure; and that in proportion as we loiter
in listless indolence, and shrink from making it, our life is
retrogressive and self-condemned.

Artists, in aiming at eminence copy the great masters. They seek
to touch their lips to the primal fount of inspiration. Now, it
is rather matter of history than abstract speculation or ascetic
predilection, that the very best models of greatness of character
have been the saints. With their deep piety, lengthened vigils, and
extraordinary ecstasies, we are not now concerned. It is as simple
men and women we view them. We are dealing rather with effects than
with causes. Aside from the supernatural aims whereupon they ever
bent and concentrated all their energies, and whereby they daily
renewed their youth, and whereat they ceaselessly imbibed fresh
draughts of vitalizing nectar, they are the highest types on record
of individual excellence. Those fine traits of character which men
are agreed in admiring shine out more conspicuously in the saints
than in any other class of men. On the other hand, human frailties,
social incongruities, personal imperfections, find little or no
place in their history.

Only true men love solitude. Not that anybody positively hates it,
but that most people prefer, instead of soaring alone with the
eagle, to fly low with the herd of the feathered tribe. Hence they
hold, with Aristotle, that he who loves solitude must be either a
wild beast or a god. It is indeed a godlike love, but it was the
cherished heritage of the saints. They were “never less alone than
when alone.”

Independence wins the respect of all. Not that reckless thrusting
of ourselves against all established usages which borders on
silliness, nor yet that waspish spirit of antagonism by which
littleness would, in distinguishing and gainsaying anything, fain
assume the garb of greatness. Christian independence, which is ever
both manly and modest, lies between rashness and sycophancy, but
partakes of the nature of neither. The harebrained truant is but
little further removed from the saint than the fawning parasite.
The kingly prophet of Israel makes frequent and beautiful allusions
to independence, as: “Dominus illuminatis mea et salus mea: quem
timebo?” And again: “Expecta Dominum, viriliter age, confortetur
cor tuum, et sustine Dominum.”[123] If a moral chemist were to
analyze independence, he would most likely discover that its seed
and stem is love of principle. Men have at all times been found
who smiled upon the frowns of fortune, and cheerfully welcomed
adversity, simply because principle still survived in unimpaired
integrity, though all else had perished. There was yet one rich
germ of abiding felicity. Of such it has been well said that “they
need not flatter the vain, nor be tried with the impertinent, nor
stand to the courtesy of knavery and folly. They need not dance
after the caprice of a humorist, nor take part in the extravagance
of another.” Perhaps no one sentence in the writings of the
illustrious Archbishop Hughes furnishes a true key-note to his
character better than this: “I have never had a patron in church
or state.” Few are able to pen such words, and, in doing so, defy
any impeachment of their veracity. A wholesome disregard for the
opinions of others or indifference to human respect is the synonym
of independence. It is, indeed, under the latter name we find
independence mentioned in hagiology and ascetic theology; and it
is one of the insidious poisons which the saints seem most to have
feared. They considered the world so whimsical that, do what they
might, they never could satisfy it. They everywhere saw good reason
for pondering the old argument: “John came neither eating nor
drinking, and you say: He hath a devil. The Son of Man is come both
eating and drinking, and you say: Behold a man that is a glutton
and a drinker of wine.”[124] There is a remarkable instance of
independence in the life of St. Thomas à Becket, and it shows how
utterly irreconcilable are human respect and love of principle.
It was clear to the chancellor that one of two things needs must
come to pass. Either he should be allowed to remain chancellor,
and continue in kindly relations with Henry, or he should be
constrained to accept the archbishopric, and, by denouncing
Henry’s conduct, cease to be the friend of the king. The latter
would have saints for friends at the cost of principle; he would
have precedence given to the crown over conscience; he would have a
courtier prelate with elastic convictions; he would have reconciled
anomalies and “harmonized impossibilities.” But the independence
of conscience is inflexible; and hence the memorable collision
between a powerful monarch, whose fraudulence time has unveiled,
and a prelate of unsullied integrity, whose glorious martyrdom is
one of the great triumphs of the church. A beautiful writer[125]
lays down a simple rule whereby men of vacillating character, in
matters of conscience and duty, may meet those who would shake
their independence with a sort of _argumentum ad hominem_: “Since
worldlings look upon us as foolish, let us regard them in the same
light.”

Closely akin to independence is steadfastness, or firmness of
resolve. Not a mulish obstinacy which spurns counsel, and, by
magnifying ourselves above all others, teaches us only to unlearn
ourselves. Such a spirit betrays utter want of self-knowledge;
for few suffice for themselves, and fewer still see themselves as
they are seen by others. Whoever would attain to greatness should
avoid the fickle and the inconstant. “He that toucheth pitch shall
be defiled therewith.” And as instability in the convictions of
the mind and affections of the heart extends to men’s relations
and occupations in life, branding them in all things as volatile,
supercilious, and untrustworthy, so we should study to be immovably
firm in retaining and acting upon principles which we know to be
based upon truth and justice. In pursuing any course of action
maturely planned, and followed up from commendable motives, we must
courteously but firmly resist all attacks materially affecting
the nature of our resolve. It is common with the giddy and the
irresolute to seek to bring down men of unbending firmness to their
own contemptible level. Whoever lacks the courage to be singular,
lacks the first element of greatness, is wanting in a source of
solid happiness, and can scarcely be a true Christian. To give up a
tried and disinterested friend, to relinquish a line of conduct in
itself good and deliberately entered upon--unless from motives far
more overpowering than those which had hitherto swayed you--besides
furnishing clear evidence of fickleness, inflicts upon the will an
incurable wound.

If steadfastness be the twin-sister of independence, fortitude
is its eldest daughter. It has various manifestations; but it is
best evidenced in danger and in time of difficulty. Opposition is
its touchstone, elicits its latent powers, displays them in their
modest and unborrowed beauty, making us regard their possessor
with feelings akin to those with which we behold a gallant ship
that has just ridden out a violent tempest, or the conqueror who,
having waded, in calm courage, through a sea of blood, conducts his
triumphant legions through the captured provinces to survey the
rich spoils of victory. Fortitude may be considered the lion-virtue
of the human breast. It is the shield of all the other virtues,
rising in earnest promptness at the signal of approaching combat,
and waiting, with giant force, to crush, if it cannot repel,
the invader. Sydney Smith would compare no pleasure to that of
conversation with a man of well-stored mind and communicative
disposition. It seems to us there is no sight more beautiful to
contemplate than that of a brave man in the midst of danger.
If aught could enhance its thrilling interest, it would be the
elevating assurance that the invincible hero wars with bitter
reluctance, and solely for the sacred interests of truth and
justice. Yet such, in all instances, has been the struggle of the
saints and the eminent servants of the church, in which her history
so copiously abounds. Such, in these latter days, was the attitude
of Dr. Doyle, before the lords and commons of Britain, disdainfully
repelling their calumnies against the Catholics of Ireland,
scattering a serried phalanx of Oxford’s ablest champions, and
submitting his very examiners to an unexpected ordeal of scrutiny.
A still more beautiful instance of quiet courage is that evinced
by St. Paul before the judgment-seat of Festus: “Neither against
the law of the Jews, nor against the temple, nor against Cæsar,
have I offended in anything. But Festus, willing to show the Jews a
pleasure, answering Paul, said: Wilt thou go up to Jerusalem, and
there be judged of these things before me? Then Paul said: I stand
at Cæsar’s judgment-seat where I ought to be judged. To the Jews
I have done no injury, as thou very well knowest. For if I have
injured them, or have committed anything worthy of death, I refuse
not to die. But if there be none of these things whereof they
accuse me, no man may deliver me to them: I appeal to Cæsar.”[126]
It was not only a fearless assertion of the civil rights and
liberty of the subject, but also the stirring rebuke to the
perfidious judge for that he sought to transgress the limits of the
constitution. St. Chrysostom’s reply to the courtier who brought
him the intimation of the Empress Eudoxia’s intention to banish him
from his see, breathes the spirit of conscious fortitude: “Is there
any place she can send me where God will not be with me?”

There are few things we more admire in others than energy of
character. Indolence is the weightiest of burdens. It has been
well said, “People that have nothing to do are quickly tired of
their own company.” Sluggishness is the paralysis of the mind,
and the grave of physical health. The intellectual faculties
of the sluggard are like pearls in the depths of the sea, or
ingots of priceless ore in an undiscovered gold-field. They are
a lost treasure. But they are more. Their loss entails life-long
death. “Desires kill the slothful, for his hands have refused to
work.”[127] The most miserable of men is the idler. Pleasure he
cannot enjoy. Food without an appetite is worse than useless; it
is positively noxious. A keen relish for delightful pastime is the
fruit of healthy industry. But from this the sluggard revolts, as
do children from ghosts and hobgoblins. For him there needs no
demon to tempt; he is the direst of tempters to himself. Sloth is
the couch of Lucifer. Moreover, it stifles self-respect, awakening
in its stead a rancorous spirit of hostility to those of opposite
character. The loudest grumblers are idlers. Being out of sorts
with themselves, they can ill brook the conflicting influences of
those who relish labor. When positive and negative electricity
conflict, lightning is the result. And when the magic charms of
ceaseless industry shine like sunbeams on the stagnant, marshy
nature of the do-nothing, there is generated a brood of vipers
which thrive by diffusing poison.

It is not wonderful that the saints should one and all have
declared unceasing war against sloth. They were prodigies of
industry. The mighty feats of labor which they successively
undertook, and, in most instances, amid harassing embarrassment,
carried to speedy completion, astonish the most energetic. It
would seem as if their bodies had been recast in some unearthly
mould, whence they came forth purged from all animal properties.
It was not so much that they acted in harmonious concert with
the will, as that they appear instinctively to have in some sort
anticipated its behests, outrunning it in the race of industry.
And as the sluggard, imperceptibly, becomes so besotted as to
seem denaturalized, so, on the other hand, the quickened energies
of the saints assumed an unflagging elasticity, second only to
the miraculous gift of bilocation, whereby, at sundry intervals,
they were empowered to be simultaneously present in different
localities. If it be true that no great enterprise has ever
been accomplished without sustained effort, and that before the
levelling force of persistent determination the most appalling
difficulties soon disappear, it is no less certain that by none
more than by the saints has this cheering truth been realized. In
a just appreciation of the value and dignity of labor, and the
refreshing streams of pleasure that flow from it, their history
shows them to have excelled: nor is it too much to say that on
this one ground alone they would be entitled to the gratitude and
veneration of mankind.

Hence the uniform cheerfulness which characterized them, and which
they ungrudgingly seized every means of imparting to others. It is
among the balmiest comforts which this shifting world can bestow
to hold constant, or even frequent, intercourse with men of happy
and contented minds. They make life a cloudless sunshine, beneath
whose genial warmth the chilling shadows of sorrow and depression
must needs melt rapidly away. The happiest of men were the saints.
Descrying in nature’s tiniest product but a feebly reflected beam
of uncreated beauty, they could sing with the Florentine bard:

    “La gloria di colui che tutto muove
    Per l’universo penetra, e risplende
    In una parte più, e meno altrove.

           *       *       *       *       *

    O gloriose stelle, o lume pregno
    Di gran virtù, del quale io riconosco
    Tutto, qual che si sia, il mio ingegno.”[128]

If to murmur or grumble was with them a sin, to be blithe and
cheerful was the lightest of duties. Hours of sadness they indeed
had, when their own and the world’s sins were present to their
piercing minds. But through those passing eclipses there evermore
shone out a radiant smile--glittering sparks, issuing from the
glowing furnace of the heart within, where constantly burned the
loving recollection of promises sure to be redeemed and favors
graciously vouchsafed.

                    “Sweet intercourse
    Of looks and smiles; for smiles from reason flow--
    To brute denied, and are of love the food.”

There are, it seems to us, but few more desirable fortunes than
a state of perpetual cheerfulness. It is one which is not to be
purchased with gold. Its roots must be cast in the “eternal hills.”
The saints understood this. They held not in fiefdom from men their
changeless buoyancy of spirits. It was not with them a vortical
flux and reflux. It was not a checkered alternation of rapturous
mirth and gloomy dejection. Such is the ephemeral gladness of the
shallow humorist or the surfeited _bon vivant_. The cheerfulness
of the saints had nothing of the spasmodic. It was not a rushing
avalanche of fitfully majestic grandeur. It was a calm, stilly
lake of perennial transparency, lying in a hushed valley of mossy
verdure, fringed by a redolent clustering of midsummer’s fairest
flowers, reflecting the many-colored beauty of a rich autumnal
foliage, and resounding to the blessed harmonies of nature’s
feathered choristers. It was a fixed and permanent habit of mind,
sustaining the faculties in even security, keeping the emotions
of the will poised in rational equilibrium, dispelling all care,
all discontent, all overweening solitude, and diffusing throughout
their being a moral odor of sweet and undying fragrance.

One of the most evident results of such a state of mind is a spirit
of disinterestedness. This rare gift is, we consider, the strongest
proof of solid virtue. It is also the most winning attraction
observable in Christian character; and this, doubtless, is why
it is so frequently counterfeited, and employed as a subterfuge
to disguise the petty artifices of selfishness. It was not from
disinterestedness, but to be rid of the anxiety attendant upon
wealth, that the Grecian philosopher cast his gold into the
sea. He was the founder of a numerous school, whose adherents,
lacking true greatness of soul, comfort themselves, and seek to
hoodwink others, by aping excellence which they do not possess.
Disinterestedness, if it implies not sacrifice _in actu_, at least
supposes a readiness to submit, as often as need be, to the loss
of private interest. It seeks to eradicate, root and branch, all
narrow self-seeking. Herein lies the secret of its power in evoking
sympathy. It subdues the sternest enemy, wins plaudits from the
most callous observer, captivates all well-regulated minds, and
goes straight to every true, tender, and impressible heart. Knaves
are well aware of its popularity; conceal under its lambkin-like
guilelessness their wolfish cunning; and frequently glide, upon
its unerring prestige, into sudden and unmerited fortune. But only
with the saints--except in instances so rare as but to confirm the
rule--has disinterestedness attained its full growth. Riches, high
position, the esteem of the great ones of this world, such things
they deem it a luxury to be able to despise. But they stopped not
here, for this is but the threshold of disinterestedness. A stilly
and breathless contentment with the existing state of things; an
ever-vigilant eagerness to keep self-interest in the background,
giving due prominence to all things else; a prompt readiness to
be ignored rather than exalted; to be tossed to and fro upon the
sea of life, yet ever be buoyed to the surface by uncomplaining
indifference; to be all to all and dead to self--such is the point
they sedulously strove to reach. It was this beautiful quality
which so much endeared St. Francis de Sales to all with whom he
held intercourse. There went out from him that which distinctly
assured them that they stood in the presence of a superior being.
His sovereign once declared that there was more true nobility
in Francis than in any king he had ever read of, and that he
regarded his lofty virtue as something far more to be coveted
than the throne and sceptre of France. Having been requested by
a distinguished personage to accept a purse of gold, he declined
for the memorable reason that “he really knew not what to do with
it.” Centuries before, Saul of Tharsus spoke in similarly unselfish
strains to the citizens of Corinth: “Behold now the third time I am
ready to come to you; and I will not be burthensome unto you. For I
seek not the things that are yours, but _you_.”[129]

Disinterestedness finds vent in generosity without limit, and in
sympathy which admits of no distinction. Greatness embodies these
ministering angels of succor, and calls them her almoners and
handmaids. Heroes and conquerors have been bravest in their deeds
of magnanimity--most honored in their tender considerateness.
“Cæsar dando, sublevando, ignoscendo, gloriam sibi adeptus
est.”[130] It is said of Napoleon the First that, walking one
day on the coast of Calais, and meditating the ruin of the
British empire, he descried an English lad furtively launching a
tiny skiff, with a view to escaping from the navy of France and
revisiting his native land. There was too much of precocious daring
in the act not to stir the feelings of a soldier who had conquered
everything but his cool contempt for danger. The emperor gave
orders that a vessel of the line should be despatched to bear the
young Saxon to the shores of Britain. The achievements of human
generosity and sympathy fade into insignificance beside the heroism
of the saints. Nothing was with them too sacred to be transformed
into instruments of sympathy--into healing balsam to staunch the
wounds of sorrow and distress. The sacred vessels of the altar
were converted into money; the revenues of the church were made the
patrimony of the poor; and asylums of mercy went up to meet the
ravages of sudden epidemic, wherein the princely blood and fine
feelings of a St. Charles Borromeo and the genius of a Bellarmine
were happiest and most at home in bending over the pestilential
couch of smitten wretchedness. It is written of the “Seraph of
Assisi” that, on learning of a dearth of provisions among a horde
of banditti, he furnished them with an abundant supply, went in
person and publicly embraced the bandit chief, and soon saw them
exchange their career of plunder for a life of edifying industry.
To the hair-splitting sciolist, he would appear to have travelled
beyond the bounds of orthodoxy and sanctioned highway robbery; but
to the closer student of the Gospel, he will rather resemble him
who, going out from Gethsemani, kissed the worst of robbers, and
with his dying breath gave paradise to a public malefactor.

We have thus far indicated a few of those leading characteristics
which, if they be not, in the aggregate, true moral greatness
itself, are recognized as among its special and essential
ingredients. We cannot take leave of this subject without
repeating what at the outset we intimated, namely, that it is in
the lives of the saints those lofty traits of character are most
commonly and most endearingly illustrated. What share grace and
nature respectively have had in the formation and development of
each individual one, it has not been our object to investigate.
“Facienti quod in se est Deus nunquam denigat gratiam.”[131] One
thing only the saints sought at the hands of men--to be denied a
place in their memory. While here below, their wish was for the
most part realized to the fullest. They were of all others the
least understood and most abused. Their lowliness is now fittingly
exalted, and, while their bodies rest in peace, their names shall
be honored from generation to generation. Nor can we conceive
any means whereby men may more easily or more surely attain true
greatness, even in the natural order, than by striving, however
imperfectly, to rival those great men and women, once the earthly
gems of our ransomed humanity, now the sharers of its glorified
dignity and beauty, whom the church, in the progressive march of
time, steadily reproduces to our notice, to strengthen our faith,
to vivify our hopes, and intensify our undivided love for the
Creator in the first instance, and then for our fellow-creature,
without limit or distinction.

FOOTNOTES:

[121] “Let him receive the palm who has deserved it.”

[122] Ecclus. xliv. 1, 15.

[123] “The Lord is my light and my salvation: whom shall I fear?...
Wait on the Lord, act bravely, let thy heart be strengthened, and
wait for the Lord.”

[124] Luke vii. 33.

[125] St. Francis de Sales, _Introduction_, part iv. chap. 1.

[126] Acts xxv.

[127] Prov. xxi. 25.

[128] _La Divina Commedia_, _Paradiso_, canti i., xxii.

“The glory of him who gives life and motion to all things,
penetrates the universe, and shines forth with more splendor in one
part, and with less in another.

       *       *       *       *       *

“O glorious stars! O light impregnate with powerful virtues! to
which I am indebted for all my genius, such as it is.”

The above rendering is taken from the admirable prose translation
of the Rev. E. O’Donnell.

[129] 2 Cor. xii. 14.

[130] “Cæsar gained glory for himself, by giving, by raising up, by
pardoning.”

[131] “God never denies grace to one who does what he can.”




RELIGIOUS PROCESSIONS IN BELGIUM.


In Belgium the patronal feasts of the churches and towns are
celebrated with great pomp and splendor. Each church, on its feast,
is adorned in the richest style, the streets and houses of the
parish are decorated with green branches and banners; high and low,
rich and poor, unite to do honor to the Blessed Sacrament, that
is carried in procession on the Sunday during the octave, within
the limits of the parish. From the houses of the nobles hang the
banners, and oriflammes emblazoned with their armorial bearings;
one common bond of sympathy and love unites all ranks, one common
desire to show homage and reverence to the dear Lord and Master,
who is to be borne in triumph in their midst.

Catholicity has so thoroughly moulded the habits and customs of
the people, the festivals of the church make the festivals of
the people; consequently, the feast of the church is also the
_Kermesse_, as it is called, of the people. The parish feast is
the _Petite Kermesse_; the patronal feast of the city the _Grande
Kermesse_, when all business is suspended, and universal rejoicing
prevails.

Bruges celebrates the _Grande Kermesse_ on the 6th of May, in honor
of the Precious Blood, which is on that day carried in procession
from the chapel of _Le Saint Sang_ to the cathedral. In the chapel
of _Le Saint Sang_, the oldest Christian building in Belgium, is
preserved the holiest of relics, the precious blood of our Lord,
which was expressed from the sponge with which his sacred body was
washed after the descent from the cross. It was brought from the
Holy Land by Comte Thierry d’Alsace, one of the first and most
distinguished of the early crusaders, and presented to the bishop
of his native city, Bruges; where it has ever since remained, the
object of the most faithful love and veneration.

Every year, on the 6th of May, the Bishop of Bruges and the canons
of the cathedral go in procession to the chapel of _Le Saint Sang_,
carry the relic, which is inclosed in a shrine of inestimable
value, to the cathedral; high mass is sung, benediction given,
and then the procession returns to the chapel, where, during the
octave, the precious relic is exposed to the veneration of the
faithful.

Bruges is one of the oldest and most Gothic of the Belgian towns;
in the middle ages it was the great commercial _entrepôt_, canals
intersect it in every direction, but trade has moved off to Antwerp
and other cities, and Bruges is left with only the traditions of
its former importance. It is, too, one of the quaintest of places;
grass grows in the streets, and, ordinarily, it is the quietest
of towns; consequently, the English affect it a great deal,
particularly converts. In the most retired part of the town is the
great convent of the _Dames Anglaises_; the chapel is magnificent;
around the walls are tablets with the names of the Talbots,
Giffords, Somersets, Middletons, and others who have died in the
convent, and were its benefactors. The habit is beautiful, pure
white with black veil; they follow the rule of St. Augustine, and
are principally English; nothing can be more calm and peaceful than
their retreat.

The Hôpital St. Jean is also well worth seeing, as its gallery of
paintings contains many of the gems of Memling and other masters of
the Flemish school. The hospital is under the charge of the _Sœurs
Hospitalières_, who are also Augustinians, dress in white like the
_Dames Anglaises_, but are not quite so elegantly picturesque.

The Palais de Justice, the beautiful little Hôtel de Ville, and the
Chapel of the Saint Sang, surround the Grande Place. It was the eve
of the _Grande Kermesse_ when we arrived in Bruges, and all the
country and adjoining towns had emptied into it; the streets and
Places were crowded with peasants in every imaginable costume;
women in round caps, pointed caps, peaks on top and wings on the
side; every age and style was represented. Near the Grand Place
is a belfry, immensely high, called the Carillon, with the most
delicious chime of bells, which made music all the afternoon and
evening. The bells of Bruges are the most famous in Belgium.

In the Grand Place two or three gymnasiums were in full operation;
at all the _Kermesses_ there are machines called _moulins_, like
enormous rotary engines, with chariots for the girls and women,
and horses for the boys and men, decorated with red and gold in
the most fantastic manner. Some of the carriages were red, others
blue, then yellow, and so on; round and round they went, the bands
of music playing, the children screaming with enjoyment, the
women waving their handkerchiefs; the people around looking on
delightedly, some smoking, some drinking, all enjoying themselves.
In another place, a circus was performing in broad daylight, clowns
jumping and turning somersaults, boys standing on men’s heads,
girls poised on the shoulders of other muscular individuals. The
chimes were ringing their merriest, and the great bells of the
cathedral and Notre Dame joined their loud voices to the chorus to
celebrate the eve of the great festival.

Early on the morning of the feast we visited the Chapel of the
Saint Sang, ascended the staircase; a priest sat behind a little
altar, holding the precious reliquary; we kissed the relic, saw
with our own eyes the crimson life-blood of our Blessed Redeemer,
shed for us on Calvary; passed down the other side; and descended
into the subterranean crypt, the oldest church in Flanders. Then
we visited the cathedral and Notre Dame, looked at the beautiful
pictures that adorn the walls, and meditated by the tombs of the
bishops and old dukes of Burgundy. In Notre Dame are the tombs of
Charles the Bold and Maria of Burgundy.

At ten, the high mass commenced in the cathedral; the Bishop of
Bruges sang the mass, the Nuncio’s throne was opposite, and on the
right of the Bishop of Bruges the Bishops of Ghent, Liège, and
Tournai occupied the first of the canons’ stalls, crimson velvet
hangings being thrown over the carved oak in honor of their rank.
The canons were in their stalls; the seminarians and the rest of
the clergy had the good places directly in front of the screen. In
the cathedral of Bruges the high altar is divided from the rest of
the church by great marble walls, on top of which were splendid
hangings of Gobelin tapestry; and all that could be seen was to be
done by peeping through the railing of the doors.

We left at the benediction, and made our way out, so as to see the
procession, which would pass the Hôtel de Flandre. The lancers
were drawn up in front of the cathedral, the streets were lined
with soldiers, flags and streamers floated in the breeze. We had
barely reached our window when we heard the approaching music,
the splendid band of the lancers. After the cavalry, that opened
the way and made the line, came the infantry; then the different
parishes, headed by the banners, the boys in cassocks and surplices
chanting, the girls in white veils and flowers--all that was
beautiful. The women came out from the houses and strewed flowers
and green leaves, so that the street looked like a carpet. In
nearly every detachment was a girl dressed like the Blessed
Virgin; in one, it was the Queen of Heaven--white dress, studded
with stars, mantle and train of blue velvet, gemmed with golden
stars, diadem and sceptre. In another, the Comfortress of the
Afflicted; in another, the Mother of God; again, the Mater Dolorosa.

Then came one of the most beautiful divisions: boys dressed to
represent the different saints of the city and churches--St. James;
St. Sebastian, with his bow and arrows; one, St. Charles Borromeo,
was perfect, mitre on the head, superb cross and chain, the crosier
in his hand--the little fellow marched with as much dignity and
grace as the five bishops who followed.

Immediately before the relic was borne a splendid statue of
the Mother of Sorrows, in purple velvet, surrounded by the
confraternity, dressed in purple, covered with large black lace
veils, followed by the “Three Marys.” Some artist must have dressed
and grouped them. The Blessed Virgin’s face was most exquisitely
pure and sorrowful, her blue mantle and dress fell around her with
perfect grace; the Magdalene supported her on one side, a beautiful
girl, with long flowing hair, superbly dressed, her arms covered
with splendid bracelets; on the other side was the third Mary, her
arm thrown around the Blessed Virgin to support her.

Last of all came the clergy of the cathedral, the seminarians
flinging clouds of incense, the canons in procession. The shrine
was carried in turn by different canons; immediately after walked
the Bishop of Bruges, giving his benediction, his train borne by
three boys; then the three other bishops, and the Nuncio, in a
superb cape and mitre, who likewise blessed the people. It was
beautiful; the white dresses of the children, the red and gold
vestments of the priests (all the vestments, of course, were red in
honor of the Precious Blood), the splendid banners, the magnificent
music, and the picturesque crowd, made an ensemble not easily
forgotten.

In Ghent, the great procession of St. Macaire, which only takes
place once in a century, was celebrated May 19, 1867, with
extraordinary splendor, to implore his intercession for the
preservation of Belgium from pestilence, the cholera, the typhus
fever, and the cattle disease, which so desolated the country the
previous year. The Cardinal of Malines, all the Bishops of Belgium,
the Nuncio, and Bishop Mermillod, of Geneva, who preached the
Jubilee, assisted. The city was crowded; over 100,000 strangers
from all parts, even from France and Germany.

The Cathedral of St. Bavon is very old, dates from 940, and was
in its gala dress. The shrine of St. Macaire, of solid silver, a
present from the city of Mons two hundred years ago, was placed
upon a temporary altar, erected in the middle of the transept,
surrounded by thousands of lights, a canopy of evergreens and
flowers overshadowed it, and the church was decorated with garlands
of flowers that hung from the ceiling in immense festoons; hundreds
of pennants suspended from the arched roof fluttered above our
heads; and the _coup d’œil_ from the lower part of the church, or
from behind the main altar, was surpassingly beautiful.

The mass was sung by the Nuncio, in the presence of the cardinal
and the other bishops. After the mass we looked at the paintings
in all the chapels, saw the font where Charles V. was made a
Christian, and by making the most of being strangers persuaded a
polite young gentleman to show us the famous statue of Duquesnoy.
Duquesnoy was one of the greatest sculptors of his day; we had seen
the beautiful statue of St. Ursula in the mortuary chapel of the
Princes of Tour and Taxis, in the church of the Sablon in Brussels,
and were anxious to see the still more famous _chef-d’œuvre_ in the
Cathedral of Ghent.

Duquesnoy, unfortunately, was as wicked as he was talented, and for
some great crime was condemned to be executed. While in prison he
finished his last great work, the recumbent figure of one of the
bishops of Ghent. He devoted his best energies to the task, hoping
by that means to obtain his pardon; the result was a grand success;
he had surpassed all his former efforts; but even the great triumph
could not obtain grace for him; the law was inexorable; he must
die. He asked to see once more his beloved statue, upon which he
had devoted his lonely prison life; he was taken before it, and
in despair and rage he seized a hammer and broke off the fingers
of the right hand. Before he could inflict further damage he was
hurried off, and burnt before the church of St. Nicholas.

We rambled around the cathedral in every direction, looking
perseveringly at the right hands of all the statues, but all the
fingers were perfect; where was Duquesnoy’s? Men were going round
clattering the keys, pushing the people out, priests were in all
corners, telling everybody the church must be cleared to make ready
for the procession. We made a beseeching appeal to a priest, who
stood upon the steps leading to the choir, that we were strangers,
probably never would be in Ghent again in our lives--couldn’t we
see the statue? He gave a wink to one of the ushers, and the young
gentleman responded by inviting us up the steps, and into the
choir we hurried.

There were three thrones, two on the epistle side for the Cardinal
and Nuncio, one on the gospel side for the Bishop of Ghent; the
other bishops had crimson velvet chairs and _pries-dieu_. Behind
the throne of the Bishop was the famous statue; the fingers have
been repaired, but the line is visible where the unfortunate wretch
wreaked his vengeance. Not only did we see the statue well, but our
polite guide insisted upon our examining closely the shrine of St.
Macaire; so we had a chance of admiring the beautiful chasing of
the repository of the relics.

After dinner, we took possession of our window, and at five the
procession came in sight. First, the lancers to make the line;
then the charitable associations of Ghent, the _confréries_ of St.
Francis Xavier, free schools, etc., each headed by superb banners.
The gem of this part was the Jesuit College of St. Barbe, forming
a group--the Triumph of St. Aloysius of Gonzaga. The choirboys
led the van, then the three cardinals--Borromeo, Bellarmin, and
Gonzaga, preceded by pages bearing their escutcheons, followed by
others carrying their trains; the statue of St. Aloysius, followed
by his brother Rudolph, Duke of Mantua, preceded by heralds bearing
the arms of the house of Gonzaga; the young nobles walked behind,
and the avenue was formed by halberdiers in the dress of the time.
The dressing of this group was gorgeous; the sons of the first
families of Flanders arrayed in the most magnificent style. We have
never seen it equalled on the stage.

Then followed in endless succession the religious orders of women,
the Sisters of Charity with the deaf and dumb; the Sisters of the
Visitation with their free schools; the Sisters of St. Joseph;
the Black Sisters, who nurse the sick; the Beguines from the Petit
and Grand Beguinage with their free schools; each division bearing
patron saints decorated in the most beautiful manner, and arranged
in the most artistic style.

The parishes were in full force; each parish was a grand procession
by itself; the schools and _confréries_ of each church with its
insignia. The Living Rosary was exquisite; bands of young girls
reciting the rosary; the Five Joyful Mysteries in white, with white
roses and ribbons; the Five Sorrowful, white and violet; the Five
Glorious, white and red--all with gorgeous banners and streamers.

The parish of St. John the Baptist was distinguished by a group
of the church militant, suffering, and triumphant. The church
militant, young girls dressed in white, green wreaths, ribbons,
and gauze veils floating around, indicating the immortal hopes of
the church; some bearing on velvet cushions the triple crown of
the Pope and the emblems of episcopal authority; the cross borne
aloft, crowned with garlands, and the words, in blazing letters,
“Portæ inferorum non prævalebunt contra te!” The church suffering,
girls in white, purple sashes and wreaths, covered with black lace
veils, bearing the instruments of the Passion, the inscription on
the cross, “Ave crux, spes unica!” The church triumphant, girls in
white, veils of cloth-of-gold, dresses studded with golden stars,
some bearing the banners of the Blessed Sacrament, others golden
palms of victory; the cross golden, with the legend, surrounded by
a halo of glory, “In hoc signo vinces!”

And so passed on the different parishes, each followed by the
clergy of the church in the richest vestments. The religious
orders of men came next, and lastly the parish of the cathedral
of St. Bavon with the precious relics of St. Macaire; the free
schools, the _confréries_, the congregation, and the most exquisite
historical group, representing the courts of the King of France and
the Comte de Flandre as they assisted at the translation of the
relics of St. Macaire in 1067--the soldiers, archers, chaplains,
standard-bearers, and pages in the most accurate costumes. The King
and Queen of France and the Comte de Flandre were magnificently
dressed; no tinsel, but superb diadems and robes of velvet and gold.

The “Slaves of Mary” formed a beautiful group; a lovely statue of
the Blessed Virgin, borne aloft, from which hung golden chains,
carried by young ladies, dressed in white, enveloped in white
lace veils, the chains binding them together. It was difficult to
choose where all was so beautiful, but we were almost tempted to
say it was the gem. Add to this magnificence the streets adorned
with flags, houses covered with green branches and flowers,
balconies with blue, crimson, and yellow velvet hangings glittering
with gold, and some idea may be formed of the uniquely beautiful
spectacle.

The seminary, the curés in surplice and ermine hanging from the
left arm, the deans in copes, the canons of the cathedral, the
bishops of Namur, Liège, Bruges, Tournai, Geneva, and Ghent in
mitre and cope, preceding the shrine of St. Macaire, borne by
priests, surrounded by lights; then the Nuncio; and, last of all,
the Cardinal of Malines--all the bishops giving the episcopal
benediction, the people blessing themselves in the most earnest,
reverential manner.

Well may Ghent have been proud of her procession! The Cardinal of
Malines said it could not have been seen anywhere but in Belgium,
and nowhere in Belgium but in Ghent. It was two hours passing our
window, and five hours going from the Chateau des Espagnols, the
old Abbey of St. Bavon, to the cathedral.

The _Grande Kermesse_ of Brussels is in July, the first Sunday
after the 13th, the anniversary of the translation of the
_Très-Saint-Sacrement de Miracle_ from St. Catharine’s to the
beautiful collegiate church of St. Gudule. In the fourteenth
century, in the year 1370, sixteen hosts were stolen by the Jews
from the tabernacle of St. Catharine, carried to their synagogue,
and on Good Friday they assembled to gratify their hate; they
placed them upon a table, stabbed them--blood flowed. Shocked at
what they had done, but not converted, even by what they had seen,
they tried to get rid of them, and induced a woman to carry them to
their brethren in Cologne. The woman had been recently converted,
and although, from love of gold, she consented to conceal the
crime, she determined to reveal all to the priest who had received
her into the church. She carried them to him, avowing the part she
had taken in the whole affair; the authorities arrested the Jews,
the guilty ones were executed, the rest banished from Brussels, and
their property confiscated.

St. Catharine’s was a chapel of St. Gudule’s; so the clergy went in
grand procession, followed by the reigning sovereigns, nobility,
and dignitaries, to bring them to St. Gudule’s. The Jews had
destroyed some of them; there only remained three, which are the
especial objects of veneration in Brussels. The synagogue where the
outrage was committed was bought by Comte de Salagar, and converted
into a chapel; but as it was small, a beautiful _chapelle
expiatoire_, designed by Pugin, has been erected adjoining.
Attached to it is a community of ladies, semi-religious, who
perpetually adore the Blessed Sacrament in the spot where it was
profaned; besides their office of perpetual adoration, they devote
themselves to good works pertaining to the Blessed Sacrament; they
make vestments for poor churches and missions, instruct children
for the first communion, visit the sick, and prepare the dying for
the holy viaticum.

Where once the most cruel hate was shown, now the most ardent love
is manifested. The sanctuary is always perfumed with the choicest
flowers, the altar blazes with light, and the incense of prayer and
adoration is ever offered, to atone for the awful insult. On Holy
Thursday, the ladies of Brussels send their richest jewels to adorn
the repository, which is always in the old synagogue; and when one
glances from the tablet, which tells that on this spot the shocking
deed was perpetrated, he beholds, enthroned on high, the holy of
holies, surrounded by diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and
pearls.

The _Très-Saint-Sacrement de Miracle_ is preserved in St. Gudule’s;
Charles V. built the beautiful chapel of the Blessed Sacrament,
and the superb windows were presented by his royal sisters, the
Queens of Portugal and Hungary, his brother, Ferdinand, King of
the Romans, and Francis I. of France. The sanctuary is surrounded
by a cordon of lamps, always burning, and the monstrance presented
by the Duc d’Arenberg is ablaze with jewels. When the Pays Bas
were under the rule of Austria, the Austrian sovereigns lavished
upon this chapel every mark of affection; the most superb laces,
worth thousands of francs, and jewels; and the unfortunate Marie
Antoinette sent her wedding-necklace of diamonds to be suspended
around the monstrance.

The week before the festival, a retreat is always given in the
Chapelle Expiatoire, and during the octave there are sermons by
some famous preacher every day at St. Gudule’s. One year the
retreat was given by Père Hermann, in religion Frère Augustin
Marie du Très-Saint-Sacrement, a converted Jew, then a bare-footed
Carmelite. He was a great artist, Liszt’s best pupil, the idol of
the salons of Paris, Vienna, Brussels, and all the capitals of
Europe, and was converted by the Blessed Sacrament in a miraculous
manner. He told us the history of his conversion. Said he: “I was
invited to play the organ in a church in Paris for some great
charity. I consented. I played. At the benediction I ceased, I
looked on; when in an instant I felt that I knew that God was in
the Blessed Sacrament. I fell on my knees. I adored, and for some
time was insensible to all around. But, although convinced, I was
not converted. For three months I continued my artist-life, when,
one day in St. Gudule’s, in the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament,
I received my _coup de grâce_. I resisted no longer; I became a
Catholic; and you see me now before you, a Carmelite.” We asked
him if it was true that he had been such a great artist. “Yes,” he
answered; “that is, in the history of music Liszt considered me
his best pupil; as such, I accompanied him in his tours, and he
presented me to all the crowned heads as his future successor.” His
preaching was wonderful, always on the Blessed Sacrament, and when
he turned to the tabernacle his countenance was inflamed with love.

The grand procession leaves St. Gudule’s after the High Mass,
winds its way through the streets, adorned in the most gorgeous
manner--military music, soldiers, the different parishes with their
respective clergy, children strewing flowers, and priests swinging
censers before the Très-Saint-Sacrement de Miracle, which is borne
under a magnificent canopy by the deacon and sub-deacon of the
Mass, followed by the dean. Through the kneeling crowds they march
until they reach the picturesque Grande Place, and there, on an
altar ornamented with the national colors, the Blessed Sacrament is
exposed for adoration.

At that moment it is superb; the military form the square, the
beautifully dressed children kneel in the centre, the clergy are
ranged on the high flight of steps leading up to the altar--incense
is burning from huge urns; the dean intones the Tantum Ergo, it is
taken up by hundreds--and then the bell rings, the drums roll, the
soldiers present arms, the dean raises the Très-Saint-Sacrement de
Miracle, and gives the benediction to the Hôtel de Ville, and in
blessing that hall blesses the city.

The Assumption is the festival of Antwerp, and on that day the
grand church of Notre Dame is _en fête_; therefore, as the mother
rejoices, the children must be happy. The church is the largest and
richest in Belgium; seven aisles wide; the pillars are so numerous,
it looks like a forest; the style is simple, but very fine, pure
Gothic. The main altar was splendidly illuminated by hundreds of
wax candles, and all down the nave the most magnificent banners
were suspended from the columns, producing a superb relief. The
music was excellent, Haydn’s Imperial Mass, with orchestra and
organ and admirably trained voices. Near the main altar are the
_chefs-d’œuvre_ of Rubens--the Ascent and Descent from the Cross.

When we left the cathedral, we stood for a while contemplating
the grand tower, from the top of which on a clear day can be seen
Malines, Brussels, Bruges, and Ghent. The tower is a mass of the
most elaborate tracery, and the filigree carving is so delicate,
Charles V. said it should be put under glass, and Napoleon compared
it to Malines lace. There is a delicious carillon or chime of
ninety-nine bells, which ring every ten minutes, and are played
by machinery, put up in 1540; the great bell, named Charles after
its godfather, Charles V., requires sixteen men to ring it;
consequently, it is only used on great festivals; and as this was
the _Grande Kermesse_ of Antwerp, we heard it.

Near by the cathedral is the fountain cast in iron by Quentin
Matsys, one of the great Flemish painters, when he was a
blacksmith. The story is he fell in love with the daughter of an
artist, who would not consent to the marriage until the blacksmith
should also become an artist. So Quentin Matsys left the forge for
the pencil, and became one of the glories of his country. His tomb
is in the cathedral, his statue ornaments one of the great Places,
and his memory is ardently cherished by his native city.

We were in front of the Hôtel de Ville, a gloomy looking building,
built by the Duke of Alva in the gloomiest Spanish style, and saw
the procession pass. It was very fine; the banners of Antwerp are
unequalled in the northern part of Europe; they were the glories
of the procession. The statue of the Blessed Virgin was gorgeously
dressed in a mass of gold, lace, and precious stones. The banners
were sufficiently splendid in the beginning, but as the canopy over
the Blessed Sacrament appeared, they became more and more dazzling,
perfectly resplendent in the bright sun. The golden lamps borne
around the canopy added to the gorgeousness, the vestments of the
clergy corresponded; and as every one in the procession carried
a light, it was like a stream of fire quivering along the Place.
Files of soldiers made the outer line, and splendid military bands
played at intervals.

One of the events of this _Grande Kermesse_ was the unveiling of
the statue of Teniers, another great Flemish painter. Antwerp is
justly proud of her artist sons, and in her Places can be seen the
statues of Rubens, Vandyck, Quentin Matsys, and Teniers--children
whom the mother delights to honor; but greatest of all her glories
is the grand Cathedral of Notre Dame, which speaks for the faith of
the past that could raise such a glorious monument to the living
God.




LITTLE LOVE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE.”

“_Of such is the kingdom of heaven._”


The first evening-bell of the N---- State Prison had rung, and the
deputy-warden stood in the guard-room taking the ward keys from
their nail, and looking at his revolver. A guard watched from each
of the windows toward the yard, and at one of the narrow loopholes
beside the door stood a little figure on tiptoe peeping out, only
half her face reaching above the wood-work.

This was Minnie Raynor, the warden’s daughter--a child so happy and
so beautiful, that lips unused to fanciful talk called her fanciful
names; a child so sweet, too, that tender looks and thoughts ever
followed her. Rough men patted her nestling cheek, and called her
“darling”; to her father, she was “my angel”; but her mother went
to the heart of the matter, and called her “Little Love.”

The deputy went toward the door near which she stood. “O Minnie! is
it you?” he asked; “or is it a ray of sunshine that has come in at
the window?”

She laughed as she settled down from tiptoe, and turned her head;
and the level sunshine steeped her through--dimpled, delicate face,
luminous brown eyes, flaxen hair, and all her baby whiteness.

“May I go out with you?” she asked in a voice of childish sweetness.

“Certainly!” he answered “Please open the door for me; my hands are
full.”

She tried, in perfect good faith, to do as he bade her; and the men
watched, between amusement and admiration, those tiny rosy hands
that pulled ineffectually at iron bar and nail-studded oaken door.

“I can’t make it move,” she said at length; and, looking about,
perceived that they were laughing at her.

They went out on to the platform, and the door was closed behind
them.

“Now stand close to me while I ring the bell, and watch the men
file in, then we will go down to the prison,” the deputy said.

At the second bell, the convicts marched slowly out of the
different shops, joined in the yard, and passed by, on their way to
the prison, the stairs at the head of which stood the deputy and
Minnie Raynor.

The child looked in wonder at that long line of silent men, who
walked so close together, with interlocked steps, and never raised
their faces. There was something in it that provoked her to
mischief. Sorrow and sin she knew nothing of, and she had never
seen in those about her a gravity which her smiles could not
banish. Why should she not be a sunbeam to this cloud also?

There was a flit of white drapery at the deputy’s side, and a toss
of yellow-flaxen hair.

“Come back, and wait for me,” he said hastily, his eyes fixed on
the advancing line.

There was a trill of bird-toned laughter, and Minnie Raynor
scampered down the stairs as fast as her feet could carry her.

The officer dared not go after her, nor remove his eyes from
his charge, but he leaned a little, and tried to catch her. She
laughed, and fled on, leaving her blue sash in his hand, and,
reaching the outer door of the prison, stood looking at the
convicts as they passed by her.

Hundreds of men were there, each stained by some dark crime,
yet Minnie smiled into their faces, and saw nothing to fear or
dislike. And in every face, as she looked, dimly, as in troubled
waters, there shone back on her a faint and far-away reflection
of remembered childhood and innocence. Every hard face softened,
and met her glance with brightening eyes, and every heart blessed
her--the warden’s bonnie little daughter.

Near the end of the line was a man whose overseers never turned
their backs on him--of whom every officer in the prison was wary.
This man, William Jeffries, had been ten years under sentence
of death for wilful murder, and had passed that time in daily
expectation of the order for his execution.

If personal beauty had aught to do with virtue, one might say
that this sentence was an unjust one; for the convict was not
only strikingly handsome, but had an air of superiority. The
black hair was thrown carelessly back, and left fully exposed the
marble-white, exquisite features, whose expression, when he looked
down, was one of pride and melancholy. But when he raised those
full black eyes, the beholder shrank involuntarily from their hard
and brilliant regard. No smile ever was seen on those compressed,
haughty lips; they never spoke save when obliged to, and never
asked a favor. And it was well known that he watched, day and,
night, for any chance of escape, and cherished a deep, cold hate
for his keepers.

As he approached her, Minnie smiled up into his face, then started
forward, and, taking his hand, walked on with him, to the horror of
the guards and the malicious amusement of the convicts. For the man
himself, he merely submitted to the soft clasp of her fingers, and
kept his eyes downcast; but his face turned a deep red, which had
not faded when he reached his cell door.

There the overseer interfered, and drew Minnie away, just as she
was entering the cell.

“I want to go into his play-house, and see the pretty pictures on
the walls,” she said.

“You must not!” was the reply. “It is wicked to go in there. It’s
no place for you.”

Jeffries drew his cell-door to, and, as he stood holding it, gave
the overseer a glance. That glance blazed.

“Don’t stare at me!” the officer exclaimed.

The convict lowered his eyes.

Minnie walked on reluctantly to the end of the ward, and stood
there while the cell doors were locked; then, when she saw the
hands pushed through the gratings, she ran down the walk, full of
frolic, and caught one of them.

“You can’t get it away!” she cried, holding on to the white and
well-formed hand with her tiny fingers.

Had any of his keepers been in front of Jeffries’ cell then, they
would scarcely have recognized him. The bold eyes were soft and
humid, the pallid face faintly colored, and a smile of tender
sweetness trembled about the mouth.

Minnie leaned close against the grating, and looked through at
the pictures that lined the walls of the cell. Only the iron rods
separated her head from that guilty breast, some of her bright
locks pushed through and touched the convict’s sleeve, and her
tender hands still caressed that hand that had been stained with a
brother’s blood.

“Are they your pictures?” she asked.

He reached, and, taking the prettiest one from the wall, gave it to
her. Not even to her would he break the rule of silence.

“O Minnie! Minnie!” said the deputy chidingly, as he came down the
walks, after making his rounds. “Why did you run away from me?”

She displayed her picture with childish delight. “He gave it to
me,” she said, nodding toward the convict. “Isn’t he good?”

“He is very kind,” the officer replied. “Did you thank him?” “Well,
we must go now. You can come again some other time.”

“Good-bye!” Minnie called out to her new friend. “I shall come to
see you again very soon. And I want to kiss you now,” running back
again.

The deputy, with the child’s hand in his, hesitated, and looked
embarrassed. He made a point of being scrupulously civil to the
convicts, and was particularly careful not to offend this one; but
he shrank from allowing such a leave-taking.

“It won’t hurt her, sir,” said the prisoner, in an eager voice.
“She is too pure to take a stain.”

The child’s hand was released, the convict bent inside his cell,
and took the kiss she gave him through the bars; then Minnie went
into the house with her protector.

“I am not sure that I like it,” Mr. Raynor said, after he had heard
the story. He took the child in his arms. “I am not sure that I
shall let my angel go down to that place again.”

“But, father,” his wife said gently, “if our angel can do good
there, we ought not to refuse. I should not wish her to go
unguarded, nor, indeed, very often in any way; but she might go
down occasionally with one of us, or the deputy. As Jeffries says,
she is too pure to take a stain.”

The wife prevailed; and, thereafter, Minnie Raynor’s sweet face
often cheered the gloom of the prison. The convicts learned to
bless her small shadow as it fell across the work or book carried
close to the cell door for light. They would start and smile at
any sign of her coming--a laugh, a word, or the patter of light
feet on the stones. Those who were on the side of the prison next
the street thought themselves repaid if, after a day of toil and
silence, they caught a glimpse of the child in a window, or in
the garden of the warden’s house. They fabricated wonderful toys
for her in their leisure hours--balls that bounded marvellously,
ornaments carved from soupbones, and rattles that were a puzzle to
take apart or put together. In return, she gave them smiles and
thanks, and whatever dainty she could coax from her mother to carry
in.

But to no one was this fair vision so dear as to him on whom she
had first bestowed her preference; for on her he concentrated all
the softness which the others showed toward any one who noticed
them. She was the only one to whom he spoke, on whom he smiled;
and for her sake he would humble himself to any extent. He who had
before scorned to ask a favor, now begged for tools and materials
to make toys for the warden’s daughter. He showed jealousy when she
noticed any one else--he begged her constantly for assurances of
affection. On her he poured out all the suppressed tenderness of
his heart; for she was the only being who had ever come to him with
perfect trust--the only being who believed him good.

“I think you are real nice,” she would say, gazing at him
admiringly. “And you are pretty, too. I wish that you lived in our
house, so that I could see you all the time.”

Once, when she was missing from the prison several days, Jeffries
could scarcely taste his food, and at length, unable longer to
endure the suspense, he asked for her.

“Is anything the matter with the warden’s daughter, sir?”

“Is that any of your business?” the overseer demanded roughly.

The warden, unseen by him, was at his elbow, and reproved his
rudeness sharply.

“A civil question deserves a civil answer,” he said; “and you are
not lowered by speaking to one whom my daughter talks with. Minnie
is well, Jeffries, and I will tell her that you inquired. She has
been away on a visit.”

The longing for freedom had never left this man’s heart, and now a
new motive for desiring it was added. Minnie had confided to him
her desire to own a little gold watch with hands that went round
and round; and, even while listening to her, he had resolved that,
should he ever escape, he would buy and send to her the tiniest
and prettiest gold watch that could be found. He dreamed over this
plan, as other men dream over ambition or love. He fancied the
brown eyes dilating at sight of a package addressed to herself, the
dear little head advanced in eager curiosity as father and mother
broke the package open, her cry of delight and wonder when she saw
its contents, the dimpled hands that snatched at the gift, and the
sweet voice uttering thanks to the far-away “Mr. William,” as she
had chosen to call him.

Always, now, this golden thread ran through the dark and tragical
web of his retrospections and anticipations.

Thus more than six months passed away. The fall and winter were
over, and spring had come again; and those mysterious impulses of
new life which the reawakening of nature brings to the human heart
made this man’s confinement every day less tolerable to him. He
said to himself that he should go mad if it were longer continued.
The monotony and restraint were hard enough; but that constant
dread of the sword of justice, for ever suspended over him, was a
torture. Hanging would be better than such a life.

Early in the spring Jeffries had been moved from his cell on the
inner side of the block to one next the street, and through the
long window opposite his grating he could see the warden’s house,
its visitors coming and going, its pleasant, open windows, with
curtains blowing in and out, and, better than all else, he could
see little Minnie at her play in house or garden. He could see
her dance into the breakfast-room at morning, and run to kiss her
father, who would lift her to her place at the table. He knew that
she drank milk from a silver mug, and that she sometimes took a
lump of sugar from the sugar-bowl. He could see her mother lead her
away to bed at evening, and knew that she always took a pet kitten
with her, sometimes in her arms, sometimes chasing through the hall
after her. He could see her by day soberly hushing a doll to sleep,
bending absorbed over a picture-book, or romping in the garden.
Once she stumbled and fell there, and the convict, watching her,
sprang at his bars as though he would break them. He gazed an hour
after she was carried into the house, and let his supper grow cold
while he waited to assure himself that she was not much hurt. Being
satisfied at length, he ate his cold mush and molasses, and drank
his cold tea without milk, and lay down to dream of his idol.

There was good reason, for his being peculiarly anxious about his
little friend that night and indifferent about his supper, for he
meant to be a free man the next day or to seal his fate at once.
All his preparations were made. He had sewed another dark half
under the gray half of his suit, so that by ripping a few stitches
he could pull off the gray leg of his pantaloons, the gray side
of his cap and jacket, and appear in plain dark clothes, and he
had procured a guard-key and a slender iron bar two feet long, to
defend himself with if attacked.

Besides these preparations, he had been careful to make a good
impression on the minds of his keepers. He had been so quiet
and docile that for some time no search had been made, and no
suspicions entertained of his designs. Moreover, he had for the
first time since his condemnation begun to speak of trying to have
his sentence commuted to imprisonment for life, of course with the
appearance of hoping for ultimate pardon. No one would suspect him
of risking his life in trying to escape while he had any chance of
a commutation.

Jeffries had been for months at work on a doll-house, which he
meant as a surprise to the warden’s daughter, and also as a
_souvenir_, and a help in his escape. From the carriage-shop he had
begged fine wood, and, since no tool could be taken to the cells,
he had been allowed to shape the parts of his cottage in the same
shop. Every night, unknown to his keepers, he had bartered away his
supper to the convict in the next cell, receiving in return glue
to fasten his work together, a bit of glass to smooth the wood,
and oil to polish it. It was really a beautiful toy-house, for the
man had taste and ingenuity, and a heart to do his best. It was
finished with windows, doors, and balconies, and the rooms inside
were carpeted and curtained with silk and velvet, and had chairs
and tables so finely carved out of bones the convicts saved from
their dinners as to look like delicate ivory work. All his leisure
time for months had been given to perfecting this gift, and now it
was completed, and there remained only to present it.

It was a bright evening in May, and the chaplain was going his
rounds, changing the books, and speaking a kind word here and
there. Minnie, who had recovered from her fall, was with him, and
when they reached Jeffries’ cell, she went no farther. She seldom
got beyond that, and to-night it was impossible to do so; for the
prisoner now showed her his present, and promised that the next day
it should be given into her possession.

Minnie gazed in rapturous delight while he displayed its beauties
to her. She could scarcely wait till morning to inspect it more
closely, and she put her hands through the bars to touch it, and
make sure that it was real.

The chaplain admired and praised, then went on. “I see that I must
go alone, Minnie,” he said. “I cannot expect you to leave such an
attraction as that.”

“Will you remember me for this, darling?” the prisoner asked, when
the two were left to themselves.

“Oh! yes,” she answered fervently. “I will love you always. My
father says that you want to go home, and when the governor comes
here again, I’m going to ask him to let you. The governor is a
splendid man, and lets me coax him. But he pulls my hair. Though,”
she added, after a pause, “he pulls it real easy.”

“Do you love the governor better than you do me?” the convict asked
jealously, with a real pang at heart. What did that man, high in
wealth, rank, and happiness, want of this little girl? Jeffries
began to conceive a dislike for him, to think that even pardon
would be unwelcome from him.

“I love you best,” Minnie said thoughtfully, “and”--looking up
with serious eyes--“I’m saying prayers for you every night, and
asking God to save you. Mamma said I might.”

“To save me!” he repeated.

“Yes. What is save, Mr. William? Mamma said it is something good.”

“I--I don’t know,” he replied, both puzzled and embarrassed.
Religion was about the last subject he would have thought of; and
when the chaplain mentioned it professionally, the brilliant,
scornful eye of Jeffries had often checked the words upon his lips.
But that his darling and idol should pray for him, was a very
different thing.

Steps were heard returning. Jeffries hastily snatched the little
hands still stretched through the bars, kissed them passionately,
then turned away from the door.

“Come, little lady!” the chaplain called out.

“Good-bye, Mr. William!” Minnie said, with her face pressed close
to the grating.

He echoed her good-bye hoarsely, without looking round.

“Good-bye!” she said again, lingering, and wishing to see his face.
“I shall come soon again.”

He made no reply, and she was obliged to go. But no sooner had she
gone than he sprang to the door again, and listened hungrily for
the sound of her retreating footsteps, cursing the chaplain’s heavy
boots and empty talk. It was her last visit to him there, he knew.

The warden had gone away from home for a day or two, and the deputy
had entire charge. So completely had Jeffries’ appearance imposed
on him, he consented to allow him the privilege of presenting to
Minnie Raynor her playhouse with his own hands.

“He is so fond of her, and has taken such pains to make the
baby-house, it seems a pity he should not have the pleasure of
giving it to her,” he said. “It is best to encourage a man who is
trying to reform. Last year there wasn’t a worse man in the prison,
now there isn’t a better one, and it is all that child’s doing.
Mrs. Raynor is willing, and there is no reason why I should object.
I want Jeffries to see that I trust him.”

One of the guard drew his face down to a preternatural length,
and gave a low whistle. “The deputy’s soft,” he whispered to a
companion.

The deputy heard the whistle, though not the whisper, and his
spirit rose.

“Any one who knows better than I do, had better take my place,” he
said.

“I don’t profess to know more than you do in other things, sir,”
the guard answered. “But I’ve been in this prison ten years, and
I have learned something of the quirks and turns of convicts. I
believe that fellow cares no more for Minnie Raynor than I do for
the man in the moon. He is trying to curry favor with the warden,
to get a commutation, or get eased up so that he may cut and run.”

“We’ll see who is right,” the deputy said. “Meantime, I don’t mean
to give him a chance to cut and run.”

About ten o’clock in the forenoon, Jeffries was called out of his
shop, the toy-house was given him, and he was bidden go up-stairs
to meet the little lady who had come out for her present.

A great color rushed to his pallid face at this summons, and a
great breath swelled his breast. The hour has come! After ten years
of servitude and confinement, the green fields and the wide world
were before him, if he succeeded. If he failed, speedy death
would be his reward for the attempt. He well knew that if he were
prevented from going out, or arrested when he had once got out, the
order for his execution would be issued immediately. He had been
warned of that.

His heart beat hard and high as he stepped from the shop, but it
sank in his bosom as he glanced across the yard. There stood Minnie
at the head of the stairs, to be sure; but the deputy stood beside
her in an attitude that showed plainly he was on his guard, and the
door was locked behind them.

He had expected to be called into the guard-room, or, at least,
that Minnie would have stood in the open door. Moreover, besides
these precautions, his quick eye caught the gleam of a scarcely
covered rifle-barrel at one of the windows.

But he went up firmly, without any appearance of disappointment,
and presented his gift to the child, smiling on her involuntarily,
even at that bitter moment.

Minnie took her present with delight, and, being unable to hold it,
put it into the deputy’s hand. Then, before either of them divined
her intention, she flung her arms around the convict’s neck, and
gave him a loving kiss.

It was too much. In the despair of that moment, he cared little for
the curious eyes that watched him. Clasping the child in his arms,
he burst into tears.

There was a moment of silence. All were awed by such a display
of emotion in such a man. In that moment Jeffries had controlled
himself, put away the little hands that tenderly strove to wipe his
tears, and turned to descend the steps.

The guard inside unlocked the door, and the deputy was leading his
charge in. Jeffries was half-way down the stairs when the click
of the lock struck his ear, and stiffened his nerves like steel.
One bound, and he was within the door, pushing with main strength
against three men who struggled to close the lock before he could
enter. The strength of desperation was his, and he overcame them,
and entered the guard-room, caught Minnie Raynor in his arms, as a
shield, while he hastily pulled out the bar of iron suspended from
his waist, and fumbled for the guard-key which was to unlock the
last door that stood between him and liberty.

It was all the work of a minute. The child clung to his breast,
pale and trembling, and hid her face in affright from the muzzles
of fire-arms that sought to find him unguarded, and, holding her as
his defence, Jeffries reached the outward door.

An accident favored him, for it was the hour for changing guard on
the walls, and the relieved guard, coming up outside, opened the
door behind the fugitive. The surprise was too sudden. They could
not stop him. Still holding the child for a shield, Jeffries sprang
down the outer stairs, and found himself in the opened yard of the
warden’s house.

But the alarm-bell had been rung, and a command shouted across
the posts, and as the fugitive fled across the green to the gate,
he was confronted by one man, while two others followed close on
his steps. There was no help for it. This man in his path must be
disabled. He dropped the child from his arms, and raised the iron
bar at the same moment that his opponent, having apparently more
faith in the strength of the stock than the accuracy of his aim,
lifted the butt-end of his rifle for a blow.

“You shall not strike him!” cried Minnie Raynor, and flung herself
forward to shield her friend; and, at the same instant, both
blows fell. The guard aimed falsely, but the convict, striking
with fierce precision, would have hit his adversary but for that
loving interposition. Alas! the blow struck the fair temple of the
prisoner’s dearest and only friend.

Minnie Raynor dropped like a flower before the scythe of the mower.

All was confusion. The mother rushed shrieking from the house, men
came from the street, the guard from the prison. There was a moment
when he might have escaped, but Jeffries did not take advantage
of it. Throwing himself down by the child, he called upon her in
agony, kissed her pale lips, and chafed her chilling hands. “O my
God! my God!” he muttered.

They surrounded and bound him.

“I won’t try to run away, I swear I won’t!” he cried wildly. “Don’t
mind me; see to her. Go for a doctor. Do something for her quickly.
O God! O God! Open your eyes, my angel! I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I would rather stay here all my life, or be hanged to-day, than
hurt you, my darling!”

They tore him away from her, and carried him back to prison. There
they searched him, but found nothing but a lock of silken hair in
his breast, done up in a paper.

“She gave it to me,” he said piteously, but made no remonstrance
when they did not return it to him.

“Only see how she is, and tell me,” he begged. “You know I’ve got
to hang now, and you know that I wouldn’t have hurt a hair of
her head for my life. I didn’t mean to strike any one, except in
self-defence. You can’t blame me for trying to escape. It was only
natural. But tell me how she is.”

The deputy looked at him fixedly.

“The child never breathed after you struck her,” he said.

The eyes of the convict remained wide open, and fixed on the
speaker’s face. And, still with that gaze full of horror, he sank
at the officer’s feet.

He lay in the punishment-cell that night without sleeping,
apparently without sense. And he lay there all the next day in
darkness, quiet and silent, never tasting food.

The second morning, the warrant for his execution was read to him.

“I am glad of it!” was all his comment.

They put him back into his cell, no change being made in his fate
on account of the child’s death. One had but to look into his face
to see that his punishment was severe enough. One only request he
made; that, after his death, the little lock of hair which Minnie
had given him might be put into his breast, and buried with him.
Then he set himself to prepare for death.

“She wanted me to be saved, and I will not disappoint her, if I can
help it,” he said.

The chaplain of the prison and the warden’s family were
Protestants; but Jeffries hated the chaplain, and he recollected
having heard Minnie speak of a certain “splendid priest” in the
town, who had once given her a picture of a lady with a baby in her
arms, and a gold ring round her head. The child knew nothing of
creeds, and had clung as trustingly, perhaps more trustingly, to
the black-robed father, than to any of the clergymen who visited
her father’s house.

For this priest Jeffries sent.

“I know nothing of God, nor of religion, sir,” he said. “But I
have only a few days to live, and I want to repent, and make what
atonement I can. I can say sincerely that I am sorry I have not
lived a better life, and that I deserve all the punishment I have
had. If God should refuse to forgive me, I will not blame him. But
I think he will not. The God who made that little angel must be
better than I can even conceive.”

Looking through the window into the street, on that first day he
was returned to his cell, Jeffries saw the house that he had made
desolate. He saw the closed blinds, and the mournful faces of those
who came and went. He saw flowers brought. Later, carriages came,
and a crowd slowly gathered. Then he fell on his knees before the
grated door, and prayed. One glimpse, only one glimpse of the
casket that held her!

Presently there was a stir about the door, and four boys appeared,
bearing out the lost treasure. The cemetery was near, and these
boys were to bear the child to her resting-place there. Slowly and
tenderly they carried their burden, and not far away those eyes,
full of hopeless agony, strained to watch them.

The sill of the gate was a step higher than the garden walk, and as
the foremost boys mounted this step, the casket tilted a little,
and the eyes of the condemned man saw, through the glass lid, a
white little face turned sidewise, with its cheek in the palm of
a waxen hand, and sunny hair flowing around, the whole framed in
flowers.

As the sweet, pathetic vision passed, the convict fell on his face,
with loud and bitter weeping.

Three days after, Jeffries mounted the scaffold, humbled, penitent,
and hopeful.

“I am glad it is God’s will that I should die now,” he said.
“After what I have done, my life would be too terrible to me, and
would not profit any one else. But I do not consider this hanging
the punishment for my crime. No; my reward for having killed
willingly one I hated, was that I afterward destroyed unwillingly a
life dearer to me than my own. I forgive all who have injured me,
and ask pardon of all whom I have injured. And I bless God for the
little love on earth that made me believe in the Infinite Love in
heaven.”

They were his last words.

Perhaps the warden’s dear little girl would never, in a long and
beautiful life, have accomplished the good which was effected by
her early and pitiful death.




LETTERS OF HIS HOLINESS PIUS IX. APPROVING THE RULES OF THE “UNION
OF CHRISTIAN WOMEN.”


The following letters of the Sovereign Pontiff which we have taken
from the Boston _Pilot_ are published in the present number of
THE CATHOLIC WORLD, on account of their bearing upon the topics
discussed in the articles on the “Duties of the Rich.” We recommend
their perusal in a special manner to all Catholic ladies in the
United States.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PIUS IX., POPE, TO HIS DEAR DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST, MARIE DE
      GENTELLES:

DEAR DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST--Health and Apostolic Benediction.

We congratulate you, dear daughter in Jesus Christ, upon the
success which God has been pleased to grant to your efforts against
extravagance in dress. Editions of your “Appeal” have multiplied;
you have seen it translated into several languages, and received by
Catholic women with such eagerness that persons of great prudence
and discernment have deemed it a duty to urge you to propose to
your sisters in the faith the establishment of an association
having for its aim a crusade against extravagance--that scourge of
society, that enemy of morality, of public and private economy.
Without doubt, if the wills and strength of many were united in the
firm bond of an association, the power of example would become much
greater, and its influence much more efficacious upon other women,
especially if those distinguished by fortune and social position
would subscribe to the project.

If this association succeed in establishing among women a taste for
moderate expenditure and a contempt for love of display, it would
not only serve to promote modesty, and prevent a waste of means
which might often be employed in assisting the poor, but it would
leave a great portion of the day free to be devoted to works of
piety, to the education of children, or to household duties.

The rules which you have laid down are well adapted to attain the
desired end, especially that which prescribes that every member of
the union shall fix in advance, and unalterably, the sum of her
expenses, and pay _ready money_ upon all occasions.

The task is indeed a delicate one. It will encounter great
obstacles in that love of show and desire to please so natural to
your sex. Still, he whose grace has already been powerful enough
to lead many of your companions to this difficult but withal most
noble work, can inspire others to follow the good example. This
is the success which, from our inmost heart, we presage for your
project. Meanwhile, as an auspice of the divine favor, and as a
pledge of our paternal kindness, we grant, with the most lively
tenderness, to you and all your pious associates in the good work,
our Apostolic Benediction.

Given at Rome, near St. Peter’s, Nov. 6, 1869, in the twenty-fourth
year of our Pontificate.

                                                      PIUS PP. IX.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PIUS IX., POPE, TO HIS BELOVED DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST, MARIE DE
      GENTELLES:

DEAR DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST--Health and Apostolic Benediction.

The expressions of respect which you address to us, dear daughter
in Jesus Christ, in your name and in the name of your associates,
are received by us with the most lively satisfaction, the greater
that they are not limited to mere _expressions_ nor to _offers_ of
assistance by prayer, but they are doubly grateful from the zeal
you have employed in seeking to extirpate the evil of extravagance
in dress so common among your sex. You have also tried to promote
habits of simplicity, modesty, and piety among your sisters in the
faith. By this, much evil can be prevented--nay, more, your success
will be a most useful ally in the war we are now waging against
the powers of darkness. Therefore, for you and for the “Union of
Christian Women” devoted to this excellent work, we implore from
heaven perseverance in your undertaking, never-wearying progress,
and the efficacious assistance of divine grace. As a prelude of
these favors, and as a pledge of our paternal affection, we grant
most tenderly to you and all your pious companions the Apostolic
Benediction.

Given at Rome, near St. Peter’s, April 17, 1871, in the
twenty-fifth year of our Pontificate.

                                                    PIUS PP. IX.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  A CRITICAL DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE AND BRITISH AND
      AMERICAN AUTHORS, LIVING AND DECEASED. From the earliest
      accounts to the latter half of the Nineteenth Century.
      Containing over forty-six thousand articles (authors),
      with forty indexes of Subjects. By S. Austin Allibone.
      Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1871.

It would be strange indeed if a dictionary of authors, in
three volumes, each of one thousand pages, closely printed in
double columns, “the fruit of many years of anxious research
and conscientious toil,” should not contain a large amount of
information valuable not only to the general reader, but to the
scholar and the man of letters.

Valuable information Mr. Allibone’s _Dictionary_ certainly does
impart; but we feel compelled to express regret that its author
should have made a serious mistake as to the importance of much of
the matter inserted. Into this error he appears to have been led in
seeking to increase the number of authors by the insertion of names
which never possessed the slightest literary value or significance.

The title-page announcement that the work contains “_over_
forty-six thousand articles (authors)” awakens within us no special
throbs of pleasurable anticipation, for we know how dictionaries
are made. And the delight with which one might contemplate its
array of one hundred and forty-eight Robinsons, its one hundred
and eighty Browns, its one hundred and eighty-nine Joneses, and
its solid phalanx of eight hundred and ten Smiths, exclusive
of a formidable list of Smyths and Smythes, undergoes serious
diminution, for the reason that one cannot help reflecting how much
valuable space might have been far more advantageously occupied.

In works of this description, mere book-making manifests itself in
its most flagrant aspect. In each successive publication in the
dictionary (alphabetical) form, upon any given subject, the effort
is made to surpass all its predecessors in the quantity of matter
and in the number of articles or names. Now, in a literary sense,
names die, as in actual life people die; and names which might have
some possible interest for the readers of Blount’s work, published
in 1690, have still less for people of the following century, and
positively none at all for our readers of 1870. It most resembles
a vain attempt to keep alive the memory of people not worth
remembering by constant transcription and repetition of what is
written on their tomb-stones. We are, therefore, unable to discover
any merit in the uniform numerals 46,000. It is more a matter of
mere assertion than of intelligent investigation and selection,
and the figure may be reached merely by the simple addition of the
contents of a few well-known bibliographical works. One of them
alone, the _Bibliotheca Britannica_, of Watts, furnishes 22,700
names of British and American authors, and more than half as many
more may be found in the copious indexes of English magazines and
quarterlies, not to speak of Griswold and other American works.

We by no means wish to be understood as desiring that the reduction
should be restricted to the elimination of the familiar household
names we have mentioned. We would have it ruthlessly extended to
the nullities in literature, whose sole contributions consist
of such productions (single specimens) as “Sermon,” “Almanac,”
“Funeral Sermon,” “Instruction in Water Drawing,” “Report of
‘Smithers _vs._ Tompkins,’” “Copy-Book,” “Edition of Laws of
Texas,” “Sermon on Popery,” “Pyrotechnics”--being careful to pair
off these two last named, for the “Popery” man clearly means
“pyrotechnics,” if he could have his way. What cares any one
nowadays for such a piece of information as this: “_Darch_, John,
‘Sermon,’ 1766. 4to”? Why, for instance, should the names of a
thousand such nobodies as R. P. Blakely go down to posterity as
authors, this R. P. B., as we learn from the _Dictionary_, having
merely translated some passages from _Liguori_ and called them
“Awful Disclosures”? Had we been spared profuse mention of most of
these sermon, almanac, and copy-book makers, space might have been
found to inform seekers for knowledge that William Cobbett wrote a
work on the _History of the Reformation in England_, a book which,
in admirably pure English, does some justice to the infamy of Henry
VIII. and his colleagues, lay and spiritual, who aided and abetted
his wholesale robberies and murders, and made of “Merrie Old
England” a land of desolation, want, and beggary. It is precisely
by this book that the name of Cobbett is most widely known, but
Mr. Allibone does not appear to have heard of it, otherwise his
knowledge of its existence might account to a great extent for the
tone of depreciation in which he speaks of Cobbett.

Quite as remarkable is the author’s suppression, in his
biographical notice of George Buchanan, of the fact of Buchanan’s
dependence for some years upon Mary Stuart, and of her kindness
and generosity to him. It was this fact that made Buchanan’s
_Detection_ “unrivalled in baseness, peerless in falsehood, supreme
in ingratitude.”

In sharp contrast with extended mention of the _Detection_ and its
object is Mr. Allibone’s languid notice of Miss Agnes Strickland’s
historical works, and of the brilliant Donald MacLeod’s writings in
general, and more especially his _Life of Mary, Queen of Scots_. We
are perfectly well aware that Mr. A., in season and out of season,
with and without pretext, takes every opportunity of protesting to
his reader that “we express no opinion on the question involved
in the Mary Stuart controversy.” Mr. Allibone protests too much,
and most so when seeking to convey the worst impression against
her. Thus, in the article on Buchanan, he says: “If Buchanan is
to be believed, there can be but little doubt of the guilt of the
fair Queen of Scots; but upon this point we express no opinion.”
Mr. Allibone here builds up his little argument on the authority
of this convicted liar, Buchanan, and adds, “We express no
opinion”--oh! certainly not--by no means! Protests and pretended
apologies like this abound in the _Dictionary_, and, so far from
concealing, only make more visible the marked bias of the author in
religious questions. Naturally enough, Buchanan and John Foxe are
both his favorites.

The author of the _Dictionary_ does not appear to be aware that
Henry Kenelm Digby has written and published anything since his
great work _Mores Catholici_--Ages of Faith, nor does he seem to
know that this distinguished author is a convert from Protestantism
to Catholicity. The notice of Aubrey de Vere is defective in many
points, and totally omits mention of the fact that the brilliant
poet is also a convert to Catholicity.

The article on Dr. Brownson is far from doing that distinguished
philosophical writer justice. This was not to be looked for,
but it is incorrect in several points. Dr. Brownson never was a
Presbyterian minister, nor was he a Deist. _Charles Elwood_ is not
“an account of his religious experience,” but _The Convert_ is such
an account. The statement that “Dr. Brownson is a great admirer of
the philosophy of M. Comté (_sic_) as developed in the _Cours de
Philosophie_” is without foundation. Dr. Brownson never admired it,
never accepted its philosophic position, and never read anything
of Comte’s except the Introduction to his voluminous _Course of
Positive Philosophy_. This error probably originated with Mr.
Griswold, who confounded the doctrines of Pierre Le Roux and the
St. Simoniens with the system of Auguste Comte.

We presume that the omission of the names of Archbishop Kenrick
(Peter, of St. Louis), Prince Gallitzin, Frederick Lucas, a
distinguished English convert, formerly a Quaker, and of many
others we might point out, is the result of accident.

We have mentioned John Foxe, the great “unreliable.” Mr.
Allibone’s apology--evidently a labor of love--for this unsavory
personage is not only elaborate, it is labored. We have referred
to Mr. Allibone’s evident bias. Foxe is a test subject, and we
shall therefore say a few words concerning it. If a scholar as
enlightened as our author should be can uphold Foxe as he does,
then we can readily gauge the measure of his Protestant credulity
and his anti-Catholic animus. Mr. Allibone spares us the necessity
of any effort to demonstrate his bias, for he goes to the trouble
of pointing out to us as one of the high merits of _Foxe’s Martyrs_
that “_its influence in keeping alive the Protestant feeling in
Great Britain and North America is too well known to be disputed_.”
Historical truth is one thing, “Protestant feeling” another. Far
from us to dispute the merit claimed by Mr. Allibone for his
beloved Foxe, but we beg leave to suggest to him that the proper
place for such praise would be the columns of a Know-Nothing paper,
not the pages of a dignified work on literature.

The account given by Mr. Allibone of Foxe’s life is to some extent
fabulous, inasmuch as he accepts Mr. Townsend’s statements as to
the authorship of _Foxe’s Life_ by his (Foxe’s) son. Mr. Allibone
ought to know that Foxe’s son did not write the _Life_ in question.
In the article _Maitland, Rev. S. R._, keeper of the Lambeth
MSS. and Librarian to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Mr. Allibone
enumerates as (13) of his works _Notes on the Contributions of the
Rev. George Townsend to the new Edition of Foxe’s Martyrology_. We
would advise Mr. Allibone--since he needs must raise an unnecessary
discussion about this man Foxe--to go beyond the title of this work
of Maitland’s into its contents. He will be rapidly enlightened
concerning both Foxe and Townsend. This Dr. Maitland is also the
author of the admirable _Dark Ages_. Mr. Allibone does mention it,
“only this and nothing more.”

Mr. Allibone has the hardihood to assert that, “as regards
conscientiousness of performance and adherence to records, _the
faithfulness of the ‘Book of Martyrs’ cannot intelligently be
questioned_,” and his principal witness to prove Foxe’s veracity
is--Gilbert Burnet, commonly known as Bishop Burnet! Throw
literature to the dogs! It is “keeping alive the Protestant
feeling” we look upon as our mission. That, as we read it, appears
to be Mr. Allibone’s controlling idea. But what is to become of
us if the faithfulness of every suspicious and fishy chronicler
is to be discovered and vindicated by every compiler of every
literary dictionary? However, we need not, we believe, be alarmed,
for our author’s affections are enlisted for a select few, Foxe
in particular, because of “his influence in keeping alive, etc.,
etc., etc., etc., etc.”

Here is one of the latest of the many honest Protestant exposures
of the character of Foxe’s book, from the pen of Professor Arnold,
of University College, Oxford:

  “It is now indeed well understood that Foxe was a rampant
  bigot, and, like all of his class, utterly unscrupulous in
  assertion;--the falsehoods, misrepresentations, and exaggerations
  to which he gave circulation are endless. Take, for instance, his
  account of the death of Wolsey, which we know, from the testimony
  of George Cavendish, an eye-witness, to be a string of pure,
  unmitigated falsehoods.”

As to the worthlessness of Burnet’s testimony we have abundant
Protestant evidence. Mr. Allibone himself quotes Dr. Johnson to
this effect:

  “I do not believe that Burnet intentionally _lied_; but he was
  so much prejudiced that he took no pains to find out the truth.
  He was like a man who resolves to regulate his time by a certain
  watch, but will not inquire whether the watch is right or not.”

Whereupon Mr. Allibone indulges in this astounding piece of
withering sarcasm:

  “One might imagine that the doctor had roomed with the bishop at
  least, he seems to be so perfectly informed as to his habits”!

As to Burnet the man and the theologian, we are sufficiently
enlightened by the use he consented to be put to by Buckingham and
Lauderdale, at the time when, as royal chaplain, he preached before
“the king and his harem” every Sunday. This use was the preparation
of a work in which he undertook to set forth the queen’s barrenness
as “a good cause for divorce.” Starting at the period of Henry
VIII., England had become gradually pagan and profligate; but
whatever of goodness and virtue was then left in the country joined
in denouncing the author of the vile principles set forth in
Burnet’s book.

Mr. Allibone neglects to record that it was because Charles II.,
bad as he was, despised Burnet and his advice, and when, losing his
office in the Chapel Royal, Burnet suddenly awakened to a sense of
the king’s wickedness, and wrote a remonstrance to him on his bad
life, Charles treated him with silent contempt.

“Gilbert Burnet,” says one of his Puritan contemporaries, Jacob
Lawton, “was a man who blew hot and cold for money or for rich
patrons”; and in the ninth volume of Sir Walter Scott’s _Life and
Works of Dryden_ will be found the narrative of the betrayal to the
House of Commons by Burnet of the secrets of his patron, the Duke
of Lauderdale. Finally, his bishopric from William was merely the
reward of trickery and treason simply infamous.

As to Burnet the historian, Hume’s opinion that he is “sometimes
_mistaken_ as to facts,” and Sir Walter Scott’s statement that
“his [Burnet’s] opinions were often hastily adopted, and sometimes
awkwardly retracted,” may be thought not entirely fatal to his
reputation; but other authorities speak more plainly. Sir John
Dalrymple “never tried Burnet’s facts by test of dates and original
papers without finding them wrong.” Arbuthnot and Swift challenge
his veracity, and do not hesitate to attribute to him unworthy
motives. In 1693, Henry Wharton demonstrated his “suppression,
coloring, and falsifying of facts,” and the _Historical and
Critical Remarks_ of Bevil Higgons more than confirms Miss
Strickland’s conclusion that Burnet is “a notoriously false
witness.” This is Mr. Allibone’s veracious upholder of Foxe’s
truth! He may now take the witness.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ST. THOMAS OF AQUIN: HIS LIFE AND LABORS. By the Rev. Father
      Roger Bede Vaughan, O.S.B. Vol. II. (New York: Sold by The
      Catholic Publication Society.)

The first volume of this goodly work has been already noticed. We
are glad to welcome the second and concluding volume. Together with
the events of the life of St. Thomas from the time of his contest
with William of St. Amour until his death, which occupy but a
small portion of its space, this volume continues the history and
analysis of his works, and expatiates upon the Greek philosophers,
Christian doctors, and other sources of the doctrine of St. Thomas,
in their relation with him. As a biography we prefer that of the
Frenchman Bareille, which we desire to see translated, and which
the present work by no means supersedes. As a history of the times
and the works of the saint, Father Vaughan’s volumes are rich,
attractive, and valuable. The description of the Paris University
in the thirteenth century, and the account of St. Thomas and St.
Buonaventura taking the doctor’s cap, are very lively and graphic.
The centenary of St. Thomas will recur in 1874, and will probably
be celebrated with extraordinary splendor in Europe. Perhaps we may
do a little something also in America.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE VIRTUES OF MARY, MOTHER OF GOD. From the Spanish of Father
      Francis Arias, S.J. London: Burns & Oates. (New York: Sold by
      The Catholic Publication Society.)

If it takes a saint to know a saint, and it is pretty generally
considered that it does, it certainly takes a saint to do justice
to the sublime virtues of the Queen of Saints. By all accounts
F. Arias was a saint, and his little work on the virtues of the
Blessed Virgin is what might be expected--a treatise full of piety,
full of emotion, and full of the highest asceticism. Together with
being a holy man Arias was a learned man, and in his book with the
fervor of the saint is combined the accuracy of the theologian.
Many of the saints have themselves been able to realize the almost
ineffable holiness of the Mother of God; but few have been able to
make this holiness a reality to others.

In this we think the Spanish Jesuit has surpassed most others.
In his hand the virtues of our Blessed Lady become a reality,
intelligible to all and imitable by all. Therefore it is that his
little work, while pre-eminently suitable for the convent and the
cloister, may be read with great benefit by all classes of persons
in the world.

It is proper to remark that _The Virtues of Mary, Mother of God_
is a republication; the same translation having been long ago
published under the title of _Imitation of the Blessed Virgin_. It
would be a great blessing if we had more republications of the same
sort instead of the mass of modern commonplaces, many of which are
wanting in emotion and not a few in genuine piety.

       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRACTS FROM THE FATHERS, ETC. Dublin: W. B. Kelly, 1860. (New
      York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

This book, under the general title of _Christian Classics_, is
intended, as we are informed in the preface, “nearly altogether
for the use of students,” and as such may be considered a very
useful and desirable publication. More than a score of the most
illustrious and erudite fathers and writers of the church have
been put under contribution by the editor, and though we consider
the arrangement and choice of the selections susceptible of some
improvement, we are grateful for those presented us in so neat and
portable a form. Apart from what is purely moral and theological
in the _Extracts_, there is a great deal of biographical and
historical information interesting to the general reader, which
cannot be easily acquired except through the voluminous tomes so
seldom found in ordinary libraries.

       *       *       *       *       *

  UNA AND HER PAUPERS; or, Memorials of Agnes Elizabeth Jones. By
      her Sister. New York: George Routledge & Sons.

So-called Protestant lands, which were once a part of the fair
garden of the church, still put forth some shoots occasionally
from the old roots left in the soil. It is pleasant to see them
springing up, now and then, as if to assert the indestructibility
of the divine seed; for the spirit of self-sacrifice and of charity
is essentially the spirit of Catholicism. As Balmes says, public
beneficence was unknown to the ancients. It is wholly due to the
church. The divine words, “Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of
the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me,” have gone
on with their undulations through more than eighteen centuries of
spiritual life in the church, awakening the tenderest instincts of
the human heart in behalf of suffering humanity. Thank God! there
are some nominally without its pale--

    “With whom the melodies abide
    Of th’ everlasting chime;
    Who carry music in their heart
    Through dusky lane and wrangling mart,
    Plying their daily task with busier feet,
    Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.”

_Una and her Paupers_--happily styled Una, for such lives are
unique, exceptional, in Protestant annals--is the history of
a large-hearted, sympathetic, North-of-Ireland lady, who was
gradually led, by her natural inclinations and by circumstances,
to a partial renunciation of the comforts of a pleasant home and
family affection, and submit herself to training as a nurse in the
celebrated Kaiserswerth[132] institution of Protestant deaconesses.
She was afterwards connected with an association of Bible-women
at London; then underwent a year’s training as Nightingale nurse
at St. Thomas’s Hospital in that city, and was subsequently
appointed Female Superintendent of the Liverpool Workhouse, where
she contracted a typhus fever, and died in 1868, at the age of
thirty-five.

The book is admirably edited by her sister, and has a eulogistic
introduction by Miss Nightingale, who seems to have given it its
title. The American edition has, moreover, the advantage of a
preface by the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. From a Protestant point of
view, this must be a charming and useful book. If not equally so
to a Catholic, it is because his standard of piety is infinitely
higher, and instances of far greater self-denial for the sake of
others are of daily occurrence in the church.

Miss Jones’ piety was decidedly of the so-called Evangelical school
in the Church of England. The Bible is constantly in her hands,
and all her spiritual emotions are expressed in Biblical phrases
that have more a smack of Cromwell than of prelacy. A few words
dropped here and there in her letters show her instinctive aversion
to Catholicism, but we love to think this rather the result of
ignorance than want of charity in a person of her profession.
Almost her first words written from Rome were: “I never go out but
as a duty, for the whole is so depressing, and it is indeed so
utterly the ‘city given to idolatry’; the associations of the past
are forgotten in its present.” This says volumes for her cast of
mind and piety. Kind and loving as she was by nature, we cannot
regret she was excluded from all missionary efforts in the Catholic
ward of the Liverpool Workhouse, on which she seems to have kept
a longing eye. She appears to have gained some influence over one
poor girl in London, who, she says, was “on the verge of becoming
a nun--to her the only conceivable way of finding the peace she
longed for: now her eyes seem to be opened to a better way, though
_she does not feel she has yet entered on it_.” As we are not
informed of the result, we may reasonably conclude this individual
found peace at last in the only true refuge.

Though trained in the best schools of Protestant benevolence,
Miss Jones’ shrinking from association with the nurses even of
Miss Nightingale’s school--not unreasonable when we recall the
experience of the latter in the Crimea--and her observations
with regard to the difficulties of such institutions, are full
of significance to those familiar with the efficient charitable
organizations in the church. She says: “The difficulty [of having
deaconesses in England] is, the real submission of the will there
must be. I believe this is _the_ valuable part of the training.”
“I believe all I owe to Kaiserswerth was comprised in the lesson
of unquestioning obedience.” “No one can tell what a woman exposes
herself to who acts independently. I never would advise any one
to do as I have done, and yet I feel I have been led on step by
step, almost unwillingly, certainly not as I should have chosen,
had I not seemed guided, as I believe I have been, and so kept.”
“But what I feel so much is, how many there are who want some
place where they can get teachings for their own hearts and souls,
training for, and direction in, work for others, sympathy in that
work and their difficulties in it, and a home where, in their
leisure hours, they may have more or less association with others.”

And the estimable Miss Nightingale, in her introduction, says:
“There is no such thing as amateur nursing.... Three-fourths of the
whole mischief in women’s lives arises from excepting themselves
from the rule of training considered needful for man.”

To these quotations, we will add another statement in this book by
the Rev. Mr. Moody, likewise of the Evangelical school, who is told
at Kaiserswerth that the Evangelicals of Great Britain furnished
less useful sick-nurses than the churches tinged with ritualism.
This, he says, was “humbling and instructive to hear”; and he adds
this was because “the nurses that come from us [the Evangelicals]
are _more anxious to take charge_ and to administer medicines, than
to _obey_, _to learn_, _to serve_.”

Such statements make us turn with satisfaction to the noble army
of charity in the Catholic Church who _really_ give up home and
earthly pleasures and their own will, and make themselves poor with
the poor, counting all this no loss that they may be spent for
Christ’s poor ones. What they have achieved as a whole is partly
known, but individual sacrifices and efforts are buried in the
hidden life they love. Their veiled lives are only fully known to
the Divine Spouse, whom they tenderly take to their hearts in the
person of his suffering poor; their countless heroic souls mostly
pass away leaving no _written_ record on earth.

The garments of the church are all studded over with such precious
jewels of love and charity. We have no reason to envy those who
seek to imitate our Sisters of Charity like the deaconesses of
Kaiserswerth and Florence Nightingale. May their laudable examples
and that of Miss Jones find numerous emulators! The glimpses this
book gives us of the moral as well as physical degradation of some
of the Liverpool paupers, are enough to set the Christian heart
on fire to labor for the elevation of the human race. Those women
who talk so frantically of their rights and of woman’s mission can
here find their true field, where none can compete with them. Men
certainly cannot.

But, as Rahel Varnhagen says: “Those who completely sacrifice
themselves are praised and admired: that is the sort of character
men like to find in _others_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  SIX WEEKS ABROAD. By the Rev. G. F. Haskins. Boston: P. Donahoe.

The genial F. Haskins is known to everybody, and this little
book presents his numerous friends with a portrait of him, a
short biographical sketch, and some very brief, characteristic,
and sparkling notes of a recent visit to Europe. Each chapter is
a little crystal of Attic salt. Whoever buys and reads this book
will be pleased with it, be he young or old. There are some remarks
on education, Irish and American politics, etc., which are as
remarkable for point and sense as they are for terseness. Father
Haskins’ coin is small but valuable, like a rouleau of gold dollars.

       *       *       *       *       *

  VIRTUES AND DEFECTS OF A YOUNG GIRL. By a Chaplain. Translated
      from the French. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1872.

This little manual of moral science was intended by the author as a
text-book for schools. It will, at least, be useful to parents and
teachers in forming the character of those confided to them. A more
complete elementary treatise on moral philosophy is a desideratum
for our Catholic institutions for girls. Of course it is taught,
in the highest sense of the word, in connection with the Christian
doctrine, but a practical work, not religious, strictly speaking,
is needed. It would serve, as our author says, as a help to divine
grace. The firmest basis of piety is moral principle. The moral
condition of the next generation depends on those destined to be
their mothers having definite, practical notions of moral science.
This science was once associated with the very rudiments of
learning. _The Christian’s Alphabet_, a compendium of the essential
points of moral philosophy, has come down to us from the middle
ages.

In the practical little work before us, the social virtues are
not overlooked. Politeness is one of them, for it is a virtue,
at least in France: we wish we could say everywhere. That “life
must be a perpetual sacrifice of self for the sake of others,” is
here laid down as the basis of politeness and the social virtues
generally. Like coin of precious metal, politeness is current in
every land and among all classes. It is the oil that lubricates
the wheel-works of society; it is the garland of flowers that
binds society together; it extends to the very tone of the voice,
the carriage of the body, and appropriateness of dress; it is
especially important to women, on whom depends refinement or
degeneracy of manners.

Respect for others is here inculcated in recognition of the divine
radiance that proceeds from the soul of every human being. One
section of this chapter is devoted to “Respect for the Aged and the
Poor.” Veneration for age is by no means prevalent in these times.
“It is regarded as an impertinence to be alive after sixty on this
side of the globe,” says an American. And as for the poor, who
respects them? And yet Bossuet saw an inexpressible sublimity in
the condition of the unfortunate.

Industry is likewise dwelt upon, and the evils of an aimless life.
The reason why so many women are nervous, morose, and melancholy is
because they are the victims of an aimless life. Their very hearts
are wasting away--corroded by rust.

Order and cleanliness have also their place. And how significant
they are of one’s moral condition! We read in F. Faber’s life, when
the orderly appearance of his room was noticed one Easter morning,
he replied that the napkin in the sepulchre was found _folded_
after the Resurrection, showing that our Lord hated untidiness.

This book is generally well translated, but there are some verbal
inaccuracies. Madame de Maintenon’s observations, on page 117, were
probably to the young ladies of St. Cyr--an institution of which
she was the patroness--rather than “the Misses Saint Cyr.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  WOMEN HELPERS IN THE CHURCH--THEIR SAYINGS AND DOINGS. Edited by
      William Welsh. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1872.

_Women Helpers in the Church_--that is, in the Protestant Episcopal
Church--is a compilation of articles previously published in
_The Spirit of Missions_ from the memoranda of ladies engaged
in parochial labors, such as Sunday-schools, mothers’ meetings,
district visiting, etc.

This is another book calling attention to the efficiency of woman’s
co-operation in the regeneration of the human race. It dwells on
the necessity of trained lay-helpers in the work, and says the
church should be a training-school for aggressive warfare against
evil. And “as but few male communicants seem willing to give out
the socializing power which God has entrusted to them for the
benefit of those less favored, it is well to employ the agency
of godly women.” It finds less difficulty in training workers in
this country than in England, where “few persons of good social
position attend Sunday-school or Bible-class.” This statement
rather excites a wonder who _do_ attend, for the poor seem to
hold themselves equally aloof. The Protestant Archbishop of York,
quoted in this work, says that in one district in London not one
person in a hundred attends church. These people are in a state of
heathenish darkness, though “the Church of England has emitted a
pure Gospel light for centuries,” and are in the lowest state of
degradation. “Who are these people?” asks the archbishop, and, as
if conscious of the great gulf that separates them from those he
addresses, he adds, “They are of the same flesh and blood as we.”
The Catholic is unconscious of any such gulf. In the great republic
of the church, the poor are the most tenderly cared for. The church
has ennobled poverty by making it one of the evangelical counsels.
Bossuet says: “Let no one any longer scorn poverty or treat it as
a base thing: the King of Glory having espoused it, he has ennobled
it by this alliance, and henceforth he grants the poor all the
privileges of his empire.” “The poor of Christ have lineal rights,”
says Faber, and it is because the Catholic Church recognizes these
rights that it is emphatically the church of the poor.

We are glad to see any attempts made to elevate and socialize
the poorer classes by visiting them, disseminating good books,
and bringing them together for social and religious purposes.
One association of ladies engaged in this work is stated to have
made over six thousand visits the past year, and a committee of
twelve ladies made seventeen thousand visits in the course of
six years. The publication of their labors does not seem exactly
on the principle of not letting the left hand know what the
right hand doeth, though, if it excites emulation, it may not
be unjustifiable. Any good resulting from such labors is a more
enduring record, and will “survive all paper.” “For,” as Carlyle
says, “the working of the good and brave, seen or unseen, endures
literally for ever and cannot die. Is a thing nothing because the
morning papers have not mentioned it? Or can a nothing be made
a something by ever so much babbling of it there? Far better,
probably, that no morning or evening paper mentioned it, that the
right hand knew not what the left was doing.”

We are unwilling to criticise any sincere efforts to do good,
and will forbear commenting on the memoranda of the ladies which
compose the greater part of this work, however unattractive much
of their piety may be to a Catholic; but we need not be equally
forbearing to the editor, who detracts from the effect of incidents
sometimes touching by his frequent interlardings and would-be wit
about “portable fire-extinguishers” (meaning the fire of sin)
“anti-incrustators,” etc. His bitterness against the Catholic
Church makes him look with an envious eye at her success among her
cherished poor ones. He speaks of her as “a corrupt church, whose
spirit is hostile to republican institutions, now actively drilling
the lay force in sodalities and other associations, and using their
power to the utmost in educational, political, and proselyting
schemes!” But such insinuations cannot harm us. He himself
observes: “The Church of Rome, with all her obvious errors, suffers
but little from the violent opposition to which she is constantly
subjected. It will be well for all religious bodies closely to
scrutinize her educational success, her tender care for the sick,
and all the other modes by which she generates and uses spiritual
power. Surely no well-organized church with a pure Scriptural
faith, claiming to have divine authority, can in _this Protestant
nation_ be content any longer to yield ground to a _foreign church_
with a foreign ministry.”

We can afford to be forbearing, and heartily forgive such language,
in view of the tribute he pays to our superiority. The best thing
in the book is his extract from the Abbé Mullois’ work entitled
_The Clergy and the Pulpit in their Relations to the People_,
which he rightly calls invaluable, and says “should be carefully
and prayerfully studied by the clergy and laity of our church, as
it is eminently spiritual and practical”--a recommendation not
quite in harmony with the preceding complimentary allusions. The
Abbé Mullois’ work (issued by “The Catholic Publication Society”),
though only a fourth of the size of _Women Helpers_, is worth a
thousand such. It is full of charity, zeal, and genuine piety, and
sparkling with vivacity. No cant or lackadaisical piety _there_. It
is a book that should be in every priest’s hands at least. The Abbé
Mullois is fully sensible of woman’s adaptation to self-denying
labors in the cause of religion and charity. “Woman is called the
feeble sex,” says he. “True, when she does not love; but when love
takes possession of her soul, she becomes the strong, the able, the
devoted sex. She then looks difficulties in the face which would
make men tremble.”

The co-operation of woman in evangelizing the world is nothing
new in the church. Woman was instrumental in the fall of man; the
second Eve had a large share in his redemption. The ministrations
of women date from apostolic times, and the church has always
availed herself of them. France was said to have been won back
to Christianity by the Sisters of Charity. The utility of lay
co-workers, both men and women, is evident from the good done by
the Conferences of St. Vincent of Paul among men, and the various
female associations among women. Wherever there is a priest, there
should be some such organization for the religious and social
elevation of the poor. _Women Helpers_ shows how the masses hunger
for spiritual aliment. Let us hasten to give them bread instead of
a stone!

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE OFFERTORIUM. A complete Collection of Music for the Sunday
      and Holyday Services of the Catholic Church, containing
      Masses, Vespers, Anthems, Hymns for Offertory, Benediction,
      and all Special Occasions, a Requiem Mass, Holy Week
      Services, Responses, etc. By William O. Fiske. Boston: Ditson
      & Co.

Why this collection of music is called “The Offertorium” we cannot
understand. There is only one Offertory in the whole book. It might
with equal fitness be styled “The Introit” or “The Kyrie Eleison.”
Claiming, as it does, to be a collection of music for the services
of the Catholic Church, we looked at once for the imprimatur of the
proper ecclesiastical authority, but, after examining its contents,
we were not surprised at its absence. It is, in fact, a poor rehash
of books already well known to our country choirs. A number of
pieces are called “Gregorian.” If this be Gregorian chant, we want
none of it. It would lead us in charity to believe the compiler
never saw a volume of Gregorian chant in his life. Again, we think
no one capable of writing or compiling music for the church who
does not know how to read, or at least pronounce, Latin. We have
the following pronunciations given in this work: luci_fé_rum,
spiri_tú_i, us_qué_, glo_ría_, filio_rúm_, confi_dúnt_,
descen_dúnt_, etc., etc. In a _Gloria in Excelsis_ abridged from
Concone, the name of our Lord, “Jesu Christe,” is left out after
“altissimus.” The author likely got up his musical phrase first,
and, finding it too short, sacrificed the integrity of the sacred
text to either his musical poverty or professional vanity. This and
a few other cuttings of the text are, however, amply made up for
by the frequent repetition of words and parts of sentences to be
found on every page of the musical masses. The clergy are on all
sides lamenting the degradation of church music, but let them not
complain so long as they permit their choirs to furnish a market
for productions like this.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE CHATEAU MORVILLE; or, Life in Touraine. From the French. By
      E. R. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger. 1872. 1
      vol. 12mo, pp. 366.

This book, the translator says in his preface, “is the first
of a contemplated series of entertaining foreign fiction, to
consist of a selection of some of the best works of the most
popular continental authors, and is intended for that class of
readers who are desirous of enjoying all the instruction to be
derived from a first-class novel.” We do not deny that the book is
sprightly, witty, and entertaining, and that it may please those
who read simply for amusement. All the characters are supposed
to be Catholic, yet that word is not once used in the work; nor
is religion in any of its practices, public or private, alluded
to, except on the last page. The story is a moral one, but of
the negative kind, and is to Catholic literature what the public
schools are to Catholic schools--Godless.

       *       *       *       *       *

  EXCERPTA EX RITUALI ROMANO PRO ADMINISTRATIONE SACRAMENTORUM, AD
      COMMODIOREM USUM MISSIONARIORUM, IN SEPTENTRIONALIS AMERICÆ
      FŒDERATÆ PROVINCIIS. Nova et Auctior Editio. Baltimori: Apud
      Kelly, Piet et Socios. MDCCCLXXII.

This new edition of the abridged ritual is quite an improvement
on preceding ones. The following matter has been added: “De
Visitatione Infirmorum,” “Modus Juvandi Morientes,” “Benedictio ad
Omnia,” “Benedictio Infantis,” “Benedictio Puerorum Ægrotantium,”
and exhortations, in German, before and after marriage. The
“Profession of Faith at the Reception of a Convert” is also given
in German. The translation of the baptismal interrogations into
the vernacular, which has hitherto been customary, seems to be
superfluous and even objectionable, after the decree of the S.
Congregation of Rites, August 31, 1867, forbidding the use of such
translations. The title is put as “Rituali Romano” on the back in
the copy before us, the most prominent words on the title-page
having been transferred to the cover. The rubrics are in red, the
type large and clear, and the binding good.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ON THE DUTIES OF YOUNG MEN. Translated from the Italian of
      Silvio Pellico, by R. A. Vain. New York: D. & J. Sadlier &
      Co. 1872.

This little book, of less than two hundred pages, contains much
that is new, apposite, and instructive. The style is calm,
affectionate, and altogether devoid of that harsh dogmatism which
sometimes makes even the best advice unpalatable. The varied
duties of young men claiming to be Christians and aiming at the
highest possible refinement, both in the family and society,
are described in a number of short chapters, every one of which
is a well-conceived sermon epitomized. The appearance of the
volume is in keeping with the excellence of its contents, and we
congratulate the publishers on having succeeded in producing one of
the handsomest of the minor works of the season in any department
of literature. We hope the public will appreciate this effort of
the Messrs. Sadlier to keep pace with the enterprise of other
publishers, and that their contemporaries outside of New York may
show equal energy and skill in the preparation of their books.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LATIN SCHOOL SERIES.--PHÆDRUS, JUSTIN, NEPOS. By Francis Gardner,
      Head Master, A. M. Gay and A. H. Buck, Masters in the Boston
      Latin School. Boston: Lee & Shepard. New York: Lee, Shepard &
      Dillingham. 1872.

The Boston Latin School is one of our few classical glories. A
series of Latin text-books, edited by its masters, will be an
acquisition to be hailed by every teacher and pupil. This volume
of the series is a gem in every respect--text, notes, glossary,
and typographical form. What makes it very nice for a boy is its
small size, and the placing of the notes at the bottom of the
page. We trust that the other volumes of the series will follow in
rapid succession, and that they will contain nothing which can be
dangerous to the morals of the youthful scholars in whose hands
they will be placed. It is important to promote the thorough study
of the Greek and Latin languages, but still more necessary to
guard the minds of the young from the contaminating influence of
that portion of the classical literature which is defiled with the
impurities of heathenism. The introduction of the excellent series
of Christian classics published in France into the course of an
American college would be a good thing.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE LIVES OF THE SAINTS. By Rev. S. Baring-Gould, M.A. January.
      London: John Hodges. (New York: Sold by The Catholic
      Publication Society.) 1872.

Mr. Gould is a remarkable man. Three years ago we reviewed
with considerable severity a work of his, and treated him as a
rationalist, which we supposed him to be at that time, not knowing
anything whatever of his opinions, except as they were indicated in
the book reviewed. We were somewhat puzzled by discovering that he
is really a clergyman of the Ritualist school, but it appears in
reality that he is a Hegelian in philosophy, and at the same time a
_soi-disant_ eclectic Catholic in theology. How he reconciles these
opposites is his affair, not ours. The present volume, at any rate,
is worthy of the highest praise. It is a collection of short lives
from the Bollandists, published in a beautiful style, and perfectly
suitable for circulation among Catholics. We trust he will complete
his useful and attractive work in the same admirable manner as he
has begun it.

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY has in press and in preparation
the following works, in addition to those already announced,
which will be published during the fall: _Pictures of Youthful
Holiness_, by Rev. R. Cooke; _A Saint’s Children_, by Emily Bowles;
_Life and Writings of St. Catherine of Genoa_; _All Hallow-Eve,
and Unconvicted_; _Tales from the Spanish of Fernan Caballero_;
_The Heart of Myrrha Lake, or Into the Light of Catholicity_;
_The Nesbits, or a Mother’s Last Request_; _Oakley, on Catholic
Worship_; _The Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac for 1873_;
and _The Book of the Holy Rosary_, illustrated with thirty-six
full-page engravings, by Rev. H. Formby. The publication of F.
Finotti’s _Bibliographia Catholica Americana_ has been unavoidably
delayed, by circumstances beyond the control of either author or
publisher. It is now about two-thirds printed, and will be ready as
soon as possible. This explanation is given as an answer to several
letters received by the publisher.

FOOTNOTE:

[132] An old monastic site (alas!), so named from the donor, the
Kaiser Charlemagne.




THE REVIEW OF MR. BRYANT’S ILIAD.


The following paragraph appeared in the _Independent_, from which
it was copied by the New York _Times_:

  “We were slightly surprised, after reading in the June number of
  THE CATHOLIC WORLD that ‘the New York _Times_ has long rivalled
  _Harper’s Weekly_ in bigotry and anti-Catholic malice,’ to find
  in the same number a long article on Bryant’s _Iliad_, which is
  stolen bodily from two reviews of the same work in the _Times_ of
  March 14 and June 20, 1870. The arrangement of the paragraphs is
  slightly changed, but their contents are absolutely identical.
  In the same number of THE CATHOLIC WORLD the editor pathetically
  inquires: ‘What is the Catholic press doing to correct these
  literary influences? What is it doing to cultivate the art of
  criticism?’ Stealing, evidently. We are informed, however, that
  often ‘the force of a Catholic organ consists of nobody but the
  editor, who writes all the fourth page, and the assistant, who
  makes up the rest of the forms with a paste-pot and a pair of
  shears.’ If Catholic monthlies are edited in the same way as
  Catholic weeklies, it manifestly becomes necessary to search for
  articles among the files of the daily papers; but we must remind
  the editor, to quote his own words again, that ‘newspapers go
  everywhere. Their readers are not confined to any one sect or any
  one party.’”

The simple fact of the matter is, that the author of the articles
in the _Times_ presented the review of the _Iliad_, which appeared
in our last number, to the editor of this magazine in manuscript,
and received payment for it as an original article. The proper
explanation has been already made to the editor of the _Times_. To
the _Independent_ our only rejoinder may be found in the last four
lines of the Ninth Fable of Phædrus.[133]

                    “Tunc ille insolens:
    ‘Qualis videtur opera tibi vocis meæ?’
    ‘Insignis,’ inquit, ‘sic, ut nisi nôssem tuum
    Animum genusque, simili fugissem metu.’”

FOOTNOTE:

[133] _Phædri Fabulæ_, Fab. IX., Asinus et Leo Venantes.




                        THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

                 VOL. XV., No. 89.--AUGUST, 1872.

  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev.
   I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.




THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES.

A RETROSPECT.


The astonishing growth of our hierarchy, with the multiplied
divisions which such growth calls for--overrunning, as they do,
and intersecting the boundaries of ancient mission-fields--seems
to make the renowned past of missionary labor on this continent
recede more and more into indistinctness. We propose to make some
brief mention of prominent incidents in the history of those
missions, and to do so not only that we may awaken in a generation
of superficial readers an interest in the achievements of the great
pioneers of our faith on this soil of America, but that we may base
thereupon some suggestions we wish to make to the future historian
of those times and those men. We trust that the day will come when
a taste for studies of this kind will have spread from the few to
the many, and create a necessity for some work more extended than
a sketch or a compend. Meanwhile, of such historical materials as
we have, which are accessible to the ordinary reader, we propose to
make mention, for the benefit of those who may now desire to know
what materials we possess; nay, more, that they may be encouraged
to appreciate these materials at their value, we shall reproduce
from them alone all the statements we have to present to the reader.

The period of time embraced by these early missionary enterprises
comprehends no less than eight and a half centuries, dating from
the first mention in history of the Norse missions, in the tenth
century, to the establishment of the last of the missions of
California in 1823. In the chronological order of their inception,
they range as follows:

I. The missions to the adventurous Norsemen, whose settlements
in the middle ages extended from Labrador to the southern coast
of New England. Although the light of faith gleamed but for a
time on our shores, leaving us only the memory of the Bishop of
Garda--so happily embalmed in the pages of Mr. R. H. Clarke’s
_Deceased Bishops_--the Norse missions did not entirely die out
on the eastern coast of Greenland until 1540. At this date, the
intrepid missionaries of Spain had already advanced from Mexico
into the borders of our present Southern territory. The extinction
of the Catholic settlements at the north was due to the physical
revolution caused by a change in the course of the Gulf Stream.
Thereupon, that once smiling and fertile shore became the bleak and
inhospitable region that it has ever since continued to be, and no
race of Europeans now disputes with the rugged Esquimaux a foothold
on the land.

II. The Spanish missions alluded to above. The history of these
missionary enterprises, in their alternating successes and defeats,
is one that renders the soil of Florida, Texas, and New Mexico a
land of sacred memories. In New Mexico, the Christian settlements
under our American Bishop of Santa Fé perpetuate these ancient
missions. In the other states named they exist only in the material
monuments they have left behind them.

III. The French missions. These were the vast Christian enterprises
which, from New France, sent into New York and the states west of
it so many apostles and martyrs. The present Christian Indians of
Canada owe their faith, and indeed their continued existence, to
these missions, which have also bequeathed to us within our own
limits the Abnakis of Maine and the Christian Indians who within a
few years have been removed from Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, etc.,
to the Indian Territory.

IV. The missions of Maryland. These missions carried the light of
faith to the aborigines of that colony, and if the latter have
ceased to exist, the Jesuits still subsist, and inhabit the ancient
manors where their brethren of old gathered around them the docile
children of the forest, ere the torch of religious and political
persecution was lighted by stranger hands in the “Land of the
Sanctuary.” Yet, even the missions of Maryland are not without a
living succession, for the Jesuits of Maryland planted a colony
of their brethren in the West, and have carried the Gospel to
vast multitudes of new subjects among the Indian tribes, and have
besides aided to sustain the faith of those expatriated from the
former limits of other mission fields. Perhaps the most serious
blow to the perpetuity of some of these missions is threatened
in the government’s plan of “improvement” in its Indian policy.
While the measures comprehended under this new policy aim at
eradicating some abuses, the plan is also ingeniously aimed to
operate in a direction where no abuses can be alleged, and to
substitute among Catholic Indians the “Evangelical” preacher for
the “Black-gown,” whom the Indians feel to be their best and most
disinterested friend, at whose feet they have learned the rudiments
of Christianity, and at whose feet alone they will condescend to
sit for instruction in the way of eternal life.

V. The missions of Louisiana. Within the former limits of these
missions, the area of the present states of Louisiana, Arkansas,
and Mississippi was embraced. By the removal of the native tribes,
the missions of Louisiana have become practically merged in those
which now embrace the Western States. Nevertheless, some Christian
Indians still linger on the soil of Louisiana proper.

VI. The missions of California. In so far as the hostility of the
whites has permitted the Indians to live in peace, these missions
may be said still to subsist. Such remains of them as Mexican
rapacity had spared descended to us at least on the cession of
California to the United States.

Should the full history of these missions come to be written,
the more perspicuous arrangement--we beg to suggest to the
historian--would be to divide the whole into _epochs_. Thus,
the Norse missions would constitute an epoch by itself, to be
designated, let us say, as the _Ante-Columbian_--missions before
the discovery by Columbus. When the Catholic Historical Society
shall be formed (even if it owe its origin to this suggestion
for its formation), its first care, after gathering into its
fire-proof cabinets the books, pamphlets, newspapers and magazines,
manuscripts, charts, portraits, sketches, and other memorials or
illustrations of the Catholic history of America, should be to draw
from Northern Europe materials for a more extended history than we
now possess of an epoch so full of interest to the antiquary and
the Catholic. Until recently, indeed, the Norse missions bid fair
to be reckoned as among myths. If they are no longer so regarded,
this result is due to the investigations of a few scholars only.

The _second_, or _Post-Columbian_, epoch should commence with the
history of the missionary efforts which succeeded the discovery by
Columbus. This epoch, after displaying the inception and progress
of these great religious enterprises, might terminate appropriately
with the establishment of one of the last series of missions, that
of San Francisco, erected on the site of the present city of that
name in 1776, seven days before the date of our Declaration of
Independence.

For the _third_ epoch, no event could form a more appropriate
initial point than that which freed our country from the domination
of England. From this point, a new era opens for our church, for
the charter of our national independence was the charter of our
liberties as well. In the epoch just elapsed, the spirit of British
legislation and the spirit of British bigotry harassed or defeated
at every step the apostolical laborers within the mission-fields
embraced in the limits of the American colonies. Now, over all
the territory of the new Republic, shortly to be enlarged by the
addition of Louisiana and Florida with their sacred memories of
the past, the old colonial legislation against Catholics began to
disappear from the statute-books of the states; and, if at the
present writing there be a state where these discriminating laws
still linger, her apologists are obliged to claim that they are
practically inoperative.[134] Early in this epoch, our present
hierarchy had its beginning in the appointment of John Carroll
as first bishop--John Carroll whose efforts, in conjunction with
Franklin, Chase, and Charles Carroll, to enlist the sympathies of
the Canadians in our national cause, were rendered abortive by
the anti-Catholic manifesto which had been issued by the colonial
congress of 1774.[135] The era of the great prelate’s labors
was shortly rendered memorable by the arrival upon our shores
of those devoted men whom persecution or revolution abroad had
driven hither. Through them, with here and there the assistance
of the few clergyman already on the spot, religion began to make
glad the desert places. The centres of population, no less than
the scattered settlements of the interior--the mountains of
Pennsylvania equally with the forests of Kentucky--rejoiced in
the spreading light of gospel truth. In short, the seventy years
succeeding the Declaration of Independence--within which period
we propose to limit this third epoch--form an era filled with the
chronicles of devoted missionary labor, and the history of humble
and painful foundations which have since expanded into vast and
even magnificent proportions.

For the commencement of the _fourth_ epoch, embracing the era in
which we live, and terminating when it may please the historian to
close it, the year 1846 is suggested for several reasons. If the
assignment of this date seems to terminate the preceding epoch at
a period disproportionally early, compared with the epoch before
it, it must be remembered that these seventy years, embracing as
they do the period of the formation and first growth of our present
hierarchy, would probably require as voluminous a treatment at
the hands of the historian as the whole long period of the second
epoch. In 1846, the partition of dioceses into ecclesiastical
provinces began by the erection of the Province of Oregon in that
year. Prior to this time the whole United States had formed but
one Province, under the Archbishop of Baltimore. The Province of
St. Louis was erected in 1847, those of New Orleans, Cincinnati,
and New York in 1850, and the Province of San Francisco in 1853.
The year 1846 is also the date of the accession to the Pontifical
throne of the great and good Pius IX., still happily reigning,
whose Pontificate is the most remarkable of modern times, if not
of all times, as it has certainly been the longest, and, in its
relations to the American church, the most momentous. The Sixth
Provincial Council of Baltimore was held in 1846, and the same
year was signalized by the opening of the Mexican War, which
was followed in 1848 by the acquisition of California and New
Mexico, classic lands in the history of the American Missions. The
annexation of Texas in 1845, with all her legacies of missionary
heroism, forms the closing political event of the preceding epoch.
Thus, many reasons concur for selecting 1846 as the period of a new
departure in our ecclesiastical annals. The thread of narrative
connecting the history of the old missions with our own day may be
said to terminate at the beginning of this epoch, by the admission
of California and New Mexico into the Federal Union. Nor need this
thread be afterwards resumed. The fourth epoch, judging from its
energetic beginnings and the triumphant progress the church in this
country has made in the interval, is destined to fill a glorious
place in ecclesiastical history.

These suggestions in regard to the method of dealing with our
Catholic history would be superfluous, except upon the supposition
that such a history as the subject calls for has yet to be written.
We have no doubt it will be. It is the purpose of this paper to
promote such a consummation, both by arousing an interest in
the subject on the part of readers, and stimulating the zeal of
writers. Without this interest on the part of readers, the zeal,
learning, and ability of authors will never be called into play
on this field. Whatever meed of praise we must assign to the few
authors who have made our missions or our Catholic history their
theme, it cannot be contended that they have largely developed it:
but, if they have not done more, it is because the taste of the
public--the Catholic public, at least--did not demand more. Here,
then, is need for reformation.

Catholics might take a lesson from the conduct of people of the
world. When a family of high origin rises again into distinction
from a condition of temporary depression, it reverts with fondness
to the ancestry by which it was distinguished in the past, as well
as to that which achieved its return to greatness: it justifies its
present position by the long roll it exhibits of its genealogical
worthies. So should American Catholics of the present day act and
feel as a religious family, but with a pride that is commendable,
since the object of it is the church of God, and all the glory it
acquires is due to the humility, the sacrifices, the self-devotion
of the truest heroes that ever lived, the saints and servants of
God. Such were our religious ancestors on this continent, and such
they were long before in the vista of centuries. It is something
to possess a mere antiquity in a land where all is new save the
race that is dying out towards the setting sun, and no lineage can
dispute for antiquity with that of the Catholic Church on this soil.

If her history were better known, we should not be so often met by
the assertions that this is a “Protestant country”--an assertion
which, though provoking, would be harmless but for some social
or legal ostracism which is attempted under color of it. The
preponderance of numbers, the only tenable ground upon which the
assertion can be made, is a mere temporary condition of things,
and is so rapidly disappearing that a mathematical calculation
is alone sufficient to fix its period of termination. But, last
as long it may, this preponderance avails nothing so long as the
law of the land knows neither Protestant nor Catholic as such.
This impartiality of the law, by the bye, will never be disturbed
by Catholics even when the preponderance of numbers shall be in
their favor. They venerate too deeply the example of the Catholic
Pilgrims of Maryland ever to descend from the high standard they
have left behind.

Again, this is not a Protestant country by virtue of early
discovery or possession, nor by reason of early settlement or
religious foundation, nor even by the establishment of an earlier
hierarchy, as some Protestant churchmen contend. Much less is it
Protestant by the conversion of either native or foreign races
within its confines. With one only exception, as a class, that may
be reckoned considerable, Protestantism is only an heirloom in
families that were Protestant at the time of their immigration.
Nor has it, with these, held its own; for the statistics supplied
by our Catholic bishops show that, among those confirmed by
them, a proportion, varying in different dioceses, but forming
an average of probably twelve per cent., is composed of converts
from Protestantism. The considerable exception we note is formed
of the descendants of Irish Catholics who long since emigrated
to these shores or were transported hither in large numbers by
Oliver Cromwell. Their children, deprived of religious instruction
and left without priests and sacraments, have been gradually
absorbed into the ranks of the sects around them. Hence the
number of unmistakably celtic names we find borne by many who are
now Protestants. This exception, however, goes very little way
towards establishing the general assertion that the Protestantism
of the country is due to the conversions it has made. The blacks
have naturally followed the religion of the masters in whose
families they were domesticated while slaves. As to the Indians,
Protestantism has done little or nothing that it can point to
with any pride, and it employs itself in their regard, as it does
in all other parts of the world where it encounters the Catholic
missionary, in marring or obstructing his work, thus leaving the
poor Indian in a more wretched condition than he had been before he
heard of Christianity at all.

Under whatever auspices certain colonies of Protestants were
established, long after the first occupation of American soil
by Catholics, the constitution, which is the charter of our
general liberties, and which these colonies, or the states
representing these colonies, united in adopting, is silent on the
subject of religion. Its equilibrium on this point is perfect.
Nor will it be disturbed, even though a judge of the Supreme
Court heard the little knot of superserviceable Protestants who
advocate the apparently innocent project of introducing “God in
the constitution.” Even if it were possible that these gentlemen
should succeed in their effort, an internecine warfare would
ensue among Protestants themselves for the possession by one
or the other of the different sects of the power to direct the
“appropriate legislation” contemplated in the proposed amendment
to the constitution. In this scramble, the opportunity of wielding
this new engine against the Catholics would be lost, and hence much
of the animus that directs the movement now would prove a waste
of zeal. Our general laws are, therefore, no more Protestant than
Catholic, and even court-preachers who claim that their “church” is
a “power in the land” are unable to wrest them from their tenor,
though they may fill the public offices with the adherents of their
conventicle.

History, good sense, and common observation thus militate against
a claim which is intended, in one way or another, to be injurious
to American Catholics and their church. This subject may not be new
to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, but it is one which will bear
repetition, in view of the necessity of presenting the truth as it
is before right-minded Protestants who may otherwise be beguiled by
the specious pretences of their less scrupulous brethren--in view
of the still greater necessity of fortifying our own people against
an allegation which is intended to discourage and demoralize
them. We need our moral force, our Catholic spirit, our sense of
equality with our neighbors, in order to accomplish much of the
good that is before us in both the social and the religious sphere.
It will help this spirit of noble independence to become familiar
with the history of our church in this country and of its unique
achievements.

The scattered memorials of early missions have been gathered with
great labor by Mr. John G. Shea, and compressed in his _History
of the Catholic Missions_ (New York, 1854). His narrative needs
digesting, but is of most interesting matter. The absence of
maps, however, and the consequent difficulty of following the
footsteps of the missionaries in their labors and journeys, often
through unfamiliar localities, necessitate a reference to other
books, and so detract from the value of the work as a handbook
for ordinary readers. Even the works of Kip and Parkman, covering
a more restricted ground, are illustrated by maps. The tables in
Mr. Shea’s appendix, with the names of the missionaries, the date
of their arrival, and that of their death, and also the list of
authorities in print and manuscript illustrating his subject, are
extremely valuable. We are indebted to Mr. Shea’s work for the
principal portion of our materials.

T. D’Arcy McGee’s five lectures on the _Catholic Church in the
United States_ (Boston, 1855), written in a clear, brilliant, and
forcible style, pass in review the history of the American church
from the days of Columbus down to the period of the publication of
the book.

_The Catholic Church in the United States_, by Henry de Courcy,
translated and enlarged by John G. Shea (New York, 1856), is
modestly designated by the author as a “sketch,” but can only be
considered so because the ground covered by the work is so vast,
and the period so extended, that it was found impossible to dwell
at length on any particular point. Still, the work is neither hasty
nor superficial, and comprehends a bulk of nearly 600 pages.

These three works by Catholic authors are the only publications we
possess bearing upon the general ground, and adapted to popular
use and reference. A lecture here or there, or Dr. White’s sketch
attached to Darras’ _General History of the Church_, does not add
materially to our resources. It will be observed from the date of
their publication that these three works were published in three
successive years about the period of the last “Know-Nothing”
excitement. Are we to infer from this circumstance that our people
can only be goaded by religious persecution into demanding such
works? If so, we shall have the less reason for regret when the
unprecedentedly long period of peace we are now enjoying shall
come to a close, as it certainly must, sooner or later, in the
providence of God.

Of biographies and local histories we have a growing collection,
some of them of great value. The affairs of a diocese, a state,
or a particular region of country will always command a special
interest among those who dwell therein. Hence we may expect this
class of works to appear in increasing numbers. They furnish
important materials to the future general historian, and probably
educate the taste of readers into a demand for more comprehensive
works. Many details that would be useful to the historian would
perish but for them, as many have doubtless perished already for
the lack of timely chroniclers. An enumeration of these works is
not essential in this place, but we trust that other hands will do
justice to those who have bestowed their scanty time upon labors
of this kind, for all these works have been written by men of busy
lives, such men as the late Archbishop Spalding, for example,
among the clergy, and the late Bernard U. Campbell, of Baltimore,
among the laity. Mr. Campbell’s writings, to be sure, have not
been reprinted from the magazine for which they were written; but
had not the gates of death closed in the midst of his career on
the author of the _Life and Times of Archbishop Carroll_, we might
have expected from one possessed of his industrious research, his
ardent mind, and genuine talents, contributions of the highest
value to the history of the church in America. He was called hence
just as a position of comparative distinction and emolument seemed
about to compensate him for his long years of faithful duty in the
inconspicuous but responsible post he had hitherto filled; and this
tribute to the memory of one whose character was brightened by
every Christian and every civic virtue will not seem out of place
here to those who knew him--and who in his community did not know
him? who did not love him?

When will our young men, beginning life with advantages of which
Mr. Campbell could not boast, with wealth and family position and
scholastic training, learn to emulate such an example, and devote
their opportunities, their means, and the fruits of their studies
to a task which would do them infinite honor, instead of devoting
all these gifts to the service of a frivolous society?--a task upon
which, in their default, strangers and aliens have entered, and
gathered laurels to themselves at the expense of the church whose
heroes they pretend to exalt.

The author of a work to which we have already referred has snatched
from the intervals of severe professional labors time for the
production of two of the most important volumes contributed to
our American Catholic literature in the department of biography,
although their bulk and cost must render them inaccessible to many
readers. But it is a work the perusal of which must quicken the
desire for that full and connected history of the American church
which awaits us in the future. Here, that history glitters in
detached fragments, like prismatic hues reflected from some great
signal-light, around each saintly and venerable figure whose life
and labors the author has portrayed. There, in one luminous whole,
it will irradiate our entire past. Again, a clergyman has found the
opportunity, amid the cares of a parish and the distractions of
frequent and painful illness, to prepare for publication a schedule
of all the early issues of our American Catholic press--a most
welcome adjunct to the labors of the Catholic historian. With these
and many similar examples before them, how great a reproach must
rest upon our Catholic young men of culture if their last and only
contribution to the literature of their church and country be the
fleeting amenities of a college address at graduation!

But, as we have already remarked, the field of our Catholic history
has been entered upon by writers of another and an alien school.
The wealth of incident, the picturesque _entourage_, the heroic
action, which characterize the history of our Catholic missions
have proven irresistible attractions to the Protestant scholar. Mr.
Francis Parkman is especially conspicuous in this department, and
we wish to say a few words in regard to his best-known work, _The
Jesuits in North America_ (Boston, 1867). We trust that to Catholic
readers Mr. Shea’s elegant reprint of Father Charlevoix’s _History
of New France_, fully and carefully annotated by Mr. Shea himself,
will supply all the needs of a reference on this field of inquiry.
None can fail to admire the graces of style which distinguish Mr.
Parkman’s writings, but Protestants alone can make him a reference
and commend him for the fidelity with which he adheres to their
worn-out traditions and the readiness he exhibits to flatter their
ingrained prejudices and prepossessions.

It is difficult to understand how an author could have written so
fully and so eloquently of men, the dignity of whose aims he seems
not to have formed the slightest conception of, or that he should
have chosen this theme at all under the circumstances. We can only
hope that a more profound feeling stirred him to the task than he
is willing to acknowledge. But Mr. Parkman is a New Englander, and
it befits not the Puritan traditions of his people to display any
enthusiasm. On the ears of the auditory he undoubtedly in the main
sets himself to address--an auditory dead to every supernatural
impression except that which may be evoked by the practices of
spiritism--words of enthusiasm would fall distastefully, and the
reflex of an inner faith be simply repelling. Hence Mr. Parkman
carefully avoids any suspicion of complicity with these unpopular
emotions, and his heroes enact their grand parts like puppets put
in action on a mimic stage by some inexplicable machinery. All the
pith and marrow of their actions, such as Catholics know to have
animated them, is eliminated, and nothing but a limp and imbecile
counterfeit is left of the living, breathing man. Yet these men,
these great missionaries so parodied, were they who undertook the
most gigantic labors, endured the most severe hardships, and met
even death itself, from the most exalted motive that can animate
our kind--the love of souls for God’s sake! In Mr. Parkman’s
hands, all that is great and ennobling about them shrinks into
an unsubstantial figment: the impelling motive, if one is to be
descried at all, is a barren sentimentalism, the action, left
aimless and unsupported, a mere _prettiness of behavior_.

The following passage from _The Jesuits in North America_ (page
97) will afford an example of the _animus_ with which the book is
written. It opens with the reiteration of a stale slander: “That
equivocal morality, lashed by the withering satire of a Pascal--a
morality built on the doctrine that all means are permissible for
saving souls from perdition, and that sin itself is no sin when
its object is the ‘greater glory of God’--found far less scope
in the rude wilderness of the Hurons than among the interests,
ambitions, and passions of civilized life. Nor were these men,
chosen from among the purest of their order, personally well fitted
to illustrate the capabilities of this elastic system. Yet, now
and then, by the light of their own writings, we may observe that
the teachings of the school of Loyola had not been wholly without
effect in the formation of their ethics. But when we see them in
the gloomy February of 1637, and the gloomier months that followed,
toiling on foot from one infected town to another, wading through
the sodden snow, under the bare and dripping forests, drenched with
incessant rains, till they descried at length through the storm
the clustered dwellings of some barbarous hamlet--when we see them
entering, one after another, those wretched abodes of misery and
darkness, and all for one sole end, the baptism of the sick and
dying, we may smile at the futility of the object, but we must
needs admire the self-sacrificing zeal with which it is pursued.”
_The futility of the object!_ And this is said in the nineteenth
century of Christian enlightenment! Has the lettered paganism which
held its head so high in the days of the early Roman Pontiffs
indeed revived in all its impenetrable pride, and with all its
scorn of the Christian faith and the Christian people? Has it only
_slept_ through all these centuries, to awaken again in our day and
stalk among us with unblushing front as of old?

In conclusion, on the subject of authors, Rev. W. I. Kip,
afterwards made Protestant Episcopal Bishop of California,
published, under the title of _Early Jesuit Missions in North
America_, a translation of some letters written by the French
Jesuits on the mission between 1696 and 1750. We see nothing to
object to and much to commend in this work. We must except from our
commendation a portion of the editor’s preface, as follows: “There
is one thought, however, which has constantly occurred to us in
the preparation of these letters, and which we cannot but suggest.
Look over the world and read the history of the Jesuit Missions.
After one or two generations, they have always come to naught....
Must there not have been something wrong in the whole system--some
grievous errors mingled with their teachings, which thus denied
them a measure of success proportioned to their efforts?”
Considering that, after one or two generations, the insane jealousy
of governments generally led to the persecution of the Jesuits, the
rapacity of officials to the plunder of their missions, and that
the whole society was suppressed and dispersed in the midst of some
of its most prominent labors, the failure of most of the Jesuit
missions may be easily accounted for. But these causes were all
extrinsic, not intrinsic, as Mr. Kip suggests. In spite of these
disintegrating causes, the vitality of the missions established
by the Jesuits, as exemplified in this retrospect, is something
remarkable. Nor was there ever, or, if ever, rarely, a failure
where these extrinsic causes were not at work. Mr. Kip’s assertion
that there is not a “recorded instance of their permanency” is
unveracious in spirit, if it be not in fact. He might easily have
known better. Probably, if he would “look over the world” through
the medium of the Protestant authorities quoted by Dr. Marshall
(and Dr. M. quotes no others) in his work on _Christian Missions_,
Mr. Kip and others equally in need of enlightenment would know what
they ought to believe of Jesuit and all other Catholic missions.
_Per contra_, and as shown by the same Protestant authorities,
it will be seen that the barrenness erroneously predicated of
the Jesuit missions by Mr. Kip is the distinguishing mark of the
Protestant missions everywhere and at all times, under the most
favorable as under the most adverse circumstances, in their first
stage equally as in their last.

When we consider that eight hundred or more years ago all that
was Christian in our land was Catholic, we can bear with more
equanimity the presumptuous offers of hospitality made to us
by sectaries who claim as their own a soil wherein Catholicity
was planted before their religion was heard of. In brief, the
history of these first missions was as follows: When the light
of Christianity spread from Ireland to Iceland, the adventurous
natives of the latter country had already effected a lodgement on
our continent through the colonies they had planted in Greenland
and on the shores further south, extending to Narragansett Bay.
They called this latter region Vinland from the great profusion
of native vines they found there. In the year 1000, Catholic
missionaries set forth from Iceland, and soon bade Greenland
blossom with the fruits of faith, as it blossomed already with the
material beauty and verdure that then crowned its valleys. In time
missionaries were despatched hence to Vinland, with the same happy
results. Thus, in what seems to us the night of ages, the voice
of Christian prayer and the hymns of Christian praise resounded
along our Northern shores. Greenland was already dotted over with
institutions of piety and learning when Eric, now its bishop, with
his see at Garda, came in 1121, for the second time, to visit his
dear Vinlanders and their Indian neophytes; rounding the promontory
of Cape Cod to the south, five hundred years before the grim
Puritans rounded it to the north on their way to Plymouth Bay. He
came this time to dwell with the chosen ones of his flock, and
doubtless to die with them, for the curtain of history has fallen
over his fate and that of his companions and spiritual children.

The old stone tower at Newport is, in the eyes of some respectable
antiquaries, a relic of ancient Catholicity in New England that
belonged to a church or monastery, but its mute walls reveal
nothing of the sacred catastrophe which overwhelmed the Christian
colony of Vinland. The soil of New England was therefore long since
dedicated to the God of truth, and let us trust that he will again,
in his own good time, claim his heritage.

Turning our eyes to the other extreme of our national boundaries
as they now exist, we find that the first Spanish missionaries set
foot in Florida in 1528, in company with the expedition of Narvaez.
The latter expected to find him an empire rivalling in wealth and
extent that of Mexico, so recently subjected to the Spanish arms by
the prowess of Cortez. The limits of the new empire were already
marked out for a see, which took its title from the Rio de las
Palmas, its southern boundary, a river in Mexico between Vera Cruz
and Tampico, and extended to the Cape of Florida. The new bishop
himself, Juan Juarez, headed the band of missionaries. As Father
Juarez, he had been one of the twelve Franciscans who were invited
to Mexico by Cortez to be its first apostles, and whom he received
with great honor in 1524, five years after his landing. Father
Juarez here distinguished himself by his zeal and his love and care
for the Indians, and his appointment as the new bishop, which was
made on the occasion of a subsequent visit to Spain, was therefore
most fitting.

The expedition of Narvaez proved, however, a failure, and in its
failure was involved that of the missionary scheme connected
with it. No rich empire met the commander’s expectant gaze,
no dusky monarch clad in barbaric splendor and surrounded by
assiduous courtiers crossed his path to question his purposes or
withstand his advance. He encountered only straggling Indians
who treacherously led him on to his ruin. At last, weary,
disappointed, pinched with want, and decimated by disease or the
arrows of ambushed savages, the troops of Narvaez forced their
way back through the jungle to the shore they had left. Narvaez
had injudiciously, and against the advice of Bishop Juarez,
ordered his ships elsewhere, and the only resource of the party
was to escape to sea as best they might in the rude boats they
constructed for the purpose. Four only remained behind, and these
saved themselves by a perilous journey across the continent.
The remainder were lost at sea, or were cast away to die a more
lingering death by starvation, disease, or the attacks of the
natives. Among the latter was the party of Bishop Juarez, which
had been driven ashore on Dauphin Island, near the mouth of the
Mississippi. Thus the fate of the second bishop who possessed
jurisdiction over any portion of our soil is, like that of the
first, wrapped in painful obscurity, and the fruits of his mission,
if there were any, are equally left without living trace. All that
is known of this devoted pioneer and martyr of the South has been
recorded by Mr. Clarke in his _Lives of the Deceased Bishops_.

The four survivors of the expedition of Narvaez traversed Texas and
New Mexico, and, reaching the shores of the Gulf of California,
reappeared to the gaze of their astonished friends. The accounts
they gave of the kingdoms and cities they had passed on their
journey--accounts that were doubtless somewhat colored by their
imagination--came to the ears of an Italian friar named Mark, and
excited his zeal for the glorious spiritual conquest that seemed
to lie before him. Placing himself under the guidance of Stephen,
a negro, one of the four survivors alluded to, and attended by
some friendly Indians, he boldly plunged into the wilderness which
skirted the river Gila. Crossing it, he continued his march until
he came within sight of Cibola, a city of the Zuñi tribe. Here he
sent forward Stephen with a party of the Indian attendants to
prepare the way, but the natives drove them back, and even killed
Stephen and some of his companions. The friar could only look
with longing eyes towards the city where he had hoped to garner a
harvest of souls, and then sorrowfully began to retrace his steps.
Ere descending the hill from which he bade farewell to the city,
he, however, planted the cross, the object of his journey and the
emblem of his mission.

The chieftain, Coronado, stimulated by the representations made
of the supposed riches of Cibola, headed an expedition fitted out
by the government to reduce it. He followed the route previously
traversed by Friar Mark, who accompanied him, together with a
number of other Franciscans. Cibola was reached, and soon yielded
to the invader, but so barren was the prize, that Coronado resolved
to press on to the conquest of another fabled empire in the
interior, leaving the poor friar, overwhelmed with reproaches,
to return home in shattered health. He ended his days shortly
after. Coronado, in his researches, crossed to the valley of the
Rio Grande, and even to that of the Arkansas, but without result,
except in the discovery of the vast herds of bisons which swarmed
the plains, and of which he was the first among Europeans to give
an account. When Coronado, weary of his fruitless journey, resolved
to return, Father John de Padilla, one of the Franciscans, in his
younger days a soldier, begged to be allowed to remain at the
Indian town of Quivira, west of the Rio Grande. Brother John of
the Cross proffered a similar request in regard to the neighboring
village of Cicuye, now Pecos. Bestowing upon them a supply of live
stock, and some Mexican Indians as assistants, the expedition
passed on and left them to their perilous posts. The Indians of
New Mexico were, as a race, of morals more than ordinarily pure,
and they possessed some familiarity with the arts. Notwithstanding
these humanizing traits, the lives of the two devoted missionaries
paid the forfeit of their courage and zeal, or they may both have
perished by the hands of roving Indians. No tidings were ever heard
of the lay brother, and the fate of the father was announced in
Tampico by his companions, who fled thither with the news of his
martyrdom.

The expedition of Coronado occupied the years 1540-1, or a great
portion of them. In the latter year De Soto, who had entered
Florida in 1539, led on by the same delusive hopes with which
the narrative of the survivors of the party of Narvaez inspired
Coronado--stood beside the mighty Mississippi, its discoverer. The
following year, its waters were to be at once the grave of the
great leader and the haven of refuge for the remnant of his band
in their escape from the country. De Soto had brought with him
from Spain a number of ecclesiastics, secular and regular. It is
not probable that they accomplished anything among the natives,
but they at least sacrificed their lives in the attempt, for the
last of them perished in the interval between the death of De Soto
and the arrival in Tampico of the survivors of his expedition. The
dark colors in which those who cater to popular prepossessions
delight to paint the conduct of the Spanish invaders are seldom
brightened by the testimony that should accompany the picture, of
the religious purposes which were never entirely absent from their
minds. With some of them religion was, indeed, a controlling
motive. Coupled with dreams of worldly conquest, was always the
hope and desire of spreading the knowledge of Christian truth
throughout the empires that might be won. Let the conduct of our
non-Catholic fellow-citizens in the first years of the American
occupation of California, in all its characteristics of violence,
irreligion, greed, and cruelty to the Indians, be compared with
that of the Spaniards of three centuries before, and it may be
found that the latter will gain by the comparison. Moreover, no
scheme of benevolence in behalf of the poor Indians, no thought of
extending God’s kingdom upon earth, ever entered the thoughts of
our nineteenth-century adventurers.

In 1544, one solitary soldier of the cross, Father Andrew de Olmos,
a Franciscan, acquired a success among the Indians of Texas which
had been denied to all his predecessors on the same field. It
was the wild race then known as the “Chichimecas,” among whom he
fearlessly advanced. Strange to say, many hearkened to his words,
and followed him to Tamaulipas, where he founded a reduction
for them, and completed their instruction. In the missions of
Mexico, Father Andrew had already acquired a knowledge of four
Indian languages, of three of which he had prepared grammars and
vocabularies, and in two of them had written religious works for
the use of the Indians. He now became a proficient in the language
of this tribe also, and prepared many books for his spiritual
children. Father John de Mesa, a secular priest, a kindred spirit
in zeal, and of like accomplishments as a linguist, joined him in
his labors, and both of them devoted the remainder of their lives
to the Indians of the reduction. Their mission was so fortunate as
to be perpetuated by successors, under whom it was also enlarged by
the accession of many new Indian converts.

An attempt equally intrepid in character and peaceful in its
method, but still entirely ineffectual in result, was the
expedition into Florida in 1547 under the direction of Father
Cancer de Barbastro, a distinguished missionary of Mexico, attended
by several other Dominicans. Fortified with a royal decree from
Philip of Spain restoring to liberty all natives of Florida held in
bondage in any portion of the Spanish possessions, and provided by
that monarch with an unarmed vessel, the missionaries were received
with some delusive demonstrations of friendship on the part of
the Indians. Untouched by the peaceful character of the mission,
however, they seized the first opportunity to massacre Father
Diego de Peñalosa, who had entrusted his life in their hands, and
not long after Father Cancer himself. The mission was thereupon
abandoned by the others as hopeless.

  NOTE.--In addition to the works devoted specifically to the
  subject, mentioned in the text of this article, we would refer
  the future historian to the following sources of information as
  indispensable to an exhaustive treatment of the theme. We offer
  the suggestion as a partial acknowledgment of the obligation
  which we, in common with our fellow-Catholics of the United
  States, are under to a pioneer in this field of investigation--an
  assiduous and _successful_ student (so far, at least, as his
  readers are concerned) of early American Catholic annals:

  _Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley_. By John
  Gilmary Shea. (Embracing the Relations of Fathers Marquette,
  Hennepin, Allouez, and others, and a _fac-simile_ of the outline
  map of the region made by F. Marquette.)

  _Early Voyages up and down the Mississippi._ By the same.

  The Cramoisy Series of _Memoirs and Relations concerning the
  French Colonies in North America_. Edited and published from
  early MSS. By the same. 24 vols. (This includes Relations,
  Biography, Travels, Letters, Diplomatic Correspondence, etc.,
  etc.)

  _The Library of American Linguistics_: A Series of Grammars and
  Dictionaries of American Languages. Edited by the same. 13 vols.

  “Our Convents,” in _The Metropolitan_, and “Our Martyrs,” in the
  _United States Catholic Magazine_. (The latter has been published
  in book-form in a German translation.)

                         TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[134] Let us pause to observe that this change in the spirit of
legislation marks also the decline of that spirit of bigotry which
inspired it in the first place. The spirit of bigotry, however,
still survives, though it be less aggressive than formerly. It
outlives the melioration of charters, and dies hard. When it
shall have reached that stage of feebleness to which the natural
generosity of our countrymen will sooner or later reduce it, we may
then hope to follow where Canada has led in her laws concerning
_education_. The pompous protection now afforded by states and
municipalities to their necessarily infidel school will disappear
to give way to measures of solicitude for the equal education of
all, Catholic and infidel, Protestant and Jew, without injustice
to any man’s religion or any man’s resources. The unfortunate
precedent afforded by the theocratic government of New England, and
which has been so blindly followed by other states, in assuming
to _educate_ instead of _aiding_ education--even this disorder in
our republicanism may be healed, if congress do not meanwhile (as
appearances threaten) strengthen the hands of state absolutists
by its largesses; or, if it do not, by an act of still greater
usurpation than the states have been guilty of, consign the task of
popular education to the care of the general government.

[135] Thus Protestant bigotry probably lost us Canada, as it gained
us--must we say it?--the treason of Arnold. The bigotry of Arnold
revolted at the alliance with France, because it was an alliance
with Catholics. His disgust was heightened by the liberality of
feeling which began to be manifested by his countrymen towards
Catholics. The co-operation of Catholics, native and foreign, in
the cause of our National Independence, was so marked that it
may well have embittered a patriot of his calibre, and indeed it
infuriated him to that degree that he preferred to sell his country
rather than serve a cause which was so largely sustained by those
whose religion he hated. Does not Arnold live in successors? To say
nothing of others, who were the Know-Nothing patriots who preferred
to disgrace the national name by destroying the memorial-stone
contributed by Pius IX. to the Washington Monument, rather than
that its shaft should preserve the evidence of the respect of a
Pope for the memory of our Pater Patriæ?




FRAGMENTS OF EARLY ENGLISH POETRY.


TO THE BLESSED VIRGYNE.

    As thou wel knowest, O Blessed Virgyne,
    With lovynge herte and high devocion,
    In thyne honour he (Chaucer) wroot many a lyne,
    For he thi servant was, mayden Marie,
    And let his love floure and fructifie.
                                         --OCCLEVE.


TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN.

    Lady, when men pray to the,
      Thou goest before of thy benignitie
    And getest us the light of thy prayere
    To giden us to thi Sonne so dere.
                                         --CHAUCER.




FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.


PART SECOND.

THE TRIAL.


XXIV.

Fleurange hastily wrapped a large white burnous around her, drew
the hood over her face, and then ran to the carriage, which was
waiting for her. It seemed as if heaven had sent her aid in the
very hour of her greatest need. She felt that her resolutions would
be carried out by means of her cousin, but in what way she could
not yet see. At all events, she was no longer friendless, and one
of the difficulties she had to surmount was already smoothed away.

These thoughts prevailed over all others during her short ride
from the palace to the hotel. At her arrival, the sight of Clara
made her forget everything for a while but the sweet memories of
the past.--The Old Mansion, the fireside around which they used
to gather, the family all scattered since they last saw each
other--all came back with sharp poignancy, and it was with tears of
joy and regret they flew into each other’s arms.

This first emotion somewhat calmed, the two cousins looked at one
another. Though they had not been separated more than a year,
the appearance of both bore marks of the changes they had passed
through. Clara was as fresh and pretty as ever, but her fine son,
whose birth had delayed her return to Germany, added to the charm
of youth a certain gravity which enters into all maternal joy, and
gave to her beauty the crown of dignity it had hitherto lacked.

As to Fleurange, it would be difficult to say what had changed
her. Was it the elegance of her dress, which the princess did not
excuse her from, even when they were alone? Or the distinguished
society in which she now moved? Or was it the increased paleness of
her face, and her air of depression, that gave such sweetness to
her look, lent such new grace to her form, and rendered her whole
person more strikingly attractive than ever?

Fleurange had passed through too many sorrows, and at too early an
age, for her face ever to reflect the careless gaiety of youth. And
yet, after some weeks passed in her uncle’s family, the Old Mansion
was lit up with no smile more radiant than hers--it resounded with
no voice more joyful. Now, her pale and noble countenance seemed
overshadowed with a premature gravity. Her serene eyes, with their
expression of firmness, no longer displayed the sanguine enthusiasm
of youth, which used at times to light them up and deepen the
gray hue of the iris into the lively brilliancy of black. Without
looking a day older, she seemed to have acquired the experience of
maturity, and made a correct estimate of life without having taken
a step further through it.

Clara and Julian gazed at her with a kind of anxious admiration,
but forbore questioning her. They instinctively felt she would
prefer not to answer their questions. Besides, her own inquiries
left no room for theirs. The names so dear to them all were one by
one pronounced, and for some moments everything was lit up with the
warmth of the far-off fireside, which, amid all the young girl’s
recent emotions, she had never ceased to feel. Everything was going
on well among those dear absent ones. Comfort, peace, and even
somewhat of ease gradually reappeared beneath their roof. And all
this was owing to Clement’s activity and ability.

“Dear Clement!” said Clara with tears in her eyes. “What a
providence he has been to them all! May God bless and reward this
beloved brother!”

Then the travellers spoke of themselves. They were only passing
through Florence, which they had previously visited. After going
around to see Perugia, and all that region so attractive to
artists, they intended resuming the route to Germany. They were to
pass the following year at Heidelberg, where they were impatiently
awaited, Julian feeling obliged to make up for the time he had lost
in this delightful journey and to undertake with no further delay
the orders he had received.

Perugia!--At the very mention of this place an idea suddenly
occurred to Fleurange. Before arriving at Perugia they would have
to pass near Santa Maria al Prato. Could she not accompany them
thus far, and seek the advice and aid of the Madre Maddalena who
had always shown so affectionate an interest in her? Guided by her,
she would be sure of taking the wisest course in the perplexities
of her situation. If she needed courage, where find it if not
with her, the very remembrance of whom often sufficed to renew
the vigor of her soul? If she needed consolation, who so able to
impart it? Yes, this opportunity was providential; she must hasten
to profit by it; and, without speaking for the present of absolute
separation, she would only obtain the princess’ permission for a
few days’ absence in order to make this short journey.

Having decided on this, Fleurange breathed as freely as if a weight
had been removed from her heart. Before the end of the hour,
she took leave of her cousin after appointing a meeting for the
following day, and re-entered the carriage which had brought her.

It was in the month of May. The air was redolent of
spring-time--and spring-time at Florence. Count George’s carriage
was an open _calèche_. As she took her seat, one of the passers-by,
doubtless struck with her beauty, threw her one of those large
bouquets which in that city of flowers are in every one’s hands
at that season. Fleurange, without even turning her head to look
at the person who offered her this delicate homage, accepted it
without any scruple, and inhaled its odor with delight. She felt
an unusual pleasure in the sweet fresh night air which caressed
her cheek, and at finding herself thus alone for a moment with
uncovered head beneath so pure and brilliant a sky. After the long
confinement she had endured--passing so many days and nights
in a chamber the air and light scarcely penetrated--this moment
of freedom was a mental and physical refreshment of which she
unconsciously had absolute need. Besides, amid all the anxious
care she lavished on the princess, one thought--a constant,
painful thought--had not ceased to haunt her: She had been obliged
to practise continual renunciation of a tenderness which, mute
or sometimes murmured, had on a thousand occasions made itself
understood or divined. It was an additional relief to feel this
struggle would soon end, that a means of departure was at hand, or
rather of flight, and she would only have to courageously struggle
and repress her feelings a few days longer. After that, she would
only have to suffer; there would be nothing more to fear, either
from others or herself.

The young girl’s evening ride came to an end too soon. The horses
went like the wind, and brought her in a few moments to the foot of
the broad marble staircase. She ascended it slowly, and proceeded
at the same pace through the large salons, till she came to the one
in which she had left the princess and her son. This room, it will
be remembered, was the last of the suite, and opened, as well as
the one next it, upon the terrace, which thus afforded an exterior
communication between the two rooms.

When Fleurange came to the latter, she stopped. She feared the
princess might have retired without waiting for or needing her.
But not so: her son was still with her. She could distinctly hear
the sound of their voices. Owing to the vernal mildness of the
evening, all the windows were open, and, instead of entering,
Fleurange passed out on the terrace to await the conclusion of
their conversation. And, moreover, it had not yet struck ten--the
hour appointed for her return.

But she had scarcely gone out before she regretted it, for she
could not help hearing, not only their voices, but their very
words. She was about to return when she was stopped, and rooted as
it were to the ground, by a word which her ear caught, and which
gave her a thrill. That word was _Cordelia_; and almost immediately
after she heard her own name--her name, not that of Gabrielle, the
only one by which she was known, but the name of her childhood, the
name unknown to every one at Florence except him who now uttered
it--and in such a tone!

“Fleurange!” said Count George. “Yes, mother, this name which
just escaped me in speaking of her; this name as strange as her
beauty, and which, like the charm she is endowed with, belongs to
no one else in the world, was the one her father called her by the
first time I ever saw her--a thousand times more charming than the
Cordelia of which she was the original--”

Fleurange heard nothing more.--For some moments she felt ready to
faint, and it was only a resolute effort of her will that kept her
from falling to the ground, overcome by surprise and emotion. Was
it really the count she heard speaking? and could it be his mother
to whom he was talking? What madness led him to brave the princess
by using such language--her whom the slightest contradiction often
threw into a violent state of impatience and anger--her who could
not endure the least opposition from any one? What would she say?
What reply was Fleurange about to hear?

She no longer thought of stirring. She felt incapable of deciding
whether it were well or ill to remain; she had but one wish--to
hear the princess’ reply, and to act in consequence. Perhaps, after
hearing it, she would leave the place where she stood, never to
appear before her again; who could tell? Already a confused idea
entered her mind of leaving the palace and returning through the
streets, alone and on foot--night though it was--to the Steinbergs.

After a long silence the princess spoke, but her trembling and
subdued voice, to Fleurange’s great surprise, betrayed no signs of
anger. The effect was only the more profound on her who now stood
quivering with silent expectation.

“Then, George, you wish to cause me the greatest mortification it
is possible for a son to cause his mother--you wish to violate the
promise on which I relied with so much faith and confidence?”

“Mother, I have already told you I never made any promise.”

“Enough, George. I like your frankness. Do not spoil it now by
prevarication. If you made her no promise, you made me one which
you have not kept--me, your mother. This is sufficient, I think, to
merit my reproaches.”

“Mother--!” And George rose with an impatient air, and turned as if
to go out.

The princess rose too. She seemed completely cured. It often
happened that some extraordinary excitement effaced in a moment the
last traces of a long and severe attack.

She put her arm around her son’s neck and drew him towards her.
“George,” said she, when he returned to the place he had just left,
“I ought not to trust any more in your promises, and yet there is
one I beg you to make.”

“What is it, mother?”

“You will not yield to this folly without taking time for
reflection?”

“I can promise that.”

“Moreover--listen to what I am going to ask--Swear you will never
yield to it till you have obtained my consent.”

George hesitated. “That would be a very serious promise,” said he
at length in a caressing tone, “if I did not know that in the end
you never refuse anything to your spoiled child.”

“Come, come, George,” resumed his mother in an eager tone of
distress, “do not make me repent of my indulgence. Give me your
promise!”

“Well, mother, it should be acknowledged I ought to hesitate to
give it--without ever having asked her, without even knowing how,
after all, I should be received.”

The princess shrugged her shoulders.

He continued: “I am persuaded she would dispense with your consent
less readily than I, and consequently my submission is under the
guard of a will stronger than mine.”

The princess at first looked astonished; then, after a moment’s
reflection, she said: “Perhaps you are right. No matter, give me
your hand on this promise.”

George bent down, kissed his mother’s hand, and pressed it in his.
“There it is,” said he, “and my promise--on my word of honor.”

“That is right, my child, now leave me. It is time for Gabrielle to
return, and it would be better for her not to find you here.”

George rose, and, embracing his mother once more, left the room.

As soon as she was alone, the princess threw herself on her _chaise
longue_, put both hands to her face, and burst into sobs.


CHAPTER XXV.

Fleurange hesitated a moment, then followed her natural impulse,
which was always straightforward and courageous. She resolutely
entered the salon by the terrace window, and when the princess
raised her head she saw the young girl before her, wrapped in her
white burnous, with her bouquet in her hand. Though the princess
was expecting her, this sudden apparition surprised her to such
a degree that she gazed at her for a moment without speaking, as
if she were a supernatural vision. But it was only for a moment.
Fleurange perceived that the anger she repressed in her son’s
presence was now about to burst forth.

The princess wiped away her tears. Her eyes expressed at once wrath
and disdain. She hastily rose, and was about to add severe words
to the imperious gesture with which she pointed towards the door
with one hand, and had already placed the other rudely on the young
girl’s shoulder, when the latter, without arrogance and without
fear, looked her in the face.

The expression of Fleurange’s large eyes was such as can only be
compared to that magnetic virtue--that sometimes subdues, they
say, the fury of beings destitute of reason. No words could have
expressed to such a degree the uprightness and purity of her
soul. With all her faults, there was a nobleness in the princess’
nature which was touched by that look, and responded to it. Her
eyes turned away: she fell back on her _chaise longue_, and
unresistingly allowed Fleurange to take both her hands, which had
just made so threatening a gesture. She held them for some moments
grasped in her own, but neither of them spoke.

At last Fleurange said in a sweet, calm voice: “Princess, I was on
the terrace, and heard everything.”

A new flash of indignation awoke in the princess’ eyes, and her
mouth resumed its expression of disdain. The young girl’s face
slightly flushed.

“You will readily believe,” she continued, “that I did not go there
with the intention of listening. But hearing my name, I stopped. It
was wrong, I acknowledge, but I had no time for reflection. Pardon
me, and forgive also,” she added in a more troubled tone, “the
momentary displeasure Count George has caused you on my account.”

“Momentary!” repeated the princess in a cold, ironical tone.

“At least,” continued Fleurange, “you will find it only for an
instant that this notion, this folly--in short, what you have just
heard--will be serious enough to annoy or afflict you.”

“Gabrielle!”

“Allow me to continue, princess; you shall reply afterwards. My
heart is so full of gratitude towards you--”

“Do not talk to me of your gratitude,” cried the princess,
interrupting her, and breaking out anew. “It is precisely because
I thought I had some claims on it that I feel so deeply wounded.
After loving you so much, I am tempted to hate you. It is your
perfidy, your ingratitude--”

“I am neither perfidious nor ungrateful,” said Fleurange, turning
pale. “Allow me to prove I am not. I ask it even more for your own
sake than for mine.”

The princess became calm once more, as if appeased by her sweet
voice, and seemed to resign herself to let Fleurange continue. She
leaned her head on her hand, and listened some moments without
changing her attitude.

“No,” repeated Fleurange, “I am neither perfidious nor ungrateful,
and God knows what I am ready to suffer to spare you this
mortification or any other!--My first thought was to go away--to
flee--that you might be delivered from my presence and all the
annoyance it might cause you. But, princess, that would not have
been the best course. He must forget me. Therefore I must not
disappear in so romantic a fashion.”

“What do you mean?” said the princess with surprise.

“That I must certainly go away, but not in a way that will induce
him to pursue me. The less obstinate he is made by any appearance
of opposition, the sooner I shall be effaced from his memory.”

“You understand him well,” said the princess, more and more
astonished; “and you talk very coolly,” added she. “Then you do not
love poor George at all?”

A moment before she had been greatly irritated at her protegée’s
presumption, but now, mother-like, she seemed ready to take offence
at her indifference.

A lively blush suddenly suffused Fleurange’s face, and great
tears came into her eyes. “I do not love him?--My God! O my God!”
murmured she in a stifled tone, “have pity on my poor heart!”

But she almost immediately regained her self-control, and the
princess, more affected than she wished to appear, became
attentive, and at length perceived the importance of what she was
about to hear.

Fleurange then rapidly explained her design. It was the same she
had formed an hour before at her cousin’s: only then she was
desirous of concealing the motive and duration of her absence from
the princess. Now everything was simplified; she would set out with
the Steinbergs for Perugia, and afterwards find a pretext for
prolonging her absence. Only it was important the princess should
appear to expect her return, and, above all, should manifest no
anxiety as to her son’s fidelity to his promise.

“That promise,” continued Fleurange, not without a tone of just
pride, “I venture to say that M. le Comte George, in placing it
under the protection of my will, was right in his conviction it
would be well kept.”

While she was talking, all the princess’ resentment vanished, and
changed gradually to profound gratitude. Looking at Fleurange as
she stood before her, she realized, if she had wished to abuse
her ascendency or even take advantage of it, no filial respect
would have sufficed to bring George to submission: no maternal
authority have succeeded in restraining him. Whatever it might cost
her to acknowledge it, she could not deny that, if this double
wound was spared her pride and her affection, it was due to the
generous disinterestedness of her whom she had just treated with
so much haughtiness, as well as to her clear judgment. Yes, she
was perfectly right in thinking it would not do to disappear and
suddenly tear herself away, as it were, from George. The princess
knew, better than any one else, to what degree of tenacity this
kind of contradiction might lead her son, and it was precisely
this knowledge of his character alone that had just given her the
power of restraining herself in his presence. The means suggested
by Fleurange was therefore the best to ensure his future safety.
The princess’ great hope was in the mobility of George’s nature,
provided, on the one hand, he were withdrawn from the dangerous
charm of Fleurange’s presence, and, on the other, they did not
appear separated by the prestige of a great obstacle. Nothing,
in fact, could be more judicious than the advice this young girl
gave contrary to her own interests. She was too much a woman of the
world not to comprehend this, and was grateful to her for it. Once
more she might hope to attain the aim of her whole life, and with
this end in view she yielded without remorse to the necessity of
trampling under foot the noble heart that was immolating itself.
We will even venture to affirm that, if she was preoccupied with
anything beyond the present danger, it was not Fleurange’s crushed
life, but rather the effect of this unfortunate occurrence on
her own comfort and habits. Nevertheless, when they separated at
the end of this long conversation, the princess folded Fleurange
in her arms with many demonstrations of affection, and when the
latter was once more alone in her chamber she felt comparatively
happy. She abhorred all dissimulation, and the important step she
had just taken in the path of courageous frankness seemed to have
removed a burden from her heart. She was still in that state of
somewhat excessive satisfaction which succeeds a great effort,
when, in entering her chamber, she threw down the bouquet she had
in her hand. In doing so, a paper she had not noticed fell from
it to the floor. She picked it up with some surprise, opened it
mechanically, saw the writing was unknown to her, and read it
without comprehending it at first:

“To live without the power of reparation: to suffer without being
able to expiate: are these torments that belong to earth, or hell?
Not far from you a man lives and suffers thus. _You who pray, pray
for him!_”

Fleurange read and re-read these words two or three times without
attaching any special importance to them. Suddenly she shuddered
and began to tremble. The concluding words were the refrain of a
song sung at one of the soirées at the Old Mansion in the hearing
of the only person she knew in the world who had reason to write
the other part of the note she had just read.

But was it possible! Could it have been Felix, her guilty and
unhappy cousin, who wrote it, and this very evening placed it in
her bouquet? Was it his hand that threw it? At this thought she
shivered as if the shadow of one dead had fallen upon her. Or was
it simply a mystification? The history of the Dornthals’ ruin was
not wholly unknown at Florence. Perhaps some one wished to frighten
or puzzle her. She grew bewildered in trying to unravel this new
mystery. How solve the doubt? How even speak of it without reviving
a hateful remembrance, or making a painful revelation?

She finally bethought herself of Julian’s presence at Florence, and
this relieved her mind: he would be able to discover the truth,
and know better than any one else how to avoid injuring in his
researches the unhappy man who was perhaps this very moment hiding
not far from her a blasted and dishonored life.

If the Princess Catherine had been told the previous evening she
was about to be deprived of her charming companion, the news would
have been sufficient to cause a return of the alarming symptoms
from which, thanks to her care, she had but just recovered. But
greater interests than her fondness for Gabrielle were at stake,
and her selfishness itself was overruled, or, rather, assumed
another form, in view of the danger she reproached herself for not
having foreseen, and which threatened an essential element in her
happiness, as well as the accomplishment of one of her dearest
wishes.

Not to be unjust to the princess, we must acknowledge this wish
was reasonable, and in her persistency on this point she gave as
great a proof of genuine maternal sagacity as of worldly ambition.
We should also add that the wish in question was in accordance
with one sacred in her eyes--the wish of the adored husband of her
youth. His memory was interwoven with her earlier days, when her
life, simpler and better, promised to be something higher than
succeeding years had realized.

After she became a widow, she had no guide but herself, and
when, beautiful, wealthy, and still young, she appeared in the
fashionable world at St. Petersburg, her light and frivolous nature
had no restraint but her pride. In the height of the intoxication
of this second epoch of her life, she always respected the limits
the fashionable world itself sets, and beyond which refuses
its consideration and respect, even while still lavishing its
flattery and incense. Her pride, in particular, prevented her
from transgressing these limits--that was the dominant trait in
her character--and prompted her to aim at the highest position at
all times and in all places. And after conferring on her life a
kind of dignity, it guided her in the choice of a second husband.
She thought herself happy in obtaining rank, honors, and wealth,
but she soon found she had paid too dear for these advantages;
and perhaps she would not have passed through the trials of an
ill-assorted union as irreproachably as the period of liberty that
preceded it, if, at the end of two years, death had not restored
that liberty a second time.

After this, nothing occurred to trouble the brilliant and
prosperous course of a life which, in spite of generous instincts
and a mind considerably cultivated, was given wholly up to
frivolity, with the exception of her affection for her son. But
however lively and passionate this affection might be, it was
wanting in the dignity of maternal authority. Her charming boy,
who from his earliest years possessed every grace and attraction
which nature in her most generous mood could confer, as well as
a rare mind and uncommon beauty, gratified her maternal pride,
which is so excessive in proud natures. The princess, proud of her
promising son, did not perceive she was not obeyed as fully as she
was adored; and years passed away thus till the epoch,

                       “Ove uom s’innamora.”

Then the Princess Catherine began to realize she had no authority
over her idolized son, and that she needed great prudence and skill
to avoid what would have been the most trying of failures, for all
her ambition was now centred in him--an ambition even more ardent
than she had ever felt for herself.

Then sprang up the earnest desire of seeing his father’s wish
realized--a wish expressed while George was still in his cradle.

The Count de Walden’s neighbor in Livonia was a brother in
arms, a dear and intimate friend, named the Count de Liningen.
Both noblemen of the highest rank in the province, wealthy, and
possessing contiguous estates, they agreed to unite their children
unless their wishes were opposed to it when old enough to fulfil
the agreement.

Neither of the two friends lived long enough to catch even a
glimpse of the dawn of that day. Three years after the birth of his
son, the Count de Walden was no longer living, and before the young
Vera, who was a year younger than George, reached her eleventh
year, the death of her father, and, soon after, that of her mother,
left her mistress of all their possessions. The young heiress was
sent to St. Petersburg till she was of age, and there was reared in
strict seclusion by one of her aunts, who long before had given up
the world.

The Princess Catherine had always retained a respectful remembrance
of the Count de Walden’s wish, which was renewed on his death-bed;
but that wish assumed another aspect in her eyes when, towards
the epoch of which we have been speaking, the young Vera suddenly
emerged from her retirement and was presented at court. The
sensation she produced, her immediate popularity, the place at once
accorded her among the empress’ maids of honor, gave an _éclat_
to her entrance into society which the princess deeply regretted
George had not witnessed. But he had been absent several months
from St. Petersburg, and was now visiting Paris for the first time.
His mother neglected no opportunity of seeing the young maid of
honor, and this was facilitated by the friendly relations that
formerly existed between the two families. These relations were now
renewed on both sides with an eagerness which seemed most favorable
to the project formed during George’s and Vera’s infancy, though
they had never met since that time. The princess’ impatience for
her son’s return increased. Vera seemed formed to captivate him,
and as to George, his mother could not be anxious as to the effect
he would produce.

At last he returned, and everything indeed seemed to favor the
princess’ plans. George was greatly struck, almost captivated. The
lovely Vera was still more so. But the princess, in her ardor for
this marriage, took the false step of speaking to her son with an
anxiety that had precisely a contrary effect to that she wished
to produce. George had not come from Paris quite disposed to
relinquish his independence at once and bind himself for ever. He
became cautious. The words Vera perhaps expected to hear died away
on his lips, and changed into meaningless flattery. His mother,
without abandoning her hopes, felt their realization must be
deferred. But they were both young. With her penetration as a woman
and a mother, she was sure she was not deceived as to the effect
her son had produced. She thought she could trust to the durability
of the sentiment he had inspired, and believed time would bring
George back to the feet of her whom she destined for him; and she
doubted this the less because, in one of their conversations on
this subject, he acknowledged no woman had ever attracted him more
strongly, and he almost promised his mother not to offer his hand
to any one else.

In this way affairs remained. George returned to Paris, and thence
to Italy, where his mother had decided to live. But meanwhile,
as we know, Fleurange’s sudden appearance, and other influences
we have caught a glimpse of, had gradually drawn his mind and
heart in a very different direction from what his mother wished
him to take. At his last visit to St. Petersburg, during which
Fleurange became an inmate of the princess’ house, the latter had
the double displeasure of learning her son avoided Vera, and that
this coolness, so cutting to the young girl, was malevolently
attributed by many to George’s political opinions. This greatly
troubled his mother. Whoever knew Russia at that period is aware
that the privation of its ruler’s favor was not regarded as a
slight misfortune. If the insulting words of a former and not very
remote epoch were no longer in force, “If the emperor no longer
declared a man was only something when he was speaking to him, and
as long as he was speaking to him,” many people at St. Petersburg
acted as if he had so spoken; and the princess could not resign
herself to see her son in the position of a man in disgrace. And
yet his rash and imprudent language kept her constantly anxious
on this point. It was therefore with something like a maternal
instinct of approaching danger she ardently desired his marriage
with Vera, which would give him the liberty of remaining at court
or leaving it, and in the latter case of returning to Livonia under
the safeguard of favor, and taking the position his rank and their
united estates would entitle him--a position in which he could
dispense with the favor of the court.

“Oh! why is it not so?” sometimes exclaimed the princess with
mingled anguish and impatience. “Why is he not already sheltered
from all I fear?”

And then, contrary to the suggestions of her prudence, she allowed
herself to broach the subject to her son, which, in the interests
of her design, it would have been better not to have done. She
thus, in spite of herself, provoked a resistance, the real source
of which, unsuspected by her, daily became more clear to himself.

We can now imagine the effect of the confidence George had been
led to repose in the princess in a fit of capricious frankness.
On the whole, he did not fear his mother; and though of course
he had never subjected her condescension to such a trial, he was
convinced, whatever repugnance she might at first manifest to his
wishes, a little persistence on his part would triumph sooner or
later.

For nearly four months he had, it is true, been endeavoring,
contrary to his habit, to conceal the attraction he felt, but
it was that he might not disturb his mother too soon, or the
young girl either, and thereby perhaps deprive himself of the
charm of her presence while he was still uncertain as to his own
plans. These plans he now believed matured. Under the increasing
ascendency of present influences, the remembrance of Vera gradually
faded away, and the future as well as the present seemed linked
with her who now filled his life. He therefore considered it
opportune to allow his mother at once to have a glimpse of what was
going on in his heart.

In spite of her inexpressible alarm, the princess had sufficient
control over her feelings to receive this annoying disclosure with
apparent calmness, and almost conceal from her son the effect of
the most painful disappointment she had ever met with.

At first all seemed hopeless. As to Gabrielle’s grace and
attractiveness, who knew and appreciated them more than herself?
What could she do to counteract their influence, so long exercised
unsuspected by too credulous a mother? How foolish she had
been!--How imprudent!--How fatal her confidence!--Her reliance on
Fleurange’s virtue, the only danger that had ever occurred to her,
prevented her fears. And who would ever have suspected her of so
much ambition or him of such folly?

Never had such a tempest raged in her bosom before. So violent a
hatred had never succeeded to so much fondness. But before her
anger had time to burst fully out, all these feelings underwent a
new transformation, and one still more unforeseen than the first.

Her enemy became her ally--she against whom she felt herself
powerless, now came to her aid against herself, and George was
restored to her by the hand that could so easily have led him for
ever away.

In view of so great a danger and such unexpected assistance, all
the considerations that would so recently have made her dread
Fleurange’s departure now induced her to hasten it, without losing
sight, however, of the importance, so reasonably pointed out by
her, of doing nothing to lead George to connect this departure
with his disclosure and give it the appearance of an irrevocable
separation. Self-interest was supreme, and there was no danger
this time that the Princess Catherine would be wanting in prudence
or shrewdness, or would not at need have recourse to skilful
diplomacy.


XXVII.

Everything really seemed to favor the plan the princess had
at heart. The opportune arrival of the Steinbergs afforded a
reasonable pretext it might have been difficult to find at another
time without exciting George’s suspicion.

The following day, when Fleurange timidly expressed a desire before
them all of accompanying her cousin a part of the way to Perugia,
the Marquis Adelardi, who was present, declared the excursion would
prove very beneficial, and begged the princess to allow her young
protégée a short vacation, of which her overtaxed strength had
need. George joined his entreaties to those of the marquis, and the
princess seemed to yield more through consideration for them than
condescension to Fleurange.

She had preserved an appearance of sorrowful gravity since the
night before, which did not suffer George to forget he was in
disgrace. Nor did she conceal a certain coolness towards Fleurange,
which he naturally attributed to his communication respecting her.
It was the princess’ intention not to allow him to perceive the
perfect reassurance which her conversation with the young girl
had restored. George comprehended his mother was displeased with
him, but he had expected this displeasure; he saw she suppressed
her resentment and continued to treat Fleurange kindly, and he was
touched by her forbearance. He felt she relied on his word, and was
grateful for her trust.

Everything was therefore arranged in the most natural manner.
A fortnight was the time allowed for the projected excursion.
The Steinbergs, deceived like the rest, were as much overjoyed
as surprised at the prospect of a pleasure they had not dared
anticipate, and thus everything fell in with the princess’ wishes
without her appearing to do anything but yield to the desires of
the rest.

The Steinbergs were to leave the following morning. This last
day was to be devoted to revisiting several museums, and would
end with a walk to San Miniato. Fleurange boldly proposed to
join them. A feverish agitation made inaction insupportable. She
feared finding herself alone with George for an instant, and was
sure of being readily dispensed from her attendance on this last
day. The princess’ consent, in fact, was not difficult to obtain,
and towards the middle of the day Fleurange set out with Julian
and Clara for the Palazzo Pitti. After visiting that gallery and
several others they continued their ride, and at length stopped
at the foot of the ascent to San Miniato. There they left the
carriage. While slowly ascending the steep hill, Fleurange took out
the paper that fell from her bouquet the night before, and gave it
to Julian to read, telling him the suspicion which had arisen in
her mind.

“It is strange,” said the latter with an anxious look, after
reading the note and carefully examining the writing. “Nothing
could be more painful now than to meet Felix again, and yet this
paper only reawakens a previous suspicion respecting him.”

“You had already suspected his return to Europe?”

“Yes, but only from a slight indication, and I should not have
mentioned it if this new incident had not occurred. Several months
ago, I was making some necessary researches at Bologna, when
my attention was drawn to a work in the library in which I was
taking notes. There was a question of some contested historical
point, respecting which several passages had been copied from the
curious manuscripts in the library. The writing was but recently
interrupted, as was evident from the open page. I was reading it
with a good deal of interest when my attention was completely
withdrawn from the subject of the work by some words scribbled
almost illegibly on a paper the copyist had used to try his pen on.
Your name, Gabrielle, was written on it several times; then the two
letters F. D.; and finally, ‘Felix--happy; what irony--Felix!’ I
examined the extracts with increased attention. The writing did not
look like his, but was a studied fac-simile of the manuscript he
was copying. As to the scribbling on the loose paper, it was wholly
unrecognizable. I asked the librarian some questions, and learned
that the work was for some great Florentine nobleman whose name he
was ignorant of, but the copyist was an Italian named Fabiano Dini.”

“Is that all?” asked Fleurange. “Were you not able to learn
anything more definite?”

“Nothing. The next day the unfinished work had disappeared, and
during the remainder of my stay at Bologna the copyist did not
return to the library. I kept the scrawl that had puzzled me, but
thought no more about it. Allow me to retain this note, that I may
compare the writing with that.”

“Could it really have been Felix? Or is all this a mere accident?”

“It is impossible to tell. It might have been he, for you know he
had a thorough knowledge of Italian, and it might also have been
one of his friends familiar with his history. All we have ever
been able to discover respecting him is, that he went to America
with questionable travelling companions--Italians, Germans, and
Poles--mostly driven out of their own country for good reasons.”

Clara’s smiling face grew sad during this account, and Fleurange
felt her heart contract with increased melancholy. This revival of
one of the saddest memories of her life seemed to add a mournful
presage to the sad realities of the day.

However, she kept her sorrows to herself. Her cousin must for
the present remain ignorant of the cause as well as the real
length of the journey she would begin on the morrow, and on every
account it was best for her to seek distraction from her thoughts.
Therefore, after entering the church of San Miniato, she gave
her whole attention for a while to the frescoes, paintings, and
mosaics around her, and listened to the explanations Julian gave
respecting the numerous symbols--a kind of Christian hieroglyphics
which are alone comprehended by those who seek something in art
beyond the mere form that strikes the senses. They spent nearly an
hour in this manner without perceiving the flight of time and the
increasing dimness of the church. They were at length preparing
to leave, when at the door they found themselves face to face
with Count George and the Marquis Adelardi. The former said in a
gay tone he knew their excursion was to end at San Miniato, and
he had proposed to his friend to join them here. “We were neither
of us unworthy to hear what Steinberg would have to say, but
unfortunately we are too late.”

While he was speaking, Fleurange, overcome with surprise,
involuntarily shrank back as if to hide herself in the obscurity
of the church, but daylight was rapidly disappearing, and they all
agreed it was time to return to the carriage, which was awaiting
them at the foot of the hill. She therefore followed the others,
but, though she was the last, George waited for her, and before she
had a chance to avoid him offered her his arm. Adelardi had given
his to Clara, and Julian accompanied them. In this way they slowly
descended this charming declivity, looking at the prospect--one of
the finest views of Florence, over which the setting sun now cast
the soft rays of its departing light.

George slackened his steps so as to allow the others to precede
them, and was thus, in a manner, left alone with Fleurange. For a
time neither of them spoke. Though very different in their natures,
the emotion of both was profound. As for her, the consciousness
that this must be their last interview, added to the repressed but
profound tenderness of her nature, made this the sweetest but most
heart-rending hour of her life. He, on the contrary, felt freed
from his previous restraint by the explanation he had had with
his mother. Besides, he was not unskilful in reading the feminine
heart, and not without sufficient penetration to understand what
was passing in that he imagined he could now hear beating beside
him, and he felt at liberty to speak more openly than he had yet
done.

“Fleurange!” he suddenly said. She trembled, and tried to withdraw
the hand that rested on his arm, but he held it.

“No, no, allow me to retain your hand, and let me--me alone--call
you by this name,” added he softly. “Let it be a name sacred to my
use; you are willing, are you not?”

He pressed the hand he still held, and raised it to his lips.
Fleurange clearly saw amid the soft tones of his words an assurance
but feebly disguised. But, alas! if she had dared reveal her real
sentiments at this moment, she would not have dreamed of showing
any offence at this. Yes, she loved him; he did not doubt it, that
was evident. But what of that? It would have been a great relief
could she have avowed it boldly to every one as well as to himself.
George’s assurance was certainly rather too evident, but how
readily she pardoned him! How happy she would have been to tell him
he was not mistaken, and that her whole life should prove it. This
would have been the sincere cry of her heart, had the clearness of
her conscience been for a moment obscured at this dangerous hour.
But it was not so.

“Monsieur le Comte--” said she after a long silence.

“George! Oh! call me George!” he passionately cried. “Let me hear
you, at least once, call me by my name.”

Poor Fleurange! She withdrew her hand from his arm and left him
for a moment, endeavoring to control the too violent agitation of
her heart. He followed her, and she soon resumed, with apparent
calmness: “I never expected to hear you call me by my name again,
and hoped I should not.”

“Hoped! Tell me then I am mistaken; that I am presuming and
foolish; that I have been deceived in thinking I read in your eyes
something besides absolute indifference.”

She made no reply.

“Fleurange!” continued he impetuously, “your silence wounds and
chills me. Have I not, at least, a right to some answer?”

“But have you any right to question me? Ah! Monsieur le Comte, you
would be more noble and generous were you more mindful of what you
are and who I am.”

“Fleurange,” said the count with a grave accent of sincerity, far
more dangerous than that of passion, “you shall be my wife if you
will consent to be--if you will accept this hand I offer you.”

“With your mother’s consent?” said Fleurange slowly, and in a low
tone. “Can you assure me of that?”

After a moment’s hesitation, George replied: “No, not to-day; but
she will yield her consent, I assure you.”

Fleurange hesitated in her turn. She knew only too well to what a
degree this hope was illusory, but this was her last opportunity
of conversing with him. The next day would commence their lifelong
separation, which time, distance, and prolonged absence would
continually widen. There was no longer any danger in telling the
truth--the truth, alas! so devoid of importance now, but which
would, perhaps, second the duty she had to accomplish quite as well
as contradiction.

“Ah! well,” she at last replied with simplicity. “Yes, why should
I deny it? Should life prove more favorable to us; if by some
unforeseen circumstance, impossible to conceive, your mother should
cheerfully consent to receive me as a daughter, oh! then--what
answer I would make you know without my telling you. You are
likewise perfectly aware that until that day I will never listen to
you.”

“But that day will come,” cried George vehemently, “and that
speedily.”

“Perhaps--” said Fleurange. “Who knows what time has in store for
us? And who knows that in time the obstacle may not come from
yourself?”

She endeavored to say these last words in a playful tone. They were
hardly uttered before she suddenly stopped, but the shade of the
large cypresses that bordered the road prevented George from seeing
the tears that inundated her face.

She then left him and walked rapidly on to overtake Julian,
George soon joined them, and they all continued on the way for
some time without speaking. The light was fading gradually away,
and they walked more cautiously as they approached the foot of
the hill. Just before reaching their carriage, they met two men
walking rapidly along, and conversing too earnestly to notice them
beneath the shade of the cypresses. But their features could be
distinguished, and the two cousins and Julian felt a thrill of
sympathetic horror as, in one of them, they recognized Felix!--

Adelardi, on his side, seemed surprised and annoyed also, but
George, after following them with his eyes like the rest, left his
party, turned back, and spoke to one of them. The latter at his
approach respectfully uncovered. George said a few words to him
in a low tone, and the two men then kept on their way. The count
joined his party again.

“Who was that you were speaking to, if the question be not
indiscreet?” said Adelardi.

“By no means,” replied George, unhesitatingly. “It was Fabiano
Dini, the young Italian I spoke to you about, who is my agent, you
know, and a very intelligent one, in purchasing curiosities, and
who also aids me in my little historical and artistic researches.
He has been away, and only returned two days ago. I had a word to
say to him.”

“He was in very bad company,” said Adelardi, frowning.

The two cousins, meanwhile, entered the carriage; Julian, obliged
to follow, heard no more.

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




THE SYMBOLISM OF THE CHURCH.


The Catholic Church has no _forms_--that is, meaningless
ceremonies used to impress and awe the multitude; but she has
symbols--that is, “signs by which things are distinguished one
from another.”[136] According to the original meaning of the word,
these symbols, the aggregate of which has come to be an outward and
universal profession of faith, have each one a deep significance,
sometimes even a double sense, and are, in fact, a silent
compendium of the history as well as the doctrines of Catholic
Christianity. But it cannot be too much insisted upon that their
worth is entirely relative, depending solely on their authorized
interpretation, and losing all their value if disconnected from it.
Thus we can recognize no symbols, but mere forms, in the ritual of
Anglicanism, Lutheranism, etc. Not only is their value relative,
but their use is almost optional in the church--we mean as regards
the use made of them by the individual soul. The church has “many
mansions,” and sympathizes with the severe taste of the Northern
races, as well as with the superabundant love of the gorgeous in
observance, of the Southern and Eastern nations. Sprung from an
Eastern people, her ritual is as manifold and dignified as that of
her Hebrew precursor; but, deputed as she is to the _universal_
world, and having built her later development upon the broad basis
of the Gothic and Scandinavian natures, her exterior admits of the
austere simplicity so dear to the last-mentioned races.

Still the principle of outward forms being a fitting expression of
inward belief is so obvious and so wedded to the requirements of
human nature, that it would need a second deluge to destroy it.
When “forms” (so-called) were dethroned by the Reformation, they
crept in again in real earnest among the reformers themselves. The
phraseology of Cromwell and his Roundheads, the speech and garments
of the Quakers, the splits among the Baptists and Anabaptists
upon the “form” of administering what they did not even believe
to be a sacrament, were so many involuntary acts of homage to the
time-honored principle of symbolism. Of the good effect produced
on all sorts of minds by the outward expression of the doctrine
of Christ, we will quote two examples, taken from very opposite
sources. In a note to the preface of Moehler’s _Symbolik_, we
read: “There is at Bingen, on the Rhine, a beautiful little
Catholic church dedicated to St. Roch, to which Goethe once gave
an altarpiece. ‘Whenever I enter this church,’ he used to say,
‘I always wish I were a Catholic priest.’ In the great poet’s
autobiography we also find an interesting description of the
extraordinary love for the Catholic ritual and liturgy that had
captivated his heart in boyhood.”

The other example is from the writer’s own experience among the
agricultural poor of England. A poor and infirm woman, having
come for the first time to a Catholic chapel, said afterwards
that, often as she had read in the Bible the history of Our Lord’s
Passion, she had never understood it so well as she did by once
looking at the crucifix over the altar. This was the beginning of
her conversion.

Of the great religious revival in Germany and the labors of Count
Stolberg (the period which answers in time, as also in result,
to the Tractarian or Oxford movement in England) the preface to
Moehler’s _Symbolik_ also says: “As the avenues that led to the
Egyptian temples were bordered on either side by representations of
the mystical sphinx, so it was through a mystical art, poetry and
philosophy, that many minds were then conducted to the sanctuary of
the true church.” Mrs. Jameson bears witness to a similar process
within her own consciousness concerning the saints of the monastic
orders. “We have in the monastic pictures a series of _biographies_
of the most _instructive_ kind.... After having studied the
written lives of St. Benedict, St. Bernard, St. Francis, St.
Clare, and St. Dominic, to enable me to understand the pictures
which relate to them, I found it was the pictures which enabled
me better to understand their lives and character.”[137] The same
thought is expressed by a learned English antiquarian, speaking
of the symbolical paintings of the Catacombs: “Moreover, because
they [the artists] desire that the mind of those who see these
paintings should not retain the outward semblance of the scene,
but be carried forward to its hidden and mystical meaning, they
always depart more or less from its literal truth, _e.g._, we never
find seven or twelve baskets (the miracle of the multiplication of
loaves), but eight; nor six water-pots of stone (marriage of Cana),
but seven. It was the symbol of a religious idea they aimed at, not
the representation of a real history.”[138] In a word, symbolism
is as old as creation, and there never was a time when men did not
make for themselves a language of _signs_. Heathendom was only a
corruption of signs into realities; Judaism was a religion of signs
carefully interpreted in view of the later and fuller revelation.
Our faith is the realization, in part, of the Hebrew types; but
since we are still clogged with mortality, and therefore still
under an imperfect law, it follows that through symbols we must
still be taught. An unsymbolical religion would be unscriptural,
for Christ himself tells us he has come to “fulfil, not to destroy
the law.” And this is not incompatible with the command to “worship
God in spirit and in truth”; for without the _spirit_, of what use
would be the form? It would be as valueless as words from the lips
of a maniac, words which have no weight because the mind does not
direct them. But who would contend that because the random words
of a madman are meaningless, all speech is so? Even so, though
mere forms would be idolatrous, forms hallowed by doctrinal and
scriptural meaning are holy and venerable.

Having premised thus much, we will attempt some description of a
few of those symbols most anciently used by the church, and of the
significance of certain acts and ceremonies which usually are but
superficially examined by our opponents, and, perhaps, not fully
appreciated by Catholics themselves.

The Catacombs, where the ecclesiastical life of the church was
first brought into shape, furnish the most interesting material
on the subject of Christian symbolism. The times required
great caution--here was one motive for secret and hieroglyphic
instruction; the first converts were Jews, Orientals deeply imbued
with the love of imagery and poetry--here was a second reason for
the rapid development of symbolism; our Lord himself had deigned
to use figures and parables in his teaching--here was also a model
and a permission for the copious use of signs. Almost the earliest,
and certainly the most interesting, Christian symbol was the
fish. The Greek word for fish contained five letters, Ἰχθύς, each
of which was the initial of the following words: Jesus, Christ,
Son (of) God, Saviour. Dr. Northcote says of it: “It became a
profession of faith, as it were, both of the two natures, the unity
of person and the redemptorial office of our Lord.”[139] Besides
this ingenious meaning, the fish signified “the human soul in the
first or natural creation, the same soul as regenerate or created
anew, and Christ himself as uniting the two creations of nature
and grace. In the first or natural creation, life began in the
waters and from the waters, of which the fish is the inhabitant.
In the spiritual or new creation, all life begins from the waters
of baptism.”[140] The fish also bears a reference to the story
of Tobias, where the application of its entrails “defeats devils
and restores sight.”[141] In three or four instances the fish
is depicted bearing a ship on its back, and this combination
naturally suggests to us Christ upholding his church.[142] The
epitaph of St. Abercius, Bishop of Hierapolis in Phrygia at the
end of the second century, has the following allusion to the
symbolic fish: “Faith led me on the road, and set before me for
food from the one fountain the great and spotless fish which the
pure Virgin embraced; and this fish she (Faith) gave to friends to
eat everywhere, having good wine, giving wine mixed with water,
and bread. May he who understands these things pray for me.” In
a fresco in the crypt of Santa Lucina is seen a fish carrying on
its back a basket of bread, the latter being of an ashen color,
like that offered by the Jews to their priests on festival days,
and in the midst of the bread appears something red, partly
effaced, but resembling a cup of red wine.[143] This, of course,
was intended for the Holy Eucharist, as we shall see further on.
In the work of Aringhi on the Catacombs, we find it mentioned
that a sarcophagus was found of the date of the very earliest
centuries, whereon the story of the paralytic is represented (a
very favorite simile in the Catacomb list of subjects). The bed of
the subject of the cure is shaped like a fish.[144] The baptismal
font first received the name of “piscina,” and the Christians
often called each other “pisciculi,” little fishes, as we learn
from Perret. He also tells us too that this emblem reminded the
early Christians of the very scenes of the Gospel connected with
Christ’s miracles, the apostles’ calling, and the establishment
of the church; Christ walking on the waters; preaching from a
bark; allaying the tempest; causing a miraculous draught of fishes
to be taken; finding the coin of the tribute in the mouth of a
fish--all this was suggested by the simple figure of a fish. St.
Jerome says that “the fish that was taken in whose mouth was the
coin of the tribute was Christ, the second Adam, at the cost of
whose blood the first Adam and Peter, that is, all sinners, were
redeemed.” Origen speaks of our Lord as “he who is figuratively
called the fish.” This symbol leads naturally to that obvious one
of the loaves, which typifies the Holy Eucharist. Abundant proof
of this is found in the writings of the fathers. The types of this
sacrifice and sacrament are unmistakable. In the cemetery of St.
Callixtus is a painting representing the _mystical supper_ (not
the historical one) of the Eucharist. “The seven disciples seated
at the table represent all the disciples of Christ. The number
_seven_ signifies universality. The two fishes on the table remind
us of the multiplication of the five loaves and two fishes. The
seven baskets are filled with _whole_ loaves, not fragments, and
the addition of an eighth hints that we are not to think of the
literal history, ... but of that ulterior and spiritual sense to
which they all (the three occurrences represented in this one
fresco) point, and in which they all unite, that is, the doctrine
of the Blessed Eucharist.”[145] A lamb carrying a milk-pail on its
back is sometimes used as an eucharistic emblem. The _Acts_ of St.
Perpetua give us her dream, or rather vision, in which the Good
Shepherd gave her the _curds_ to drink, after he had milked his
flocks. She received it with her arms crossed on her breast, while
all the assistants said “Amen”! These words and posture were those
used during the administration of the Blessed Sacrament. Milk is
perpetually used in Scripture to denote the good things of God; and
in early times, according to Tertullian and St. Jerome, _milk and
honey_ were given with this meaning to newly baptized infants or
adults. The practice was continued, on Holy Saturday at least, as
late as the ninth and tenth centuries. This symbol of the milk-pail
is, however, rarer than any other, and is by no means on the same
level as that of the fish, the lamb, and the loaves.[146]

The Good Shepherd is a pictorial symbol that has never fallen into
disuse, and that of Orpheus with his lute or pipe is analogous to
it. The adaptation of the heathen myth of Orpheus training wild
beasts by the sweet sounds of his lyre to the hidden meaning of
Christ curbing men’s passions by his doctrine, is vouched for by
St. Clement of Alexandria. In a painting of the Good Shepherd in
the cemetery of St. Saturninus, a goat appears in place of the
lost sheep. “This,” says Dr. Northcote, “was intended as a protest
against the hateful severity of the Novatians and other heretics
who refused reconciliation to penitent sinners.” In some of these
representations, we see several sheep at the feet of Jesus, in
attitudes pregnant with meaning; some “listening attentively,
not quite understanding as yet, but meditating and seeking to
understand; others turning their tails--it is an unwelcome subject,
and they will have nothing to do with it”;[147] or, again, “one
of the two sheep is drinking in all that he hears with simplicity
and affection; the other is eating grass--he has something else to
do; he is occupied with the cares, pleasures, and riches of this
world.”[148]

Dr. Northcote says that as the sheep represent the flock of Christ
in life, so the dove is more especially the symbol of the soul
after death. It is primarily a type of the Holy Ghost, as the
Scriptures suggest and the writings of the fathers assert. They
call the Holy Spirit figuratively “a dove without gall,” the
expression which is found repeated on some of the sepulchres of
children, as indicative of their innocence. Later on, we find the
soul of St. Scholastica appearing to her brother, St. Benedict,
under this form. A dove pecking at grapes denotes the soul’s
enjoyment of the fruits of eternal happiness.[149] Tertullian calls
the dove “a herald of peace from the beginning,” and, when painted
with an olive-branch in its mouth, it is to be taken in this sense.
It is a symbol that we use in our own times. Noah’s ark, a type
of the church often seen in the Catacombs, is connected with the
dove. Perret tells us of a picture, noticed by Bottari in his
_Sculture e Pitture_, of Noah in the ark, and the ark again within
a ship. The form of the ark, according to Hebrew calculations,
was a long square, but it is generally represented in the Early
Christian paintings as a _cube_, a figure suggestive of greater
stability.[150] This system of departure from the literalness of
history is too universal not to be intentional. For instance, none
of these representations of the ark are without a dove, but in some
a woman appears instead of Noah. Tertullian in his work on baptism
says that this symbol meant the general doctrine of “the faithful,
having obtained remission of their sins through baptism, receive
from the Holy Spirit [the dove] the gift of divine peace [the
olive-branch], and are saved in the mystical ark of the church from
the destruction of the world.”

The resurrection of Lazarus, and Moses striking the rock, are both
types of the resurrection and eternal life, and are often seen in
juxtaposition. In one of these paintings, Lazarus is like a little
child, and is clothed in bands that more resemble swaddling-clothes
than a winding-sheet. Our Lord also is quite boyish. The apostles
likewise are often represented as young men, so is Moses in many
instances. This is thought by Perret to be symbolical of the
immutability of heavenly glory. Among other types often found
in the Catacombs are the anchor with a cross-shaped handle, the
symbol of hope from time immemorial; the palm, a sign of victory;
and the ship, the invariable type of the church of Christ. The
Scriptures themselves suggest this latter idea, as they also do
that of the rock, _petrus_. This subject is fully treated in
some frescoes of the cemetery of St. Callixtus. The rock (Christ)
pours down streams of living waters, which two apostles join their
hands to catch and collect for the benefit of the world. In other
compositions, the rock does not pour forth water spontaneously
(this was a reference to the day of Pentecost), but emits it at
the touch of the rod held by Moses (the type of Peter); and in
other paintings, two men appear carrying away from it baskets of
bread, which are then touched with a rod by a figure supposed to be
Christ. This would denote the sacramental change from bread to the
flesh of Christ.[151] Thus one type is always presupposing another
or merging itself into another. In a fresco of several subjects,
all referring to the Holy Eucharist, found in an ancient Christian
cemetery at Alexandria, there is written over the heads of several
persons assembled at a feast these words: “Eating the benedictions
of the Lord.”

Now, the Greek word here used is the same that St. Paul uses (1
Cor. x. 16) to denote the communion of the body and blood of
Christ, and, furthermore, is the identical word by which St. Cyril
of Alexandria denotes the _consecrated_ elements.[152]

Daniel in the lions’ den and the three children in the fiery
furnace are constantly represented in the Catacombs as types of the
persecutions of the church and the fortitude under them. The phœnix
or palm-bird occurs as a symbol of immortality, and was graven
on the tomb of Maximus by order of St. Cecilia.[153] The peacock
also signified immortality, and came to be so used from being the
bird of Juno, or the supposed emblem of the apotheosis of the
Roman empresses. In one fresco in the cemetery of St. Sixtus, we
find SS. Peter and Paul represented as standing on either side of
a _crowned_ tower, doubtless a symbol of strength, figurative of
the church. Perret also tells us that God the Father, “himself
invisible, while his power is manifested by his works,” is typified
“with singular aptitude by a hand coming forth from the clouds.”
This is in a picture of Moses striking the rock.

A very beautiful representation of the Lamb, Jesus Christ, of later
date however than the Catacombs, but not so late as to have lost
their informing spirit, occurs in a mosaic that formerly decorated
the apse of the basilica of St. Peter in Rome. The Lamb stands
at the foot of a jewelled cross, on a rock, with four streams,
one running from each of its feet, and a fifth from the foot of
a chalice into which the blood of the Lamb spurts down from its
wounded breast. An evident allusion to the five wounds of the Lord
is here combined with the type of the Holy Eucharist (for the
cup suggests the latter). The cross, as such, is rarely found in
the Catacombs, but the _Acts of the Martyrs_ mention a soldier,
St. Orestes, who, while playing at throwing the disc, let fall
from his garments a small cross (which, discovering his religion,
procured him the glory of martyrdom), so that we may suppose that
this sign of Christianity was sometimes secretly worn about the
person during the early centuries. St. Augustine, St. Hilary, St.
Jerome, St. Chrysostom, and our own countryman, Venerable Bede,
agree in the cross being “the sign of the Son of Man” of which
Jesus himself speaks in the Gospel. Tertullian quotes the vision of
Ezechiel (ix. 4), and interprets thus the sign _Tau_: “Now, the
Greek letter _Tau_ and our own T is the very form of the cross,
which he predicted would be the sign on our foreheads in the true
Catholic Jerusalem.” Dr. Northcote tells us that the number 300,
“being expressed in Greek by the letter _Tau_, came itself, even in
apostolical times, to be regarded as the equivalent of the cross.”
We know how St. Paul speaks of the cross, as meaning the whole
Christian faith. The sign of the cross, however, was contained
in or appended to the monogram ΧΡ. (the first two letters of the
Greek word Christ--ΧΡΙΣΤΟΣ). This was sometimes written P, while in
some ancient manuscripts the _Tau_ itself was written +, forming
an exact Greek cross. Sometimes to this monogram (worn to this day
as a badge by the Passionist Friars) was added the letter _Ν_, the
initial of Νικητής, the Greek for conqueror. This is something
similar to the inscription translated “In hoc signo vinces,” seen
by Constantine in his vision outside the gates of Rome. It was in
this shape that the inscription was afterwards put on the “Labarum”
or banner of the cross, and also on many coins struck during the
reign of Constantine.[154]

Not to prolong the subject of the Catacombs too indefinitely, let
us end with these words of Dr. Northcote: “Nothing was likely to
be more familiar to the early Christians than the symbolical and
prophetical meaning of the Gospels and the Old Testament, so that
the sight of these paintings on the walls of the subterranean
chapels was probably as a continual homily set before them....
Indeed, it is scarcely too much to say that some of these artistic
compositions might be made to take the place of a well-ordered
dogmatic discourse.”

When the immediate fear of persecution was removed, the church
gradually added to her alphabet of symbols. The cross became more
general, at first ornamented and wreathed, jewelled and gilt, as it
was by order of Constantine, then by an easy transition becoming
a simple crucifix, with the image of the Redeemer plainly wrought
upon it. Constantine forbade the cross to be any longer used as an
instrument of torture or punishment; while the finding of the true
cross and the honor paid to it soon familiarized the people with
its exclusively divine associations. From Mrs. Jameson’s researches
we gather that the “fashion of decorating the cross with five
jewels, generally rubies, typified the five sacred wounds.”[155]
We also learn from her the origin of the nimbus, or glory, so
generally used after the fifth century as an attribute of holiness.
At first it was borrowed from pagan sources, the “luminous nebula”
of Homer--that, is the divine essence standing “a shade in its
own brightness”--being, as she informs us, the first trace of it
to be found in antiquity. Rays or plates of brass were sometimes
fixed to the heads of imperial busts and statues in Rome, and later
on it is seen round the heads of Christian emperors (Justinian
in particular) who were not canonized. It strikes one as curious
that Mrs. Jameson should have omitted all mention of Moses and the
_horns_ or rays of light that adorned his countenance as he came
down from Mount Sinai. In the transfiguration, our Lord’s face “did
shine as the sun,”[156] and the angel that sat over against the
sepulchre on the morning of the resurrection had a “countenance
as lightning.”[157] After the fifth century the _nimbus_ became
universal, and was adopted as a symbol of holiness. A cruciform
glory was the distinctive emblem of God, and also a triangular one,
which typifies the Trinity, and was often used later round the head
of figures representing God the Father, and entirely surrounding
the Holy Spirit, who was painted as a dove.

It would be quite impossible to go through the cycle of all the
symbols now in use. They have varied very little since the days of
Constantine, but they cover so vast a field that it would take a
lifetime to study each one in detail.

The chief service of the church, the Mass, naturally strikes
us first. Nearly every ceremony is connected with it, and is
only complete when preceded or followed by it. Churches (often
symbolical in their form and arrangement), vestments with their
many hidden meanings, lights, incense, holy water, music,
processions, group themselves as mere accessories round the
sacrificial act which gives them their importance. The word Mass
is supposed by some to be derived from the Hebrew _Missach_, a
voluntary offering,[158] but the most widely received opinion
is that it comes from _Missa_ or _Missio_, the dismissal of the
catechumens before the most solemn part, the consecration. The word
itself is of very ancient use, as appears from the letters of St.
Ambrose, St. Leo, and St. Gregory.[159] The _Gloria Patri_, which
is often used in the liturgy as well as constantly in the hours
of the divine office, was introduced in 325 as a protest against
the Arian heresy which contended that the Son was not equal to the
Father.[160] The custom of standing during the gospel signifies our
readiness to defend its truths and practice its precepts. We sign
our foreheads, lips, and breast in token of our resolve not to be
ashamed of the cross of Christ, to profess it always in words, and
to keep it for ever in our hearts. At the “Incarnatus est” in the
Credo we kneel in reverence to the mystery of the God made man, and
at the “Domine non sum dignus” we strike our breasts in token of
penance and humiliation, as we have before done at the Confiteor.
This has always been the conventional sign of sorrow, as we read of
the publican in the gospels.

Of the use of lights, St. Jerome says in his letter against the
heretic Vigilantius: “Throughout all the churches of the East,
when the gospel is to be recited, they bring forth lights, though
it be at noonday, not certainly to drive away darkness but to
manifest some sign of joy, that under the type of corporal light
may be indicated that light of which we read in the _Psalms_--‘Thy
word is as a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.’”[161]
Everywhere in the Old and New Testaments, _light_ is the type of
knowledge; in the parable of the virgins, it is also the symbol
of fidelity. In Rome, torches were carried at weddings as a sign
of honor. St. Chrysoston says that lights are carried before the
dead to show that they are champions and conquerors. What more
natural than that these usages should have been transferred to
the Christian churches? “Within the sanctuary and in front of
the altar,” says the anonymous author of the _Explanation of the
Sacrifice and Liturgy of the Mass_, “a lamp is kept day and night,
to warn us that Jesus Christ, the light of the world, is present
on our altars, ... and that our lives should, by their holiness,
shine like a luminary.” Candles are used in several mystical
senses by the church during the ceremonies of Holy Week, as chiefly
the Paschal candle. This is fraught with many meanings. Unlighted,
it is an emblem of Christ in the tomb, while the five grains of
incense put into it in the shape of a cross typify both the five
wounds of our Blessed Lord and the spices with which his dead body
was buried. Contrary to the usual custom, which requires a _priest_
to bless any holy thing, the Paschal candle is blessed by the
_deacon_, to denote that Christ was buried by his disciples (Joseph
of Arimathea and Nicodemus), not by his apostles. When lighted,
the candle prefigures Christ arisen. The Pavia Missal makes it
signify, while unlighted, the pillar in the cloud which guided the
Israelites by day through the desert, and, after being lighted, the
fiery column that directed them at night. The columnar shape of the
candlestick in many Italian churches is thought to refer to this
part of the interpretation. The triple candle, which is lighted
with new fire on Holy Saturday, signifies the Trinity, and in
connection with this we are reminded of a curious ceremony in the
Greek ritual, which consists in the benediction given by a bishop
whenever he says Mass. He holds in each hand a candle--one triple,
denoting the Trinity; and the other double, and symbolizing the
union of two natures in Jesus Christ.[162] The manual of Holy Week
tells us that the fifteen candles on the triangular candlestick,
used during the office of _Tenebræ_, represent the “disciples
whose fervor cooled at the approach of danger, and who dispersed
here and there, wavering in faith, forgetful of their promises,
and all seeking safety in flight, abandoning their Master. The
candle that remains lit and is finally _concealed_ behind the
altar is a figure of Jesus Christ. He came to enlighten the world;
but ungrateful, perverse men made every effort to obscure and
extinguish his glory. When they fancied they had succeeded, he rose
from death to an immortal life, more glorious than the former.”

The whole of the ceremonies of Holy Week are nothing but a literal
“showing forth of the death of the Lord until he come”--a yearly
rehearsal, as it were, of the great drama of human life and
destiny, of the rejection of the elder and the adoption of the
younger branch of the family of men--that is, the choice of the
Gentiles after the trial of the Jews. Incense, the recognized
emblem of prayer, and spoken of as such in the well-known passages
of the Apocalypse,[163] also reminds us of the perfumes used in the
East as a sign of honor towards kings and princes, and of the gift
of the Magi to the infant Saviour. Dr. Rock says that “a venerable
antiquity (522) informs us that the incense burning round the
altar, whence, as from a fountain of delicious fragrance, it emits
a perfume through the house of God, has ever been regarded as a
type of the good odor of Jesus Christ which should exhale from the
soul of every true believer.”[164] The frequent use of holy water
is above all typical of purity, the great preparation of the soul
for any holy action.

Salt is a preservative against corruption, and also reminds us of
the miracle of Eliseus,[165] when, to make the drought cease, he
asked for a vessel with water and salt. The apostles are called
the “salt of the earth,” and salt is recognized as the emblem of
wisdom. Oil, used in many functions, is typical of sweetness and
mildness, in consideration of its natural powers of healing, and
from time immemorial anointing has been considered a consecration
to God.[166] Oil was also used in the old Hebrew sacrifices,
together with cakes as well as salt.[167] The “Agnus Dei” perhaps
requires a fuller explanation than the former symbols. It is a
waxen cake stamped with the figure of a lamb. The Pope blesses a
certain quantity of these cakes every seventh year of his reign.
“The origin of this rite seems to have been the very ancient
custom of breaking up the Paschal candle of the preceding year and
distributing the fragments among the faithful. Alcuin, a disciple
of the Venerable Bede, describes the blessing in these words:
‘In the Roman Church, early on the morning of Holy Saturday, the
archdeacon comes into the church and pours wax in a clean vessel,
and mixes it with oil; then blesses the wax, and molds it in the
form of lambs; ... the lambs which the Romans make represent to us
the spotless Lamb made for us; for Christ should be brought to our
memories frequently by all sorts of things.’”[168] The Asperges,
or sprinkling with holy water before Mass, reminds us of the
sprinkling of the blood of the Paschal lamb on the door-posts of
the Israelites--a ceremony which was to be performed with a bunch
of hyssop.[169] It also refers to the Psalm Miserere, in which we
pray to be “sprinkled with hyssop, and we shall be cleansed”--a
prayer which forms part of the prescribed orisons to be repeated
during the Asperges.

Of the symbolical meaning of the sacred vestments, and their
colors, we will only speak briefly. The most obvious apology for
them is their use as prescribed in the Old Testament, where they
are made the subject of the most minute directions. Many things
came to us through the Temple traditions, the Gregorian chant, for
instance, which closely resembles that still used in the orthodox
synagogues of our own day. It is not improbable that something
of Hebrew traditions entered into the custom, early adopted by
the Christians, of wearing specified and holy garments during the
celebration of Mass. But the church, ever mindful of her mission of
teaching, could not let such vestments be mere ornaments, however
fitting and seemly. The author of the _Explanation of the Mass_
says that “ceremonies are a kind of illustration of our sacred
mysteries; they represent them to the eye, to a certain extent,
as a look or a discourse do to the ear or mind, especially to the
uneducated, who are always the greater number.” The vestments are
a very prominent part of the externals of the Mass; their color
announces at one glance whether a virgin or a martyr is being
commemorated, whether we are to join in prayer for some unknown
brother deceased in Christ, or to lament in a penitential spirit
the sins of mankind and our own. Green, very seldom used, is the
normal color for Sundays, denoting hope and joy in the promise of
the new spring. There are two meanings attached to the different
component parts of the holy vesture. The “amice” which covers
the head (in ancient times entirely) represents the “helmet of
salvation,” divine hope; the “alb,” innocence of life, because it
clothes the celebrant from head to foot in spotless white; the
“girdle,” with which the loins are girt, purity and chastity (also
referring to the text of St. Luke, “Let your loins be girt”),[170]
and possibly bearing some allusion likewise to the journey of life,
and the command anciently given to the Jews at the first Pasch,
“You shall gird your reins”;[171] the “maniple,” which is put on
the left arm, patience under the burdens of this mortal life; the
“stole,” which is worn on the neck and shoulders, the yoke of
Christ; and the “chasuble,” which, as uppermost, covers all the
rest, charity--according to the saying of St. Peter, that “charity
covereth a multitude of sins.”[172] The author of _The Following of
Christ_, speaking of the duties and dignity of the priesthood, thus
beautifully interprets the ecclesiastical apparel: “A priest clad
in his sacred vestments is Christ’s vicegerent, to pray God for
himself and for all the people in a suppliant and humble manner. He
has before him and behind him the sign of the cross of the Lord,
that he may always remember the passion of Christ. He bears the
cross before him in his vestment, that he may diligently behold the
footsteps of Christ, and fervently endeavor to follow them. He is
marked with the cross behind, that he may mildly suffer, for God’s
sake, whatsoever adversities shall befall him from others. He wears
the cross before him that he may bewail his own sins, and behind
him that through compassion he may lament the sins of others, and
know that he is placed, as it were, a mediator between God and the
sinner.”[173]

Besides this mystical signification, the vestments also have a
representative meaning. The amice is intended to recall the rag
with which the Jews bandaged our Saviour’s eyes;[174] the alb,
the white garment in which Herod, in derision, clothed him; the
girdle, maniple, and stole, the cords with which he was bound; the
chasuble, the purple garment with which the soldiers covered him
when they hailed him as a mock king, and as a complement, the cross
on the chasuble represents that which Christ bore on his wounded
shoulders on his way to Calvary. The priest’s tonsure, worn very
conspicuously by most of the religious orders, is a type of the
crown of thorns.

The ceremonies of marriage are interesting from their symbolical
meaning, but are so familiar that it is useless to dwell on them.
In the Greek Church, a glass of wine is partaken of by the bride
and bridegroom, as a type of the community of possession which
is henceforth to exist between them. The use of the ring is not
confined to earthly nuptials; it is worn, as we know, by bishops
as a sign of union with their sees, and also by many orders of
nuns, as a pledge of their mystical bridal with their heavenly
Spouse. The rites of initiation and profession in some of the
religious orders of women are full of symbolism. In the taking of
the white veil among the Dominicanesses at Rome, the novice is
asked to choose between a crown of thorns and a wreath of roses
placed before her on the altar. The hair is shorn, as a sign of
detachment from the vanities of this world. At the profession the
nun prostrates herself, and is entirely covered with a funereal
pall, while the choir chants in solemn cadence the psalm for the
dead--_De Profundis_.[175] This awful expression of her utter
renunciation of the world has a most mysterious effect on any one
who is happy enough to witness it. The grating and curtains that,
in some orders, screen the religious from view, even during their
friends’ visits to the “parlor,” are only a visible sign of the
entire separation between them and all, even the most innocent,
earthly ties. And speaking of religious orders, we are reminded
of the peculiar ceremonies which, with some of them, enhance the
solemnity of the divine office. Of these, a biographer of St.
Dominic says, with true mediæval instinct, that it was no wonder
that Dominic should have tried to imitate, in the many bowings and
prostrations of the white-robed monks, the pageantry of angelic
adoration which he had so often seen in visions--the folding of the
many myriad wings, and the casting down of golden crowns before
the throne of the Lamb.[176] And yet, while we are thinking of
this beautiful interpretation, there comes another thought--that
of churches as bare as the monastery itself, and of a ritual so
simple that it would satisfy the veriest Covenanter. The Trappists
especially, the Cistercians and Franciscans also, are forbidden any
display in ceremonial, and any costliness in material, with regard
to the worship of God. Poverty is to reign even in their churches;
and thus we have an asylum provided for those minds whose ascetic
turn inclines them to ignore everything but the most spiritual
and internal expression of faith. Thus, in old times, St. Paul
of the Desert abode among caves and wild beasts, and St. Simeon
Stylites passed his life on the summit of an isolated column.
Prayer without the slightest incentive to it, meditation without
any outward suggestions to strengthen it--such was their life. They
never heard glorious chants nor saw processions of clerics clad in
golden robes; no ritual, no symbol even, was there to help them
on; and yet they were saints. There are such minds still now; the
church has a place for them--a place among her rarest and choicest
children, for, after all, “they have chosen the good part, and it
shall not be taken from them.”

But for the majority symbolism is language, ceremonial is reading.
And because others who do not understand this language rail at
it, should we forget or give it up? Rather should we explain it
to them; for who does not know how much pleasure may one day be
derived from a tongue that to-day seems barbarous? Who can read
Goethe till he has mastered the grammar of one of the richest
languages in the world? or who can enjoy Dante till he has learnt
to read him familiarly in the liquid original? Even so with
Catholics; others must learn the Catholic alphabet before they
pronounce upon the magnificent poems contained in our ceremonial.
See this picture of the crucifixion--for in this one subject all
our religion is enfolded. It is a mediæval painting. The arms of
our Saviour are spread wide, almost on a level with his head; Mary,
John, and Magdalen stand beneath; the penitent thief is beside
him on his own cross. Two angels in flowing robes hold jewelled
chalices under his pierced hands to collect the drops of blood, and
other angels are seen in the clouds above, with musical instruments
in their hands. This is no literal representation of the scene
on Mount Calvary, no realistic picture of the thunder cloud, the
brutal soldiery, the opened graves, such as we see by the dozen
nowadays. It is not so much a picture of the _crucifixion_ as of
the _redemption_. It occupies itself merely with the mystical sense
of the great sacrifice; the figures beneath the cross are not
portraits, in attitudes of human desolation, but representatives
of the church of the faithful on earth; the good thief is put
there for the aggregate of repentant sinners; the angels in the
clouds rather celebrate the redemption of the world than lament
the death of God; and the instruments they play are--we may well
suppose it--meant to typify the consecration of art to religious
purposes; the cup-bearing angels, catching the drops of blood as
they fall, are types of the adoration paid to the saving blood of
Jesus through all generations, and of the untold preciousness of
this great treasure; in the _chalices_, also, we see a distinct
allusion to the sacrifice of the Mass; finally, the widely extended
arms mean--at least, they came to mean it not long after--the
_universal_ nature of the redemption; and therefore the Jansenists,
when they taught that Christ died only for those who are actually
saved, painted their crucifixes with the arms uplifted high above
the head.

So our Catholic symbolism is an open book, a text for the highest
art, and a guide to the humblest mind. It has chapters for all--for
poverty, nudity, and coarseness are as symbolical as magnificence
and oriental grace. The despoiled altars of Good Friday are as
eloquent as the procession of Palms or the Easter exuberance of
decoration; the crib and the straw of Christmas are not less
fraught with meaning than the decked tabernacles of Corpus Christi.

In a Benedictine abbey you will hear soul-stirring strains of the
most solemn harmony; in a Carmelite convent you will listen to a
chorus of nuns who are forbidden to use more than three notes with
which to vary their singing of the divine office; in a Trappist
retreat you will watch for the slightest sound, and hear nothing
save the muffled fall of clods of earth as a monk digs his own
grave, or the salutation, “Brother, we must all die,” as another
monk passes him on his way to a similar occupation. Let those who
do not understand our symbolical language pause and learn it; and
no doubt, learning to read it _as_ we do, they will soon come to
read it _with_ us in the brotherhood of the faith.

FOOTNOTES:

[136] Dr. Rock, _Hierurgia_.

[137] Introd. to _Legends of the Monastic Orders_ (p. 25).

[138] Dr. Rock, _Hierurgia_.

[139] _Roma Sotterranea._

[140] Palmer’s _Early Christian Symbolism_.

[141] See Northcote’s _Roma Sotterranea_.

[142] _Ibid._

[143] _Ibid._

[144] Perret, _Catacombes de Rome_.

[145] Palmer’s _Early Christian Symbolism_.

[146] Northcote’s _Roma Sotterranea_.

[147] _Palmer._

[148] _Ibid._

[149] _Dr. Northcote._

[150] Perret, _Catacombes de Rome_, vol. x.

[151] Palmer’s _Early Christian Symbolism_.

[152] Dr. Northcote’s _Roma Sotterranea_.

[153] Perret, _Catacombes de Rome_.

[154] Dr. Northcote’s _Roma Sott_. p. 123.

[155] _Sacred and Legendary Art._

[156] St. Matt. xviii. 2.

[157] St. Matt. xxvii. 3.

[158] Deut. xvi. 10.

[159] Dr. Challoner.

[160] Dr. Rock’s _Hierurgia_.

[161] Ps. cxviii. 105.

[162] Dr. Rock’s _Hierurgia_.

[163] v. 8, viii. 4.

[164] Dr. Rock, _Hierurgia_.

[165] 4 Kings ii. 19.

[166] 1 Kings x. i.

[167] Levit. ii. 4, 5, 6, 7, 13.

[168] Cardinal Wiseman, _Four Lectures on Holy Week in Rome_.

[169] Exodus xii. 22.

[170] Luke xii. 35.

[171] Exodus xii. 11.

[172] 1 Peter iv. 8.

[173] Book iv., chap. 5.

[174] St. Luke xxii. 64.

[175] For the foregoing particulars see Challoner’s _Catholic
Christian Instructed_.

[176] Dr. Alemanny, _Life of St. Dominic_.




THE PROGRESSIONISTS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.


CHAPTER II.--CONTINUED.

THE LEADERS.

“I do not catch the gist of your simile of the blind man and
colors,” interrupted Greifmann.

“I wanted to intimate that thousands swear allegiance to the
banner of progress without comprehending its nature. Very many
imagine progress to be a struggle in behalf of Germany against
the enfeebling system of innumerable small states, or a battling
against religious rigorism and priest-rule in secular concerns.
In unpretending guises like these, the spirit of the age
circulates among the crowd travestied in the fashionable epithet
_progressive_. Were you, however, to remove the shell from around
the kernel of progress, were you to exhibit it to the multitude
undisguised as the nullification of religion, as the denial of
the God of Christians, as the rejection of immortality, and of an
essential difference between man and the beast--were you to venture
thus far, you would see the millions flying in consternation before
the monster Progress. Now, just because the multitude, although
progressive-minded, everywhere judges men by Christian standards,
very often, too, unconsciously, therefore Shund has to pass,
not for an able speculator, but for a miserable usurer and an
unconscionable scoundrel.”

“For this very cause, the liberal leaders of this city should
stand up for Shund,” opposed the banker. “Just appreciation and
respect should not be denied a deserving man. To speak candidly,
Mr. Schwefel, what first accidentally arrested my attention, now
excites my most lively interest. I wish to see justice done Mr.
Shund, to see his uncommon abilities recognized. You must set his
light upon a candlestick. You must have him elected mayor and
member of the legislature; in both capacities he will fill his
position with distinction. I repeat, our deeply indebted city
stands in want of a mayor that will reckon closely and economize.
And in the legislative assembly Shund’s fluency will talk down all
opposition, his readiness of speech will do wonders. Were it only
to spite the stupid mob, you must put Shund in nomination.”

“It will not do, Mr. Greifmann! it is impracticable! We have to
proceed cautiously and by degrees. Our policy lies in conducting
the unsophisticated masses from darkness into light, quite
gradually, inch by inch, and with the utmost caution. A sudden
unveiling of the inmost significance of the spirit of the age would
scare the people and drive them back heels over head into the
clerical camp.”

“I do not at all share your apprehensions,” contended the
millionaire. “Our people are further advanced than you think. Make
the trial. Your vast influence will easily manage to have Shund
returned mayor and delegate.”

“Undoubtedly, but my standing would be jeopardized,” rejoined
Schwefel.

“That is a mistake, sir! You employ four hundred families.”

“Four hundred and seventy now,” said the manufacturer, correcting
him blandly.

“Four hundred and seventy families, therefore, are getting a living
through you, consequently you have four hundred and seventy voters
at your command. Add to these a considerable force of mechanics who
earn wages in your employ. You have, moreover, a number of warm
friends who also command a host of laborers and mechanics. Hence
you risk neither standing nor influence, that is,” added he with a
smile, “unless perhaps you dread the anathemas of Ultramontanes and
impostors.”

“The pious wrath of believers has no terrors deserving notice,”
observed the leader with indifference.

“And yet all this time Shund’s remarkable abilities have not been
able to win the slightest notice on the part of progressive men--it
is revolting!” cried the banker. “Mr. Schwefel, I will speak
plainly, trusting to your being discreet; I will recommend your
factory at Vienna, but only on condition that you have Hans Shund
elected mayor and member of the legislature.”

“This is asking a great deal--quite flattering for Shund and very
tempting to me,” said the leader with a bright face and a thrice
repeated nod to the banker. “Since, however, what you ask is
neither incompatible with the spirit of the times nor dishonorable
to the sense of a liberal man, I accept your offer, for it is no
small advantage for me from a business point of view.”

“Capital, Mr. Schwefel! Capital, because very sensible!” spoke
Carl Greifmann approvingly. A short groan, resembling the violent
bursting forth of suppressed indignation, resounded from the
adjoining apartment. The banker shuffled on the floor and drowned
the groan by loudly rasping his throat.

“One condition, however, I must insist upon,” continued the
manufacturer of straw hats. “My arm might prove unequal to a task
that will create no ordinary sensation. But if you succeeded in
winning over Erdblatt and Sand to the scheme, it would prosper
without fail and without much noise.”

“I shall do so with pleasure, Mr. Schwefel! Both those gentlemen
will, in all probability, call on me to-day in relation to matters
of business. It will be for me a pleasing consciousness to have
aided in obtaining merited recognition for Hans Shund.”

“Our agreement is, however, to be kept strictly secret from the
public.”

“Of course, of course!”

“You will not forget, at the same time, Mr. Greifmann, that our
very extraordinary undertaking will necessitate greater than
ordinary outlay. It is a custom among laborers not to work on the
day before election, and the same on election day itself. Yet, in
order to keep them in good humor, they must get wages the same as
if they had worked. This is for the manufacturer no insignificant
disadvantage. Moreover, workingmen and doubtful voters require to
be stimulated with beer gratis--another tax on our purses.”

“How high do these expenses run?” asked the millionaire.

“For Sand, Erdblatt, and myself, they never fall short of twelve
hundred florins.”

“That would make each one’s share of the costs four hundred
florins.”

Taking a five-hundred florin banknote between his thumb and
forefinger, the banker reached it carelessly to the somewhat
puzzled leader.

“My contribution to the promotion of the interests of progress! I
shall give as much to Messrs. Sand and Erdblatt.”

“Many thanks, Mr. Greifmann!” said Schwefel, pocketing the money
with satisfaction.

The millionaire drew himself up. “I have no doubt,” said he, in his
former cold and haughty tone, “that my recommendation will secure
your establishment the custom already alluded to.”

“I entertain a similar confidence in your influence, and will take
the liberty of commending myself most respectfully to your favor.”
Bowing frequently, Schwefel retreated backwards towards the door,
and disappeared. Greifmann stepped to the open entrance of the side
apartment. There sat the youthful landholder, his head resting
heavily on his hand. He looked up, and Carl’s smiling face was met
by a pair of stern, almost fierce eyes.

“Have you heard, friend Seraphin?” asked he triumphantly.

“Yes--and what I have heard surpasses everything. You have
bargained with a member of that vile class who recognize no
difference between honor and disgrace, between good and evil,
between self-respect and infamy, who know only one god--which is
money.”

“Do not show yourself so implacable against these _vile_ beings, my
dearest! There is much that is useful in them, at any rate they are
helping me to the finest horses belonging to the aristocracy.”

A stealthy step was heard at the door of the cabinet.

“Do you hear that timid rap?” asked the banker. “The rapper’s
heart is at this moment in his knuckles. It is curious how men
betray in trifles what at the time has possession of their
feelings. The mere rapping gives a keen observer an insight into
the heart of a person whom he does not as yet see. Listen--”
Rapping again, still more stealthily and imploringly. “I must go
and relieve the poor devil, whom nobody would suspect for a mighty
leader. Now, Mr. Seraphin, Act the Second. Come in!”

The man who entered, attired in a dress coat and kids, was
Erdblatt, a tobacco merchant, spare in person, and with restless,
spering eyes. The millionaire greeted him coldly, then pointed him
to the chair that had been occupied by Schwefel. The impression
produced by the two hundred thousands on the man of tobacco was
far more decided than in the case of the manufacturer of straw
hats. Erdblatt was restless in his chair, and as the needle is
attracted by the pole, so did Erdblatt’s whole being turn towards
the money. His eyes glanced constantly over the paper treasures,
and a spasmodic jerking seized upon his fingers. But he soon sat
motionless and stiff, as if thunderstruck at Greifmann’s terrible
words.

“Your substantial firm,” began the mighty man of money, after some
few formalities, “has awaked in me a degree of attention which
the ordinary course of business does not require. I have to-day
received notice from an English banking-house that in a few days
several bills first of exchange, amounting to sixty thousand
florins, will be presented to be paid by you.”

Erdblatt was dumfounded and turned pale.

“The amount is not precisely what can be called insignificant,”
continued Greifmann coolly, “and I did not wish to omit notifying
you concerning the bills, because, as you are aware, the banking
business is regulated by rigorous and indiscriminating forms.”

Erdblatt took the hint, turned still more pale, and uttered not a
word.

“This accumulation of bills of exchange is something abnormal,”
proceeded Greifmann with indifference. “As they are all made
payable on sight, you are no doubt ready to meet this sudden rush
with proud composure,” concluded the banker, with a smile of cold
politeness.

But the dumfounded Erdblatt was far from enjoying proud composure.
His manner rather indicated inability to pay and panic terror.
“Not only is the accumulation of bills of exchange to the amount
of sixty thousand florins something abnormal, but it also argues
carelessness,” said he tersely. “Were it attributable to accident,
I should not complain; but it has been occasioned by jealous
rivalry. Besides, they are bills first of exchange--it is something
never heard of before--it is revolting--there is a plot to ruin me!
And I have no plea to allege for putting off these bills, and I am,
moreover, unable to pay them.”

The banker shrugged his shoulders coldly, and his countenance
became grave.

“Might I not beg you to aid me, Mr. Greifmann?” said he anxiously.
“Of course, I shall allow you a high rate of interest.”

“That is not practicable with bills of exchange,” rejoined the
banker relentlessly.

“When will the bills be presented?” asked the leader, with
increasing anxiety.

“Perhaps as early as to-morrow,” answered Greifmann, still more
relentless.

The manufacturer of tobacco was near fainting.

“I cannot conceive of your being embarrassed,” said the banker
coldly. “Your popularity and influence will get you assistance
from friends, in case your exchequer happens not to be in a
favorable condition.”

“The amount is too great; I should have to borrow in several
quarters. This would give rise to reports, and endanger the credit
of my firm.”

“You are not wrong in your view,” answered the banker coldly.
“Accidents may shake the credit of the most solid firm, and other
accidents may often change trifling difficulties into fatal
catastrophes. How often does it not occur that houses of the best
standing, which take in money at different places, are brought to
the verge of bankruptcy through public distrust?”

The words of the money prince were nowise calculated to reassure
Mr. Erdblatt.

“Be kind enough to accept the bills, and grant me time,” pleaded he
piteously.

“That, sir, would be contrary to all precedents in business,”
rejoined Greifmann, with an icy smile. “Our house never deviates
from the paths of hereditary custom.”

“I could pay in ten thousand florins at once,” said Erdblatt once
more. “Within eight weeks I could place fifty thousand more in your
hands.”

“I am very sorry, but, as I said, this plan is impracticable,”
opposed Greifmann. “Yet I have half a mind to accept those bills,
but only on a certain condition.”

“I am willing to indemnify you in any way possible,” assured the
tobacco merchant, with a feeling of relief.

“Hear the condition stated in a few words. As you know, I live
exclusively for business, never meddle in city or state affairs.
Moreover, labor devoted by me to political matters would be
superfluous, in view of the undisputed sway of liberalism.
Nevertheless, I am forced to learn, to my astonishment, that
progress itself neglects to take talent and ability into account,
and exhibits the most aristocratic nepotism. The remarkable
abilities of Mr. Shund are lost, both to the city and state, merely
because Mr. Shund’s fellow-citizens will not elect him to offices
of trust. This is unjust; to speak plainly, it is revolting, when
one considers that there is many a brainless fellow in the City
Council who has no better recommendation than to have descended
from an old family, and whose sole ability lies in chinking ducats
which he inherited but never earned. Shund is a genius compared
with such boobies; but genius does not pass current here, whilst
incapacity does. Now, if you will use your influence to have
Shund nominated for mayor of this city, and for delegate to the
legislature, and guarantee his election, you may consider the bills
of exchange as covered.”

Not even the critical financial trouble by which he was beset could
prevent an expression of overwhelming surprise in the tobacco man’s
face.

“I certainly cannot have misunderstood you. You surely mean to
speak of Ex-Treasurer Shund, of this place?”

“The same--the very same.”

“But, Mr. Greifmann, perhaps you are not aware--”

“I am aware of everything,” interrupted the banker. “I know that
many years ago Mr. Shund awkwardly put his hand into the city
treasury, that he was sent to the penitentiary, that people imagine
they still see him in the penitentiary garb, and, finally, that
in the stern judgment of the same people he is a low usurer. But
usury has been abrogated by law. The theft Shund has not only made
good by restoring what he stole, but also atoned for by years of
imprisonment. Now, why is a man to be despised who has indeed done
wrong, but not worse than others whose sins have long since been
forgotten? Why condemn to obscurity a man that possesses the most
brilliant kind of talent for public offices? The contempt felt for
Shund on the part of a population who boast of their progress is
unaccountable--may be it would not be far from the truth to believe
that some influential persons are jealous of the gifted man,”
concluded the banker reproachfully.

“Pardon me, please! The _thief_ and _usurer_ it might perhaps be
possible to elect,” conceded Erdblatt. “But Shund’s disgusting and
shameless amours could not possibly find grace with the moral sense
of the public.”

“Yes, and the origin of this _moral sense_ is the sixth commandment
of the Jew Moses,” said the millionaire scornfully. “I cannot
understand how you, a man of advanced views, can talk in this
manner.”

“You misinterpret my words,” rejoined the leader deprecatingly.
“To me, personally, Shund exists neither as a usurer nor as a
debauchee. Christian modes of judging are, of course, relegated
among absurdities that we have triumphed over. In this instance,
however, there is no question of my own personal conviction, but
of the conviction of the great multitude. And in the estimation of
the multitude unbridled liberty is just as disgraceful as the free
enjoyment of what, _morally_, is forbidden.”

“You are altogether in the same rut as Schwefel.”

“Have you spoken with Schwefel on this subject?” asked Erdblatt
eagerly.

“Only a moment ago. Mr. Schwefel puts greater trust in his power
than you do in yours, for he agreed to have Shund elected mayor and
delegate. Mr. Schwefel only wishes you and Sand would lend your
aid.”

“With pleasure! If Schwefel and Sand are won over, then all is
right.”

“From a hint of Schwefel’s,” said Greifmann, taking up a
five-hundred-florin banknote from the table, “I infer that the
election canvass is accompanied with some expense. Accept this
small contribution. As for the bills of exchange, the matter is to
rest by our agreement.”

Erdblatt also backed out of the cabinet, bowing repeatedly as he
retreated.

Seraphin rushed from his hiding-place in great excitement.

“Why, Greifmann, this is terrible! Do you call that advanced
education? Do you call that progress? Those are demoralized,
infernal beings. I spit upon them! And are these the rabble that
are trying to arrogate to themselves the leadership of the German
people?--rabble who ignore the Deity, the human soul, and morality
generally! But what completely unsettles me is your connivance--at
least, your connection with these infernal spirits.”

“But be easy, my good fellow, be easy! _I_ connected with tobacco
and straw?”

“At all events, you have been ridiculing the ten commandments and
Christian morals and faith.”

“Was I not obliged to do so in order to show how well the thief,
usurer, and filthy dog Shund harmonizes with the spirit of
progress? Can he who wishes to make use of the devil confer with
the devil in the costume of light? Not at all; he must clothe
himself in the mantle of darkness. And you must not object to my
using the demon Progress for the purpose of winning your span
of horses and saving my stakes. Let us not have a disgraceful
altercation. Consider me as a stage actor, whilst you are a
spectator that is being initiated into the latest style of popular
education. Ah, do you hear? The last one is drawing near. Be
pleased to vanish.”

The third leader, house-builder Sand, appeared. The greater
portion of his face is hidden by a heavy black beard; in one hand
he carries a stout bamboo cane; and it is only after having fully
entered, that he deliberately removes his hat.

“I wish you a pleasant morning, Mr. Greifmann. You have sent for
me: what do you want?”

The banker slowly raised his eyes from the latest exchange list to
the rough features of the builder, and remembering that the man had
risen up from the mortar board to his present position, and had
gained wealth and influence through personal energy, he returned
the short greeting with a friendly inclination of the head.

“Will you have the goodness to be seated, Mr. Sand?”

The man of the black beard took a seat, and, having noticed the
handsome collection of banknotes, his coarse face settled itself
into a not very attractive grin.

“I want to impart to you my intention of erecting a villa on the
Sauerberg, near the middle of our estate at Wilheim,” continued the
millionaire.

“Ah, that is a capital idea!” And the man of the beard became
very deeply interested. “The site is charming, no view equal to
it; healthy location, vineyards round about, your own vineyards
moreover. I could put you up a gem there.”

“That is what I think, Mr. Sand! My father, who has been abroad for
the last three months, is quite satisfied with the plan; in fact,
he is the original projector of it.”

“I know, I know! your father has a taste for what is grand. We
shall try and give him satisfaction, which, by the bye, is not so
very easy. But you have the money, and fine fortunes can command
fine houses.”

“What I want principally is to get you to draw a plan, consulting
your own taste and experience in doing so. You will show it to me
when ready, and I will tell you whether I like it or not.”

“Very well, Mr. Greifmann, very well! But I must know beforehand
what amount of money you are willing to spend upon the house; for
all depends upon the cost.”

“Well,” said the millionaire, after some deliberation, “I am
willing to spend eighty thousand florins on it, and something over,
perhaps.”

“Ah, well, for that amount of money something can be put
up--something small but elegant. Are you in a hurry with the
building?”

“To be sure! As soon as the matter is determined upon, there is to
be no delay in carrying it out.”

“I am altogether of your opinion, Mr. Greifmann--I agree with you
entirely!” assented the builder, with an increase of animation. “I
shall draw up a plan for a magnificent house. If it pleases you,
all hands shall at once be set at work, and by next autumn you
shall behold the villa under roof.”

“Of course you are yourself to furnish all the materials,” added
the banker shrewdly. “When once the plan will have been settled
upon, you can reach me an estimate of the costs, and I will pay
over the money.”

“To be sure, Mr. Greifmann--that is the way in which it should be
done, Mr. Greifmann!” responded the man of the black beard with a
satisfied air. “You are not to have the slightest bother. I shall
take all the bother upon myself.”

“That, then, is agreed upon! Well, now, have you learned yet who is
to be the next mayor?”

“Why, yes, the old one is to be re-elected!”

“Not at all! We must have an economical and intelligent man for
next mayor. Of this I am convinced, because the annual deficit in
the treasury is constantly on the increase.”

“Alas, ’tis true! And who is the man of economy and intelligence to
be?”

“Mr. Hans Shund.”

“Who--what? Hans Shund? The thief, the usurer, the convict, the
debauchee? Who has been making a fool of you?”

“Pardon me, sir! I never suffer people to make a fool of me!”
rejoined the banker with much dignity.

“Yes, yes--somebody has dished up a canard for you. What, that
good-for-nothing scoundrel to be elected mayor! Never in his life!
Hans Shund mayor--really that is good now--ha, ha!”

“Mr. Sand, you lead me to suspect that you belong to the party of
Ultramontanes.”

“Who--_I_ an Ultramontane? That is ridiculous! Sir, I am at
the head of the men of progress--I am the most liberal of the
liberals--that, sir, is placarded on every wall.”

“How come you, then, to call Mr. Sand a good-for-nothing scoundrel?”

“Simply for this reason, because he is a usurer and a dissipated
wretch.”

“Then I am in the right, after all! Mr. Sand belongs to the ranks
of the _pious_,” jeered the banker.

“Mr. Greifmann, you are insulting!”

“Nothing is further from my intention than to wound your feelings,
my dear Mr. Sand! Be cool and reasonable. Reflect, if you please.
Shund, you say, puts out money at thirty per cent. and higher, and
therefore he is a usurer. Is it not thus that you reason?”

“Why, yes! The scoundrel has brought many a poor devil to ruin by
means of his Jewish speculations!”

“Your pious indignation,” commended the millionaire, “is
praiseworthy, because it is directed against what you mistake
for a piece of scoundrelism. Meanwhile, please to calm down your
feelings, and let your reason resume her seat of honor so that you
may reflect upon my words. You know that in consequence of recent
legislation every capitalist is free to put out money at what rate
soever he pleases. Were Shund to ask _fifty_ per cent., he would
not be stepping outside of the law. He would then be, as he now is,
an honest man. Would he not?”

“It is as you say, so far as the law is concerned!”

“Furthermore, if after prudently weighing, after wisely
calculating, the _pros_ and _cons_, Shund concludes to draw in
his money, and in consequence many a poor devil is ruined, as you
say, surely no reasonable man will on that account condemn legally
authorized speculation!”

“Don’t talk to me of legally authorized speculation. The law must
not legalize scoundrelism; but whosoever by cunning usury brings
such to ruin is and ever will be a scoundrel.”

“Why a scoundrel, Mr. Sand? Why, pray?”

“Surely it is clear enough--because he has ruined men!”

“Ruined! How? Evidently through means legally permitted. Therefore,
according to your notion the law _does_ legalize scoundrelism; at
least it allows free scope to scoundrels. Mr. Sand, no offence
intended: I am forced, however, once more to suspect that you do,
perhaps without knowing it, belong to the _pious_. For they think
and feel just as you do, that is, in accordance with so-called
laws of morality, religious views and principles. That, judged by
such standards, Shund is a scoundrel who hereafter will be burned
eternally in hell, I do not pretend to dispute.”

“At bottom, I believe you are in the right, after all--yes, it is
as you say,” conceded the leader reluctantly. “Ahem--and yet I
am surprised at your being in the right. I would rather, however
that you were in the right, because I really do not wish to blame
anybody or judge him by the standard of the Ultramontanes.”

“That tone sounds genuinely progressive, and it does honor to
your judgment!” lauded the banker. “Again, you called Shund a
good-for-nothing scoundrel because he loves the company of women.
Mr. Sand, do you mean to vindicate the sacred nature of the
sixth commandment in an age that has emancipated itself from the
thrall of symbols and has liberated natural inclinations from the
servitude of a bigoted priesthood?--you, who profess to stand at
the head and front of the party of progress?”

“It is really odd--you are in the right again! Viewed from
the standpoint of the times, contemplated in the light of
modern intellectual culture, Shund must not really be called
good-for-nothing for being a usurer and an admirer of women.”

“Shund’s qualifications consequently fit him admirably for
the office of mayor. He will be economical, he will make the
expenditures balance with the revenue. Even in the legislature,
Shund’s principles and experience will be of considerable service
to the country and to the cause of progress. I am so much in favor
of the man that I shall award you the building of my villa only on
condition that you will use all your influence for the election of
Shund to the office of mayor and to the legislature.”

“Mayor--assemblyman, too--ahem! that will be hard to do.”

“By no means! Messrs. Schwefel and Erdblatt will do their best for
the same end.”

“Is that so, really? In that case there is no difficulty! Mr.
Greifmann, consider me the man that will build your villa.”

“The canvass will cost you some money--here, take this,
my contribution to the noble cause,” and he gave him a
five-hundred-florin banknote.

“That will suffice, Mr. Greifmann, that will suffice. The plan you
cannot have until after the election, for Shund will give us enough
to do.”

“Everything is possible to you, Mr. Sand! Whatever Cæsar, Lepidus,
and Antony wish at Rome, that same must be.”

“Very true, very true.” And the last of the leaders disappeared.

“I would never have imagined the like to be possible,” spoke the
landholder, entering. “They all regard Shund as a low, abandoned
wretch, and yet material interest determines every one of them
to espouse the cause of the unworthy, contemptible fellow. It is
extraordinary! It is monstrous!”

“You cannot deny that progress is eminently liberal,” replied the
banker, laughing.

“Nor will I deny that it possesses neither uprightness nor
conscience, nor, especially, morals,” rejoined the young man with
seriousness.

Carl saw with astonishment Seraphin’s crimsoned cheeks and flaming
eyes.

“My dear fellow, times and men must be taken as they are, not as
they should be,” said the banker. “Interest controls both men and
things. At bottom, it has ever been thus. In the believing times
of the middle ages, men’s interest lay in heaven. All their acts
were done for heaven; they considered no sacrifice as too costly.
Thousands quit their homes and families to have their skulls cloven
by the Turks, or to be broiled by the glowing heats of Palestine.
For the interests of heaven, thousands abandoned the world, fed on
roots in deserts, gave up all the pleasures of life. At present,
the interest lies in this world, in material possessions, in money.
Do not therefore get angry at progress if it refuses to starve
itself or to be cut down by Moorish scimitars, but, on the other
hand, has strength of mind and self-renunciation enough to promote
Hans Shund to honors and offices.”

Seraphin contemplated Greifmann, who smiled, and hardly knew how to
take him.

“An inborn longing for happiness has possession of all men,” said
he with reserve. “The days of faith were ruled by moral influences;
the spirit of this age is ruled by base matter. Between the moral
struggles of the past strong in faith, and the base matter of the
present, there is, say what you will, a notable difference.”

“Doubtless!” conceded Greifmann. “The middle ages were
incontestably the grandest epoch of history. I am actuated by the
honest intention of acquainting you with the active principles of
the present.”

“Yes, and you have been not immaterially aided by luck. But for the
order from Vienna for straw hats, the bills of exchange, and that
villa, you would hardly have attained your aim.”

Greifmann smiled.

“The straw-hat story is merely a mystification, my dear friend.
When the end will have been reached, when Hans Shund will have been
elected mayor and assemblyman, a few lines will be sufficient to
inform Mr. Schwefel that the house in Vienna has countermanded its
order. Nor is any villa to be constructed. I shall pay Sand for his
drawings, and this will be the end of the project. The matter of
the bills of exchange is not a hoax, and I am still free to proceed
against Erdblatt in the manner required by the interests of my
business.”

Seraphin stood before the ingenuous banker, and looked at him
aghast.

“It is true,” said Greifmann gaily, “I have laid out fifteen
hundred florins, but I have done so against one hundred per cent.;
for they are to secure me victory in our wager.”

“Your professional routine is truly admirable,” said Gerlach.

“Not exactly that, but practical, and not at all sentimental, my
friend.”

“I shall take a walk through the garden to get over my
astonishment,” concluded Gerlach; and he walked away from the
astute man of money.


CHAPTER III.

SERAPHIN AND LOUISE.

Sombre spirits flitted about the head of the young man with the
blooming cheeks and light eyes. He was unable to rid himself of
a feeling of depression; for he had taken a step into the domain
of progress, and had there witnessed things which, like slimy
reptiles, drew a cold trail over his warm heart. Trained up on
Christian principles, schooled by enlightened professors of the
faith, and watched over with affectionate vigilance by a pious
mother, Seraphin had had no conception of the state of modern
society. For this reason, both Greifmann _Senior_ and Gerlach
_Senior_ committed a blunder in wishing to unite by marriage three
millions of florins, the owners of which not merely differed,
but were the direct opposites of each other in disposition and
education.

Louise belonged to the class of emancipated females who have
in vain attempted to enhance the worth of noble womanhood by
impressing on their own sex the sterner type of the masculine
gender. In Louise’s opinion, the beauty of woman does not consist
in graceful gentleness, amiable concession and purity, but in
proudly overstepping the bounds set for woman by the innate
modesty of her sex. The beautiful young lady had no idea of the
repulsiveness of a woman who strives to make a man of herself,
but she was sure that the cause and origin of woman’s degradation
is religion. For it was to Eve that God had said: “Thou shalt be
under thy husband’s power, and he shall have dominion over thee.”
Louise considered this decree as revolting, and she detested the
book whose authority among men gives effect to its meaning. On the
other hand, she failed to observe that woman’s sway is powerful
and acknowledged wherever it exerts itself over weak man through
affection and grace. Quite as little did Miss Louise observe
that men assume the stature of giants so soon as women presume
to appear in relation to them strong and manlike. Least of all
did she discover anything gigantic in the kind-hearted Seraphin.
In the consciousness of her fancied superiority of education,
she smiled at the simplicity of his faith, and, as the handsome
young gentleman appeared by no means an ineligible _parti_, she
believed it to be her special task to train her prospective
husband according to her own notions. She imagined this course of
training would prove an easy undertaking for a lady whose charms
had been uniformly triumphant over the hearts of gentlemen. But one
circumstance appeared to her unaccountable--that was Seraphin’s
cold-bloodedness and unshaken independence. For eight days she had
plied her arts in vain, the most exquisite coquetry had been wasted
to no purpose, even the irresistible fire of her most lovely eyes
had produced no perceptible impression on the impregnable citadel
of the landholder’s heart.

“He is a mere child as yet, the most spotless innocence,” she would
muse hopefully. “He has been sheltered under a mother’s wings like
a pullet, and for this I am beholden to Madame Gerlach, for she has
trained up an obedient husband for me.”

Seraphin sauntered through the walks of the garden, absorbed
in gloomy reflections on the leaders of progress. Their utter
disregard of honor and unparalleled baseness were disgusting to
him as an honorable man, whilst their corruption and readiness
for deeds of meanness were offensive to him as a Christian.
Regarding Greifmann, also, he entertained misgivings. Upon closer
examination, however, the unsuspecting youth thought he discovered
in the banker’s manner of treating the leaders and their principles
a strong infusion of ridicule and irony. Hence, imposed upon by
his own good nature, he concluded that Greifmann ought not in
justice to be ranked among the hideous monstrosities of progress.

With head sunk and rapt in thought, Gerlach strayed indefinitely
amid the flowers and shrubbery. All at once he stood before Louise.
The young lady was seated under a vine-covered arbor; in one hand
she held a book, but she had allowed both hand and book to sink
with graceful carelessness upon her lap. For some time back she had
been observing the thoughtful young man. She had been struck by his
manly carriage and vigorous step, and had come to the conclusion
that his profusion of curling auburn hair was the most becoming
set-off to his handsome countenance. She now welcomed the surprised
youth with a smile so winning, and with a play of eyes and
features so exquisite, that Seraphin, dazzled by the beauty of the
apparition, felt constrained to lower his eyes like a bashful girl.
What probably contributed much to this effect was the circumstance
of his being at the time in a rather vacant and cheerless state of
mind, so that, coming suddenly into the presence of this brilliant
being, he experienced the power of the contrast. She appeared to
him indescribably beautiful, and he wondered that this discovery
had not forced itself upon him before. Unfortunately, the young
gentleman possessed but little of the philosophy which will not
suffer itself to be deceived by seductive appearances, and refuses
to recognize the beautiful anywhere but in its agreement with the
true and good.

Louise perceived in an instant that now was at hand the
long-looked-for fulfilment of her wishes. The certainty which
she felt that the conquest was achieved diffused a bewitching
loveliness over her person. Seraphin, on the other hand, stood
leaning against the arbor, and became conscious with fear and
surprise of a turmoil in his soul that he had never before
experienced.

“I have been keeping myself quiet in this shady retreat,” said she
sweetly, “not wishing to disturb your meditations. Carl’s wager is
a strange one, but it is a peculiarity of my brother’s occasionally
to manifest a relish for what is strange.”

“You are right--strange, very strange!” replied Seraphin, evidently
in allusion to his actual state of mind. The beautiful young lady,
perceiving the allusion, became still more dazzling.

“I should regret very much that the wager were lost by a guest
of ours, and still more that you were deprived of your splendid
racehorses. I will prevail on Carl not to take advantage of his
victory.”

“Many thanks, miss; but I would much rather you would not do so. If
I lose the wager, honor and duty compel me to give up the stakes
to the winner. Moreover, in the event of my losing, there would be
another loss far more severe for me than the loss of my racers.”

“What would that be?” inquired she with some amazement.

“The loss of my good opinion of men,” answered he sadly. “What I
have heard, miss, is base and vile beyond description.” And he
recounted for her in detail what had taken place.

“Such things are new to you, Mr. Seraphin; hence your astonishment
and indignation.”

The youth felt his soul pierced because she uttered not a word of
disapproval against the villany.

“Carl’s object was good,” continued she, “in so far as his
manœuvre has procured you an insight into the principles by which
the world is just now ruled.”

“I would be satisfied to lose the wager a thousand times, and even
more, did I know that the world is not under such rule.”

“It is wrong to risk one’s property for the sake of a delusion,”
said she reprovingly. “And it would be a gross delusion not to
estimate men according to their real worth. A proprietor of fields
and woodland, who, faithful to his calling, leads an existence pure
and in accord with nature’s laws, must not permit himself to be so
far misled by the harmlessness of his own career as to idealize
the human species. For were you at some future day to become more
intimately acquainted with city life and society, you would then
find yourself forced to smile at the views which you once held
concerning the present.”

“Smile at, my dear miss? Hardly. I should rather have to mourn the
destruction of my belief. Moreover, it is questionable whether I
could breathe in an atmosphere which is unhealthy and destructive
of all the genuine enjoyments of life!”

“And what do you look upon as the genuine enjoyments of life?”
asked she with evident curiosity.

He hesitated, and his childlike embarrassment appeared to her most
lovely.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Seraphin! I have been indiscreet, for
such a question is allowable to those only who are on terms of
intimacy.” And the beauty exhibited a masterly semblance of modesty
and amiability. The artifice proved successful, the young man’s
diffidence fled, and his heart opened.

“You possess my utmost confidence, most esteemed Miss Greifmann!
Intercourse with good, or at least honorable, persons appears to me
to be the first condition for enjoying life. How could any one’s
existence be cheerful in the society of people whose character is
naught and whose moral sense expired with the rejection of every
religious principle?”

“Yet perhaps it might, Mr. Seraphin!” rejoined she, with a smile of
imagined superiority. “Refinement, the polished manners of society,
may be substituted for the rigor of religious conviction.”

“Polished manners without moral earnestness are mere hypocrisy,”
answered he decidedly. “A wolf, though enveloped in a thousand
lambskins, still retains his nature.”

“How stern you are!” exclaimed she, laughing. “And what is the
second condition for the true enjoyment of life, Mr. Seraphin?”

“It is evidently the accord of moral consciousness with the behests
of a supreme authority; or to use the ordinary expression, a good
conscience,” answered the millionaire earnestly.

A sneering expression spontaneously glided over her countenance.
She felt the hateful handwriting of her soul in her features,
turned crimson, and cast down her eyes in confusion. The young man
had not observed the expression of mockery, and could not account
for her confusion. He thought he had perhaps awkwardly wounded her
sensitiveness.

“I merely meant to express my private conviction,” said Mr.
Seraphin apologetically.

“Which is grand and admirable,” lauded she.

Her approbation pleased him, for his simplicity failed to detect
the concealed ridicule. After a walk outside of the city which
Gerlach took towards evening, in the company of the brother and
sister, Carl Greifmann made his appearance in Louise’s apartment.

“You have at last succeeded in capturing him,” began he with a
chuckle of satisfaction. “I was almost beginning to lose confidence
in your well-tried powers. This time you seemed unable to keep the
field, to the astonishment of all your acquaintances. They never
knew you to be baffled where the heart of a weak male was to be
won.”

“What are you talking about?”

“About the fat codfish of two million weight whom you have been
successful in angling.”

“I do not understand you, most mysterious brother!”

“You do not understand me, and yet you blush like the skies before
a rainstorm! What means the vermilion of those cheeks, if you do
not understand?”

“I blush, first, on account of my limited understanding, which
cannot grasp your philosophy; and, secondly, because I am amazed at
the monstrous figures of your language.”

“Then I shall have to speak without figures and similes upon a
subject which loses a great deal in the light of bare reality,
which, I might indeed say, loses all, dissolves into vapor, like
will-o’-the-wisps and cloud phantoms before the rising sun. I
hardly know how to mention the subject without figures. I can
hardly handle it except with poetic figures,” exclaimed he gaily,
seating himself in Louise’s rocking-chair, rocking himself.
“Speaking in the commonest prose, my remarks refer to the last
victim immolated to your highness--to the last brand kindled by the
fire of your eyes. To talk quite broadly, I mean the millionaire
and landholder Seraphin Gerlach, who is head and ears in love with
you. Considered from a business and solid point of view, it is
exceedingly flattering for the banker’s brother to see his sister
adored by so considerable a sum of money.”

“Madman, you profane the noblest feelings of the heart,” she
chidingly said, with a smile.

“I am a man of business, my dear child, and am acquainted with no
sanctuary but the exchange. Relations of a tender nature, noble
feelings of the heart, lying as they do without the domain of
speculation, are to me something incomprehensible and not at all
desirable. On the other hand, I entertain for two millions of money
a most prodigious sympathy, and a love that casts the flames of
all your heroes and heroines of romance into the shade. Meanwhile,
my sweet little sister, there are two aspects to everything. An
alliance between our house and two millions of florins claims
admiration, ’tis true; yet it is accompanied with difficulties
which require serious reflection.” The banker actually ceased
rocking and grew serious.

“Might I ask a solution of your enigma?”

“All jesting aside, Louise, this alliance is not altogether free
from risks,” answered he. “Just consider the contrast between
yourself and Seraphin Gerlach’s good nature is touching, and his
credulous simplicity is calculated to excite apprehension. Guided,
imposed upon, entirely bewitched by religious phantasms, he gropes
about in the darkness of superstition. You, on the contrary, sneer
at what Seraphin cherishes as holy, and despise such religious
nonsense. Reflect now upon the enormous contrast between yourself
and the gentleman whom fate and your father’s shrewdness have
selected for your husband. Honestly, I am in dread. I am already
beginning to dream of divorce and every possible tale of scandal,
which would not be precisely propitious for our firm.”

“What contradictions!” exclaimed the beauty with self-reliance.
“You just a moment ago announced my triumph over Seraphin, and now
you proclaim my defeat.”

“Your defeat! Not at all! But I apprehend wrangling and discord in
your married life.”

“Wrangling and discord because Seraphin loves me?”

“No--not exactly--but because he is a believer and you are an
unbeliever; in short, because he does not share your aims and
views.”

“How short-sighted you are! As you conceive of it, love is not a
passion; at most, only, a cool mood which cannot be modified by
the lovers themselves. Your apprehension would be well grounded
concerning that kind of love. But suppose love were something
quite different? Suppose it were a passion, a glowing, dazzling,
omnipotent passion, and that Seraphin really loved me, do you think
that I would not skilfully and prudently take advantage of this
passion? Cannot a woman exert a decisive and directing influence
over the husband who loves her tenderly? I have no fears because I
do not view love with the eyes of a trader. I hope and trust with
the adjurations of love to expel from Seraphin all superstitious
spirits.”

“How sly! Surely nothing can surpass a daughter of Eve in the
matter of seductive arts!” exclaimed he, laughing. “Hem--yes,
indeed, after what I have seen to-day, it is plain that the Adam
Seraphin will taste of the forbidden fruit of ripened knowledge,
persuaded by this tenderly beloved Eve. Look at him: there he
wanders in the shade of the garden, sighing to the rose-bushes,
dreaming of your majesty, and little suspecting that he is
threatened with conversion and redemption from the kingdom of
darkness.”

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




THE NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY AS A BASIS OF HIGHER EDUCATION.

BY F. RAMIERE, S. J.

FROM THE ETUDES RELIGIEUSES.


We have shown what secondary education does for the formation
of man, and how powerfully it is aided by philosophy in the
accomplishment of its task. Secondary education in the soul of the
young man completes the work sketched out by the primary lessons
given to the child; it develops his faculties, teaches him their
use, invests him with full dominion over himself, and prepares him
to carry out, according to his high vocation, the great duty of
life. Philosophy is the necessary complement of this education,
since it is indispensable for the development of the sovereign
faculty, reason, and consequently for the complete formation of the
man, and the perseverance of the Christian.

We might dispense with further proofs of the utility of philosophy,
although we are still very far from having examined it from every
point of view. The man whom primary and secondary education have
placed in possession of his faculties is not destined to live alone
in the world, and employ those admirable instruments wherewith
his Creator has endowed him simply for his own advantage. He is
made to live in society; it is to society he owes, after God, his
existence, his nurture, his instruction, his development, his
physical and moral being, in a word, all that he is. During the
period of his education, he has remained almost passive in its
hands, and has received everything from it. Arrived at the term of
this long career, justice obliges him to set to work to pay back to
it the immense debt he has contracted. Moreover, that which in him
is but a just duty is at the same time a necessary condition of his
dignity and happiness. For, if he does not force himself to utilize
his faculties in the interests of his fellows, those faculties will
infallibly become for him a source of wasting _ennui_ and cruel
torment. If, then, he wishes to become an honorable man, let him
see that he become a useful citizen.

For this purpose a multitude of careers open out before him; for
there is many a way of serving society; and the most useful of all
is not always that whose results are the most immediate, and whose
fruits are the most easily gathered.

Undoubtedly the father of a family who improves his land or devotes
himself laboriously to the exercise of a mechanical profession
accomplishes his whole duty to society; and, if he gives to it
virtuous children, he pays it in overrunning measure the debt
which he has contracted in its regard. We do not deny that these
more humble callings are the most common, and we acknowledge
that to fulfil all their conditions it is enough to have learned
well that divine philosophy which is contained in the maternal
teachings of the church. But a society could never attain a great
development, it could scarcely exist, whose members possessed no
higher knowledge than that which goes to make a good agriculturist,
a diligent workman, or an honest father of a family. Beyond
these common callings there are others more choice which present
themselves to souls more richly endowed. Some more inclined to the
theoretical, rush at the conquest of science; others of a more
practical tendency betake themselves to the study of laws and the
administration of justice. One studies deep the experience of
the past in order to illustrate the present; another would be an
orator, and is ambitious of the triumphs of eloquence; a third
is a poet, and he believes, and believes rightly, that he makes
himself of use enough to his fellows by lifting up their souls to
the contemplation and love of the beautiful. Others, again, feel
themselves called upon from on high to become the representatives
of God before men, and the interpreters to them of his oracular
teachings. We have named the principal careers which lie open
to the young man whose mind has been cultivated by a liberal
education. But to whatever side his choice may bend, he will find
philosophy of an almost indispensable utility for the attainment
of solid success. After having made him a finished man, it will
aid powerfully in making him a true scholar; it will provide the
lawyer, the historian, the orator, the poet, with the seeds of
truth, which each one of them should cause to fructify after his
fashion. In fine, to form the summit of its glory, it will lend to
revelation an invincible arm for the defence of its dogmas; and in
uniting its light to that flowing from this divine torch, it will
form the first and most divine of all sciences--theology. Such in
a few words are the various aspects under which we have still to
present its utility.


NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE FORMATION OF THE SCIENTIST.

I do not ignore to what I expose myself when I dare affirm that
without philosophy there is no true scientist. People will tell me
that therein lies a prejudice of the middle ages, the defence of
which no one can undertake to-day without denying all the progress
which science has made within three centuries. They will sing me
the old song of the panegyrists of Bacon. They will point out to
me the incomparable advance of the physical sciences in modern
times, dating precisely from the day when they shook off the yoke
of metaphysics, and when, laying aside the syllogism which clogged
their march, they claimed a right to their own process and an
independent existence.

I will not stop to discuss the truth of these assertions; but,
accepting them all provisionally, I will maintain my thesis, and,
with God’s help, will prove it.

What is the legitimate conclusion derived from the fact they
oppose to us? It is that the physical sciences are distinct from
philosophy, and that the middle ages were perhaps mistaken in
identifying them too closely with it. But because metaphysics and
physics are distinct sciences, does it follow that the man who
pretends to the title of a scientist can content himself with the
one and neglect the other altogether? Clearly not. Such a man, on
the contrary, condemns himself in despising philosophy to remain
imperfect, not merely as a man, but also as a scientist.

To demonstrate this truth let us define science, and give an exact
account of its conditions.

All knowledge does not deserve the name of science. The animal
knows after a certain fashion; the infant and the idiot know still
more; there is no man so ignorant as not to know an innumerable
multitude of things; but neither the one nor the other possesses
science. Science is, in relation to a certain order of truths,
what philosophy is in relation to man and to God; it is knowledge
reasoned out; that which places in a state of explication the
wherefore of things, to tell of them their essence and their
laws, their causes and their effects, their faculties and their
destinations; to connect their consequences with their principles,
and draw their principles from their consequences: “the knowledge
of things by their causes.” Man is, therefore, a greater scholar
in proportion as he is capable of mounting higher in the region of
principles, and of embracing in a more general conception a greater
number of particular truths. Science indeed is like a luminous
mountain composed of many a height, some more elevated than others.
As we mount, the horizon expands, and we are able to embrace with
the same glance a vaster space. He alone will possess complete
science, and he alone consequently will deserve, in its absolute
sense, the title of a man of science, who arrived at its loftiest
height, and grasping in its infinite simplicity the first principle
of all things, shall behold in the splendor of this focus all the
rays which burst forth from it and spread abroad to illumine the
whole sphere of truth.

But this complete science is not within the reach of mortal man,
and in its absolute perfection belongs alone to God.

Fettered by his nature, and fettered still more by the conditions
of his earthly existence, man can only aspire to a partial
science; and it is left him to choose in this immense sphere that
particular ground whereon to pursue his investigations with more
profit. The entire field is open to us. “God,” says the Scripture,
“has delivered the world to the searchings and the disputes of
men.” In bestowing on us the faculty of finding a reason for
things, he has authorized us to make use of this faculty in regard
to all the truths of the natural order, provided we see on all
sides the boundary of the mysterious, which reminds us of our
essential infirmity.

But though every science is equally lawful, they are not all
equally useful. We may divide them into three classes, which
form the three circles of the great sphere of truth. There are
the sciences which concern the inferior world, the mathematical
and physical sciences; those whose object is humanity, the
psychological and moral sciences; thirdly, those which concern the
higher world, the science of first principles and of the primal
cause of all things. This last, which holds the centre of the great
sphere of truth, is called metaphysics; and it is joined to the
psychological and moral sciences, which are drawn from the same
principles, under the common name of philosophy.

This simple statement of the place which belongs to philosophy
in the hierarchy of the sciences is enough to prove our thesis,
namely, the necessity of philosophy for the formation of the true
_savant_.

What man, in fact, is truly worthy of this name, unless it be he
who is possessed of the necessary science? But I would ask: Does
that man possess this science, does he know what he ought to know,
who possesses a perfect knowledge of the inferior world, and who
ignores himself; who has passed his life away in studying the
laws of bodies, yet has never given a thought to his own nature
and the destiny of his own soul? Tell me that that man is a great
physicist, and I will not gainsay it; but I can never consent to
your bestowing on him the title of a man of science. The ancient
Greek unites with me in denouncing an error so opposed to the
dignity of the human intelligence. “Know thyself.” Such was the
precept impressed on all those who went to Delphi to consult the
oracle of Apollo. The gate of the true temple of wisdom opens
only to those who have put this recommendation into practice.
But wisdom is the true science. The true scholar is not he who
knows something, but he who knows enough of it. No one thinks of
praising unreservedly a statue whose head and bust are scarcely
outlined, and whose lower members alone are finished. It is to
the whole, it is above all to the principal parts, that we look,
when we wish to estimate a work definitely. Reason commands that
we act in the same manner when we wish to judge of the absolute
value of an intelligence. As there are for a people liberties
which are necessary, so is there also for a man knowledge which
is indispensable, of his own nature, his origin, and his destiny;
and he who is deprived of this, although he possess all sorts of
superfluous knowledge, cannot pretend to the title of a man of
science.

To this first motive for the necessity of philosophy derived from
its object we are able to add another deduced from the very idea
of science. Science, we have said, is the knowledge of things by
their principles. Its perfection consists in attaching particular
truths to truths which are more general, which comprise them, and
which enable the intelligence to catch them at a single glance.
But this unity, which forms the perfection of the sciences, and
which each of them establishes among the particular truths which
constitute their several objects, it is the province of philosophy
to establish among the sciences themselves. Metaphysics, in fact,
which is the principal part of philosophy, has for its special
object not the study of particular truths, but of those general
principles which throw a light upon the other sciences. It is then
their necessary complement, and their indispensable crown. Set in
the very centre of the great sphere of knowledge, it is to the
other sciences the polar star, whereon they must turn their eyes
in order to see their way. It points out to each one of them the
relation of the truths which constitute their special object with
the primary truth which is their common centre. The geometrician
and the physicist, who occupy themselves exclusively with the
relations of numbers and the laws of bodies, are like explorers
voyaging in regions where the disc of the sun is never seen, placed
without the power of tracing to their luminous focus the rays of
truth which their studies permit them to catch.

But far beyond this, philosophy alone can make the geometrician
or the physicist acquainted with the inner essence of the objects
which form the special material of their studies. Geometry analyzes
the relations of magnitudes, but it does not seek to give an
account of the very idea of magnitude: natural philosophy evolves
from experiments the laws of bodies; but it cannot, by induction
at least, which is its special process, arrive at a knowledge of
the essence of bodies. Philosophy alone scrutinizes, as far as it
is possible for human reason so to do, the mystery of that inner
essence by which each thing is what it is. Philosophy is therefore
necessary for the completion of the special sciences, and to
furnish scholars with the knowledge of their different objects.

Lastly, a fourth and still more incontestable motive for the
necessity of philosophy for the formation of the true scientist
is deduced from the scientific education of the intelligence,
which philosophy alone is capable of undertaking. One of the most
important parts of philosophy is logic; that is, the science of
reasoning, and of the different processes by means of which the
human intelligence can find truth. These processes are not only
those which philosophy avails itself of, but also those which
obtain among the other sciences. It belongs to philosophy, and
to philosophy alone, to study their nature, to fix their laws,
to prevent their wandering. The other sciences borrow these
processes from it; they make use of them; but they would depart
from their object if they studied them in themselves. One cannot,
then, dispute the utility of philosophy for the formation of
the scientist, without maintaining an evident absurdity; to
wit, that it is useless for the workman to obtain a knowledge
of the instrument he uses in the exercise of his craft. Who can
fail to see that, without a profound knowledge of the different
intellectual processes, the scientist is exposed to a double
danger--on the one hand, to the danger of deceiving himself in the
use of the special process which is proper to him; on the other,
to the danger of exaggerating its importance, and not holding in
sufficient estimation those processes equally legitimate which
are in use among other sciences? The first of these dangers is to
be feared, above all, in the inductive sciences. Induction is a
mode of reasoning perfectly legitimate in itself; but of all the
intellectual processes it is the one which is most easily abused,
and which, pushed beyond its just limits, may lead to the gravest
of errors.

The mathematical sciences which work by equation are not equally
exposed to the danger of diverging from their track, but they
threaten with a still greater peril the mind of the scholar whom
the study of philosophy has not set on his guard against the
too exclusive influence of this process. Equation, as its name
indicates, does not pass from one truth to another, but from a like
to a like, from the expression of a relation of number or magnitude
to another simpler expression of the same relation. It is not,
then, surprising that this process offers to the mind an exactness
far more easy of comprehension than that by means of which we
are enabled to grasp moral truths and give ourselves a reason
for our own nature. The philosophic mathematician will take this
difference perfectly into account, and his progress in the science
of numbers will hinder him in no wise from seizing upon substantial
truths. But the man who all his life long has occupied himself
with nothing save the study of mathematics is very much exposed to
becoming incapable of comprehending that which is not demonstrated
by equation; and he will experience a greater estrangement and
inaptitude for the science of God and of himself in proportion as
he advances further in the science of the inferior world.

In good faith, can we see progress in this? Is it not, on the
contrary, a degradation, not only from the moral, but also from
the intellectual point of view? Has not the absence of a sound
philosophy stood as much in the way of that man’s scientific
elevation as of his moral greatness? Though he may have become
a more able manipulator of formulas, he surely has not become a
greater _savant_. Nothing, on the contrary, is more calculated to
cramp and mutilate the faculties of the soul than this exclusive
concentration on one of the collateral objects of its activity. In
the same way as a limb which is never set in motion wastes away
and becomes paralyzed, so the powers of the soul cannot cease to
act without losing their vigor. Such is the state to which a too
exclusive study of what are called the exact sciences reduces
certain minds: these are the minds whose higher faculties have
been wasted. All their activity is turned to one side; the eye
of their intelligence is so constructed for the lesser light
of equation, that, when they rise from the subterranean world
of geometrical abstractions to enter into the region of moral
realities and into the world of souls, they are dazed, and can
see naught but darkness. True it is that they are much enamored
of their blindness, and attribute it to excess of light. Fain to
acknowledge that their formulas, the only legitimate arguments
according to them, are powerless to solve the great moral problems,
they suppress those problems with the declaration that it is folly
in human reason to trouble itself with them, and that for him who
wishes to ascertain truth and possess certainty it is enough to
study the relations of numbers and the laws of bodies. Such is true
science in the eyes of the disciples of Auguste Comte. These men
are perfectly logical. They adopt the only means to ensure their
title to be really scientific men without the aid of philosophy;
they suppress philosophy altogether, and suppress consequently its
object, that is, the human soul and God, the beginning and the
end of things. With adversaries of this stamp I refuse to dispute.
I can only appeal to their conscience against the disdain which
their lips affect for the formidable questions whose suppression
they in vain decree. They exist in spite of them; and wherever they
go they carry about in themselves the problems which they refuse
to examine. As for those for whom God and the soul have still a
meaning, I believe I have said enough to compel them to admit
that no one has a right to the title of a wise man so long as he
ignores the science which learns all that reason can know of those
grand objects, and that the other sciences when separated from it
are often more hurtful than useful to the real improvement of the
intellect.

I might go still further; and, coming back to the concession
which I appeared to make in favor of the loud-voiced preachers of
the exact sciences, I stand on perfectly firm ground in denying
that the excessive importance which a very great number of minds
bestows on them, and the exclusive study to which they give
themselves up, are for the sciences themselves a condition of
progress. What this study can produce is able practitioners, who
will solve successfully problems whose data somebody has already
furnished them; the artisans of science, who may build up with
skill the edifice whose plan they find traced out beforehand;
watchful pilots, who by the aid of their compass and marine chart
may guide their ship safely into port. But the geniuses capable of
discovering new lands, of opening up to science new horizons, you
will never find among the minds who have only learnt to navigate
by the compass of equation. Not by the aid of formulas are great
discoveries made; they are the effect of that sort of divination
which those intelligences possess which are accustomed to raise
themselves in all things to the most general principles, and grasp
in the variety of phenomena the analogy of laws. If Kepler had only
proceeded by the aid of formulas, he would never have discovered
the laws of worlds; and Leibnitz would undoubtedly have been a far
less distinguished geometrician had he not been an equally eminent
philosopher.

We may, then, affirm that the study of philosophy--which is
necessary to enlarge the mind of the scholar--is of immense utility
in the advancement of the sciences, even of those very ones which
seem to have the least connection with this queen of sciences.


II.

NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE FORMATION OF THE JURISCONSULT.

If it is thus with the sciences whose objects are distinct from
that of philosophy, what shall we say of jurisprudence, which
treats of the rights and duties of the members of human society?
Here the connection is much more direct, since the object which
we are about to indicate is precisely that which moral philosophy
treats of. Between the two sciences there is no other difference
than this: while moral philosophy treats only of essential rights
and duties, that is to say, of those which result from the very
nature of man, and depend on the necessary will of the Creator,
jurisprudence has for its more particular object those rights which
are derived immediately from the civil authority, and which have
been established by a positive law. But who does not see that this
second species of rights and duties presupposes the first and leans
upon it for its necessary support? In order to proceed rationally
to the study of the acts of civil authority, and take into account
the duties which it imposes, we must know whence proceeds this
authority, from whom does it hold the right of making laws, what
is its mission, and how far does its power extend. We must know
also what is law, what are its conditions, when it begins and
when it ceases to compel, what are the causes which dispense with
its observance, what the objects to which its provisions should
extend. Where shall we seek the solving of these questions, and of
many others which form the necessary preliminary of all rational
jurisprudence, unless from philosophy? Open the most celebrated
treatises; the _Treatise on Laws_ by Domat, for instance, and see
if he is ashamed to borrow from the metaphysicians their principles
and their definitions. By how many eminent jurisconsults has the
_Treatise on Laws_ of Suarez been used? How often have his general
theories, though altogether removed from the different special
legislations, served, nevertheless, as the connecting clue to lead
them out of the labyrinth of their provisions, and furnished the
most precious indications for the determination of the rights which
they only defined imperfectly?

More than ever has it become necessary in our days to establish
solidly, in the minds of those who are destined to make laws or
watch over their execution, these fundamental notions on the
origin, the end, and the extent of civil authority, and on the
conditions of its exercise. For one must be blind not to comprehend
that from the ignorance and reversing of these notions springs the
overturning of modern societies. Strange it is that public order,
which has never had to withstand such radical attacks as in these
our days, should find its worst foes, not in those who deny the
legitimacy of law, but, on the contrary, in the very men who have
exaggerated beyond measure the power of the law. What in effect is
that system but socialism, according to which we must recognize no
other right, no other duty, save such as emanate from the social
will; which extends to everything the power of the law; and which,
grinding under this pitiless roller every natural right and every
relation of property and family, leaves nothing to subsist before
the state, save isolated individualities? Since the hand of God
first founded human society, never has an error so fatal to its
existence sprung up. Yet this error, since we must confess it,
has had for its upholders, through many ages, a great number of
jurisconsults, who have done their best to establish the principles
on which it leans, detesting all the while the consequences
which it deduces from them. In place of borrowing from a sound
philosophy the true notions with regard to the mission of civil
authority, they are pleased to give it an extension without limits,
not perceiving that they thereby impose on it an overwhelming
responsibility, and that in lessening the rights which should
give it equilibrium, they weaken at the same time its solidity.
Alas! how many “men of order,” how many grave jurisconsults, are
in our days completely socialistic in their ideas, and yet fail
to perceive that their doctrines only furnish that party, whose
criminal efforts they oppose with all the force that is in them,
with arms which are only too powerful!

Philosophy is not only useful to the jurisconsult in furnishing
him with the general notions on the origin, end, and exercise of
legislative power; in addition, it throws a light over the detail
of laws, atones for their deficiencies, fixes their uncertainties,
reconciles their opposition, and by discovering the motives of
their provisions, determines the limits within which they ought to
be restrained.

The written law, in fact, is not enough for itself. Its end is
not to promulgate all duties. There are a great number, and they
are the most essential, which are anterior to it, and which the
finger of God has graven on the soul of every man coming into this
world, and which his Eternal Word promulgates in the depth of every
conscience. It is on this unwritten law that human society leans;
it is only in virtue of the rights and duties of which it is the
source that men have been able to unite themselves into different
groups and establish civil societies. Unless they had been
previously submitted the one to the other by some obligation, they
would never have bound themselves by any contract; their agreements
would have been determined by convenience; they would never have
believed in duties. The civil law presupposes, then, a law anterior
and superior to it, by which all the necessary relations of men are
defined with a sovereign authority, since it is the authority of
God himself, and with an irresistible clearness, since it is the
very light of reason. The mission of the human legislator consists
merely in adding to the essential duties, which the natural law
prescribes for all men, those which result from the constitution
of the different groups which form civil societies. It is the
natural law which bids man love his fellows and co-operate for
their happiness; the civil law, supporting itself on this general
obligation, determines the particular services which the citizens
owe one another for the common defence of their interests. The
natural law establishes the family, and promulgates the essential
rights of parents and children; the civil law surrounds the
exercise of these rights by the guarantees necessary to certify
their existence, to ward off the dangers which threaten them, to
ensure their stability, and prevent their conflict. The natural law
lays the foundation of property, in bestowing on each man the fruit
of his labor, and commanding him to provide for his own future and
that of his children; but it belongs to the civil law to determine
the necessary forms for the authentication of the acquisition
and transfer of property, and to prevent this right, which is so
necessary to social order, from becoming a source of disorder.

We see, then, that in all its provisions the civil law presupposes
the natural law, of which it is but the complement and final
determination. The rights which it establishes are real rights
beyond doubt; they are sacred and inviolable rights, which divine
justice, the protector of all order, takes under its guarantee,
and for which it reserves a sanction as eternal as for the rights
of which it is the immediate source: but nevertheless these are
but secondary rights, which are only binding so long as they are
conformable with the rights which are preordained, and lose all
their force from the moment that they become contrary to them; for
there is no such thing as right against right, as Bossuet has so
well said. Whence it follows that no man can acquire a complete and
sure knowledge of civil legislation, unless he has first of all
made a serious study of that part of philosophy which is called
_natural right_.

But it is clear that this moral and practical part of philosophy
does not subsist alone; it is only the consequence of principles
established in the speculative and metaphysical part; it is, then,
philosophy in its entirety which he ought to study with the most
laborious attention who destines himself for the teaching or the
practice of jurisprudence. There alone will he find the final
reason of human laws: thence will he draw those great principles
to which he ought to go back at all times when he wishes to solve
one of those difficult cases which the civil law has not foreseen,
or for which she has furnished insufficient data. It will often
happen that two laws appear in opposition, and right will clash
against right. To whom shall we turn to reconcile these apparent
or real antinomies, which are found in the letter of the law? To
whom, unless to the supreme lawgiver, of whom the framers of laws
are but the interpreters; to the spirit of the law, to that eternal
reason whose oracular decisions philosophy records? Unhappy the
jurisconsult who, before investing himself with the toga of the
magistracy, or taking upon himself the defence of the rights of
his fellows, shall not have entered into the sanctuary where these
luminous oracles are expounded by the mouth of sages, and who
persuades himself that the letter of the code is enough to enable
him to acquit himself of his difficult functions! The letter is
a useful instrument undoubtedly, an instrument necessary even,
indispensable; but it is nothing more than instrument. To hit its
mark it requires to be ably handled. Philosophy alone gives this
power and freedom in the management of the written law, because it
alone shows its end, mechanism, and motives. Guided by its light,
the true jurisconsult will advance with confidence, and apply the
law with intelligence; he will resolve it into its different parts,
take in his hands the links that bind them together, and show their
connection with the different problems, whose complexity rendered
their solution more difficult. The superficial jurisconsult, on the
contrary, unaided by the torch of philosophy, will always grope
upon the earth when he seeks to penetrate the inner mechanism of
laws and the essence of things; as the law cannot foresee the
diversity of particular cases, he will ever be embarrassed in the
application of its general provisions; a slave to the letter, he
allows himself to be guided by, instead of guiding it, as every
good workman ought to guide his instrument. If he strives to free
himself from it, and lift himself above it, it is only to wander
at haphazard in the region of guesswork. So he goes on, pushed
from one extreme to another, not fleeing a servile application of
the written law, more or less opposed to its spirit, and always
uncertain, only to lose himself in conjecture more uncertain and
more dangerous still; in place of being the defender and the
minister of justice, he will too often be its executioner, and will
verify but too faithfully the truth of that saying: “The letter
without the spirit can only be a principle of death.”


III.

UTILITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE FORMATION OF THE HISTORIAN.

History is not a science properly so-called, since it only occupies
itself with contingent facts, and does not pretend to deduce
those facts from first principles by any necessary connection.
Differing from the physical world, where phenomena seemingly the
most accidental are the effect of constant laws, the moral world
is the product of human liberty, acting under the control of the
Divine Providence in all the spontaneity of its expansion. History,
which presents us with the faithful tableaux of this world, must
refuse therefore to admit into its process that severe order which
constitutes science; and if at times in the recital of human acts
it can point out to us the accomplishment of the moral law, far
more frequently does it show the most flagrant and persistent
violation of it.

Must we say, then, that history ought to resign itself to
presenting to the mind a mere disconnected and aimless chaos of
facts, and that it cannot seek to cast on its recitals the light
of principles, and give to them that order and that unity without
which there is nothing truly beautiful? Who dare say this? To what
purpose would the study of history serve us if it were nothing else
than an incoherent tableau of the caprices of human liberty? In
place of being one of the most useful studies for the formation of
the mind and heart of a young man, it would be nothing but an idle
pastime and dangerous food for curiosity. Instead of illumining the
present by the light of the past, it would only serve to transmit
to the present generations the consequence of the scandals of the
generation which went before; in place of pointing out a God still
working in the world and thus becoming a school for religion, it
would be simply a school for atheism, in permitting us to see in
the moral world nothing but human liberty abandoned to itself, a
worthy emulation of that blind and impious science which in the
physical world would show us nothing save a nature self-produced,
self-acting by its own power.

History, then, is a study truly worthy of man; with a power to
charm his intellect and make a beneficial impression on his heart,
only so long as it marches ever under the light of principles, and
keeps its eyes ever fixed on the moral laws, to show where they
agree or where they clash with the facts with whose recital it is
charged. That is to say, history cannot fulfil its mission without
calling in philosophy to its aid; and, however able a writer may
be in the narration of facts, he can never merit the title of
historian if he is not a philosopher.

Not that I wish to bring myself forward here as the defender of
the _philosophy of history_, as understood by the greater portion
of modern historians. I know well that this pretended science,
so vaunted in our days, is one of the deadliest engines of war
which impiety has set in action in its attack on the church. The
philosophy of history thus understood is to true history, such
as St. Augustine and Bossuet taught, what the philosophy of the
sophist is to the philosophy of reason. I cannot help, therefore,
repudiating with all my power this word, if they persist in giving
it the sense which Voltaire, who first introduced it, gave, or the
still more impious sense which the pantheistic school gives it. I
maintain that there is no philosophy of history if you understand
thereby the fatalist development of human activity, after certain
fixed formulas as necessary as those which govern the movements of
matter; such a philosophy of history is nothing else than a denial
of the human soul and of God, the legitimizing of all crime, the
exciting of all the worst passions, the overthrow of all society,
that is to say, the destruction of all philosophy and of all
history.

But the false philosophy of fatalism and pantheism is not the only
one, thank God, which can be applied to history. There is also a
true philosophy of history, which shows us God glorifying himself
in the reparation of the disorders of the moral world after a
manner as admirable in its kind as is the maintenance of the order
of the physical world. If he showed his power and wisdom, when with
sovereign hand he caused the splendors of the heavens to radiate
from the womb of chaos with the harmony of the stars and the life
of nature, how much wiser and more powerful does he not seem to
us when we behold him making use of a chaos a thousand times more
rebellious, the chaos of the passions and perverseness of humanity,
in order to produce the most beautiful of all his works--the
manifestation of his truth and the triumph of his goodness!

It is this sovereign action of the Divine Providence, irresistibly
shaping to its own end the will of man without infringing an iota
on his liberty, that the true philosophy of history purposes to
contemplate. It is part of this principle that God, sovereignly
wise, who could not call into being the least atom without giving
it an end worthy of himself, could not for a stronger reason
produce the masterpiece of his hands, the rational soul, without
giving it an end, and without urging it unceasingly to the
realization of that end. That which is true of the individual is
true of society, and is truer still of all humanity.

This end being attainable by visible means, and, on the other hand,
being conformable to the nature of God and the nature of man, it
ought to be possible to discover it by means of a study of facts,
which constitute history, and by means of a profound observation
of those two natures, which constitute philosophy. Philosophy
furnishes the data _a priori_; history possesses itself of these
data and verifies them by experience. The result of this double
revision is one of the most attractive branches of knowledge for
the mind, and most capable of enlarging the soul, the knowledge of
the divine economy, and of the secret resorts by which Providence
governs the affairs of this world.

The divine government operates in three different spheres, to which
respond three degrees of the philosophy of history.

The first sphere of action chosen by Providence is the conscience
of each man. Undoubtedly we are not to look in this world for the
definite accomplishment of individual destinies. God has reserved
for a more durable life the full award of his law. Meanwhile it has
often been his will to anticipate this eternal award by a temporary
one, which, in this life, may avenge his justice for the outrages
of crime. Thus, there are some lives most obscure; there are, for
a still stronger reason, brilliant lives which leave their mark on
the memory of the human race. It is not often possible to discover
this award. To arrive at it, history will borrow from philosophy
the moral laws which ought to regulate the conduct of individuals;
and she will look for the confirmation of these laws in the
prosperity or misfortune which have accompanied their observance or
their neglect. Such is the study which constitutes the first degree
of the true philosophy of history, and which makes this science an
excellent school for morality.

But history mounts still higher by the aid of philosophy; its
mission, in fact, is not merely to recount the life of certain
individuals, who by their talents, their virtues, or their crimes
have left a deep trace in the memory of generations: above all, it
is the tableau of the destiny of peoples which it is called upon to
paint; it is social events which, above all, form the interest of
its pictures. Therein each people appears like a moral personality,
with its infancy, its growth, its maturity and its decrepitude; its
special character, its qualities and faults, its good points and
its crimes, its prosperity and its misfortune. The life of each
people is, then, a grand drama, wherein not one of the elements of
the most moving interest is wanting; but this drama must have its
moral, and, in order to give it one, history must have recourse
anew to philosophy. Philosophy will not fail it; she will furnish
it with the social laws, that is to say, those by which societies
are constituted, governed, and developed. The application of these
laws, which she deduces from the nature of man, she invites history
to seek in the facts. If her theories are true, it is impossible
that their accomplishment should not confer happiness on society,
and their violation misfortune. History ought therefore, again,
from this point of view to be the counter-proof of philosophy;
and it ought to become so after a manner still more complete than
when it occupied itself with the destiny of individuals. In truth,
this destiny, playing its part chiefly on the invisible theatre
of conscience and carrying it on into after-time, often escapes
the application of history. Societies, on the contrary, having an
existence temporal in its duration and public in its most important
events, ought to show forth in their history with great clearness
the award of the laws which the Creator has imposed upon them, and
which philosophy establishes _a priori_ by its deductions. The
study of this award must purchase, then, at the price of very
great difficulties, the precious advantages which it promises. It
is this which constitutes the second degree of the philosophy of
history, and which makes this science the best school of politics.

Lastly, history mounts a degree still higher: beyond the
moral individualities which we call peoples, she discovers an
individuality much more vast and much more lasting--humanity,
the immense body whose members are all peoples, and in which
each individual plays his _rôle_, like a living molecule which
influences in its part the destinies of the whole. As each nation
has its character and as it were its own style of feature which
distinguish it from other nations, so humanity is distinguished
from the other species of rational beings wherewith the Creator has
peopled the universe, by prerogatives and by infirmities which no
other shares with it. It also has had its infancy, its growth, its
ripe age; and everything leads us to believe that it will one day
have its decrepitude. It also, in fine, has its mission, which it
accomplishes in the course of ages, and at the term of which its
development will cease.

This common destiny of humanity constitutes, together with its
common origin, the unity of this vast body. It permits us to lift
ourselves up even to the divine thought, which, in sowing this
innumerable multitude in the immensity of the ages, proposed to
itself a plan as harmonious in its unity as when it launched into
space this immense variety of globes and atoms which compose the
universe. Behold herein the true unity of the human race, whose
substantial unity, as seen by the pantheist, is nothing but an
absurd parody.

It is here, in fact, that we find ourselves face to face with the
two philosophies of history--the false and the true. Both wish
for unity, because unity, which is the essence of God and the law
of the world, is also the last want of our mind and the last end
of science. But the first of these philosophies only establishes
unity in the world by destroying its diversity, which is an
essential condition of beauty and of life. In its eyes individuals
are nothing but unreal phenomena, which appear, only to vanish;
space alone is something; it alone remains while all the rest
passes away. And as it would be too absurd to give space a separate
reality, independent of that of individuals, to make humanity
something existing outside of man, it is forced to conclude, in the
final analysis, that this humanity, which alone truly exists, is
nothing in itself but a form which is developed by some fatality in
time and space; and all of us who persuade ourselves that we each
have our own existence are in reality but the varied expressions of
this form, the passing vibrations of an ideal fluid, the fleeting
tints of a cloud. Behold the philosophy of history according to
pantheism!

How much greater, how much more consoling, how much more beautiful
is the true philosophy of history--that of which St. Augustine and
Bossuet have made themselves the eloquent interpreters! And in the
meantime, in the midst of all these varied existences, in the midst
of these actions so divergent, in the midst of these liberties so
often at war, she finds a perfect unity, the unity of the divine
thought--bringing back to its end all these divergencies, and
making of their very opposition so many means thereto. But what is
this thought, what is this one end, which God is working in the
world, and for the realization of which, willingly or unwillingly,
all these individuals and peoples labor? For a reply to this
mighty question, it has pleased God not to abandon us to uncertain
conjecture. He hath spoken from the beginning of the world; and in
proportion as the human race has developed has he manifested more
clearly its destiny--a destiny thrice divine since it has God for
its principle, God for its term, and God again for its means; it is
the divinization of man by Jesus Christ the God-man, the conquest
of eternal happiness by God himself, by the fulfilling of the
earthly ordeal in the image of God Incarnate.

Such is the divine thought which it has pleased God to reveal
to us from his own mouth. The incarnation of the Son of God is,
therefore, the pivot around which roll the events of history--as
the divinization of men in him is the term where these events ought
to meet. The glory of the Word Incarnate: such is the closing scene
to which all the catastrophes of this drama ought infallibly to
lead up--a drama whose every historic period forms a scene, whose
plot borrows a most captivating interest from the apparent triumph
of human passions. Jesus Christ: such is the word which unlocks
the great enigma of the ages--Jesus Christ: behold the Sun, whose
dawn and coming form the natural division of the ancient and modern
world, whose presence and whose absence make the day and the night
in the moral order, and whose final triumphs over the mists and
vapors, which to this day have striven against him, will give to
the earth the unity and the happiness for which it sighs.

But one may stop me, and tell me that I am no longer treading on
philosophic ground. I am happy to confess it. For the same reason
that in seeking the final explanation of his individual destiny man
is compelled to have recourse to his Creator, so must he abide his
final explanation alone of the destiny of the world. Reason tells
him that in the existence of humanity God pursues one end, and that
this end should be the manifestation of his divine attributes. It
can tell him no more. As for the mode of this manifestation, it
rests entirely with the will of God; and it would consequently be
a presumption on the part of philosophy to pretend to determine
it, since its power does not stretch beyond necessary truths.
We acknowledge, therefore, that, without the aid of faith, the
science of history cannot reach its third degree. Therein we
detract in no wise from philosophy; for, if it must necessarily
borrow from revelation this fact of the free end of God, as it
borrows from history the knowledge of the free actions of men, it
is no less true that by its processes these different facts meet
together to form the most harmonious of all the tableaux, and
the most inspiring of all the poems which human thought has ever
conceived--the divine epic of humanity.

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




A SUMMER IN THE TYROL.


The Tyrol is--or was, when we knew it--one of the most primitive
countries in Europe. Entirely Catholic, it comes up to the ideal
of the faith of the middle ages far better than even the most
historic cities of Italy, that by-gone cradle of our faith. It is
not sufficiently overrun with tourists to be corrupted by them, and
their stay in any of its towns is seldom long. Before the Brenner
Railroad was opened, it was almost, practically speaking, as
secluded a spot as the interior of China.

Twenty years ago, hardly any language but a _patois_ of German was
understood by the Tyrolese, and when a couple of English explorers
made a tour among the mountains, journeying on foot nearly the
whole of the way, they were amused one night by finding their
old English valet seated in the kitchen of a very unpretending
_Gasthaus_, with his bare feet stamping on the floor within a
cabalistic-looking circle drawn in white chalk. The old man had
been frantically but vainly endeavoring to make the natives
understand his master’s need of--a foot-bath! One of the travellers
was luckily able to come to his assistance in good Hanoverian
German, which itself, however, was only just barely comprehensible
to the simple mountaineers.

Although we have no personal reminiscences of that style of
travelling which skims over half a continent in a two months’ tour,
yet the local knowledge we acquired by a four months’ residence in
one town of the Tyrol will perhaps not be entirely uninteresting.
Innsbruck, although the capital of the province, is nothing more
than a large village with two or three roomy and tidy but very
old-fashioned inns, and a church or two not remarkable for either
beauty or antiquity. Besides the inns, which were too much embedded
among streets and houses to be suitable to our taste, there were,
outside the town, a few cheap “places of entertainment,” where
lodging could be had for next to nothing, and where unlimited quiet
might be enjoyed. One was a “Schloss,” anciently some baronial or
monastic dependency, very picturesque and inaccessible, and on the
inside very susceptible of English home comfort, but for an invalid
this could not be thought of. The road that led to it was enough to
jolt any springs to pieces, and once a carriage had safely got up,
it seemed impossible that it should ever get down again. So this
had to be given up despite the romantic name and position of the
“Schloss.” Lower down, and on the turnpike road, just beyond the
bridge over the Inn (which gives the town its name), was another
house, partly a _châlet_, comfortable enough and very quiet. It
was delightfully primitive. A wide wooden staircase led right up
from the entrance door on the left hand, and never, on the darkest
night, was there by any chance a light to guide you over it. The
first floor consisted of a wide passage with rooms on each side,
like a monastery, and a large _Saal_, or public room, with a clean
boarded floor and a billiard table. Beyond this were three or
four other rooms. Our party took the whole floor, including the
_Saal_, which during our stay was to be a private room. Sufficient
furniture was brought in to make one corner of it look civilized,
and it served for drawing, dining, and billiard room alike. Nothing
cooler nor more rustic could have been imagined, and, to add to
the pleasantness of this retreat, the windows opened on a balcony,
just like those on the toy Swiss _châlets_ we have so often seen.
There was a chapel in the house, and the proprietor claimed that
he had a right to have Mass said there every Sunday. However
problematical this sounded, Mass _was_ said notwithstanding, but
under a legitimate permission obtained for our own party. There in
the little dark closetlike room, with a congregation of servants
and stray guests or laborers out in the corridor beyond, Mass was
offered every Sunday and very often on week-days. Sometimes the
Jesuits from the town would officiate, sometimes the parish priest
of the little church half a mile further up the country. The Jesuit
church, standing on the edge of the town, among great lindens and
elm-trees, was a large, tawdry renaissance building, where brick
and stucco did duty for the marbles of Italy, and artificial
flowers and gilded finery reigned supreme. There was not one
feature worth noticing about the whole church, and even the Madonna
shrine was but a sad burlesque on the wonderful idea it symbolized.
But, on the other hand, the priests worked hard and earnestly,
services were frequent and well attended, the confessionals
crowded, and the communions numerous. There were real sympathy and
sound counsel to be had there; strength to be gathered from the
exhortations given in secret, and instruction in all necessary
religious knowledge to be reaped from the plain and practical
sermons delivered in public. The devotion of the Tyrolese is as
simple as it is deep; it has no need of exalting externals to draw
it to God, it is so full of vitality and manliness that it does not
ask for the æsthetic helps whose absence often makes such a void in
our own devotion, and we cannot choose but admire it, though it is
vain for our weaker if more cultured Christianity to endeavor to
imitate it.

The parish church outside the town to which we have referred was
much smaller and poorer than that of the Jesuits, but a great
feeling of peace came over you as you entered it, and as, pacing
to and fro under its low, simple roof, you thought of the many
holy and acceptable peasant lives that had been lived under its
shadow, and ended joyfully within its churchyard. It stood on
a small but abrupt hill, which, from the singular flatness of
the vale of Innsbruck, looked higher than it was. Iron crosses
with rude metal rays or crowns attached to them replaced in this
Tyrolese cemetery the broad gravestones to which our northern eye
is so well accustomed, and so it is throughout all Germany and
Switzerland. About a mile further than this church stood a little
private chapel, near a deserted villa, or, as the French would
call it, a _château_. This chapel was always open, and was our
invariable resting-place every day during a long stroll into the
country. A high gate of rusty and intricate iron-work divided the
main chapel from the lower and narrower part accessible to the
public at all times, and remains of gilding and heraldic colors
denoted the connection, in the past at least if not in the present,
of this little oratory with some old family of high standing. Here
and there a group of cottages that hardly made a hamlet was dotted
on the green landscape, and the only sound to be heard was the
tinkling of the great square cow-bells, or the peculiar _jödel_ of
the mountaineer, a cry now made familiar to the outside world by
“Tyrolese minstrels” (or their spurious personifiers). The Tyrol is
famous for its wild flowers, as are all Alpine tracts, the gentian
and the wild rhododendron[177] predominating. All kinds of summer
meadow flowers grow well in the green pasture lands near Innsbruck,
and the forget-me-not lines the frequent brooks with thick fringes
of blossom.[178]

Water-mills are very often found on the line of these mountain
brooks, and as only the old-fashioned appliances are known, the
places where they are built are fortunately not disfigured by
business-looking arrangements or alarmingly active squads of men.
One of these picturesque mills we well remember, standing over a
beautiful, foaming brook, and surrounded by hay-fields. It was a
very silent, lonely walk, and used to be almost a daily one with
us, until the old farmer to whom the mill and hay-field belonged
once waylaid us at the door of his cottage and began expostulating
in no very choice language, and ordering us not to trample his
hay any longer unless we liked to pay him for the damage. The
old fellow was very small and wizened, and whether the garment
he had on was a smock-frock or a night-shirt it was difficult to
determine, though the certainty of his unmistakable nightcap was
apparent.

Of course, like all thoroughly Catholic countries the Tyrol is
full of wayside shrines, with rude daubs reminding the passer-by
of some religious event or point of Christian doctrine. Besides
these, however, one thing cannot fail to strike a stranger as he
walks through the lands round Innsbruck. On every house or building
that is not an absolute “shanty” appears in the flaming colors
sacred to the chromos of the cheap press the figure of a young
Roman soldier pouring water out of a common jug on a most terrific
and disproportionate conflagration. This is meant to represent St.
Florian, a saint much honored in the Tyrol, and to whom tradition
attributes a particular sovereignty over fire. The buildings, both
farm and dwelling-houses, that abound most in that part of the
country, are of wood, and very liable to the kind of destruction
over which St. Florian has power. Hence his image is painted on
the outer wall by way of a preservative, a kind of “insurance,”
that may make stockholders smile, but that will bring in more of
those riches garnered up where “the rust doth not eat, nor the moth
consume,” than their long-headed thriftiness will ever be able to
gather.

Pilgrimages, among a people so devout as the Tyrolese, are
numberless. Every village has its chapel where of old miracles were
wrought or some proof of divine favor was manifested. Five or six
miles from Innsbruck is one of these hamlets, called Absam, where
the shrine is of a somewhat peculiar nature. Among the several
visits we paid to it was one on the day of the Assumption. The road
leads through fields of flax, one of the crops most cultivated
in the Tyrol. Its tiny blue flowers were thickly spread over the
fields, and August seemed thus to have put on a fitting livery
with which to greet the blue-mantled Queen whose triumph is
commemorated on the 15th of that month. The village church at Absam
is small and otherwise uninteresting. The altar, over which hangs
the miraculous image, is covered with ornamental ex-votos, while
larger votive offerings, curious little commemorative pictures, and
plain tablets adorn the walls for a long space beyond. The image
itself is on glass, a common thick pane, of very small dimensions,
with the veiled head of the Virgin scratched in dark outline upon
it. Tears are coursing down her cheeks, and the expression is
wonderfully strong and sweet. It is strange that these few rude
lines should be able to speak so energetic and unmistakable a
language, but then we must remember the legend which calls this
image the work of an angel. It was suddenly found in the church
one morning, four or five centuries ago, and was immediately
transferred from the window to a private chamber. A great deal of
religious litigation and examination had to be gone through before
it was allowed to be placed in a shrine and publicly venerated.
Since then cures have been yearly obtained in this church, which
has become famous through the Tyrol. We do not remember another
instance of a miraculous image being graven on _glass_. It has
none of the attributes of stained glass, neither in color nor in
style, and is all of one piece. It is now framed in a showy gilt
frame with a royal cross-surmounted crown ornamenting the top.
Both pictures and prints of it are to be procured in the village,
and also representations on glass, two or three inches square, but
whose likeness to the original are perhaps not entirely reliable.

This was not the only shrine we visited while at Innsbruck. The
pilgrimage of Waldrast included a picturesque journey half-way
up the Brenner pass, and through some very wild and beautiful
Alpine scenery among the lesser peaks. We slept at a little inn
at the foot of Waldrast, so as to be able to make the most of the
early morning. The day was beautiful; it was in the beginning of
September, and just that season when, in Europe, summer and autumn
seem to make but one. A thin mist hung over the mountain tops, the
path was rugged and winding, and there were frequent brooks and
fences to jump over or climb. Heather grew in purple masses under
foot, and the growth of trees varied from oak to chestnut, till it
left the higher and more barren ground to the pines alone. After
two or three hours’ good walking, we reached the chapel, which
is only one level lower than the uncovered mountain top. It had
grown quite chilly despite the sun which was advancing on his way.
We were just in time to hear Mass, if we remember right, and had
but little time to spare for refreshment. There is a _Gasthaus_
opposite the church, a little solitary, whitewashed, low-roofed
cottage, very clean and comfortable. It is pretty full all the
summer, but entirely deserted, even by its keeper, during the
winter. We asked to see the priest. He turned out to be a Servite,
and told us that the church belonged to his order. There was next
to it a bare-looking house with one (and the larger) portion in
ruins, a gaunt shell with no roof and full of _débris_ inside. It
had been a monastery, but circumstances, chiefly of a persecuting
nature, had obliged the monks to abandon the place. One of their
community, however, was always there, to attend to the shrine and
receive the still numerous pilgrims; he himself had never left the
place for ten years, and, saving the visitors to the shrine, never
saw a human being. During six months out of twelve he could safely
say he was a hermit. We asked him how he spent his time. “I have
a small library,” he answered, “and read a great deal, but when I
have more time than I can fill by reading, or my office, or even
the work of the church, I turn carpenter.”

And he took us into a workshop, littered over with shavings and
sawdust, where among planks and rough logs of wood were various
useful things of his own making. We particularly noticed a little
wooden sleigh, and asked him its use.

“I use it in the winter,” he said, “to take me down to the village,
to buy necessaries every week; and, when there is plenty of snow
to cover the inequalities of the path, it works very well. Coming
back, however, I have to load my purchases on it, and drag it up
after me. It is good exercise,” he added, with a good-humored
laugh, “and keeps me warm.”

He led us into the church, and told us the story of the apparition.
This image was not so old as that of Absam, although it could
boast of three centuries’ antiquity at least. It had been found
by a woodman while chopping a tree on the mountain very near the
spot where the church now stands. The figure suddenly appeared,
surrounded by a marvellous light, in the cleft made by his axe in
the wood. Years of suspense followed, during which authentications
of this wonderful occurrence were severely tested, the devotion of
the villagers preceding, however, the permission of the church to
venerate the image as miraculous. During this time it was housed
in the hamlet at the foot of the mountain, where crowds flocked to
visit it. When it was removed to the Servite church and monastery,
built expressly for its reception, on the spot where it had first
appeared, its translation was a cause of grief as well as joy,
those who had guarded it till then loudly lamenting their loss. The
monastery, we believe, was reduced to its present condition through
the decrees against monastic orders issued during the unhappy reign
of the infidel Emperor Joseph. The church was never, however,
without its chaplain. It is a plain, whitewashed building, with a
flat frontage, irregularly pierced with a great many windows, while
to the back rises one of those extraordinary steeples so often seen
in the Tyrol, suggestive of a farm-house rather than a church.
Often and often have we come upon such, sometimes of red tiles and
not unfrequently of green, so that we were forcibly reminded of
St. George and his scaly dragon. The interior of Waldrast church
corresponds to the exterior, and is very plain and inartistic. The
image itself is of wood, and peculiarly German in its cut. Our
Lady is covered with a stiff, heavy mantle, and bears her Divine
Son, also robed in the same kind of garment, absolutely shapeless
except where his hand comes forth. The Virgin bears a globe in her
hand, and both she and the Divine Infant are crowned. The crowns,
however, and the chains and ornaments on the figures, are due to
the devotion of the faithful.

The Servite father who kindly showed us over the church was still
a young man, and seemed very quiet and refined. His ten years’
solitude had not taken any of the grace of civilization--ought we
not rather to say of charity?--from his manner, nor given him in
any way the air of a Nabuchodonosor. He wore his black habit and
a long black beard. We were sorry to be able to see so little of
him, for we had a long journey home before us, and the greater part
had to be performed on foot. We left Waldrast at midday, feeling
that in these out-of-the-way nooks more can be learnt of the inner
life of a people than in larger centres of bustle and activity.

The way down the other side of the mountain led through sparse
forests of pine, where workmen were felling the trees and piling
them in heaps as high as houses along the path. Glimpses might be
caught now and then of far-off precipices, walls of rock or of
snow with the intense golden white of the noonday sun glorifying
their stern beauty, and reminding one of those still more difficult
ascents to virtue, seemingly so inaccessible, yet so gloriously
transfigured in the light of God’s help and God’s promises. Wild
flowers abounded through the wood, and mosses and ferns grew
in great tangles of greenery by the brooks which their growth
overshadowed. It was a delightful expedition, and one that we
should very much like to repeat. But nothing in this world ever
duplicates itself; the places we once visited with such confident
hopes of returning to enjoy them the next year, have we ever seen
them again, or if we have, has it ever been with the same feelings,
the same hopes, the same companions, nay, even the same _self_?
In this law of change lies, to our mind, the sad side of travel.
We go to a place, we learn to admire it, we remember it with
pleasure, we almost begin to have associations with it and its
surroundings, it grows in fact into our soul’s history, and makes
itself a place in our life. We leave it, and never see it again.
We have the regret of having seen and felt beauty that is not for
us, we have longed for what we could not have, we have dreamed of
utopias that were never to be realized, and we have prepared for
ourselves a nest of disappointments for the future. Is not this so
much time and energy lost? so much vitality taken out of our life
which might have been usefully employed at home? But if the place
we have visited once becomes a frequent resort, if we go back to
it again and again and find ties and duties to bind us there, the
charm of life is doubled, and the happiness of home reproduced
under a different set of circumstances. No one knows a place if
he have not lived there in all seasons and spent quiet months in
finding out its hidden beauties. Places, like people, grow upon
you; and what once seemed bare will, by long acquaintance, appear
as full of interest as it was once devoid of it. It happened
thus to ourselves in a seaside town in England, where the coast
is rather bare of trees, and the country mostly flat and divided
without hedges into com and hay fields. Again, the country round
Milan, which is always conventionally styled “the fertile plain of
Lombardy,” is of this nature. Wide fields of rice, half-flooded,
and a network of roads fringed by pollard willows or low hedges,
with here and there a neat little farm-house, do not at first sight
constitute a beautiful country. But after three or four weeks’
constant driving through these lanes, you discover the loveliest
bits of “Pre-Raphaelite” nature, small triangular patches of
luxuriant grass, with flowers of brilliant hue and starry shape;
tiny brooks running through meadows with fire-flies making movable
illuminations on their banks by night, and many more beautiful and
minute details that naturally enough escape the first glance. The
Roman Campagna, even with its desolate, Niobe-like grandeur, is
susceptible of this alchemy of habit. To the unaccustomed eye of a
stranger it may look grand, but scarcely beautiful; to one who has
walked, ridden, and driven through it in all directions, it reveals
secrets of pastoral beauty, soft vales hidden by groves of ilex
or cork, with violets growing plentifully in their recesses, and
rivulets trickling through their rocky crevices. Even cities are
better known when seen gradually, after the manner of a peaceable
resident rather than that of a hurrying tourist. What do we know,
to take our own case, of the Campo Santo of Pisa, which we visited
between the arrival and departure of the two trains from Leghorn,
compared to what we learnt of St. Mark’s at Venice, where we heard
Mass every day for five months? And this feeling is surely enough
to breed a weariness of _mere_ travel, however instructive it may
be. The only places we should care to revisit are those where
we stayed long enough to make them feel like home. Innsbruck is
certainly one that recalls many touching domestic scenes, many
of those little memories which, like a daisy-chain, bind life
together, childhood and youth, sickness and health, trouble and
joy--frail links, but so fair, begun in early childhood and winding
themselves round the heart, through the vicissitudes of many
years, the wanderings in many lands, and, above all, through the
intangible changes of a restless mind and soul.

For the general reader, this sketch may perhaps have no further
interest than to make him acquainted with some of the local traits
of a country not so well known as other European fields of travel;
for the Catholic, it ought to possess the additional interest of an
effort meant to show how thoroughly this country is still imbued
with the faith. Its patriotism, too, ever closely bound to faith,
was conspicuous in the wars against Napoleon and in the Tyrol. The
first decade of this century is noted chiefly for the name, not of
the resistless invader Bonaparte, but of the stubborn defender of
mountain freedom, Andreas Hofer. Here and there are his relics--his
gun, or his cap, or the cup out of which he drank. Every other inn
has his figure for a sign, and every other child bears his name in
memory of his gallantry. His descendants, poor and simple peasants
as he was himself, are as proud of their ancestry as the haughtiest
Montmorency or the oldest Colonna; and no Tyrolese mountaineer can
talk for half an hour without mentioning some of Hofer’s exploits
against the French.

We cannot conclude without again speaking of that weird _jödel_
or herd-song peculiar to the Tyrol. We have never heard it as
performed by the hired companies of “minstrels” so often advertised
in large towns, but we had the opportunity of listening to it
under very pleasant circumstances at Innsbruck. In the beginning
of September, just before our pilgrimage to Waldrast, a rural
_fête_ was given in honor of one of our party whose birthday it
was. The open court-yard behind our house served as an _al fresco_
dining-hall, a band was engaged, and fireworks and illuminations
prepared. In this primitive assemblage, speeches were actually
made, and, as it was not easy for the English and Tyrolese to
understand each other, an interpreter was found in the bright
and quick-witted courier who had superintended the whole thing.
After this cordial display of mutual friendship, and a few songs
and pieces, the people were left to their private enjoyments, the
priest from the nearest parish being present among them. About an
hour afterwards, and before the party of mountaineers dispersed,
they begged leave to sing us their _jödel_, thinking it was the
most interesting thing for strangers to hear well done. Thirty
men in rugged costumes, whose ornamentation chiefly consisted in
silver buttons, were then brought into the great _Saal_, and the
chorus began. Suddenly a single voice broke in with the marvellous
_jödel_; all the others dropping into silence, and then again
joining in the national song. It was indeed strange and weird-like,
the echoes seemed to break again and again in renewed bursts of
plaintive sound; it was not like the cry of a bird or of any
animal, nor yet was it suggestive of a human voice; it had in it
something of what, were we Pantheists, we might call the “voice of
nature.” The effect was indescribable, and, because so beautiful,
saddening. We should not wish to hear it again on the stage or
in the concert-room; the effect would be lost, and merged into a
dramatic trick. Sung by those thirty strong voices, used to no
concert hall but the open air and the mountain passes, the _jödel_
was one of those things that one likes to look back upon and place
among the fresh, healthy remembrances of the past. Sung before
those who have always been at our side through weal or woe, this
Tyrolese song becomes more than a mere remembrance, and remains
a sacred memory, shared with the dead and the absent, the ever
beloved and unforgotten ones of our heart. So true is it that a
thing unconnected with love, however brilliant it may be in the
field of art or literature, is a failure as far as our individual
appreciation of it is concerned--that this simple mountain song,
vigorously but hardly skilfully performed, is far dearer to our
remembrance than the perfect strains heard at other times from the
lips of finished artists.

The Tyrol, no doubt, is fast putting off its early garb of faith
and simple honesty; with Manchester prints and chignons, the free
grace of its peasant women will vanish, and with the poisonous
teaching of the International, the frankness and charm of its men
will go. Already we have heard of the earnest workers of the Jesuit
church being annoyed and insulted, and it may not be long before
the cupidity of public officials will rob the shrines of many of
their votive treasures. In these days of ruthless destruction,
even the Tyrol may be dechristianized and made over to a worse
barbarism than that of its savage bands of early settlers, and a
worse slavery than that against which Andreas Hofer so ably and
successfully fought. Still, it will always be a pleasure to us to
think that we visited it in the days of its Catholic prosperity,
and saw there the remains of that state of peace and public safety
which everywhere characterizes a truly Christian land.

FOOTNOTES:

[177] Falsely called _rose des Alps_ by the French.

[178] The real “Alpenrose” of the Tyrolese is a strange-looking
growth, a starry flower of a dull white, with thick velvety petals,
five in number. It grows only in very inaccessible places, and is
considered a great prize.




THE ROMAN EMPIRE AND THE MISSION OF THE BARBARIANS.

SECOND ARTICLE.


During the centuries of persecution, then, the Northern heavens
grew darker and darker, and the storm-clouds thickened on the
horizon. God was at work behind that dark and heavy cloud-wall
planning the most terrible campaign that was ever executed. The
heedless, sinning empire little thought what fire and tempest would
sweep over it when that storm-cloud should burst. It considered
itself a veritable part of the rock-built earth, and immovable
while the world lasted; that it would only perish when the universe
should cease to exist. But behind that fiery storm-cloud that hangs
heavy and threatening in the Northern skies, there is a mightier
God than paganism knows of, who will sweep the Roman power away as
the leaves are swept by the autumn blasts. The moment of vengeance
is fixed. Whilst the cry of the martyrs’ blood has been sounding
in the ears of God, he has been preparing for that moment of
wrath. But there was another cry, too, rising up to heaven from
the length and breadth of the empire, and calling down vengeance
and wrath. It was the cry of sin--a never-ceasing, clamorous,
many-voiced cry--going up night and day from city and town and
hamlet over the wide area of Roman dominion. The corruption, then,
deep and universal, of the Roman Empire was the second cause of the
barbarian invasion. Of this we have still to speak.

We must remark at the outset that, when we speak of the corruption
of the Roman Empire, we are not referring to that period of
history which preceded Christ. We wish to speak of that period
which immediately preceded the great invasion of the Northern
barbarians in the fifth century. We are about to point out another
object which God evidently had in view in sending down his wild
warriors, and why their course was one of fire and devastation.
In a word, we are about to speak of that moral rottenness which
had eaten through the very vitals of the Roman Colossus, and which
God, unable to bear it longer before his high heaven, infecting,
as it was, the very universe with its pestilent stench, sent his
messengers of wrath with flaming sword and fiery torch to cleanse
away from the afflicted earth. We must insist upon God being an
active power in the world. We are no followers of Professor Seeley,
who lectures to the young men of Cambridge on the Fall of the Roman
Empire as if God had had no hand in it. However ingenious Prof.
Seeley may be, he will never convince us that God does not make
and unmake empires. We want no new theory of the Fall of the Roman
Empire and the Invasion of the Barbarians. The grandest and the
truest was given us long ages ago by St. Augustine in his immortal
work _De Civitate Dei_, and it has satisfied all Christian thinkers
up to the present day. Prof. Seeley asks what is the cause of the
decaying condition of the empire? “It has been common,” he says,
“to suppose a moral degradation in the Romans, caused by luxury and
excessive good fortune. To support this, it is easy to quote the
satirists and cynics of the imperial times, and to refer to such
accounts as Ammianus gives of the mingled effeminacy and brutality
of the aristocracy of the capital in the fourth century. But the
history of the wars between Rome and the barbaric world does not
show us the proofs we might expect of this decay of spirit. We
do not find the Romans ceasing to be victorious in the field and
beginning to show themselves inferior in valor to their enemies.
The luxury of the capital could not affect the army, which had no
connection with the capital, but was levied from the peasantry of
the whole empire, a class into which luxury can never penetrate.
Nor can it be said the luxury corrupted the generals, and through
them the army.... Whatever the remote and ultimate cause may have
been, the immediate cause to which the fall of the empire can be
traced is a physical, not a moral, decay.”[179]

This specimen of Mr. Seeley’s philosophy of history gives us a
very low opinion of his powers of penetration. If the professor
could see a little further below the surface, he would surely
discover that a frightful moral decay was the underlying cause of
the physical decay. He cannot persuade us that, if the capital
were so corrupt, the generals and the army would still maintain a
manly and a vigorous character. If the central heart be corrupt,
a corrupting influence will flow out over the whole body. It was
so, beyond doubt, with the Roman Empire in past days; it has been
so with another mighty empire in our own times. Moral corruption
flowed out from the capitals of both empires, and destroyed the
vigor, courage, and all the manly virtues of their peoples. And
then the messengers of God came. They came from the North in both
cases, and terrible was the devastation which God gave them power
to effect. In both cases they were irresistible, simply because
he who beckoned them on and was hid in the smoke of battle was
the God of battles himself. This is the theory which a Christian
professor at least will naturally follow. There is something far
more satisfactory in this, both to the intellect and to faith,
than in any theory that can be suggested by the naturalistic views
of men of Mr. Seeley’s school. We wonder if the young men who sat
under Mr. Seeley at Cambridge were satisfied when the professor
summed up his theory of the fall of the empire in these words:
“Men were wanting; the empire perished for want of men”? To go no
further than that seems to us pitiably shallow indeed. We are not
at all captivated by Mr. Seeley’s view. We feel far more satisfied
in believing the grand, old Christian theory, viz., that the empire
perished at the hands of God for its savage cruelty to the holy
martyrs and for its widespread corruption and revolting crimes.

We have already endeavored to sketch out the history of the age of
blood: it now remains for us to give a picture of the corruption in
which the empire lay steeped at the period previous to the descent
of the barbaric hordes. But we most honestly state that we cannot
do more than give a faint portraiture of what is so offensive to
Christian purity of mind. To point to the life in this case, even
if we were able to do so, would be too painful for Catholic ideas.
The picture would necessarily be too frightful for the eye of
modesty to gaze upon. It would be a dreadful exposure to the light
of day of the blackest and the most shameful side of fallen human
nature. Of necessity, then, must the painting be in somewhat dim
outlines. But even so, it will sufficiently answer our present
purpose.

For well-nigh five centuries, then, had Christianity been at work
over the length and breadth of the Roman Empire, and yet paganism
and its demoralizing influence were not dead. We know well how
boldly and triumphantly the apostles went from the Cenacle to
the conversion of the pagan world. The heavenly fire that had
come down upon them had lodged itself in their hearts. It shot
its wondrous power through their whole bodies, darting forth
from their eyes in living light, issuing from their mouths in
burning words, nerving them up to brave tortures and racks. They
went forth, did that little band from the Cenacle, fire-girt and
heaven-inspired, to the most arduous task ever confided to mortal
men. Their wondrous success we need not here recount. It was such
as only men with God in their midst could effect. They no longer
knew fear of earthly powers; they quailed not in the presence of
the terrors of death. Nothing could withstand them in their course.
The demons of paganism fled before them; a thrill of horror ran
through the vast Pantheon of pagan worship, and the idols trembled
on their pedestals. Like the Titans of old, those messengers of
the Crucified scaled the Olympus of paganism, and hurled down the
false gods that were enthroned there. Hell and Olympus mingled
their groans at the sounding blows which were levelling the idols
of false worship and shaking the universe. But was, then, paganism
utterly destroyed? Did it never recover from the shock which it
received at the hands of the apostles of Christ? Did the darkness
flee away before the bright torches of light which Christians held
up in the midst of cities and towns and on every hill-top, and
never return? Did the demons who lurked in the pagan temples and
spoke by the mouths of the idols plunge into the deep abyss at the
approach of Christ’s preachers, and never come back again? It is
usual to think that something like this was the case. But it is far
from the historic truth. We must admit, indeed, that the success
of the first apostles of Christianity was the most amazing fact
which we have ever read of in history. The light of divine truth
flashed with miraculous swiftness through the world. Thousands of
persons abandoned the idols of paganism, and joined the strange,
new standard of the Cross. But yet paganism, continued to exist
and to spread its baneful influence--it was not a dead thing. It
had become welded into the very substance of the empire. It was
associated with so much of the grand historic past.

The Roman could not read of the warlike glories of his country
without finding them mingled with the worship of Jupiter and Mars.
He could not take up the verses of his immortal poets without
meeting at every page with the gods and goddesses of Olympus. The
laws of the empire recalled pagan gods; the customs and festivals
and games kept their remembrance fresh in the mind. We do not
wonder, then, that paganism was not easily destroyed. It would
almost seem that the life of the empire and the life of paganism
were one; that the pillars of the pagan temples were, so to speak,
identical with the pillars of the state. When we bear all this in
mind, we are not so much surprised to find that paganism was still
a living thing more than eighty years after the first Christian
emperor had taken the Labarum for his military standard, and had
lifted Christianity out of the dark caves of the Catacombs to place
it on the throne of the Cæsars. We are also more prepared for what
we read regarding the Emperor Honorius. When in 404 he visited
Rome, in order to celebrate his sixth consulate, pagan temples
still surrounded the imperial palace, the sanctuary of Jupiter
Tarpeius still crowned the capital, and from sacred edifices still
standing on every side a whole host of pagan gods yet looked down,
as of old, on Rome and the world. So real a thing was paganism
still even in the fifth century that the pagan poet Claudian, who
had been appointed to celebrate in verse the occasion just referred
to, could with impunity and, we suppose, with apparent propriety,
point out the gods as seeming to guard the imperial palace by their
divine presence and smile propitiously upon one who was the heir
of so many Christian emperors.[180] Some years later a work was
written by an unknown author who lived in the time of Honorius or
of Valentinian III., giving a topographical description of Rome,
and mentioning those monuments which had been spared by the fire
and sword of the Goths. The writer enumerates as still existing 43
pagan temples and 480 cediculæ. The Colossus of the Sun, a hundred
feet high, still towered aloft close by the Coliseum, where so many
holy martyrs had poured out their blood for Christ. The statues
of Apollo, of Hercules and Minerva still stood, as of old, at the
crossings and in the public squares. Still the fountains flowed
under the invocation of nymphs. And this, though Constantine and
Theodosius had wielded the sceptre of the empire, and SS. Sylvester
and Damasus had sat in the midst on the throne of Peter. Time
passes on, and with it the age of the great fathers of the church.
Those days which Christianity filled with its spirit, when Gregory
and Chrysostom and Basil and Jerome and mighty Augustine preached
and taught, go by with their brightness and their glory, and yet in
419, in the time of Valentinian III., we find Rutilius Numatianus
celebrating the greatness of pagan Rome, the mother of gods and
heroes. Christianity had been throwing bright gleams of light
over the whole world for these 400 years, the voices of the great
fathers of the church had been thundering in the principal cities
of the empire, yet Claudian and Rutilius Numatianus were as though
they had caught no glimpse of the light which shone around them nor
heard a sound from Hippo or Milan. Claudian had found a cord of
that Latin lyre which was broken to pieces on the day when Lucan
opened his own veins in the bath. Though living in Christian times,
he was as pagan as his great model, and his imagination revelled
amid the fabled splendors of Olympus and the baseless fictions of
mythology. He can sing of the rape of Proserpine whilst the cultus
of our Blessed Lady is taking possession of the temple of Ceres at
Catana. He invites the graces, the nymphs, and the hours to prepare
their garlands for the fair spouse of Stilico, though she had, in
hatred and contempt of the gods of paganism, snatched the golden
collar from the neck of the statue of Cybele. His genius takes even
a more daring flight when he introduces Christian princes into the
abodes of the immortals, and represents Theodosius, the greatest
hater of the gods, as holding familiar converse with Jupiter.
Rutilius Numatianus, on the other hand, pours out his soul in
passionate words of patriotism upon Rome herself, the last and the
greatest divinity of the ancient world. To him Rome is the ever
beautiful queen of the universe, whose dominion she holds for all
ages. To him she is the mother of men and of gods. “When we pray
in thy temples,” he exclaims in his burning ardor, “we are not far
from heaven. Of all nations she has made one country, of a whole
world one city. Her trophies are countless as the stars of heaven,
her temples too dazzling for the eyes to look upon. Spread yet
further thy laws; they shall govern ages yet unborn which shall
become Roman despite themselves, and thou alone, of all earthly
things, shalt not fear the power of the fates.”[181]

We might easily imagine on reading these two writers that
Christianity had not yet dawned upon the world, yet we are in
the fifth century. We naturally ask if the Christian emperors
used their power to crush out paganism. History tells us of many
imperial edicts which ordered the pagan temples to be closed and
the sacrifices to be discontinued. We find those edicts often
renewed, and hence, we argue, often disobeyed. Nothing, however,
surprises us so much as to find that in the middle of the fifth
century the sacred chickens were still kept at the capital, and the
consuls, on their appointment to office, went to seek from them the
auspices which they were supposed to be able to give. At this date
also the public calendar indicated the feasts of the false gods by
the side of those in honor of Christ and his saints. In a word,
paganism is yet a living power, with its temples and idols, and
sacrifices and sacred groves.

In Rome itself, where the smoke of incense ascends to the only
true God, the smoke of sacrifice also rises to the false gods of
Olympus. And beyond Rome, over Italy and Gaul and throughout the
whole of Western Christendom, there are still symbols of pagan
worship; still undoubted indications of its enduring influence
over thousands who believe that the empire and the pagan gods
are equally eternal, and will still be in existence when men
here become tired of the folly of the cross and the name of the
crucified Nazarene has faded from their minds. How true, then,
does it appear that paganism continues to hold its ground to a far
greater extent than is commonly imagined! It was a fearful task
for Christianity, divine though it was, to level to the ground the
temples and idols of pagan worship. Paganism seemed to hold on
to the empire with unrelaxing tenacity; it was bound up with its
institutions; it seemed built with the very stones into the walls
of the great capital.

The incontrovertible fact, then, that paganism still existed and
retained a stout hold upon the empire even so late as the fifth
century will prepare the reader to believe that its demoralizing
principles were still working their natural results. We will
not maintain that human sacrifices were as common at this date
as they had been some centuries before; but we do not feel sure
that they were altogether abandoned. We know that in the time of
Constantine, when Christianity was looking down from the throne
of the Cæsars over the empire, pagan priests poured out each year
a patera of human blood to Jupiter Latial. The example which the
Romans themselves had set was followed by the conquered nations,
and those dreadful horrors long continued to be practised among
them in spite of imperial decrees and prohibitions. “All the laws
of civilization,” says F. Ozanam in his striking way, “could not
smother the instincts of that savage beast which paganism had
unmuzzled in the heart of fallen humanity.” But even if human
sacrifices had altogether ceased, yet the essential principles of
paganism were still at work. The direct tendency of pagan worship
was to enslave man to his senses. The fearful degradation to which
mankind were thus brought, it is almost impossible for Christian
minds to credit. St. Augustine, in the seventh book of his _City of
God_, tells us of horrors which we cannot read without a sense of
shame and disgust for our race. Those processions through the towns
and fields of Latium on the feast of Bacchus are too shocking to
describe. We know, also, that unnamable crimes were honored with
a religious cultus, and had temples dedicated to their worship at
Cyprus, Samos, at Corinth, and on Mount Eryx. When we read of this
utter degradation to which paganism reduces human nature, we wonder
how such a religion could endure. But it was precisely because it
ministered so readily and so generously to the worst passions of
human nature that it maintained its influence so long. When in
course of time, and, by the repeated pressure of imperial edicts,
the priests of Cybele and the priestesses of Venus were dispersed,
paganism still had its temples and its thousands of worshippers in
the circus, the theatre, and the amphitheatre. In these centres
of resort, where the most reckless and the most unholy passions
had full play, the gods were in their strongholds. St. Cyprian
had understood the true nature of paganism well when he said that
it was “the mother of the games.” Nothing could have seized upon
human nature with a more powerful grasp than paganism did by making
pleasure into a religious worship. The two strong tendencies of
mankind, viz., the religious sentiment and the intense love of
pleasure, were thus directed to one and the same object. The
combats of the gladiators, which exercised such a fascination on
the Romans for so many years, were supposed to appease the spirits
of the departed; the dances of the stage were thought to avert
the anger of heaven. The symbolism which covered all lent an air
of mystery and solemnity to these exciting entertainments. We are
told that the courses of the circus represented the evolutions of
the stars, the dances of the theatre symbolized the voluptuous
whirl of pleasure in which all living beings were hurried along,
and the combats of the amphitheatre were a type of the struggles
in which the human race is ever engaged. The circus, theatre, and
amphitheatre were, then, so many temples of worship, and, as we
may well believe, the most popular and the best frequented temples
that paganism ever consecrated to its false and corrupting rites.
The other religious temples of the Roman were notoriously small
and poor, but on these he lavished his gold, his marble, and all
that he held most precious, so that he has left behind him nothing
grander or richer than the monuments of his pleasures, and, we may
add, nothing more defiled, more foul or more bloody.

The circus was dedicated to the sun; so proclaimed the obelisk
which rose in stately height in the centre of the arena. Everything
about the circus breathed idolatry. If we accept the view of
the Greeks, its very name was taken from Circe, the daughter
of the sun. If we take up the scathing work of Tertullian, _De
Spectaculis_, we shall be told that “every ornament of the circus
was in itself a temple. The eggs those assign to Castor and Pollux,
who blush not in believing that these were born an egg from a
swan which was Jupiter. The pillars vomit forth their dolphins
in honor of Neptune; they support their Sessiæ, so-called from
the sowing of the seed; their Messiæ, from the harvest; their
Tutelinæ, from the protection of the fruits. In front of these
appear three altars to three gods, mighty and powerful; these they
consider to be of Samothrace. The enormous obelisk, as Hermatetes
affirmeth, is publicly exposed in honor of the Sun; its inscription
is a superstition from Egypt. The council of the gods were dull
without their great mother; she therefore presideth there over the
Euripus. Consus, as we have said, lieth buried beneath the earth
of the Marcian Jail; even this jail he maketh an idol. Think, O
Christian! how many unclean names possess the circus. Foreign to
thee is that religion which so many spirits of the devil have
taken unto themselves!”[182] It would seem that the circus was a
sort of Pantheon, where almost every god received his tribute of
worship. If the pagan deities had lost some of their temples in
the onward advance of Christianity, they still retained a shrine
where they were worshipped all at once. And no opportunity was lost
when an act of religious worship could be brought in. Before the
courses were opened, the gods were carried on rich litters round
the circus by a grand cortége of priests. Tertullian speaks of
the dazzling _pompa_ which preceded the games, “the long line of
images, the host of statues, the chariots, the sacred images, the
cars, the chairs, and the robes” with which the gods were clothed.
“How many colleges,” he says, “how many priesthoods, how many
offices are set in motion, the men of that city know in which the
council of the demons sitteth.”[183] Sacrifices without number were
celebrated in the course of the performances. They preceded, they
came between, they followed them. And it is difficult to conceive
the height of frenzy to which the people were excited by these
games. “On the longed-for day of the equestrian games,” Ammianus
Marcellinus tells us, “ere the clear rays of the sun yet shine,
all hurry headlong, outpoured, as though they would outspeed the
very chariots which are to contend.” Before the races began, all
eyes, wild with the fire of excited passions, were fixed on the
magistrate, who held in his hand the handkerchief whose falling
was to signal the commencement of the sports. As that handkerchief
fell, there came rushing into view those charioteers who were the
delight of the Roman people. The crowd raised a wild cry of joy,
and then, breathless with suspense, followed with their glaring
eyes the rushing horses and the rattling cars as they dashed along
the course. As the horses bounded over the ground, now losing, now
gaining, on one another, and the dust-clouds rose from beneath
the rattling chariot-wheels, louder and wilder rang the shouts of
the spectators, and passion rose to its height in Roman hearts.
Furious factions were formed, which soon developed into violence
and internecine battle. This was the grand climax, sought for
and expected. The gods were appeased; Romulus now recognized his
people. From this state of wild excitement we naturally expect
cruelty and bloodshed. We are quite prepared to believe what
Suetonius tells us. He records that Vitellius massacred some of
the people because they cursed the faction which he favored.
Caracalla is said to have done the same for some jest on a favorite
charioteer. But to add more vivid coloring to the picture, we will
borrow the striking language of Tertullian. “Behold the people,”
he says, “coming to the show already full of madness, already
tumultuous, already blind, already agitated about their wagers.
The prætor is too slow for them. Their eyes are ever rolling with
their lots within his urn. Then they are in anxious suspense for
the signal. The common madness hath a common voice. I perceive
their madness from their trifling. ‘He hath thrown it,’ they say,
and announce to each other what was seen at once by all. I possess
the evidence of their blindness. They see not what is thrown; they
think it a handkerchief, but it is the gullet of the devil cast
down from on high.”[184]

Thus, then, in the stormy days of the fifth century did the
great Roman people forget their troubles and their dangers in
the excitement of the circus. What was so vividly described by
Tertullian went on through the centuries that came after him. The
Roman people had, in truth, lost the empire of the world; it had
purchased its capital out of the hands of savage hordes by heavy
sums of gold; but it forgot all in the delirium of the circensian
games. There, as has been said, it found its temple, its forum,
its country, and the term of its hopes. Through the storms of
war against barbarians, in spite of the thunders of Christian
eloquence, under the dazzling light of the Christian Gospel, still
the circus stood, and its multitudinous gods received their tribute
of worship, and the maddened crowds thronged to the games, as of
old. In the year 448, the calendar marks 58 days for the public
games. We may well be amazed as we read it. Fifty-eight days still
dedicated to this wild self-abandonment, whilst on the Northern
borders of the empire the threatening armies of Genseric and Attila
were amassed, with the sword of fire and vengeance in their hands,
awaiting the signal of God!

The theatre was another temple where paganism still retained a
terrible hold. It was dedicated to Venus, the unholy goddess who
swayed the hearts of almost all mankind. If we would see the great
Roman people at its lowest, we must look upon it as it lies in
prostrate adoration in this temple of Venus. Here it is grovelling
in the veriest mire of abasement. Here, more than anywhere else,
it forgets its dignity, and plunges into the deepest depths of
sensuality and degradation. But we cannot paint the scene in
bold colors. The picture would shock by its startling horror and
deformity. The eye of Christian modesty would turn away in disgust
and pain. We must let the outlines even be faint, lest they should
offend the delicate sensitiveness of pure minds.

In the midst of the theatre stood the altar of the unholy goddess,
crowned with garlands. Before this altar were represented the
shameful histories of the pagan gods. There the wretched mimes,
by look, and gesture, and suggestive attitude, displayed before
the lascivious eyes of the multitude the loves of Jupiter and the
fury of Pasiphaë. But as time went on, and the passions of the
people became more and more inflamed, the mute language of look and
gesture did not satisfy. Far worse horrors were demanded. Shadows
and unrealities were not enough for the hungry fire of unrestrained
passion. Realities, revolting, shameless, and unnamable, must be
enacted before the eyes of a vast multitude, composed of old and
young of both sexes. He who played the part of Hercules must be
burned in the presence of a maddened throng; the horrid history
of Atys must have a reality answering to it, and be carried
into effect before the full gaze of the people. We can conceive
nothing more pitiable than the sight of the great Roman people, so
sadly fallen into baseness, so completely abandoned to shameful
sensualities, and lying prostrate before the foul goddess of unholy
passions in the theatre. The empire might perish and the heavens
fall upon their heads, but the people must have their pleasures.
This was their madness and their worship. Three thousand dancers
ministered, like so many priestesses, in the theatre-worship of
Rome. For these panderers to their vile pleasures, the Romans were
willing to sacrifice all that was dear to them. These favorites
they crowned with flowers, and flattered by their manifestations of
applause. They retained them in the city, as Ammianus Marcellinus
tells us, at a time of severe famine, where a decree was passed
which expelled men of letters and those who exercised the liberal
professions. Old Ammianus, though a pagan, is filled with wrath
at this shameful abandonment of his countrymen, and pours out his
indignation in vehement, fiery words. But what hope was there?
Corruption had affected every class. The dancers were the favorites
of all, and even the senators of Rome were not ashamed to sit in
the first seats of the theatre gazing upon the nudity of these
priestesses of Venus. Thus had the Romans fallen below even the
most fallen of other nations, which had once been great, but had
perished for their crimes. Egypt had deified its agricultural
products and domestic animals, Phœnicia its commerce, Assyria its
sciences, Persia the elements, Greece its arts.[185] But Rome had
gone down far deeper than all into folly and idolatry; it had
raised altars to its own base passions. And this theatre-worship
was existing in its full life in the latter days of the empire.
Christianity had not abolished it. The demons held their own in
their temples of sinful pleasure, and the people came and adored in
countless multitudes, and their passions were kept alive and burned
wildly with unholy fire--and all under the dark, bodeful shadow of
the storm-cloud which hung so black and threatening in the Northern
skies.

But we have yet to speak of another great centre of paganism and
moral corruption--the amphitheatre. “This,” says F. Ozanam, “was
the greatest school which was ever opened for the demoralization of
men.” It exercised a power of fascination beyond all conception,
and was irresistible. The people rushed there in countless
thousands, frantic with excitement. The thirst for blood maddened
them like a wild indwelling demon. The games of the circus were
tame in comparison with the sight of wild beasts engaged in
death-struggle or the savage conflict of well-matched gladiators.
There the emperors presided under the shadow of their pagan
gods; there were gathered together the senators and the great
ones of Rome; there rose tier upon tier round the vast arena the
waving mass of countless human heads. There all Rome assembled
for brutal pleasure and pagan worship, for the amphitheatre was
a temple. Tertullian tells us this in his characteristic way.
“The amphitheatre,” he says, “is consecrated to deities more
numerous and more barbarous than the capitol. It is the temple
of all demons. As many unclean spirits sit together as the place
containeth men.”[186] Under the shadow, then, of so many pagan
gods, breathed upon by so many devils, we can picture to ourselves
the wild excitement of these thousands of spectators, as they
assemble on occasion of a Roman holiday. They have caught a rumor,
perhaps, of what is prepared that day, by a subservient emperor,
for the amusement of his people. It may be that hundreds of
ferocious beasts are to tear one another to pieces before them, as
often happened in the time of Septimius Severus; or it may be that
two hundred lions are to die in a horrid, bloody affray, as took
place in the reign of one of his successors. Or, perhaps, Roman
senators are to descend into the arena, to sacrifice their lives
for the amusement of their fellow-citizens, as was the custom from
the time of the first Cæsars. Perhaps it is near mid-day, and the
crowd has been thronging in for hours. The sun is pouring down his
blazing rays over the scene, though their heat is tempered by the
canvas awnings which stretch a kind protecting shade wherever it is
possible. But the bright light penetrates every nook and corner,
and makes every figure stand forth to view. It flashes off the
shining armor of Roman knights, dances and glistens in many a dark
young eye, falls with a flood of glory upon Cæsar’s throne, and
plays around the imperial robes which gold and precious stones so
gorgeously bedeck. The brightness of the day adds to the excitement
of the people. They talk with vivacity upon the nature of the
expected conflicts; they lay their wagers, and become more excited
as time flies on. They are impatient for the “shows” to begin; they
clamor; they can wait no longer. We will here let a more brilliant
pen than ours help to complete the picture. “And now, with peal of
trumpets and clash of cymbals, a burst of wild martial music rises
above the hum and murmur of the seething crowd. Under a spacious
archway, supported by marble pillars, wide folding-doors are flung
open, and two by two, with stately step and slow, march in the
gladiators, armed with the different weapons of their deadly trade.
Four hundred men are they, in all the pride of perfect strength and
symmetry, and high training and practised skill. With head erect
and haughty bearing, they defile once round the arena, as though
to give the spectators an opportunity of closely scanning their
appearance, and halt with military precision to range themselves
in line under Cæsar’s throne. For a moment there is a pause and
hush of expectation over the multitude, while the devoted champions
stand motionless as statues in the full glow of noon; then,
bursting suddenly into action, they brandish their gleaming weapons
over their heads, and higher, fuller, fiercer rises the terrible
chant that seems to combine the shout of triumph with the wail of
suffering, and to bid a long and hopeless farewell to upper earth,
even in the very recklessness and defiance of its despair:

“‘Ave Cæsar! Morituri te salutant!’

“Then they wheel out once more, and range themselves on either side
of the arena: all but a chosen band who occupy the central place of
honor, and of whom every second man at least is doomed to die.”[187]

We can imagine how the thousands who had come to feast their eyes
on the cruel spectacle would now be frantic for the real work to
begin. We can picture to ourselves how all would proceed. We see
the huge rhinoceros with his overlapping plates of armor led forth
into the arena. He rolls his glowing eyes around in the fury of his
hunger, but sees only the smooth white sand. He stamps with his
large flat foot, and digs madly into the earth with his “horned
muzzle.” We see, too, his enemy come sneaking in--the Lybian tiger,
with his sleek, striped coat and glaring eyes. They approach
each other. The spring is made; they are in a death-struggle.
And now that blood is seen, a maddened shout of savage joy from
the gratified spectators rends the air. More blood is wanted.
The trumpets ring out again. The gladiators step forth and range
themselves in opposing ranks. They are “all armed alike with a
deep, concave buckler, and a short, stabbing, two-edged blade.”
Then is heard the sharp clash of meeting steel. Men’s breath is
hushed; their hearts beat quick; their eyes glare with a wild fire
and are riveted on the struggling athletes. Then the ranks of the
combatants waver and are broken; blood is seen upon the white sand:
it flows from large gashes in the gladiators’ sinking forms. The
huge giants fall one after another, hard and brave to the last.

And this is the hideous sight which day after day delights and
never satisfies the Roman public. It is sad to think of so much
noble strength and magnificent bravery sacrificed so ignobly. It
sickens the heart to dwell on the brutal, reckless destruction
of manly life perpetrated to amuse a blood-thirsty populace
in “those Roman shambles.” Yet “so inured were the people to
such exhibitions, so completely imbued with a taste for the
horrible, and so careless of human life, that scarcely an eye
was turned away, scarcely a cheek grew paler, when a disabling
gash was received or a mortal blow driven home, and mothers
with babies in their arms would bid the child turn its head to
watch the death-pang on the pale, stern face of some prostrate
gladiator.”[188]

We have now said enough to show the reader the corrupting influence
of those three mighty powers of paganism--the circus, the theatre,
and the amphitheatre. Many pagan temples had no doubt fallen under
the crushing arm of Christian teaching, but these three, in which
so many gods and goddesses had taken refuge, stood their ground.
They were found in every province of the empire, and everywhere
were well frequented. The demoralizing effect produced by them it
is not easy to estimate--it was simply never-ceasing and universal.
And when the persecutors had passed away, and there was no longer
the constant presence of cruel death to keep alive the fervor of
Christians, we find that they too came under the demoralizing
influence of these mighty powers of evil. This is the cause of that
bitter cry of grief which bursts forth from every page of the
writings of the great saints of the fourth and fifth centuries.
Pagan corruption was rushing upon them like a strong flood on
every side. They found themselves overpowered and engulfed. Listen
to the plaintive words of SS. Jerome, Chrysostom, and Augustine,
laden with the sobs and groans of grief-stricken hearts. Open
the pages of Salvian, and you will soon be convinced that mortal
degradation has invaded every city and town, and that all classes
of society are grovelling in the lowest depths of corruption. The
holy bishop pours out his soul in the most moving language. His
words sometimes flash with holy wrath and indignation; sometimes
they are the wailing cry of despair; sometimes, again, they are
the tears of deepest sorrow, flowing out of his inmost soul. “How
different,” he exclaims, “is now the Christian people from itself,
that is, from what it formerly was!... What is now every assembly
of Christians but a sink of vices?... We make it our study not only
not to accomplish the precepts, but even to do the contrary. God
commands us to love one another; we tear one another to pieces in
mutual hatred. God commands us to help the poor; and we all rob
others of what belongs to them. God commands every Christian to be
chaste even in look; and who is he who does not grovel in the mire?
I appeal to the conscience of those to whom I speak. Who is the
person who has not to reproach himself with some of these crimes,
or, rather, who is the man who is not guilty of all? It is easier
to find Christians guilty of all these crimes than to meet with any
exempt from some of them; it is easier to find great criminals than
ordinary sinners. Many of the Romans who have been baptized have
arrived at such a laxity of morals that it is a kind of sanctity
amongst the faithful to be less vicious. Audacious criminals rush
into the temples of the true God without any respect for the
Divine Majesty. They go there to meditate in silence upon some
fresh iniquity. Scarcely are the divine mysteries concluded than
some return to their thefts, others to drunkenness; these to their
bad habits, those to their deeds of violence. What is the life
of courtiers? Injustice and iniquity. What is the life of public
officers? Lies and calumny. What is the life of soldiers? Violence
and rapine. What is the life of merchants? Fraud and deceit. Alas!
our vices disinherit us of the beautiful name of Christians; for
the depravity of our morals renders us unworthy of the privileges
of our birth. Base behavior destroys the glory of an honorable
title. As there is no condition which is not disgraced, no place
which is not filled with the crimes of Christians, let us no longer
glory in this beautiful name. It will only serve to render us more
culpable, and to aggravate our offences.”[189]

We think the picture sufficiently complete. Over this huge mass
of moral rottenness; over the heads of pagan gods yet standing
erect in the midst of this foul corruption; over the great sinning
empire, pagan still in its vices and its tastes, the threatening
storm-cloud hangs, waiting the moment when God shall bid it belch
forth its hidden terrors of fire and flame. That moment is close at
hand. Then shall the martyrs be avenged, and this universal crime
be punished.

FOOTNOTES:

[179] _Lectures and Essays_, p. 48.

[180] See Claudian, _De Sexto Consulatu Honorii_, v. 43.

[181] See Ozanam, _Civil. au 5me Siècle_, p. 82.

[182] _De Spectaculis_, viii.

[183] _De Spectaculis_, vii.

[184] _De Spectaculis_, xvi.

[185] _Leroy_, vol. ii. p. 450.

[186] _De Spectaculis_, xii.

[187] _The Gladiators_, by Whyte Melville, p. 135.

[188] _The Gladiators_, p. 140.

[189] Salvianus, _De Gubernatione Mundi_, lib. iii. _passim_.




THE LAST DAYS BEFORE THE SIEGE.


PART II.

EXCELSIOR!

“Great news! Extra! Three sous!” The newsvender, a ragged little
urchin who nearly collapsed under the weight and volume of his
extras, was shouting out these three startling facts at the top
of his voice as I went out early in the morning. Two rheumatic
old rag-women, immediately suspending their investigation of the
dust-heaps, dropped their crooks, and cried out to him to know the
news. Was it a victory or a defeat, or was it anything about the
siege? But the urchin, as hard-hearted as any editor, waved the
momentous sheet majestically with one hand, and answered, “Three
sous!” To the renewed entreaties of the rag-women he condescended
so far as to say that it was well worth the money, that they never
spent three sous more advantageously, for the news was wonderful
news, but for less than three sous they should not have it. I did
not altogether believe either in the extra or in the wonderful
news, but the newspaper fever was on me like the rest of the world,
so I produced the inexorable three sous and took the paper. The
moment the two women saw this they came up to me, and, evidently
taking for granted that I was going to give them the benefit of my
extravagance, stood to hear the news. I read it aloud for them, as
well as to a milk-boy who was passing at the moment and stood also
to get his share of the three sous, and a remarkably sympathetic
audience the three made. The news was none of the best. The
Prussians were at Chalons, and they might be at the gates of Paris
before another week.

“That was MacMahon’s plan from the first,” observed the milk-boy,
“and, if the Prussians fall into the trap, the game is ours.”

The rag-women, not being so well up in military tactics and
technicalities, meekly begged to be enlightened as to the nature
and aim of the trap in question, and the young politician was so
kind as to explain to them that the marshal had all along been
luring on the Prussians to Paris, which was to be their pitfall;
Mont Valérien and the fortifications would annihilate them like
flies; not a man of them would go back alive; the only fear was
that that rascally Bismarck would be too many guns for the marshal,
and make him fight before Chalons, in which case, he observed, “it
was all up with the marshal, and consequently with France.”

Having delivered himself of this masterly exposition of the case,
the milk-boy swung his cans, touched his cap to me, and, having
achieved the most preternaturally knowing wink I ever beheld,
strode off without waiting to see the effect of his words on the
two old women. They looked after him aghast. Had they been talking
to a confidential agent of the War Office, or to an emissary of the
rascally Bismarck himself? A spy, in fact?

“One ought to have one’s mouth sewed up these times,” observed the
more ancient of the beldames, casting a half-suspicious glance at
me as I folded my newspaper and put it into my pocket. “One never
knows whom one may be speaking to.”

This remark was too deep and too fearfully suggestive to admit of
any commentary from her companion; the only thing to be done in
such a crisis was to take refuge in professional pursuits that
offered no ground for suspicion, so seizing her crook the rag-woman
plunged prudently once more into her rubbish.

A little further on, turning the corner of a street, I came on two
gentlemen whom I knew, standing in animated conversation. I stopped
to ask what news? None, except that the horizon was growing darker
from hour to hour. The despatches from the frontier were as bad
as could well be. As to pooh-poohing the siege now it was sheer
stupidity, one of them declared, and, for his part, he only wished
it were already begun: it was the last chance left us of rejecting
the disasters of the campaign and crushing the remains of the
enemy. His companion indignantly scouted both the certainty of the
siege and the desirability of it. The city was not to be trusted;
no great city ever was; there were hundreds of traitors only too
ready to open the gates to the enemy at his own price. Look at the
proprietors! Did any one suppose there were fifty proprietors in
Paris who would not cry _Capitulons_! before one week was out?

“Well, let the proprietors be taken down to their own cellars, and
kept there under lock and key, and let them sit on their money-bags
till the siege is over!” suggested the advocate of the siege.

“Then you must lock up half the National Guard and the Mobiles,”
resumed the other, “for they are full of those money-loving
traitors.”

This was not very reassuring. I kept repeating to myself that
public opinion at a moment like this was always an alarmist, and
that the wisest plan would be to read no papers and to consult
nobody, but just wait till events resolved themselves, as they
infallibly do, sooner or later, to those who have patience to wait
for them, and then act as they decided; but it was no use. I went
home in dire perplexity, and began to wish myself in Timbuctoo or
the Fiji Islands, or anywhere out of the centre of civilization
and the fashions and chronic alarm and discontent. Things went on
in this way for another week, the tide advancing rapidly, but so
gradually that it was difficult for those on shore to note its
progress and be guided by it. No one would own to being frightened,
but it was impossible to see the scared faces of the people,
as they stood in groups before every new placard setting forth
either a fresh order from the Hôtel de Ville or some dubious and
disheartening despatch from the seat of war, without feeling that
the panic was upon them, and that the complicated problems of the
great national struggle had resolved themselves into the immediate
question: Shall we stay, or must we fly? When you met a friend in
the street, the first, the sole, the supreme salutation was: “Do
you believe in the siege? Are you going to stay?” The obduracy of
the Parisians in refusing to believe in the siege up to the very
last moment was certainly one of the strangest phases of the siege
itself. They were possessed by a blind faith in the sacredness
and inviolability of their capital, and they could not bring
themselves to believe that all Europe did not look upon it with the
same eyes; they thought that Prussia might indeed push audacity
so far as to come and sit down before the gates, but beyond that
Bismarck would not go; he would not dare; all Europe would stand
up and cry shame on him, not out of sympathy for France, but out
of sheer selfishness, for Paris was not the capital of France,
but of Europe. So the walls were white with proclamations and
advertisements and invitations to non-combatants to withdraw, and
practical advice to the patriotic citizens whose glorious duty
it was soon to be to defend the city; and the great exodus of
the so-called poltroons and strangers had begun to pour out, and
the much more inconvenient sort of non-combatants, the homeless
population of the neighboring villages, poured in--a sorry sight it
was to see the poor little _ménages_, the husband trundling the few
sticks of furniture on a hand-cart, with the household cat perched
on the top of the pile, while the wife carried a baby and bundle,
and a little one trotted on by her side, carrying the canary bird
in its painted cage--and still the real, born Parisian said in the
bottom of his heart: “It will never come to a siege, they will
never dare; England will interfere, Europe will not allow it.”

On the morning of the third of September I went out to make some
purchases on the Boulevards. Coming back, I saw the Madeleine
draped in black, and a number of mourning-coaches drawn up in
ghastly array on the Place. The solemn cortége was descending the
last steps. I stood to let it pass, and then cast a glance round
to see if there was any one I knew in the crowd. To my surprise
I saw Berthe in the midst of a group of several persons who had
broken away from the stream, and were standing apart in the space
inside the rails; she was talking very emphatically, and the others
were listening to her apparently with great interest, and seemed
excited by whatever she was telling them. When the crowd had nearly
cleared away, I beckoned to her. She ran out to me at once.

“You are the very person I wanted to see,” she said, clutching
me by the arm in her vehement way. “I was going straight to your
house. I have just been to the Etat Major, and met General Trochu
there. He came down on account of despatches that had just come in,
and have put them all in a state of terrible consternation. There
is not a doubt of it now; the city will be blockaded in ten days
from this. The Prussians are within as many days’ march from us. I
thought of you immediately, and I asked the general what you ought
to do; he said by all means to go, and within forty-eight hours;
after that the rails may be cut from one moment to another; he was
very emphatic about it, and said it would be the maddest imprudence
of you to remain; there is a terrible time before us, and no one
should stay in Paris who could leave. Of course, you will leave at
once.”

I was too much taken aback to say what I would do. The news
was so bewildering. I had never looked upon the siege as the
impossible joke it had been so long considered, neither did I
share the infatuation of the Parisians about the inviolability
of Paris in the eyes of Europe, and for the last fortnight we
had come to expect the siege as almost a certainty, that was now
only a question of time, and yet we were as much startled by this
cool official announcement of it as if the thing had never been
seriously mentioned before.

“I don’t know what I will do,” I said; “if we had nerves equal to
it, it would be the most fearfully interesting experience to go
through.”

“No doubt,” assented Berthe; “but it is an experience that will
tax the strongest nerves; of that you may be sure; and unless one
has duties to keep one here, I think it would be mad imprudence, as
the general said, to run the risk.”

“You mean to leave, of course?” I said.

“No; I mean to stay. I am pretty sure of my nerves; besides, as
a Frenchwoman, I have a duty to perform; I must bear my share of
the common danger; it would be cowardly to fly; but with you it is
different. I don’t think you would be justified in remaining for
the interest of the thing. Only if you mean to go, you must set
about it at once. Have you got your passport?”

“No; I had not gone that far in believing in the siege.”

“It was very foolish,” said Berthe; “all the foreigners we know
have got theirs.”

“I will go for it now,” I said. “Come on with me, and let us talk
it all over. Are you on foot?”

“No; but I shall be glad of the walk home; I will send away the
carriage.”

She did so, and we went on together.

“It is like death,” I said; “no matter how long one is expecting
it, it comes like a blow at the last; I can hardly realize even now
that the siege is so near. Why, it was only the other day we were
listening to those people joking about it all!”

“It was a sorry joke,” said Berthe; “but that is always the way
with us; we go on joking to the end. I believe a Frenchman would
joke in his coffin if he could speak.”

“And you really mean to stay, Berthe?”

“I do. I shall be of some use, I hope; at any rate, I will try my
best. But we can talk of that presently. First about you; are you
decided?”

“I cannot say; I feel bewildered,” I replied. “I long to stay, and
yet I fear it; it is not the horrors of the siege that would deter
me, at least I don’t think it is that; it is the dread of being
taken up as a spy.”

She burst out into one of her loud, merry laughs.

“What a ridiculous idea! Why on earth should you be taken for a
spy?”

“There is no why or wherefore in the case,” I said, “that is just
the alarming part of it; the people are simply mad on the point;
they have barked themselves rabid about it, and they are ready to
bite every one that comes in their way. Twice on my way into town
this morning I heard a hue and cry raised somewhere near, and when
I asked what was the matter, a mad dog, or a house on fire, the
answer was, ‘Oh, no; it’s an _espion_ they’ve started, and he’s
giving them chase!’ One man said to me, half in joke, half in
earnest: ‘Madame would do well to hide her fair hair under a wig;
it’s dangerous to wear fair hair these times.’ I own it made me
feel a little uncomfortable.”

“Well, that is not very comforting for me,” said Berthe, laughing,
“my hair is _blond_ enough to excite suspicion.”

“Oh! your nationality is written on your face,” I said; “there is
no fear of you ever being mistaken for anything but a Frenchwoman.”

On arriving at the Embassy, we found a throng of British subjects
waiting for their passports, and considerably surprised at being
kept waiting, and expressing their surprise in no measured terms.
Surely they paid dear enough for the maintenance of their embassies
abroad to be entitled to prompt and proper attendance when once in
a way they called on their representatives for a service of this
kind! The attachés were so overworked that it was impossible to
avoid the delay? Then why were there not special attachés put on
for the extra press of work? And so on. Some nervous old couples
were anxious to have the benefit of his excellency’s personal
opinion as to the prudence of leaving their plate behind them,
and, if he really thought there was a risk in so doing, would
he be so kind as to suggest the safest mode of conveying it to
London? Also, whether it was quite prudent to leave their money
in the Bank of France and other French securities, or whether it
would be advisable to withdraw it at once at a loss? Also, whether
it would be a wise precaution to hang the Union Jack out of the
window, those who had furnished apartments in Paris, or whether the
present state of feeling between England and France was such as to
make such a step rather dangerous than otherwise? It was not for
outsiders to know how things stood between the two countries so as
to be able to guide their course in the present crisis, but his
excellency being a diplomatist was well informed on the subject,
and they would rely implicitly on his judgment and advice, etc.

Berthe and I were so highly entertained by the naïve egotism and
infantine stupidity displayed by the various specimens of British
nature around us, that we did not find it in our hearts to grumble
at being kept waiting nearly two hours.

On reaching the Rond Point of the Champs Elysées, our curiosity
was attracted by a silent, scared-looking crowd collected on
the sidewalk in front of the Hôtel Meyerbeer. The blinds of the
house were closed as if there were a death within, and a few
_sergents-de-ville_ were standing at intervals with arms crossed,
staring up at the windows. The owner of the hotel had been
arrested with great noise the night before, on the strength of
some foolish words which had escaped him about the possible entry
of the Germans into Paris; but we neither of us knew anything of
this, and I asked the nearest sergeant if anything had happened.
The man turned round, and, without uncrossing his arms, bent two
piercing eyes upon me--piercing is not a figure of speech, they
literally stabbed us through like a pair of blades--and, after
taking a deliberate view of my person from head to foot, he growled
out: “Yes, something has happened. A spy has been found!” There was
something so diabolical in the tone of his voice and his expression
that it terrified me, and I suppose my terror got into my face
and gave it a guilty hue, for another _sergent-de-ville_ who had
turned round on hearing his colleague speak, strode up to me, and
said nothing, but drove another pair of eyes into me with fierce
suspicion. The crowd, attracted by the incident, turned round and
stared at me, and I felt as if I had that morning posted a despatch
to Bismarck or Bismarck’s master betraying every state secret in
France. Despair, however, that makes cowards brave, came to my
rescue, and, putting a bold face on it, I said, with extraordinary
pluck and coolness:

“Has he been arrested?”

“He has.”

“Ah, it is well!” I observed. And in abject fear of being pounced
upon there and then, and done equally well by, I walked away.

When we had got to a safe distance, I looked at Berthe. She was as
white as ashes. Indeed, if I looked half as guilty, it is nothing
short of a miracle that we were not both seized on the spot and
carried off to the _Préfecture de Police_.

“Let this be a lesson to us never to speak to any one in the street
while things are in this state,” said Berthe. “Indeed, the safest
way would be not to speak at all, especially in a foreign language,
for whatever they don’t understand they set down as German, and to
be a German is of course to be a spy.”

After this we walked on in silence. Evidently Berthe no longer
looked on my fears as chimerical or matter for laughter, and,
puerile as the incident was, I believe it put an end to my
hesitation, and decided me to leave Paris with as little delay as
possible. She had not realized as much as I had, but the spy-fever
had spread so alarmingly within the last few days that what had
first been merely a recurring panic was now a fixed idea that had
grown to insanity. You might read suspicion and fear written on
the faces of the people as you went along. They walked in twos and
threes without speaking, glancing timidly on every side, and trying
to carry it off with an air of indifference or preoccupation. Every
one was in mortal fear of being pointed at and hooted off to the
nearest _poste_. No nationality was safe. A few Englishmen who
had fallen victims to the popular mania, and been subjected to a
night’s hospitality at the expense of the government, had published
their experiences, and described the sort of entertainment prepared
for casual visitors, and it was anything but enticing: a _salle_
crammed full of every kind and degree of sinner, from the imaginary
spy whipped up on the pavement without proof or witness, to the
lowest vagrants of the worst character, all put in for the same
offence, and huddled up together without a chair to sit on or air
to breathe. Those who were lucky enough to be set free after a
short term of durance vile were warmly congratulated by their
friends, and retired into private life without further _éclat_.
Some English subjects were simple enough to venture a protest
against the unceremonious proceeding on the part of the police, and
were politely reminded that the gates of the city were still open
and trains ready to convey them to many places of more agreeable
manners where the sacred person of a British subject ran no risk of
being mistaken for a common mortal, but that, while they choose to
remain within the gates, they must take the consequences. And this
was, after all, the best answer they could make, and it behooved
all sensible British subjects to abide by it. I parted from Berthe
at the corner of her own street, and went home to pack up and start
the next day by the twelve o’clock train.

I stopped on my way to the station to take leave of her. It was
near eleven o’clock. Contrary to my expectations, I found her up
and dressed, instead of lolling in dishabille on her couch. But
this was not the only surprise awaiting me. The whole appearance
of the house was changed. The _portières_ and curtains were taken
down; the two salons were emptied of their furniture, and four iron
beds placed in the large one and two in the small one. A young
woman was busy cutting out bandages with a great basket of linen
beside her in Berthe’s room--that soft, Sybarite room, so unused
to such company and such occupation. Her face was concealed by
a broad-frilled Vendean cap, but on hearing us enter she turned
round, and I recognized the bride-widow of the Bréton volunteer.

“We are going to work very hard together,” said Berthe, putting
her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Jeannette is to teach me to
make poultices, and to dress wounds, and to do all kinds of useful
things that one wants to know how to do for the wounded. She is
quite an adept in the service, it seems, so I hope our little
ambulance will be well managed and comfortable for the dear
soldiers.”

Jeannette’s eyes filled with tears, and she took Berthe’s hand
and kissed it. Just at this moment François came in to say there
were some _Sœurs de Charité_ who wanted to speak to madame. Berthe
and Jeannette went out to meet them, and as they left the room
Antoinette came in through the dressing-room. She threw up her
arms when she perceived me, and looked toward the salon with blank
despair in her face.

“The world is upside down,” she said, “everything is going
topsy-turvy; what between the war, and the siege, and the rest of
it, one doesn’t know what to expect next; but of all the queer
things going, the queerest is what is happening in this house. To
think of _le salon de la comtesse_ being turned into a hospital!
That I should live to see such things! Madame does well to go away;
people are all going crazy in this country, and they say it’s
catching.”

“So it is, Antoinette,” I said, “and the best thing I can wish you
is that you may catch it yourself.”

Berthe wanted to come with me to the station, but I would not let
her. I preferred to carry away my last impression of her as I saw
her now. She was dressed in a plain dark silk, with a white apron
before her, and a soft cambric handkerchief tied loosely round
her head; the quaint, half-nunlike dress seemed to me to become
her more than the most artistic of M. Grandhomme’s combinations,
and as I watched her going from room to room with a duster in her
hand, changing the chairs and tables, and working as deftly as
an accomplished housemaid, her face flushed with the exercise
and bright with a new-found joy, I thought I had never seen her
look so beautiful. So we parted in that blue chamber that was
henceforth to have a new memory of its own to both of us. Before
I had started from my own house, the news of Sedan had come in,
and spread like wild-fire. All that I had previously witnessed of
popular excitement was cold and calm compared with what I beheld on
my way to the station. The city was like a galvanized nightmare,
electrifying and electrified into hubbub and madness. Rage and
despair were riding the whirlwind with suspicion tied like a
bandage on their eyes. The cry of _Treason!_ out-topped all other
cries; every man suspected his brother and accused him; the air
was filled with curses and threats, and there was no voice strong
enough to rise above the popular tumult and subdue it. If there
had been, what might not have come of it? If at that moment there
had been a voice loud enough to speak to the hurricane, and compel
those millions of tongues to be silent and listen to the truth, and
then gather them into one great voice that would lift itself up in
a unit of harmony and power that would have been heard, not only
to the ends of Paris, but to the ends of France, What might not
have been done? what might not have been saved? But it was not to
be. Nothing came of the discord but discord. The strong hand that
might even then have welded all these suicidal elements of hate,
and fury, and suspicion into a vigorous bond of action was not
forthcoming; the strife was to go on to the bitter end, till the
soil of fair France was drenched with blood, and all her energies
spent, and her youth and chivalry laid low in bootless butchery.

The blocks that stopped our progress in every street made it a
difficult matter to get to the railway, and when we eventually did
get there we were a quarter of an hour behind our time. But, as it
happened, this was of no consequence; we had to wait another hour
before the train started. Meantime the confusion was indescribable.
Several wagons full of wounded had arrived by the last train, and
a regiment of the line was waiting to start by the next. The Place
was filled with soldiers, some were lying at full length fast
asleep under the hot noon sun, others were smoking and chatting
near their arms that were stacked here and there; some of the poor
fellows had been out before, and were only just recovering from
their wounds; they looked worn and weak as if hardly able to bear
themselves; women were clinging to them, weeping and lamenting;
inside the station, travellers were rushing frantically from bureau
to bureau; then in despair at ever getting through the crowd that
besieged every wicket, they would seize some unlucky porter with
a band on his hat, and implore him in heart-rending tones to help
them to a ticket, and, when he protested that such a service was
not in his power they would belabor him vindictively with hard
words, and make another rush at the bureau.

At last we were off. It was an exciting journey, such as I hope
never to make again. The lines were encumbered with trains full of
wounded coming and troops going, and our pace was regulated with a
view to avoid running into those ahead or being run into by those
behind. Now we darted on at a terrific speed, the engine wriggling
from rail to rail like a snake gone mad; then we would pull up
spasmodically and crawl almost at a foot-pace, then off we flew
again like a telegram. Trains flashed past us on either side every
now and then with a tremendous roar, and soldiers sang out snatches
of war-songs, and we cheered them and waved hands and handkerchiefs
to them in return. We had started an hour and a quarter behind our
time, and we arrived three hours after we were due. For two hours
before we reached Boulogne, the danger lights were flashing ahead,
red and lurid in the darkness, and it was with something like the
feeling of being rescued from a house on fire that we set foot at
last on the platform. Once in safety, I was able to look back more
calmly on the history of the last fortnight. It seemed to me that
I had been standing on a rock, watching the tide roll in, creeping
gradually higher and nearer to my standpoint till I felt the cold
touch of the water on my feet, and leaped ashore.

And Berthe? She stood out like a bright star transfiguring the
dense darkness of the picture. The change I had witnessed in her
appeared to me like the promise of other changes, wider, deeper,
universal. I had ceased to wonder at the choice she had made; the
more I thought of it, the more I felt that she was worthy of it as
it was of her, and the only wish I could form for her now was, that
she might be strong to persevere unto the end. The course she had
adopted was the noblest and the only true one for a Frenchwoman
while France was suffering, and struggling, and bleeding to death.
While the war-cry and the battle psalm were clanging around, it
was not meant for the women of France to sit idly in luxurious
ease, and watch the death-struggle of the nation in indifference
or mere passive sympathy. We may none of us stand aloof from our
brethren in such a crisis, or take refuge in cowardly neutrality.
Neutrality in the brotherhood of Freedom is desertion, treachery.
We have each our appointed post in the battle, and we cannot
desert it without being traitors. We must all fight somehow. Not
of necessity with iron or steel, but we must fight. Moses had
neither bow nor arrow nor javelin when he got up on the mountain
and watched with uplifted arms the conflict in the valley below,
but yet he was not neutral. So to the end of time it must be with
all of us. We must fight somehow; we may never abide in selfish
peace or a sense of isolated security while the brethren around
are at war; whithersoever the battle goes, to victory or defeat,
to glory or humiliation, we must take our share in it, and let
our hearts go on fighting faithfully to the end. We must love the
combatants through good and evil alike; through the smoke and din
we must discern every ennobling incident of the struggle, such
as there abounds on every battle-field in every land, seeing all
things in their true proportions, shutting our hearts inexorably
to despair, making them wide to endless sympathy with the good, to
inexhaustible pity for the wicked. The smoke must not blind us;
the crash and the roar must not deafen us; through the agony of
souls, despair, and hate, and sin, we must have our vision clear
and strong to recognize the loveliness of virtue, the divine beauty
of sacrifice, the infinite possibilities of repentance, the joy
of the conquerors, the sweetness of the kiss of peace. Loving all
love. Hating all hate. We must see angels outnumbering fiends in
incalculable degree, light triumphing over darkness, and the breath
of purity healing the blue corruption of the world.

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




THE CLERKE OF OXENFORDE.


    At his beddes hed
    Twenty bokes clothed in blake or red,
    Of Aristotle and his philosophie,
    Than robes riche, fidel or sautrie,
    For al be that he was a philosopher
    Yet hadde he but litel gold in coffer,
    And all that he might of his frendes hente
    On bokes and on learning he it spente,
    And besily gan for the soules praie
    Of them that gave him wherewith to scholaie.
                                      --_Chaucer._




A BAD BEGINNING FOR A SAINT;

OR, THE EARLY LIFE OF FATHER CHAUMONOT, A CELEBRATED MISSIONARY IN
CANADA.


Lives of saints are somewhat discouraging reading at times to poor
mortals, who feel that they have a good deal of human nature in
them, and that somehow human nature is more disposed to play the
part of mistress than of handmaiden to grace.

These holy souls seem from the cradle so innocent, so faithful,
that they appear a higher creation than ourselves, and accordingly
it is no less consoling than encouraging at times to find early
shortcomings overcome by a tardy fidelity to grace, and sanctity
attained.

In the early annals of Canada, there are few names more revered
than that of Father Peter Mary Joseph Chaumonot, whose impassioned
eloquence gathered round him at Onondaga the braves and sachems of
the Iroquois, wondering to hear their unlabial language flow so
smoothly from the lips of a white man--who founded at Montreal the
Society of the Holy Family, which has been such a potent instrument
in maintaining in Canadian homes the true family spirit of
Catholicity and devotion--and who founded near Quebec a new Loretto
in this Western world for the Huron Indians, whom he so long
directed and guided, after he saw himself deprived of the martyr’s
crown which so many of his fellow-laborers won near the shores of
Lake Huron.

Yet good Father Chaumonot, we are sorry to say, began life as a
young scamp; and to encourage those who sometimes despair of
_mauvais sujets_ whom Providence has placed under their charge,
we will give the story of his early years in Chaumonot’s own
inimitable language. Late in life, by command of his superiors, he
wrote an autobiographical account, and from it we extract:

“For my father I had a poor vine-dresser and for mother a poor
schoolmaster’s daughter. At the age of six, they placed me with
my grandfather, five or six leagues from our village, that I
might learn to read and write. They then took me home, but
only for a short time, one of my uncles, a priest residing at
Châtillon-sur-Seine, having had the kindness to take me to his
house, so that I might study in the college in that place.

“When I had made some progress in Latin, my uncle wished me to
learn plain chant, under one of my class who was a musician. This
fellow persuaded me to leave Châtillon and follow him to Beaune,
where we were to study under the Fathers of the Oratory. As I did
not wish to undertake this journey without funds, I stole about a
hundred sous from my uncle while he was in the church. With this we
took flight.

“We travelled by by-ways to Dijon, whence we made our way to
Beaune. There we put up with a townsman, but as my finances were
short, I wrote to ask my mother to have the goodness to supply
me with money and clothes, so that I might pursue my studies
at Beaune, where I hoped to make more rapid progress than at
Châtillon. The letter fell into my father’s hands, and he answered
me that he would send me nothing; that I must return; and that he
would make peace with my uncle for me.

“This reply filled me with dismay. To return to my uncle was to
expose myself to be pointed at as a thief, and yet to stay any
longer at Beaune was out of the question. So I resolved to run
around the world as a vagabond, rather than bear the shame my
rascality deserved. I started from Beaune with the intention of
going to Rome, though I had not a sou or a change. I travelled
alone for half a day; then I fell in with two young men of
Lorraine, who saluted me and asked me whither I was going. “To
Rome,” quoth I, “to gain the pardons.” They applauded my design,
and entertained me with the object of their own journey to Lyons.

“Meanwhile I was thinking what was to become of me, and what I was
to live on, if I continued my journey. Begging was in my ideas too
degrading, I could not bring myself to work for my living, and
there was little chance of my doing it, for I was unaccustomed to
labor and knew no trade. Fortunately, my two Lorrainers, who were
no better stocked with money than I was, began to beg from door to
door in the first town we came to. Who was dumfounded to see them
ply this trade? Myself, who, after some deliberation, concluded to
imitate them rather than starve, so powerfully had their example
made easy what had previously appeared impossible. Such was my
apprenticeship as a beggar, but as I was only a beginner at the
trade, I gained but a wretched livelihood. However, I flattered
myself that on reaching a city so large as Lyons, some good fortune
would turn up. But, alas! I was astonished to find myself arrested
by the sentinels, who let my companions pass on account of their
passports, and detained me because I had none.

“I did not know what was to become of me, or even where I was to
get shelter. I saw many large buildings, but I durst not ask the
least corner there to pass the night in. At last, spying a wretched
shed opposite a glass furnace, I crept under it. Would to heaven
I had then had sense enough to take my sufferings as an expiation
of my sins, and united my poverty to that of my Saviour lying in a
stable!

“Next morning, seeing at the river-side a boat where people were
embarking to cross the Rhone, I begged the boatman to give me a
passage out of charity. This he did, because in fact the city paid
him to carry beyond the river all the beggars who were refused
entrance into the city.

“When I got to the other side, I met a young man who promised to
make the tour to Italy with me.

“We had just started off together when we met a priest returning
from Rome. He did his best to persuade us to forego our projected
pilgrimage and return home. Among other reasons, he told us that
our want of passports would prevent our getting entrance into
any city on our way. I asked him whether he had one, and he had
no sooner shown it to me than I begged him to allow me to make a
copy of it, which I did on the spot, inserting my own name and my
companion’s instead of his.

“Oh! why did I not then offer to God the hardships of nakedness,
fatigue, heat, cold, and the thousand other miseries I suffered
on that journey! I should have had the happiness of drawing down
upon me the blessings of heaven. Our common Father would not have
refused them to me, beholding in me some traits of the poverty
and sufferings of his Son, but alas! my pride and other sins,
which rendered me more like the devil than I was to our Lord by
my poverty, were great obstacles to grace in me. Yet, O my God!
thou hadst thy views in permitting me to commit fault on fault,
folly on folly! Thou didst deign to set me free from all inordinate
love to my parents, which, had I remained always with them, would
have prevented my consecrating myself entirely to thee. Thou didst
design that when I grew up the remembrance of my trials should make
me sympathize with more love and gratitude in the sufferings of thy
Son.

“But I should be tedious were I to recount all the faults I
committed, and all the miseries that befel me on my way. I shall
give only the principal adventures.

“The first that occurs to my mind is that, when in Savoy, I
entered the court of our college at Chambéry, where I asked in
Latin for alms. One of the fathers was so touched at my wretched
state that he gave me supper, and even promised to take me back to
Lyons, whither he was about to go, and send me from that point to
Châtillon. At first I thanked him as well as I could, and promised
to follow him, but as soon as he left me I took flight, my money
always terrifying me from the thought of returning to my parents.
Was I not out of my senses, and did I not well deserve all the
evils that befel me, when I refused such kind offers for my own
quiet, and the comfort of my poor family? How deplorable was the
blindness of my proud spirit, to choose to face countless dangers
and hardships, rather than undergo a wholesome reprimand!

“In a village in Savoy we met a good parish priest, who took us to
his house, and, after giving us supper, allowed us to sleep on the
bed of his servant, whom he had sent to Chambéry. This gentleman
slept in a room over his valet’s, which was entered by a ladder,
at the top of which was a trap-door, which our host neglected to
close properly, so that about midnight a cat pursuing her prey
threw it down. The noise was sufficient to awake the priest, who
imagined that we were trying to enter his room for no good purpose.
So he jumped out of bed and, attired as he was, rushed out on a
balcony, crying Murder! murder! murder! at the top of his voice. No
less alarmed, I ran up the ladder and reassured him by explaining
the innocent cause of all the trouble. Fortunately for us, the
neighbors were not awakened by their pastor’s voice.

“Here is another adventure where we ran greater risk. In a town
in the Valteline we found a French garrison reduced to a very
small number of soldiers, so that the officers urged us strongly
to enlist. I would have consented to get my bread every day in
this manner, in the hunger I suffered, but my wiser comrade would
hear nothing of it. All they got from us was our consent to await
the arrival of the commissary, who was daily expected. They led
us to hope that we should receive the same pay as real soldiers.
Meanwhile, they wished to see what figure we would cut on parade.
It was easy enough to travesty into a soldier my comrade, who was a
big fellow; but as I appeared a mere boy, from my youth and small
body, there was some difficulty in finding a sword to suit me. That
which they judged best suited to my size had an eel or snake skin
scabbard, and for want of belt or baldric they tied it around with
an ass’ halter. I appeared so ridiculous in this that they resolved
to put me to bed as sick when the commissary came. While awaiting
that event, we lived on the king’s bread, and my comrade was in a
constant shiver lest we should be regarded as interlopers or be
detained there in spite of ourselves. He made the danger out so
great that I yielded to his urging. Bent on pursuing our pilgrimage
to Rome, we started one fine morning, but had not travelled more
than a mile and a half when we were arrested by some soldiers, who
had orders to seize all deserters they found and take them back to
their officers. ‘Alas!’ I cried with tears, ‘have I the look of a
military man? I am a poor student, who has taken a vow to go to
Rome.’ So pathetic was my accent that it touched them, and they let
us go. If God had not given them compassion for us, what would have
become of us? He saved us from another danger after we had entered
Italy.

“Towards nightfall we reached a hostelry by the roadside, where we
proposed to sleep, but we counted without our host. We had scarcely
eaten our wretched supper, which he made us pay for as dearly as
he wished, when, in spite of all our demands that he would at
least give us shelter in one of his stables, he barbarously drove
us out. It would not have been so bad could we have slept by the
light of the stars, but there were none, and the weather, which was
overcast, soon poured down on us a drenching rain. Our clothes were
all soaked, and, to cap the climax, the road was full of holes and
ditches that we did not see, so that we made almost as many tumbles
as steps.

“We were well-nigh used up when a gleam of light enabled us to make
out a stable. As we crawled towards it, we found a great stack of
straw quite near it. We climbed up on it and made a hole in the
top to creep in. As we were chilled through, especially our feet,
we put them under each other’s arm-pits, lying so that my head was
opposite my companion’s. We were just beginning to get warm when
some large dogs, scenting us, came running up barking furiously. At
this noise the people ran out of the farm-house and tried to drive
us off with stones. This new kind of hail did not suffer us to
remain in our quarters, and fear of the dogs prevented our leaving
them. I then thought it high time to speak, and my skill in getting
up tears served my turn here as it had already done in getting us
off when arrested as deserters. So I began to shout out in Latin:
_Nos sumus pauperes peregrini_. As the last word is Italian also,
it informed these good people who we were. They took pity on us,
called off their dogs, and left us to pass the rest of the night in
peace.

“After many hardships and sufferings we reached Ancona. Alas! who
can express the wretched condition to which my vagabond life had
reduced me! From head to foot, everything about me inspired horror.
I was barefooted, having been obliged to throw away my shoes,
which were broken and galled me. My shirt was rotting, my tattered
clothes swarmed with vermin, my uncombed head was filled with so
horrible a disease that it swarmed with worms and matter of most
loathsome stench.... It was only at Ancona that I was aware of the
extent of this disease, when on scratching it I found a worm on my
hand. At the sight of this my consternation was unspeakable. ‘Must
I, then,’ I said to myself, ‘in punishment of my villanies, be
eaten alive by worms and vermin? I no longer wonder that when I
take off my hat before people, they show wonder and horror at the
sight. What is to become of me? Am I not a sickening sight to all
the world? O sad chastisement of my pride!’

“After all, I resumed courage as I approached the Holy House of
Loretto. Perhaps the Blessed Virgin, who performs so many miracles
in this sacred spot in favor of the wretched, will take pity on
my misery! Ah! why had I not then the knowledge I subsequently
acquired of the wonders wrought by her in that sanctuary in favor
of soul and body? I should have had a far different confidence in
her power and goodness!

“Although I invoked her coldly enough, she showed me that,
independently of our merit and disposition, she is pleased to
exercise towards us the duties of a real mother; and as one of
these duties is to see to the cleanliness of their children, thou
didst regard me in that light, O Blessed Virgin! unworthy as I was
and am to be adopted by thee as thy son. Thou didst inspire a young
man whom I was never able to discover with the will and power to
heal my head. Thou knowest better than I how it was accomplished.
Yet I will not omit in token of gratitude to set down what I know.

“On leaving the Holy House of Mary, an unknown person, who seemed
to be a young man and who was perhaps an angel, said to me with an
air and tone of pity: ‘My dear boy, what a wretched head you have!
Come, follow me, I will try to apply some remedy.’ I followed him:
he took me outside the church, behind a large pillar, where no one
passed. Having reached this retired spot, he made me sit down,
and bade me remove my hat. I obeyed. He cut off all my hair with
scissors, rubbed my poor head with a white cloth, and, without my
feeling any pain, entirely removed all trace of the disease and
its hideous accompaniments. He then put my hat on again. I thanked
him for his charity; he left me, and I am yet to see a better
physician or experience a more wretched disease.

“If the least lady had done me this service by her lowest valet,
should I not render her all possible thanks? And if, after such a
charity, she had offered always to serve me in the same way, how
should I not feel bound to honor, obey, and love her all my life!
Pardon, Queen of angels and of men! pardon me, that after receiving
from thee so many marks convincing me that thou hast adopted me as
thy son, I have been so ungrateful as for whole years to act more
as a slave of Satan than the child of a Virgin Mother. Oh! how
good and charitable art thou, since, in spite of the obstacles my
sins have raised to thy graces, thou hast never ceased to draw me
towards good; till thou hast caused me to be admitted into the holy
Society of Jesus, thy Son.

“My comrade and I resumed the road to Rome, after spending three
days at Loretto; but God stopped me at Terni, in Umbria, to change
my beggar life for a place as valet. I was begging from door to
door as usual, when a venerable old man, a doctor of laws, invited
me to stay with him to attend him in the house and accompany him to
town. I was so weary of my beggar’s trade that I readily accepted
the citizen’s offer to become his lackey; I even did the lowest
tasks, for there was nothing that did not seem sweet and honorable
compared to the hardships and humiliations which had made me loathe
my mendicant life.

“I had been some time at Terni, but as I had not picked up enough
Italian to confess in that language, I made my confession in
Latin to a father of the Society of Jesus. After my confession, he
questioned me as to my studies. I told him that I was in rhetoric
when I allowed myself to be led astray. He manifested the regret
he felt to see me reduced to so low a condition after starting
so well in my education. He urged me to resume my studies; and
to facilitate this he proposed, if I chose, to have me received
into the college, where I would advance in science and virtue. I
took his proposal ill, imagining he wished to make a Jesuit of me;
but in the sequel I had every reason to believe that this wise
religious merely wished to give me at first the place of a young
secular who taught the lowest class in the college. Would to God I
had then commenced to do so! How many sins I should have avoided!
I did indeed go two days after to see the father and remind him of
it, but as I did not know his name, I was stupid enough to ask for
‘the father who heard my confession.’ The scholars in the college
yard to whom I put this question roared at my folly, and that was
enough to send me back quicker than I came. However, I asked the
doctor whom I served what kind of people the Jesuits were. He
answered me carelessly that they received only persons of rank and
talent, that their order was less austere than others, and that you
could leave it even after taking the vows. These last traits with
which he described them did not displease me. I would willingly
have entered among them for a time. I was not yet fit for the
kingdom of God, as I looked behind me before putting my hand to the
plough.

“As I began to understand Italian, I read devotional books in that
language, and among the rest one, _The Lives of the Fathers of
the Desert_, inspired me with the desire of becoming a hermit.
Thereupon, without consulting any one, I left my master’s house
with the view of going to bury myself in some wilderness in France
after I had visited Rome.

“As I left the city I met my doctor’s daughter, and explained my
intention to her, so that they should not be alarmed at my sudden
disappearance. After I had travelled a few leagues, I thought I
would try whether I could live on herbs like the anchorites. I took
some growing wheat, put it in my mouth, chewed it, but could not
swallow it, so I fell back on my trade of beggar, which did not
prevent my suffering considerably from hunger, even in Rome, for I
did not know the religious houses where alms were given at stated
days and hours. The novitiate of the Jesuits at St. Andrew’s is
one of these charitable places, and the only one I knew. Although
my would-be vocation to the eremitical life was somewhat shaken, I
started from Rome intending to return to France. Retracing the same
road I came by, I reached Terni, but not daring to return to my
master, I retired to a soap-maker of my acquaintance, where I spent
the night. The next morning he told the doctor, who was good enough
to invite me back to his service. I at once accepted his offer,
renouncing for ever beggary, for which I had now a greater horror
than ever.

“My good master had an intimate friend called Il Signore Capitone,
who some time after my return to Terni told my doctor that he
would like to have me at his house as tutor to his two sons, who
were studying at the college of the Society of Jesus. My master
consented, and, after speaking to me, sent me to his friend. I was
received with open arms, and presented the next day to our fathers,
who put me in rhetoric. I was not long studying under them without
feeling stimulated to imitate the virtues which I admired in these
worthy servants of God. One thing prevented openness with my
confessor, and it was that I could not bring myself to acknowledge
my low birth, for up to this time I had boasted that my father was
a _procureur du roi_ (district attorney), and I was ashamed to
unsay it or keep on saying it. Several months rolled on in this
combat of nature and grace, the latter pressing me to declare my
vocation, the former preventing it. However, God, wishing me to be
received into the Society, prepared the occasion.

“A young ecclesiastic paid by the fathers taught one of the lower
classes, but, getting tired of it, asked to be relieved. They cast
their eyes on me, and promised me the same salary. The gentleman
with whom I dwelt consenting, I became regent or teacher. God gave
me grace to economize my earnings, and when I had a pretty good sum
I divided it between the churches and the poor. I even tried to
imitate at least in something the great St. Nicholas, by throwing
some money one night into a house where there was a girl in want.

“Our Lord rewarded me well for these liberalities by the great
grace he did me by calling me strongly to the religious state.
One day among others, while they were celebrating in the church
the feast of Blessed Francis Borgia, not then canonized, I was
so touched by the sermon of the Jesuit father that, to follow as
far as I could the example of the blessed Francis, I made a vow
to leave the world and enter religion either among the Jesuits,
if they were willing to receive me, or, in case they deemed me
unworthy of that favor, among the Capuchins or Recollects.”

We will not follow his account of some interior struggles that
followed. When the provincial of the order arrived at Terni, the
accounts given were so favorable that Chaumonot was received and
sent with good letters to the novitiate of St. Andrew’s at Rome. “I
was twenty-one years old,” says he, “when I entered the novitiate
May 18, 1632.” But he did not finish it there. A nobleman had
founded a novitiate at Florence, and young Chaumonot with others
was sent there six months after his entrance. The master of novices
here, less austere than his former one, encouraged him to reveal
the great deception that troubled his conscience.

“One of the first things I asked this second master of novices was
that, to punish my pride, he should question me in public as to
the condition of my parents, my coming into Italy, and how I had
been employed. I hoped thus to expiate to some extent my faults,
and especially the falsehood I had uttered to conceal my low birth.
He consented. One day, when all the novitiate was assembled, he
questioned me on all these points. God gave me grace to practise
the humiliation which he had inspired, and I publicly declared
who I was, how and why I had left France, and what had been my
adventures in Italy. The holy man added to my avowal as I had
proposed making it, another act of mortification that I had not
counted on. He told me to sing one of my village songs, and for
this purpose made me mount on a trunk as my stage. I tried to obey,
but the music was not long. My memory could bring up only a dancing
tune. I started it. After the first couplet, the father stopped me,
crying: ‘Shame! what a ridiculous song! If you don’t know a better
one, never sing again.’”

His joy in the abode of religion was unbounded. To find himself
admitted among young men so far superior to him in all that the
world esteems, gave him constant occasions for zeal and fervor. Yet
his trials were not ended. The health which had stood the hardships
of his gipsy life now became so impaired that there was some
hesitation whether he should be allowed to take his vows.

But heaven favored his desires. He returned to Rome, and was thence
sent to the college at Fermo, to his intense delight; for it was
but a short distance from that Holy House which was to his last
breath the one beloved spot of earth to his warm heart, throbbing
with love for the Holy Family.

He easily won permission to make a pilgrimage to that shrine; and
the young French runaway of former days, a spectacle to excite
pity and horror, would not now be recognized in the talented young
Italian Jesuit, Calmanotti. His mother tongue even was lost, but
a French father at Loretto gave him some books in his native
language, and urged him to recover it. After a time it came back,
and he could read with ease.

As a teacher, he won the favor of his pupils and his superiors, for
he seemed to possess the _donum famæ_, that singular gift which
constitutes popularity, and wins its way with men of all nations
and places.

While pursuing his theology at Rome, he became acquainted with
Father Poncet de la Rivière, a Parisian Jesuit just completing his
divinity course in the Holy City, destined at a later day to be
hurried through Northern New York by savage captors and to reach
the Mohawk amid torture and suffering.

One day this father placed in the hands of his young and brilliant
countryman one of those Jesuit _Relations_ our bibliomaniacs now
prize so highly. Chaumonot read with wonder and excited interest
the narrative of the heroic Brébeuf and his call for religious to
labor with him in converting the Indians of New France. To him it
was a personal call, and he responded. There were obstacles, but he
applied for everything, permission to abridge his course of study,
permission to be ordained, permission to start as early as possible
for France to catch the ships on their annual voyage.

Yet with all his eagerness and haste, he clung to one spot of
Italy. He could not leave it without kneeling once more as a
pilgrim in the Santa Casa, and bearing it in his heart of hearts
to the New World, till he could erect there a Loretto on the model
of that he so revered. His devotion to the Holy Family led him to
adopt the name of Joseph and Mary, and to choose for saying his
first Mass the Loretto Chapel, erected after the model of the Santa
Casa by Cardinal Pallotti.

An unfortunate hiatus in his autobiography prevents our following
him through France, and witnessing his meeting with his family
and his long farewell. The uncle, we can well believe, readily
pardoned the escapade of one who was now showing such devotion and
self-sacrifice; while the mother must have pressed to her heart the
son now more than ever dear to her.

The Canada fleet sailed from Dieppe, and thither Chaumonot and
Poncet bent their way. The fleet and its voyage are historical. As
the old chronicle remarks, it bore “a College of Jesuits, a House
of Hospital Nuns, and an Ursuline Convent,” the last accompanied
by Madame de la Peltrie, the foundress and Mother Mary of the
Incarnation, as first superior. Of the Hospital Nuns--whose
contemplated establishment was endowed by Richelieu’s niece, the
Duchess d’Aiguillon, and the great cardinal himself--Mary Guenet of
St. Ignatius had in chapter been appointed to assume direction. The
passage of the ocean was not without its risks. Richelieu’s attempt
to create a French navy, and his motto, so adroitly alluding to the
arms of France:

    “Florent quoque lilia pronto”
    (E’en on the waters lilies bloom),

had excited jealousy, and cruisers, privateers of all kinds, were
ready to sweep away the cargoes destined for the colonies the
far-sighted minister sought to create.

But fearless of this danger the fleet swept out of Dieppe on the
4th of May, 1639, and the convent life, with almost daily Masses,
made the flagship vie in its regularity with the time-honored
monasteries of the Old World.

But if the danger of hostile cruisers did not alarm them, the feast
of the Holy Trinity came with a new peril. Dense fogs hung over the
bosom of the ocean while the Masses were offered. Just as they had
risen from their adoration, a sailor on the deck shrieked: “Mercy!
mercy! we are all lost!” Through the lifting vapors he caught,
within two fathoms of the ship’s side, the flash and the glitter of
ice. While all sank in prayer, offering vows and Masses, and the
Ursuline Sister St. Joseph began to chant the Litany of Loretto,
the vanishing mist showed them the fearful extent of their danger.
The iceberg towered high above their topmast, its summit still
wreathed in a cloud of mist, while far and wide it extended over
the sea. “You would have called it a city,” says Mother Mary of the
Incarnation, “and there are cities which are far less extensive
than this berg,” with turrets and spires, streets and dwellings,
as it were of crystal.

The sails were straining, the wind being full in their favor, and
the iceberg advancing. All passed in a moment. Captain Bontems’
voice rang out, but providentially the man at the wheel, appalled
by terror, gave a wrong movement, the wind suddenly changed, and
the vessel was saved, as the ice fairly grazed it, and bore away
from the magnificent object that so recently sent a thrill through
every heart--even the best pilots averring that it was a miracle,
as no human skill could have saved them.

Still storms and fogs delayed the ships, and it was not till the
15th of July that they entered the port of Tadoussac on the lower
St. Lawrence. Transferred to a fishing-smack, the whole party
were here detained several days, but at last on the 1st of August
reached the lower town of Quebec.

The gallant Knight of Malta, Huault de Montmagny, Governor-General
of Canada, received them at the wharf, and the city made it a
general holiday. As the nuns stepped on the American soil which was
to be the scene of their labors for God and the Indians, they knelt
to kiss the earth. All then proceeded to the church, where a Te
Deum was chanted.

Father Chaumonot was not to linger long at Quebec. A letter of
August 7th announces that he with three other fathers was about
to start for the Huron country. His stormy sea voyage of three
months was followed by a month’s journey over the rivers and lakes
and through the vast forests of the New World. On the 10th of
September, the six Hurons ran their bark canoe ashore at the end of
Lake Tsirorgi, where Father Jerome Lalemant was at the moment in a
rude cabin he had recently thrown up.

Chaumonot was on the field of his labor. Strange indeed was all
around him. “Our dwellings are of bark, like those of the Indians,
with no partitions except for the chapel. For want of table and
furniture, we eat on the ground and drink out of bark. Our kitchen
and refectory furniture consists of a great wooden dish full of
_sagamity_, which I can compare to nothing but the paste used for
wall paper. Our bed is bark with a thin blanket; sheets we have
none, even in sickness; but the greatest inconvenience is the
smoke, which, for want of a chimney, fills the whole cabin.”

“Our manner of announcing the Word of God to the Indians is not to
go up into a pulpit and preach in a public place; we must visit
each house separately, and by the fire explain the mysteries of our
holy faith to those who choose to listen to it.”

The superior soon recognized in the young father--to whom the
Hurons gave the name of Oronhiaguehee (the Bearer of Heaven)--a
great facility for languages, as well as zeal, courage, and
perseverance.

Father Chaumonot began his Huron labors at a critical moment. The
mission among the Wyandot tribes, renewed by the great apostle
Brébeuf soon after the restoration of Canada to France, had been
fruitful in crosses and gave little to encourage the ministers of
religion.

Most of these Indians, obdurate in their errors and superstitions,
not only turned a deaf ear to the teachings of the missionaries,
but, regarding them as powerful sorcerers, attributed to them every
misfortune that befel the tribe or any individual. In those wild
communities, every one rights his own wrongs, real or imaginary.
Hence the fearless Jesuits actually carried their lives in their
hands, never free from danger, or without the probability of being
tomahawked.

The flotilla that brought up Father Chaumonot and Poncet carried
also the deadly small-pox. As it devastated town after town, the
missionaries were compelled to bear the responsibility of this
new scourge. Their very efforts to reach the sick, to baptize and
instruct, were resisted with superstitious terror; they were driven
from cabins; and often, on reaching a town, would find every lodge
closed against them.

Their crosses were cut down, the crucifix torn from their necks,
the tomahawk often menaced their lives while on their errands of
mercy or at prayer in their cabins.

It was a position to appall the stoutest heart. Yet Chaumonot
entered on his work with alacrity and courage, fit associate
for those who had already braved all the risks and perils. None
faltered or hesitated.

They took, however, at this time an important step. To enable them
to act more independently and give them at all times a place for
retreats, as well as a centre of mission work, they established St.
Mary’s, the first mission settlement in the West. It was on the
river Wye, easy of access from all the towns where they had been
laboring. From it the fathers, generally two together, proceeded to
the towns assigned as their field of labor.

The large fortified town of Ossossane was entrusted to Father
Ragueneau, and Chaumonot was named his assistant. Here the
opposition and obduracy were such that they had actually driven out
the missionaries. The young Jesuit went forth bravely into this
hardened field--Ossossane and twelve neighboring towns.

In St. Teresa, as the missionaries styled one of these villages,
a young man solicited instruction and seemed to hear it with
pleasure. While Father Ragueneau was speaking, another Indian
rushed furiously in and ordered the two missionaries to be gone. As
Father Ragueneau rose, the young man whom he had been instructing
sprang upon him, tore his crucifix violently from his neck, and,
brandishing his tomahawk, bade him prepare to die. “I fear not
death,” said Ragueneau; “you should thank me for what I have just
taught you. If you wish to kill me I shall not fly, for death will
place me in heaven.” His tomahawk was raised, and he dealt the
blow. “Father Chaumonot and I thought that we that moment beheld
our long-cherished desire gratified,” but the blow was averted--how
they knew not. As he raised his hatchet again his arm was caught.

One day the two fathers were passing near a cabin full of sick
Hurons, whom they were not permitted to see. A bright little boy
ran out and welcomed them with kind words. His danger of taking the
epidemic touched them. Father Ragueneau felt impelled not to lose
the opportunity which Providence seemed to offer them to baptize
him, and he asked our young missionary to baptize him secretly.
Father Chaumonot took up a handful of snow, and, melting it in
his hand, poured it upon his head. The little fellow smiled, and
then, as though he had accomplished his errand, ran back to his
death-stricken home. A few days later they heard that he had sunk
under the fatal malady.

The next year he was sent to the Arendaenronnon with Father Daniel.
As the great object was to learn the language, his experienced
companion made him daily visit a certain number of cabins and
pick up all the words he could, writing them down. “So great a
repugnance had I to making these visits,” he tells us, “that every
time I entered a cabin I seemed to be going to the torture, so much
did I shrink from the railleries to which I was subjected.”

After this rude apprenticeship he set out with the great Father
Brébeuf to attempt to establish a mission among the Attiwandaronk,
a tribe lying on both sides of the Niagara, or, as they called it
and one of their towns near the Senecas, Onguiaahra. This tribe,
fiercer and more brutal than the Hurons, had hitherto observed a
neutrality between them and the Iroquois--a fact which led the
French to call them the Neutral Nation. A journey of four days and
nights through the woods from Teananstayae on the Huron frontier
brought them to Kandoucho, the first of the Neuter towns.

In the beginning they were well received, and all awaited the
return of the great chief Tsohahissen from war, there being no
one in his absence to treat with them; but gradually pagan Hurons
came, and represented the missionaries as great magicians who
sought their ruin. Then every door was closed against them, and
they often nearly perished at night, deprived of all shelter. After
visiting eighteen towns, they sadly turned back towards Kandoucho,
but the snow came on so rapidly that they could not proceed beyond
Teotongniaton. There they found a charitable woman who not only
welcomed them to her cabin, but during their twenty-five days’
stay was their patient and intelligent instructor in her language,
enabling them to adapt the dictionary and grammar of the Huron
language to that of this nation.

Yet even this good woman could not protect her guests from all
injury. A crazy fellow in her cabin spat upon Father Chaumonot,
tore his cassock, and kept up such a din that they could not sleep,
and tore from their persons any object that took his fancy.

After a stay of four months and a half they finally abandoned this
field, and the Neuter Nation rejected its last call, for it was
soon after destroyed by the Iroquois.

Still greater suffering awaited him. With the early summer he
joined Father Daniel once more. They entered the cabin of a dying
woman in the town of St. Michael to baptize her; one of her
relatives, incensed at this, awaited them without, and as Father
Chaumonot issued forth tore off his hat with one hand, and with
the other dealt him a terrible blow with a stone. “I was stunned
by the blow,” says he, “and the assassin seized his tomahawk to
finish me, but Father Daniel wrested it from his hands. I was
taken to our host’s cabin, where another Indian was my charitable
physician. Seeing the large tumor I had on my head, he took another
sharp stone to make some incision, through which he endeavored to
press out all the extravasated blood, and then bathed the top of my
head with cold water, in which some pounded roots were steeped. He
took some of this infusion into his mouth and squirted it into the
incisions. This treatment was so successful that I was soon well.
God was satisfied with my desire of martyrdom, or rather deemed
me unworthy to die a victim to the hatred of the first of our
sacraments.”

Amid such men, with all the horrors of war--for the Iroquois from
New York were gradually conquering the land--Chaumonot labored on,
suffering in health but undaunted and unappalled, even when, in
1648, Father Daniel perished in his village, and in the following
March Father Brébeuf and his young associate Gabriel Lalemant
underwent the fearful torture which gave them the highest crown
among our martyrs.

A general panic seized the Hurons after this last blow. “At the
time of this greatest defeat of the Huron nation,” says Father
Chaumonot, “I had charge of a town almost entirely Christian.
The Iroquois, having attacked the villages about ten miles off,
gave our braves a chance to sally out and attack them; but the
enemy were in greater force than they supposed, and our men
were defeated. Two days after their defeat news came that all
our warriors were killed or taken. It was midnight when the
intelligence came, and at once every cabin resounded with wailing,
sobs, and piteous cries. You could hear nothing but wives bewailing
their husbands, mothers mourning for their sons, and relatives
lamenting the death or captivity of those nearest to them.
Thereupon an old man, justly fearing lest the Iroquois might dash
on the town, now deprived of its defenders, began to run through
the town crying: ‘Fly! fly! let us escape; the hostile army is
coming to take us.’

“At this cry I ran out and hastened from cabin to cabin to
baptize the catechumens, confess the neophytes, and, arm all with
prayer. As I made my round I saw that they were all abandoning
the place, to take refuge with a nation about thirty-three miles
distant. I followed these poor fugitives with the view of giving
them spiritual aid, and as I did not even think of taking any
provisions, I made the whole journey without eating or drinking or
ever feeling any fatigue. While marching on, I thought only and
busied myself only with administering consolation to my flock,
instructing some, confessing others, baptizing those who had not
yet received that sacrament. As it was still winter, I was forced
to administer baptism with snow-water melted in my hands. What
showed me clearly that my strength in flight was given me from on
high, is that a Frenchman in the party, a man incomparably stronger
in constitution than I, almost perished on the way, spent with
weariness and overexertion.”

He was with the surviving missionaries when they committed to
the grave at St. Mary’s the bodies of Brébeuf and Lalemant; and
when tidings came of Garnier’s heroic death, and of Chabanel’s
disappearance, he accompanied the Hurons who fled to St. Joseph’s
Island in Lake Huron. There is nothing in the annals of the
missions more touching than Father Chaumonot’s letters describing
the fearful sufferings of the fugitives there.

When they at last resolved to seek a refuge at Quebec with their
allies the French, Father Chaumonot bore them company, bidding
adieu to the land which for eleven years had been the constant
scene of his labors.

No missionary had more thoroughly entered into the Indian character
or identified himself with them in thought. To him, therefore, they
gave the name which the illustrious Brébeuf had borne, that of
Hechon; and he was naturally the one to whose direction they were
committed on Isle Orleans.

His labors on the Huron language were now probably completed. He
had thoroughly mastered it, and drew up a grammar and dictionary,
which continued for years to be the guide, not only for Huron,
but for all the kindred Iroquois languages. “It pleased God,” he
says, “to give my work so much benediction, that there is no
turn or subtlety in Huron, nor manner of expression, that I am
not acquainted with, or have not, so to say, discovered.” This
knowledge he attributed as much to prayer as to his natural talent
and assiduity.

His grammar was published some years since in the second volume of
the _Collections_ of the Quebec Literary and Historical Society,
and is one of the most important of those linguistic treasures
which American ethnology owes to the early Catholic missionaries.

Father Chaumonot had scarcely organized his Huron church on Isle
Orleans when he was summoned to a new field. The Iroquois, their
hands reeking with the blood of Goupil, Jogues, Daniel, Brébeuf,
Lalemant, Garnier, asked for missionaries. They began to respect
the faith which gave such heroes, able to read the grandeur of
Christianity in the virtues of its apostles.

Father le Moyne had led the way to Onondaga. Dablon and Chaumonot
followed. In a general assembly of the cantons, Father Chaumonot
proclaimed the faith with such eloquence, and in a style so
adapted to reach the Indian mind, that the Indians lost their cold
indifference, and applauded loudly, while Father Dablon himself
listened in wonder to the language of his fellow-missioner. The
mission was established. Huron captives formed a nucleus, around
which gathered Iroquois converts, warriors and matrons, sachems and
orators.

There was no sparing of vice. Amid all the suspicion that lurked
in the Indian mind against the motives of the missionaries,
and compelled constant discourses and apologies, the fearless
missionaries rebuked them for their evil life.

Once, when accusations were made that the blackgowns came to
diminish their numbers and blight their race, Father Chaumonot
boldly retorted the charge on the men, and showed them that, by
their infidelity and harshness to their wives, their divorces,
abandoning them, and overtasking their strength, they caused the
death of their children, and were forced to adopt captives to fill
their cabins. Christian marriage alone, he showed them, could save
the race from extermination.

This advocacy of woman’s real rights closed the mouths of his
assailants, and so won the women of Onondaga to the cause of
Christianity that they wished to render public thanks to the
fearless missionary. They gave him a great banquet, to which they
came adorned in all their finest ornaments, to dance to the cadence
of two native minstrels, while they sang his praises and thanked
him for his advocacy.

Strange that alarmed statisticians in this country point now to the
same causes as producing the rapid decline in the birth-rate of the
Americans as a people, while the church, echoing Chaumonot’s sermon
of two centuries ago, points to the sacrament of matrimony as the
only sure hope for the country.

The Onondaga mission of 1655 is full of beautiful details. Its end
was strange and romantic. A plot formed for the destruction of all
the French was baffled by a secret flight, so adroitly managed that
the Indians believed that the French had become invisible.

Montreal was the next field of our missionary. Here, in 1663, with
the aid of Madame d’Ailleboust, Margaret Bourgeoys, foundress of
the Congregation Sisters, Mother de Brésoles, of the Hôtel Dieu,
and other pious persons, he founded a society which has for its
model the Holy House of Nazareth, to which he was so devoted,
and which has for two hundred years been the instrument of
incalculable good in Canada--one of the mighty aids in maintaining
the family faith and family piety--the Society of the Holy Family.
Amid our great wants is such a society, to sanctify Christian
families, by modelling them on that of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

The remnant of his Huron flock had gathered beneath the fort of
Quebec, but before he returned permanently to them he was sent as
chaplain to Fort Richelieu, at the mouth of the Sorel. Adapting
himself to any life, he labored among those committed to him with
his habitual zeal. He soon gained the hearts, not only of the
private soldiers, but of the officers; and established among them
regular practices of piety. One officer, touched by his words
and example, hung up his sword at the altar, and, receiving in
due time holy orders, was for many years a devoted missionary in
Nova Scotia; while a soldier, formed by Father Chaumonot, devoted
himself to the service of the missionaries, and became an excellent
teacher.

At last he is with his Hurons, never to leave them. He reared for
them the Chapel of Notre Dame de Foye, so called after a celebrated
shrine of Mary near Dinan. A copy of the miraculous statue there
venerated excited the devotion of his flock, and was the instrument
of God’s blessings and favors. To commemorate these, the Hurons,
through Father Chaumonot, sent to the Old World shrine a wampum
belt with the inscription, “_Beata quæ credidisti_,” and this
token of Indian homage was laid before the altar of Our Lady with
the offerings of kings and princes. Others followed the example,
and to this day celebrated shrines in Belgium, France, and Italy
preserve the wampum belts sent from the depths of our forests by
the converts of our early missionaries.

Six years later, the wants of the Indians compelled them to select
a new site, where unbroken land and fuel were abundant. When it
was chosen, Father Chaumonot carried out a long-cherished design,
and with the alms of the Children of Mary in Europe and America
erected a brick chapel of the exact dimensions and arrangement of
the Santa Casa of Loretto. It soon became a renowned pilgrimage for
the supernatural favors obtained there. And here in this favored
sanctuary the servant of Mary spent nearly a quarter of a century,
giving his time to God and his neighbor. He rose at two, spent four
or five hours in prayer or contemplation, recited his office, said
Mass, preaching almost daily, then attended to the affairs of the
mission, instructing some of his colleagues in Huron, catechising
children; after a slight repast at noon, he again spent some time
in prayer, and visited some cabins to give special instructions. At
nightfall, his chapel was filled for evening prayer, and with his
private devotions he closed his day.

In 1689, he celebrated at the Cathedral of Quebec the fiftieth
anniversary of his first Mass, being the first one who had ever
there attained such years of ministry. The Governor and Intendant,
with many other persons of distinction, sought the privilege of
receiving at the hands of the venerable priest on this day.

At the close of the year 1692, he began to sink under a
complication of disorders, and was conveyed to Quebec. He rallied
for a time, but after suffering intense pains, which he bore
with unshaken patience and admirable piety, he died the death
of a saint. As such, his austerities, his mortifications, his
uninterrupted union with God, his zeal and love for his neighbor,
had long caused him to be regarded. All gathered around his
venerated remains seeking some relic, and many afflicted in soul
or body sought his intercession--as documents show, not without
effect. His funeral was the most imposing yet seen in Canada.
Such was the repute of his sanctity that even Frontenac, the
Governor-General, bitter and fanatical in his hostility to the
Jesuits, attended, as well as the Bishop of Quebec, who had long
revered the aged missionary.

None who beheld his unpromising start in life could have dreamed of
such a career or of such a close.




PROTESTANT MISSIONS IN INDIA.[190]


The contents of this book, put forward with all the apparent
sanction possible of the sect that employs Mr. Butler, may be
looked upon as the quintessence of all that has been or can be
said on the subject of missions in Hindostan, by a writer who
feels that he has a claim to challenge our attention and command
our belief. That it is orthodox in character, according to the
notions of his class, cannot be doubted in view of the official
position of the author, and the innumerable extracts from the
Old and New Testaments, particularly the former, with which its
pages are interspersed; quotations the frequency of which, if not
reflecting much credit on the reverend doctor by their charity or
appositeness, give to the work an air of ponderous learning and
holiness that must be highly relished by his brother Methodists.
But in justice to the author, it must be said that he does not
altogether confine himself to the sacred writers. When the grandeur
of the pagan temples or the horrors of Mohammedanism become too
great even for his descriptive powers, he freely draws on that
profane child of the muses, Tom Moore, whose merits, however, he
is careful, in his clerical capacity, to depreciate by assuring us
that the author of _Lalla Rookh_ “was for a good part of his life a
_Romanist_”; an objection which he seems to forget might be urged
with equal truthfulness against the majority of the gifted minds of
the past eighteen centuries, and even against the inspired penmen
of the New Testament and the fathers of the church.

However, aside from the attractions of the work in an artistic
point of view, we do no injustice in selecting it as a very
favorable specimen of this sort of literature, and, recognizing its
author as a tried and approved servant of the Methodist Episcopal
Church, we shall proceed to gather from its veritable pages a
history of his labors, sufferings, and triumphs in the cause of
Protestant Christianity.

India, as our readers are aware, is one of the most densely peopled
and, in one sense, highly civilized of Asiatic countries. Its
population numbers considerably more than two hundred millions,
or about one-sixth of the whole human race, speaking many
languages and professing various forms of faith. The Hindoos,
the original inhabitants, forming the mass of the people, are
polytheists, worshipping according to the _Vedas_ and other books
considered sacred, their priests being known to the Western world
as Brahmins--an hereditary religio-social aristocracy, the most
ancient, and at one time considered the most learned, body of
men in existence. The Mohammedans, who are said to amount to
some twenty-five millions, are the descendants of the conquerors
of the eleventh century, and follow more or less strictly the
teachings of the Koran. The Brahminical classes or castes, which
are numerous, though not enjoying their full immunities since the
advent of Europeans on their shores, are still ardently devoted to
learning, and indeed, in common with all their countrymen, may be
said to develop remarkable mental acuteness and quick perception,
though still unfortunately strongly attached to the grossest forms
of idolatry. To wean them from these degrading practices, and to
introduce in their stead the pure teaching of the Gospel, has
been the professed object of the Protestant sects of Europe in
sending out crowds of missionaries and innumerable Bibles since the
commencement of the century--a work in which some of their brothers
in this country have not been behindhand. But American Methodism,
until 1856, had no representative in the “land of the Veda,” and
the Indians up to that time were ignorant of its peculiar and
manifold blessings till Dr. Butler was despatched from Boston to
enlighten them. He sailed in April, and arrived at Bareilly in
the autumn of that year, where, as he tells us, “his appearance
caused a great deal of talk and excitement.” He was accompanied
from Allahabad by a native named Joel, wife and child, and, having
his own wife and two of his children with him, he commenced his
labors. This Joel, who is frequently mentioned in the book, was,
it seems, already converted, and when transferred to Dr. Butler
by his spiritual guardians they “playfully intimated that Joel
had been trained a Presbyterian, knew the Westminster Catechism,
and was sound on the five points of Calvinism, and that they
would naturally expect him to continue in the faith even though
he was going with a Methodist missionary; but,” continues the sly
doctor, “I felt assured that these things would regulate themselves
hereafter”--and he was right, for, as he tells us in another place,
his faithful helper “was destined to become the first native
minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church in India.” He became in
a manner the corner-stone of the vast edifice that was about to be
erected on the ruins of heathenism.

We have often heard the anecdote of lending a congregation, but
this is the first instance, within our knowledge, of borrowing, not
to use a harsher term, a convert; still, we can sympathize with
honest Joel in the confusion of mind he must have experienced in
discriminating between the Christianity of John Calvin and that of
John Wesley, and his mystification at receiving as the Word of God
two different and distinct versions of the same law, not to speak
of his trying to expound them to his audience in his capacity of
first native pastor. Still, he was a beginning, the nucleus of
that great conglomeration of religion and intelligence about to be
called into existence by the potent spells of the grand magician.
Nor was he long left alone. There was a Christian girl, it seems,
named Maria, who had formerly been converted by the Madras
Baptists, but whom Dr. Butler speedily reconverted to Methodism.
“This precious girl,” says the author, “who, of her race and sex
in Bareilly, alone loved us for the Gospel’s sake, seemed raised
up to encourage and aid us in our new mission;” and with this
encouragement, and two such followers, he forthwith set about the
conversion of Rohilcund, having first secured “a furnished house,
and began to study the language.”

If there is something absurd in the commencement of a Methodist
church with only a Presbyterian and a Baptist, the idea conveyed
in the last sentence is excessively ridiculous. Can we imagine a
heaven-appointed minister, filled with holy energy, so eager to
christianize the heathen and elevate his mind that he leaves his
distant home and two of his (four) children in tears, penetrates
into the heart of the enemy’s country, and, having made his
“comfortable arrangements,” established his wife and family, and
procured two ready-made helpers, quietly sits down for the first
time to learn the language of the highly astute and observant
people to whom he is sent to preach, and consequently ignorant of
the prejudices and doctrines against which he would have to combat?
We are not surprised therefore to hear that for several months
after the establishment of the mission Mr. Butler’s congregation,
as he delights to call it, did not increase perceptibly. Says Dr.
Russell, a Protestant and the correspondent of England’s leading
journal: “So long as a Christian minister can argue with a Moulvie
or a pundit with patience and ingenuity, he will be listened to
with interest and respect; he will be permitted to expound the
Scriptures, and to warn his hearers against the errors of their
faith, provided that he refrains from insulting, contemptuous,
and irritating language; but if he be a mere ignorant, illiterate
zealot, without any qualification (temporally speaking) except a
knowledge of Hindostanee and good intentions, he may be exposed
to the laughter, scorn, and even abuse of the crowded bazaar in
consequence of his manifest inability to meet the subtle objections
of his keen and practised opponent. From what I have heard I regret
to state my conviction is, that no considerable success, so far
as human means are concerned, can be expected from the efforts of
those who are like the ancient apostles in all things but their
inspiration and heavenly help.”[191]

In May, 1857, the Sepoy rebellion, caused to a great extent by the
conduct of just such “illiterate zealots” and the criminal neglect
of the East India Company, broke out, and the terror extending to
Bareilly, the foreign women and children were ordered to be sent
to the mountains for safety, Dr. Butler being advised to accompany
them. After “prayerfully considering” this message, he resolved
not to go, not to abandon his post in the hour of danger; but,
with the inconsistency of poor weak human nature, from which even
missionaries, it would appear, are not exempt, he tells us that
“before going to bed we arranged our clothes for a hasty flight
should any alarm be given.” As the doctor is an advocate of the
superiority of married over single missionaries, we give literally
his own account of the domestic scene that followed the warning,
which, to say the least, is very complimentary to his amiable
spouse:

   “As soon as the adjutant had gone, I communicated the message
  to Mrs. Butler. She received it with calmness, and we retired
  to our room to pray together for divine direction. After I
  had concluded my prayer, she began, and I may be excused in
  saying that such a prayer I think I never heard; a martyr might
  worthily have uttered it, it was so full of trust in God and
  calm submission to his will. But when she came to plead for the
  preservation of ‘these innocent little ones,’ she broke down
  completely. We both felt we could die, if such were the will
  of God; but it seemed too hard for poor human nature to leave
  these little ones in such dreadful hands or perhaps to see them
  butchered before our eyes! We knew that all this had been done
  on Sunday last at Meerut, and we had no reason to expect more
  mercy from those in whose power we were should they rise and
  mutiny. But we tried hard to place them and ourselves, and the
  mission of our beloved church, in the hands of God, and he did
  calm our minds and enable us to confide in him. On arising from
  our knees, I asked her what she thought we ought to do? Her reply
  was that she could _not_ see our way clear to leave our post; she
  thought our going would concede too much to Satan and to these
  wretched men; that it would rather increase the panic; that it
  might be difficult to collect again our little congregation if
  we suspended our services; and, in fact, that we ought to remain
  and trust in God. I immediately concurred, and wrote word to the
  commanding officer.”

But all flesh is weak. Notwithstanding the result of this combined
appeal for “divine direction,” the doctor knew better, and, instead
of imitating his wife’s brave determination in that trying hour, he
hearkened to the counsel of a _Moonshee_, and Methodism, while it
retained its missionary, lost its first and, it may be surmised,
its only chance of having a martyr. “Being a Mohammedan,” he
says, “with more worldly wisdom than consistency, and having a
pecuniary loss in the suspension of my lessons in the language,
his warning had much weight with me. I had then to settle the
question raised by the commanding officer whether our resistance
to going, under those circumstances, was not more a tempting of,
rather than a trusting in, Providence? I hated to leave my post,
even for a limited time. Yet to remain looked, as he argued, should
an insurrection occur and I become a victim, like throwing away my
life without being able to do any good by it; and the Missionary
Board would probably have blamed me for not taking advice and
acting on the prudence which foreseeth the evil and takes refuge
‘till the indignation is overpast.’” Was there ever as prudent
an apostle or one so entirely anxious to avoid (after death) the
reproach of his superiors by the exhibition of too much courage?
Not that he cared for his personal safety, by no means, but the
thought of the censure he would have incurred for not having taken
more care of his precious life could not be endured. “Still,”
continues this intrepid contemner of ‘wifeless priests,’ “had I
been _alone_, or could I have induced Mrs. B. to take the children
and go without me (a proposition she met by declaring that she
would never consent to it, but would cling to her husband and
cheerfully share his fate, whatever it might be), I would have
remained. But then, to all the preceding reasons, the reflection
was added that Mrs. B.’s situation required that if moved at all
it must be then, as a little later flight would be impossible,
and she and the children and myself must remain and take whatever
doom the mutineers chose to give us.” What one of the “wifeless
priests” would have done amid similar circumstances, those at all
conversant with the history of Catholic missions in every portion
of the world--and there is no part of it but has been hallowed by
their footsteps--can be at a loss to determine; but then, those
short-sighted celibates have never allowed family or other human
ties to come between them and their manifest duty to their Master.
The result of the lady’s sickness, so indelicately introduced, we
think, as a cloak for her husband’s cowardice and hypocrisy, was,
we subsequently learn, the increase of the Methodist “congregation”
of India by one member known by the sobriquet of the “mutiny baby,”
and it is pleasant to consider that, despite the disasters of the
times, the conversion of the country was thus progressing, even
though slowly.

Moved by all these considerations, the author left Bareilly
with his family, and proceeded to the assigned refuge in the
mountains, some seventy miles distant, with surprising alacrity,
considering that for many days after everything remained quiet in
the neighborhood. But what a hegira was that, so full of perils,
adventures, and even miracles, performed, of course, by him alone!
In his narration of the journey he rises above himself, and becomes
almost apocalyptic in style. At one time, when the bearers showed
an unwillingness to carry Mrs. B. and the children further, this
was his noble device:

“But in spite of urging, there stood my men. It was an awful
moment. For a few minutes my agony was unutterable; I thought I had
done all I could, but now everything was on the brink of failure.
I saw how ‘vain’ was the ‘help of man,’ and I turned aside into
the dark jungle, took off my hat, and lifted my heart to God. _If
ever I prayed, I prayed then._ I besought God in mercy to influence
the hearts of these men, and decide for me in that solemn hour.
I reminded him of the mercies that had hitherto followed us, and
implored his interference in this emergency. My prayer did not last
two minutes, but how much I prayed in that time!”

No wonder that his heart was glad at the result, particularly
at the fact that the men not only took up their valuable burden
cheerfully, but forgot to ask for their hire when their task
was accomplished, which to any one acquainted with that class
of men in the East certainly savors of the supernatural. “The
divine interposition in the case will appear more manifest,”
he modestly continues, “when I add that even the ‘bucksheesh’
for which the bearers were contending they started off without
staying to ask for or receive.” The ladies who met the party at
the first halting-place were astonished, and one of them, Miss Y.,
asked: “Why, what could have happened to Mrs. Butler’s bearers
that they started so cheerfully, and arrived here so soon without
giving her the least trouble?” “Ah! she knew not,” ejaculates the
self-contained missionary, “but I knew, there is a God who heareth
and answereth prayer!” But let not this remark be misunderstood.
That initial lady, if at all in the flesh, was a Christian, and
must have believed in the efficacy of prayer. The true meaning is
that she did not know what a holy man Dr. Butler really was, and of
what special graces he had became the favored recipient. Poor Miss
Y., how we commiserate her ignorance!

While the civil war lasted, the refugees remained in the mountains
at Nynee Tal, a pleasant summer resort, where, for a rent of
$225, our missionary and family had no difficulty in securing the
inevitable “furnished house,” and, save an occasional scarcity of
milk for the baby, suffered no great inconvenience from want of
the necessaries and even luxuries of life. Food was readily and
cheaply supplied by the natives, and the Nawab of Rampore, though
an infidel, generously furnished them with food and money. Still,
in this comfortable shelter, and while his brother missionaries
were exposed to all sorts of dangers, our hero was rivalling Nana
Sahib in the fierceness of his denunciation and maledictions;
for, while the rebellious Peishwa was petitioning his tutelary
gods to destroy the English, and send them _en masse_ to the
infernal regions, the American Christian was invoking the Deity,
in all the forms peculiar to Methodist camp-meeting exhorters, to
weed out, root and branch, the very people to whom he had been
commissioned, and upon whose hospitality and forbearance so many of
his co-religionists depended for safety. The utter want of decency
and common humanity exhibited by many of the Protestant ministers
during and subsequent to the war cannot better be illustrated than
by transcribing the following gratuitous account given in this book
of a visit to the deposed Emperor of Delhi while _in prison_:

  “A day or two previously, my friend, Rev. J. S. Woodside,
  missionary of the American Presbyterian Church, was here. He
  went to see the emperor, and took the opportunity of conversing
  with him about Christianity. The old man assented to the general
  excellence of the Gospel, but stoutly declared that it was
  abrogated by the Koran--as Moses and the law were abolished by
  Christ and the Gospel--so, he argued, Mohammed and the Koran had
  superseded Christ and every previous revelation. Brother Woodside
  calmly but firmly told him that, so far from this being the case,
  _Mohammed was an impostor and the Koran a lie_, and that, unless
  he repented and believed in Christ alone, without doubt he must
  perish in his sins. He then proceeded to enforce upon his bigoted
  hearer the only Gospel sermon which he had ever heard; and
  Brother Woodside _was the very man to utter it_!”

Surely this Woodside, who could thus wantonly insult a feeble
old man, the fallen monarch of two hundred millions of subjects,
heathen though he was, must have been one of the ignorant zealots
alluded to by Mr. Russell; and the writer who could mention him
with unctuous satisfaction runs the risk of being considered little
better.

For nearly a year the missionary toils of Dr. Butler were
suspended; but when all danger was passed, he returned to his
former scene of action, or rather inaction, this time reinforced
by two “brothers” from America, who, having been lately ordained,
knew as little of the language, religion, and disposition of the
natives as he did on his arrival. The reunion took place at Agra,
and the trio, with their respective families, of course, proceeded
to Nynee Tal, “as we could there best devote ourselves,” says
the author, “to the acquisition of the language, and be ready to
descend to Bareilly and our other stations, where God had prepared
our way, after the reoccupation of Rohilcund by the English
Government”--rather a strange precursor, we should suppose, for the
servants of the Prince of Peace; but tastes, particularly Methodist
tastes, cannot always be accounted for. The “Church in India” also
received at this time another valuable member (number four) in the
person of a small boy, the orphan of a deceased sepoy officer,
who had been found on the battle-field by Lieutenant Gowan, and
“made over”--to use his own expression to the superintendent--by
that officer. “No man in the East or in America,” observes the
matter-of-fact missionary, “has given half as much money to
develop our work in India as Colonel Gowan has contributed.... His
liberality to our mission work, up to the present, cannot be much
less than $15,000.”

Encouragement also came from other official sources. His next step
was taken in the direction of Lucknow, “where he was assured that
houses could at once be obtained by the assistance of Sir Robert
Montgomery,” Governor of Oude, and thither he bent his steps,
“escorted by relays of _sowars_ (cavalry), the general considering
the precaution necessary.” Of the subsequent history of the
missions established in that city, Meradabad, near Nynee Tal, and
the old one at Bareilly, the book before us relates little. War,
famine, and pestilence, the three great scourges of mankind, seem
to have been more effectual proselytizing agencies than the Bible
and preaching. The first child in the orphanage established at
the latter place was, as we have seen, a waif from the rebellion,
and when, in 1860, a dreadful famine occurred in Northern India,
“so decided and quick was the calamity, that before the English
Government ascertained its extent, and could originate public works
to arrest its severity, large numbers of the people had died of
want,” and their children were left an easy prey to whoever cared
to snatch them up. This specious excuse for the government brings
to our mind the history of another famine which happened some
years previously nearer home, and which the same rulers failed to
alleviate even to the extent of affording free transport for the
food provided for the sufferers by the generous people of this
country. Though in the latter-mentioned case the victims were
Catholics, not Hindoos, the advantage sought to be taken of the
calamity by a similar class of men was the same. “The idea came
to us,” says Dr. Butler, “that this emergency might be turned to
good account by our missionaries seizing on the opportunity thus
presented,” and it was therefore agreed among them to solicit the
bodily possession of three hundred boys and girls. “I wrote,” he
continues, “to the Government; they were only too glad to consent
and have the children off their hands.” Of course they were, and
doubtless if he had asked for as many thousands, he would have got
them as readily. Nor was money wanting for the support of these new
_protégés_. “Responses came pouring in from schools and individuals
in America.... Individuals in India also, and government itself,”
says the doctor, “came to our help.” Even the Nawab of Rampore, “a
Mohammedan sovereign in the vicinity”--who, by the way, owed his
position to the English authorities--was put under contribution to
the amount of five hundred dollars. Still it was found difficult
to introduce Methodism even among these destitute children; for
elsewhere he acknowledges that out of nearly one hundred and fifty
girls, only about forty have been “soundly converted.” But no
effect whatever could be produced on the children not actually
starving, even by the free use of money. Here is his own emphatic
acknowledgment of the fact, on page 520:

  “Every effort was made by our missionary ladies to obtain even
  day-scholars from among the people, but such was then their
  bitter prejudice against educating girls that they generally
  treated the proposal with scorn. The ladies of our Bareilly
  mission made a vigorous effort in that city to obtain even a few
  scholars. They went from house to house, hired a suitable place
  in which to hold a school, bought mats and necessary equipments,
  offered even to _pay the girls_ some compensation for the time
  expended, if they would only attend; but at the end of three
  months they had only succeeded in inducing two children to come,
  and one of these was unreliable. At length, tired out, they had
  to abandon the effort as hopeless, until some change would come
  over the minds of the people in favor of female education.”

The system adopted towards the adult population was more
questionable, though equally unsuccessful. Rohilcund and Oude,
the scenes of the labors of the American Methodists, were also,
it appears, great recruiting depots for the company’s officers,
who, as the term of their sepoys expired, formerly allowed them
to return home and enjoy liberal pensions, so that a large
portion of the male population of those provinces were actually
dependent on the company for the necessaries of life. The failure
of the rebellion not only caused the breaking up of the sepoy
army, but the innocent were made to suffer with the guilty,
for the allowance that was paid to the superannuated soldiers
for past services ceased and general destitution prevailed. Of
this circumstance, the result of base ingratitude, the worthy
missionaries were not slow in taking advantage, hoping that, since
prayer and exhortation had failed, the more tangible arguments of
meat and dollars might at least partially succeed. Previous to the
war the “converted” native held, and as we shall presently see
for good reasons, a very unenviable position in the community.
According to the author, “he was cut off and proscribed by his
friends, looked down upon too often by European officials,” and
“refused all employment under government.” But this was all changed
by Montgomery, the local ruler of Oude, and Governor-General
Lawrence, who were favorable to the encouragement of native
Christians. “Other officials,” we are told, “did the same.
Merchants and traders also sought them, for they saw they could be
trusted. _Their value rose at once._” “And,” adds Dr. Butler, “the
rapid growth of the Christian church in India since that time, and
especially of the native ministry, will be fully exhibited in the
statistical tables which follow the next chapter.”

We regret that he has not favored us with the details of this
astonishing increase in the number of the faithful which so closely
followed the distribution of government patronage and pecuniary
rewards; but to our chagrin the indefatigable and sanguine
missionary, whom we have followed from Boston to the Himalayas,
prayed with, in spirit, in the “dark jungles,” and moaned with in
unison over the combined sins of the heathen and the _Romanist_,
parts from us abruptly, leaving us the prey of a cruel suspicion
that, notwithstanding the generous donations of American friends,
the efficient aid of British officials, and, above all, his own
sanctified character and wonderful intrepidity, his mission, like
so many others undertaken in the same spirit, was, after all, a
melancholy failure. In winding up his long history, he tells us:

  “The organization of the missions into an annual conference,
  at the close of 1864, terminated my superintendency, while the
  toil and care to which body and mind were subject during these
  scenes, and in such a climate, were so exhausting that release
  from further service there became indispensable. This release was
  kindly granted by the bishop and the missionary board.”

Now, what were our reverend friend and his co-laborers doing
during the six years that followed the establishment of the three
missions which still manage to exist in India? Surely a lively and
scriptural account of those toils and cares of which he speaks
would, particularly when told in his glowing style, be highly
interesting to the public. Chapters of his voluminous book are
devoted to descriptions of temples and tombs of the past ages, and
some hundreds of pages to a detailed account of the massacres,
battles and disasters incident to the civil war, but not a line
do we find in which may be traced the efficacy of the gospel as
preached by such pious expounders, nor is mention made of a single
grown-up convert won to Methodism during the whole time, save
through the agency of filthy lucre, the root of all evil. For our
further information, it is true, he refers us to certain tables
with which he supplements his work, but that is small consolation,
for, though we believe in the old saying that figures cannot lie,
we are satisfied from an examination of the tables referred to
that this veracious character does not strictly apply to those who
collated them.

From Table I. we gather that the Methodist Episcopal Church in
India, in 1872, had no less than eighteen male and nineteen
female missionaries of foreign birth in Rohilcund and Oude, and
eighty-six native assistants, with church-members, amounting in the
aggregate to five hundred and forty-one, so that every fourteen
and a half members had one foreign missionary, or, counting the
local preachers and exhorters, every _four_ converts may now enjoy
the sole solicitude of one spiritual guide at least! But in Table
II., on the next page, the foreign missionaries are increased to
forty-six, or one to every dozen actual Christians, and, taking
the entire force of foreign missionaries, native pastors, local
preachers, exhorters, and teachers, the whole number of “laborers,”
more or less dependent on the missionary fund for a livelihood, are
reported at the handsome figure of _three hundred and sixty-six_,
two laborers for every three members! But if we deduct the number
of teachers returned at two hundred and thirty-four in Table II.
from the whole number of members, we find that for every _thirty_
members who are not laborers, and consequently derive no official
benefit from the church connection, there are _twenty-three_ who
do. Should matters go on as prosperously as they seem to have done
for a few years more, we hope to hear that every native convert who
is not a pastor, exhorter, or teacher himself will be able to have
the sole and separate use of a missionary or an assistant for his
own benefit. We expect, also, to find that the exhausting duties
of the foreign missionaries in taking charge each of at least one
dozen of converts, including the native preachers, exhorters, and
teachers aforesaid, will be duly considered by the board, and
that reinforcements will be sent to them forthwith. What the
eighty-six native pastors and catechists, as returned in Table
II., find to do except to preach to each other, we are at a loss
to surmise. Perhaps, however, they look after certain individuals
classified as probationers and non-communicant adherents, and by
the help of which, and the children of the schools, the compiler
endeavors to make out a show of figures. The former class he
counts at five hundred and twenty, and the latter at seven hundred
and thirty-five, which, with nearly twelve hundred children and
the helpers, make the sum-total of the officers and rank and
file of the church three thousand and sixty-five, “all won for
Christ since the rebellion closed.” Now, taking these figures as
correct in every particular, we arrive at the following curious
calculation, to which we respectfully call the attention of the
admirers of Protestant, and particularly Methodist, missions.
According to their own showing, there is in India one missionary
for every _seventy-seven_ men, women, and children in the remotest
degree connected with the Methodist Church; leaving out the
children, there is a foreign missionary for every forty native
adults, and taking the _bona-fide_ church-members there is one
duly commissioned American missionary for every _twelve_ converts!
Taking the whole number of Christians at three thousand, we find
the annual conversions to have averaged two hundred and thirty,
which amount being divided by forty-six makes the exact number of
_five_ persons converted every year by each of our countrymen in
India. If we leave out the children who as we have already seen,
are simply given away by the authorities,[192] we reduce the whole
number of yearly gains to one hundred and forty-five, or an average
of _three_ annual converts for each foreign missionary; but when we
only count the actual church-members, we discover that forty-two
native persons are actually converted every year by forty-six
American missionaries, and this calculation agrees very nearly with
the statement of Dr. Butler, who says in a note to the very table
to which he calls our attention, “Conversions during last year,
56.” How many years, missionaries, native pastors, and catechists
would be required at this rate to christianize the two hundred
millions of heathens in Hindostan is a problem too difficult for
our solution.

So much for the wonderful progress of Methodism in India. Let us
now glance for a moment at the _personelle_ of the brands thus
snatched from the burning.

The ingenious attempt to make the public believe that any form
of Protestantism has at length gained a foothold in Asia is more
common than honest, and has been repeatedly exposed and censured
by sectarian writers of all classes and degrees, many of whom have
lived as missionaries in India, and know the truth by painful
experience. A few extracts from their works and speeches will
suffice to show at once the deficiencies of the would-be apostles,
the character of their neophytes, and the absolute falsity of such
statistics as we find in Butler’s tables:

  “Missionaries have gone out from this country (England) who have
  dishonored their great cause, and rather confirmed than shaken
  the superstitions of the people they visited.”--Cunningham’s
  _Christianity in India_, p. 147.

  “From the want of superintendence, it is painful to observe
  that the characters of too many of the clergy are by no means
  creditable to the doctrines they profess, which, together with
  the unedifying contests that prevail among them even in the
  pulpit, tend to lower the religion and its followers in the eyes
  of the natives of every description.”--Lord Valentia’s _Travels_,
  vol. i. p. 199.

  “A large portion of the sterility of our missions may be
  attributed to that discord which Christianity (Protestantism)
  exhibits in the very sight of the unbeliever.”--Rev. Dr. Grant’s
  _Brompton Lectures_.

  “The numerous missionaries, although they waste years and words,
  and even money, have converted very few; yet when they have
  induced one or two apparently to adopt their particular tenets,
  it is their fashion to make a clamor in the newspapers and by
  pamphlets, although too frequently they are not sure of their new
  converts for any length of time.”--Mackenna’s _Ancient and Modern
  India_, p. 516.

  “Missionaries announcing the conversion of a solitary Hindoo
  among thousands of unbelievers are themselves frequently members
  of some straggling sect, and too often the instruments of
  fanatical bigotry.”--_Travels in India and Kashmir_, p. 195.

It is needless to multiply further such sketches of the unfitness
of the shepherds, for the reader will easily find them, and
generally much more strongly drawn, in any impartial work on
British India. Let us, however, take a glance at the moral and
social status of the spiritual flocks, whose members, before the
arrival of Montgomery and Lawrence, found it so difficult to
obtain situations. Captain Hervey, in his _Ten Years in India_,
tells us that, whenever a native convert wishes employment as a
servant, “he is not taken, because all Christians, with but few
exceptions, are looked upon as great vagabonds, drunkards, thieves,
and reprobates.” A writer in the _Edinburgh Review_, vol. xii.,
assures us that “whoever has seen much of Christian Hindoos must
perceive that the man who bears that name is very commonly nothing
more than a drunken reprobate who conceives himself at liberty
to eat or drink anything he pleases.” The Baptist “converts,” we
are assured by Rev. John Bowen, in his _Missionary Incitement_,
etc., are accused of wallowing in every crime that “degrades human
nature,” and deserve the accusation. The Rev. Mr. Schneider,
writing from Agra, in Dr. Butler’s neighborhood, assures us that
the “motives of the Hindoos for embracing Christianity were chiefly
the desire of employment and to have their bodily wants provided
for.” “It is a fact,” he adds, “that many new converts have, after
their baptism, not adorned their Christian profession, and so have
ever proved great offences and stumbling-blocks to the cause of
Christ.” Of the Baptist converts in the same place, we learn from
their _seventieth report_ (1862), that “what with members who
have left the station, and others (including paid catechists) who
have been cut off for immoral conduct, our loss has been heavy;
while in the city of Delhi in the same year sixty-six persons
were baptized and _seventy-five_ excluded from the churches.”
The author of _India and the Gospel_, a Protestant missionary of
Central India, candidly says: “I have met with native Christians
who have been baptized, some on the eastern, some on the western
coast, and others at some southern stations--lamentable to say,
they were not to be known from the heathen but in name.” Mr. Marsh
declared some years ago in the English House of Commons, speaking
of Indian converts generally: “They are drawn from the Chandalahs,
or Pariahs, or outcasts--a portion of the population who are shut
out from the Hindoo religion, and who, being condemned to the
lowest poverty and most sordid occupations, are glad to procure by
what the missionaries call conversion whatever pittance they are
enabled to dole out for their subsistence.” But it appears that the
bad character of the Protestant converts has even a more disastrous
effect than that produced on the reputation of their sponsors.
Mr. David Hopkins, of the Bengal Medical Establishment, in his
work on India, asserts, in reply to some overzealous advocate of
Protestantism, “the outcasts have indeed joined the missionaries,
and have appeared as of their faith; but the conduct of these
outcasts has generally proved that they professed what they did not
feel, and has considerably influenced the higher orders in their
prejudices against Christianity.”

If we proceed still further, we will find from these reiterated
complaints of the influence of Protestantism in the East, how much
it perverts whatever sense of natural justice may remain in the
heathen, and, by appealing to his basest passions, renders him
an object of contempt and mistrust even to his less enlightened
fellows--for there are few of the Indian population so mentally
obtuse as not to recognize the rankest hypocrisy and mendacity,
though they be covered with the garb of religion. How far such
men as Dr. Butler is justified in claiming three hundred and
fifty thousand native _Christians_ (Protestants) as the result of
sectarian teaching and zeal in India is not easily determined.
In 1850, General Briggs noticed that the missionaries reckoned
but one in every six nominal converts as church members; the Rev.
Mr. Ward, a missionary, states that of the number of converts
of every sort reported to the home societies not one in ten is
actually converted.[193] A writer in the _United Service Gazette_,
who had served as an officer in India in 1856, declared that,
though the missionaries reported their disciples by thousands,
an omnibus would hold all the sincere native Protestants then in
the peninsula, while a later authority, Rev. E. Storrow, in his
book on _Indian Missions, etc._, is not willing to claim more than
one-fifth of all the so-called converts as Christians even in his
indefinite sense of that term. Following the Storrow method of
computation, therefore, and applying it to the doctor’s tables,
we arrive at the following results: There are at the present day
three hundred and fifty thousand men, women, and children in
India claimed to belong to the various denominations, seventy
thousand of whom Mr. Minturn, in his _From New York to Delhi_,
emphatically says “are mostly of the most degraded classes,” and
no less than two hundred and eighty thousand who disgrace the name
of Christianity by debauchery, theft, hypocrisy, and immorality of
every sort in its most degrading shapes. Of the former we freely
accord to Methodism six hundred, and of the latter four times the
number.

But Dr. Butler has many arrows in his quiver to be discharged
against that target of sectarian animosity, _Romanism_, and
other claims to public sympathy and patronage broadly set forth
in his manifold tables. It is the question of education, and on
this his figures assume a prodigious magnitude. The Methodist
day-schools in India, he tells us, number one hundred and sixteen,
the teachers two hundred and thirty-four, and the pupils four
thousand four hundred and sixty-two. If these children were all
Protestants, it might indeed be a source of some congratulation
to his friends, but unfortunately only a little over a thousand
of them attend Sunday-school, and the balance, considerably over
three thousand, are being “educated” to stigmatize the Methodists
themselves as infidels, and to deny the first principles upon
which all religion is founded. That this, though a startling
view to some persons, is nevertheless a correct one, we have the
most indisputable Protestant evidence, and what applies to the
Methodists in particular, is general to all the sects in Hindostan;
who, collectively, are said in Table II. to be educating one
hundred and thirty-seven thousand children, of whom more than _one
hundred thousand_ are not brought up in any form of faith known
to Christianity. “The colleges of India,” says Major H. Bevan,
“receive fanatical idolaters, they disgorge only hypocrites.”[194]
The author of _Tropical Sketches_ avers, in allusion to the same
institutions, “the results have been great intellectual acuteness
and total want of moral principle; utter infidelity in religion,
etc.” According to the Parliamentary reports, out of over seventeen
thousand pupils educated at the public expense, only three hundred
even professed the religion of the state. At Benares, where there
are fourteen missionary schools, not one conversion is reported;
and the Rev. Mr. Percival, in his _Land of the Veda_, goes the
length of saying that “in almost every part of India the spread
of the English language and literature is rapidly altering the
phases of the Hindoo mind, giving it a sceptical, infidel cast,”
while the Rev. Mr. Clarkson goes further, and adds: “Some have
argued that the Indians, by receiving an education which undermines
their superstitions, are being prepared for the reception of
Christianity. We believe that they are being prepared for occupying
a position directly antagonistic to it. Several documents from
missionaries at Bombay, Poonah, Surat, Calcutta, Delhi, Madras, and
Benares _corroborate all that I have stated_.... None can doubt
that infidelity in its most absolute sense is on the increase.
There is no connection between the natives ceasing to be Hindoos
and becoming Christians.”[195] Dr. Grant also gives his testimony
of the effects of missionary schools: “It is the universal
confession,” he says, speaking for his brother missionaries, “that
but very few of the children so educated embrace the Christian
faith”; and even the orphans, we are told by Count Warren, “when
they grow up, all return to the religion of their ancestors.”
Lastly, the Indian correspondent of the leading organ of public
opinion in England thus sums up the whole question:

  “Missionary schools do not make more converts to Christianity
  than Government schools. A most zealous missionary in India
  assured me, with tears in his eyes, that, after twenty-five
  years’ experience, he looked upon the conversion of the Hindoos
  under present circumstances to be hopeless, without the
  interposition of a miracle.”[196]

We pause here, for the subject becomes too deeply painful for
contemplation, even at a distance. To think that, in this age of
boasted civilization and religious progress, one of the fairest
portions of the habitable globe, filled with millions and millions
of our fellow-men, in many respects at least our equals in natural
gifts, should still not only be ignorant of the worship of the
true God, but that, through the instrumentality of the ministers
of the discordant, jarring Protestant sects, and from their desire
to forward their own selfish ends, the natives, instead of being
taught the beauties of Christianity, are actually led to deny even
the existence of a superior power, and by the miserable examples
set before them, are forced to despise and hate the very name
of Christ’s followers. We arraign Protestantism of this great
crime, and we ask the serious attention of every candid man, no
matter what may be his religious opinions, to the authorities
above cited in support of our indictment. The British Government,
through its armed mercenaries and no less corrupt civil officials,
have doubtless inflicted dire and manifold cruelties on the
Indians, but the evils perpetrated by the sectarian missionaries
of this country and Europe on those unfortunate people are
beyond all comparison greater, for they are more far-searching
and permanent. Human laws and agencies may strip a conquered
nation of its wealth and liberties, but it requires the aid of
the missionary and _colporteur_ to rob it of even the semblance
of religion and morality, and by the means of what is so falsely
called “education,” to plunge it into the depths of unbelief and
complete spiritual degradation. This is what Protestant England
is endeavoring, and, as we have seen, with some success, to do in
Hindostan, and in what the generous but easily-duped people of
America are endeavoring to rival it. To christianize, in any sense,
the Hindoos has been found an impossibility by the well-paid and
well-fed sectarian missionaries, so they are now trying to earn
their salaries by utterly demoralizing the people they have failed
to convert.

They are aided in this by the active countenance of the dominant
power, by no less than twenty-seven distinct societies, and have
at their disposal unlimited funds; a great portion of which is
made up of the annual contributions of the people of the United
States. Of the five and a quarter millions subscribed by the
various Protestant societies of the world in 1871, considerably
over a million and a half of dollars came out of the pockets of
Americans, as we learn from Table IV., and doubtless money will
continue to flow into the coffers of these organizations as long
as they can continue to delude the charitable by false hopes and
bombastic reports of missionary successes. We are not of those who
are disposed to consider the conversion of souls from a commercial
point of view; on the contrary, we are rather in favor even of the
lavish expenditure of money, if by that means we can win men to
Christ and to the inheritance of his kingdom; but when it becomes
an instrument to rob the parent of his child, to convert the
heathen not through his mind but his stomach, to bring Christianity
into disrepute by sustaining the dissolute and degraded, to pervert
the mental gifts of Providence by teaching the heathen that all
religion is imposture,[197] and by supporting and sustaining
thousands of lay and clerical officials who are as destitute of
real sympathy for the pagan as they are ignorant of the first
principles of Christian charity and responsibility--all of which it
has done and is doing in India--we consider that it may justly be
asserted that what was meant for a blessing becomes a curse to the
donor as well as the recipient.

Dr. Butler in one of his tables shows that the Catholic Church
missions, embracing nearly nine millions of Christians, expend less
than a million dollars annually, while those of the Protestant
sects, ostensibly counting about a third of that number, cost five
and a half times that amount, and would have us believe from this
that Protestantism exhibits more vitality and zeal in the cause
of religion than does the church. But the contrary is the fact.
Unlike the sectarian, whose inducement arises out of and is in
proportion to the amount of his salary, the Catholic missionary
goes forth into the pagan world, without money, friends, or family
encumbrances; he forsakes all comforts and material pleasures to
preach Christ crucified; his energy is not of the earth, earthy,
his inspiration is from a power higher than that of man, and as his
life is one long-continued sermon on temperance, forgiveness, and
self-abnegation, his success is always in proportion, not to the
money employed, but to the sanctity of the preacher. He does not
distribute badly translated and often unreadable copies of the Word
of God, “in thirty-seven languages” as claimed for the Protestants
by Dr. Butler, to persons who can neither read nor appreciate
them; but, living sparingly, dressing humbly, and conforming in
all respects his daily practice to his clerical professions, he
wins to the standard of Christ the rich as well as the poor, the
ignorant _pariah_ as well as the learned and disputatious pundit.
Even Protestants, missionaries at that, have seen through their
prejudices, the uniform success of the Catholic teachers, and while
their system does not allow them to imitate their example, they
have nevertheless borne unwilling testimony, and therefore more
valuable, to the superiority in point of morality and ability of
the servants of the church. In India to-day, even Dr. Butler is
forced to admit there are close on a million actual practical
Catholics, with hundreds of churches, and a ministry of foreign and
native priests amounting to seven hundred and seventy-nine, who
are supported at an expense to the Society _de Propaganda Fide_
of twenty-eight thousand dollars, while their schools, numbering
according to the _Catholic Register_ of 1869 one thousand, contain
over thirty thousand native pupils. Dr. Butler has called our
attention to his tables, we have given them serious attention, and
have even taken his own figures as thoroughly exact, and we have
come to the conclusion that he must either have had a very limited
appreciation of the perspicacity of his readers, or recklessness of
character in thus exposing the hollowness of Protestant professions
of progress, superinduced by the complete failure of himself and
his co-laborers to vitalize in the far East the decaying body of
Protestantism, which is so fast degenerating into materialism and
scepticism in the West.

There are one or two points more, overlooked in passing, of which
we wish to take note. Dr. Butler has included that part of Farther
India in his tables, which will help him to swell the number of
his converts, and excluded that part of it in which the Catholic
religion flourishes. Include the whole, and you add 500,000 to
the number of native Catholics in India. Again, he repeats the
unmeaning, silly twaddle which we hear without ceasing from
writers of the same sort, that Protestant missionaries make real
Christians, Catholic missionaries only nominal ones. Methodist
religion consists in emotion and excitement, the most unreal of all
things. So far as it is worth anything, there is far more sensible
devotion, although of a more quiet and sober kind, among Catholics
than among any class of Protestants. But this is not the essence of
religion. To be a Christian is to believe the revelation and keep
the commandments of God. Whoever says that Catholic missionaries
do not carefully instruct their converts in the doctrines of the
faith and in sound morals, and endeavor to make them both pious
and virtuous, is either a slanderer or the dupe of some slanderer.
Let every one who wishes to know the truth read the work of Dr.
Marshall, and ponder the evidence he has collected. Dr. Butler’s
effort to weaken its influence, like every other attempt of the
same sort, has proved abortive.

FOOTNOTES:

[190] _The Land of the Veda._ Being Personal Reminiscences of
India, etc. By Rev. William Butler, D.D. New York: Carlton &
Lanahan. 1872.

[191] _The_ (London) _Times_, March 17, 1859.

[192] Alluding to the famine season, Baron von Schonberg says: “Six
hundred children were purchased for eighteen hundred rupees, which
certainly was not an exorbitant price.”--_Travels in India and
Kashmir_, vol. i. p. 193. This was at the rate of a dollar and a
half a head.

[193] _India and the Hindoos_, p. 337.

[194] _Thirty Years in India_, p. 239.

[195] _India and the Gospel_, p. 279.

[196] _The_ (London) _Times_, 1858.

[197] “They [the pupils of the secular and missionary schools] have
no more faith in Jesus Christ than in their own religion. They
believe the Jesus of the English and the Krishna of the Hindoos to
be alike impostors.”--_Six Years in India_, vol. iii. p. 277.




ON THE MISTY MOUNTAIN.


ROUTE I.

It was in the by-gone days of the Misty Mountain Stage and Express
Company--only a few years ago by actual chronological computation,
it is true; but at least a half a century by the change effected in
the less than demi-decade which has passed.

Do you know that at times, when I contemplate this change, I can
scarcely realize that I have lived long enough to have lived
through it? I often feel as if the memory of the things that were
is the reflection of experiences in a former state of existence, so
different is the _what is_ from the _what was_. I feel burdened by
great personal antiquity, and cannot help considering myself a sort
of Methusalem le Petit. I have seen the great plains spanned by the
rail and the wire. The smoking, shrieking steed of steam drinks the
waters of the fork of the Misty Mountain, sacred but a year or two
ago to the pony of the red man. The journey which occupied weeks to
accomplish ten years past is now made in a few hours, and lightning
whispers are interchanged between the Atlantic and the Pacific.

My good old Uncle Joe, an old-time leather-dealer in the “Swamp”
in New York City--who, a bachelor, had adopted me, an orphan, and,
having educated me, had assigned me a desk in the dingy old office
with the leathery smell--told me one day, without any previous
warning, that he wished me to start without delay for the Stony
Sierra to look after some of his business interests in that region.
That was my Uncle Joe’s way of doing things. His engagements
did not permit his leaving New York at the time. Besides, he had
crossed the great plains more than twice or thrice, and had had
enough of them. But as I had not had any of them, a little, he
thought, would do me good, and he proposed to give it me.

My journey to the (then) end of railroad communication was
remarkable only for the general railway decadence which, commencing
at Chicago, increased “in inverse ratio to the square of the
distance from our objective point,” as the elegant English of
the telegraph would phrase it. The conductor grew familiar with
the passengers, who grew fewer. The various characters of the
“newspaper boy,” the vegetable-ivory notion vender, the “ice-cold
lemonade” boy, the candy-seller, the cigar boy, the bookseller,
the apple and orange boy, were all performed by one and the same
protean youngster. The passengers had dwindled so that it would not
pay to invest two boys in that dramatic business. At length, the
Thespian youth, tired of playing a dozen different characters to
empty cars, threw off all his disguises at once, and subsided into
a mere passenger like the rest of us.

A sudden shock brought a slight nap in which I was indulging
to a timely end. The train had stopped. The pitiful account of
passengers were on their feet, some leaving the car, others looking
about them with an expression of interrogative imbecility, when the
brakeman shouted out:

“Devil’s Landing--end o’ track!”

No danger of taking a wrong train now. So we passengers, four in
number, left the car. We concluded a hasty agreement to stick
to each other as fellow-men and fellow-passengers, we four
waifs washed on the shore of barbarism by the advancing tide of
civilization. A fellow-feeling of lost-sheepiness made us wondrous
kind to each other.

I accosted a small, dried-up, hard-featured old fellow of eighteen
or nineteen:

“Any hotels here?”

Answer (in an intensely contemptuous manner): “No!”

“Any restaurants--eating-houses?”

“Yes, four on ’em: the ’Merik’n House, the Mansh’n House, the
Pacific S’loon, and Jack Langford’s dug-out.”

Finding the old juvenile so communicative, and having more
questions to propound, we propitiate him by offering a cigar in
recognition of his social and chronological equality, and in proof
that we are not “stuck-up snobs from the East.” He takes the cigar
brusquely without oral signification of acceptance or expression
of thanks. He bites the end off wolfishly, and places the cigar as
near his ear as possible. We offer him a match. He takes it, puts
it into his vest-pocket, saying:

“Guess I’ll take a dry smoke.”

“Which is the best of the hotels or eating-houses?”

“All doggoned bad.”

“Which is the cleanest?”

“All doggoned dirty.”

“Which is the cheapest?”

“All doggoned dear.”

“Which is the quietest?”

“Doggoned row goin’ on in all of ’em most o’ the time. Man killed
at some one on ’em ’most every night, and a brace or more on
dance-nights.”

We requested him to direct us to the “American” or the “Mansion
House.”

“Don’t need to go far. That,” said he, indicating by a movement of
his cigar and his lower jaw a partially finished “balloon-frame”
house about thirty yards to the right, “is the ’Merik’n; and that,”
indicating in like manner a canvas shed to the left, “is the
Mansh’n House.”

Devil’s Landing consisted of about a dozen mushroom edifices and
about as many “dug-outs.” On reflection, we concluded to try the
“American House.”

A small space cut off by an unpainted counter served for an office,
but no “register” was displayed. The establishment had only very
recently been moved up, the official behind the counter informed
us, from the last resting-place by the way of runners with the
rails.

A look at the “sleeping apartments” was sufficient for me. I
determined not to sleep in any of them if I could possibly help it.

I went back to the functionary at the counter, and asked the time
of departure of the Misty Mountain coach, and learned that a coach
left the same afternoon, and that there was one place vacant. I
engaged the seat at once, glad to escape the horrors of a night in
the American House and Devil’s Landing. My fellow-passengers wished
me to wait for the next day’s coach, but I declined. When we agreed
to stick together, I knew nothing of the American House.

We had dinner. It consisted of very fat and very rusty bacon, putty
biscuits, and mud coffee without milk.

“The cows have not come in,” said one of the greasy waiters, when I
asked for milk.

“The cows never do come home here,” whispered a neighbor, evidently
an _habitué_.

It was toward the close of August, and the heat was excessive. The
sun shone mercilessly on us through the partially glazed and wholly
uncurtained windows. Yet we ate and perspired, and perspired and
drank mud coffee, with a persistency which astonished me when after
thinking on these matters.

The flies were terrible. They swept around the room in buzzing
clouds. Some of them were nearly large enough to offer a fair
mark for a shot-gun; the smaller ones insinuated themselves
everywhere--into your nose, ears, eyes--aye, even into your mouth.
They immolated themselves in the frowzy, oily butter; and their
remains studded the reeking mass like currants in a pudding.

Such a wonderful effect has the pure prairie air--it doth so whet
the edge of appetite--that, though our eyes were shocked, we ate
and ate, and our sense of taste was not offended. The meal only
cost us two dollars apiece.

After dinner, I lit a fifty-cent Devil’s Landing cigar, and walked
(literally) around town--a perambulation which did not quite occupy
five minutes. As I finished my walk, a shot was fired at the
other end of town--that is, within fifteen or twenty rods. Other
shots followed. A long-haired, slouched-hatted, and red-legginged
individual dashed past on a pretty good horse. Evidently he was the
mark at which the firing was directed. As he passed, an armed man
or two rushed out of every house and shot at him. The proprietor
of the Oriental Saloon came forth, armed with a Henry rifle, and
deliberately blazed away at the long-haired fugitive. The latter,
finding bullets in front of him, bullets to left of him, bullets
behind him, after several miraculous escapes from close shots, had
no course open but to turn to right of him, around the corner of
the American House, which would afford him some cover. But just
as he turned, his horse was hit in the off fore-leg and brought
to in a moment. Immediately he was hemmed in by the muzzles of
twenty repeating-rifles. He had emptied his six-shooter. Flight
was impossible. There was no course but surrender--not even
suicide--left. He jumped from his horse, and sat down cross-legged
on the ground. He was quickly seized and pinioned. His horse was
taken in charge by a citizen. No words were wasted on either side.
His lariat of horse-hair furnished a deadly loop, which was placed
around his neck. He was marched about a mile to the only tree in
sight--an old cottonwood.

While the crowd was going to the tree, the clerk of the American
House told me in a few words the history of the long-haired victim.
He was a half-breed Choctaw, frequently employed as a scout by
the government. There were several of these scouts in the region.
They called themselves “wolves,” and prided themselves on their
destruction of human life. When any of them came into town citizens
were sure to be shot at. Their favorite way of leaving town was,
having first filled themselves with “fighting whiskey,” to dash
through at full speed, discharging their revolvers at anything
human that chanced to appear in their path. The citizens had
determined not to stand this sort of thing any longer. “Johnny
Henshaw”--so our “wolf” was called--had been drinking rather freely
of late. He had declared his intention of shooting three prominent
men of the town, mentioning them by name. Hence the measures about
to be taken.

Johnny Henshaw seemed to be about twenty years old--indeed rather
under than over that age. There was nothing in his features to show
a trace of Indian blood. His hair was light brown, his eyes a soft,
light blue, his skin fair, and his cheeks rosy. The expression of
his face was gentle and pleasing. It made me heart-sick to look at
the young fellow, even though he was a wolf and deserved a wolf’s
fate, and to think that in the midst of health and strength and
youth he was marching to a speedy death. As we came near the fatal
tree, I tried to imagine what thoughts were passing in the outlaw’s
mind by mentally putting myself in his place. The effort made me
dizzy and sick. I felt as if I were about to fall senseless.

When we had reached the cottonwood tree, the cortége halted. A
wagon was hauled up to the tree, and Johnny caused to mount it. One
end of his lariat was made fast to a branch of the tree. Three or
four men jumped on the wagon. Some confusion occurred in properly
adjusting the noose about the victim’s neck. Johnny pushed the men
from him, saying:

“Get out o’ here! I’ll show ye how a man can die!” And, fixing with
his own hands the noose about his neck, he jumped into eternity!


ROUTE II.

Poor wolf! His time to howl was over.

I felt sick and faint from witnessing the scene, and had to take
some of the “fighting whiskey” of Devil’s Landing to keep me from
fainting. It did so. It was as good--or as bad--as a galvanic
shock. I was glad, therefore, when the Misty Mountain coach drove
in front of the American Hotel to take up its passengers. The
stage had seven inside: a congressman, a divine, an Indian agent,
three ladies, and a small boy. The gentlemen looked at me in such
a dog-in-the-mangerish fashion when I popped my head in at the
door to see what prospect there was of an inside seat, that I
immediately withdrew it and took my seat on the box between the
driver and the conductor.

“Passengers for the Stony Sierra! All aboard!” And off we go behind
six good mules.

The country we travelled through was flat and uninteresting. Not a
tree or shrub within the circular boundary of the horizon. Little
of life, animal or vegetable, to be seen; only a stray hare--vulgo,
jackass rabbit--a prairie-dog, with its sentinel owl, a prairie
wolf or coyote, and an occasional hawk.

After a run of nine or ten miles, we stopped at a “dug-out” to
change animals. While the change was being effected, a man in a red
buggy with a white horse arrived from the west. He was evidently
excited, and his horse was covered with foam.

“How d’e do, general? You seem kinder flurried. Anything happened?”
asked the stage-driver.

“Well,” said the person addressed as “general” (by the way, you
could have bought generals there as they buy hobnails) “I have had
a pretty sharp run. Ten or fifteen Indians began running me after
crossing the Blue Fork. They fired three or four shots at me.
Here’s the mark of one,” he continued, pointing to a bullet-hole
in the body of the red buggy. “They came mighty near getting me.
And they would have got me were it not for Old Whity here.” And he
patted the white horse affectionately.

Thus the INDIAN QUESTION, at the very outset, was brought home
to the bosoms of the passengers by the Misty Mountain coach. They
asked many questions of the “general.” The Indian agent--who
had never seen an Indian of the wild tribes in his life--made a
pretence of experience, and offered a few suggestions. But a few
remarks from the stock-tenders at the dug-out stable raised a laugh
at his expense, and he “was squelched for the rest of the trip,” as
the conductor expressed it.

The conductor and the driver looked to their Henry rifles, and
hurriedly inventoried the arms in the party. The Indian agent had
a double-barrelled shot-gun--both barrels unloaded--no ammunition;
the congressman had a diminutive five-shooter which would scarcely
have tickled a papoose--five barrels unloaded, one round of
cartridges on hand, no reserve ammunition; the divine, the ladies,
and the small boy were unarmed; the reader’s humble servant had
one six-shooter--Colt’s navy pattern--with half-a-dozen rounds of
ammunition for the same. This weapon he had never yet used. He
was not fully enlightened as to the _modus_ of loading it. It was
in the reader’s humble servant’s trunk at the bottom of the pile
of baggage which towered behind the coach. Of course, he didn’t
wish to give the conductor or the driver the trouble of changing
the luggage. With remarkable good nature, he preferred going out
defenceless to troubling these gentlemen. Like most human feelings,
however, this one was perhaps not quite pure. It must be owned the
idea crossed his mind that it was as well not to introduce the
factor of premature explosion into the quantity of danger to which
he was about to be exposed.

We changed mules and started. Everybody saw Indians for the
first few miles. But the objects appearing as Indians to our
excited vision had been so often pronounced by the conductor to be
“soap-weeds,” “old buffalo carcasses,” etc., that the number seen
began greatly to diminish. Once we thought there was no doubt about
it. They came dashing along in “Indian file,” fifteen or twenty in
number, directly toward us. I felt “very queer.” Here were Indians
now, not a doubt about it. I was seized by a sudden desire to have
something to shoot with. I mentally resolved, if I got out of this
scrape alive, never again to travel unarmed in an Indian country.

“Antelope,” remarked the conductor.

Antelope it was; a herd of fifteen or twenty. They crossed the road
a few hundred yards in front of us.

We had travelled about five miles without an incident or a sight
to break the monotony of the waste around us, when above a rising
ground before us the Stars and Stripes, relieved against the sky,
gladdened our eyes. How that sight revived us! We remembered that
“the home of the brave” was our home; and I think that, if Indians
had appeared at that moment, or within five minutes thereafter,
we would have received them in heroic attitudes. But they did not
appear.

As we ascended the ridge between us and Fort Jones, that post came
gradually into view. It looked to us like a collection of very
miserable “shanties” dropped down haphazard on the prairie.

A large stone building--the hospital, the conductor informed
me--was in course of erection. It seemed larger than all the
rest of the post put together. The officers’ quarters were such
constructions as we have seen inhabited by the squatters on the
vacant lots up-town in New York or in “Jackson’s Hollow” in
Brooklyn.

The “Fort” disappointed me very much. I expected to enter the
guarded precincts over a drawbridge and under an arched portcullis.
But Fort Jones was destitute of ditch, rampart, or parapet, and
uninclosed by stockade, palisade, or even by a common board fence.
The coach drove up to the sutler’s store--there the post-office was
established--without let or hindrance from warder or sentinel.

Some half-dozen officers were in the store awaiting the
distribution of the mail. The congressman, the Indian agent, and
the divine soon discovered who was the officer in command of the
fort. They immediately approached him on the subject of an escort.

The officer said he had comparatively few men; his small force was
scattered along the stage-road for two hundred miles; he had only
twenty men present for duty; but he would try to furnish three or
four men. “An officer and a sergeant,” he said, “were going up on
the coach to see to the defences of the station-guards along the
road.” The conductor here put in his oar, and said it would be
impossible for him to take four men more. This settled the question
of an escort. The congressman, the divine, and the Indian agent,
having ascertained that they could be accommodated with bed and
board at the sutler’s, concluded “to stay over for the present.”

The conductor and the driver did not seem to regret this
determination. The former remarked that this lightening of our load
helped us much, and we should now be able “to pull through” in good
time.

While we were waiting to have the mail made up, a mounted man came
in at full speed with news that a government wagon train had been
attacked by Indians on one of the roads leading to the post--that
the teams were very much scattered--that some of the mules were
already in the hands of the Indians. This caused a flutter among
the officers. A company of infantry was ordered at once to the
relief of the train.

As we left the fort we could see the infantry going over the rise
at a double-quick and in skirmish order.

We stopped for a moment, in rear of the officers’ quarters, to take
up the officer and the sergeant. The officer’s wife and little
child came out to see him off. He kissed them both affectionately,
and took his seat with us on top of the coach. The sergeant, also,
rode on the roof. Both were well armed. Much to my delight, the
officer, finding me unarmed, furnished me with a spare musket he
had brought with him.

At first, I was rather disappointed in this officer. He was very
plainly dressed. He had just enough gold lace about him to indicate
his rank, and no more. I had supposed that regular officers always
wore epaulets and white kid gloves. However, the lieutenant--for
such was our new passenger’s rank--was evidently a gentleman. He
had a certain quiet, unobtrusive affability which charmed me very
much. I was glad he had come. His easy self-possession inspired me
with confidence.

“If we meet any Indians, lieutenant,” said the conductor, an old
hand who had driven stage for ten years along the Great Sandy,
“we’ll have to do the work from out here; there’s nobody below
(pointing downwards) to help us.”

“Do you think we may be attacked by Indians?” I ventured to ask.

“Think it most probable we shall see some, at the least,” answered
the officer. “They have shown themselves at several points along
the line. The Great Alamos, which we have to pass, is a favorite
crossing-place, when they go south in the spring or north in the
fall.”

“It is about as bad a place for Injuns as there is in the whole
route,” said the conductor.

“Yes,” said George, the driver; “and though I’m a white man, an’
agin an Injun all the time, I must say that we owe the badness of
that there place to a white man.”

“How?” I asked.

“The Great Alamos,” answered the driver, “was a great buryin’-place
of the Flat Noses. It was quite a large grove once--considerable of
a rarity on these here plains. You know,” he continued, “that the
Flat Noses bury their dead high up in the trees, or, where there
are no trees, stick ’em up on trestles made with long poles.”

“They bury them in the air instead of in the ground,” I said,
intending the remark as a sort of semi-joke, at which I designed
smiling if any one else smiled, and, if not, to let it go for a
serious observation. It was probably not new in either phase to my
companions, who took no notice of it. So to break silence, I asked
why the Indians of the plains sought these elevated resting-places
for their dead.

“To keep ’em from being eaten up by the ki-o-tees.”

“Do the ki-o-tees devour the dead of other tribes?” I asked,
horrified at the thought.

“The ki-o-tees is the wolves,” the conductor explained.

The lieutenant informed me of the orthography of the word--coyote.

About sunset we reached a house built of loose stones, and
therefore known as “The Stone Ranch.” There were fifteen or twenty
men about the ranch--all of them armed.

George pulled up before the door--there was only one, by the bye,
and no windows--and exchanged a friendly greeting with Jake, Ike,
Ed, _et hoc genus omne_.

“What’s the word?” asked George. “How is hay-cutting comin’ on?”

“We ain’t cut a blade of hay to-day,” said one of the men. “Them
cussed Injuns kep’ us corralled here all day.”

“Whew!” whistled George.

“How many were they?” the lieutenant inquired.

“Somewhere’s about thirty or forty.”

“Many guns among ’em?” asked the conductor.

“Some of ’em had rifles; all of ’em as I seen had six-shooters.”

“How long did they remain about?”

“Pretty nigh all day. They kep’ shootin’ at us at long range, and
we returnin’ their fire, until about ten minnits before the coach
kem.”

“Did yer git any on ’em?”

“Jake thinks as he hit one, and Mac says he saw another fall sure.”

“Well! we must be goin’. Git-e-p!”

“Keep yer eye skinned, George.”

“Hold on to that old skelp o’ yourn!”

“You bet! I’ll freeze to it.”

A mile further on we reached the Great Alamos. Darkness was
overcoming the twilight as we struck a deep sandy hollow which
extended for five or six miles. A slow walk was the only gait
possible here. The road for miles ran close under a ridge about
twenty feet in perpendicular height. It seemed to me about as bad
an “Indian place” as it was possible to find. My Indian weakness
came on again as in the morning. The snail-like pace at which we
were compelled to move was almost intolerable. There is some
sensation of security, or, rather, some suggestion of escape,
in a fast gait when danger is impending. Its source is probably
the initial instinct of the human breast when danger first
threatens--to run from it.

I consulted my companion, the lieutenant, on the possibilities or
probabilities of an attack.

“An attack,” he answered, “is possible. It is very probable that
there are Indians watching us now. They may fire into us at any
moment, as in our position they have the chance of hurting us
without being exposed to hurt themselves; for your Indian always
runs from a fair fight. He is only ‘brave’ when he has his enemy
at a disadvantage, and sees, or thinks he sees, what is called
out here ‘a sure thing.’ It is only their very recent presence,
however, that causes me to apprehend trouble, as ordinarily they
do not attack at night, and they rarely attack a stage-coach: for
the reason that they are sure to get a pretty tough fight. Even if
successful, their gain is very small; three or four mules at most,
perhaps a gun or two. They do not consider the investment a paying
one, as a general thing. In any event,” he concluded, “if I were
you, I should take off that white duster. It offers quite a shining
mark for them, if they feel like shooting.”

The rapidity with which I followed this friend’s advice must have
given him a pleasing proof of my confidence in his counsels.

We had now entered the bed of the Great Alamos. It was quite dark.
Silence fell upon us. Every man held his loaded rifle, full-cocked,
and finger on trigger--peering into the darkness, and seeking
in every sage-bush an Indian contour. Every now and then the
conductor’s rifle went up and down with a nervous twitch.

The evening had become quite cold. I had felt it keenly before we
reached the Stone Ranch; but as we crept along in the heavy sand,
through the darkness, looking every moment for the flash of an
Indian rifle, I felt all in a glow. I did not think of cold. No
doubt, the reason was that I could think only of Indians, and felt
that I was in a pretty warm place.

At last! We are out of the sand. The mules strike a good trot. It
is only four miles now to Artesian Wells, and then we shall have
supper, I am informed. I feel quite light-hearted over the recent
past and the close future. Strange to say, with the decrease of
my fear of Indians, the glow subsides and I feel cold again. The
strain is over; we begin to talk once more. George, the driver, has
won my admiration by his cool and calm attention to his team while
we passed through the “bad Injun place.”

“If we’re attacked,” George had said, “you others must do the
shootin’. I’ll have all I can do to manage this team.”

George was the beau ideal of a good stage-driver in an Indian
country--so the lieutenant told me.

“It is a driver’s duty to attend to his team under fire, as George
very properly says, as much as it is a surgeon’s to cure the
wounded, when necessary, under like circumstances. It requires a
good deal more coolness, and it is much harder for him to watch and
control his team while bullets are grazing him, than it would be to
throw down the reins and begin firing. It takes all his strength
and coolness to manage the excited and terrified animals. Shooting
gives needed excitement at such a time, but then the mules run off,
the stage is upset, and broken legs or necks and certain capture
are the result. George is a good driver, and, had he not one great
defect, would be a very good man.”

“What is the defect?” I asked.

“Drinking,” whispered the lieutenant.

“He does not look in the least like a drinking man.”

“True; yet he is as drunk as he can be now. He has not been sober
for years. George is one of your white-faced drinkers. He is always
as you see him now. I have been two years on this line, and I have
not seen George sober yet. Look at his eyes when we get to supper,
and you will see they are not the eyes of a man in his normal
condition.”

“I heard him refuse a pull at the Indian agent’s flask, between
Devil’s Landing and Fort Jones.”

“No doubt. That is George’s gnat. He makes it a point never to
drink while driving. But he had swallowed his camel before he took
the ribbons at Devil’s Landing, and he will swallow another when
he reaches Artesian Wells, where his route ends. Aye! and keep
swallowing camels every time he wakes up during the night, and
until he mounts the box for his return trip to-morrow.”

“What a fearful life for a man to lead!” I said.

“Yes, indeed,” said the lieutenant, “and the ending is still
more fearful. George’s team will bring him in some fine morning
stone-dead on the box, with the ribbons still in his stiffened
fingers.”

“I can imagine,” I answered, “how a man who is excited by strong
drink may find pleasure in it, though it may tempt him to break
things and get him into many a fight. But I cannot for the life of
me imagine why those dead-alive drinkers continue the habit.”

“I suppose they can’t stop it,” said the lieutenant. “They have
gone too far to turn back. Death is behind them as well as before.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a series of prolonged howls
from George:

“Hi-hi-hi-hi,” etc., _ad libitum_.

I was very much startled by these vocal efforts. I thought “it was
Indians.” Next it struck me that George’s last fit of _delirium
tremens_ had commenced, and he was about to become dangerous. My
military companion, noticing my astonishment, kindly explained
that this was the usual signal to the station-keeper. The drivers
commence their howls of warning when they arrive within a mile or
so of the station. Their peculiar cry can be heard quite a long way
off.

When we were quite near the station, we overtook an ox-wagon with
its solitary driver walking by the side of his animals, and giving
the talismanic “whoa haws!” and “gees” by which the movements of
these clumsy beasts of draught are directed.

“Hallo! Tommy John!” said the driver, bringing his team down to a
walk.

“That you, George?”

“What is left of me, my son. Where are you bound for, Tommy?”

“The old Sandy, as usual.”

“How far did you come to-day, Tommy?”

“From the Stone Ranch.”

“You must have left there mighty early.”

“Yes! I started afore daylight. I nooned at the Wala Hole, and
watered my stock and cooked my supper at the Great Alamos.”

The conductor then informed “Tommy John,” whose real name was John
Thompson, as I learned, of the state of things at the Stone Ranch
when the coach passed there.

“So, friend Tommy,” he concluded, “you have got through by a
scratch.”

“Oh! pshaw!” said Tommy John, laughing; “Injuns won’t hurt me. I’ve
been through the mill too often to be scared.”

“Well,” said the lieutenant, “as you have been fortunate enough to
get thus far safely, you had better remain at the Wells until some
government train with an escort comes up.”

“That you, lieutenant? How d’e do? Much obliged. But I’m agoin’
to Snake Spring before my next stoppage. I want to get on home as
soon as I can. It’s some time since I’ve seen the old lady and my
half-dozen babies over on the Sandy.”

“I tell you, Tommy,” said the lieutenant, “you are very foolish to
go on from the Wells alone.”

“Oh! no Injuns will trouble me, lieutenant. There’s nothing to
take. The investment wouldn’t pay.”

“There’s your scalp to take,” said George, “and I shouldn’t wonder
if you lost it.”

“Don’t be afeard about my scalp, George,” said Tommy John,
good-humoredly. “I have a notion to go after some ha’r myself this
trip.”

“Good-night!”

“Good-night, my son!”

“Gee!”

“Get aup! ye critters.” And off we go, leaving poor Tommy John to
pursue his lonely route.

“That thar Tommy,” said George, “is one of the kind-heartedest,
good-naturedest fellows as travels this road. An’ he’s churful,
too; always in for a joke and a laugh. He’s drove team--ox and
mule--on this line for nigh on to four year. He never carries no
arms, and always travels alone. He’s had some mighty close shaves
has Tommy, but I shouldn’t wonder if they got him yet. He takes too
big risks.”

“Does it often happen that you have no passengers, George?” I
asked.

“Once in a while,” said George.

“It seems to me that on those occasions you take as big a risk as
your friend Tommy.”

“Not by a durned sight,” replied George. “I have a good team,
and can give a party of Indians a lively run at any time. I have
generally a conductor or express-messenger with me, and a good
rifle well handled will keep off a power of Indians for awhile.
While he amuses them, I keep lightin’ out for the next station.
Before the company got stingy--when there was a swing-station every
dozen miles where you got a fresh team--I could have got away from
Injuns all the time, either by runnin’ back to the station I had
left or pushin’ out for the one ahead of me, accordin’ to whichever
was the nearest. I takes no risk that I ain’t obliged to.”

“What do you call a ‘swing-station’?” I asked.

George looked at me with an expression of mixed pity and contempt,
and replied:

“A swing-station is where you changes teams; a home-station is the
end of a route, where you gits meals.”

It was after midnight when we reached the Artesian Wells. I had
found the Sandy Hollow of the Great Alamos a pretty warm place,
but after I got out of it I felt cold again, and when I reached
the wells I was chilled through. Notwithstanding George’s warning
cry, everybody was asleep at the station. It took some time to
wake the people up, to get a fire kindled, and a meal prepared. I
took advantage of the delay to get at my trunk, whence I took my
revolver and some woollen clothing. The latter, with the consent of
the cook (a male specimen of the culinary tribe), I put on in the
kitchen.

The station was out of fire-wood, and was now endeavoring to
effect its cooking with the remaining chips of departed logs and
the chips of the passing buffalo. It took a long time to get
biscuits baked and meat stewed, thus I had a good nap by the not
very bright, though very aromatic, fire. The lieutenant, as soon
as the door was opened, had thrown his blankets on the floor and
himself upon the blankets; and slept the sleep of the brave until
he was waked for supper, or breakfast, as you please.

It was about half-past three o’clock in the morning when we started
again. The poor ladies and the child had remained in the coach all
this time, notwithstanding our efforts to induce them to alight.
Nor could they be induced to accept even a cup of tea or coffee.
With what a power of endurance these weak, gentle creatures--our
sisters--are endowed!

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




DECISION AGAINST THE ST. JAMES’ MISSION CLAIM AT VANCOUVER--ITS
APPRECIATION.


We reprint, at the request of Bishop Blanchet, the following
article on this subject, taken from the _Catholic Sentinel_ of
May 25. For a further exposition of the attitude assumed by the
government towards our struggling missionary church in that region,
we refer the reader to the February (1872) number of this magazine:

_Editor Catholic Sentinel_:

The case of the St. James’ Mission Claim, which for the last
twelve years has been pending in the office of the General Land
Department, and that of the Secretary of the Interior, has at last
been taken into consideration, and decided, as reported a few weeks
since. To Hon. W. H. Smith, Assistant Attorney-General, was given
the commission to examine the case and give his opinion. He did so
in a document dated January 29 last.

In his report, transmitted to the Department of the Interior, we
see that he had to solve these two questions:

1. Who are included within the proviso of the first section of the
act of Congress of the 14th of August, 1848, which proviso is in
the following language: “That the title to land, not exceeding 640
acres, now occupied as missionary stations among the Indian tribes
in said Territory (Oregon Ty.), together with the improvements
thereon, be confirmed and established in the several religious
societies to which such missionary stations respectively belong”?

2. What is confirmed by said proviso to missionary stations?

The hon. gentleman, after an attentive examination of the first
question, says: “I am of opinion that the proviso of the first
section of the act of 1848 conferred an immediate title right
upon all the societies then within its provisions. Here is a
confirmation of title immediately operating _proprio vigore_
for the benefit of all who should at that date be within its
provisions.”

For the construction of the law he refers to the opinion of
Attorney-General Bates, May 27, 1864, of Secretary Harlan, and the
Commissioner of the General Land Office in his instructions to the
Surveyor-General, which opinion has never been anywhere seriously
questioned. His final conclusion is: “I am satisfied that on the
14th of August, 1848, there was existing a missionary station of
St. James.”

This opinion is so well established by the documentary evidence
and the opinion of the gentlemen above quoted that there cannot
reasonably be the least doubt in the mind of any candid man as to
the existence of the St. James’ Mission on the 14th of August,
1848--a fact acknowledged by all, irrespective of party or creed.

Let us now come to the second question, about what is confirmed by
the proviso.

Here the hon. gentleman experiences some uneasiness in regard to
the words _land now occupied_ of the proviso. He knows not exactly
what they mean. He is not ready to say whether in _every case_ “all
the land claimed ought to have been enclosed, cultivated, built
upon, or the like.” Then he speaks of “stakes or other marks,” and
says that “for the liberal purposes of the proviso (?) he would
give the language the most liberal construction, but knows of no
rule so liberal as to hold _land occupied_ which has never been
included in any inclosure, etc.” (He had a little before said he
was not ready to require in every case enclosure of the land; it is
only a trifling contradiction!) Why should he be so troubled about
“enclosure, stakes, etc.”? Had he not before his eyes the following
rules, given by the Commissioner of the General Land Office to the
Surveyor-General in 1853, to direct him?

“1. Such provision is understood to grant 640 acres to each
separate and distinct missionary station referred to.

“2. In order to comply with the terms of the grants, ... it will
become necessary to cause to be made a special survey of a square
mile, which _shall include the land occupied_ with the buildings,
and improvements in the centre, as nearly as may be.”

These rules are undoubtedly plain and clear, and no candid man
can deny that the intentions of Congress in granting 640 acres to
each missionary station were as well, if not better, known to the
commissioner in 1853, as they can now be known after twenty years.
He knew that it was not as an alms, but in consideration of the
services rendered by the missionaries in laboring to civilize and
christianize the Indians, that the grant was made by Congress.
The same view has been invariably taken by all his successors in
office, by all the occupants of the Department of the Interior,
and all the Attorney-Generals from 1853 to 1872. Accordingly, all
cases of missionary stations have been settled whether they were
fenced or not. The Methodist Mission at the Dalles in Oregon,
received from the government $20,000 for a portion of its claim,
which was not fenced in 1849, and had never been before. The title
of the Presbyterian Mission at Walla Walla, and many others which
were in the same condition, were readily acknowledged and granted.
Should not all these incontrovertible facts have convinced the Hon.
Assistant Attorney of the true meaning of the words “the land now
occupied”? But they did not.

Yet notwithstanding his apparent disposition “for the charitable
purpose of the proviso to give the language the most liberal
construction,” he cannot go so far as went all the secretaries,
the attorney-generals, and the commissioners in office during
the course of the twenty previous years. He seems to have been
sent to teach them that they all have erred in the interpretation
they have given to the proviso, and accordingly he sets himself
up as a reformer. Therefore, grounded on his far superior legal
acquirements, he hesitates not to say: “I am unable to see how
Commissioner Wilson reached the conclusion in his instructions to
the Surveyor-General. It is in my opinion an erroneous construction
of the proviso.” The Hon. Mr. Wilson, as well as all the other hon.
gentlemen who approved his construction, will no doubt be much
flattered by the compliment.

The Hon. Assistant Attorney-General continues: “On the 14th day of
August, 1848, the mission of St. James was _in actual possession_
of a small piece of land upon which had been erected a church,
in which the priests there stationed held religious worship. The
mission at that date had never asserted any claim whatever” (would
the Hudson Bay Company, wrongfully claiming possessory rights to
the land, have allowed it?) “had no enclosure, and was therefore
only in occupancy of the land covered by the church edifice, and
such land as was appendant to it. This it occupied in my opinion as
a missionary station among the Indians. The society to which said
mission belongs has therefore a vested title in the land upon which
the church edifice extends, and as much appurtenant thereto as at
the passage of the act was within the enclosure or used for church
purposes.”

Such, therefore, has been the generosity of the Congress of the
United States, in his opinion!

As an acknowledgment of the previous efforts of the missionaries
to civilize and christianize the Indians, Congress grants the
land covered by the church, and a few feet more. What wonderful
liberality! _Obstupescite coeli super hoc!_

This opinion has been submitted to the Hon. Attorney-General
Williams, although he has an interest in a portion of the claim.
He has written a letter on the subject which may be considered
as approving it, from the fact that the Hon. Mr. Cowen, acting
Secretary, has declared that he himself concurs in the opinion of
the Hon. Mr. Smith. The legists will here please remember that
the old axiom, _favores sunt ampliandi_, is no longer in fashion!
Hereafter they must say: _Favores sunt restringendi_; and, _odiosa
amplianda_, as in the present case.

By such a decision, if it could stand, the first Catholic mission
established among the Indians in Washington Territory, the mission
which before 1848 incontestably labored more than any other for
the civilization of the Indians, would have only a few feet of
land, while all other similar missions have received 640 acres,
and one $20,000 for the land occupied by the government for a
military post. Why such glaring partiality in the administration?
There cannot be any other reason for such a decision but that the
land claimed is considered as of too great a value, and that some
military officers but already too well known here covet the land in
whole or in part. There is no doubt that by their influence they
have been in a great measure the cause of this long procrastination
on the part of the government in the past, and have in the present
contributed their share in the rendering of the foregoing adverse
decision.

We have now, Mr. Editor, given a true report of the decision and
the ground upon which it is founded. We therefore present it to an
enlightened public in order that it may form its opinion upon the
merits and demerits of the case, and that it may know that all the
religious societies do not stand on the same footing of equality in
the eyes of the liberal government of the United States in the year
of grace 1872.

                                                        A CATHOLIC.

VANCOUVER, W. T., May 23,

Papers whose motto is “equal justice to all” are requested to
reproduce the above.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  THE LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. By Ward H. Lamon. Illustrated.
      Boston: James R. Osgood & Co. 1872. Pp. 547.

This newest biography of the late President, in which are
related all the incidents of his career “from his birth to his
inauguration,” is simply one of the multitudinous dull books of the
period, the design or necessity of which is far from obvious to
any person other than the author and bookseller. Compiled by “an
admirer” mainly from materials supplied by a quondam partner of the
deceased, it sadly realizes the truthfulness of the old saying that
an indiscreet friend is more dangerous than an avowed enemy. We
defy any one, no matter how charitable, who may have the patience
to wade through its exaggerated accounts of the family, friends,
boyhood, and manhood of Mr. Lincoln, not to feel, on closing
the book, a tinge of that self-abasement which usually follows
association with vulgar and commonplace characters. What has the
world got to do with the private history of the “Hanks” family or
the disgraceful bar-room and “lick” fights of a semi-barbarous
settlement, in which the young man was no doubt but an involuntary
and disgusted participant? Then, as to his religious views,
though important as an index to his mental and moral qualities,
we consider it bad taste and worse judgment to expatiate on his
unbelief with all the minuteness and unction which distinguish the
long chapter devoted to their discussion. A cloud of witnesses and
documents are brought up to prove what?--that he did not frequent
churches or meeting-houses, and that the expressions of devotion
and reverence in his speeches and public correspondence were used
only to gratify his supporters. This may be true or it may not be,
but we “hold it not well to be so set down,” particularly by a
friend. It is generally acknowledged that Lincoln was a temperate
and merciful man, a warm friend, patient, if not affectionate, in
his family relations, and devotedly attached to his children; but
having strong intuitive powers and a keen sense of the ridiculous,
he could not help despising and laughing at the narrow-minded and
ignorant “hard-shell” Baptist and Methodist preachers of his day
and neighborhood. Though by no means of a very profound mind, he
was too good a lawyer not to know that there was no logical medium
between implicit obedience to an infallible authority and a denial
of all revelation. Had he enjoyed in early life the advantages of
a proper religious training, there can be little doubt but that,
humanly speaking, he would have added to his domestic virtues those
cardinal ones which the church inculcates. We are sorry for his own
sake that he did not; and we regret, for the honor of the republic
whose chief magistrate he once was, that his memory should thus be
held up to the reprobation of his and our countrymen, without, so
far as we can see, any adequate resulting good.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE RUSSIAN CLERGY. Translated from the French of F. Gagarin,
      S.J. By C. D. Makepeace, M.A. London: Burns & Oates. 1872.
      (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

F. Gagarin is a Russian prince, and, of course, knows what he is
writing about. This book is a very curious one, and will make some
people open their eyes if they read it.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE CHRISTIAN ÆSOP. Ancient Fables teaching Eternal Truths. By W.
      H. Anderdon, D.D. London: Burns, Oates & Co. (New York: Sold
      by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Dr. Anderdon in this little book teaches us spiritual truths by
means of the old and familiar fables that for years have been used
to teach the world natural truths; and it is a beautiful thought,
for truth cannot be presented in too many ways, and this mingling
of the homely lessons of the fables with spiritual instruction
gives a peculiar charm to the book that will not be found in other
spiritual writings. The many quotations from the Holy Scriptures,
too, give it a special interest.

The fables are all beautifully illustrated.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LIFE OF THE CURE D’ARS. From the French of the Abbé Monnin. New
      York: P. O’Shea. 1872.

We welcome most kindly a new edition of the charming life of this
most wonderful man, and take occasion to recommend it again to all
our readers. Mr. O’Shea has purchased the plates from the former
publishers, and, we trust, will find a ready sale for his edition.

       *       *       *       *       *

  LEGENDS OF ST. JOSEPH. Translated by Mrs. Sadlier. D. & J.
      Sadlier. 1872.

This collection of historical narratives and pious legends makes
a pleasing volume, and is published in a pretty style. It is a
book likely to be especially interesting to young people, for whom
the accomplished authoress has a particular gift of making her
instructive and pious writings entertaining.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SAUNTERINGS. By Charles D. Warner, author of _My Summer in a
      Garden_. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co.

Time was, in the United States, and within the memory of man too,
that to have travelled in Europe entitled the American tourist to
set up for a lion in his native town. It was once something to have
seen London and Paris, which are now mere American starting-points
for the grand tour of to-day. England, France, Germany, and Italy
no longer count. Every one has seen them, and even little New York
and Boston boys and girls yet at school, or who ought to be there,
have their own discussions as to the relative merits of London and
Paris, Berlin and Vienna. In short, the old ordinary European tour
no longer counts. Its tracks are all beaten until they are dusty,
and one must now do Spain, Russia, Palestine, and Egypt, at least,
to obtain the smallest capital wherewith to set up as a tourist.

Mr. Warner’s _Saunterings_ take us among the well-known paths,
chatting and gossiping at random concerning what strikes him, and,
as the subject-matter is already an old story to every one, it is
merely a pleasant way of reviving pleasant reminiscences.

Saving and excepting a few of the usual Protestant misconceptions
repeated by the author, most probably without malice, the book
makes very agreeable summer reading.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NOTES ON ENGLAND. By H. Taine. Translated with an Introductory
      Chapter by W. F. Rae. New York: Holt & Williams.

Mr. Rae’s introduction is a well-written chapter. Mr. Taine’s notes
are the recorded impressions of a traveller in England. They are
characteristically vivacious, picturesque, and frequently amusing,
with a tendency to be as often wrong as right in the judgments he
pronounces. The author discusses all the subjects that usually
fall under the observation of an intelligent visitor in a strange
country--government, religion, amusements, schools, universities,
homes, hospitals, manners, morals, the clubs, the family, etc.,
etc. Here is a passage which we can commend as being as applicable
to the latitude of Washington as that of Greenwich: “In Hyde
Park, on Sunday, the exaggeration of the dresses of the ladies or
young girls belonging to the wealthy middle class is offensive;
bonnets resembling piled-up bunches of rhododendrons, or as white
as snow, of extraordinary smallness, with baskets of red flowers
or of enormous ribbons; gowns of shiny violet silk with dazzling
reflections, or of starched tulle upon an expanse of petticoats
stiff with embroidery; immense shawls of black lace, reaching down
to the heels; gloves of immaculate whiteness or bright violet; gold
chains; golden zones with golden clasps; hair falling over the neck
in shining masses. The glare is terrible. They seem to have stepped
out of a wardrobe, and to march past to advertise a magazine of
novelties--not that even; for they do not know how to show off
their dresses.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  INDULGENCES, ABSOLUTIONS, TAX TABLES, ETC. By Rev. T. L. Green,
      D.D. London: Longmans. 1872.

Some low, dirty fellow in London, named Collette, has been serving
up the disgusting mess of lies about the topics designated in the
title of Dr. Green’s book, of which even the most unscrupulous
enemies of the church in this country, who have any regard for
their reputation, are ashamed to avail themselves. Dr. Green has
exposed him and brought him to deep and inconsolable grief without
difficulty, and in an able and lively manner.

       *       *       *       *       *

  DIVINE LIFE OF THE MOST HOLY VIRGIN MARY. Being an Abridgment of
      the Mystical City of God. By Mary of Jesus of Agreda. By F.
      B. A. De Cæsare, N.M.C., Cons. Sac. Cong. Index. Translated
      from the French of the Abbé J. A. Boullan, D.D. Philadelphia:
      Cunningham. 1872. With the imprimatur of the Bishop of
      Philadelphia.

At length we have this celebrated and remarkable book in English.
The abridgment is even preferable to the original, which is
tediously prolix in style. Among many Catholic books recently
published in very attractive style, this one is among the most
tasteful and beautiful. The work itself is both edifying and
delightful to those who have the spirit of Catholic devotion.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE MERCHANT OF ANTWERP. A Tale from the Flemish of Hendrick
      Conscience. Translated by Revin Lyle. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet
      & Co. 1872.

The merits of Hendrick Conscience as a natural, graceful, and
original writer of fiction are so generally recognized, that
it is almost needless to say we welcome the appearance of this
book with great satisfaction. In design it is artistic, in moral
unexceptionable, and its characters have the rare merit of being
few, distinctly drawn, and lifelike. The book itself is well and
neatly bound, and the paper is excellent, but here its mechanical
attractions, we regret to be obliged to say, end. The type, the
printing, and the ink are simply execrable; and the presswork
seems to have been done on one of those old-fashioned cylinder
presses now generally devoted to “striking off” street ballads and
play-bills.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE WITCH OF ROSENBURG. A drama in three acts. By His Eminence
      Cardinal Wiseman. New York: P. O’Shea.

Long and favorably known, this charming drama requires no eulogy
from our pen. We merely note the appearance of this new edition to
chronicle the change of proprietorship from Kelly, Piet & Co. to
the present publisher.




                        THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

                VOL. XV., No. 90.--SEPTEMBER, 1872.

  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev.
   I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.




INTELLECTUAL CENTRES.


A thought struck us the other day--a thought that was half a
memory--of the interest we should feel in Geneva at the present
moment were we to be there as long as the Treaty arbitration lasts.
This led us to reflect upon Geneva as we knew it--one of the most
delightful, intellectual, and interesting places we ever came
across. Thought, like art, has its centres, its headquarters, and,
like politics, its changes of dynasties and capitals. In these
centres, a person might live undisturbedly a whole generation,
and, never stirring ten miles beyond the city gates, not miss
any one novelty, person, discovery, or theory worth hearing or
seeing. All great personages, whether of royal birth or, what is
more important, of intellectual fame, will sooner or later pass
through this favored place; all new modes of thought, from theology
to unbelief, from Spiritism to Darwinism, will find there a ready
field of battle.

Of these centres of thought in modern times, Geneva is not the
least. We can speak from experience of the quiet, unpretending
old town, standing, in the pride of its antiquity and of its
superior taste, aloof from the more frivolous Parisian suburb
that commercial enterprise has caused to grow up beside it on the
opposite side of the Rhone. It has a population of _savants_ and
_dilettanti_; its _salons_ are “blue-stocking,” and its young
men not mere butterflies, but men with a work to do or perchance
already begun. Music has a home there, too--grave, classical,
instrumental music, such as you can fancy the _délassement_ of a
nation of sages should be. Conversation is hardly brilliant among
the Genevese (though the use of the French language renders it far
from heavy), but it is solid, and words are put for ideas, not
strung together to hide nonsense. Theatres are feebly patronized,
and are left to the summer visitors of foreign countries, whose
exclusive society creates another Geneva by the side of the old
historical town--a Geneva that has nothing Genevese about it
but the name. Lectures are very prominent, almost as much so as
in America, and they are generally upon scientific subjects. Men
of fortune give a course of them free, for the enlightenment of
the humbler classes, and young men of good family and position
spend their time in literary trials, hunting up references and
studying abstruse systems of forgotten philosophy. To be uneducated
in Geneva brands a man with a worse mark than to be poor among
mercantile communities. Frivolity in man or woman is equivalent
to dishonor. There is little display in Genevese society--a
simplicity far more republican than anything America can point
to reigns in domestic affairs; and the people do not court nor
take any pains to allure the _pot-pourri_ of foreign princes,
merchants, gentlemen, and gamblers that fill the gay quays on the
modern side of the river. It is told of one of the highest civil
dignitaries of Geneva in the last century--a man of good descent
and comfortable means--that he received the envoy of the King of
France (it was before the French Revolution), on some diplomatic
mission, with one maid-servant holding a lantern. The guest having
alighted from his state-coach, and groped his way into the modest
house, inquired in surprise: “_Mais, monsieur, où sont vos gens?_”
(“But, sir, where is your household?”) “_Mes gens!_” repeated the
Genevese, with undismayed good-nature; “_c’est Jeanne!_” (“My
household consists of Jane!”) The French magnifico, whose only idea
of power lay in profuse display, and who counted his lackeys by
the score, was dumfounded at these Spartan barbarians, whose chief
unblushingly declared that a kitchen-maid was all his retinue!
Yet the chief was probably a _savant_, while the Frenchman at
best was most likely nothing more than a wit. The writer of this
article, eager to see something of the home-life of the Genevese,
succeeded in making a few acquaintances among these most exclusive
of literati. On one occasion we were dining at the primitive hour
of five with a charming family, the De la Rives, people of the
most polished manners, quick perceptions, and inexhaustible fund
of interesting conversation. The meal was plain and frugal, well
cooked, yet without a trace of art--what one might have expected
at a farmer’s or tradesman’s table; but what in the most modest
of gentlemen’s houses in France, England, or Germany would have
been an impossibility. The governess and the little children
dined with us, the former joining heartily and cleverly in the
conversation, which never by any chance fell upon trivialities.
The knives and forks were not changed throughout dinner, to our
great perplexity; and for the purpose of keeping them from soiling
the table during the change of plates, there were provided little
glass rests, like thick, short bars. These quaint details seemed
quite matters of course, and, strange to say, there was nothing
vulgar or repulsive about them, the _personnel_ of the hosts being
enough to stamp all belonging to them with the hall-mark of true
and unostentatious refinement. There was no dressing for this
family dinner, as there would have been in England, nor, indeed,
is there much dressing at all among the Genevese women. To tell
the truth, they are rather what our fastidious taste would call
dowdy in their toilette and appearance; but then, what a solid
background of true and deep education lies behind their exterior
carelessness! It is the same with their parties, which are rather
like family gatherings, and where the old-fashioned habit is still
kept up of having the tea served on a large table, round which
the guests unceremoniously seat themselves. Men of mark in the
literary world are there; inventors of machines that have changed
the destiny of commerce, and originated or obliterated this or
that trade; botanists who have inherited their talent with their
fathers’ name and experience; women who have written treatises that
men of science read with approval--and all of them so unaffectedly
enjoying themselves, all of them so truly refined and so childlike
in their simple manners. Looking at this kind of assemblage, is
it wonderful that it should have made its native city a capital
of the world of thought? Bad men as well as good pass through
it; Mazzinist and International fraternize and plot; Legitimist
and Catholic meet, and hold congresses; outsiders from another
continent, as at this moment, agree to settle their disputes on its
neutral soil. All philosophies, from De Maistre and Cousin down
to Darwin and Renan, find their exponents there; their upholders
lecture there; their theories are more closely looked into if they
start from there. The church is more active at Geneva than almost
anywhere in Europe; unbelief is more rampant and more unblushing;
dissent more earnest, and, if blinded, yet more sincere. Thirty
or forty years ago, a body of Genevese ministers of the “National
Church” did what no other Protestant body corresponding in numbers
and influence has ever done in modern times--they voluntarily gave
up their benefices, and threw themselves with their families,
utterly destitute, on the generosity of such among their flocks as
would follow their conscience. And why? Because the National Church
was becoming more and more Socinian, and dechristianizing the
population of Geneva. These dissenters, headed by the Malan family,
persevered in their sacrifice, and succeeded in founding a “Free
Church,” which is now very prosperous, and counts among its members
all the best people of the town. Outside the Catholic Church, it
would be difficult to find a parallel to this act of renunciation
for the sake of principle. Speaking of Geneva from a religious
point of view, we do not know but what we might most decidedly call
it a centre of active religion, since its bishop, Mgr. Mermillod,
is one of its best known and most distinguished native citizens,
and the church under his guidance is making rapid conquests in the
former stronghold of Calvinism; but this is beside our subject,
which is simply to reckon Geneva as first and foremost in the
present tournament of restless intellect.

Rome naturally suggests itself as another of these centres. We put
it second in the intellectual scale and in the wide sense in which
we are speaking, although in religion it stands more than first,
that is, perfectly unequalled. Still, when Byron called it “city
of the soul,” he made that delicate shade of a distinction that
marked it as a spiritual capital more than an intellectual centre.
For the spirit of Rome is too calm for agitation, too conservative
for creation. Yet in a secondary sense to volcanic Geneva, and in
a contrasting sense too, Rome is a wonderful rendezvous of the
talent and thought of Europe. A life spent in Rome would include
a sight of almost all the distinguished men and women of both
hemispheres. Unbelievers go to Rome to scoff, and often remain to
pray; curious idlers go to see the old man of the Vatican, and
often stay to ask his blessing; antiquarians find enough work for a
lifetime in digging up a few square feet of ground; artists have a
range of subjects before them so vast that, if they had a thousand
lives to live, they could not exhaust it; men of science go to
meet their kin and discuss things in quiet congresses, which it is
impossible to end otherwise than peaceably, for the curious and
unique charm of Rome is its subtle power of harmonizing the minds
of its guests with the traditions of its own mysterious existence.
It has a faculty of spiritual alchemy, and changes the visitor for
the time being into a different creature. All its lessons seem to
be taught in silence, and for argument it has but little sympathy.
Intrinsically, it is a centre of love; accidentally, a centre of
thought. Men with wearied hearts are its “chosen few,” for its
power is rather recuperative than creative. It is most difficult
to say what we mean, and yet not to seem to speak in disparagement
of this wonderful “city of the soul”; and perhaps a description
of its society, though that would be the easiest way to make our
meaning clear, would be tedious, because so familiar. We all of us
seem to know Rome as if each one had been there; and so perhaps
after all we may trust to be better understood than we had hoped to
be at first. A short walk on the “Pincio” will show us the utmost
cosmopolitanism possible; the Polish exile secure while within a
few paces of the Russian official; the Anglican minister, with his
trained Oxford refinement, calmly discussing with the energetic,
passionate, and voluble Italian ecclesiastic; the Mazzinist bowing
involuntarily to the cardinal whose generosity raised him from
the poor-house; the French philosopher and the German artist; the
American sculptor, with his prejudiced yet not unkindly view of
Rome; the English convert, enthusiastic and interested; and the
languid Italian, taking everything as a matter of course--such
are a few of the common types one jostles against every minute.
These things, however, are too well known; and from this strange,
perplexing city, so dearly loved and so well hated, so prominent in
the world’s annals that no dark future can obscure her ever-real
and ever the same present--this city whose Christian fame overrides
even her glorious heathen past of unlimited power and unchecked
Cæsarism--we will go forward to the land of those “barbarians”
who regenerated Europe and materially helped to build the church.
But how changed is the brightest city of that land, Munich, the
undoubted centre of the highest intellect, but now also the unhappy
cradle of a new perversion of that very intellect!

Though we are less conversant with Munich than with the two
foregoing places, we shall yet attempt to say a few words on its
influence in modern times.

It is perhaps a more recent focus of thought than any other of
the present day, yet it is none the less powerful for that. The
Bavarian royal family has preserved for two or three generations
the traditions of a modern Medici dynasty; they are the declared
champions of talent, the protectors of innovations of any kind.
As long as there is genius, originality, vitality, in a thing or
idea, no matter what its tendency, good or bad, it is sure of
patronage and help. Intensely national in its leanings, Munich
aspires to make Germany paramount, to impose her ways of thought
upon the world, to mould Europe according to a German standard,
and set up in a new Rome of the north a new ideal that might be
expressed in these words, _Le génie c’est moi_. If Christianity
had not yet appeared, the plan would have been magnificent, and
this Roman Empire of absolute intellect a far grander conception
than Plato’s Republic, but now God has reserved universality as a
mark of his church alone; and the power that would tear this badge
from her to crown itself therewith, in opposition to her, cannot
hope to succeed any better than the great angel of light succeeded
in his gigantic rebellion. Still, notwithstanding this blot upon
the otherwise fair system of intellectual supremacy of which
Munich is the headquarters, the fact of this practical supremacy
remains, and is the more felt and the better tested now since
Prussia has attempted to establish herself in opposition to it.
The story of ancient Greece and Rome is being enacted anew--matter
and mind are face to face; and the military machine which is
called the North German Empire, and which has proved itself so
politically resistless, stands baffled before the more Attic and
refined organization of the capital of thought and art. Impossible
to transplant to the alien atmosphere of iron-bound Berlin the
delicate grace and play of intellect that distinguishes Munich;
impossible to make philosophy accept the trammels of officialism,
or persuade artists to wait the nod of bureaucrats. The intangible
charm of cosmopolitan life belongs to the Bavarian city, the
freemasonry of intellectual activity vivifies it. Napoleon carried
half the marbles of Rome to his palace of the Louvre, and yet he
could not make the Louvre a Vatican, and Belshazzar, though he
robbed the temple of its golden cups and drank from them at his
banquets, could not make himself high-priest of the Hebrew faith.

The world goes to Munich for art, instruction, and artistic models;
Germany goes there for philosophical and scientific theories.
Foreigners would rather leave Berlin and Vienna unvisited than
miss a week at Munich; and a stay among its galleries, libraries,
and museums, is part of the education of every travelled man. It
has its literary, its fashionable, and its diplomatic circles,
and, strangely enough, each of these pronounces it an equally
agreeable resort. The cultivated world filters through it all the
year round, and, like Geneva and Rome, though perhaps in a lesser
degree than either, one might stay there a lifetime and yet see the
whole panorama of intellectual Europe unrolled at intervals before
one’s eyes. Although Munich possesses a learned and important
university, it is not to that alone she owes her supremacy, for
it is a fact worthy of notice that in our days the sovereignty
of thought is more the attribute of an aggregate of independent
thinkers, than the exclusive privilege of certain bodies trained
in the same traditions, and cast in much the same mould. Whether
or no this is an advantage, is a question we need not enter into
here; it is beside our subject. We hope subsequently to be able to
draw a companion picture of that ancient state of things which made
the intellectual centres of the past, both in their growth and in
their influence, so widely different from our own. Certain it is,
however, that that influence was less ephemeral formerly than now.

From Munich we have not far to go to another of the world’s
volcanoes, Paris, the modern enigma. Like a witch’s cauldron,
always seething, never safe, Paris is playing an uninterrupted game
of political conjuring. Unlike other cities whose intellect is
distinct from their politics, Paris cannot help giving a political
tinge to its literary and philosophical creations. Social questions
are violently joined to intellectual problems; and _savants_ or
_beaux-esprits_ will eschew a brother philosopher or wit who wears
alien colors and belongs to another camp. The talent that rides
uppermost in Paris is identified with socialism, and from literary
Bohemianism soon lapses into political outlawry. Victor Hugo is its
apostle, Alfred de Musset its poet. On the one hand, a frantic,
destructive vigor urges it to assert its self-assumed and imperious
sovereignty; on the other, a maudlin, opium-like languor soothes
its sensuality and bids it revel in momentary luxury. Sybarites are
always tyrants; Nero crowned with roses and singing to his lute
while Rome was helplessly burning by his orders, is a fit image of
modern Paris displaying her world-alluring softness while Europe
is in flames through her baneful principles. We speak of Paris
in her zenith; but it is to be feared that the spirit which made
her the rose-entwined firebrand of the world, will not long be
quelled even by her own unparalleled misfortunes. In her deepest
humiliation, when the sympathy of the universe was hers, did she
not find strength enough to turn on her true friends, and, by her
fiendish attempts on law and order, to alienate the shocked and
insulted instincts of a world that had been ready to take up arms
in her defence? It may be said that _that_ Paris was not the real
one; yet it is the one that rules--rules _sourdement_, as the
French so expressively say, when she is herself ruled by an iron
hand, rules through her infidel press, her immoral literature,
her unwholesome poetry, her rotten philosophy, her frivolous and
heedless society. True it is that in Paris, which proudly calls
itself “the capital of the world and the heart of humanity,” there
are circles of quiet literary men--_coteries_ of harmless exiles
from other lands; men whose lives are bounded by the Bibliothèque
Impériale and the Théâtre Français; and men, too, whose one aim is
charity and one ambition, heaven. True, France can boast as many
missionaries as communists, as many martyrs as soldiers, almost as
many religious as unhung miscreants. But how many Montalemberts,
how many Dupanloups, how many Lacordaires, beside the innumerable
spawn of Dumases, George Sands, Balzacs, Michelets, Taines, and
Renans? No doubt in the records of the Almighty there are to be
found in this modern Sodom the ten just men that will save it from
spiritual destruction, but we are speaking of it principally in the
intellectual sense, and surely, from this point of view, where are
its saviors? A centre of intellect it is most undoubtedly and most
unfortunately, but a centre such as a powder magazine might be. The
streams it pours over Europe’s world of thought are lava-streams,
scorching the purer air of principle to make way for the poisonous
gases of self-indulgence. If Paris were sovereign, peace would
be no more, and truth would leave the earth, dismayed. The very
opposite, of Rome, its spirit is one of fever, catching even to
the calmest pulse of a law-abiding and metaphysical northerner--a
spirit that broods over one like the blast of a furnace, and
bewilders like the breath of a coming simoom. We have experienced
it ourselves in days long before the last great judgment that
has crushed the unhappy city; we have marvelled at its obtrusive
activity, so fatiguing to the eye, because, unlike that of London
or New York, it denotes only the frivolous search after empty
pleasure, not the calm plodding after necessary business; we have
wondered at its frothy show, where the greatest display is a sure
sign of the worst depravity; we have longed to be out of its
unwholesome, oppresive spell, that seemed to paralyze the mind and
darken the understanding. To think that this possessed city should
be the pioneer of the nineteenth century, and have more influence
over the moral destinies of the world than Napoleon ever had over
the kingdoms of Europe, or than Bismarck can ever have over the
future of Paris itself! What have we done to deserve it? What has
brought this Egyptian plague upon us, the Nile of the intellect
turned into blood, the fertilizer become poison?

There is a wider difference than the mere width of the Channel
between Paris and Oxford. What calm, scholarly, refined
associations come to our mind when we name the Alma Mater of so
many of England’s greatest men! It is like a refreshing ocean
breeze after the scorching blast of a volcano. We feel at home
here. Gladstone, Pusey, Keble, Newman, were sons of this English
centre of thought--Stanley for a long time was identified with it,
all the intellectual movements of this century sprang from it, and
to represent it in Parliament is accounted the highest political
honor. All schools of thought have started from it; “High Church,”
“Low Church,” and “Broad Church” have all found their headquarters
there, and recruits from these several camps have left it to bring
their various gifts to that other and wider university over which
the Holy Ghost presides everlastingly. If one might use words
that must seem a paradox, Oxford, once made and fashioned by the
church, has in our days herself influenced the church. We mean
that the university has given to the Catholics of England that
unrivalled body of priests who stand alone in Europe for their
indomitable energy, their self-sacrificing earnestness, and their
gentle and truly Christian refinement. Among Protestants, it is
only the strict truth to say that Oxford has created the Church
of England, and vivifies her now even more than state protection,
or the universal adoption extended to her by usage and courtesy
among the educated classes. Most truly has Oxford been called the
Rome of English Protestantism. It is sad for us to think of the
perverted influence of a system essentially Catholic, of traditions
and customs that have lost their meaning while they have kept their
form, and yet it is also a proud thought to dwell upon, that such
as this matchless seat of intellect is, and such as its absolute
identification with English national thought and national character
makes it certain ever to be, it owes it to the church of Alfred, of
Langton, of Scotus--the church of Peter--alone.

We have said that, in modern times, universities as such have
less influence than the aggregate of independent thinkers. This,
however, hardly applies to England, for the mass of enlightened men
in that country forms, practically, the true university. Cambridge,
as a seat of equal learning, yet scarcely of equal brilliancy or
influence, is of course included. The social and intellectual
training of both is the same, the traditions practically so. The
whole body of able men in England belongs to either one or the
other of these universities, and, never unlearning their modes
of thought and unconsciously stamping their impress deeper on
each succeeding work undertaken or effort accomplished, therefore
never cease to belong to them. England is thus one university,
and Oxford is the epitome of educated England. Very national and
jealous of foreign irruption is this vast and compact body; its
members will taste and examine very closely before an alien theory
be admitted among them, but, once admitted, it is adopted with
eagerness, nationalized, and so embodied in a thoroughly English
shape that its origin becomes undistinguishable. The spirit of
Oxford, unlike that of Paris, is the very reverse of cosmopolitan;
there is no versatility in its essence, no straining after effect,
novelty, nor even domination; it does not care to impose itself on
others, and thus it differs ever from the national-minded spirit of
Munich, but it vigorously resents anything being imposed upon it.
Ideas grow slowly, and systems ripen there before they are tried;
a school of thought goes out whole and calm, not upon tentative
excursions, but to certain conquest. Foreigners are more curious to
see Oxford than they are to examine any other English institution;
foreign _savants_ look with pride or longing on the rare gift of
its honorary degrees. Its buildings are the only palaces known in
England, and excel in nobility of architecture every modern public
erection and almost every private residence. It keeps up customs of
hospitality, of generosity, of courtesy, that seem lost amid the
dwarfishness of modern politeness; its grand solemnity of demeanor
and stateliness of etiquette shame our puny and impudent code of
manners; the freedom of later behavior seems by its side a stunted
pollard when compared to the magnificent oak of bygone centuries.
Oxford keeps up the ideal among Englishmen, or rather it is the
ideal personified. It is a standing protest against the levity of
modern and _fast_ life--a city of sanctuary for learning, art,
ecclesiasticism, æsthetics, philosophy, and taste. Those who have
lived all their lives in it as fellow-tutors or professors, love it
to idolatry; those who have gone forth to their several professions
and been knocked about by the vicissitudes of the world, love it
as the Garden of Eden of their lost peace; those who have left it
for the Catholic Church, love it with the most mournful and deepest
of loves, even as Gregory loved the fair-haired heathen boys that
were Angles, but whom he longed to see angels. The greatest mind
in England--John Henry Newman--loves it with this sorrowful love,
which has prevented him from ever seeing it again since he severed
himself from it, and suffered more in this severing than the loss
of friends or the wilful misconception of enemies; and in his room
at Edgbaston, where his retired life is now entirely spent, there
hangs a view of the beautiful English university town, with this
significant motto in illuminated characters beneath: “Son of man,
dost thou think these dry bones shall live?” (Ez. xxxvii. 3).

From Oxford we must cross the Atlantic to find our last
intellectual centre in this age. It is the youngest, though not
the least vigorous, and it stands alone on the Western continent,
where it has not inaptly been called--as Edinburgh once was--the
Modern Athens. Boston is also more or less the product of a
university, but here, as elsewhere, the taint is on the fruit of
the tree of knowledge. Infidelity and cynicism make their home
there in the midst of the luxuriant growth of intellect. Pride
of mind has ended in riot of soul, and amid the intoxicating
creations of its own strong vitality, the genius of New England
has spiritually lost its way. But humanly speaking, what a fair
field of intellect is here displayed! It is through Boston that
America is best known to Europe. Longfellow, Emerson, Hawthorne,
Whittier, Holmes, are household words wherever the English language
is spoken; and the dignified history of New England, no less
than her weird and fascinating literature, is as interestingly
familiar to English as to American minds. Boston is New England
crystallized, the representative city of America, the channel of
communication between the Old and the New World, the crucible of
every new theory and the test the successful passing of which
is, as it were, a “degree” in itself. Boston stands forth as the
champion of science against commerce, and the breakwater which
strives to save America from the imputation--thrown on England by
the French--of being “a nation of shopkeepers.” The West, with
its gigantic future roughly mapped out, and its raw material
inconveniently spread over the whole land, looks with uneasy and
half-dismayed contempt at the scholarly capital of New England; the
North, with its sleek prosperity and organized system of elegant
life, steals a look askance, in which envy is but thinly concealed
behind an affectation of patronage. Of the South we cannot speak,
since its naturally true instincts of appreciation and intellectual
discernment have been cruelly and rudely shaken by the great
convulsion whose effects will long remain but too prominent; but
if ever there rises a rival, friendly yet altogether dissimilar,
to the New England Athens, it will be in the gifted South, among
the descendants of the cavaliers, that we shall turn to look for
it. Such a one there should be, for this vast continent, in whose
bosom the whole of Europe would lie like an island, must have more
than one species of intellectual life, and ought to have more
than one acknowledged exponent of it. In the South we should find
the ardor of Paris, the ambition of Munich, and the refinement of
Oxford, mingled and harmonized; and let us trust that in the lands
discovered by Catholic missionaries, and colonized by Catholic
gentlemen, we might at least escape the ban that clings to the
older centres of intellectual life in Europe, the revolutionary and
antichristian tendencies of France, and the unhappy heresies of
England and Germany.




OLD BOOKS.


    For out of old fields, as men sayth,
      Cometh all this new corn from yere to yere,
    And out of old books, in good faith
      Cometh all this new lore that men lere.
                                       --_Chaucer._




DANTE’S PURGATORIO.

CANTO THIRD.


(For Cantos I. and II. of this Translation, see CATHOLIC WORLD for
November, 1870, and January, 1872.)


    Though round the plain their quick flight scattered them,
      Bent for that Hill where reason turns our tread,[198]
    My faithful mate close at my garment’s hem
      I kept: how _could_ I without him have sped?
    Who else had o’er that mountain marshalled me?
      He seemed, methought, as inly touched with shame:
    O noble conscience, void of stain, to thee
      How sharp a morsel is the smallest blame!
    Soon as his feet the hurried movement checked
      Which every action’s dignity destroys,
    My mind, till now restrained and circumspect,
      Expanded with new strength, as ’twere of joy’s.
    My face I fixed upon that Hill to gaze
      Towards highest heaven which springeth from the wave.

    The sun behind me redly flamed; its rays
      Broke by the shadow which my figure gave.
    When I perceived before me that the ground
      Was darkened only by myself, in dread
    Of being there deserted, I looked round
      And fronting me in full, my Comfort said:
    “Why this distrust? believ’st thou not that I
      Am with thee still, thy leader to the last?
    ’Tis evening now already where on high
      My body lies, which once a shadow cast,
    Buried at Naples, from Brundusium brought.
      Now, if no shade before me meet thy sight
    It need wake no more wonder in thy thought
      Than why one heaven checks not another’s light.
    Omnipotence to such forms hath assigned
      The power of suffering torments--cold and heat--
    But _how_, reveals not to created kind.
      He is but mad who hopes this incomplete
    Reason of ours may track the Infinite way
      Which of three persons holds the substance one.

    Rest, human race! contented when you say
      Simply because: could ye the whole have known
    No need had been for Mary to have borne;
      And ye have seen in hopeless longing those
    Who now to all eternity must mourn
      Desire for which they vainly sought repose.
    Of Aristotle and of Plato now
      I speak, and many others”: he remained
    Silent at this, and stood with bended brow
      And troubled look: meantime the Hill we gained.
    We found the cliff here sloping so steep down
      That nimblest legs had there been useless quite.
    The wildest way betwixt Turbìa’s town
      And Lèrici, the roughest, were a flight
    Compared with this, of open, easy stairs.
      “Who knows,” my Master said--and stayed his pace--
    “Where this Hill slopeth, so that one who wears
      No wings may climb it?” Then his earnest face
    Directed closely to the ground as if
      Making in mind a study of the way.
    Meantime I gazed up round about the cliff,
      And on the left hand came to my survey
    A band of spirits, moving on towards us,
      That seemed not moving for they came so slow.
    “Lift up thine eyes”--I to the Master thus--
      “If of thyself thou art not certain, lo!
    Yon souls our footsteps may direct perchance.”
      Thereat he looked, then frankly made reply:
    “Go we tow’rds _them_--so gently they advance--
      And thou, my sweet son! keep thy hope up high.”

    That people seemed as far, when we had gone
      A thousand steps, I say, or thereabout,
    As a good flinger might have cast a stone;
      When all at once, like one who goes in doubt
    And stops to look, their moderate march they checked
      And close to that high bank’s hard masses drew.
    “O ye peace-parted! O ye spirits elect!
      Ev’n by that peace which waits for each of you
    As I believe”--thus Virgil them bespake:
      “Inform us where this mountain slopeth so
    That its ascent we may essay to make;
      _For they mourn Time’s loss most, the most who know_.”

    Like lambs that issue from their fold--one--two--
      Then three at once (the rest all standing shy,
    With eye and nostril to the ground)--then do
      Just what the foremost doth, unknowing why,
    And crowd upon her back if she but stand,
      Quiet and simple creatures, thus the head
    I saw move towards us of that happy band,
      Modest in face, and of a comely tread.

    Soon as their leaders noticed that the light
      On my right side lay broken at my feet,
    So that my shadow reached the rocky height,
      They stopped and drew a little in retreat.
    And all the others following, though they knew
      Not why they did so, did the very same.
    “Without your question I confess to you
      That here you see a living human frame:
    Hence on the ground the sunlight thus is riven:
      Marvel not at it, but believe ye all
    Not without virtue by the Most High given
      This man hath come to scale your Mountain’s wall.”
    My Master thus, and thus that gracious band:
      “Turn then and join us, and before us go”:
    And while some beckoned us with bended hand
      One called--“Whoe’er thou art there journeying so,
    Turn! Think--hast ever looked on me before?”
      I turned and gazed upon the one who spoke.
    Handsome and blond, he looked high-born, but o’er
      One brow appeared the severance of a stroke.
    When I had humbly answered him that ne’er
      Had I beheld him--“Look!” he said, and high
    Up on his breast showed me a wound he bare;
      Then added smilingly, “Manfred am I,
    The Empress Constance’ grandson: in such name
      Do I entreat, when back thou shalt have gone,
    To my fair daughter hie, of whose womb came
      Sicily’s boast and Aragon’s renown,
    And tell her this--if aught but truth be said
      That after two stabs--each of power to kill--
    I gave my soul back weeping ere it fled
      To Him who pardoneth of His own free will
    My sins were horrible: but large embrace
      Infinite Goodness hath whose arms will ope
    For every child who turneth back to Grace;
      And if Cosenza’s bishop, by the Pope
    Clement set on to hound me to the last,
      That page of Holy Writ had better read,
    My bones had still been sheltered from the blast
      Near Benevento, by the bridge’s head,
    Under their load of stones: but now without
      The realm they lie, by Verde’s river--bare--
    For winds and rains to beat and blow about,
      Dragged with quench’d candles and with curses there.

    Yet not by their poor malediction can
      Souls be so lost but that Eternal Love
    May be brought back while hope hath life in man.
      ’Tis true that one who sets himself above
    The Holy Church, and dies beneath its ban
      (Even though he had repented at the last),
    Outside this Mount must unadmitted rove
      Thirty times longer than the term had been
    Of his presumptuous contumacy past,
      Unless good prayers a shorter penance win.
    See now what power thou hast to make me glad:
      Report of me to my good Constance bear,
    How thou saw’st me, and what I’ve told thee add;
      For much it profits us what they do there.”

FOOTNOTE:

[198] _Dante_ means the Hill of Purgatory, to the ascent of which
we are turned no less by the right reason that is in us than by
our contrition for an erroneous course, from which we are happily
passing.




ON MUSIC.


Harmony and melody--which have an equal share in the effects
produced by sound--find their original type, it may be, in the
double nature of the universe, and of human destiny considered
socially and individually. Harmony, like the external world and
its moving masses, presents us with various parts, linked together
and arranged so as to subserve one and the same end. Regular and
measured in its movement as the celestial orbs, no deviation is
allowable even in its boldest flight. An almighty will seems to
have bound it to magnificence and grandeur, restricting its freedom
to the latitude of the laws whose expression it is. But melody
is thoroughly moral, and consequently free. It is the heart’s
utterance, and follows and renders its emotions faithfully. When
brilliant, it recalls our joys; when sweet and lingering, it
portrays our rare and delicious intervals of repose. It sighs for
our disquietudes and sways beneath our sorrows, like a friend
who shares them. Would it reproduce the sad and vague yearnings
which by turns agitate and soothe the soul of man?--its songs are
as dreamy as his chimeras. Melody is but one thought at a time,
but--mobile and rapid--it renders all thoughts in succession
and tells the tale of a complete destiny. Harmony, with its
grand effects, seems made to appeal to assembled men; melody, to
transport the memory in solitude. Words may of course be adapted to
a piece of pure harmony; but they are only accessory. When melody
is associated with human speech, they rival one another in charm
and in power. Speech is, indeed, the heart’s expression; but melody
remains its accent.--_Madame Swetchine._




FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.


PART SECOND

THE TRIAL.


XXVIII.

More than twenty-four hours had elapsed. Fleurange was already far
away, and the incidents of the preceding days only seemed like a
succession of troubled dreams. The conversation she heard on the
terrace between the count and his mother, that which she herself
had with the latter, her interview with George at San Miniato, the
mysterious bouquet in the evening, and the sudden reappearance of
Felix the next day--all these remembrances came back, one by one,
but were all effaced by that of the farewell which succeeded them.

Yes, she had bidden him adieu for ever; whereas he smilingly said,
“A rivederla!” and his mother, giving her hand graciously to her
young _protégée_, continued to the last to play her part in this
drama of two characters, which she and Fleurange alone understood.

The young girl also sustained hers without exhibiting any weakness;
but in kissing the princess’ hand she gave to the words “Addio,
principéssa!” an accent the latter fully comprehended the meaning
of. She embraced her in return with involuntary tenderness, and
even with an emotion that might have been considered surprising for
so short an absence. George observed it, and felt more reassured
than ever. Therefore, after Fleurange’s departure, what he felt
was not so much sadness, as the need of some distraction powerful
enough to relieve the insupportable _ennui_ caused by her absence.

As to her, alone with Julian in the coupé of the vetturino, while
Clara, her child, and a young Italian waiting-maid occupied the
interior, she could not give herself up to the thoughts that were
suffocating her. She must still continue the effort of concealment,
and assume a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, which was more
antipathic to her nature than anything else. She was to turn off to
Santa Maria at the small village of Passignano, where they expected
to arrive on the morning of the third day, and she did not intend
announcing to the Steinbergs her intention of accompanying them to
Germany till they stopped at the monastery on their way back from
Perugia. By that time all her plans for the future would be more
definitely arranged. There were some vague intentions floating
in her mind as well as some irresolution, which she scarcely
comprehended herself. She wished for the penetrating eye of her
maternal friend to aid her in deciphering the confused condition
of her mind and soul. Until then she was resolved to remain silent.

Her conversation with Julian dwelt principally on their unexpected
meeting with their unhappy cousin.

“After serious reflection,” said Steinberg, “it seems to me
impossible to do anything without running the risk of injuring the
unfortunate man.”

“It appears he is now leading a respectable life,” said Fleurange.

“Yes; and for that very reason it is important to him that the past
should not be made public. As Count George avails himself of his
services, he must, I suppose, have had good recommendations.”

Fleurange made no reply. She did not venture to say she had often
heard George reproached for his indifference to the position
or reputation of many he employed in his collections, or the
researches in which he was interested. “What have I to do with
their private lives,” he would sometimes say, “in the kind of work
I require of them? If they are intelligent and capable, that is
sufficient. When I have an inscription to be copied, or a passage
in a manuscript to be transcribed, I rather employ a capable rogue
than an honest blockhead.”

Without knowing precisely why, this connection between Felix and
George inspired Fleurange with involuntary terror, and, much as
she wished it, she could not put the latter on his guard without
betraying Felix’s real name and position. In short, the fatal
remembrances connected with the cousin were now changed into a
painful presentiment which added a darker shade to the sadness she
sought to conceal.

After a long silence she resumed: “The Marquis Adelardi seemed to
know the person who was with Felix the evening we met him?”

“Yes; and to have a poor opinion of him.”

“Did you question him afterwards on the subject?”

“I was desirous of doing so, and in the course of that evening at
the princess’ I tried to introduce the subject. But he appeared to
answer with repugnance. I was also cautious in my questions, so I
was able to obtain very little information.”

Julian stopped, but after a moment’s reflection continued:

“The Marquis Adelardi, from what I learned at Bologna, was once
connected with a conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy!”--exclaimed Fleurange with alarm. “The excellent and
agreeable marquis? What are you saying, Julian?”

Julian smiled. “Come, Gabrielle, you need not be so frightened.
I do not mean to imply he is a criminal, but I think that during
one period of his life he was connected with some revolutionary
agitation in Italy, and was brought in contact with more than one
suspicious character, and Felix’s companion was probably one of
them.”

The conversation was not prolonged, and Fleurange remained silent
for a time. Julian’s last words added a new fear to all the painful
impressions--some definite and others vague--which already weighed
on her mind and heart. She pitied Felix, but she was more afraid
of him. She now regarded his strange billet as a bold attempt to
frighten her or excite her interest--an irresistible temptation to
aim at effect, which he yielded to at the risk of being discovered.
George’s connection with this bold and restless spirit filled her
with greater anxiety than ever. It seemed at last as if so many
things at once had never weighed upon her young heart, and that
clouds were gathering on all sides around her.

At Passignano she left her travelling companions, and took a small
vehicle for the monastery. All the dresses and ornaments the
princess had added to her modest wardrobe were left in Barbara’s
care during her supposed short absence, and the only luggage she
brought with her from Florence was a small valise. This was at once
deposited beside the driver, and, as soon as the young girl was
seated, the calèche immediately started off.

The road gradually ascended, but this was only perceptible from
the increasing beauty of the prospect which became more and more
extensive. Afar off lay Lake Thrasimene, gleaming in the sun like
a brilliant sheet of silver; nearer, a small stream, whose name,
after twenty-two centuries, still recalls the memorable battle
that ensanguined its waters, wound through the plain where it was
fought.[199] It is stated in history that, during that famous day,
neither the Romans nor Hannibal’s soldiers noticed the earthquake
which rocked the ground beneath their feet. It might have trembled
anew, and our poor Fleurange would perhaps have been equally
insensible, so greatly absorbed was she in a struggle of another
kind--between her will to do right and the violent inclinations of
her heart.

She was now completely alone for the first time for a long period,
and seemed to have regained her liberty of thought. Freed from
the necessity of struggling against the softening emotions that
would have enfeebled her courage, she could now yield without
restraint to the pleasure of living over the past six months of
her life. She leaned her weary head back, closed her eyes, and
allowed her memory to recall all those dear but vain remembrances.
She saw him once more whom she never expected to behold again; she
listened anew to the voice she would hear no more; she allowed
herself to tell him all she had so often repressed. It was a
prolonged and dangerous dream, followed by a sorrowful awakening.
And it profoundly troubled the peace of her soul, which, with her
firmness, she had preserved only by a constant effort during the
period of trial her youth had just passed through. “And it is
ended!--ended!” she exclaimed, with a cry almost of despair, hiding
her face in her hands. “I shall never behold him again!”

Suddenly she heard the mellow sound of a distant bell which revived
a whole world of past impressions. She hastily raised her head
and looked around. She was passing through a grove of acacias
that shaded the winding road. Beyond were some large pines and a
few rustic dwellings. Passing by one of them, she heard a voice
exclaim, “Evviva la Signorina!”--and further on: “La Madonna vi
accompagna!” Shortly after she passed under a half-ruined arcade
which looked like a vestige of antiquity. The bell was still
ringing, but its sound was more distinct, for they were approaching
the chapel.

“What, so soon!” she cried, clasping her hands. “Have we arrived?”

At the end of the avenue the carriage turned to the left, passed
by the chapel, and at length stopped before a small gate-way of
sculptured stone, surmounted by a statue of our Saviour, at whose
feet the following words in relief were distinctly legible: VENITE
AD ME OMNES QUI LABORATIS ET ONERATI ESTIS, ET EGO REFICIAM VOS.

Fleurange sprang from the carriage and eagerly rang. The gate
opened: a soft expression of surprise and welcome greeted her. She
replied with a smile, but did not stop, for at the farther end of
the cloister she perceived her whom she sought.

It was noon: the children were just being dismissed from school,
and Madre Maddalena stood looking at them as they went out, now
and then saying some kind word. Fleurange, suddenly appearing in
their midst, threw the little procession into disorder. Mother
Maddalena, astonished, looked reprovingly towards the person who
had unexpectedly disturbed the order of the time and place. She
looked again--again hesitated--then at length her arms opened with
an exclamation of joy:

“Fior angela mia!--Dear lamb returned to the fold!”

And the returned wanderer, falling into the arms of her mother,
forgot in a moment all the fatigue, the dangers, the sufferings
she had endured on the way, and all the thorns that had left their
traces on her wounded feet.


XXIX.

The chapel was dim, cool, and filled with the odor of the fresh
flowers on the altar and the incense used at the morning service.
The nun and the young girl knelt for a few moments to offer up
thanks to God as the preliminary obligation of their reunion, and
invoke the Friend above all others who is not only the great _I
am_, but LOVE itself. Fleurange soon rose up at a sign from the
mother, and followed her into a well-known apartment on the ground
floor called the garden parlor.

Like all convent parlors, it had no other furniture but a square
table in the middle of the room, some straw-bottomed chairs
ranged around, a book-case with a large crucifix on the top, and
a statue of the holy Madonna on the other side, at the foot of
which stood a vase full of flowers. What distinguished this parlor
from all others of the kind was the view through the broad arched
window on one side, and on the other through the open garden
door. The beautiful landscape we have already described, bounded
on the distant horizon by the sublime but graceful outline of
the mountains, had in the foreground an abundance of flowers
more carefully cultivated than is usually the case in convent
gardens. At the right, the eye caught a glimpse of the arches of
the cloister, and on the left the dense shade of a small grove of
orange-trees now in bloom, beyond which was an orchard with vines
interlacing the fruit-trees, and a carefully cultivated vegetable
garden--the principal resource of the convent larder. Some doves
were flying between the cloister and the garden, and during the
hours of conventual silence there was no other sound within the
peaceful enclosure but the noise of their cooing. But at recreation
time the cloister, as well as the garden, resounded with the voices
and laughter of the children, and Mother Maddalena’s parlor was not
always as quiet as when she ushered Fleurange into it.

The door was scarcely closed when the nun took the young girl’s
face between her hands, and attentively examined it, as if she
would read the depths of her soul.

Mother Maddalena was about fifty years of age at this time. She
had been uncommonly beautiful in her youth, and there was still
a regularity and nobleness in her time-worn features which were
set off by the white bandeau and guimpe that encircled her face
like a frame to a picture. A long black veil fell in deep folds
nearly to the ground. Her black eyes were uncommonly large and
mild, and had an extraordinary expression sometimes seen in eyes
devoid of any other beauty, and is exclusively peculiar to those
which reflect that mysterious and ineffable joy which Bossuet
calls “_incompatible_,” and says, to be tasted, “il faut qu’elle
soit goûté _seule_.” Such was the look, full of divine joy and
superhuman peace, now fastened on Fleurange, whose limpid eyes
did not avoid the scrutiny, but remained fastened on those of the
Madre. Only her pale face flushed and then grew paler than before.

“Poor child! poor child!” said Mother Maddalena at length after a
long and silent examination. “Alas! how much she has suffered.--But
no evil has tarnished her heart.” With her right hand she made the
sign of the cross on Fleurange’s pure brow, and then pressed her
lips to the same spot, adding, with a smile of satisfaction: “The
Angel Gabriel, to whom I confided her at parting, has restored
her to me, like a faithful guardian whose inspirations have been
obeyed.”

Whether Fleurange now lost her customary self-control, or did not
try to conceal her feelings in Mother Maddalena’s presence, while
the latter stood looking at her silently, she burst into tears.

“Yes, I understand,” said the mother--“a great effort was required
to overcome the natural tendencies of the heart, to act and to
speak without the relief of weeping!--But my poor child succeeded,
and is weary from the exertion--” She continued in a softer tone:
“But it is the weary and heavy laden that have the promise of
finding rest, and it is in this house especially that this rest
awaits those who ask it of him who has promised it, and who alone
can give it!--Come,” continued she in a firmer tone, after allowing
Fleurange to weep some time in silence--“come, my dear Gabrielle,
lift up your heart--the heart so susceptible of pain! Try to rise a
little above your sufferings--sufferings which enfold the germ of
so great a joy!” murmured she to herself, “whereas the joys of the
world contain the germ of so much suffering!--Come, my child, come
with me.”

The last words were uttered in a tone of mild authority. Fleurange
unhesitatingly rose, and followed her across the garden, now
exposed to the ardor of the sun’s says, into the small grove where
the foliage was so dense that it was cool at mid-day. A flight of
steps led to a little oratory in this peaceful solitude, where
the pupils assembled towards sunset for prayers; but now it was
entirely empty.

Mother Maddalena seated herself on a bench in front of the oratory,
and Fleurange took a place near her.

“Now tell me, not only what I already know, but what I am still
ignorant of.”

It was hardly necessary to articulate these words, for Fleurange
had not come with the intention of concealing a single thought.
She therefore began her account, and, at the mother’s request,
went back to the very day she left the monastery with her father.
She gave an account of her travels in Italy, with all her first
impressions: her residence at Paris, and all her sufferings there;
her life in Germany, with all its pleasures: then the ruin of her
family and their separation; and, finally, of Florence--Florence
with all its emotions, its joys, its dangers, its acute pains, and
its fearful temptations.

For the first time in her life she uttered Count George’s
name without hesitating, and related without any reticence or
circumlocution all his name revived--everything! from the wild
dreams that preceded their first interview to the reverie of the
present day from which the convent bell roused her. She related
everything simply, clearly, firmly, and in a tone which, as she
proceeded, revealed more and more clearly to the ear attentively
listening that her rectitude of soul was not changed or its vigor
enfeebled.

Clearness of perception and energy of action were the two germs, as
we have already said, that induced Madre Maddalena to believe, if
sown in the heart and watered by the dews of divine grace, without
which all our perceptions become dim and all strength fails, would
enable this child, in spite of her youth, her beauty, and all the
tendencies of a tender heart and an ardent temperament, to walk
with a firm and sure step in the path of life.

She now saw her hopes realized, and thanked God for it. But she
looked, nevertheless, with inexpressible compassion at Fleurange’s
youthful face. Life was still so long before her, and from the very
beginning the combat had been so arduous! It is true, her courage
had thereby been tempered, but the day of rest was yet so far
off! so many storms might yet rise, so many perils gather around
her! From the safe port that sheltered her own life, she looked
off over the sea of the world, on which floated this frail bark,
praying in her heart to Him who commandeth the ocean and ruleth the
storm to snatch her from the threatening waves and land her safely
on the shore.

“I was not deceived,” said she, when the account was ended.
“No, my child, you have not mistaken the path of duty, but have
courageously followed its leadings. I could not be otherwise than
satisfied with you. Fleurange, I give you my blessing, and God will
bless you also.”

Saying these simple words, she softly laid her hand on the young
girl’s head. This act, and the words accompanying it, increased
the sensation of inexpressible comfort and solace, which was the
natural effect of the complete unburdening of her mind. A divine
peace, as it were, descended upon her, and enveloped her as a
garment.

“Oh! madre mia!” she exclaimed, “let me abide here with you--never
leave you again, nor this peaceful asylum!”

Mother Maddalena smiled, and was about to reply when the bell gave
four strokes.

“We will talk about this another time,” said she. “The bell calls
me away now, and I must leave you. We shall see each other again at
the evening hour of recreation. I suppose you have not forgotten
the way to your room. And you still remember the rule, I hope, and
how the day here is divided. The bell rings at the same hours as
before. Nothing is changed here.”


XXX.

It would not be easy for those who have never had this sweet
experience, to realize the effect of being suddenly transported
from the affairs and pleasures of the world, with all its cares and
sorrows, to such an atmosphere as now surrounded Fleurange.

But if every one does not feel the need of pausing thus on the way
through life, we cannot understand the astonishment and ironical
disdain with which some, unwilling to make the trial, speak of
these temporary retreats from the world, so customary in former
times, and somewhat so in ours. Do they find life, then, always
so pleasant and easy to bear? Does joy succeed so surely to joy
in the happy succession of their days? and have these days so
assured a duration that it would be useless to regulate their
course or reflect on their end? Or have these persons such perfect
control over their thoughts that no distraction ever disturbs their
equilibrium, and the need of pausing for reflection and rest is
never felt? We do not know. But what seems indubitable to us is
that, for a great number, this rest is as refreshing as pure water
and a shady spot of repose to the weary and thirsty traveller. And
there is no doubt that our poor heroine belonged to this number.
And this is why, in leaving Madre Maddalena, she returned to the
chapel instead of going up to her room, and there, in the profound
silence of the sanctuary, passed a whole hour in tasting the
sweetness of an unburdened heart, and the sense of divine security
which does not depend solely on the temporary shelter of the body,
but on that deeper feeling of a permanent shelter of the soul which
nothing earthly can affect.

If we consider all the sufferings this young girl had so recently
passed through--if we remember that the enthralling influences of
love had surrounded without tarnishing her, but still not without
lending a disenchantment to every other but the object of her love,
we shall not find it very surprising that in this spot, at this
hour, she should have thought of cutting short her worldly life,
and, without going any further in search of happiness, henceforth
impossible, or a destiny that must ever remain imperfect, of
devoting herself to the highest of all aims--that whose object is
God alone, and the welfare of those whom he loved most while on
earth--children and the poor.

Even at Florence, during the period of so much anguish, the
cloister of Santa Maria appeared like a refuge, and more than once
the idea of never leaving it had occurred to her then, as well as
while listening to Madre Maddalena. But now the idea became more
decided, and took possession of her imagination with an intensity
stronger than ever before. She welcomed it, and gave herself up to
it with a kind of pious intoxication. She tasted beforehand the
bitter pleasure of sacrifice; she accepted with interior transport
the perspective of absolute renunciation of all the joys of life;
and when at length she brought her long meditation to an end, and
prepared to leave the chapel, it seemed to her as if she had just
received a supernatural inspiration.

She would have sought an interview with Mother Maddalena at
once, but she knew it was a time when she was occupied in the
school-room, after which she devoted a whole hour, towards the
close of the day, to the poor who from far and near came to consult
her about their affairs or relate their sorrows. The morning was
given to the distribution of food, medicine, and assistance of all
kinds of material wants, and the evening was consecrated to the
exercise of charity under another form, the recipients of which
were often more numerous than the others.

Fleurange was not unaware of this, and she decided to remain
quietly in her room without attempting to see the superior again
till after supper. But when, at the close of school, she saw
two nuns taking the children to the oratory in the grove of
orange-trees, she went down to join in the prayers that ended
their day. The vine blossoms in the orchard united their sweet and
delicate odor to that of the orange-trees, and, when this little
perfumed grove resounded with the hymns of the children, it seemed
as if all nature united with them in offering heaven the incense of
praise. Prayers over, Fleurange joined the nuns and their pupils,
and for awhile it seemed as if the peaceful days of her childhood
had returned. Then came the silence of the refectory. But when
supper at length was ended, she went in pursuit of Madre Maddalena.
She knew she should not find her in her parlor, but on the terrace
over the cloister which commanded a view of the country around. It
was there she loved to remain in fine weather till the very close
of day.

What Fleurange was so eager to say we know already. To think aloud
was natural to her, and required no effort with Madre Maddalena
especially. Besides, she only wished to resume the conversation
interrupted in the morning, and make known all she had thought, and
felt, and resolved upon during the time she passed in the chapel.

Mother Maddalena stood with her arms folded, and listened this time
without interrupting her. Standing thus motionless in this place,
at this evening hour, the noble outlines of her countenance and the
long folds of her robe clearly defined against the blue mountains
in the distance, and the violet heavens above, she might easily
have been taken for one of the visions of that country which have
been depicted for us and all generations. The illusion would not
have been dispelled by the aspect of her who, seated on the low
wall of the terrace, was talking with her eyes raised, and with an
expression and attitude perfectly adapted to one of those young
saints often represented by the inspired artist before the divine
and majestic form of the Mother of God.

“Well, my dear mother, what do you say?” asked Fleurange, after
waiting a long time, and seeing the Madre looking at her and gently
shaking her head without any other reply.

“Before answering you,” replied she at last, “let me ask this
question: Do you think it allowable to consecrate one’s self to God
in the religious life without a vocation?”

“Assuredly not.”

“And do you know what a vocation is?” said she very slowly.

Fleurange hesitated. “I thought I knew, but you ask in such a way
as to make me feel now I do not.”

“I am going to tell you: a vocation,” said the Madre, as her eyes
lit up with an expression Fleurange had never seen before--“a
vocation to the religious life is to love God more than we love
any creature in the world, however dear; it is to be unable to
give anything or any person on earth a love comparable to that;
to feel the tendency of all our faculties incline us towards him
alone; finally,” pursued she, while her eyes seemed looking beyond
the visible heavens on which they were fastened, “it is the full
persuasion, even in this life, that he is _all_--our all--in the
past, the present, and the future; in this world and in another,
for ever, and to the exclusion of everything besides!--”

Fleurange, accustomed to Madre Maddalena’s habitual simplicity of
language, looked at her with surprise, and was speechless for a
moment, struck by her tone and her unusual expression, no less
than the words she had just uttered. A deep blush suffused the
young girl’s cheeks and mounted to her forehead.

“My dear mother,” said she at length, casting down her eyes,
“doubtless it is not given to all to feel such love for God;
especially to love him thus to the utter exclusion of all else here
below; but,” she continued with emotion, “is not the voluntary
sacrifice of all the affections and joys of the world a holocaust
likewise worthy of being offered him?”

Mother Maddalena’s eyes resumed their usual expression of
mildness: “Yes, assuredly, my poor child. I did not wish to
insinuate a doubt as to that. How could I, in this house, open to
all who suffer, and where among our sisters--and not the least
holy--are several who have brought hearts crushed by the sorrows
of life? But still, that is not the irresistible call of God which
we consider a genuine vocation. And what I wish you to understand,
my dear Gabrielle, is this: if I know you--and who knows you as
well?--you are one of those whom God would have called thus, had
it been his will your life should be consecrated to him in the
cloister. It is not for one like you to vow yourself to him through
discouragement or disgust of the world, or because its happiness
has lost its enchantment. The struggle has been severe, I know,
but on that account would you have it ended? No. Gabrielle, on the
contrary, you must resume your strength to continue the contest.”

Tears came into Fleurange’s eyes, and she bent down her head with
an expression of sadness.

“Oh! my poor child,” resumed the mother, “it would be much easier
for me to tell you to remain and never leave us again! It would
be sweeter for me to preserve you thus from all the sufferings
that yet await you. But believe me, the day will come when you
will rejoice you were not spared these sufferings; and you will
acknowledge that she who is now speaking to you knew you better
than you knew yourself.”

The stars were now beginning to appear in the dim azure of the
heavens, and the last gleams of daylight were fading away. It
was the hour of the Ave Maria. The bell soon announced it, and
they said the familiar prayer together before going down to the
cloister.


XXXI.

After this conversation, Fleurange resolved not to reconsider the
subject, but to renounce for ever the thought she had clung to for
a moment with so much ardor. This submission, the effect of her
simplicity and decision of character, did not prevent her from
feeling it would require a great effort to begin a new life once
more. And life would seem new to her, even in the Old Mansion,
for she was no longer the same. An abyss separated her from the
peaceful, happy days she passed there. But the Old Mansion was now
like a dream that had vanished, and it was to an unknown place she
was to direct her steps. The friends who would welcome her were
certainly dear, and sometimes the thought of seeing them again
made her heart beat with joy; but this feeling was frequently
overpowered by stronger and more recent remembrances, and, in spite
of all her efforts, regret--a continual, poignant regret--made
her indifferent to everything except this great sacrifice, which
would have been a sublime consolation, but which henceforth she was
forbidden to think of.

The days did not pass, however, one by one, without infusing into
her soul the benefit of retirement. It seemed to her as if the past
and the future were suspended.

Recollections and anticipations ceased to preoccupy her, and, as
if in a bark equally remote from these two shores--too far off to
hear a sound from either side--she allowed herself to be rocked
on the waves as on the ocean in serene weather, giving herself up
to the calmness and silence of her present life, with no other
feeling but the infinite peace that surrounded her, and seeing
nothing above her but the ever smiling heavens! Such days cannot
last, but they do not pass away without leaving some trace, were
it only a remembrance full, not of regret, but of encouragement.
The momentary sense of exquisite sweetness soon evaporates; but its
strengthening influences remain, and develop in the soul that has
tasted it once--even for an instant in life!

It was necessary, however, to begin to think of her departure, and
of some pretext to offer the princess which would not appear like
an arrangement. For this she awaited the return of the Steinbergs.
Though it would be painful to reveal to them the real motive of
her decision, she preferred to do it rather than give them also an
imaginary reason.

But a sad, unforeseen event occurred which spared her any
concealment or such an act of frankness. She had been at the
convent about ten days when she was informed that the travellers
had arrived an hour before at a neighboring inn, and her cousin
was waiting in the garden parlor to see her. The sight of Clara’s
charming face always afforded her pleasure, and it was now
increased by the satisfaction of presenting to Madre Maddalena one
of the daughters of Ludwig Dornthal, whose opportune appearance
in her life was regarded by the mother as a striking proof of the
intervention of the glorious archangel whom she had given her as a
protector, and Clara Steinberg’s arrival at the convent had been
anticipated as a _festa_.

But this festival was destined to be saddened. Fleurange was to
learn sad news from the letters awaiting her cousin at Santa Maria.
The young girl’s friend--so faithful and ready to aid her--the
excellent Dr. Leblanc, was no more! He had sunk under the effects
of an accident met with while taking a drive with Professor
Dornthal in the environs of Heidelberg.

When Madre Maddalena appeared, she found the two cousins in tears,
and her sweet smile of welcome was changed into anxious inquiries.
Some moments were necessary for the explanations she asked for, and
it was only after her soothing words and the peace that emanated
from her presence had somewhat calmed Fleurange’s agitation that
she had courage enough to open a letter from Clement containing
the details of the cruel accident that had cost her old friend his
life--the friend to whom her thoughts had so often turned during
her recent perplexities, and who was taken from her in the very
hour of her life when his aid and advice seemed most essential.

Clement wrote: “In returning from a drive to Stift-Neuburg, the
carriage was upset and broken, and they were thrown violently to
the ground. At first my father seemed the more injured of the
two. He was entirely unconscious, and did not recover his senses
for some hours. We are now, however, relieved from nearly all
anxiety concerning him. His friend, whose senses never left him
for a moment, declared from the first he had received some grave,
internal injury from which he could not recover. Nevertheless, he
prescribed all the necessary remedies himself, but at the same
time made all his arrangements with admirable firmness: wrote to
his sister, sent for a priest, and this at a time when we did not
think him in danger. But on the third day his anticipations were
verified--his case grew more serious. His poor sister had just
arrived the day before yesterday, when he died in her arms.--

“Dear cousin,” Clement continued, “I have one request to make
before I close, and this not in my own name, but on the part of
my mother: Return, Gabrielle; if possible, return at once; at
all events come soon. The sacrifice you imposed on yourself is
no longer necessary, and your presence here is indispensable. My
poor father is continually asking for you, and cannot be made to
understand your absence. No wish to convince you, my dear cousin,
would make me think deception excusable. You may believe me, then,
when I repeat that the aid you so generously afforded us is now
superfluous. You can without any scruple return home--your home,
unless, which God forbid! your own choice leads you to prefer
another. Poor Mademoiselle Josephine has but one wish--to see you
again. She says it is the only consolation she looks forward to.
Hilda is now with us; it is unnecessary to say she desires your
return, and equally so to tell you _your brothers_ beg and expect
it.--”

Fleurange no longer needed a pretext. She would neither be obliged
to reveal nor conceal anything--everything was arranged for her
by the overruling force of circumstances, and her letter to
the Princess Catherine became all at once easy to write. It was
despatched that very day, and as soon as the sun began to gild the
mountain-tops the next day but one, Madre Maddalena for the second
time saw the child she so truly loved cross the threshold of her
convent home to encounter once more the dangers of the world.

Would she again return?--return like the dove, beaten by the
tempest, who has found no rest for the sole of her foot, to take
refuge once more in this asylum of peace? Or was she gone to
return no more? and would she now find the world smiling, and its
freshness renewed, and her pathway smoothed before her and strewn
with flowers? She did not seek to know. Mother Maddalena, as we
are aware, did not consider such anticipations very important. She
only hoped her feet might be guided by light from on high, and her
courage in pursuing life’s journey unfaltering. She asked no more.

Besides, the ardor of the sun has its dangers as well as the storm,
and the clearness of the soul’s heaven may be obscured in pleasant
as well as in tempestuous weather. Let us, therefore, leave to
God the appointment of every incident of our lives, and be solely
solicitous of fulfilling our course well, without being anxious as
to the way.

“And then--the way is short, however long it may seem, and it leads
to that true life where we shall for ever live together, dear
Gabrielle--where all your poor heart has vainly wished, sought,
and hoped for here below will be given in full measure, pressed
down, and running over; where all it has suffered here will bear no
comparison with the radiant joys of eternal life! God is faithful.
Let us wait. And what is it to wait--to wait thus, with sure faith
in his promises for eternal reunion with God?”

Such were the last words of Mother Maddalena. She gave her blessing
to Fleurange, who knelt to receive it, closed the convent gate
behind her, and ascended to the terrace to follow her as long as
she could with her eyes. Then she went down to the chapel, and
there on her knees tenderly wept and prayed for her. For there
is no affection equal to that of such large hearts expanded and
filled with the love of God. And we shall be convinced of this if
we recall the excessive devotedness of which they are capable--and
they alone--through love for the most unknown of their brethren.
Then we shall see what such hearts are to the objects of their
affection, that they are kindled with a flame which purifies and
tempers all that is noble and worthy of being developed, but prompt
to extinguish and consume all that is frail, frivolous, impure, and
of no permanent value.


XXXIII.

The Princess Catherine, in an elegant morning négligé, was alone
with the Marquis Adelardi in her small salon when a letter was
brought her on a silver salver. She glanced at the address.

“Ah! from Gabrielle,” she exclaimed. “The very letter I was
expecting to-day.”

She opened it and hastily ran over its contents. “Very well done,
very,” she said. “Nothing could be more natural. She hit upon the
very best thing to say. It would be impossible for me to refuse
without cruelty, as George himself would acknowledge. Here,
Adelardi,” continued she, throwing him the letter, “read it. It
must be owned that this Gabrielle is reliable and true to her word.
Moreover, she has a good deal of wit.”

Adelardi attentively read the letter.

“What you have just remarked, princess, is very true, but this time
circumstances have favored you. This letter was not written for the
occasion; it is sincere from beginning to end. This young girl can
keep a secret, but is incapable of prevarication. This is not the
kind of a letter she would have written, if the contents were not
absolutely true.”

“Do you think so?” said the princess. “It is of no consequence,
however, as to that, though it would simplify everything still
more. But in that case--Ah! _ciel!_ let me look at the letter
again.”

She now read it entirely through, instead of merely glancing at the
contents.

“But in that case I have lost my physician--and the only one who
ever understood my case. This, _par exemple!_ is a real misfortune.
If he had had time, at least, to answer my last letter, and tell me
what springs I should go to this year! Whom shall I consult now?
May is nearly gone, and next month I ought to be there. Really, I
am unlucky!”

“What do you expect, princess?” said the marquis in a tone
imperceptibly ironical. “One cannot always have good luck. On the
other hand, you have just had your very wish!”

“I acknowledge it, and, to come back to Gabrielle, I must confess
I have no reason to be otherwise than satisfied with her. Yes, we
have had a lucky escape, Adelardi. But I can hardly forgive her
for the fears she caused me, and the anxiety I still have.--What
of George since yesterday? What humor will he be in for the news I
have for him?--But what are you brooding over, Adelardi? You make
me uneasy with your look of anxiety. I hope you do not think he is
in danger of any new folly?”

“What kind of folly?”

“You know very well--the only one to be dreaded at present. Are we
to have another of the scenes we have already witnessed?--Will he
elude us, and follow her?--Or--how shall I express it?--will he, by
way of diversion, do worse, and go from Scylla into Charybdis? One
never knows what to expect from him.”

“Well, princess, I acknowledge I wish I were sure this young girl,
in sacrificing herself--for you do not imagine, I suppose, that she
is indifferent to George’s attractions--”

“It does not seem very probable,” said the princess; “but I hope
you do not imagine I take into consideration the effect George
would naturally produce when he takes pains to captivate a young
girl of twenty, and especially one in Gabrielle’s position.”

Adelardi made no reply, but his face, already grave, grew still
darker.

“Once more, Adelardi, what is the matter? One would really think
you in love with her yourself.”

“By no means, though I fancy she might, in her turn, easily
captivate anybody. Nevertheless, I have used all my efforts to
withdraw George from the charm I fully saw the danger of before
you. But to return to what I was saying: I wish I felt sure of
never regretting the time when this noble girl’s influence seemed
so formidable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, princess, I assure you I wish she were here to-day, that the
charm of her presence might retain him every evening in this salon,
from which, without speaking to her, or scarcely looking at her,
he could not tear himself away when she was present. You see how
different it is already, now she is gone; and why? Because these
days, that seem so long, and the evenings so dreary and vacant,
have revived a passion as dangerous to him as play or love. Pardon
me, princess, I know his affection for you and his friendship for
me; but we are both aware he cannot endure _ennui_, and should
not be astonished that Gabrielle’s absence has left a void in his
existence whose effect produces the greatest, the most intolerable
_ennui_ in the world. I feel it myself, and, were it not for the
absorbing interests that preoccupy you, you yourself would endure
with ill grace the sudden disappearance of this ravishing creature,
the very sight of whom--”

“Come, come, Adelardi, be calm, or I shall again say--”

“No, princess, I am not in love with her, you may rest assured; but
as for George, I doubt this moment if it were not better for him to
be, and remain so, whatever might be the result, rather than--”

“Well, do finish; you terrify me to death.”

“Rather than be again seized with this mania for politics--a
passion fatal to him, you know, and which may lead to the greatest
imprudence.”

The princess became thoughtful.

“Yes, I am indeed aware of it. I know it but too well; but since
his return I have found him so much calmer on this subject that it
has not worried me.”

“It was because he was taken up with something else; but, owing
to an encounter which unfortunately coincided with Gabrielle’s
departure, and diverted his attention at the very moment he had
absolute need of distraction, he is now so absorbed and led away
that I truly regret, instead of her indefinite absence, we cannot
announce the immediate return of her who, better than any one
else--perhaps the only one in the world--could really save him from
this new danger.”

“Thank you, my dear friend. That, _par exemple_, is a regret I can
hardly sympathize in.”

“I venture to say, moreover,” said Adelardi, “that, sure of the
future as he believes himself to be, thanks to your admirable
diplomacy, we shall find him much more resigned to this news than
might have been supposed.”

“I really hope so,” replied the princess, smiling, “especially as
another fancy has taken possession of his mind, as to which, I must
confess, I do not feel very anxious at present. ‘_Un’ alla volta
per Carità!_’--We had to rally to the weakest point first; the
enemy was at hand, and that enemy--love! Every means had to be used
to rout him. Now the subject of politics is threatening to engross
him. We will take that in hand later. The only thing that seems to
me of real importance at present is to efface as fully as possible
the remembrance of this beautiful Fleurange, for, among other
discoveries, I find that to be Gabrielle’s real name. To this end
I even welcome politics as an ally to be accepted for a time for
certain reasons, but to be turned upon as an enemy the moment its
services are no longer required.”

At this moment a servant appeared to ask the princess’ wishes
respecting a picture just brought. She left the room a moment, and
returned laughing.

“Guess what picture it was?” said she.

“Probably some new acquisition; some wonderful discovery you have
made in your rounds, like that picture by Cigoli you got thrown
into the bargain the other day when you bought the frame it was in.”

“By no means; this is a modern picture representing Cordelia at the
feet of her father, and the original--”

“Come, princess, are you in earnest? Has George really given you
that picture?”

“Given?” said the princess, her eyes twinkling as she played
with her long necklace of pearls. “No; at least that was not his
intention. But could he refuse to lend a picture that affords me so
much pleasure during the absence of--_Cordelia_? It was the whim
of an invalid suddenly deprived of her nurse! which, with some
persistence on my part, could not be refused! and after giving,
moreover, such a proof of indulgence to him and of condescension
towards her!--”

“Ah! princess, what a consummate diplomatist you are!”

“To be serious,” said she, “do you know I had never noticed this
resemblance at all, having seen the picture only once, then I did
not examine it particularly, and I had never seen Gabrielle? You
know George’s cabinet is a sanctuary I rarely invade, and, besides,
the picture has had a curtain over it the past year.”

“And what inspired you with the idea of looking at it now?”

“He himself by the delightful tale he related to me the other
evening.”

“And where have you hung it now?”

“In my dressing-room, where he never steps his foot,” replied the
princess with a peal of laughter.

Marquis Adelardi, as we are aware, had deplored George’s
infatuation as much as the princess herself, but he now felt
dissatisfied with her and himself, and he soon left her to go in
search of his friend. He felt anxious about him, for he knew he
was tempted by a dangerous curiosity and was unwilling to lose
sight of him. They had made arrangements to meet and dine together
at a kind of casino then popular, and he hoped to retain him the
remainder of the evening. But arriving at the place of rendezvous
he did not find him as he expected. George was gone, but had
left a note which drew from Adelardi an energetic exclamation of
disappointment. The note ran thus: “Once is not a habit. I have
accepted Lasko’s invitation for this evening. Dini will accompany
me. But be easy, I am not going under my own name, and shall not be
known by any one.”

“Lasko!” muttered the marquis, stamping his foot. “That is his
name now! Confound him! why is he not still in the dungeons of
Spielberg--the only place fit for him!”

                         TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTE:

[199] This stream is called the Sanguinetto.

                      “But a brook hath ta’en--
    --A name of blood from that day’s sanguine rain,
    And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead
    Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.”




THE PAPACY.


    That such a power should live and breathe, doth seem
    A thought from which men fain would be relieved,
    A grandeur not to be endured, a dream
    Darkening the soul, though it be unbelieved.
    August conception! far above king, law,
    Or popular right; how calmly dost thou draw
    Under thine awful shadow mortal pain,
    And joy not mortal! Witness of a need
    Deep laid in man, and therefore pierced in vain,
    As though thou wert no form that thou shouldst bleed!
    While such a power there lives in old man’s shape,
    Such and so dread, should not his mighty will
    And supernatural presence, Godlike, fill
    The air we breathe, and leave us no escape?
                                                --_Faber_




THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES:

A RETROSPECT--CONCLUDED.


The inveterate hostility of the Florida Indians to the whites was
further illustrated a few years later, when a vessel bound from
Vera Cruz to Spain struck upon their shores, and the survivors,
three hundred in number, including five Dominican religious,
endeavored to escape through that territory to Mexico. They were
so unrelentingly pursued by the natives, and suffered so many
hardships on the route besides, that only one reached Tampico alive
to tell the story of their fate. Father John Ferrer, however, one
of the Dominicans, and a most holy man, who had predicted this
fate of himself before he had even set sail from Vera Cruz, was
captured by the Indians west of the Rio del Norte. If the remainder
of his prediction held equally good, he must have survived among
them in good health for several years; but nothing was ever heard
of him afterwards. The bearer of these tidings, and the sole
representative of the thousand souls who had set forth from Vera
Cruz a few months before, was the Dominican lay-brother, Mark de
Mena, whose escape, though he had been terribly wounded, and left
to die on the road, was truly marvellous.

Such persistent barbarity needed a check, and Don Tristan de
Luna was sent in 1559 to subdue the country. The expedition
under his command numbered fifteen hundred men in thirteen
vessels: missionaries, as usual, accompanied him. Again they were
Dominicans, six in number. Again, also, storms and shipwrecks on
those difficult shores played their part, and many lives were lost,
among them one of the Dominicans. The aggressive character of the
expedition was doubtless seriously affected by this early mishap,
for but one portion of the survivors settled down at Pensacola
Bay, calling their colony the mission of Santa Cruz, while the
remainder, attended by two of the fathers, accompanied Don Tristan
into “Coosa,” the territory of the Creeks. Don Tristan was kindly
received by these Indians, formed an alliance with them, marched
with them against their enemies, the Natchez tribe, and remained
with them about two years. In this interval, however, the zeal
of the two missionaries was rewarded only by the baptism of a
few dying infants and adults. Don Tristan returned to Pensacola
Bay, where the new governor arrived from Mexico shortly after,
with eight more Dominicans. When the governor beheld how little
had been accomplished, and heard the discouraging accounts of the
missionaries besides, he resolved to abandon Florida, and to take
the whole party back with him to Mexico. Don Tristan, however,
persisted in remaining, and Father Dominic de Salazar, one of those
who had been with him among the Creeks, together with Matthew, a
lay-brother, and a few men besides, shared his solitude. But this
courageous persistence was not destined to be crowned with any
permanent result, for the Viceroy of Mexico despatched a vessel
to the little colony with peremptory orders for all its members
to return. Thus Florida was again left without the succors of a
Christian mission. Father Dominic ended his life of zeal and labor
as Bishop of Manila, in the Philippines.

At last, Pedro Melendez de Aviles, the first naval commander of
his day, received from Philip II., together with the title of
Adelantado of Florida, the command of a fleet of 34 vessels,
conveying 2,646 men. Melendez had also a personal interest in this
expedition, inasmuch as he hoped to recover a son, who, having
been shipwrecked on the Florida coast, might still be alive and
in the hands of the Indians, or have been captured by French
cruisers, France and Spain being then at enmity with one another.
He carried missionaries with him, chiefly Franciscans and Jesuits.
The usual storms and shipwrecks intervened, and one vessel was
captured by French cruisers, so that only a small force came
to anchor off the mouth of the St. John’s River. Here a French
fleet was found already riding, and a fort had been erected on
shore. Melendez pursued the French vessel to sea, was in turn
pursued by them, entered St. Augustine’s River while the French
were wrecked outside, attacked their fort, and put all to the
sword--a proceeding which the usages of war at that time might have
palliated, but could never justify.

St. Augustine, the oldest of our American cities, was now (1565)
founded by Melendez, and detachments were sent out to throw up
forts along the coast. At his solicitation, St. Francis Borgia,
then General of the Society of Jesus, sent three other Jesuits,
one of whom, F. Peter Martinez, the superior, was killed by the
natives, into whose hands he fell in consequence of having been
shipwrecked. Others of the Society were afterwards sent, and the
mission was erected into a vice-province, with F. John Baptist
Segura as superior. It is impossible, in reading Mr. Shea’s
_History of the Missions_, to follow the exact order of events.
Suffice it to say--not to linger upon details at this point--that
many Indian youths were taken to Havana and instructed by Father
John Roger and Brother Villareal, the two companions of Father
Martinez; that the vice-provincial and the other Jesuits sent with
him were stationed at various points within the thus extensive
limits comprehended as Florida; that missions were established
among the Creeks and among another tribe superior to them (and
supposed to have been the Cherokees), all of which were most meagre
in result; that the Pope St. Pius V. addressed a letter (1569) to
the governor of Florida, urging the repression of scandals among
the whites, so that no obstruction should be offered to the work of
conversion among the Indians; and that, finally, the working force
of the Society was most seriously reduced, first, by the loss of
Father Martinez, already mentioned, next by that of Brother Baez,
who died from the effects of the climate, at his station on Amelia
Island, and subsequently by the massacre in Virginia (or possibly
Maryland) of Fathers Segura and Quiros, with four lay-brothers, at
the instigation of a pretended Indian convert who had inveigled
them thither. Father Segura’s party on this occasion included also
several Indian youths who had been educated in Havana, and of
these only one escaped with his life. From him the details of the
martyrdom of his companions were gathered. Thus as early as 1570
was the region bordering on the Chesapeake, which was then called
St. Mary’s Bay, sanctified by the blood of its martyrs.

The loss of so many valuable members in a field so sterile of fruit
forced the Jesuits, in a manner, to abandon it, “to abandon it as
they had abandoned no other, without being driven from it,” remarks
Shea, and in the following year the survivors were recalled to the
more inviting field of Mexico. In 1572, Melendez, who had visited
Spain meanwhile, set out thence to make pursuit for the murderers
of Father Segura and his companions. He captured eight of them,
and these, under the instructions of Father Roger, who accompanied
Melendez, embraced Christianity before their execution and died
in the best dispositions. The apostate “chief of Axican,” who had
promoted the massacre, had escaped to the woods and could not be
taken. Melendez, on his return to Spain, was appointed to command
the great Armada, which Philip was then preparing for the invasion
of England, but he died before its completion. After his death, the
northern limits of Spanish colonization in Florida were gradually
pushed south to the line of St. Mary’s River.

The missions of Florida were now left entirely to the Franciscans,
whose headquarters were at the convent of St. Helena, at St.
Augustine, the venerable walls of which are still standing. Besides
some who arrived in 1573, twelve Franciscans were sent thither
in 1592. The accession of so considerable a number enabled the
father guardian of St. Helena’s to station missionaries at various
points where, from information received, there was a prospect of
some success; and indeed, for the first time in the history of
the missions of Florida, villages of Christian neophytes began to
be formed. For the Yemassees, Father Francis de Pareja, a native
of Mexico, drew up in their language his abridgment of Christian
doctrine, the first work in any of our Indian languages that was
ever issued from the press. The missions made peaceful progress for
two years, when, in 1597, a sudden outbreak of Indian fickleness
and perfidy occurred which spread havoc far and wide among them.
Father Peter de Corpa, whose mission of Tolemato occupied the
present site of the cemetery at St. Augustine, had found himself
obliged to administer a public rebuke to the cacique’s son, who,
from having been a fervent convert, fell at last into most vicious
courses. The latter, filled with resentment, appealed to the
national and religious prejudices of his followers, and, assembling
a body of them, rushed to the chapel of Father Corpa, and slew him
while he was on his knees before the altar.

Thence they repaired to the mission of Father Blas Rodriguez
at Topoqui, and, warning him of his fate, bade him prepare for
death. He entreated that he might be allowed first to say Mass,
and by a strange condescension his murderers quietly awaited the
termination of the holy sacrifice, and then despatched him as he
knelt to make his thanksgiving. Fathers Badajoz and Aunon at Guale
or Amelia Island were the next victims; but the latter, made aware
of their approach and of their designs, had time to say Mass and
communicate his companion. Then followed the massacre of Father
Francis de Velascola, the most distinguished of the missionaries,
at Asao. The assailants met with a repulse at St. Peter’s Isle,
the seat of another mission, against which they had advanced with
a flotilla of forty war-canoes; but before attacking this point
they had fallen upon the mission of Father Francis de Avila at
Ospa. He fled, was captured, grievously wounded, and was condemned
to die. They finally concluded to sell him into a heathen village
as a slave, and here for a whole year he was compelled to perform
the most menial offices. At the end of this time his task-masters,
growing weary of him, resolved to put him to death. He was fastened
to a stake, the fagots were piled around him, and he was offered
his life on condition that he should renounce his God and marry
into their tribe. Spurning the proposal, he looked to receive the
martyr’s crown, but on the demand of an old woman he was released,
and given to her that she might exchange him against her son who
was held a prisoner at St. Augustine. The exchange was effected,
and the father was restored, but so changed in appearance from the
effects of his hardships that he was not recognized by his friends.

The missions were now reduced to a feeble state indeed, and the
governor of Florida applied himself to their restoration, in
conjunction with the Bishop of Cuba, who visited the colony for
the purpose. They began to revive from the year 1601, and in a
few years the increase was very rapid, no less than forty-three
Franciscans being sent thither in the three years 1612, 1613, and
1615, who aided in establishing on the coast and in the interior
as many as twenty convents or residences. During the hundred years
of peace that followed the revival of the missions under the
Franciscans, towns of converts grew up along the Appalachicola,
Flint, and other rivers; and the Appalaches, Creeks, Cherokees,
Atimucas, and Yemassees responded to the cares bestowed upon them.
Pensacola was founded in 1693.

At last, however, the encroachments of the colonists of Carolina
began to grow serious. Under the auspices of the English
government, a body of colonists heterogeneous in character, but
of one mind in their hatred of the Spaniards and their religion,
had been drawn to the shores claimed by the latter as belonging to
Florida. They were composed of immigrants from Old and New England
and the Low Countries, of French Huguenots, Scotch, and others.
Charleston was founded by them in 1680, and they penetrated the
country in various directions. They gained over the Yemassees
from the Spanish; and in conjunction with them plundered and
destroyed the mission of St. Catharine’s, as early as 1684. All the
stations between the Altamaha and Savannah rivers, now a portion of
Georgia, were broken up, and the Indians were killed, or captured
and carried off by hundreds, the survivors taking refuge in the
peninsula.

In 1702, the animosities of the European war of the Spanish
succession extended hither, and war aggravated the hostility of
the English colonists. In that year they made an attack on St.
Augustine, but without capturing its fort, and fell upon the
“Indian converts of the Spanish priests,” on Flint River, killing
or capturing six hundred of them; and all captives of the English
at this time suffered the hard fate of being sold as slaves in
Charleston and other ports. The principal mission of the Appalaches
at St. Mark’s was destroyed, and three Franciscans taken there
were put to a cruel death. This tribe, in fact, was reduced within
four years from seven thousand to four hundred. The Atimucas on
the Appalachicola were invaded, and driven east of the St. John’s
River. In short, ruin and desolation were spread on every side.

In 1730, the Yemassees turned upon their recent allies, the
English, and were joined by the Creeks, Cherokees, and other
tribes. They were defeated, as the Tuscaroras had been the
year before; but while the latter were driven north and united
themselves with the Five Nations, the former were compelled to take
refuge in the peninsula. The treaty of Utrecht, the same year, at
the close of the war of the Spanish succession, while it contracted
the limits of the Spanish possessions in Florida, had also its
effect in lessening the acts of hostility from which they had
suffered. But the missions remained a mere shadow of what they had
formerly been, and Spain was too feeble to guarantee the complete
protection even of those that subsisted. Finally, the cession
of Florida to England by the treaty of Paris in 1763 proved the
death-blow of all of them. Most of the Spanish settlers left, and
the Franciscans departed with them. England restored the country
to Spain twenty years after; but, meanwhile, the Christian Indians
had been expelled from the two towns they occupied under the walls
of St. Augustine, and deprived of the soil they had cultivated and
the church they had erected. They became Seminoles, which in their
language signifies “wanderers.” Under Catholic influence, they had
become a quiet, orderly, industrious race, living side by side with
the Spaniards in peace and comfort. The English drove them back
into barbarism and paganism. Even in their everglades they were
not left in peace, for the government of the United States, which
acquired Florida by purchase in 1821, expelled them from their
wretched patrimony, but at a cost to the country of a thousand
lives and fifteen millions of dollars. Its troops have, ever since
the acquisition of Florida, made use of the ancient convent of St.
Helena, at St. Augustine, as barracks. A remnant of the Indians is
still left, and measures have been recently taken by the Bishop of
St. Augustine, whose see was erected only in 1870, to revive the
faith among them.

As in Florida, so in New Mexico, the missionaries were chiefly
if not entirely Franciscans. We have already referred to the
expedition of Coronado, and to the two missionaries, F. Padillo,
and the lay-brother, his companion, who were left behind at their
own request, and who became the first martyrs of the missions of
New Mexico (1541). Little inducement presented itself for sending
new missionaries in the field, but in 1581 the solicitations of
a pious lay-brother, Augustin Rodriguez, engaged in the Mexican
missions, caused the formation of a party consisting of Fathers
Francis Lopez and John de Santa Maria, and himself, attended by ten
soldiers and six Mexican Indians. After proceeding seven hundred
miles, they found themselves among the tribe of Tehuas, who,
unlike the Indians of the plains, lived in houses and dressed in
cotton mantles. The soldiers now persisted in returning, but their
departure seemed a less serious misfortune since the mission gave
promise of success. So much so, indeed, that F. de Santa Maria was
despatched to Mexico for auxiliaries, but on the third day out was
surprised and killed by roving Indians. In an attack made on the
Tehuas by their enemies not long after, F. Lopez fell by the hand
of the assailants. Brother Rodriguez, left alone, subsequently fell
a victim to his zeal in inveighing against the vices of those for
whose conversion he was laboring; growing weary of his reproaches,
they put him to death. Two other Franciscans in attendance on a
subsequent expedition suffered the fate of martyrs, and thus the
foundations of the New Mexican missions were laid in blood.

In 1597, Juan de Oñate led a colony to the Northern Rio Grande.
Several Franciscans accompanied him, and the first Spanish post
in this region, that of San Gabriel, was established. After a
year, the commander sent a favorable report by the hands of two
fathers and a lay-brother, who were returning to Mexico to solicit
additional missionaries. One of the three, F. Christopher Salazar,
died on the way, and was buried in the wilderness. The missionaries
asked for were sent, five or six at one time, and six at another.
So great was the success subsequently achieved that by the year
1608 eight thousand of the Indians of New Mexico had been baptized,
and many of them were taught to read and write, before the Puritans
set foot in New England (1620).

A report made to the crown in 1626 enumerates twenty-seven
missions that had been established up to that time, six convents
or residences, and four sumptuous churches built. Many of of these
missions and residences, and three of the churches (those at Santa
Fé, Pecos, and Jemez), are recognizable in the account of the
diocese furnished in _Sadliers’ Catholic Almanac_ for 1872. One of
the missions was among the Zuñi, over against whose town of Cibola
Friar Mark had planted his prophetic cross in 1539. The missionary
at this post, F. John Letrado, lost his life in endeavoring to
evangelize a neighboring tribe. F. Martin de Arbide perished in a
like attempt.

Heaven itself seemed to come to the assistance of the missionaries
by a miraculous intervention,[200] for a tribe which none of the
fathers had previously met or visited was found fully instructed
in Christian doctrine.

Some reverses occurred, owing to causes not clearly stated by
Mr. Shea. They were probably due to the persistent hostility of
the pagan portion of the population. In 1680, great devastations
were committed by them, many missionaries were killed, and some
churches destroyed which were never after rebuilt; but a period
of comparative peace succeeded, which was disturbed finally only
by the incursions of the Apaches. A mission was established among
the latter in 1733, but without fruit. Nine years afterwards,
some converts were made among the Moquis and Navojoes. A report
among the United States Executive documents of 1854--and which
corresponds with the statements published by Villaseñor, so long
ago as 1748--bears testimony to the happy moral and industrial
condition of the Christian Indians of New Mexico. The Puebla
Indians, as they are now called, number in the diocese of Santa Fé
12,000.

The history of the missions of Texas need not greatly prolong
our narrative. Shortly after the discovery of the mouth of the
Mississippi by La Salle in 1691, who made no permanent settlement
in Texas, the Spanish authorities sent thither a number of
Franciscans. By them, eight missions were established, which
prospered until a failure occurred in the crops which the Indians
had been taught to raise. The cattle with which the missions had
been stocked died at the same time, and moreover the soldiers, of
whom there was a small guard at each post, had rendered themselves
obnoxious to the natives. In consequence, the missions fell into
decay. Their restoration began in 1717, and by 1746 they embraced
posts among five different tribes. Visits were also made to the
Osages and Missouris, in one of which expeditions a father lost his
life and another was long retained as a prisoner.

The missions subsisted and flourished until 1812, when they were
suppressed by the Spanish government. Even then, the Indians,
though deprived of spiritual succor, remained faithful to the
religious teachings they had received. Father Diaz was sent to them
by the Bishop of Monterey, in 1832, and after laboring for a year
at Nacogdoches, was killed by wandering Indians. Soon after this
the whites began to pour into Texas, and by 1836 grew powerful
enough to declare and to maintain the independence of the state.
The demoralization and dispersion of the Indians followed, as a
natural consequence. Father Timon, afterwards Bishop of Buffalo,
was appointed in 1840 Prefect Apostolic of Texas, and, despatching
thither Father Odin as Vice-Prefect, followed him shortly after.
By an act of justice, of which modern governments rarely afford
so striking an example, the old ecclesiastical property was
restored to the church by the Texan legislature. Father Odin was
made bishop in 1842, and his see became the diocese of Galveston
in 1847, two years after the annexation of Texas to the United
States. The biography of this eminent prelate (who subsequently
became Archbishop of New Orleans), in Clarke’s _Deceased Bishops_,
furnishes much interesting matter regarding the history of the
church in Texas. The report of the diocese for 1871 supplies no
information in regard to the Indian population, if indeed any
Christians are still to be found among them within the limits of
the state. Many relics remain of the churches, aqueducts, and other
public works erected by the Franciscans and their neophytes during
the prosperous period of the missions.

The first expedition to any portion of California, which was
accompanied by missionaries, was that under Vizcaino, in 1596, to
the peninsula, but no permanent footing was made at the time. In
1601, three Carmelite fathers visited that portion now included in
the United States, and made a temporary stay, and no more, at what
are now Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco. The Jesuits
began their missions south of the Gila in 1642, and gradually
extended them north, until, in 1697, they had entered the limits
of our present territory. The success characteristic of their
missions everywhere--for their failure in Florida was something
abnormal--followed them here. All was proceeding well, when that
extensive conspiracy arose in Europe against the Society which the
history of the age subsequently shows to have been directed quite
as much against the church as against the Jesuits. The King of
Spain, having been drawn into the plot as other sovereigns were,
ordered the Jesuits to be torn in a single day from all their
missions throughout his wide domains. On the 3d of February, 1768,
every Jesuit was carried off from California a prisoner. Accused of
no crime, condemned without a trial, the missionaries were dragged
from amid their neophytes, who in grief and consternation deplored
their loss.

Spain was, however, not yet prepared to cut loose entirely from her
religious traditions, and she sent Franciscans to take the place
of the banished Jesuits. The vessel that landed the latter at San
Blas returned to California with twelve Franciscans, at the head of
whom was Father Junipero Serra, an experienced Indian missionary.
After placing priests at the vacated missions, Father Serra went
on to found others, San Ferdinand, San Bonaventura, and San Diego
being established in 1769, that at Monterey in 1770--at the news
of which foundations all the bells in the city of Mexico were
rung--San Gabriel the same year, St. Anthony of Padua in 1771, San
Luis Obispo in 1772, San Juan Capistrano in 1774, San Francisco in
1776, Santa Clara in 1777. In this interval many more of the sons
of St. Francis came to join in the labors of their brethren, or to
replace those who were worn out with toil. At Monterey, in 1771,
when the feast of Corpus Christi was celebrated with a pomp such as
the wilderness had never before seen, twelve priests joined in the
sacred procession. The Dominicans, moreover, applied for a share in
the work of the missions, and in 1774 were assigned to all those
stations formerly served by the Jesuits, the Franciscans retaining
only those that had been founded by themselves, except San
Ferdinand, which was also given to the Dominicans. As the missions
thus transferred were chiefly in Old California (the peninsula),
their history does not enter within the scope of this narrative.

In 1775, the mission at San Diego was attacked by a large force of
pagan Indians, led on by two apostates of their own race. Father
Louis Jayme, one of the two priests stationed here, was awakened
by the flames, and, supposing the fire to be accidental, came to
the door with his usual salutation, “Love God, my children.” He was
immediately seized, dragged off, pierced with arrows, and hacked to
death by blows with swords made of hardened wood. The other father
happily escaped. When Father Serra heard what had occurred, he
exclaimed, “Thank God, that field is watered,” rebuilt the mission,
after some opposition from the civil authorities, and went on
with his labors in founding others. Father Crespi, the principal
assistant of Father Serra, died in 1782, after a missionary career
of thirty years, of which fourteen had been spent in California.
Father Serra himself expired two years after. Although seventy-one
years of age at the time of his death, his zeal was undiminished
and his faculties were unimpaired. Under his administration,
as Prefect Apostolic of California, ten new missions had been
established, and ten thousand Indians baptized. Yet death found him
busy with plans of still other foundations.

By a Papal Bull of June 16th, 1774, the power of administering
confirmation was granted to the prefect apostolic. This privilege
was of course shared by Father Serra’s successors in the same
office. The first of these was Father Palou, under whom the
following new missions were founded: Santa Barbara in 1786, La
Purisima Concepcion, near San Luis Obispo, in 1787, Santa Cruz near
Branciforte, and Nuestra Señora de Soledad, near Monterey, in 1791.
Father Palou then returned to Mexico, where he became superior
of the convent of San Fernando. He was succeeded as prefect by
Father Lazven, who remained in office until his death in 1803.
In the interval, Father Lazven founded three great missions, San
José, San Miguel, and San Fernando, all in the year 1797. San
Luis, Rey de Francia, was founded in the following year. St. Louis
of France was thus honored in this remote wilderness at a time
when the nation over which he had ruled rejected alike his faith,
his institutions, and his family. The celebrated Father Peyri,
whose portrait is given in Mr. Shea’s _History of the Missions_,
superintended the foundation of this greatest of the Californian
reductions. In front of the church, which is ninety feet in length,
of stone, and rises at one end in a beautiful tower and dome (says
Mr. Shea), “extends a colonnade not without architectural beauty,
and nearly five hundred feet long, while in depth it is almost of
equal proportions.” Three thousand five hundred Indian converts
were soon gathered together, occupying twenty ranches around this
abode of peace and plenty.

Father Mariano Payeras succeeded Father Lazven as prefect, and
founded the mission of Santa Inez in 1804. At this time Spain
became unable, amid the distractions which arose from the French
Revolution--for which she herself had assisted in preparing the
way by the share she took in the persecution of the Jesuits--to
extend the aid which new foundations required, and, therefore, none
were made. The missions already in existence were not affected to
any great extent by the difficulties of the mother country, for
they were self-supporting. In 1817, however, it became possible to
found the mission of San Rafael, and this proved to be the last
foundation under Spanish auspices. Others were projected, but the
power of Spain in the western world was already tottering to its
fall. In 1821, Iturbide’s short-lived empire replaced the authority
of the Spanish crown in Mexico, and two years after, Santa Anna’s
successful revolt changed the empire into a republic. Father
Sanchez was now prefect, and in 1823 established the mission of San
Francisco Solano, the first and last erected under Mexican rule.

Echandia, the governor sent out by the Mexican authorities,
arrived in California in 1824. Then began the robbery and
destruction of the missions, the first step in which was the
substitution of government agents in the temporal rule of the
missions for that of the fathers, who had always exercised this
authority to the great advantage of the Indians, and without
drawing thence any profit for themselves, since they were both
by habit of life and by religious vow poor men. Father Peyri was
driven from his mission of San Luis Rey which he had founded
more than thirty years before, and had directed ever since with
admirable skill; nor could the tears and entreaties of his
neophytes move the stony-hearted governor to retain him. At
this populous mission, many of the Indians had been taught the
trades, and were blacksmiths, carpenters, and mechanics in various
departments; they also owned sixty thousand head of cattle, and
raised thirteen thousand bushels of grain yearly. At San Luis
Obispo, Father Martinez had in like manner formed his flock to
industry; they wove and dyed ordinary cloth and fine cotton
fabrics, and could have always maintained a state of prosperity
and happiness had their possessions and their beloved director
been left to them, but the former were wrecked, and the latter was
brutally expelled.

Five other fathers were driven from their missions, and a regular
system of robbery commenced: ranch after ranch was taken, cattle
were swept off, and the minds of the Indians were endeavored to
be poisoned against the missionaries by Echandia, through wilful
representations, so that in one case they attempted to take the
life of a priest. Other missionaries, after having spent thirty
or forty years in civilizing the Indians, and raising them to a
state of comfort and plenty, found themselves obliged, by the
ill-treatment they suffered, to leave the country. The prefect,
Father Sanchez, was the special object of this persecution on the
part of Echandia, and died of grief in 1831, consoled only by
the momentary peace which reigned at the time under Echandia’s
successor, Don Manuel Victoria, who during the few months he was in
office restored the missions so far as he was able; but after his
removal the pillage progressed as before.

Father Francisco Garcia Diego was appointed prefect in 1832, and
arrived in California in January of the following year, taking
up his residence at Santa Clara. The number of missionaries was
now so reduced that Father Garcia found it necessary to take with
him ten fathers to recruit their ranks. The new prefect did what
he could to ward off the ruin which threatened the missions, but
they were doomed, and the decree of secularization passed by the
Mexican Congress in 1834 and enforced in 1837 only completed their
destruction. Thus, this wretched republic, which is and always
has been unable amidst the contentions of its rival chiefs, with
their ever recurring _pronunciamentos_, to preserve domestic peace,
and which has suffered the great public works erected in Mexico
by the crown to fall into decay, carried spiritual and temporal
ruin to the fair regions which had been consecrated to religion
and peace, to industry and innocence, and overthrew the noblest
monuments which the zeal and the faith of Spain had bequeathed to
her colonies.

Father Garcia’s heart was wrung with anguish at the spectacle
of desolation which surrounded him, and to which, with all his
efforts, he was able to interpose only a feeble barrier. He
repaired to Mexico to intercede with the government in behalf of
his oppressed and helpless people. Through his influence the law
of secularization was repealed, and an act passed restoring the
property of the missions. But the reparation came too late; the
plunderers were in full possession of their ill-gotten property,
and no power could wrest it from them. Meanwhile, a severe illness
at the capital, and the affairs of his order in Zacatecas,
retained him in Mexico, where, in 1840, he received notice of his
appointment to the bishopric of the Californias. He was consecrated
in the same year, but was unable to take possession of his diocese
until December, 1841.

On arriving at San Diego, he found the mission and the church in
ruins. At San Gabriel, where extensive vineyards had been in full
bearing, and to protect which the father was in negotiation with an
American house for iron fences, even the vines were pulled up. This
mission had loaded ships with its products, which were despatched
regularly to San Blas and Lima. Amid its ruins, a traveller (Duflot
de Mofras) describes in 1842 seeing the missionary Father Estenega
seated in a field before a large table, with his sleeves rolled up
kneading clay and teaching his Indians to make bricks. San Luis
Obispo was in the same condition, and Father Abella, the oldest
missionary in the country, whom La Perouse had seen here in 1787,
still survived in 1842. His only bed was a hide, his only food
dried beef, and he divided among his poor and plundered Indians
the alms he received. At San José, Father Gonzalez, prefect of the
northern missions, subsisted on the scanty rations furnished him by
the officials. La Soledad, from having been an earthly paradise,
was now a wilderness of ruin and desolation. Its missionary,
Father Serra, of whom an American says “it was a happiness indeed
to have known him,” had died of hunger and wretchedness in 1838
on the spot where thousands had enjoyed his hospitality. He
expired in the arms of the Indians whom he had spent thirty years
in instructing and protecting, falling at the foot of the altar
just as he had begun Mass. At San Francisco Solano, everything
had been destroyed, and the materials of the mission-house and
chapel sacrilegiously used in building the palace of Don Mariano
Vallejo. Santa Barbara still possessed its missions, the residence
of the devoted prefect of the southern missions, Father Narcisso
Duran, and at San Fernando, Santa Clara, and Santa Inez (where
Bishop Garcia afterwards erected a seminary) the missionaries had
succeeded in saving much. Everywhere else, ruin and desolation had
overtaken the missions.

The Indian population of the missions was reduced from 30,650 to
4,450, their cattle dwindled from 424,000 to 28,000, and their
other stock in proportion, for they had owned 62,500 horses and
321,500 sheep besides. They had raised annually 122,500 bushels of
wheat and corn.

Their agriculture was now destroyed, and they themselves were
mostly scattered and demoralized. “Bishop Garcia Diego y Moreno,”
says Mr. Clarke in his _Lives of Deceased Bishops_, “stood in the
midst of desolation, and but for his apostolic zeal and robust
courage would have despaired.” He saved what he could of the
missions, and rescued many souls from crime and barbarism; he made
long, difficult journeys throughout his devastated diocese, and
addressed the most moving appeals to the Mexican government. At
last, after wearing himself out with labors that were far from
fruitless, and which certainly stayed for a time the progress of
disintegration, he retired to Santa Barbara to die, and there
peacefully gave up his soul to God, April 13, 1846.

Thirteen missionaries still survived amidst the relics of the great
works of charity and beneficence they had created or sustained,
when in 1848 the soil of Upper California changed owners, and
became attached to the domains of the United States. A new
population overran the land, and the Indians of the missions have
entirely disappeared. What is worse, they have been driven by the
hostility of the Americans to the mountains, and provoked into acts
of reprisal, the result of which will be that at no distant day the
career of plunder and outrage of which they have been the victims,
will be crowned by their total extermination.

We shall give in a note an account collated from Mr. Shea’s
_History of the Catholic Missions in the United States_, of
the manner of living followed in the mission establishments of
California, by the Indians, under the direction of the fathers.

In the history of the missions of Maryland we are presented with a
remarkable example of the influence of pure bigotry in arresting
the most beneficent ministrations of religion towards both the
white and Indian races. Under the mild and paternal administration
of Lord Baltimore, the settlement, made so auspiciously on the
feast of the Annunciation, March 25, 1634, soon attached to it
the native tribes; for they were fairly dealt with, and were paid
for whatever lands were required of them. Father Andrew White, an
English Jesuit, and a confessor of the faith--for he had suffered
exile abroad and imprisonment at home on account of it--was the
spiritual director of the mission. Although fifty-five years of
age, he had no sooner landed than he applied himself to the study
of the Indian tongue. He and his companions then established
themselves at the more advanced posts, prepared catechisms, etc.,
in the Indian language, and made good progress in the conversion of
the natives, the principal chief and his family being the first to
demand baptism.

In 1644, Claiborne, the persecuting agent of the persecuting
colony of Virginia, swooped down upon the peaceful settlements
of Maryland, and among other outrages carried off the Jesuits
as prisoners to England. Father White was never able to return,
but Father Fisher and others did after three years, and resumed
the work of the missions. The rise of the Puritan party in 1652
after the usurpation of Cromwell, and the subsequent accession to
power of the Anglicans, who in 1692 made their religion the state
church, effectually extinguished the Indian missions. What became
of the poor Indians, we know not; but, judging from what this class
of religionists have done elsewhere, their fate must have been
first to be robbed, then demoralized, and finally to be exiled or
exterminated.

Thenceforward, not only were the Catholics who had planted the
colony and who had invited thither the persecuted of other colonies
to share with themselves in all the privileges of government
and of perfect freedom of religion--not only were the Catholics
deprived of all share in the administration of public affairs, but
their religion was proscribed and their priests were hunted down.
Grasping and domineering as the Puritans have shown themselves to
be everywhere, never did they or their Anglican abettors display
a blacker ingratitude than in their transactions on the soil of
Maryland, where those who bestowed upon them an exceptional
religious liberty were excluded from all share in its benefits.

The faith, though persecuted, was kept alive among the whites by
the Maryland Jesuits, who continued to adhere to their flocks.
Nor did the suppression of their Society in 1773 dissolve this
bond, for by an association among themselves they retained their
missions; and as their property was not confiscated here as was
everywhere done in Europe, they retained that also. In 1805,
Bishop Carroll, himself an ex-Jesuit, obtained from the superior
in Russia, where the Society still subsisted, the privilege of
affiliation with it for the late members of the order in Maryland.
The bishop then confirmed them in the possession of their missions,
and thus the Society resumed its footing in Maryland nine years
before it had been restored all over the world by Pius VII. Among
the young men who joined it in 1806 was the now venerable Father
McElroy, who, in his ninetieth year, retains the zeal and energy
of younger days. The Jesuit province of Missouri was, as before
stated, an offshoot from that of Maryland, and some fathers of
the western province are still living who made their novitiate
in Maryland. Bishop Vandevelde, of Chicago, and subsequently of
Natchez, where he died in 1855, was one of these. The present Vicar
Apostolic of Kansas, a Jesuit from Missouri, perpetuates amidst his
Indians the traditions of the mother province.

The old Catholic families of Maryland, sustained and encouraged
by their pastors, and preserving the faith amidst obloquy and
disfranchisement, have contributed their full share to the
distinguished laity of their country, to the ranks of the religious
of various orders, male and female, the secular clergy, and the
episcopate. Their honorable record is too full to admit of a
reference to individuals, were this even the place for it; but we
might recall, among prelates, the names of Archbishops Carroll
and Neale of Baltimore, and Bishops Fenwick of Boston, Fenwick
of Cincinnati, and Miles of Nashville. Archbishop Eccleston of
Baltimore, although a Marylander by birth, was of Protestant
family, and was himself a convert. Bishop Chanche of Natchez was
also a Marylander, but the child of refugees from San Domingo. The
sees of Wheeling, Natchez, Chicago, and North Carolina are filled
by sons of Maryland, the descendants of a later immigration. Even
in colonizing other states, the faithful children of Maryland
formed a nucleus of Catholicity, as in Kentucky, wherever they
went. By a happy dispensation, this colony, grown into a diocese,
and governed by a scion of one of these old families, the late
eminent and beloved Spalding--gave him back to the archiepiscopal
chair of his ancestral state.

In later, as in former times, Maryland has been the “land of the
sanctuary” for the oppressed of other lands, and the trials and
triumphs in which her own children have borne part have been
shared by the strangers who have taken refuge within her borders.
When, in 1770, a solitary Jesuit from Whitemarsh in Lower Maryland
visited Baltimore, then an insignificant settlement, and so
poorly provided as to Catholic worship that the priest brought
his own altar-furniture, and had to say Mass in a private house,
a large part of the flock in attendance was composed of Acadians
who had been cruelly transported from their homes by the British
government. Still later, the French Revolution threw upon her
shores those devoted clergymen whose virtues and whose labors
have shed so much honor on the church of their adopted country.
The institutions of religion and of learning which they founded
in Maryland have educated for civil life or for the church men
who have attained the highest eminence in one or the other. The
founders of or the preceptors in these institutions have filled
sees in various portions of the country--Dubois at New York,
David at Bardstown, Flaget at Louisville, Dubourg at New Orleans,
Maréchal at Baltimore, and Bruté at Vincennes, all now deceased,
besides the present Bishop of St. Augustine, among living prelates.
St. Mary’s Seminary at Baltimore has seen advanced to the mitre,
from among her Levites, Bishops Reynolds of Charleston, O’Reilly
of Hartford, and Portier of Mobile; while Mount St. Mary’s, the
“mother of bishops,” has given to the American hierarchy from among
hers, Archbishop Hughes of New York, Bishops Quarter of Chicago,
Gartland of Savannah, Carrell of Covington, Young of Erie, and the
living archbishops of New York and Cincinnati--probably others.

The subsequent revolution in San Domingo drove hither also whites
who escaped with little more than life, and blacks whose fidelity
to their masters and to their religion withstood the shock of
those terrible times. Among the former were the parents of Bishop
Chanche; also, young Joubert, who, after becoming a priest, devoted
himself to the blacks, that he might overcome his horror for the
race that had massacred his parents; in furtherance of this lofty
act of self-renunciation, he formed a community of religious
women of color, whose first members were creoles of San Domingo.
The Oblate Sisters of Providence still flourish, and impart the
blessings of secular and religious education to the young of their
sex and color. Finally--for we must hasten to a close--it is a
noticeable fact that New England, which sent forth its Puritan
colonists to harass the Marylanders and persecute the Jesuits, is
now a portion of the Jesuit province of Maryland.

The great length to which this paper has expanded will preclude
the possibility of giving any space to the history of the missions
of France in Louisiana, and those extending from Canada into what
is now New York and into the regions west of that state. This
omission will be the more pardonable inasmuch as the history of
the French missions is better known to Catholic readers than much
of our other remote ecclesiastical history. There is one page,
however, in these annals, touching the Christian settlements on
our northeastern border, that we cannot pass over without notice.
The town in the British Provinces now known as Annapolis was the
point where Catholicity made its first foothold in any portion of
the region north of us, at least the first since the time of the
Northmen. Here, in 1608, two Jesuit missionaries arrived, who in
1613 were to be the pioneers of the Abnaki mission in Maine. The
Recollects, a branch of the Franciscans, began their labors in
Quebec in 1615. Other religious men, and some communities of pious
women, came to their assistance. Notwithstanding wars between the
various tribes, in the course of which the once powerful Hurons
were almost annihilated, the missionaries had gathered together,
by 1685, a number of Christian villages of Indians on the St.
Lawrence, of which three still exist. Thence, missionaries were
sent to the shores of Lake Superior, to the tribes south of the
lakes, to Arkansas, and to the lower Mississippi. The heroic lives,
the sufferings, and the death of Jogues, Brébeuf, and Lalemant,
and so many other holy men who consecrated their lives to these
missions, are almost familiar themes.

Of the Abnaki mission referred to above, and which was established
on Mount Desert Island at the mouth of the Penobscot, nothing
remained after a few years except a solitary cross guarding the
grave of a French lay-brother, who died from wounds received in
an attack made on the mission by the English from Virginia. The
fathers were carried off by them on this occasion, and narrowly
escaped being put to death by the authorities of Virginia. Thus, as
Mr. Shea remarks, the first Abnaki mission was crushed in its very
cradle by men who founded a colony in which the Gospel was never
announced to the aborigines.

In 1642, an Abnaki who had been rescued from death by a Christian
Indian, in one of the forays made by the pagan Iroquois on their
neighbors, extolled the virtues of the Christians so highly on
his return home that his people sent for black-gowns. Father
Druillettes was sent to them in 1646, and the wonderful change
effected by him in the few months of his stay excited even the
admiration of the English, whose countrymen in Massachusetts were
at this time enacting cruel laws against the religion and the order
to which F. Druillettes belonged. In 1650, he returned to the
Abnakis, and was received by them at Norridgewock, their principal
village, amidst volleys of firearms, and with every demonstration
of delight. A banquet was spread in every cabin, and he was forced
to visit all.

“We have thee at last,” they cried; “thou art our father, our
patriarch, our countryman. Thou livest like us, thou dwellest with
us, thou art an Abnaki like us. Thou bringest back joy to all the
country. We had thought of leaving this land to seek thee, for many
have died in thy absence. We were losing all hopes of reaching
heaven. Those whom thou didst instruct performed all that they had
learned, but their heart was weary, for it sought and could not
find thee.”

At the same time that Druillettes was planting the faith among
the Abnakis--who have preserved to this day the precious legacy
bequeathed to them--Rev. John Eliot of Roxbury, certainly a
well-meaning man and a credit to the times and to the people
among whom he lived, was endeavoring to christianize the Indians
of Massachusetts--an attempt which the cruelty and rapacity of
his countrymen would have rendered abortive, even if his barren
theology had been able to affect anything in their behalf. So
Drake, the Indian historian, admits that even among Eliot’s nominal
disciples there was not the least probability that one-fourth of
them were sincere believers in Christianity. Eliot himself said,
before his death, “There is a dark cloud upon the work of the
Gospel among the poor Indians.” In King Philip’s war even the
Indian ministers threw off all disguise and took up arms against
their white Christian neighbors. This last struggle against their
destroyers resulted in a total ruin of the Indians. The Puritan,
imagining himself the chosen of God, and regarding the Indians as
Amalekites and Canaanites whom he was to exterminate out of the
promised land, fell upon them with fire and sword.

Even the innocent son of King Philip, the last of the family of
Massasoit, was sold into slavery to Bermuda by the men whose
children have since lifted the finger of scorn at the population
of the South, among whom England forced the institution that lately
perished amid the throes of civil war--forced it by the aid, in
part, of the vessels and the means of the pious fathers of New
England. Father Druillettes, strange to say, visited Eliot, by whom
he was hospitably received and entertained, and who invited him to
pass the winter under his roof. But this visit to New England was
probably one of business, and the father was soon with his beloved
Indians again.

Father Rale was among the successors of Druillettes. An expedition
of New Englanders destroyed his church and village in 1705, but
the cession of the territory to England by France in 1713 restored
temporary peace to the Abnaki mission. A deputation of their
chiefs therefore visited Boston, and called upon the governor to
solicit means for the rebuilding of their church. As Protestantism
is always ready to interfere with religious enterprises which it
could never itself have succeeded in, this exponent of the religion
of New England offered to rebuild their church at his own expense
if they would dismiss their missionary and take a minister of his
own choice. The reply of the indignant spokesman of the Indians is
worth quoting:

“When you first came here,” said he, “you saw me long before the
French governors, but neither your predecessors nor your ministers
ever spoke to me of prayer or the Great Spirit. They saw my furs,
my beaver and moose skins, and of this alone they thought; these
alone they sought, and so eagerly that I have been unable to supply
them with enough. When I had much, they were my friends, and only
then. One day my canoe missed the route; I lost my path, and
wandered a long way at random, until at last I landed near Quebec,
in a great village of the Algonquins, where the black-gowns were
teaching. Scarcely had I arrived, when one of them came to see me.
I was loaded with furs, but the black-gown of France disdained
to look at them; he spoke to me of the Great Spirit, of heaven,
of hell, of the prayer which is the only way to reach heaven. I
heard him with pleasure, and was so delighted by his words that I
remained in the village near him. At last the prayer pleased me,
and I asked to be instructed: I solicited baptism, and received it.
Then I returned to the lodges of my tribe, and related all that had
happened. All envied my happiness, and wished to partake it; they
too went to the black-gown to be baptized. Thus have the French
acted. Had you spoken to me of the prayer as soon as we met, I
should now be so unhappy as to pray like you, for I could not have
told whether your prayer was good or bad. Now I hold to the prayer
of the French; I agree to it; I shall be faithful to it, even until
the earth is burned and destroyed. Keep your men, your gold, and
your minister: I will go to my French father.”

In the unsettled condition of the boundaries, the New Englanders
continued to make incursions upon the territory of the Abnakis.
In one of these expeditions, Father Rale barely escaped capture,
but his celebrated Abnaki dictionary was pounced upon and carried
off, and now forms one of the treasures of the library of Harvard
University. In 1724, he fell a victim to the persistence of his
enemies. Notwithstanding these cruelties, the Abnakis, in the war
of the Revolution, took part in the defence of the soil against
England with the people who had desolated their home and put to
death their beloved pastor. Orono, the Penobscot chief, bore a
commission throughout the Revolution, and distinguished himself
during the war as much by his bravery as by his attachment to his
religion, never consenting to frequent Protestant places of worship.

These sketches, grown so much more lengthy than we had expected,
and yet restrained with difficulty within their present bounds,
must now close. May they be read with the attention the _subject_
deserves, and thus serve to awaken the honest pride of our
fellow-Catholics in the past history of their church on the soil of
the United States. May our men of culture, stimulated by the appeal
that shall be made to them by the reading classes, spread far and
wide the affecting story of the church’s triumphs and reverses in
our land, with all the glorious details of the lives and deaths of
its heroes and martyrs! May this history grow to be a familiar one
to the generation that is rising and the generations that shall
succeed it. We love our country, and none dare question our love
but they who would have the statute-books bristle with laws against
us such as the genius of our institutions forbids and the fathers
of the Republic rejected. Let us show our love for it by mingling
the memories of all that is dear to us in the career of our
religion with all that is noble and inspiring in the civil history
of our land, our fair heritage of political and religious freedom.


NOTE.

  THE MISSION ESTABLISHMENTS OF CALIFORNIA.--The plan of the
  early missionaries in Florida and New Mexico had been to form
  the converts into villages near the Spanish settlements, in
  which they were trained to the usages of civilized life. In the
  numerous Christian villages thus spread over the country, all
  civil functions were exercised by the chiefs, the missionaries
  confining themselves to those of a spiritual nature only. The
  progress of the Indians under this system was slower than was
  desirable, and experience led to an improvement in the manner of
  conducting the missions that were subsequently established in
  New Mexico and California. In the latter, the missionary went
  in the first place attended by a small guard, with a colony of
  Indian converts, herds of cattle, and a plentiful supply of
  agricultural and other implements. Chiefly through the converted
  Indians, the surrounding natives were drawn to the mission.
  The next step was to proceed to the erection of the mission
  building, a rectangular structure eighty or ninety yards square,
  with a court-yard in the centre, which was adorned with trees
  and fountains. The church and the pastor’s residence occupied
  one side, and galleries surrounded the court, opening upon the
  rooms of the missionaries, stewards, and travellers, the shops,
  schools, store-rooms, infirmaries, and the granary.

  A part of the buildings entirely separated from the rest, and
  called the monastery, was reserved for the Indian girls, where
  they were taught by native women to spin and weave, and received
  such other instruction as was suited to their sex. The boys
  learned trades, and those who excelled were promoted to the rank
  of chiefs, thus giving a dignity to labor which impelled all to
  embrace it. Once in the mission, the native was instructed in
  Christianity, and constrained to labor. Many of the missionaries
  being skilled in mechanical art, the Indians were formed to every
  trade, and the surplus products of their industry were exported
  yearly in exchange for necessary European goods. The Indians were
  apportioned into sections, each under a chief who led his party
  to church or to labor, and who was not backward in enforcing
  promptness. Against this the Indian at first rebelled: but, as
  all his wants were satisfied, he soon became attached to his
  manner of life, and would draw others of his countrymen in, whom
  he easily persuaded to submit to the routine.

  Many learned Spanish thoroughly, and all acquired a knowledge
  of the Christian religion, which they faithfully practised.
  Thus they gained two great benefits--peace and comfort in this
  life, and means of attaining happiness in the next. Those
  who visited the missions were amazed to see that with such
  petty resources--most frequently without the aid of white
  mechanics--the missionaries accomplished so much, not only
  in agriculture, but in architecture and mechanics; in mills,
  machines, bridges, roads, and canals for irrigation; and
  accomplished it all by transforming hostile and indolent savages
  into laborious carpenters, masons, coopers, saddlers, shoemakers,
  weavers, stone-cutters, brickmakers, and lime-burners. Around the
  mission building arose the houses of the Indians and of a few
  white settlers; at various distances were ranches or hamlets,
  each with its chapel. In a little building near the mission-house
  was a picket of five horsemen, who were at once soldiers and
  couriers.

  The regulations of the mission were uniform. At daybreak, the
  _Angelus_ summoned all to the church for prayers and Mass, after
  which they went to breakfast. Then all joined their respective
  bands, and proceeded to their regular labors. At eleven, they
  returned to dine, and rested till two, when labor recommenced,
  and continued until the ringing of the _Angelus_ bell, an hour
  before sunset. After prayers and beads, they supped, and spent
  the evening in innocent amusements. Their food was the fresh
  beef and mutton plentifully supplied by their herds and flocks,
  cakes of wheat and Indian corn, peas, beans, and such vegetables
  as they chose to raise. The missionaries themselves, bound by
  vows of poverty, received only food and clothing. The Indians of
  a mission were not all of the same tribe, but perfect harmony
  prevailed, and when the season of work was over, many paid
  visits to their countrymen, and seldom returned alone. Sometimes
  a zealous Christian would visit his own tribe as an apostle, to
  announce the happiness which was attainable under the mild rule
  of the Gospel. In this way the missions constantly received new
  accessions, for the good missionaries had the art of making labor
  attractive. All the men and women in the mission were, moreover,
  well and completely dressed.

  It will be seen that this discipline was strict, and the Spanish
  government, at the time of the forcible withdrawal of the
  Jesuits, wished to bring odium upon them in connection with this
  system of administration of their origination. The Franciscans,
  however, who succeeded the Jesuits, continued the method of their
  predecessors, convinced of its expediency. An attempt on the
  part of the government to alter it, in the establishment of a
  mission near the mouth of the Colorado, on its own principles,
  a few years after the expulsion of the Jesuits, only resulted
  in cruel outrages upon the Indians by those who were placed in
  the temporal administration in lieu of the Franciscans. These
  outrages provoked rebellion, and led to the massacre of the civil
  functionaries, and of the religious as well. The government did
  not repeat the experiment.

  Forbes, the author of a work on California, after commending
  the labors of the California Jesuits, says of their successors,
  “The best and most unequivocal proof of the good conduct of the
  Franciscan fathers is to be found in the unbounded affection and
  devotion invariably shown towards them by their Indian subjects.
  They venerate them not merely as friends and fathers, but with
  a degree of devotedness approaching to adoration.” He adds,
  “Experience has shown how infinitely more successful the Catholic
  missionaries have been than the Protestant.” These and many other
  testimonies from unprejudiced sources might be given to show
  the state of happiness in which the Indians formerly lived. An
  American traveller, Bartlett, who in 1854 visited the mission
  of San Gabriel, to which at one time five thousand Indians were
  attached, says, “Humanity cannot refrain from wishing that the
  dilapidated mission of San Gabriel should be renovated and its
  broken walls be rebuilt, its roofless houses be covered, and its
  deserted halls be again filled with its ancient industrious,
  happy, and contented population.”

  Two classes of persons, therefore--as Marshal remarks in his
  _History of Catholic Missions_--“have been instrumental in the
  irreparable injury inflicted on the Indian tribes: Mexicans who
  had forfeited their birthright as Catholics, and Protestants
  who had never possessed it. Affecting to follow the precedents
  of modern European policy, of which the chief maxim seems to be
  the exclusion of all ecclesiastical influence in the government
  of human society, the Mexican civil authorities resolved to
  secularize all the missions. The result has been as in every land
  where the same experiment has been tried, a swift relapse into
  barbarism, from which the church alone has saved the world, the
  immediate decay of material prosperity, and a vast augmentation
  of human suffering.

   “History might have taught the Mexicans to anticipate these
  inevitable fruits. When England laid her hand on the possessions
  of the church, which had been for centuries the patrimony of
  the poor, she took her first step towards her present social
  condition. Prisons and workhouses became the dismal substitutes
  for monasteries, and jailers supplanted monks. England has not
  profited much by the change. The new institutions are at least
  ten times more costly than the old, and the benefits derived
  from them have been in inverse proportion. They now receive only
  prisoners, and disgorge only criminals; while a whole nation of
  heathen poor, a burden on the present resources of the country
  and a menace for her future destiny, have sunk down, as even
  English writers will tell us, to the level of the most degraded
  tribes of Africa or America, and are as utterly void of religion
  or of the knowledge of God as the Sioux, the Carib, or the
  Dahoman.”

FOOTNOTE:

[200] Those who are curious on this point are referred to the
_Mystic City of God_, by the Ven. Maria de Agreda, a Spanish
Carmelite nun.




THE PROGRESSIONISTS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.


CHAPTER IV.

HANS SHUND.

Hans Shund returned home from business in high feather. Something
unusual must have happened him, for his behavior was exceptional.
Standing before his desk, he mechanically drew various papers from
his pockets, and laid them in different drawers and pigeon-holes.
The mechanical manner of his behavior was what was exceptional,
for usually Hans Shund bestowed particular attention upon certain
papers; his soul’s life was in those papers. Moreover, on the
present occasion, he kept shaking his head as if astonishment would
not suffer him to remain quiet. Yet habitually Hans Shund never
shook his head, for that proceeding betrays interior emotion,
and Shund’s neck was as hardened and stiff as his usurer’s soul.
The other exceptional feature of his behavior was a continuous
growling, which at length waxed into a genuine soliloquy. But Hans
Shund was never known to talk to himself, for talking to one’s self
indicates a kindly disposition, whilst Shund had no disposition
whatever, as they maintain who knew him; or, if he had ever had
one, it had smouldered into a hard, impenetrable crust of slag.

“Strange--remarkably strange!” said he. “Hem! what can it mean? How
am I to account for it? Has the usurer undergone a transformation
during the night?” And a hideous grin distorted his face. “Am
I metamorphosed, am I enchanted, or am I myself an enchanter?
Unaccountable, marvellous, unheard of!”

The papers had been locked up in the desk. A secret power urged him
up and down the room, and finally into the adjoining sitting-room,
where Mrs. Shund, a pale, careworn lady, sat near a sewing-stand,
intent on her lonely occupation.

“Wife, queer things have befallen me. Only think, all the city
notables have raised their hats to your humble servant, and have
saluted me in a friendly, almost an obsequious manner. And this has
happened to me to-day--to me, the hated and despised usurer! Isn’t
that quite amazing? Even the city regent, Schwefel’s son, took
off his hat, and bowed as if I were some live grandee. How do you
explain that prodigy?”

The careworn woman kept on sewing without raising her head.

“Why don’t you answer me, wife? Don’t you find that most
astonishing?”

“I am incapable of being astonished, since grief and care have so
filled my heart that no room is left in it for feelings of any
other kind.”

“Well, well! what is up again?” asked he, with curiosity.

She drew a letter written in a female hand from one of the drawers
of the sewing-stand.

“Read this, villain!”

Hastily snatching the letter, he began to read.

“Hem,” growled he indifferently. “The drab complains of being
neglected, of not getting any money from me. That should not be a
cause of rage for you, I should think. The drab is brazen enough
to write to you to reveal my weaknesses, all with the amicable
intention of getting up a thundergust in our matrimonial heaven. Do
learn sense, wife, and stop noticing my secret enjoyments.”

“Fie, villain. Fie upon you, shameless wretch!” cried she,
trembling in every limb.

“Listen to me, wife! Above all things, let us not have a scene, an
unnecessary row,” interrupted he. “You know how fruitless are your
censures. Don’t pester me with your stale lectures on morals.”

“Nearly every month I get a letter of that sort written in the most
disreputable purlieus of the town, and addressed to my husband. It
is revolting! Am I to keep silent, shameless man--_I_, your wedded
wife? Am I to be silent in presence of such infamous deeds?”

“Rather too pathetic, wife! Save your breath. Don’t grieve at the
liberties which I take. Try and accustom yourself to pay as little
attention to my conduct as I bestow upon yours. When years ago I
entered the contract with you vulgarly denominated marriage, I did
it with the understanding that I was uniting myself to a subject
that was willing to share with me a life free from restraints;
I mean, a life free from the odor of so-called hereditary moral
considerations and of religious restrictions. Accustom yourself to
this view of the matter, rise to my level, enjoy an emancipated
existence.”

He spoke and left the room. In his office he read the letter over.

“This creature is insatiable!” murmured he to himself. “I shall
have to turn her off and enter into less expensive connections. I
am talking with myself to-day--queer, very queer!”

A heavy knock was heard at the door.

“Come in!”

A man and woman scantily clad entered the room. The sight of
the wretched couple brought a fierce passion into the usurer’s
countenance. He seemed suddenly transformed into a tiger,
bloodthirstily crouching to seize his prey.

“What is the matter, Holt?”

“Mr. Shund,” began the man in a dejected tone, “the officer of the
law has served the writ upon us: it is to take effect in ten days.”

“That is, unless you make payment,” interrupted Shund.

“We are not able to pay just now, Mr. Shund, it is impossible. I
wished therefore to entreat you very earnestly to have patience
with us poor people.”

The woman seconded her husband’s petition by weeping bitterly,
wringing her hands piteously. The usurer shook his head
relentlessly.

“Patience, patience, you say. For eight years I have been using
patience with you; my patience is exhausted now. There must be
limits to everything. There is a limit to patience also. I insist
upon your paying.”

“Consider, Mr. Shund, I am the father Of eight children. If you
insist on payment now and permit the law to take its course, you
will ruin a family of ten persons. Surely your conscience will not
permit you to do this?”

“Conscience! What do you mean? Do not trouble me with your
nonsense. For me, conscience means to have; for you, it means you
must. Therefore, pay.”

“Mr. Shund, you know it is yourself that have reduced us to this
wretched condition!”

“You don’t say I did! How so?”

“May I remind you, Mr. Shund, may I remind you of all the
circumstances by which this was brought about? How it happened that
from a man of means I have been brought to poverty?”

“Go on, dearest Holt--go on; it will be interesting to me!” The
usurer settled himself comfortably to hear the summary of his
successful villanies from the mouth of the unfortunate man with the
same satisfaction with which a tiger regales itself on the tortures
of its victim.

“Nine years ago, Mr. Shund, I was not in debt, as you know. I
labored and supported my family honestly, without any extraordinary
exertion. A field was for sale next to my field at the Rothenbush.
You came at the time--it is now upwards of eight years, and said
in a friendly way, ‘Holt, my good man, buy that field. It lies
next to yours, and you ought not to let the chance slip.’ I wanted
the field, but had no money. This I told you. You encouraged me,
saying, ‘Holt, my good man, I will let you have the money--on
interest, of course; for I am a man doing business, and I make my
living off my money. I will never push you for the amount. You
may pay it whenever and in what way you wish. Suit yourself.’ You
gave me this encouragement at the time. You loaned me nine hundred
and fifty florins--in the note, however, you wrote one thousand
and fifty, and, besides, at five per cent. For three years I paid
interest on one thousand and fifty, although you had loaned me only
nine hundred and fifty. All of a sudden--I was just in trouble at
the time, for one of my draught-cattle had been crippled, and the
harvest had turned out poorly, you came and demanded your money.
I had none. ‘I am sorry,’ said you, ‘I need my money, and could
put it out at much higher interest.’ I begged and begged. You
threatened to sue me. Finally, after much begging, you proposed
that I should sell you the field, for which three years previous I
had paid nine hundred and fifty florins, for seven hundred florins,
alleging that land was no longer as valuable as it had been. You
were willing to rent me the field at a high rate. And to enable me
to get along, you offered to lend me another thousand, but drew up
a note for eleven hundred florins at ten per cent., because, as
you pretended, money was now bringing ten per cent. since the law
regulating interest had been abrogated. For a long while I objected
to the proposal, but found myself forced at last to yield because
you threatened to attach my effects. From this time I began to go
downhill, I could no longer meet expenses, my family was large,
and I had to work for you to pay up the interest and rent. But for
some time back I had been unable to do as I wished. I could not
even sell any of my own property; for you were holding me fast, and
I was obliged to mortgage everything to you for a merely nominal
price. My cottage, my barn, my garden, and the field in front of
my house--worth at least two thousand florins--I had to give you a
mortgage upon for one thousand. The rest of my immovable property,
fields and meadows, you took. Nothing was left to me but the little
hut and what adjoined it. With respects, Mr. Shund, you had long
since sucked the very marrow from my bones, next you put the rope
about my neck, and now you are about to hang me.”

“Hang you? Ha-ha! That’s good, Holt! You are in fine humor,” cried
the usurer, after hearing with a relish the simple account of his
atrocious deeds. “I have no hankering for your neck. Pay up, Holt,
pay up, that is all I want. Pay me over the trifle of a thousand
florins and the interest, and the house with everything pertaining
to it shall be yours. But if you cannot pay up, it will have to be
sold at auction, so that I may get my money.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Shund, be merciful,” entreated the wife.
“We have saved up the interest with much trouble; every farthing
of it you are to receive. For God’s sake, do not drive us from our
home, Mr. Shund, we will gladly toil for you day and night. Take
pity, Mr. Shund, do take pity on my poor children!”

“Stop your whining. Pay up, money alone has any value in my
estimation--pay, all the rest is fudge. Pay up!”

“God knows, Mr. Shund,” sobbed the woman, wringing her hands,
“I would give my heart’s blood to keep my poor children out of
misery--with my life I would be willing to pay you. Oh! do have
some commiseration, do be merciful! Almighty God will requite you
for it.”

“Almighty God, nonsense! Don’t mention such stuff to me. Stupid
palaver like that might go down with some bigoted fool, but it will
not affect a man of enlightenment. Pay up, and there’s an end of
it!”

“Is it your determination then, Mr. Shund, to cast us out
mercilessly under the open sky?” inquired the countryman with deep
earnestness.

“I only want what belongs to me. Pay over the thousand florins with
the interest, and we shall be quits. That’s my position, you may
go.”

In feeling words the woman once more appealed to Hans Shund.
He remained indifferent to her pleading, and smiled scornfully
whenever she adduced religious considerations to support her
petition. Suddenly Holt took her by the arm and drew her towards
the door.

“Say no more, wife, say no more, but come away. You could more
easily soften stones than a man who has no conscience and does not
believe in God.”

“There you have spoken the truth,” sneered Shund.

“You sneer, Mr. Shund,” and the man’s eyes glared. “Do you know to
whom you owe it that your head is not broken?”

“What sort of language is that?”

“It is the language of a father driven to despair. I tell you”--and
the countryman raised his clenched fists--“it is to the good God
that you are indebted for you life; for, if I believed as little in
an almighty and just God as you, with this pair of strong hands I
would wring your neck. Yes, stare at me! With these hands I would
strangle Shund, who has brought want upon my children and misery
upon me. Come away, wife, come away. He is resolved to reduce us to
beggary as he has done to so many others. Do your worst, Mr. Shund,
but there above we shall have a reckoning with each other.”

He dragged his wife out of the room, and went away without
saluting, but casting a terrible scowl back upon Hans Shund.

For a long while the usurer sat thoughtfully, impressed by the
ominous scowl and threat, which were not empty ones, for rage and
despair swept like a rack over the man’s countenance. Mr. Shund
felt distinctly that but for the God of Christians he would have
been murdered by the infuriated man. He discovered, moreover, that
religious belief is to be recommended as a safeguard against the
fury of the mob. On the other hand, he found this belief repugnant
to a usurer’s conscience and a hindrance to the free enjoyment
of life. Hans Shund thus sat making reflections on religion, and
endeavoring to drown the echo which Holt’s summons before the
supreme tribunal had awakened in a secret recess of his soul, when
hasty steps resounded from the front yard and the door was suddenly
burst open. Hans’ agent rushed in breathless, sank upon the nearest
chair, and, opening his mouth widely, gasped for breath.

“What is the matter, Braun?” inquired Shund in surprise. “What has
happened?”

Braun flung his arms about, rolled his eyes wildly, and labored to
get breath, like a person that is being smothered.

“Get your breath, you fool!” growled the usurer. “What business had
you running like a maniac? Something very extraordinary must be the
matter, is it not?”

Braun assented with violent nodding.

“Anything terrible?” asked he further.

More nodding from Braun. The usurer began to feel uneasy. Many
a nefarious deed stuck to his hands, but not one that had not
been committed with all possible caution and secured against
any afterclaps of the law. Yet might he not for once have been
off his guard? “What has been detected? Speak!” urged the
conscience-stricken villain anxiously.

“Mr. Shund, you are to be--in this place--”

“Arrested?” suggested the other, appalled, as the agent’s breath
failed him again.

“No--mayor!”

Shund straightened himself, and raised his hands to feel his ears.

“I am surely in possession of my hearing! Are you gone mad, fellow?”

“Mr. Shund, you are to be mayor and member of the legislature. It
is a settled fact!”

“Indeed, ’tis quite a settled fact that you have lost your wits. It
is a pity, poor devil! You once were useful, now you are insane;
quite a loss for me! Where am I to get another bloodhound as good
as you? Your scent was keen, you drove many a nice bit of game into
my nets. Hem--so many instances of insanity in these enlightened
times of ours are really something peculiar. Braun, dearest Braun,
have you really lost your mind entirely? Completely deranged?”

“I am not insane, Mr. Shund. I have been assured from various
sources that you are to be elected mayor and delegate to the
legislative assembly.”

“Well, then, various persons have been running a rig upon you.”

“Running a rig upon me, Mr. Shund? Bamboozle me--me who understand
and have practised bamboozling others for so long?”

“Still, I maintain that people have been playing off a hoax on
you--and what an outrageous hoax it is, too!”

“I believe a hoax? Just listen to me. I have never been more
clear-headed than I am to-day. Acquaintances and strangers in
different quarters of the town have assured me that it is a fixed
fact that you are to be mayor of this city and member of the
legislative assembly. Now, were it a hoax, would you not have to
presuppose that both acquaintances and strangers conspired to make
a fool of me? Yet such a supposition is most improbable.”

“Your reasoning is correct, Braun. Still, such a conspiracy must
really have been gotten up. _I_ mayor of this city? _I?_ Reflect
for an instant, Braun. You know what an enviable reputation I bear
throughout the city. Many persons would go a hundred paces out of
their direction to avoid me, specially they who owe or have owed me
anything. Moreover, who appoints the mayor? The men who give the
keynote, the leaders of the town. Now, these men would consider
themselves defiled by the slightest contact with the outlawed
usurer--which, of course, is very unjust and inconsistent on the
part of those gentlemen--for my views are the same as theirs.”

“Spite of all that, I put faith in the report, Mr. Shund.
Schwefel’s bookkeeper also, when I met him, smiled significantly,
and even raised his hat.”

“Hold on, Braun, hold! The deuce--it just now occurs to me--you
might not be so much mistaken after all. Strange things have
happened to me also. Gentlemen who are intimate with our city
magnates have saluted me and nodded to me quite confidentially. I
was unable to solve this riddle, now it’s clear. Braun, you are
right, your information is perfectly true.” And Mr. Shund rubbed
his hands.

“Don’t forget, Mr. Shund, that I first brought you the astounding
intelligence, the joyful tidings, the information on which the very
best sort of speculations may be based.”

“You shall be recompensed, Braun! Go over to the sign of the Bear,
and drink a bottle of the best, and I will pay for it.”

“At a thaler a bottle?”

“That quality isn’t good for the health, my dear fellow! You may
drink a bottle at forty-eight kreutzers on my credit. But no--I
don’t wish to occasion you an injury, nor do I wish to see you
disgraced. You shall not acquire the name of a toper in my employ.
You may therefore call for a pint glass at twelve kreutzers a
glass. Go, now, and leave me to myself.”

When the agent was gone, Hans Shund rushed about the room as if out
of his mind.

“Don’t tell me that miracles no longer occur!” cried he. “_I_, the
discharged treasurer--_I_, the thief, usurer, and profligate, at
the mere sight of whom every young miss and respectable lady turn
up their noses a thousand paces off--_I_ am chosen to be mayor
and assemblyman! How has this come to pass? Where lie the secret
springs of this astonishing event?” And he laid his finger against
his nose in a brown study. “Here it is--yes, here! The thinkers
of progress have at length discovered that a man who from small
beginnings has risen to an independent fortune, whose shrewdness
and energy have amassed enormous sums, ought to be placed at the
head of the city administration in order to convert the tide of
public debt into a tide of prosperity. Yes, herein lies the secret.
Nor are the gentlemen entirely mistaken. There are ways and means
of making plus out of minus, of converting stones into money. But
the gentlemen have taken the liberty of disposing of me without
my previous knowledge and consent. I have not even been asked.
Quite natural, of course. Who asks a dog for permission to stroke
him? This is, I own, an unpleasant aftertaste. Hem, suppose I were
too proud to accept, suppose I wanted to bestow my abilities and
energies on my own personal interests. Come, now, old Hans, don’t
be sensitive! Pride, self-respect, character, sense of honor, and
such things are valuable only when they bring emolument. Now, the
mayor of a great city has it in his power to direct many a measure
eminently to his own interest.”

Another knock was heard at the door, and the usurer, taken by
surprise, saw before him the leader Erdblatt.

“Have you been informed of a fact that is very flattering to you?”
began the tobacco manufacturer.

“Not the slightest intimation of a fact of that nature has reached
me,” answered Shund with reserve.

“Then I am very happy to be the first to give you the news,”
assured Erdblatt. “It has been decided to promote you at the next
election to the office of mayor and of delegate to the legislative
assembly.”

A malignant smile flitted athwart Shund’s face. He shook his sandy
head in feigned astonishment, and fixed upon the other a look that
was the next thing to a sneer.

“There are almost as many marvels in your announcement as words.
You speak of a decision and of a fact which, however, without my
humble co-operation, are hardly practicable. I thought all along
that the disposition of my person belonged to myself. How could
anything be resolved upon or become a fact in which I myself happen
to have the casting vote?”

“Your cordial correspondence with the flattering intention of
your fellow-citizens was presumed upon; moreover, you were to be
agreeably surprised,” explained the progressionist leader.

“That, sir, was a very violent presumption! I am a free citizen,
and am at liberty to dispose of my time and faculties as I please.
In the capacity of mayor, I should find myself trammelled and no
longer independent on account of the office. Moreover, a weighty
responsibility would then rest upon my shoulders, especially in
the present deplorable circumstances of the administration. Could
I prevail on myself to accept the proffered situation, it would
become my duty to attempt a thorough reform in the thoughtless
and extravagant management of city affairs. You certainly cannot
fail to perceive that a reformer in this department would be the
aim of dangerous machinations. And lastly, sir, why is it that
I individually have been selected for appointments which are
universally regarded as honorable distinctions in public life? I
repeat, why are they to be conferred upon me in particular who
cannot flatter myself with enjoying very high favor among the
people of this city?” And there glistened something like revengeful
triumph in Shund’s feline eyes. “When you will have given a
satisfactory solution to these reflections and questions, it may
become possible for me to think of assenting to your proposal.”

Erdblatt had not anticipated a reception of this nature, and for a
moment he sat nonplussed.

“I ask your pardon, Mr. Shund, you have taken the words fact and
decision in too positive a sense. What is a decided fact is that
the leaders of progress assign the honorable positions mentioned
to you. Of course it rests with you to accept or decline them. The
motive of our decision was, if you will pardon my candor, your
distinguished talent for economizing. It is plain to us that a man
of your abilities and thorough knowledge of local circumstances
could by prudent management and, by eliminating unnecessary
expenditure, do much towards relieving the deplorable condition
of the city budget. We thought, moreover, that your well-known
philanthropy would not refuse the sacrifices of personal exertion
and unremitting activity for the public good. Finally, as regards
the disrespect to which you have alluded, I assure you I knew
nothing of it. The stupid and mad rabble may perhaps have cast
stones at you, but can or will you hold respectable men responsible
for their deeds? Progress has ever proudly counted you in its
ranks. We have always found you living according to the principles
of progress, despising the impotent yelping of a religiously
besotted mob. Be pleased to consider the tendered honors as amends
for the insults of intolerant fanatics in this city.”

“Your explanation, sir, is satisfactory. I shall accept. I am
particularly pleased to know that my conduct and principles are in
perfect accord with the spirit of progress. I am touched by the
flattering recognition of my greatly misconstrued position.”

The leader bowed graciously.

“There now remains for me the pleasant duty,” said he, “of
requesting you to honor with your presence a meeting of
influential men who are to assemble this evening in Mr. Schwefel’s
drawing-room. Particulars are to be discussed there. The
ultramontanes and democrats are turbulent beyond all anticipation.
We shall have to proceed with the greatest caution about the
delegate elections.”

“I shall be there without fail, sir! Now that I have made up my
mind to devote my experience to the interests of city and state, I
cheerfully enter into every measure which it lies in my power to
further.”

“As you are out for the first time as candidate for the assembly,”
said Erdblatt, “a declaration of your political creed addressed to
a meeting of the constituents would not fail of a good effect.”

“Agreed, sir! I shall take pleasure in making known my views in a
public speech.”

Erdblatt rose, and Mr. Hans Shund was condescending enough to reach
the mighty chieftain his hand as the latter took his leave.


CHAPTER V.

ELECTIONEERING.

The four millions of the balcony are at present standing before
two suits of male apparel of the kind worn by the working class,
contemplating them with an interest one would scarcely expect from
millionaires in materials of so ordinary a quality. Spread out
on the elegant and costly table cover are two blouses of striped
gray at fifteen kreutzers a yard. There are, besides, two pairs
of trowsers of a texture well adapted to the temperature of the
month of July. There are also two neckties, sold at fairs for six
kreutzers apiece. And, lastly, two cheap caps with long broad
peaks. These suits were intended to serve as disguises for Seraphin
and Carl on this evening, for the banker did not consider it
becoming gentlemen to visit electioneering meetings, dressed in a
costume in which they might be recognized. As Greifmann’s face was
familiar to every street-boy, he had provided himself with a false
beard of sandy hue to complete his _incognito_. For Seraphin this
last adjunct was unnecessary, for he was a stranger, and he was
thus left free to exhibit his innocent countenance unmasked for the
gratification of curious starers.

“This will be a pleasant change from the monotony of a banking
house existence,” said the banker gleefully. “I enjoy this
masquerade: it enables me to mingle without constraint among the
unconstrained. You are going to see marvellous things to-night,
friend Seraphin. If your organs of hearing are not very sound, I
advise you to provide yourself with some cotton, so that the drums
of your ears may not be endangered from the noise of the election
skirmish.”

“Your caution is far from inspiring confidence,” said Louise with
some humor. “I charge it upon your soul that you bring back Mr.
Gerlach safe and sound, for I too am responsible for our guest.”

“And I, it seems, am less near to you than the guest, for you feel
no anxiety about me,” said the brother archly.

“Eight o’clock--it is our time.”

He pulled the bell. A servant carried off the suits to the
gentlemen’s rooms.

“May I beseech the men in blouses for the honor of a visit before
they go?”

“You shall have an opportunity to admire us,” said Carl. The
transformation of the young men was more rapidly effected than
the self-satisfied mustering of Louise before the large mirror
which reflected her elegant form entire. She laughingly welcomed
her brother in his sandy beard, and fixed a look of surprise upon
Seraphin, whose innocent person appeared to great advantage in the
simple costume.

“Impossible to recognize you,” decided the young lady. “You,
brother Redbeard, look for all the world like a cattle dealer.”

“The gracious lady has hit it exactly,” said the banker with an
assumed voice. “I am a horse jockey, bent on euchreing this young
gentleman out of a splendid pair of horses.”

“Friend Seraphin is most lovely,” said she in an undertone. “How
well the country costume becomes him!” And her sparkling eyes
darted expressive glances at the subject of her compliments.

For the first time she had called him friend, and the word friend
made him more happy than titles and honors that a prince might
have bestowed. He felt his soul kindle at the sight of the lovely
being whose delicate and bewitching coquetry the inexperienced
youth failed to detect, but the influence of which he was surely
undergoing. His cheeks glowed still more highly, and he became
uneasy and embarrassed.

“Your indulgent criticism is encouraging, Miss Louise,” replied he.

“I have merely told the truth,” replied she.

“But our hands--what are we to do with our hands?” interposed Carl.
“Soft white hands like these do not belong to drovers. First of
all, away with diamonds and rubies. Gold rings and precious stones
are not in keeping with blouses. Nor will it do, in hot weather
like this, to bring gloves to our aid--that’s too bad! What _are_
we to do?”

“Nobody will notice our hands,” thought Seraphin.

“My good fellow, you do not understand the situation. We are on
the eve of the election. Everybody is out electioneering. Whoever
to-day visits a public place must expect to be hailed by a thousand
eyes, stared at, criticised, estimated, appraised, and weighed. The
deuce take these hands! Good advice would really be worth something
in this instance.”

“To a powerful imagination like your own,” added Louise playfully.
She disappeared for a moment and then returned with a washbowl.
Pouring the contents of her inkstand into the water, she laughingly
pointed them to the dark mass.

“Dip your precious hands in here, and you will make them correspond
with your blouses in color and appearance.”

“How ingenious she is!” cried Carl, following her direction.

“Most assuredly nothing comes up to the ingenuity of women. We
are beautifully tattooed, our hands are horrible! We must give
the stuff time to dry. Had I only thought of it sooner, Louise,
you should have accompanied us disguised as a drover’s daughter,
and have drunk a bumper of wine with us. The adventure might have
proved useful to you, and served as an addition to the sum of your
experiences in life.”

“I will content myself with looking on from a distance,” answered
she gaily. “The extraordinary progressionist movement that is
going on to-day might make it a difficult task even for a drover’s
daughter to keep her footing.”

The two millionaires sallied forth, Carl making tremendous strides.
Seraphin followed mechanically, the potent charm of her parting
glances hovering around him.

“We shall first steer for the sign of the ‘Green Hat,’” said
Greifmann. “There you will hear a full orchestra of progressionist
music, especially trumpets and drums, playing flourishes on Hans
Shund. ‘The Green Hat’ is the largest beer cellar in the town, and
the proprietor ranks among the leaders next after housebuilder
Sand. All the representatives of the city _régime_ gather to-day
at the establishment of Mr. Belladonna--that’s the name of the
gentleman of the ‘Green Hat.’ Besides the leaders, there will
be upward of a thousand citizens, big and small, to hold a
preliminary celebration of election day. There will also be ‘wild
men’ on hand,” proceeded Carl, explaining. “These are citizens
who in a manner float about like atoms in the bright atmosphere
of the times without being incorporated in any brilliant body of
progress. The main object of the leaders this evening is to secure
these so-called ‘wild men’ in favor of their ticket for the city
council. Glib-tongued agents will be employed to spread their
nets to catch the floating atoms--to tame these savages by means
of smart witticisms. When, at length, a prize is captured and
the tide of favorable votes runs high, it is towed into the safe
haven of agreement with the majority. Resistance would turn out
a serious matter for a mechanic, trader, shopkeeper, or any man
whose position condemns him to obtain his livelihood from others.
Opposition to progress dooms every man that is in a dependent
condition to certain ruin. For these reasons I have no misgivings
about being able to convince you that elections are a folly
wherever the banner of progress waves triumphant.”

“The conviction with which you threaten me would be anything
but gratifying, for I abhor every form of terrorism,” rejoined
Seraphin.

“Very well, my good fellow! But we must accustom ourselves to
take things as they are and not as they ought to be. Therefore,
my youthful Telemachus, you are under everlasting obligations to
me, your experienced Mentor, for procuring you an opportunity of
becoming acquainted with the world, and constraining you to think
less well of men than your generous heart would incline you to do.”

They had reached the outskirts of the city. A distant roaring,
resembling the sound of shallow waters falling, struck upon the
ears of the maskers. The noise grew more distinct as they advanced,
and finally swelled into the brawling and hum of many voices.
Passing through a wide gate-way, the millionaires entered a square
ornamented with maple-trees. Under the trees, stretching away into
the distance, were long rows of tables lit up by gaslights, and
densely crowded with men drinking beer and talking noisily. The
middle of the square was occupied by a rotunda elevated on columns,
with a zinc roof, and bestuck in the barbarous taste of the age
with a profusion of tin figures and plaster-of-paris ornaments.
Beneath the rotunda, around a circular table, sat the leaders and
chieftains of progress, conspicuous to all, and with a flood of
light from numerous large gas-burners streaming upon them. Between
Sand and Schwefel was throned Hans Shund, extravagantly dressed,
and proving by his manner that he was quite at his ease. Nothing in
his deportment indicated that he had so suddenly risen from general
contempt to universal homage. Mr. Shund frequently monopolized the
conversation, and, when this was the case, the company listened to
his sententious words with breathless attention and many marks of
approbation.

Mentor Greifmann conducted his ward to a retired corner, into
which the rays of light, intercepted by low branches, penetrated
but faintly, and from which a good view of the whole scene could be
enjoyed.

“Do you observe Hans there under the baldachin surrounded by his
vassals?” rouned Carl into his companion’s ear. “Even you will be
made to feel that progress can lay claim to a touching spirit of
magnanimity and forgiveness. It is disposed to raise the degraded
from the dust. The man who only yesterday was engaged in shoving a
car, sweeping streets, or even worse, to-day may preside over the
great council, provided only he has the luck to secure the good
graces of the princes of progress. Hans Shund, thief, usurer, and
nightwalker, is a most striking illustration of my assertion.”

“What particularly disgusts and incenses me,” replied the double
millionaire gravely, “is that, under the _régime_ of progress, they
who are degraded, immoral, and criminal, may rise to power without
any reformation of conduct and principles.”

“What you say is so much philosophy, my dear fellow, and philosophy
is an antique, obsolete kind of thing that has no weight in
times when continents are being cut asunder and threads of iron
laid around the globe. Moreover, such has ever been the state of
things. In the dark ages, also, criminals attained to power. Just
think of those bloody monarchs who trifled with human heads, and
whose ministers, for the sake of a patch of territory, stirred up
horrible wars. Compared with such monsters, Hans Shund is spotless
innocence.”

“Quite right, sir,” rejoined the landholder, with a smile. “Those
bloody kings and their satanic ministers were monsters--but
only--and I beg you to mark this well--only when judged by
principles which modern progress sneers at as stupid morality and
senseless dogma. I even find that those princely monsters and
their conscienceless ministers shared the species of enlightenment
that prides itself on repudiating all positive religion and moral
obligations.”

“Thunder and lightning, Seraphin! were not you sitting bodily
before me, I should believe I was actually listening to a Jesuit.
But be quiet! It will not do to attract notice. Ah! splendid.
There you see some of the ‘wild men,’” continued he, pointing to
a table opposite. “The fellow with the bald head and fox’s face
is an agent, a salaried bellwether, a polished electioneer. He
has the ‘wild men’ already half-tamed. Watch how cleverly he will
decoy them into the progressionist camp. Let us listen to what he
has to say; it will amuse you, and add to your knowledge of the
developments of progress.”

“We want men for the city council,” spoke he of the bald head,
“that are accurately and thoroughly informed upon the condition
and circumstances of the city. Of what use would blockheads be
but to fuss and grope about blindly? What need have we of fellows
whose stupidity would compromise the public welfare? The men we
want in our city council must understand what measures the social,
commercial, and industrial interests of a city of thirty thousand
inhabitants require in order that the greatest good of the largest
portion of the community may be secured. Nor is this enough,”
proceeded he with increasing enthusiasm. “Besides knowledge,
experience, and judgment, they must also be gifted with the
necessary amount of energy to carry out whatever orders the council
has thought fit to pass. They must be resolute enough to break down
every obstacle that stands in the way of the public good. Now, who
are the men to render these services? None but independent men
who by their position need have no regard to others placed above
them--free-spirited and sensible men, who have a heart for the
people. Now, gentlemen, have you any objections to urge against my
views?”

“None, Mr. Spitzkopf! Your views are perfectly sound,” lauded a
semi-barbarian. “We have read exactly what you have been telling us
in the evening paper.”

“Of course, of course!” cried Mr. Spitzkopf. “My views are so
evidently correct that a thinking man cannot help stumbling upon
them. None but the slaves of priests, the wily brood of Jesuits,
refuse to accept these views,” thundered the orator with the bald
head. “And why do they refuse to accept them? Because they are
hostile to enlightenment, opposed to the common good, opposed to
the prosperity of mankind, in a word, because they are the bitter
enemies of progress. But take my word for it, gentlemen, our city
contains but a small number of these creatures of darkness, and
those few are spotted,” emphasized he threateningly. “Therefore,
gentlemen,” proceeded he insinuatingly, “I am convinced, and
every man of intelligence shares my conviction, that Mr. Shund
is eminently fitted for the city council--eminently! He would
be a splendid acquisition in behalf of the public interests! He
understands our local concerns thoroughly, possesses the experience
of many years, is conversant with business, knows what industrial
pursuits and social life require, and, what is better still, he
maintains an independent standing to which he unites a rare degree
of activity. Were it possible to prevail on Mr. Shund to take
upon himself the cares of the mayoralty, the deficit of the city
treasury would soon be wiped out. We would all have reason to
consider ourselves fortunate in seeing the interests of our city
confided to such a man.”

The “wild men” looked perplexed.

“Right enough, Mr. Spitzkopf,” explained a timid coppersmith.
“Shund is a clever, well-informed man. Nobody denies this. But do
you know that it is a question whether, besides his clever head, he
also possesses a conscience in behalf of the commonwealth?”

“The most enlarged sort of a conscience, gentlemen--the warmest
kind of a heart!” exclaimed the bald man in a convincing
tone. “Don’t listen to stories that circulate concerning
Shund. There is not a word of truth in them. They are sheer
misconstructions--inventions of the priests and of their helots.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Spitzkopf, they are not all inventions,”
opposed the coppersmith. “In the street where I live, Shund keeps
up a certain connection that would not be proper for any decent
person, not to say for a married man.”

“And does that scandalize you?” exclaimed the bald-headed agent
merrily. “Mr. Shund is a jovial fellow, he enjoys life, and
is rich. Mr. Shund will not permit religious rigorism to put
restraints upon his enjoyments. His liberal and independent spirit
scorns to lead a miserable existence under the rod of priestly
bigotry. And, mark ye, gentlemen, this is just what recommends him
to all who are not priest-ridden or leagued with the hirelings of
Rome,” concluded the electioneer, casting a sharp look upon the
coppersmith.

“But I am a Lutheran, Mr. Spitzkopf,” protested the coppersmith.

“There are hypocrites among the Lutherans who are even worse
than the Romish Jesuits,” retorted the man with the bald head.
“Consider, gentlemen, that the leading men of our city have, in
consideration of his abilities, concluded to place Mr. Shund in the
position which he ought to occupy. Are you going, on to-morrow,
to vote against the decision of the leading men? Are you actually
going to make yourselves guilty of such an absurdity? You may, of
course, if you wish, for every citizen is free to do as he pleases.
But the men of influence are also at liberty to do as they please.
I will explain my meaning more fully. You, gentlemen, are, all of
you, mechanics--shoemakers, tailors, blacksmiths, carpenters, etc.
From whom do you get your living? Do you get it from the handful
of hypocrites and men of darkness? No; you get your living from
the liberals, for they are the moneyed men, the men of power and
authority. It is they who scatter money among the people. You
obtain employment, you get bread and meat, from the liberals. And
now to whom, do you think, will the liberals give employment? They
will give it to such as hold their views, and not--mark my word--to
such as are opposed to them. The man, therefore, that is prepared
recklessly to ruin his business has only to vote against Mr. Shund.”

“That will do the business, that will fetch them,” said Greifmann.
“Just look how dumfounded the poor savages appear!”

“It is brutal terrorism!” protested Seraphin indignantly.

“But don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Spitzkopf! I am neither a
hypocritical devotee nor a Jesuit!” exclaimed the coppersmith
deprecatingly. “If Shund is good enough for them,” pointing to the
leaders under the rotunda, “he is good enough for me.”

“For me, too!” exclaimed a tailor.

“There isn’t a worthier man than Shund,” declared a shopkeeper.

“And not a cleverer,” said a carpenter.

“And none more demoralized,” lauded a joiner, unconscious of the
import of his encomium.

“That’s so, and therefore I am satisfied with him,” assured a
shoemaker.

“So am I--so am I,” chorussed the others eagerly.

“That is sensible, gentlemen,” approved the bald man. “Just keep
in harmony with liberalism and progress, and you will never be the
worse for it, gentlemen. Above all, beware of reaction--do not fall
back into the immoral morasses of the middle ages. Let us guard the
light and liberty of our beautiful age. Vote for these men,” and
he produced a package of printed tickets, “and you will enjoy the
delightful consciousness of having disposed of your vote in the
interests of the common good.”

Spitzkopf distributed the tickets on which were the names of
the councilmen elect. At the head of the list appeared in large
characters the name of Mr. Hans Shund.

“The curtain falls, the farce is ended,” said Greifmann. “What you
have here heard and seen has been repeated at every table where
‘wild men’ chanced to make their appearance. Everywhere the same
arguments, the same grounds of conviction.”

Seraphin had become quite grave, and cast his eyes to the ground in
silence.

“By Jove, the rogue is going to try his hand on us!” said Carl,
nudging the thoughtful young man. “The bald-headed fellow has
spied us, and is getting ready to bag a couple of what he takes to
be ‘wild men.’ Come, let us be off.”

They left the beer cellar and took the direction of the city.

“Now let us descend a little lower, to what I might call the
amphibia of society,” said Greifmann. “We are going to visit a
place where masons, sawyers, cobblers, laborers, and other small
fry are in the habit of slaking their thirst. You will there
find going on the same sort of electioneering, or, as you call
it, the same sort of terrorism, only in a rougher style. There
beer-jugs occasionally go flying about, and bloody heads and
rough-and-tumble, fights may be witnessed.”

“I have no stomach for fisticuffs and whizzing beer-mugs,” said
Gerlach.

“Never mind, come along. I have undertaken to initiate you into the
mysteries of elections, and you are to get a correct idea of the
life action of a cultivated state.”

They entered an obscure alley where a fetid, sultry atmosphere
assailed them. Greifmann stopped before a lofty house, and pointed
to a transparency on which a brimming beer-tankard was represented.
A wild tumult was audible through the windows, through which the
cry of “Shund!” rose at times like the swell of a great wave from
the midst of corrupted waters. As they were passing the doorway
a dense fog of tobacco smoke mingled with divers filthy odors
assailed their nostrils. Seraphin, who was accustomed to inhaling
the pure atmosphere of the country, showed an inclination to
retreat, and had already half-way faced about when his companion
seized and held him. “Courage, my friend! wade into the slough
boldly,” cried he into the struggling youth’s ear. “Hereafter,
when you will be riding through woodland and meadows, the
recollection of this subterranean den will enable you to appreciate
the pure atmosphere of the country twice as well. Look at those
sodden faces and swollen heads. Those fellows are literally
wallowing and seething in beer, and they feel as comfortable as
ten thousand cannibals. It is really a joy to be among men who are
natural.”

The millionaires, having with no little difficulty succeeded in
finding seats, were accosted by a female waiter.

“Do the gentlemen wish to have election beer?”

“No,” replied Gerlach.

His abrupt tone in declining excited the surprise of the fellows
who sat next to them. Several of them stared at the landholder.

“So you don’t want any election beer?” cried a fellow who was
pretty well fired.

“Why not? May be it isn’t good enough for you?”

“Oh, yes! oh, yes!” replied the banker hastily. “You see, Mr.
Shund”--

“That’s good! You call me Shund,” interrupted the fellow with
a coarse laugh. “My name isn’t Shund--my name is Koenig--yes,
Koenig--with all due respect to you.”

“Well, Mr. Koenig--you see, Mr. Koenig, we decline drinking
election beer because we are not entitled to it--we do not belong
to this place.”

“Ah, yes--well, that’s honest!” lauded Koenig. “Being that you are
a couple of honest fellows, you must partake of some of the good
things of our feast. I say, Kate,” cried he to the female waiter,
“bring these gentlemen some of the election sausages.”

Greifmann, perceiving that Seraphin was about putting in a
protest, nudged him.

“What feast are you celebrating to-day?” inquired the banker.

“That I will explain to you. We are to have an election here
to-morrow; these men on the ticket, you see, are to be elected.”
And he drew forth one of Spitzkopf’s tickets. “Every one of us has
received a ticket like this, and we are all going to vote according
to the ticket--of course, you know, we don’t do it for nothing.
To-day and to-morrow, what we eat and drink is free of charge. And
if Satan’s own grandmother were on the ticket, I would vote for
her.”

“The first one on the list is Mr. Hans Shund. What sort of a man is
he?” asked Seraphin. “No doubt he is the most honorable and most
respectable man in the place!”

“Ha! ha! that’s funny! The most honorable man in the place!
Really you make me laugh. Never mind, however, I don’t mean
to be impolite. You are a stranger hereabout, and cannot, of
course, be expected to know anything of it. Shund, you see, was
formerly--that, is a couple of days ago--Shund was a man of whom
nobody knew any good. For my part, I wouldn’t just like to be
sticking in Shund’s hide. Well, that’s the way things are: you know
it won’t do to babble it all just as it is. But you understand me.
To make a long story short, since day before yesterday Shund is the
honestest man in the world. Our men of money have made him that,
you know,” giving a sly wink. “What the men of money do, is well
done, of course, for the proverb says, ‘Whose bread I eat, his song
I sing.’”

“Shut your mouth, Koenig! What stuff is that you are talking
there?” said another fellow roughly. “Hans Shund is a
free-spirited, clever, first-class, distinguished man. Taken
altogether, he is a liberal man. For this reason he will be elected
councilman to-morrow, then mayor of the city, and finally member of
the assembly.”

“That’s so, that’s so, my partner is right,” confirmed Koenig.
“But listen, Flachsen, you will agree that formerly--you know,
formerly--he was an arrant scoundrel.”

“Why was he? Why?” inquired Flachsen.

“Why? Ha, ha! I say, Flachsen, go to Shund’s wife, she can tell you
best. Go to those whom he has reduced to beggary, for instance, to
Holt over there. They all can tell you what Shund is, or rather
what he has been. But don’t get mad, brother Flachsen! Spite of all
that, I shall vote for Shund. That’s settled.” And he poured the
contents of his beer-pot down his throat.

“As you gentlemen are strangers, I will undertake to explain this
business for you,” said Flachsen, who evidently was an agent for
the lower classes, and who did his best to put on an appearance of
learning by affecting high-sounding words of foreign origin.

“Shund is quite a rational man, learned and full of intelligence.
But the priests have calumniated him horribly because he will not
howl with them. For this reason we intend to elect him, not for
the sake of the free beer. When Shund will have been elected, a
system of economy will be inaugurated, taxes will be removed, and
the encyclical letter with which the Pope has tried to stultify the
people, together with the syllabus, will be sent to the dogs. And
in the legislative assembly the liberal-minded Shund will manage to
have the priests excluded from the schools, and we will have none
but secular schools. In short, the dismal rule of the priesthood
that would like to keep the people in leading-strings will be put
an end to, and liberal views will control our affairs. As for
Shund’s doings outside of legitimate wedlock, that is one of the
boons of liberty--it is a right of humanity; and when Koenig lets
loose against Shund’s money speculations, he is only talking so
much bigoted nonsense.”

Flachsen’s apologetic discourse was interrupted by a row that took
place at the next table. There sat a victim of Shund’s usury, the
land-cultivator Holt. He drank no beer, but wine, to dispel gloomy
thoughts and the temptations of desperation. It had cost him no
ordinary struggle to listen quietly to eulogies passed on Shund.
He had maintained silence, and had at times smiled a very peculiar
smile. His bruised heart must have suffered a fearful contraction
as he heard men sounding the praises of a wretch whom he knew to be
wicked and devoid of conscience. For a long time he succeeded in
restraining himself. But the wine he had drunk at last fanned his
smouldering passion into a hot flame of rage, and, clenching his
fist, he struck the table violently.

“The fellow whom you extol is a scoundrel!” cried he.

“Who is a scoundrel?” roared several voices.

“Your man, your councilman, your mayor, is a scoundrel! Shund is a
scoundrel!” cried the ruined countryman passionately.

“And you, Holt, are a fool!”

“You are drunk, Holt!”

“Holt is an ass,” maintained Flachsen. “He cannot read, otherwise
he would have seen in the _Evening Gazette_ that Shund is a man
of honor, a friend of the people, a progressive man, a liberal
man, a brilliant genius, a despiser of religion, a death-dealer to
superstition, a--a--I don’t remember what all besides. Had you read
all that in the evening paper, you fool, you wouldn’t presume to
open your foul mouth against a man of honor like Hans Shund. Yes,
stare; if you had read the evening paper, you would have seen the
enumeration of the great qualities and deeds of Hans Shund in black
and white.”

“The evening paper, indeed!” cried Holt contemptuously. “Does the
evening paper also mention how Shund brought about the ruin of the
father of a family of eight children?”

“What’s that you say, you dog?” yelled a furious fellow. “That’s a
lie against Shund!”

“Easy, Graeulich, easy,” replied Holt to the last speaker, who was
about to set upon him. “It is not a lie, for I am the man whom
Shund has strangled with his usurer’s clutches. He has reduced me
to beggary--me and my wife and my children.”

Graeulich lowered his fists, for Holt spoke so convincingly,
and the anguish in his face appealed so touchingly, that the
man’s fury was in an instant changed to sympathy. Holt had stood
up. He related at length the wily and unscrupulous proceedings
through which he had been brought to ruin. The company listened
to his story, many nodded in token of sympathy, for everybody was
acquainted with the ways of the hero of the day.

“That’s the way Shund has made a beggar of me,” concluded Holt.
“And I am not the only one, you know it well. If, then, I call
Shund a usurer, a scoundrel, a villain, you cannot help agreeing
with me.”

Flachsen noticed with alarm that the feeling of the company was
becoming hostile to his cause. He approached the table, where he
was met by perplexed looks from his aids.

“Don’t you perceive,” cried he, “that Holt is a hireling of the
priests? Will you permit yourselves to be imposed upon by this
salaried slave? Hear me, you scapegrace, you rascal, you ass,
listen to what I have to tell you! Hans Shund is the lion of the
day--the greatest man of this century! Hans Shund is greater than
Bismarck, sharper than Napoleon. Out of nothing God made the
universe: from nothing Hans Shund has got to be a rich man. Shund
has a mouthpiece that moves like a mill-wheel on which entire
streams fall. In the assembly Shund will talk down all opposition.
He will talk even better than that fellow Voelk, over in Bavaria,
who is merely a lawyer, but talks upon everything, even things he
knows nothing about. And do you, lousy beggar, presume to malign a
man of this kind? If you open that filthy mouth of yours once more,
I will stop it for you with paving-stones.”

“Hold, Flachsen, hold! _I_ am not the man that is paid; you are the
one that is paid,” retorted the countryman indignantly. “My mouth
has not been honey-fed like yours. Nor do I drink your election
beer or eat your election sausages. But with my last breath I will
maintain that Shund is a scoundrel, a usurer, a villain.”

“Out with the fellow!” cried Flachsen. “He has insulted us all, for
we have all been drinking election beer. Out with the helot of the
priests!”

The progressionist mob fell upon the unhappy man, throttled him,
beat him, and drove him into the street.

“Let us leave this den of cutthroats,” said Gerlach, rising.

Outside they found Holt leaning against a wall, wiping the blood
from his face. Seraphin approached him. “Are you badly hurt, my
good man?” asked he kindly. The wounded man, looking up, saw a
noble countenance before him, and, whilst he continued to gaze hard
at Seraphin’s fine features, tears began to roll from his eyes.

“O God! O God!” sighed he, and then relapsed into silence. But in
the tone of his words could be noticed the terrible agony he was
suffering.

“Is the wound deep--is it dangerous?” asked the young man.

“No, sir, no! The wound on my forehead is nothing--signifies
nothing; but in here,” pointing to his breast--“in here are care,
anxiety, despair. I am thankful, sir, for your sympathy; it is
soothing. But you may go your way; the blows signify nothing.”

                         TO BE CONTINUED.




THE SPANIARDS AT HOME.


There is something very pleasant in waking some morning in a
strange country, with strange faces around us, a strange language
ringing in our ears, strange costumes, strange institutions,
strange everything--something, we fancy, half akin to what Byron
felt when he woke one morning to find himself famous. It is
pleasant to step from New York to Cadiz, from the heart of the New
World into an historic city, that was as historic before our nation
was born as it is to-day; that has not cared to march overmuch with
the age, yet has never drifted backward, and still stands there, as
it did long ago, the “white-walled Cadiz,” rising sheer out of the
waters, with its long, straight streets and tall houses sleeping by
the golden bay.

It is pleasant, we say, to find ourselves here breathing awhile
from the heat of the strife that beats over there for ever and
knows no rest; to open our eyes upon “something new and strange”;
to miss for once the eternal stages and the rumble and the jingle
of the cars, and the multiplicity of signs, and names, and glaring
advertisements, crowding in upon us at all times and in all places.

It is not unpleasant even to miss our dames for awhile with their
exaggeration of wealth and extravagance, resting our eyes instead
on the modest black robes, nunlike in simplicity, crowned by the
bewitching mantilla of the beauties whom Byron sang.

As you look into the street, the feeling grows upon you that you
are gazing on a moving panorama pencilled by the old Spanish
painters. There pass the blooming señorita, fresh as a rosebud,
side by side with the duenna, yellow and puckered: how they
resemble _la Joven_ and _la Vieja_ of Goya. That little beggar-boy,
with those beautiful black eyes and a carnation in the olive cheek,
sprawling in his picturesque rags on the pavement, is surely a
brother to that of Murillo, so studiously engaged in performing an
operation on his person more necessary than elegant. Here saunters
a lazy soldier smoking his cigarette; there an old _padre_ totters
with bended head hidden under the large hat, snuff-box in hand, and
an old calf-skin volume under his arm; he has just stepped out of
his gilded frame. The trappings of the mules, the brown faces and
merry eye of the muleteer, were known to us long ago on canvas. Nor
are there wanting those pale ascetic countenances where religion,
and intellect, and inspiration are so marvellously blended: you
see them in the pulpit and on the altar, in the cloister and the
convent walls. In our last article,[201] we ventured to assert that
the Spaniards were the purest race in Europe; and not the meanest
proof of the truth of this assertion might be furnished by their
paintings. Those who pride themselves on the blue blood that runs
in their veins have their galleries filled with portraits of the
family, where you may trace the same lineaments handed down from
sire to son for generations, which no change of time or costume can
efface. The Spanish painters have furnished us with the portraits
of their nation, and a beggar to-day might point with pride to his
progenitor on the canvas of Murillo.

How different is the life here from ours!

There are only two meals, unless you choose to take what the
Spaniards call “lonch.” On rising, the boy brings you your bath,
and, if you care for it, as you are sure to do, a cup of coffee.
If you have business to transact, you go to your office: if not,
you take a book or a newspaper, and saunter into the garden, while
the morning is fresh and a thousand delicious odors are around you.
At half-past ten or eleven the household meet at breakfast, when
you pay your respects to the “señorita,” the dear little lady, as
the servants entitle your hostess, and inquire if she has passed
the night well. The breakfast is similar to the French _dejeuner_:
a variety of courses, with perhaps some delicious fruits, and a
cup of _cafe con leche_ at the end. While we are breakfasting, a
friend or relative of the family may enter, and, as he sits and
jokes, he produces his cigarette, ignites and smokes away as only
a Spaniard can, with an ease and a grace and a thorough enjoyment
that are enviable. This may startle our lady readers, but remember
we are in Spain; the dining-room is spacious and lofty, the windows
open, and the pure clear air flower-scented, or, if in season,
loaded with the breath of the orange blossom, gains rather than
loses by the transient odor so faintly discerned of the delicious
Havana leaf. The breakfast ended, your host hands a cigar around
to each of the gentlemen: the ladies remain to chat them out, and
then everybody goes about his business. And here let us answer
once for all a ridiculous question that has often been put to us.
Ladies when speaking of their Spanish sisters are apt to say: “Oh!
yes, I know they are very charming and graceful, and the mantilla
is a love of a costume, and so becoming to a dark complexion; but
tell me, now, is it not true that--they smoke?” The astonishment
of a Spanish gentleman on being asked by every foreigner he meets
if his wife and daughters--for to such the question really reduces
itself--indulge in “the weed,” is just as great as our own would be
on a similar query being put to us regarding our ladies.

We meet again at dinner at six or seven o’clock. Your host may
possess a French cook--we beg his pardon--artiste; if not, you will
have a Spanish dinner unflavored, since we must confess it, by
the too fragrant garlic, which is confined to the mountaineers up
in the Basque Provinces. You have some dishes cooked in oil, and
it is so pure and good that you very soon get to like it. There is
genuine “Vino de Jerez” on the table, undoctored for the market,
clear as amber, ambrosial as nectar, delicious in bouquet and
flavor. You will be astonished at the Spaniards taking so little
of it; many never touch it at all. They prefer claret or pure
water, the climate not admitting of stronger drinks. “_Borracho_,”
drunkard, in Spain, as in most southern countries of Europe, is
the vilest title you can give a man. There are splendid olives and
rare fruits, preserved, or as they dropped from the hand of nature.
More friends may call during dinner, ladies, perhaps, this time,
and your hostess never disturbs herself with the thought that they
have come to see what is on the table. “Señor don Rafael, beso a
Usted la mano,” says the lady to her visitor--“I kiss my hand to
you.” “Beso a Usted los pies, señorita,” responds the cavalier with
a bow--“I kiss your feet, my dear lady.” Dinner over, cigars are
again produced, and we all adjourn to the _patio_, it being too
warm for music or cards. The elders assemble and discuss the funds,
or times, or the state of the country. Politics are very rife at
present, and the fire and animation of the speakers, the variation
of their tones, the free and striking gesture--for with a Spaniard
the whole body speaks--are a pleasing novelty to us, accustomed
to a tamer mode of conversation. The ladies nestle together, and
are deep in the mysteries best known to themselves. The younger
gentlemen gradually detach themselves from their elders, and leave
the country to go to ruin, while they indulge in less momentous
but far more interesting topics with the ladies, and give vent to
their Andalusian wit.

The _patio_ is a feature in a Spanish house. It is a species of
court, large or small, according to the dimensions of the mansion,
paved with flags or marble, with perhaps a fountain playing in
the middle and cooling the atmosphere; in the marble basin silver
and gold fish leap, and a few rare plants freshen around it. High
overhead is a roof of glass, where a canvas screen keeps out
the sun when his rays are too powerful. The house, generally of
two stories in the south, but very lofty, is built around this
quadrangle, the upper floor reaching partly over it, supported
by pillars, sometimes richly wrought and adorned. Paintings
or engravings relieve the bare white walls. On the one side a
doorway, with a little convent grating to peer from, completely
shuts out the view of the street; on the other, an iron gate opens
to the garden, where you see the yellowing oranges clustering
bright in their dark-leaved recesses, and brilliant flowers and
odor-bearing shrubs gladden the eye and soothe the senses. From
the _patio_ we proceed to the _Alameda_ or _paseo_--park or
promenade as we should call them. Here all the world assembles,
seated in groups, sauntering up and down in little bands, small
knots standing a little aloof to discuss some grave topic--nobody
alone. Laughter resounds on all sides--laughter and the Castilian
tongue everywhere: ringing out in music from the mouths of the
dames, swelling and falling and adapting itself to every changing
emotion in the very emotional breasts of those men, rippling over
and enchanting our ears in the tiny mouths of these children. To
a stranger the scene is bewitching; the softness of the air and
the perfume that lingers on it; the animation in the countenances
and gestures of all; the grace of the ladies’ costume, the
ever-fluttering fan which only a Spanish woman knows how to
use; the sallies of wit in tones that mock the best comedian; a
free-heartedness and union among all, springing undoubtedly from
the religion which makes all men brethren. At the very entrance
of the _Alameda_ there is probably a tiny chapel of the _Virgen
Santissima_, with ever-burning light, where men and women pause to
drop a prayer as they go to and from their diversion. Imagine such
a thing in Central Park!

We are in Andalusia, and of all the lovely spots in this lovely
land we think it bears off the palm. Columbus, when the glories
of the Antilles burst upon him after that dreary and momentous
voyage, compared the climate more than once to an April day in
Andalusia. Everything it produces is of the best--corn, wine,
fruits, cattle. The bread is the most delicious and whitest we have
ever tasted or seen. The nights are most lovely. The sky deep and
clear; all the stars of heaven seem to cluster above us, and the
moon shines with a startling brilliancy on the white houses of the
sleeping town, on the brown cathedral that towers above all, on the
dark thick clustering leaves of the orange-trees, on the silent
streets, narrow and straggling, showing every stone and pebble on
the one side with minute distinctness, while the other is buried
in mysterious shadow. Not a sound is heard save the cry of the
_sereno_ calling out the hour as he passes his lonely rounds.

The Andaluz is the embodiment of his climate. A child of the sun,
of the clear free air, with wealth in his fields and the great
ocean smiling all around his coast, where the ships of all nations
come to lade and unlade, he yearns for the freedom which strangers
hold so carelessly, and is ready to fight and to die for it. So
Andalusia is the hotbed of revolution. As the Biscayan is famed
for his unyielding nature, the Gallego for his stupidity, so is
the Andaluz for his wit. He speaks rapidly and with many gestures,
clipping his words--a grave sin against the sonorous Castilian.
He is handsome, quick, fiery, with a keen eye for ridicule, but a
good nature that can never resist a joke even if it be at his own
expense. People say that he derives his comely form and graceful
extremities from the Moors, but he would not thank you to tell
him so. The Andaluza is worthy of such a partner, if she does not
surpass him. If he is a Republican, she is a Carlina, for Don
Carlos with her means religion, and religion means everything.
Byron has painted her, and very faithfully. His remarks on the
state of the country might be written to-day. He moralizes over the
barbarity of the bull-fights, too. They are dying out now in exact
proportion as man-fights are gaining ground with us. Of the two, we
must say we infinitely prefer the bull-fight. It is amusing to hear
Englishmen and Americans virtuously indignant on the immorality
and barbarism of such an exhibition, as they bury themselves next
moment in a three-column description of the latest feat of the
_fancy_, or the glorious contest for hours between two miserable
dogs or wretched cocks. We are lovers of fair play, manliness,
and good-fellowship. We do things in an honest, straightforward
fashion, and the hand that shakes another’s preparatory to
the combat quite takes the sting from the blow that maims his
fellow-man for life or beats that life out of him. So we look on
and applaud and make our bets on the contest, and curse the wretch
who has lost his own miserable life and our money.

But we are straying into civilization; let us go back to barbarism
and Andalusia. The vineyards are decidedly unpicturesque; the vines
low, the soil yellow. But the life at vintage season is

                      “Full of the warm South,
    Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth.”

The agricultural laborers are very well paid in Spain, getting
as much as one dollar a day or even more. The work is terrible;
out the whole day under a burning sun, delving and cutting and
trenching a dusty soil, with a pick instead of a spade to penetrate
below the upper stratum of dust. They are tall wiry fellows, most
of them from the mountains, brown as the soil, and sinewy, with
dark eyes and crisp, close-cut black hair. A quarter of an hour
spent in merely looking on overpowers us; but they seem made for
the sun. The food that supports them under such toil is composed
chiefly of a single dish called _gazpacho_, and _gazpacho_ merits
special mention. Fill a large bowl with water and vinegar, we
do not know the exact proportions, but there is a great deal of
vinegar, and, so far as we recollect, oil is added. A quantity of
bread is thrown in to soak, and some herbs, with, perhaps, a slight
flavor of garlic; and there you have _gazpacho_, the staple food of
these men in the hot months. You eat a small piece of some light
meat and a salad before it; a piece of toast fried in oil is not
bad; drink a glass of water or two after; light the never-failing
cigarette, and you are cool and refreshed. It may not seem a very
delicate diet to us; but when the _Levante_, the hot desert wind
laden with the finest of the burning sands, comes choking the
atmosphere, and penetrating every crevice with a furnace heat all
the day and all the night, burning the blood in the veins till it
reaches fever-heat, and leaving you weak and utterly prostrate,
“with just strength enough to thank God that breathing is an
involuntary action”--as a gentleman aptly described to me the
effects of the _sirocco_, the Italian equivalent--then place before
a man in such a state of lassitude a steaming joint of roast beef
with the heavy incidentals, and he will turn from it with disgust.
At such moments the _gazpacho_ seems the most delicious dish under
the sun. The houses and furniture of these laborers are the neatest
and cleanest in the world. The same feeling runs through high and
low in Spain; their houses are models of freshness and purity.
And Jacobo or Perico turns out on the Sunday in linen fine as his
master’s, in jacket of velvet with buttons or bells of gold, a
crimson scarf round his waist, and patent-leather shoes shining on
his feet. He can joke and chat with his master with an easy freedom
that never passes beyond the bounds of respect and never sinks into
servility. As you pass him on the road alone or with any number
of his companions, they all lift their _sombreros_ with an inborn
grace, and a genial _buenos dias_ or _buenas tardes, señor_. But
the new order is trying, and with some success, to change all that;
though a stranger still meets in Spain with that rare yet most
Christian thing, unbought courtesy.

The Gallego is the very opposite of the Andaluz--a rude, simple
mountaineer, he is the hewer of wood and drawer of water to his
countrymen. He is honest and open as the day, with a childlike
affection for his master, and is particularly happy at a blunder.
Rare are the stories told in Andalusia of the Gallegos. We give
two, rather as indicating the estimation in which they are held
than as happy specimens of the Andalusian _broma_.

When the post was first introduced into Spain, the postmaster of
a small town in the north was astonished, one day, by a Gallego
bursting in on him with the query, delivered in stentorian tones:

“Is there a letter here for me from my father?”

“I do not know, sir; who is your father?”

This was too much for the Gallego; the idea of anybody in this
world being unacquainted with his parent was so overpowering that,
not being able to restrain his feelings, he rushed from the spot,
and was not heard of for some time afterwards. Meanwhile, a letter
arrived directed in a style of calligraphy that might have done
credit to Mr. Weller, Senior, addressed

                      To my Son
                             At San Juan.

Having sufficiently recovered from the violent shock given to
his feelings, the Gallego once more presented himself at the
post-office with the same question, “Is there a letter here from my
father?”

“Oh! yes,” said the official, immediately producing the
mysteriously addressed missive; “here, this is from your father.
Take this one,” and delivered it without the slightest doubt as to
the accuracy of its destination.

Another, on finding himself for the first time in a city, as he
stood gaping and wondering at the sights around him, suddenly heard
a shrill voice cry out, “I don’t want to go to school; the master
beats me.”

He looked around for the child, but the only object that met his
gaze was a parrot, mowing and chattering in a cage, and bobbing,
wriggling, and looking at the Gallego with its cunning old eye
forty different ways at once.

“I don’t want to go to school; the master beats me.”

The bewildered Gallego stared, and pondered, and, after a deep
consultation with himself, came to the conclusion that the voice
must proceed from the cage; from the strange specimen of humanity
before him, so marvellously resembling a bird; but a bird talking
the purest Castilian, though with something of a sharp accent, was
a clear impossibility. His simple, good-nature was hurt at the
idea of having wronged a fellow-creature even in his thoughts. So
turning he excused himself: “Pardon me, child; I thought it was a
bird.”

Of all traits in the national character, their universal civility
astonishes an American or Englishman, accustomed as we are to
the every-man-for-himself principle; yet how few we meet who do
not consider the Spaniards as a treacherous, revengeful, and
bloodthirsty race! Our own statistics, we fear, would furnish
but a sorry set-off against theirs for crime in every phase; and
particularly for the most cowardly, brutal, and premeditated
assaults and assassinations, ending too often with the escape
of the culprit. The quarrels in Spain between man and man arise
generally from some love affair or political difference, very
rarely from money. Two peasants are drinking in a tavern, the wine
excites their fiery blood; one has lost his _novia_, the other has
won her; a blow or an insult is given; they draw their knives, and
adjourn to fight--“just like gentlemen.” It is, in fact, a duel,
which common-sense has not yet been able to laugh out of Spain.
No pecuniary damages, won by the cold arguments that sway a court
of law, can heal the wound of honor in the chivalrous breast of
the Spaniard; and not a few examples have we lately had of lives
lost in this way. One was most tragic in its end as in all its
bearings; I allude to the duel between Don Enrique de Bourbon and
Montpensier. And surely never was presented on the stage a scene
more dramatic or striking. Don Enrique was by profession a naval
officer, high in the service of his royal relative, Queen Isabella,
a young, gallant, and efficient sailor, with a promising future
opening before him. He was happy in the love of a lady destined
as all understood to be his; when suddenly Montpensier stepped in
and won her, scarcely by force of personal attractions, for he
was already well advanced in years; but the marriage was a closer
link to the throne. Don Enrique vowed the death of the man who had
crossed his life at the threshold. But his schemes of vengeance
were baffled; an order came to quit the country, ostensibly for
having joined in conspiracy against the throne. Deprived at once
of his love, his command, and his country, life was closed to
him. From his retirement he sent challenge after challenge to
Montpensier, and vilified him even in the public press, as he could
not force a response from him; but to no purpose. Montpensier,
high in favor at court, secure in possession and in power, could
safely affect to despise the ravings of a madman. By-and-by came
the revolution which drove Isabella out. Now was Don Enrique’s
chance, and he hastened to seize it. As expulsion under the queen’s
reign was a virtue in the eyes of the new government, he applied
for restoration to his country and his rank in the navy. The first
request was granted, the second denied; as the government had
proclaimed an end to the Bourbon race, no member of that race
could take rank under them, unless he renounced his title. Here
again he traced the hand of Montpensier. If he could have nothing
else, at least he would have revenge, being now in the same city
with the man who had crossed him at every step of his career. He
sent his last challenge, publishing it at the same time in the
press, enumerating the occasions on which he had sent similar
messages, which had ever been met by the silence of fear. He heaped
insults upon him, apostrophizing him as a “pastillero frances,”
a fellow ready to soil his hands with the pettiest and meanest
intrigue. Montpensier was at the time a candidate for the Spanish
throne; for the kingship of a people in whose eyes honor was ever
dearer than life; further silence would ruin his prospects; so
at last he was forced out of his reserve, and, in a letter that
sounded well, accepted the challenge as one which a man of honor
could not pass over in silence, disclaiming at the same time any
antagonism to its author personally; if there was any justice in
what he said, it was the result of accident; in fact, leaving
people to understand that he never troubled his head about the man.
They met on a cold gray morning, and the chances of success leaned
decidedly on the side of Don Enrique. A young, bold man, to whom
deadly weapons had been playthings from his infancy, he was urged
on by a life of hate to slay the man who had blighted that life
and darkened its promising opening; his opponent was a middle-aged
man, near-sighted, who bore the reputation of a _littérateur_
rather than a fighter. Both felt that perhaps a crown as well as a
life hung on the trigger. Scarce was the word given to fire when
the bullet of Don Enrique brushed his foe, and Montpensier’s lost
itself in the air. A second shot, and they still stood face to face
uninjured. “Està afinando”--“He is getting closer,” whispered the
prince to his second, as he took the last pistol from his hand. The
words are remarkable as expressing the coolness of the man, whose
eye took in everything at such a moment, and perhaps something
more. At the next discharge, the bullet of the man who, whether
designedly or not, had met him and beaten him at all points,
pierced his breast; he sprang into the air, fell forward, and
rolled contorted on the ground, a corpse--a theme for novelist as
well as moralist: it looked like fatality.

But from such sad scenes we are happy to turn to others more worthy
of our attention and more characteristic of the nation at large.
The thing that of all others cannot fail to strike the visitor
is the intense religion displayed everywhere. “Ay, Maria!” “Por
Dios!”--“For God’s sake”--“Ay, Dios mio,” are the expressions that
buzz around our ears all day. The holy name is a household word
with them, pronounced at all times and on all occasions, but with
a reverence that never shocks. When they wish something done, they
say “Dios quiere”--“God grant it”; when they bid you good-by,
“Adios--Vaya Usted con Dios--Queda Usted con Dios--Que Dios te
guarda”--“Go with God--Rest with God--May God guard thee.” They
speak of the blessed sacrament as “Su Majestad”--“his majesty,”
of the Blessed Virgin always as “la Santissima Virgen”--“the most
Holy Virgin.” The graveyard is “el campo santo”--“the holy field”:
so like the old Catholic “God’s acre” that Longfellow loves. When
they wish to express intense horror of a thing, they make the sign
of the cross on their foreheads, lips, and breast, and then in
the air, as though to place that invincible sign between them and
the object of their abhorrence. The vast majority of the towns and
villages are named after the saints, and each one has its special
patron as well as the patron of the district. And that intense
faith in intercessory prayer to some special saint which holy
writers urge us to cultivate is born in them. On the festival of
Good Friday throughout Spain, the municipality and gentlemen of
the towns walk dressed in evening costume side by side with the
poor. Not a vehicle is to be seen in the street: all the world
is there to watch and pray. The new government, Prim’s, gave the
order for coaches to run as usual on Good Friday, in outrage of a
custom immemorial in the nation, and an honor to them as to all
Christendom of whatever creed. But the coachmen as well as their
masters proved better Christians than their rulers; and on the day
in question not a conveyance was to be seen, save a solitary coach,
which the populace immediately seized, compelling its occupant to
descend, who proved to be a scared member of the diplomatic body.
The celebration of Holy Week in Seville attracts the world thither.

The modern churches in Spain, particularly in Madrid, though
for the most part spacious and lofty, do not impress one with
their beauty. To those accustomed to associate their ideas of
religion with the Gothic style of architecture, the altars will
not be pleasing. Spiral pillars wriggle to the roof, inwrought
and gorgeously painted. The vases are filled with silver and gold
filigree work wrought to imitate flowers. There are many figures,
small or large, of _el niño Jesu_, or _la Santissima Virgen_, or
the saints, not always displaying the most finished art, decked
out with a costume of sober black or gorgeous color and texture,
glittering with gold and precious stones and ornaments of choice
and antique workmanship. Little thanksgiving offerings surround
them. Such things as these look like superstition to the cold eye
of a man to whom faith is folly and reverence ignorance. But there
is something powerful in the simple, earnest belief of the people
who pray before them, and are content to be thus reminded of the
great and good God and Virgin Mother, who are willing to receive
the offerings of the meanest; a reverend familiarity with God is
thus created which those people bear about with them. These men and
women go into the church _to pray_: their very costume is befitting
the sanctuary; and there is very little of that newspaper religion
which some of our weekly journals piously advocate by so carefully
announcing “where the best dresses and prettiest faces are to be
seen.” On the walls hang magnificent paintings. The treasures of
Murillo are in the cathedral of Seville. They were placed there
by his own hand, having been painted for their several positions
that the light might fall on them in such or such a manner. And
it is not unpleasant to think of the sun rising and falling day
after day as though in obedience to the great master who has passed
away, bringing out their beauties faithfully in accordance with
his wish. The construction of the cathedral itself is a triumph
of architecture. Not a stone has shifted from its place since it
was first laid there: there is no sinking or rising in the floor:
and to-day you may pass your cane over the surface and not a joint
offers the slightest obstruction.

The very names of the people are taken from religion and the
mysteries of religion in the same spirit with which they named
their discoveries after Santa Cruz, San Domingo, San José,
Trinidad. Among men’s Christian and surnames we continually find
Jesu, Jesu Maria, Juan de Dios, Santa Cruz, Salvador; among the
women, Concepcion, Dolores--a sweet name after the Mother of
Sorrows, Maria de los Angeles, and the like.

The very streets and the public places are christened in the same
way; and the ships baptized and launched with religious ceremonies,
a custom that prevails also in France.

They preserve the old gospel use of the word woman. That is the
title by which the husband addresses his wife as often as any
other. She calls him _hijo_, son, or _hombre_, man. “_Hija de mi
alma_,” daughter of my soul, is also very common. Ceremony is only
employed with strangers; _tu_, thou, is the form in which intimate
friends are always addressed. After becoming acquainted, you call
the lady of the house and her daughters, whether grown up or young,
by their maiden names simply. It is amusing to hear little ones who
can scarcely lisp address each as _señor_ and _señora_.

They have a fair supply of newspapers, and very able ones, in
Spain; though, as usual, those that enjoy the widest circulation
at present are devoted to the dissemination of false principles.
They are cried out in the streets not by newsboys as with us, but
principally by old blind men, who stand in the most public places
with a tablet of the latest news on their breasts, and having got
their lesson by rote spout away untiringly.

The club is becoming a very favorite institution, and is, in fact,
the stronghold and rendezvous of political parties. There is a very
famous one in Madrid, which numbers among its members such men
as Castelar, Moret, and others. They meet sometimes for public
discussion; and those great orators rise there to propound their
theories as earnestly as in the Cortes.

They have a code of intercourse worthy of imitation. When a Spanish
family takes up its quarters at a hotel or in a new place, the
neighbors, though perfect strangers, call, leave their cards, and
go away. If their acquaintance is desired, they are waited upon
and conversation ensues; if not, the stranger simply returns his
card in the same manner as the other was received; and no slight or
grievance is felt or intended.

The amusements are various. Apart from the opera, theatre, and
those common to all nations, they are very fond of an indoor game
called _volante_, which is simply battledoor and shuttlecock;
ladies and gentlemen play at it together. There is also a very
favorite game of cards, _tresillo_, to which we have no equivalent.
The climate compels the Spanish women to lead a more indoor life
than with us. The men are fond of riding, hunting, and shooting.
They sit as erect on horseback as statues; and the army officers
are very fond of displaying the motions rather than the speed of
their steeds. Mules are in great demand; for the roads in Spain,
except in the neighborhood of the great towns, are very bad; mere
bridle-paths most of them. Seated in a vehicle that would be a
treasure in an art museum for antiquity, construction, and shape,
with a team of six or eight of these animals to jolt you anywhere,
is a position more than pleasant. The jingle of the little bells
with which the harness is adorned, the cracking of the driver’s
whip, the tones in which he endeavors to animate the vicious
brutes, now cajoling them in accents that might win the heart of
a maiden, again pouring forth a volley of imprecations on their
heads and tails and pedigree, as though they were human, is a
study. You can never trust these animals, and it is always the
safer plan to give their hoofs what a sailor would call sea-room.
An archbishop, passing along the streets one day, suddenly came
upon a string of them, and as suddenly crossed to the other side of
the street. “O Señor Arzobispo,” said the muleteer, “you need not
be frightened. These are harmless _animalitos_.”

“Yes, I know they are harmless,” replied his grace, “and that is
the reason I cross here; if they were not, I should go to the next
street.”

This fact of the roads being so bad and the intercommunication
so deficient, coupled with tales of brigandage, gives strangers
the idea that travelling in Spain is very insecure. We might
pass from end to end of the land, unknown and unarmed, with far
greater safety than during a five minutes’ walk through many a
street in New York or London after nightfall. We had an instance
of brigandage and its treatment in Spain during Prim’s _régime_, a
time when the country was as convulsed as at present. Encouraged,
no doubt, by the lamentable success of a similar exploit in Greece,
some miscreants carried off a merchant from Gibraltar, and demanded
a round ransom as the forfeit of his life. Prim, without a moment’s
hesitation as to the nice question of treating with brigands, or
a thought of where the ransom was to come from, paid it, and sent
four of the civil guard to follow up the robbers, which they did
so successfully that they shot them all and retook their booty. We
have not heard of brigandage since in Spain, notwithstanding the
highly touched pictures presented, the other day, of an attack on
a railway train, accompanied by smoke and powder, and brigands in
the stage costume of centuries back.

This civil guard is an excellent institution. The body is recruited
from the best ranks of the soldiery. It is a distinction to be
admitted among them, which engenders an _esprit de corps_ that
makes them the terror of the wrong-doer and the right arm of order.
We ourselves might take a lesson from the incident mentioned above,
if we are to credit the reports of the Lowery gang.

They have but one great line of railroad in Spain, which runs
through the country from north to south. The train creeps along at
a steady thirty miles an hour, without a moment’s variation. To a
stranger, wishing to catch a glimpse of the country, this is highly
advantageous; as he is not whirled away at a rate that presents to
his anxious eye trees, houses, mountains, streams, in a phrenzied
panorama. For our present notions of commerce it may be too slow,
and a man in a hurry feels half inclined to get out and walk; but
as a set-off against this, the Spaniards pride themselves on not
having had a single accident accompanied by loss of life since the
railroad was first started. You are rolled through the fertile
plains and swelling uplands of Andalusia, rich in corn and wine
and oil; through fields, and orange and olive groves, dotted with
white towns and modest villages, where the church-tower ever soars
above all as a landmark. You pass Seville; and as its associations
crowd upon you, fain would you linger amid the gay society of the
lovely city smiling amid its groves and gardens; dreaming day by
day in _las delicias_; lost amid the treasures of art that make
every boy in the street an efficient critic, so accustomed is his
eye to the beautiful and the true. Famous spots and historic cities
greet you as you go. The Escurial looms up, a white, silent palace
with deserted windows, standing out in startling relief from a
semi-circle of bare mountains. Not a soul was to be seen around it;
the monks had been just expelled; not a sound to break the painful
silence that seemed to emanate from the gloomy pile. It stood there
as the great king left it, a type of himself, out of the world in a
grandeur of isolation; a something that ought to have passed away,
unknown in these days. Had a troop of cavaliers with pennon and
plume and glistening mail shone out a moment on the mountain-side,
it would have seemed in keeping with the place rather than strange.
There is almost a contrast between the ages as our little engine
puffs and snorts and fumes, fretting to “go ahead” and leave it,
staring out of its silent windows, unmoved, untouched by the age,
which busies itself with things and not with ideas.

Before arriving at Madrid, where the train stops for a few hours,
we pass through Aranjuez, the beautiful summer-palace of the late
queen; with its woods and magnificent vistas and lengthening
avenues, full of lovely recesses and places of cool shade. At last
we are in the heart of the kingdom.

Madrid, though not very large, is a brilliant city. Its _prado_
where fashion saunters is beautifully laid out. It has a splendid
museum, many churches, though none of them remarkable for beauty,
and the vast palace of royalty, rich in furniture and objects of
art. The houses and public buildings are lofty, the hotels many
and excellent. Fountains spout in the open squares; crowds are
buzzing through the streets or discussing at the _cafés_, for
politics absorb the life in Madrid. The weather is treacherous, and
many are carried off in a few hours by a _pulmonia_, for, as their
proverb says, “The air of Madrid will not cause a leaf to flutter
from the tree, but will kill a man.” Though the sky is clear and
blue, and the sun shines out royally, a breeze comes down from the
neighboring _sierras_, frost-laden, that pierces you through and
through, and searches all your bones, and the very marrow in them;
there is death in its breath. For all that, the Madrileños live a
very gay life; retiring to rest generally at the small hours, and
rising when they please. In the summer the city is empty, even
the shopkeepers flit; for the heat is then intolerable, and they
wander to San Sebastian or the south of France, or to their own
watering-places, which are numerous and inferior to none.

As the train bears us further north, the scene ever varying grows
more and more deserted. You close the curtains of the carriage
to keep out the heat during the day, while at night you may wake
amid frost and snow. The villagers and mountaineers crowd to the
carriage windows at every station; old men, and dark-eyed boys,
and graceful girls, with fruits and wines, and water, and milk.
“Quien quiere agua? Agua fresca? Quien quiere leche? Agua como
la nieve!”--“Who wants water--cool water? Who wants milk? Water
cool as snow,” is the shrill cry from many throats on all sides.
“Señorito, un quartito por el amor de Dios”--“A farthing, my dear
little sir, for the love of God.” “Teno lastima de, un pobrescito,
señorito mio, y Dios te lo pagara”--“Have pity on a poor little
one, and God will repay thee,” snivels an old beggar in pitiful
rags. If you listened to him for five minutes, he would treat
you to a sermon on the evil of poverty and the eternal rewards of
generosity, that would rival the most eloquent of preachers and
charm the money out of your pockets.

Through the Pyrenees, the scenery grows wilder still and more
picturesque; the construction of the railway here is a marvel of
skill and enterprise. You are shot through tunnels bored through
the solid rock, numbers of them of considerable length. You skirt
dizzy precipices with scarce a straw between you and the dim
hollows or ominous pools that sleep hundreds of feet below. Quaint
little hamlets with quaint people are perched on mountain-tops or
buried in pastoral nooks far away down. Tiny streamlets start out
of the mountain and accompany you as you go. You can trace them
as they tumble and fall, and lose themselves, and reappear with
gathering volume and widening channel, till you cross them on a
bridge lower down, and find them broad and powerful rivers, turning
mills and humming onward to the sea. This is a great district for
paper mills; you see them on every side. San Sebastian is up here,
with its beautiful villas and pleasant strand at the foot of the
mountain, skirted by a town increasing in wealth and importance
every year. The favorite promenade is called the _Paseo de las
Conchas_, “The Walk of the Shells,” a very beautiful one. It is
becoming a very favorite and fashionable resort during the summer
months; so much so that gamblers tried to obtain permission from
the government to establish here the gambling-tables which have
been banished from their own Baden Baden. Fine hotels are springing
up, and there is no summer residence in Europe that would better
repay a visit than this, uniting as it does the air of the sea and
the mountains, where you may turn from the strand to the most
pastoral of scenery, from the conventionalities of life to the rude
simplicity of the Basque mountaineer.

This brings us to the frontier, and here we stop, with the
consciousness of having thrown but a very fleeting glance over
so vast a field, with its mines of historic wealth and troublous
problems of to-day. Our object has been to display in their
truer colors a people as little understood as it is studiously
misrepresented by a host of writers, who forget that the pen is the
handmaiden of truth.

FOOTNOTE:

[201] CATHOLIC WORLD, June, 1872.




AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.


Every summer the fashionable world must go to the baths, must drink
the waters, must be refreshed after the arduous winter campaign of
dining and wining, of dancing and talking, of matinées and soirées.
In America, we recover our strength at Saratoga and Newport, hunt
in the Adirondacks, freeze on top of the White Mountains, listen
to the roar of Niagara, drink sulphur at Sharon and the Virginia
Springs, and shortly, when the magnificent National Park, at the
headwaters of the Yellowstone, is fenced in, we will go to sleep
in a palace-car in New York, and wake up at the foot or on the top
of the Rocky Mountains. I believe the park, so generously voted to
a grateful country by our patriotic Congress, is in that charming
vicinity.

Human nature is the same everywhere; old Europe and young America
live, think, talk, have their being, in one and the same way.
London and Paris, Berlin and Vienna, get tired and worn out just
like Washington and New York, Boston and New Orleans. People must
travel, people must have somewhere to go. Some go to Brighton,
some go to Boulogne-sur-Mer, some to Ostend; lately, it is very
fashionable to go to Norway, the lakes are so blue, the trees are
so green, nature is so grand and beautiful; and if the trip is only
continued to Lapland, the midnight sun can be seen to the greatest
advantage.

But for its being a little too near Spain and its weekly--that is
to say, daily--revolutions, Biarritz is charming; so is Vichy, so
is Wiesbaden, so is Spa, so is Hombourg, so is Aix-la-Chapelle,
where there are the hottest of hot sulphur springs, as hot as when
Charlemagne loved to bathe and drink; and loved the place so well
that he made it the capital of his dominions north of the Alps,
raised it to the rank of second city of his empire, and built the
noble cathedral which Leo III. was kind enough to come all the way
from Rome to consecrate.

And in 804, when Leo III. dedicated it, according to the wish
of Charlemagne, to the Blessed Virgin, in the presence of many
cardinals, of 363 bishops, and numerous princes, travelling was
not made easy as nowadays. There was no tunnel through Mont Cenis,
but people climbed up and slid down mountains as best they could,
forded rivers, and jogged along on horses or mules, or any other
beast of burden that could be made to answer the purpose. Of
course, society was the same then as now; there were good and bad
men and women, just as now; but, judging by what we see and read
of the past, there was a strong living faith, that was fonder of
building up than of pulling down.

Charlemagne could invite the Pope to visit him, and consecrate his
cathedral; he could look the Pope honestly in the eyes, and ask
his blessing. Strong, mighty, powerful, he was an humble, obedient
son of the church; his strength and might and power were used in
support, in defence of that glorious Mother Church to whom he owed
all that was good and great in his life.

He gave to the Pope, that he might be independent of all human
control; he did not steal and insult, as a present reigning
sovereign delights in doing; he did not, like a modern emperor
of the French, use religion as an instrument for gaining
popularity--send soldiers to Rome one day, and order them back the
next, make a convention in September with a robber-king, and in
October hurry off Frenchmen to retrieve the day at Mentana; but he
believed and acted up to his belief. He had his faults, as all men
have, but he was true to his principles, and, like all true men,
died in the peace of God.

For him there was no Sedan, no Waterloo, but a glorious tomb in his
own grand cathedral, and grand it is--an octagon in the Byzantine
style, surrounded by numerous chapels. The rotunda is supported by
pillars of polished Ravenna marble, presented by Leo III., dividing
the galleries into arcades. The church was commenced in 796, and
finished in 804; the works were superintended by Eginhard, the
biographer of Charlemagne.

All that Rome and Ravenna could furnish of most beautiful in marble
was employed in the decoration. The dome was surmounted by a globe
of massive gold, the doors and balustrades were of bronze, the
vases and ornaments of unparalleled magnificence. The railings
of the eight arcades of the triforium, cast in bronze of four
different patterns, and the doors, adorned with lions’ heads of
the same material, which no longer occupy their original position,
but are attached to a porch of the seventeenth century, convey a
perfect idea of the state of art in the eighth century. On the
right of the porch is the figure of a she-wolf, which has served
as a foundation for many popular legends, but the real origin is
unknown.

The arches of the gallery are adorned with thirty-two pillars of
marble, granite, and porphyry, brought by Charlemagne from the
Exarch’s palace at Ravenna and from Rome. The finest of these,
removed by the French in 1794, were brought back in 1815, and
have been repolished and replaced at the expense of the Emperor
of Germany. The interior of the dome was originally adorned with
mosaics, remains of which may still be seen. The cathedral was
pillaged by the Normans in 881, restored by Otho III. in 983, but
in all essential respects is still the church of Charlemagne.

Eastward of the old apse, Otho III. built a chapel, in which he was
buried; both of these were pulled down in the fourteenth century,
when the present choir, which has preserved the plan of Otho’s
chapel, was erected; and his tomb is exactly beneath the present
high altar. The choir is Gothic, one hundred and fourteen feet
high; nothing can be more striking than the contrast between the
octagon nave and the Gothic choir--so totally unlike, and still
harmonizing. It is the Christian religion subduing and dominating
the proud Roman Empire.

Thirty-seven emperors and eleven empresses have been crowned in
this cathedral, from 831 to 1531. Ferdinand I., brother of Charles
V., was the last. Since then, they were crowned at Frankfort, where
the election was held. From the centre of the dome hangs a massive
Gothic lustre, presented by the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa in
souvenir of his coronation. The bases of the circles are engraved
with groups, representing the Annunciation, Nativity, Adoration of
the Magi, Crucifixion, Three Marys at the Tomb, Ascension, Descent
of the Holy Ghost, and the Last Judgment. The lustre is suspended
by four chains, richly chased, and united in a brass plate, on the
lower side of which is engraved a figure of St. Michael.

Immediately beneath the lustre a large slab of marble bears the
simple inscription, _Carolo Magno_, which covered the vault where
once reposed the remains of Charlemagne. The vault below was opened
by Otho III. in 997, and again by Frederick in 1165. Charlemagne,
who died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 814, did not designate his
burial-place, but it was thought there could be no more appropriate
spot than the magnificent church which he had built in his chosen
city.

His body was found seated on a throne as if alive, clothed in
the imperial robes; his crown on his head, his manuscript of the
Gospels on his knees, his sword, Joyeuse, was placed by his side,
and his pilgrim’s pouch, which he always wore on his journeys to
Rome, was suspended to his girdle. His sceptre and shield, which
were of gold, and had been blessed by Leo III., were at his feet.
Over all was thrown the imperial mantle, and above was erected a
superb triumphal arch, on which was this epitaph:

“Ici repose le corps de Charles, grand et orthodoxe empereur,
qui étendit glorieusement le royaume des Francs, et le gouverna
heureusement pendant 47 ans.”

The body of Charlemagne was enshrined by order of Frederick, and
the throne of white marble on which he was seated is now kept in
the upper gallery of the nave, directly facing the choir; the
other relics were carefully preserved, and used in the coronation
of succeeding emperors of Germany. Towards the end of the last
century, at the approach of the French army, they were removed
to Paderborn, and returned in 1804, but not complete, as the
Emperor of Germany had kept three articles which were regarded as
indispensable at a coronation.

These articles were a shrine, enclosing some of the earth watered
by the blood of the proto-martyr St. Stephen; the book of Gospels,
found on the knees of Charlemagne, which is written on bluish bark,
in characters of gold. It was with the hand on this book, and upon
the shrine of St. Stephen, that the emperor made his coronation
oath. The third article was the sword of Charlemagne, Joyeuse, a
present from Haroun-al-Raschid, which was the sword of coronation.
It was presented to the emperor by the Elector of Trèves, who
invested him with it with these word: “Accipe gladium per manus
Episcoporum.” At the words, “Accingere gladio tuo,” the Elector of
Saxe placed it in the scabbard, and, assisted by the Elector of
Cologne, girded it around the new emperor.

The emperor was by right a canon of the chapter of the cathedral,
whose members obtained from Gregory V., when he visited
Aix-la-Chapelle in 997, the title of cardinal-priests. In the ages
of faith, the imperial dignity was semi-priestly; the emperor
was considered as having charge of souls. Before the emblems of
sovereign dignity were placed in his hands, he swore, with his hand
upon the Gospels, fidelity to the church which had just consecrated
him.

The archbishop gave him the sword “to combat the enemies of
Christ”--the imperial purple symbolized “the zeal with which he
should endeavor to consolidate in the empire the reign of faith
and of peace”--and with the sceptre he was exhorted to become “the
father of his people, the protector of the ministers of God, the
defender of the widow and the orphan.” And, last of all, to seal
the alliance contracted with the Holy Church, he received a portion
of the sacred Host, consecrated in the pontifical Mass, the other
half of which was consumed by the priest of God.

After the election of the emperor at Frankfort, the electors
and the emperor elect proceeded to Aix-la-Chapelle, where the
coronation took place. The emperor heard Mass in the choir of
the cathedral, surrounded by his court; the people were in the
nave--the octagon, built by Charlemagne; after the Mass, he was
conducted up the staircase, temporarily erected from directly
beneath the lustre in the centre, to the throne of Charlemagne. The
electors and their suites occupied the arcades in the gallery; and
there, surrounded by priests, princes, and people, the Christian
emperor swore to maintain the laws of God and man.

Before signing the act of his election, the emperor confirmed all
the privileges given by his predecessors to the Cathedral of
Notre Dame; and then the cortége proceeded to the Hôtel de Ville,
where the coronation banquet was held in the splendid hall, so
beautifully restored by the King of Prussia--we beg pardon, Emperor
of Germany. The Cathedral of Notre Dame was formerly exempt from
ordinary episcopal jurisdiction, and from its foundation was
directly under the Holy See, which privilege was confirmed in 1157
by Pope Adrian IV.

Aix-la-Chapelle is very old; it was known to the Romans under the
name of Aquis Granum, and is said to have been founded in the
second century. Remains of Roman baths have been discovered near
the cathedral and the _Elisenbrunnen_. Burnt by the Huns in 451, it
was rebuilt, and became a favorite residence of the Frankish kings.
Here was Charlemagne born, April 2, 742, and here he died, January
28, 814. In 881, the town was sacked by the Normans, and at the end
of the tenth century restored and enlarged by Otho III., who died
here in 1002. Charlemagne surrounded the city with a wall, pierced
by ten gates, which Frederick Barbarossa rebuilt and strengthened
in 1187.

The good old city has seen stormy days, as in 1198 it was besieged
by Otho of Brunswick, and in 1247 by William of Holland, to whom it
surrendered after a siege of six months. During the middle ages,
it attained great wealth by its manufacture of cloth; agencies
for the sale of which were established at Venice and Antwerp in
the fourteenth century. Many diets of the empire were held here;
and three times, in 1668, 1748, and 1818, the diplomats of Europe
met in the Hôtel de Ville to settle terms of peace and heal the
wounds of war. The conferences of the congress were held in the
_Krönungsaal_, a spacious saloon occupying the whole of the third
floor; the former banqueting-hall after the coronations.

The Hôtel de Ville was erected on the site of the palace of the
Frankish kings, in which Charlemagne was born, and the famous
banqueting-hall has been adorned with splendid frescoes, done
by the best artists of the Düsseldorf school, depicting scenes
in the life of Charlemagne. They were painted at the command of
the Emperor of Germany, and the nine frescoes represent: The
Destruction of the Saxon Idols; The Battle of Cordova; The Baptism
of Witikind; A Diet of the Empire; The Coronation of Charlemagne;
The Coronation of his son Louis; The Taking of Pavia; The Opening
of the Tomb of Charlemagne; The Foundation of the Cathedral.

Since the time of the Romans, Aix-la-Chapelle has been celebrated
as a watering-place; and modern Europe fully appreciates the
delicious baths and bubbling springs. Every seven years the
Exposition of the Great Relics takes place; and then the pilgrims,
drawn by faith, are added to the thousands of votaries at the
shrine of fashion who annually flock to the dear old city.

The four Great Relics, which are exposed every seven years, from
the 10th to the 24th of July, are: The dress of the Blessed
Virgin; The swaddling-clothes of the Infant Jesus at Bethlehem;
The cloth that encircled the loins of our dear Lord on the cross;
The cloth in which the head of St. John the Baptist was enveloped
after his decapitation. Charlemagne obtained these relics from
Rome, Constantinople, and Jerusalem. His intimate relations with
the Popes Adrian, who died in 795, and Leo III., are well known:
his influence was unbounded with the Byzantine emperors, who sent
ambassadors with the relics as presents; and in the East he had
control over the holy places in Palestine. These sovereigns, who
contributed to enrich his church of Notre Dame with treasures from
their own sanctuaries, would not have dared incur the wrath of the
great warrior by sending him false relics.

In 408, the Empress Pulcheria, the sister of Theodosius and wife
of Marcian, built churches to contain the swaddling-clothes of the
Infant Jesus and the cincture of the Blessed Virgin. The septennial
exposition dates from the ninth century; and since then, historical
testimony abounds, public facts attest, without interruption to our
day, the authenticity of the relics venerated at Aix-la-Chapelle.
Among the lesser relics are the _cingulum_ or leathern belt of our
Lord, the extremities of which are united and stamped with the seal
of Constantine; a piece of the cord with which the hands of our
Lord were bound during his Passion; a piece of the sponge which was
dipped in vinegar and gall and presented to our Lord on the cross;
and a rib of St. Stephen, the first martyr.

The last exposition was in 1867, and the crowds that assisted
bore witness to the living faith that makes the people of the
Rhenish Provinces such admirable Catholics. Aix-la-Chapelle looked
beautifully; from the high towers and dome of the cathedral, from
every church and house, from the spires of the Hôtel de Ville, the
banners and flags were flying. The black and white flag of Prussia,
the red-and-white and blue-and-white banners of the churches,
mingled with the Papal colors.

Sixty thousand pilgrims came every day afoot to Aix; every avenue
leading to the cathedral was crowded, people standing in close file
waiting their turn to enter. But in those serried ranks there was
no noise, no confusion; profound, earnest devotion attested their
faith and piety. The Rosary was recited in bands; a man’s voice
would say alone the “Hail Mary,” and the “Holy Mary, Mother of God”
was taken up by all. From 1 to 8 P.M. the cathedral was opened
for the procession of pilgrims, but it was impossible to think of
entering during that time, as it was an affair of hours.

After 8 P.M., the canons allowed a few, some hundreds, to enter by
a private door; and then we first saw the interior of the superb
old cathedral. We passed along through the arches and vaults of
the basement story, ascended and descended staircases, and finally
reached a vestibule, leading directly to the octagon, the centre of
the cathedral. The grated doors were closed, as the pilgrims were
still in the body of the church; in the dim light, we could see
the glimmer of tapers in the choir; and the voices of the kneeling
crowd reciting the litanies rose to heaven, the very incense of
prayer.

Soon the doors were opened, and the favored ones passed slowly
through. How grand and majestic the cathedral looked! The octagon
in darkness, the choir illuminated. In single file, we made the
tour around the relics; then all knelt down--the priests who were
strangers in the stalls of the clergy, the laity outside. The
canons walked in procession, each holding one of the precious
relics, which we were allowed to kiss. After all was over, we
looked around; we were kneeling in the superb choir, said to be
the highest in Europe--higher than the choir in the cathedral of
Cologne, which is lower than the nave. As we gazed upwards, and
beheld the grand arches which rose so high above our heads, our
thoughts were raised to heaven, and made us glorify God, who gives
power to man to conceive and execute such works. The stained-glass
windows are exquisite, and in the dim, religious light all looked
bewilderingly beautiful.

The next morning, at 10 A.M., we took our position in front
of the cathedral, where benches were erected temporarily to
accommodate those who preferred sitting to standing. The crowds
were reverentially silent and recollected, reciting the Rosary and
the Litany of the Blessed Virgin. The relics were exposed from five
points. When the priests appeared in the tower opposite us, the
brass band in the gallery which connects the towers broke forth in
grand harmony; the people singing as one voice the superb German
choral music. It was overpowering! High up in the old gallery the
canons holding the precious relics, the cross glittering, the light
blazing around them, the splendid music resounding in triumph in
the open air! The ages of faith are not past, as we all felt that
day at Aix.

At 12 M. we joined the procession waiting for the doors of the
cathedral to open, that we might enter the golden chamber. This
was a select crowd, as we had to pay two francs for a card. The
Prussian cavalry rode up and down to keep the ranks straight; and
after we had been jammed outside, we received a final mash inside,
and, by the time we were jelly, we shoved ourselves into the golden
treasury, where a canon explained everything in German and French;
then the procession passed again through the choir, around the
octagon, and out another door.

The last day of the exposition was distinguished by a procession
in the streets: the first that had taken place since the French
Revolution. It was very solemn and grand; the Great Relics were
borne in their superb shrines by the canons of the cathedral,
the Archbishop of Cologne carried the reliquary containing the
_cingulum_ of our Lord, the Bishop of Luxembourg the cincture of
the Blessed Virgin.

Of course these great crowds, with the usual amount of dust and
dirt, rather fatigued us, even though we were immensely impressed;
so we sought the refreshing waters, and continued our meditations
in the Kaiserbad; or, rather, we would commence our morning
devotions by making ourselves comfortable. The Kaiserbad is the
finest in Europe; long corridors, arched roofs lighted from above,
encaustic-tiled floors, beautiful dressing-rooms, each one opening
into a delicious bath of white marble, into which you descend by
six white marble steps into the pure white sulphur water. Twenty
minutes is the time advised for well people; invalids stay in an
hour sometimes; after the twenty minutes, the attendants brought
in hot sheets, in which we were enveloped. It was Elysium--the
perfection of material enjoyment.

From the Kaiserbad we adjourned to the cathedral, heard Mass,
and then strolled through the _Elisengarten_, the grounds around
the spring; the Prussian military band played delightfully every
morning, and we listened, drank occasional glasses of hot sulphur
water, and then, refreshed and invigorated, were ready for any
performance. In the afternoon, people drive to the heights of
Louisberg, formerly a great fortress that commanded Aix, famous in
the wars of the middle ages, and demolished after some treaty, to
keep the peace of Europe.

The view from the height is superb. Aix-la-Chapelle was the
favorite resort of Pauline Bonaparte, and Louisberg her pet
promenade; so, after her death, the city of Aix erected a monument
to her memory. There is also a Belvidere, where they have musical
reunions and balls, and people drink coffee and Seltzer water,
in which we indulged. After Louisberg, we drove around the old
ramparts, visited the beautiful cemetery and the _Burtscheid_, the
hottest of the springs, where the water is boiling--cooks an egg in
a few seconds.

Besides the cathedral, there are several beautiful churches. The
Jesuit church of the Immaculate Conception is very fine, built
in the severest Gothic style, of solid stone. In the convent of
the Sisters of the Infant Jesus, they make the most magnificent
embroideries, one Gothic chasuble, just finished for an English
bishop, was worth 15,000 francs; and the benediction veils, stoles,
and capes were exquisite.

In the cathedral are preserved some fine chalices and vestments;
amongst the latter a chasuble said to have been used by St.
Bernard--it is of purple, adorned with pearls; a cape, with
small bells attached to the lower edge, worn by Leo III. at the
consecration of the church; a set of vestments of cloth-of-gold,
ornamented with pearls, presented by Charles V.; and a chasuble,
given in 1599 by Isabella, Infanta of Spain. Among the treasures of
the cathedral is a manuscript of the Gospels, beautifully written
in letters of gold on purple vellum; its binding is covered with
plates of silver-gilt, richly enamelled.

In addition to the pious crowd, there was more than the usual
influx of fashionable people. We had the pleasure of contemplating
the Prince and Princess Frederick Charles of Prussia while they
stood on the balcony of the Hôtel de Ville. Prince Frederick
Charles, the Red Prince, is one of the great Prussian captains, and
of course there was immense excitement. The place before the Hôtel
de Ville is the vegetable and flower market, and the peasants, in
their quaint caps and bonnets, were enchanted either with their
royal highnesses or with the soldiers, who strolled among them, and
bought up their wares.

Dremel’s, the hotel of Aix, was entirely devoted to the Sultan and
his suite, who were on their way from Paris to Constantinople,
after the Exposition. They were a splendid set of men. In the
morning, on our way to the Kaiserbad, we passed Dremel’s, and,
as they were always lounging around, we had a fine view of them.
The Sultan kept himself secluded from the vulgar gaze, and was
only seen the morning of his departure. Every one was on hand to
see the commander of the faithful; at last, a great lumbering
Prussian state carriage appeared, and there was the Sultan leaning
back, eyes half-closed, arms folded on his breast, as if he were
the sovereign of the world. His impassible face never changed
expression; he looked the miserable fatalist he is.

In our German hotel, the Belle Vue, there was no reading-room, no
drawing-room; everybody sat in the dining-room, chattering and
talking away. Frank, the jolly landlord, made merry with a chosen
band of friends, among whom was the Burgomaster, at the end of one
table; all smoking, each man’s bottle of wine standing before him.
A German friend assured us all Germany passed the evening in the
same way; the professors at the universities think it absolutely
necessary to drink as many bottles of wine in the evening as they
have studied hours during the day. We mildly suggested it was not
strange that German philosophy was rather cloudy sometimes, as the
smoke of the evening might befog the learned professors; but our
friend maintained it was healthy for mind and body.

Charming, delightful Aix! It was with regret we left it; we looked
with longing eyes at the dome of the grand cathedral as it receded
in the distance, and sighed for the delicious Kaiserbad as we were
whirled through the dust and smoke. However, we had the happiness
of making one person enjoy what we had so fully appreciated; on
our return home we had the pleasure of seeing once again one
whose name is dear to the heart of every American Catholic, the
late illustrious Archbishop of Baltimore. He was suffering from
rheumatism, and we told him such wonderful things of the baths at
Aix, he changed his mind, and, instead of going to Paris, went to
Aix; with what result, the following charming note will tell:

                                 AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, August 4, 1867,
                                        Hôtel de Belle Vue.

  DEAR MADAME: I drop you a few lines, to return my sincere thanks
  for having so effectually called my attention to the baths and
  waters of this celebrated city. I find that all you said and
  promised has been fully realized; and when, hereafter, any
  one will dare tell me that your amiable sex is accustomed to
  draw upon its imagination for its facts, or at least to color
  extravagantly what has proved pleasing, I shall point to your
  recommendation of these waters as a sufficient refutation, or at
  any rate a most noted and brilliant exception to the remark.

  The baths are all you said, and more; they are really superb,
  and just what I needed. In fact, I consider it a special
  providence that I met you in Brussels, or otherwise I should have
  gone to Paris instead of Aix. Already I am quite relieved, and
  in another week I expect to be as young and supple as ever. I am
  at the Belle Vue, but, after taking one bath at the Kaiserbad,
  I have taken the rest at the Rosebad; the latter are fully
  equal to the former in sumptuousness, and the attendance is
  probably better. I expect to return to Paris before or about the
  15th inst., and if I can be of any service to you in Europe or
  America, you may freely command me.

  Though I have not yet taken any excursion to the country, I have
  visited the relics and curiosities of the grand old cathedral,
  and also the Hôtel de Ville. This is one of the oldest cities
  in Europe, and its inhabitants say with pride, “After Rome,
  Aix-la-Chapelle!” The city with its monuments carries us back a
  thousand years to the brilliant days of Charlemagne, who was a
  giant not only morally and intellectually, but physically, for he
  was over seven feet two inches tall. Best regards and blessing to
  your family, and compliments to the dean. Yours truly,
                         M. J. SPALDING,
                                    Archbishop of Baltimore.




AMBROSIA

A LEGEND OF AUGSBURG.


We were talking of our travels, my friend Archer and I, and of the
lessons travelling brings to those who go a little out of Murray’s
beaten track. And especially, so we were pleased to think, these
lessons might be learnt in little out-of-the-way nooks, hidden
centres of ignored life, none the less busy for that, and none the
less full of exciting life-dramas. I was telling him of Pavia--for
my wanderings had led me chiefly through Italy--of the desolate,
enchanted look of the wall-enclosed court-yards round the gloomy
and picturesque palaces; of the lonely walk on the former ramparts,
now planted with fine horse-chestnuts; of the many tapestries of
romance I had woven in my mind about the silent-looking houses and
the dark-eyed maidens I occasionally met in the streets. It was
while Pavia was in Austrian hands that I passed through it, and
perhaps the military occupation tended to make the sleepy city
still more sombre and dull. Yet what additional elements of romance
that circumstance contributed! For it was not impossible that some
fair, mild German, with his dreamy sentimentality, yet fresh from
college, might have been drawn to feel a holy, wondering love for
the bright southern beauty whose childhood had been fostered in
indignant hatred of his land and race; and between these two how
many complications of pathetic interest might we not imagine,
how many shades of feeling and degrees of circumstances might we
not conjure up! “But,” said Archer, interrupting my fine flow of
language about the joys and sorrows of the town of the _Certosa_,
“you know Italy, strictly speaking, is rather the land of passion
than of romance. Could you think of an Italian ‘Gretchen’? The one
character most like her, the Cenci, is so different despite the
likeness! Religion seems more spiritual in Germany; in Italy they
do as the Greeks of old, put their own human feelings into heavenly
representatives and then pay homage to them, thinking unconsciously
that they are honoring supernatural attributes. There is too much
earthliness about their ideal--in fact, I do not believe they have
an ideal at all.”

“Come, come,” I answered, “you are too hard on the southern
temperament. You do not know Italy well enough to speak with
authority on the subject. After all, as long as their way of
feeling religion does them good, the Italians are quite as well
off, spiritually, as your Teutonic ideals. I am not sure but what I
prefer warmth and impulse to passive tenderness, however reliable
the latter may be throughout a lifetime. But this question of the
relative merits of various races will always be an open one, and
no one wishes to leave it so more than the church herself, for she
wisely sees how much the glory of God gains through this blending
of various natures in his service.”

“No doubt,” answered my enthusiastic Teutomane, “as far as that
side of the question is concerned. You have been saying something
equivalent to telling me that the orchestra is preferable to a
single violin or cornet, while _I_ was speaking of the intrinsic
merit of each of those individual instruments.”

“Well,” I said, “now tell me something about the tone of these
instruments. You know I have been very little in Germany, and
I should be glad to hear something worth hearing, something
that one would not find in the guide-book, nor in the volume of
self-important nonsense occasionally thrust upon the public by a
gushing sister or a city alderman.”

“You are very caustic,” said my friend with a laugh. “If I must
travel so far out of the beaten track to please you, why not plunge
at once into a volume of mediæval legends?”

“Is it in print? Because in that case I could see for myself, and
therefore would not care to hear it,” I answered teasingly.

“It is _not_ in print, Sir Doubter, and, what is more, it is not
even in manuscript.”

I began to feel interested. “A popular tradition, then?” I asked.

“Exactly. It is not worth much, only I happened to see the places
mentioned, the quaint house that is standing yet, though very much
disguised of course, and the dark street leading to the cathedral.
It happened in Augsburg, and the cathedral, as you know, is
Protestantized, though still very well kept. I was only in the town
for two days, so you may imagine I know little of it beyond what my
narrator told me.”

“And pray who was your narrator?”

The father of a girl in an old book-stall, where I had stopped
attracted by some rare copy of a Catholic work, of which she did
not seem to know the value. Equally surprised at seeing the book
there and at finding her ignorant of its worth, I asked her how
she got it. She lifted up her head, which had been bent on some
mysterious turning-point of her knitting, and said smilingly:

“_Mein Herr_ is a Catholic, then?”

I answered that I was, and repeated my former question.

“It must have been one of my great-uncle’s books,” she said, “he
was going to be a priest, but he died before being ordained. We
were always Catholics.”

“And how came you to keep this stall, child?” I asked, becoming
interested.

“It is my father’s,” she answered quickly; “and he has been ill for
two months, so I keep it for him. His uncle left him all his books.”

“And is your father so poor, then?”

“Very poor, _mein Herr_,” said the girl, with a longing glance at
the book I still held in my hand, as if she were thinking of the
price a connoisseur might be tempted to give for it. “His father
and grandfather were booksellers,” she continued, “but not like
him; they had large libraries and plenty of men working under them.
That was long before I was born, _mein Herr_.”

“And I suppose your father got into difficulties. But anything
would have paid better than this, my poor child.”

“My father would not go to work for any other bookseller, not if
he were the king,” laughed the girl, more merrily than I thought
the case warranted; “and he is a regular student. My mother used
to earn money in many ways, teaching, writing, sewing; and I did
the housework. She died two years ago, and we have nothing but
the book-stall now to keep my sick father and my little crippled
brother.”

I thought to myself, Why, here is a regular romance; perhaps the
inevitable lover of German stories is going to peep out next, from
the frank revelations of my new friend. At any rate, let us follow
it up. So I said aloud: “If your father is willing to part with
this book, I should like to buy it. But I should be very glad to
see him and chat with him about it. Do you think he could see me?”

“Oh! yes, of course,” answered the girl with a hearty smile; and
for the first time I noticed her features and expression. She
was not beautiful--I hope you did not expect the romance to be
perfect?--but there was a pure, calm steadiness in her look, and
an air of unconscious dignity about her that made her striking to
the eye. She seemed made for fidelity and helpfulness, and as to
external charms, if you admire hair, she simply had superabundant
masses of it. German-like, it was put up in broad plaits, tightly
coiled round the head, without a shadow of coquettishness, and
just as if she thought it no ornament at all. Now I have noticed
your Italian girls know how to make a good deal more of their
advantages. I have seen poor girls in Venice with as elaborate a
coiffure--ringlets, puffs, plaits, and wavings--as any Parisian
hair-dresser could exhibit on his waxen models.

“Libels again!” I answered. “I have seen the very contrary at
Naples, and there are women there like Grecian statues. Venice is
half Eastern, you know. But to go on with your impromptu romance.”

Well, when evening came, I went to the address the young girl
had given me, and as you may imagine, it was not a palace that
I entered. The neighborhood was as commonplace as any in an old
German city can be, that is, picturesqueness itself compared with
our modern “back slums.” Still, through the picturesqueness, there
stared the most unmistakable poverty. I went up a good many flights
of steep, narrow stairs, with curious balusters that would have
driven a dealer in old carving wild with delight, and knocked at
a door that I recognized by the rude cross and bit of palm over
the archway. There was just such another cross and sprig of green
inside the door, and a little holy-water vessel in stamped brass
hung at the side nearest the door-handle. There was nothing very
peculiar about the room, except that it had an air of freshness and
cleanliness, which, considering its sick inmates and its cramped
locality, was the more pleasant because it was a surprise. A great
German bed, with a feather-bed of traditional height, filled one
side of the room, and there was a stove in the middle. The remains
of the supper were on a side-table, and a lamp drawn close to the
father’s arm-chair stood on a centre-table laden with domestic
“mending.” The little crippled brother sat in a low easy-chair by
the stove, which chair was the only luxury in the room: My friend,
the young girl, came quickly forward and said:

“My father is so glad you have come, _mein Herr_.”

I sat down beside him, and soon got into conversation with the old
scholar. He was still very weak, but seemed to feel better when
excited. I found him a thorough bookworm, full of knowledge that,
in another man’s hands, would have made his fortune. I discovered,
or rather forced him to tell me, that in that press (pointing to
a common painted chest of drawers) were manuscripts ready to be
published, if a publisher could be found to undertake the risk,
but the author had no ambition, though he was full to the brim of
literary enthusiasm. His researches had lain chiefly among works
of mediæval ecclesiastical lore, legends and poems, etc. The
emblems borne by the various saints were a favorite subject of his.
His uncle’s theological collection and the libraries in which he
had spent his youth, had furnished him with means to prosecute
his studies even after his father’s reverses in fortune--the
public libraries had done the rest. His wife’s help had been very
important, and piles of her notes and references lay among his own
manuscripts. He spoke with pride of his little crippled son, whom
he said he had made as good a scholar as if the poor boy had been
to the universities; and as to his daughter, his looks said more
than his words, as he gazed at her across the table, she sitting
so calmly there amid her heap of “mending,” her dark-blue dress
reminding me of the coloring of a mediæval virgin martyr in the
stained-glass window of some old cathedral. She was more queenly
than slender in figure, and neither her face nor her hands were
small, though they were perfectly shaped; there was more majesty
than grace in her whole air, yet she was thoroughly girl-like. I
unconsciously invested her in my mind with royal robes, heavily
jewelled, like the Byzantine saints, or with the ample cloak of the
brave and learned Portia. Presently she went into a smaller room,
opening into the one where we were sitting, and during her absence
I ventured to hint to the father that for her sake he should try to
make those literary treasures of his more remunerative. He smiled;
I asked him if she were already provided for, or if he did not feel
it his duty to put by some kind of fortune for her.

“My child is watched over from heaven,” he said; “she will never
come to harm.”

“What is her name?” I asked. I had already ascertained his family
name to be Reinhold.

“Ambrosia,” he answered.

“Rather an uncommon name,” I remarked, well pleased, somehow, that
it should be so.

“Yes,” said the father, “and I dare say it will interest you
to hear the reason why she has that name. She was born on the
anniversary of the day that a young girl called Ambrosia came to
life here in the sixteenth century. This was how it happened. The
troubles of the Reformation were just beginning, and this young
girl, who was the burgomaster’s daughter, was famous through the
town for her holiness and modesty. She was betrothed to a young
merchant who had been her playmate in childhood. Did you notice
that great building on the corner of the street to the right of
the cathedral? That was her father’s house; it is a hotel now. Her
bridegroom lived two or three streets further off, on a corner
too; and under the corner window, which was beautifully carved
and painted, stood a wooden image of the Mother of God, with a
lamp before it which was never allowed to go out. It began to be
whispered about that Engelbrecht, the young lady’s betrothed, and a
very handsome, dashing young fellow, was rather inclined to the new
doctrines which Luther was then preaching all over Germany. Every
one wondered how Ambrosia would take this, but no one knew anything
positive until it became the talk of the city that one night
Engelbrecht and a few companions, heated with wine and singing
profane songs, had broken and extinguished the votive lamp before
the image under his window, and thrown the image itself into the
gutter. The next day it was known that Ambrosia was very ill, and
had sent for her lover. He came, and, as he really was very fond
of her, the sudden alteration in her looks frightened and subdued
him for the moment. She took off the betrothal ring he had put upon
her finger, and very gravely and sweetly told him that she could
never be his bride on earth, but that she fervently hoped that she
had indeed won his soul’s final salvation, through the joyful and
willing sacrifice of her own life. She said she should die on the
day that was fixed for their wedding, but that from the dead she
would speak to him yet, and in public. Then a year would go by,
and she told him that it was not given to her to know if he would
repent or not during that time, but that on the anniversary of her
death she would come to life again and walk from her tomb to the
cathedral and back; and she summoned him to meet her there. It was
her hope that, after that second call, he would surely be won back
to God. So when her wedding day came, although she seemed happy and
looked only very grave and pale, she called her father and mother
and her lover to her, and there, sitting by the window that looked
on the cathedral, she passed away without agony, and just as the
hour struck which should have seen her a new-made wife. She was not
buried for several days, for the scoffers said she was deceiving
the people and simulating death. Doctors and priests watched the
body for a week, and Mass was said in the room where she lay,
surrounded with flowers and tall tapers. Exorcisms were even read
over her, but the placid expression of her alabaster face seemed to
grow only more heavenly day by day. At last signs of decomposition
appeared, as if to make the marvel more certain, and those who
had watched the body drew up a legal declaration of her undoubted
death. She was brought to the churchyard, the family vault was
opened, and the coffin, which was still uncovered, was just going
to be finally closed, when she raised herself suddenly to a sitting
posture, and, seemingly transfigured into greater beauty than
had ever been hers in life, she gazed slowly round the crowd and
beckoned to her lover. He stood transfixed, and the people fell
back from him and left him face to face with his bride. She only
said in a clear, pitying voice that was heard by all, ‘Remember,
Engelbrecht, thy tryst with me one year from this day. God be with
thee until then.’

“She fell slowly backwards into her narrow couch, and when the
people had taken courage again, they came hurriedly and closed the
coffin in great awe. A year went by, and Engelbrecht, uneasy and
remorseful, plunged into worse excesses than ever, went heart and
soul, at least outwardly, into the Lutheran movement, and became
the head of a band of young men whose dissoluteness was spoken of
with disgust by the licentious reformers themselves. The day came,
and with it crowds flocked to the grave of Ambrosia. Those who had
gone at sunrise found a white-robed figure kneeling there, its face
hidden in its hands, and two long plaits of golden hair streaking
its drapery. Those who had watched all night and gone there the
evening previous after dusk, could tell nothing save that the grave
had been the same as ever, but they thought they must have slept
for a few minutes before midnight, since they had heard the quarter
strike from the cathedral, and had looked at their timepieces
directly after, and found it was half an hour _after_ midnight. The
radiant, silent figure was there then, and an odor as of incense
filled the night air. As soon as the cathedral doors were open
(it was in June), Ambrosia rose and turned towards the church.
Some sceptics who saw the strange procession, rushed at once to
the grave, and, hastily disinterring the coffin, found it empty.
Crowds joined the procession to the cathedral, which the young girl
reached during the first Mass, for the priests still had possession
of it then. Every one wondered if her lover would meet her, but no
sign of him appeared. Ambrosia looked incomparably more beautiful
than in life; her eyes were cast down, and she wore a golden
betrothal ring on her finger. She moved like a spirit, yet there
was no doubting the reality and substance of her presence. There
were many in the crowd who were scoffers and libertines, men whom
no virtuous maiden’s eye would as much as glance upon, yet even
they were silenced, and the marvellous beauty of Ambrosia seemed
to have no other effect upon them than one of awe and unconscious
restraint. The people followed her in and lined the aisles through
which they knew she would walk on leaving the cathedral. She knelt
for a moment before the high carved tabernacle, with a lovely
miniature spire, quite in a separate corner from the altar--you
have seen those tabernacles of ours in old Catholic churches in
other parts of Germany, _mein Herr_?--and then she turned slowly
back. There was no hurry, no anxiety nor expectancy, in her manner;
still Engelbrecht had not been seen. She had come to the middle of
the left aisle, still with her eyes persistently cast down, and
though the people had all asked her many questions as to their
future spiritual fate and that of others dear to them, yet she had
never answered a word. Now, she stopped deliberately, yet never
raising her eyes. A sob was heard in the crowd, and the serried
masses heaved to and fro as a young man forced his way violently
through. It was Engelbrecht, but he was unrecognizable. A cloak
covered him from head to foot--evidently a studied disguise--yet
what was more unlike him was his agitated, humble manner, the
look of passionate self-accusation in his drawn features, and his
impetuous disregard for appearances. As Ambrosia stopped, he rushed
forward with his arms extended, but some unseen power stayed his
progress, and though she was not a foot distant from him, he could
not touch her. For the first time she lifted her head, and a look
of love, pure as an angel’s over a repentant sinner, lighted up her
ethereal face and mingled with an expression of deepest gratitude.
She pointed to the betrothal ring on her finger, and then glanced
upward without uttering one word. This second warning from the
world of souls was of too solemn a nature to admit of even the holy
yet too human expression that her words had given to the first, but
it was unmistakably borne in upon the mind of her lover that as
long as he kept true to the faith, he might hope to claim her as
his spiritual bride in the kingdom of God. And, as she continued
her journey toward her grave, he did not even follow her, but
went straight to the Dominican convent and asked for the habit of
the order. Those who accompanied Ambrosia to the churchyard could
tell nothing as to the manner of her disappearance; all they knew
was that they saw her one moment, and the next they saw nothing.
Engelbrecht gave all his riches to the church to found a seminary
somewhere beyond the bounds of the heretical countries of Germany,
for the instruction of missionaries; the foundation eventually
became a house of his order. He wished his own dwelling to be used
for monastic or hospital purposes, should religion again revive in
Augsburg; but his wish was not fulfilled. The house was forfeited
to the state, and became successively a warehouse, a barrack, a
prison, and a factory. Now, it is a great printing-office, and
plenty of lies are coined into money within its walls, through the
partisan newspapers that issue from it. You can see the corner
window still, with its beautiful carving hardly injured by time,
and the empty niche beneath it where the image of the Mother of God
once stood. Have you noticed it, _mein Herr_?”

“No,” I said, hardly liking to answer, for fear of losing some
further detail. “But what of Engelbrecht?”

The old German looked surprised.

“Why, I have told you he became a monk.”

“But did he distinguish himself against the reformers?”

“Ah!” said Reinhold, reverentially, “God knows, and his bride, but
he left no record for the world to read. No doubt he worked out the
will of God.”

I was silent, for I was ashamed of myself in the presence of this
man, to whom the hidden life of the soul seemed so all-sufficient a
history.

Ambrosia, his daughter, had come back long before this story was
finished, and was sitting sewing diligently, and listening to it
with all her father’s pride and personal enthusiasm in the matter.

“So,” continued Reinhold, “the day of this wonder was remembered,
and among those who remained Catholics, it became a custom to
christen girls born on that day by the name of the holy maiden
Ambrosia. My child, thank God, was one of them.”

After listening to this peculiar and interesting legend, I led the
conversation to the book I wished to purchase, and which Ambrosia
had brought home with her on purpose. Reinhold knew the value of it
perfectly well, and firmly resisted my well-meant attempts to fix a
price upon it beyond what even its merits warranted. I was hardly
able to indulge in such extravagance, yet _bibliomania_ had always
been my besetting sin, and I had curtailed our little household
in many ways to feed my library. Besides, here was a charity as
well-deserved as it seemed well-placed; how else, with my limited
means, could I help my poor friends? But my fellow-bookworm was
proof against all such artifices, and I was reduced to ask him,
point-blank, was there anything which he would allow me to do for
him? Without the least show of fussy pride, but with a quiet, manly
gratitude that was immeasurably more dignified, he answered at
once, his voice shaking as he looked at his little son:

“A very little would make my child’s life happy and useful, and,
_lieber Herr_, that little I have it not.”

“How stupid of me!” I exclaimed. “I might have thought of that
myself. Is he to be a scholar, or an artist, or what?” I said,
stroking his hair, while his great eyes were fixed hungrily on mine.

“Books are his passion,” said his father, “and he knows all our
poets by heart. He should have a literary education, I think.”

“But,” said I, “he could not go alone to the university, and if
you do not mind leaving Augsburg, would it not be best for you all
to go together? I have some English friends at Bonn, Catholics
and rich people; they will do much for your child that I cannot
do, though my heart would rejoice to do it, so suppose we start
to-morrow?”

Reinhold looked up incredulously. Ambrosia laughed, and the poor
little cripple clapped his hands in ecstasy. I watched the girl
to see whether a shade of regret denoted ties of a tenderer or
more passionate nature than her strong, calm family affections;
but there was no sign of anything save quiet joy and a gratitude
that in its fulness made me feel quite ashamed. I kept thinking
of what could be done for her; whether my English friends at Bonn
could or would be kind to her in any practical way, and whether in
that case she and her father would ever submit to being provided
for by the kindness of strangers. She seemed too self-reliant for
that; and although she evidently longed for the same education
her brother was to have, and had, indeed, already amassed in the
intervals of her active work such miscellaneous knowledge as mere
reading could give her, yet I felt sure that she would insist on
earning her bread and helping to support her father. I decided on
introducing the old man to the notice of some great publisher,
with whom an arrangement about his manuscripts might perhaps be
made; but of this we did not speak just now. I left the room full
of our new projects, and spent the early part of the next day
in carefully visiting the scenes of Ambrosia’s life, death, and
marvellous resurrection. In the afternoon I went back to Reinhold’s
old-fashioned abode, and found everything nearly ready. The books
were packed in a curious old chest, which was certainly a quaint
contrast to the trunks and valises of modern tourists; this and
some of the old furniture, endeared to Reinhold and his daughter by
the associations of a lifetime, were to be forwarded to their new
destination through the care of the good “Pfarrer” (parish-priest),
and a few little necessaries (a very slender amount in the eyes of
our “girls of the period,” I fancy!) together with the precious
manuscripts, were to go with us in a large leather hand-bag, which
I volunteered to carry. I asked to be allowed to take charge of
the little brother too, as we were too near the railway to need
a carriage, but Ambrosia laughingly caught him up, and, with
gentle deftness, insisted on carrying him, telling me to give my
disengaged arm to her invalid father. As soon as we were seated in
the train, Ambrosia began to tell me that she had never been in one
before. I asked if she were sorry to leave the old town.

“Oh! no,” she said, “I know I shall go back there one day, when I
know more than I do now.”

I wondered if there were any hidden meaning in the words. Reinhold
and I talked “shop” all the way, till our fellow-passengers must
have been bored with our enthusiastic bibliomania. Ambrosia sat
chatting gayly to her little brother, whose glee and wonder were
sometimes gravely expressed in questions that made our neighbors
laugh. When we got to Bonn, and were comfortably settled at a
quiet, old-fashioned hotel, absolutely perfect in its appointments,
but as unobtrusive of its merits as its gaudy, noisy rivals were
shrilly eager about theirs, I set out to find my friends. They were
out of town. Without their influence I was powerless, so I had
to wait a few days for their return. They took up the matter as
warmly as I could have wished, and were particularly anxious to do
something for Ambrosia; the difficulty was to find something she
would accept. In the meantime, the crippled child was recommended
to the college authorities with plenty of guarantees, seen to
by the priest, who was my friend’s adviser and fellow-worker in
all his good schemes, and Reinhold was quietly put in the way of
good opportunities for the publication of some of his accumulated
writings. The little boy promised well, and I was more anxious
about Ambrosia, who wanted to support herself by needlework.

“You see,” she said to me, a week after our arrival, “some of the
work will be knitting, and I can read as I knit; then I will go to
school at night and on Sundays, and pick up what I can, and twice a
week I will make time for the singing-class. There is a very good
one, and so cheap, attached to our church here, and the master is a
really great artist, though he is old and very poor now. He and my
father will be friends, I know, so you see I shall be as well off
as it is possible.”

Nothing could move her from her resolve, and as I had to leave
Bonn shortly after, I was obliged to take things as they were.
I received monthly bulletins of my little _protégé’s_ conduct
and progress, and sometimes heard from Ambrosia and Reinhold,
through their rare but warm letters, though oftener from my
friends established at Bonn. After awhile, I heard that the girl
had consented to take music lessons twice a week, in the evening,
with Miss L., my friend’s niece, and sometimes to share her French
and Latin lessons. English she already knew. The needlework was
not abandoned, however, and Ambrosia, I was told, seemed to
gain new energy with each new pursuit she undertook. Reinhold’s
works were in a fair way of being successfully published, and
his circumstances were actually beginning to mend. I never heard
of such a lucky venture as that hurriedly made at the Augsburg
book-stall! Everything and everybody favored it, and my quiet old
sister at home used to make me tell the story over and over again,
as we turned over the pages of the book that had been the first
_deus ex machinâ_ of the romance. She was certainly disappointed
in the want of a lover for Ambrosia, and, to console herself, would
sometimes so arrange the little we knew as to make it the frame of
a possible love-story that we did not, and never might, know.

A year passed by in this way, when business called me up from
my cottage in the Isle of Wight to London. It was May, and the
exhibitions were just open. I went to Burlington House, and saw
very little that was worth seeing; then to Pall Mall, to some of
the minor galleries. The French collection of paintings was pretty
upon the whole, but suddenly I came upon a picture that was really
striking. An old German town and a cathedral painted to the very
life formed a most varied background, upon which a conventional
“crowd,” that is, a few picturesque groups of burghers and peasants
in the costume (accurate to the slightest detail) of the early part
of the sixteenth century, was represented, gazing at the central
figure, a maiden dressed in white, with two thick cords of golden
hair streaking the snowy robe. I looked at once for Mephistopheles
and his victim Faust, taking this for a novel and very artistic
representation of Goethe’s masterpiece; and turning to the
catalogue I looked for the name of the painter--“Franz Eichenthal.”
But the painting itself was marked “Ambrosia, a Legend of
Augsburg,” and in a few brief words beneath the story was told as
Reinhold had told it to me. Strangely interested, I looked at the
white figure; I saw the likeness which had before escaped me; it
was Ambrosia’s face, her abundant hair, her grand form; the repose,
the dignity that I so well remembered were there, but over the
whole was thrown an air of etherealized peace and beauty which was
a fitting tribute to the entirely spiritual essence of the story.
I looked to see if Engelbrecht were anywhere represented, and
thought I could discover him in a corner, half hidden by the shadow
from a buttress of the cathedral. There was a wonderfully energetic
expression about this face, which made me single it out from the
rest as being probably meant for the unhappy lover. There was
strength and nobility in the features, and an almost feminine grace
in the figure, while the look of horror and remorse struggling
with unbelief was in painful contrast with this courtly exterior.
Underneath, on the buttress, was carved, in antique characters, the
name of the painter, “Franciscus Eichenthal, pinxit.” It certainly
happened to be the most obvious place for this traditional
signature of the artist, yet I could not help fancying, almost
hoping, that there was more in it than a mere chance, and that
“Engelbrecht” was, in fact, the portrait of the painter himself.
Ambrosia’s face drew me to it again; the likeness was life itself,
yet such as an American authoress describes as “not the man that
we are, but the angel that we may be.” She says that “as to every
leaf and flower there is an ideal to which the growth of the plant
is constantly urging, so there is an ideal to every human being, a
perfect form in which it might appear, were every defect removed
and every characteristic excellence stimulated to the highest
point.” She likens this to the image of St. Augustine, as his
mother, with her spiritual prophetic sight, saw him all through
his reckless youth, and then says: “Could a mysterious foresight
unveil to us this resurrection form of the friends with whom we
daily walk, compassed about with mortal infirmity, we should follow
them with faith and reverence, through all the disguises of human
faults and weaknesses, waiting for the manifestation of the sons of
God.”[202]

The German artist seemed to have had some such revelation
vouchsafed to him concerning Ambrosia. The picture was unspeakably
beautiful, and I felt instinctively that in the future it would
become literally true. And yet the girl had never before struck
me as having so exalted a nature; perhaps it was that she was so
utterly unlike the usual ideal of a perfect woman.

I made inquiries as to whether the picture was an “order,” or
simply a speculation, and learned that it had been the latter, but
was now destined for the hall of the “Young Men’s Catholic Society”
at Augsburg. An English nobleman had been so struck with it abroad
that he had induced the artist to have it exhibited in London, and
had himself ordered engravings and photographs from it. I felt very
much inclined to go in for another extravagance, and have it copied
on a reduced scale for my library, but I thought it most prudent to
consult my sister first. I went home full of my discovery, and at
once wrote to Reinhold for an explanation.

I received a very happy letter from Ambrosia herself in return,
telling me of her engagement to the painter Eichenthal, who was an
Augsburg man, and had lived for many years quite close to their
old home, without either family having the remotest knowledge
of each other. At the singing-class these two had met, their
fellow-citizenship had first drawn them together, and the old
master, whose favorite pupil the artist was, had brought him to
see Reinhold. The result was natural, and my sister was innocently
enthusiastic over the ending in so pleasant a reality of the
romance she had begun in imagination many months before.

There was a quiet wedding at Bonn, and my friend’s niece,
Ambrosia’s companion in her studies, was bridesmaid. My sister
and I went over to be present, and the dear old father, now quite
strong again, gave his daughter a copy of his first published
work for a wedding gift. Next to the dedication leaf, which was
addressed to your humble servant, and overflowing with affectionate
expressions, there was a cheque for half the proceeds of the work
(and the sum was not to be sneered at, I can assure you).

Ambrosia and her husband then went to Rome, where Eichenthal
identified himself with the school of Overbeck, and became very
popular among the foreign visitors and patrons of art. The
Englishman who had taken such a fancy to his picture of the
Augsburg legend chanced to come across him again in Rome, and,
having succeeded to his father’s property, lavishly encouraged his
artist friend. A _replica_, full size, of the original “Ambrosia”
was painted for his chapel in England, and a large picture,
representing a group of the patron saints of his family clustering
round the throne of the Virgin and Child, was also ordered. The
painter’s wife was the model for a St. Catharine of Sienna, and the
Englishman himself, a thorough Saxon in build and features, made a
magnificent St. Edward the Confessor.

Several years later, the young couple settled in Augsburg, where
Eichenthal established a flourishing school of Christian art,
and used to give lectures on the subject in the very hall where
his first successful work was hung. Ambrosia’s brother got on so
wonderfully that at twenty he was made professor of belles-lettres
at Bonn, and was famous for writing the most beautiful religious
poetry that had been known for many years. Ambrosia’s children
gather round their young crippled uncle in the spacious,
old-fashioned house where Reinhold lives with his daughter, and
make him repeat wonderful mediæval legends clothed in verse of his
own. This is how he spends his vacation. Reinhold is always at his
manuscripts, and the same books that used to be his pitiful stock
in trade are now the cherished ornaments of his large library. The
Christmas-tree gathering in that house is a poem in itself. The
children of Ambrosia’s friend, the English girl of Bonn, are often
there playing with the artist’s beautiful boys, for there is no
Ambrosia the younger among Eichenthal’s children. The best society
of Augsburg, Protestant and Catholic alike, delight to honor the
successful artist; the musical soirées given in his house are as
perfect in their way as each of his own paintings, and never is
anything purely worldly allowed to appear under his roof.

“When I first saw my wife,” he says, “I was a Lutheran or rather
a so-called philosopher, but since I won her, I vowed to make her
my arbiter and my conscience; you see the result. ‘Seek first the
kingdom of God, and his justice, and all these things shall be
added unto you.’”

“And this is the end?” I said regretfully, as Archer paused.

“Not quite,” he answered with a peculiar smile; “the end will not
really come till Ambrosia has grown to be the counterpart of her
spiritual portrait. But she is growing towards that standard every
day. Would that you and I were, old friend!”

“There is time yet,” I said; “let us try.”




THE CHURCH.


It is of her womb that we are born; our nourishing is from her
milk; our quickening from her breath.... She it is who keeps us for
God, and appoints unto the kingdom the sons she has borne.... He
who leaves the church of Christ attains not to Christ’s rewards.
He is an alien, an outcast, an enemy. He can no longer have God
for a father who has not the church for a mother. If any man was
able to escape who remained without the ark of Noah, then will that
man escape who is out of doors beyond the church. The Lord warns
us, and says: “He who is not with me is against me; and he who
gathereth not with me scattereth.” ... He who gathereth elsewhere
but in the church, scatters the church of Christ.--_St. Cyprian._




THE NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY AS A BASIS OF HIGHER EDUCATION.

BY F. RAMIERE, S.J.

FROM THE ETUDES RELIGIEUSES.

CONCLUDED.


UTILITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE FORMATION OF THE POET AND OF THE
ORATOR.

The foregoing considerations have borne us up to those luminous
heights where philosophy, poetry, and eloquence, separated in
their lower regions, mingle and become one. Would to God that the
poets frequented more assiduously these sublime regions! How their
inspirations would gain in nobleness as well as in purity; how much
ignominy would they spare themselves; how many scandals to society!
We should not then see them separate beauty from truth, as they too
often do, place all the perfection of art in an empty form, and
make their independence consist in placing themselves under the
hateful yoke of error and of vice.

Such is the ignoble theory which one is compelled to sustain if he
deny that the study of philosophy is of the greatest utility for
the poet. Unfortunately, this theory has found in our days only too
many defenders. How much more numerous still are those who put it
in practice!

It is in vain, I know, for me to endeavor to bring back to a
sounder and nobler conception of the most beautiful of all arts
those poets who debase it by their very idolatry. But, though they
may despise the voice of a Christian, let them listen at least to
a pagan--a poet like themselves. It is a disciple of Epicurus, it
is Horace who tells them to what a shameful barrenness they condemn
themselves in refusing to draw from those sources which philosophy
opens up to them.

This great master of the poetic art declares to them plainly enough
that “unless they first learn to think well, it is vain for them to
hope to write well; that it is from philosophy they must borrow the
subjects which it is for poetry to adorn with her rich ornaments;
that beauty of style can only be the result of beauty of things;
and that a work which contains solid truths under an inelegant
form, has far more legitimate titles to real success than verses
bare of thought and resonant with trifles.”

    “Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons.
    Rem tibi Socraticæ poterunt ostendere chartæ;
    Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur....
    Interdum speciosa locis morataque recte
    Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte,
    Valdius oblectat populum meliusque moratur,
    Quam versus inopes rerum nugæque canoræ.”

If Horace returned among us, he would have no cause to congratulate
us on our fidelity in following those precepts, which good sense
dictated to him, and which all of us have learned by heart from our
childhood. Modern poetry has something far different to do than
demand of wisdom the theme of its song. It drinks, generally at
least, at founts of beauty of quite another character; the ideal
is nothing to it; the living expression of reality in its every
imperfection, of the revolting, of the hideous, such is the task
which it imposes on itself; emotion, such its aim--a surprising
strangeness of imagery, novelty of expression, peculiarity of
character, harshness of pictures, harmony of rhyme replacing
harmony of thought--behold its means of success. Behold the merits
which an effete society looks for in those whose mission is to
amuse it, and to which these easy-going poets sacrifice the most
magnificent gifts of the Creator.

Dante places in one of the circles of his hell a lost one whose
crime consisted in having, by vileness of heart, made a great
abdication (_Che fece per viltade il gran rifiuto_). It is
difficult to recognize this criminal, on whose brow inexorable
justice or the political rancor of the Florentine poet branded this
burning stigma. But to whom can it be applied more justly than to
these kings of poetry whom we see in our own days making themselves
slaves of a vile popularity; to these prophets of the natural
order, who prostitute to error the power which was given them to
embellish truth, and who employ the creative force which makes them
participators of the most noble attribute of Almighty God, in order
to form the idols which draw away the crowd from the altars of
Jehovah? O traitor poets! veritable apostates of genius, what gain
is yours in debasing thus the most beautiful of arts! In place of
profaning your lyre by songs which awake in hearts nothing but the
lowest desires and most guilty passions, would it not be worthier
of you to avail yourselves of this irresistible power of seduction
which you exercise over your brothers, in drawing them in your
train to the pursuit of true beauty? Do you alone fail to perceive
the forfeiture which threatens your genius from the moment that
it denies to truth the glorious testimony which truth demands of
it? Do you not see that the beauty of forms fails you from the
time that you seek it outside of the beauty of thoughts? Can you
be astonished that your influence over souls is null, when you are
pleased to destroy it with your own hands? Is it not you who, in
denying the philosophy which would elevate your art to the height
of a priesthood, reduce it to nothing more than a frivolous pastime
for the idle, unless, indeed, you place it as an incendiary torch
in the hands of the factious?

Still less than poetry may eloquence consent to lower its dignity
to the botching up of incoherent images and the nice balancing of
periods as empty as they are sonorous. More serious in its aim,
more positive in the immediate results which it has in view, it
can still less dispense with the assistance of philosophy. Listen
to one of its princes, who is at the same time the chief of its
lawgivers, while he proclaims loudly this dependence. “Let us lay
down in the beginning,” says Cicero, in the book _De Oratore_,
“that the aid of philosophy is indispensable for the formation of
the perfect orator whom we seek. It alone can open up to him an
inexhaustible source of great thoughts and developments as large
as they are varied. It is to it that Pericles owed, according to
the testimony of Plato, his superiority over all his rivals. The
lessons of Anaxagoras developed the fecundity of his genius; they
taught him, among other things, the great secret of eloquence, the
art of discerning the proper incentives for moving the passions
and the different faculties of the soul. Plato rendered the same
service to Demosthenes. And how,” continues Cicero, “how can
we without philosophy know the properties of things, whether
generic or specific, how can we define them, divide them, discern
the true from the false, deduce consequences, refute that which
is repugnant, distinguish that which is ambiguous? How can we
penetrate into the nature of things, a knowledge of which imparts
its chief richness to the discourse? How can we speak pertinently
of the moral life, of duties, of virtues, if we have not searched
deeply into these truths, aided by the light of philosophy?”

In these words, Cicero displays admirably the superiority of the
philosophic orator over the one who depends for the guarantee
of success on the facility of his memory, the wealth of his
imagination, or the vehemence of his feeling. Such a one without
doubt can carry off triumphs; he may reap the applause of the
crowd, and drag the masses in his train. The masses, who live
much more by imagination than by intelligence, scarcely perceive
the want of depth, and allow themselves to be captivated by the
splendor of imagery and the rush of movements. But he who would
seek a success more real than passing applause, he who would
understand that the aim of eloquence is to render men better, and
that imagery and feelings are for it but the instruments destined
to make truth triumph--such a man will strive above all to place
himself in possession of that truth which he is called upon to
communicate to his fellows, to know the nature and extent of the
duties whose observance he must inculcate, to acquire, in order to
communicate it to them, the true science of good and evil. Besides
this, he will study the nature of the souls over whom God destines
him to hold sway, by the all-powerful sceptre of speech; he will
inquire into the conditions and the requirements of each one of
those faculties and passions, which he ought alternately to move
like an obedient army, and push forward to the conquest of good and
the banishment of evil. When philosophy shall have given him this
knowledge, when it shall have arranged it in his mind in luminous
order, then the orator will be a priest. He will have nothing more
to do than, following the circumstances, to give to each of his
teeming thoughts the form which befits it: on whatever subject he
has to speak, the great principles will offer themselves, his plan
will be all arranged beforehand, the framework of his discourse
all laid out; his march will be firm, his divisions clear, his
advance irresistible; and, while the orator of imagination will go
on groping, without order and without light, contenting himself
with flowering the surface of the soul, the philosophic orator will
penetrate into the depths of the intellect, and will establish
therein, on convictions which cannot be broken down, the motives of
which he will avail himself victoriously to persuade the will.


VI.

NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE FORMATION OF THE THEOLOGIAN.

That we may comprehend in all its extent the utility of philosophy,
there remains still to be examined its relation with the divine
science--theology. A single glance will suffice to convince us that
there is no science with which it should be more intimately bound
up than with this queen of sciences, which occupies uncontested
the first place in the hierarchy of knowledge. This first rank
would have belonged of right to philosophy, had not God thought
it good to make us acquainted by his Word with the treasures of
his own science. But far from revelation having lowered our reason
by adding to its light a higher light; far from philosophy being
abased in receiving from the sovereign truth illuminations which
of itself it could never have attained, it has on the contrary
acquired thereby a wealth and an elevation incomparable; for, in
allying itself with the word of God, in uniting its gifts with the
gifts of faith, in applying its principles and processes to the
dogmas revealed, it has produced a science greater than itself,
though born in its bosom--a science divine in its object, like the
Word who is its father, although it remains human in form, like the
philosophy of which it has this form--the scholastic theology.

There is, then, between theology and philosophy a connection of
dependence, which renders the study of the first of these sciences
impossible without the preliminary study of the second. It is not
with theology as it is with faith: faith is entirely supernatural,
and consequently it cannot depend directly on any natural cause.
Thus we have established above that the utility of philosophy for
the acquirement and keeping of faith can only be a negative utility.

Theology, on the contrary, supernatural in its object, is natural
in its essence, since it consists in the rational analysis of the
data of faith. There is, then, nothing repugnant in admitting
the very direct and very positive influence which the study of
philosophy exercises over its acquisition.

This influence extends itself to every branch of theology--to
dogmatic theology first; for this branch of sacred science, as we
have shown in a preceding article, borrows from philosophy the
processes which it uses, the method which it follows, and the
greatest part of the definitions and axioms on which it depends.

God, having made use of human language in order to reveal to us his
mysteries, has laid us thereby under an obligation of applying, in
a just measure, to the supernatural order the ideas of the natural
order expressed by this language. We must therefore analyze with
the greatest care those ideas, under pain of comprehending nothing
of revelation, and of falling into the most fatal errors; and this
analysis ought to be proportionately more delicate when it applies
itself to ideas involved in the dogmas of faith, since it ought to
discern in those ideas that which is proper to the supernatural
order from that which belongs to the universal essence of things.

The study of dogmatic theology is then impossible if it does not
depend upon an exact and profound study of metaphysics. There is
not a single one of those general notions which the science of
metaphysics tries in its crucible that does not show itself again
in the different treatises of theology, and present itself before
us under all its forms. He who has not beforehand penetrated into
the depths of these notions will walk in darkness; he will hesitate
and be in constant doubt, and will have no means of protecting
himself from the grossest blunders save by imposing on himself the
rigorous task of studying philosophy in proportion as he advances
in the study of theology.

The same connection which exists between speculative philosophy
and dogmatic theology exists between practical philosophy, moral
theology, and canon law. Perhaps this latter connection is still
more intimate than the former; for in moral questions there is much
less of revealed truth than in dogmatic. The moral theologian,
then, will apply most often to reason for the principles which
ought to guide him. It is therefore by the aid of this torch that
he will solve the difficulties which present themselves in the
application of those principles. The greatest part of the duties
which man has to fulfil, whether towards God, towards his fellows,
or himself, pertain to the essential order, and are therefore under
the domain of philosophy. To it, in fine, belong those fundamental
theories on human actions and conscience which form as it were the
pivot of moral theology.

As for canon law, its study presupposes general notions on law and
on the conditions of social authority no less than the study of
civil jurisprudence. Natural right is the necessary preamble of
both; it establishes the base whereon is founded the legislation
of the church as well as of the state; it lays down the general
formulas which the positive laws apply to particular cases; it is
then to positive right, whether canonical or civil, what algebra is
to geometry. He who is possessed of it will have no difficulty in
generalizing particular data, and enlarging by simplifying them, as
he who ignores it will only acquire a far more imperfect knowledge
at the cost of a far greater amount of labor.

These considerations will aid us in comprehending the importance
which the church has attached from all time to the teachings of
philosophy in her universities, and the efforts she has made to
lift it up when she has seen it threatened by a disastrous decline.
If we have caught the straight line which connects this teaching
with that of sacred science, we shall no longer be astonished
at seeing a great Pope publish a bull in order to give to
philosophy the favor which the emoluments attached to the study
of jurisprudence tended to snatch from it. The church knew that
philosophy could not fall without theology falling with it. Would
that we could understand it thus, and apply to the restoration of
philosophy all the zeal which we ought to have for the resurrection
of the high ecclesiastical studies!

It is here--let us understand it well--that we must commence.
If you take St. Augustine or St. Thomas as the type of a great
theologian, you cannot fail to set upon his brow the aureola of
philosophy. A theology which, to the exposition of dogma, did
not unite its philosophic analysis, would be nothing more than a
catechism; it would have nothing in common with that magnificent
science, the materials of which the holy fathers have furnished,
and whose majestic edifice the scholastic doctors have built up.
Never will the priest be able to fulfil, in all its extent, the
function of doctor, unaided by a profound study of philosophy;
never, above all, will he be able to defend revealed truth against
the attacks of its enemies; for I ask, against what points are
these attacks directed to-day above all? Is it not against those
truths which belong at once to the natural and supernatural
order--to philosophy and theology? And of what arms do our enemies
avail themselves to effect a breach in these fundamental dogmas?
Are they not almost exclusively those with which a false philosophy
supplies them? What shall we do then, we, the defenders of truth?
What is our sacred, indispensable duty in the face of these
attacks, which day by day tear away one or other of the sheep from
the flock of the church? Are we to content ourselves with groaning
over the abuse of reason? Shall we give pretext to the ignorant
to conclude from our invectives that there is a contradiction
between our faith and true philosophy? No; we will mount the
breach boldly; we will capture the weapon which our enemy uses in
his attack. Our fathers in the faith have taught us how to wield
it. Let us demonstrate that true philosophy is on our side, and
that our adversaries can only attack our faith by denying their
own reason. Thus the ignorant will be enlightened; the wavering
minds strengthened; come what may, we shall have done our duty in
rendering to the Word of God the testimony which the necessities of
the time in which we live demand of us.

I trust I have said enough to disabuse those of their dangerous
error who believe that they glorify theology by vilifying with
all their power philosophy. Undoubtedly the philosophy which they
pursue with their invective is the philosophy which is separate
from faith, the philosophy of doubt, of revolt, that is to say,
the very opposite of true philosophy. But to hear them speak, one
would say, sometimes, that they recognized no other philosophy than
that, and conceded to their adversaries the absurd and insolent
pretension which they assume of being the representatives of
reason. Thank God, this pretension was never less defensible than
in our days; never has revolted reason done better the work of
faith by its monstrous excesses, and made more advantageous the
ground of the champions of the cause of God. Never was it more
manifest that there are no true defenders of human dignity except
the defenders of divine authority. Let us know how to profit by
our advantages. All of us who love the church and the doctrine of
heaven, whose depository is the church--we who groan under the
darkness which gathers round intelligence, and seems to thicken
day by day, let us unite our efforts, and employ every influence
we possess toward that restoration of true philosophy which is so
desirable. Thereby we render a service equally signal to society
and to the church: to society, which is being lost, because the
love of truth is extinguished in the hearts of men; to the church,
the mistress of truth, which has no longer a hold upon souls to
whom truth is nothing. Nay, more; to the divine Word himself we
render the greatest service he can expect from his creatures, by
re-establishing in their integrity the two channels whereby he
pours his light into our intelligence--the science of natural and
supernatural truths.

We must, in fact, lift ourselves up to the divine Word in order to
form an idea of the destination of philosophy, and to appreciate
exactly its dignity and importance. Is not he indeed the common
source of natural and supernatural truth? Different in their mode
of manifesting themselves to us, are they not identical in their
beginning? Whence comes it that, in perceiving the essential
properties of my soul, the laws of numbers and of figures, I am
absolutely certain that all minds which judge rightly must perceive
them in the same manner, and that never, at any moment of time or
eternity, can they perceive them otherwise? This necessity, this
immensity, this eternity, which our intelligence embraces, proves
to us manifestly that these essential laws which we perceive in
contingent beings are but the reproduction of a necessary and
infinite type. It is then the splendor of God, it is his Word, who
reveals himself to our reason, by the medium of his creatures,
before revealing himself to us by himself. Philosophy is, then,
truly a way which God has opened up for us of journeying to him,
and should we disdain to enter thereon? Should not we traverse it
with the same reverence with which Moses approached the burning
bush? And when, guided by Augustine and Thomas, we behold appear
before our eyes the great light of the idea of the infinite;
when that name Jehovah, He who is, graven in our soul by the
hand of God himself, and involved in the idea of being in all
our intellectual acts, shall unfold itself little by little and
grow in splendor, like the flame of the aurora, and reveal to
us at last in their infinite simplicity the multiplicity of the
divine attributes and the laws of all creation, shall we not bow
ourselves down before him with the prophet and intone a canticle
of acts of praise? And should we permit one to speak with contempt
of a science whereby God is manifested to us? Let one say all
the evil he wishes of that proud philosophy which seeks in the
natural light of reason a means of obscuring the supernatural
light of faith. Nothing, I acknowledge, is so revolting, nothing
so satanic, as this transformation of light into darkness which a
systematic incredulity effects in a rebellious intelligence. But,
in like manner, nothing is so beautiful, nothing so divine, as
the fusion of natural with supernatural light, of philosophy with
faith, which is effected in the intellect of a Christian. Read
the _Summa_ of St. Thomas, the _Confessions_ and the other works
of St. Augustine, the _Itinerarium of the Soul to God_ of St.
Bonaventure, and try, if you can, to separate one from another the
thoughts and the sentiments which these great doctors have borrowed
from faith, from those which they have borrowed from philosophy.
This separation you will find impossible--the rays of these two
torches are so intersected, united, and mingled in these splendid
intellects. Starting from the same focus, after traversing diverse
routes, they find themselves reunited in acting together on souls
as eager for science as they are docile to the teachings of faith;
and together they have worked in the soul to fulfil their common
mission, in producing in them the created image of the uncreated
Word. This union with the light of faith in the intellect of the
Christian is the end to which philosophy aspires, in the same way
as faith, penetrating into this intellect, seeks to unite itself
therein with science. “Faith seeking understanding.” Oh! how ill
do those understand the interests of philosophy who are ever
prating of its independence, and who by independence understand an
absolute separation between its teachings and those of revelation!
How can light tend to separate itself from light? No, not in this
separation does the dignity of philosophy consist; it consists,
on the contrary, in producing here below in the soul of its true
disciples a reflection and an outline of that splendor which the
clear vision of the divine essence produces in the intelligence of
the blessed, to make them comprehend what they believe in order to
make them love it the more.


VII.

But it is time to pause. However incomplete may have been the
development of the thesis I undertook to prove, I have said enough,
I think, to make obvious the capital importance of philosophy, its
necessity for the formation of the man and the Christian, of the
influential citizen and the defender of the church. Hence I have
a right to conclude that the far too narrow corner allotted by us
to this study in the framework of a liberal education is a very
great misfortune, and constitutes one of the gravest dangers of
the actual state of things. A society which neglects to form the
intellect of the new generation is evidently a society condemned to
an inevitable decay.

Independently of this common peril, very capable it seems of
awakening our solicitude, I have demonstrated that for the
unfortunate youth launched into the midst of the _mêlée_ of errors
without having been prepared by a deep study of truth, there was
a danger of disaster, from which he could only escape by miracle.
On whom, I ask, falls the responsibility of this disaster, save on
those who, with the power and obligation of giving this youth the
preparation whose necessity has been pointed out to them, shall
have neglected to acquit themselves of this duty?

It is not for me to say more. I know all the excuses that one
may justly allege to throw off this terrible responsibility. The
masters are hindered by the parents, the parents themselves are
hindered by social necessities. The anti-rational spirit of this
age of rationalism is like an impetuous wind which whirls away
youth far from serious reflection, and which neutralizes the best
directed teaching.

These excuses may quiet our consciences for the past, but they can
in no wise lessen our fears for the future. The evil exists in all
its gravity, and it is necessary at any cost to remedy it.

The first thing to do is clearly to use all our means of
persuasion, in order to make parents and youth themselves
comprehend the essential importance of philosophy. It is necessary
to accustom them from the earliest period of life to regard
this study as the indispensable completion of their education;
the most solid guarantee for their future success, the act of
emancipation of their manhood, the taking complete possession of
their dignity as men, and the most powerful instrument which they
are called upon to hold of influencing their fellows. If from
the moment of entering upon this laborious career of education,
we do not accustom them to consider the science of things as the
reward most to be desired of all the labors they undertake in
acquiring the science of words, we cannot expect that at the moment
when custom authorizes them to reclaim their liberty, they will
submit themselves willingly to bear two years longer the yoke of
dependence.

Here we have the first thing necessary to do in order to ward off
the immense danger with which the decline of philosophy threatens
us.

But there is a remedy still more efficacious and still more
necessary against this evil. If we wish philosophy to be esteemed
and studied, let us render it worthy of the esteem we claim for it,
and of the sacrifices at the cost of which it must be acquired.
Let us lift it up from its fall; let us prove, not by _a priori_
arguments, but by the very reality, that it is worthy of its
name. Let it appear in our books and in our hearts no longer as
we find it satirically represented in certain ancient pictures,
as the combat between a lizard and a scorpion, but like that bee
of which the church speaks to us in the beautiful Office of St.
Cecilia, which, reserving for the enemies of truth its piercing
sting, goes to place in the bottom of the chalice the most odorous
essence of all the flowers to compose for it its honey, _quasi
apis argumentosa_. Let us acknowledge, then, if philosophy is too
neglected and so profoundly despised in our days, it is above all
to those who have abused it that it ought to impute its disgrace.
Christianity had made philosophy divine, as it made divine
everything that it touched. It was a virgin as beautiful as she
was pure whose earthly form was surrounded by a halo of heaven.
Impure lovers of her human beauty have endeavored to force her to
apostasy, in order to be able to make her the toy of their swollen
pride. Alas! they have only been too successful. With its divine
beauty its very human form has passed away, and nothing is left in
their hands save a disfigured corpse. But God has made sciences
curable as well as nations. He only waits for us to lift up
philosophy from where she lies, and restore her to life and dignity.

Let us put an end to this senseless and fatal contest which during
two centuries reason has waged against faith; let us cease from
using against God the most noble gift with which he has endowed
our nature; let us cease to oppose light to light, natural to
supernatural truth; let us desist from converting the ray which
illumines our soul into a veil to hide us from the sun, and taking
the waters of the stream made turbid by our pride to trouble the
source. Let us, in a word, understand the true conditions of the
liberty and greatness of the creature: nothing of itself, it can
rise even to the infinite, to the condition of union with it, and
of leaning upon its strength.

Let reason understand this law which is so rational, and philosophy
by that same law take back the glorious place which God marked out
for it; it will remount the throne whence its revolt hurled it,
and acquire anew the right of dictating to the other sciences the
eternal principles and immutable laws on which the natural order
depends.

FOOTNOTE:

[202] Mrs. Beecher Stowe, _Minister’s Wooing_.




ON THE MISTY MOUNTAIN.

CONCLUDED.


ROUTE III.

One does not feel particularly festive starting out in the rain
and the dim uncertain light of the hour before day. The best thing
to be done under these circumstances is to go to sleep, if you can
sleep staging. The “front boot” affords a very comfortable berth,
of which the lieutenant took possession. I concluded to go inside,
and endeavor to snatch the shaky sleep of a coach. I felt as
though I could not keep awake if the road were picketed by hostile
redskins. The ladies--bless their kind souls!--sat close to make
room. I sank into a corner, and was soon jolted into a sleep.

I was aroused by a sudden stoppage. The day had dawned. I looked
out of the stage, and saw a wagon overturned in the road. Seeing
the conductor and the lieutenant alight, I alighted. The body of a
man lay by the upturned wagon.

“It’s poor Tommy!” said the lieutenant.

“I thought the thievin’, cowardly devils would git him at last,”
said the conductor. “Poor old Tommy! It will be an awful blow for
his wife and her six poor orphans.”

Yes! there lay poor Tommy in the early sunlight--dead, stripped,
and scalped. His clothes had been torn from his body, which was
gashed in every limb. Every gash, the lieutenant told me, was the
sign of a different tribe. The number on poor Tommy’s body showed
that representatives of seven tribes assisted at his murder. His
throat was cut across--the sign of the “Cut-throats.” His arms and
his thighs were crossed by deep transverse gashes. His abdomen was
scored by two long gashes meeting in a point. The lieutenant told
me the names of the tribes whose devilish signs-manual were written
in the blood and on the flesh of poor “Tommy John,” but I have
memory only of one in the horrid sight then before me.

The oxen lay with their throats cut and large pieces hacked out of
their still quivering flanks. The Indians had taken everything they
could use. What they did not take, with savage malignity they had
broken into atoms or torn into shreds. A baby’s crib and a child’s
chair which the poor fond father was taking to his little ones on
the “Sandy” were broken into very chips.

We remained for some time gazing on this horrid sight. No one
spoke. At length the lieutenant and sergeant decently covered the
mangled body with a blanket. As we were already behind time, the
conductor said he could not take back to the station the body of
the murdered man. We concluded to remain by it until the arrival of
the stage from the West, which was already due at that point.

It was a sad vigil--fortunately not a prolonged one. The stage
from the West arrived. It had no passengers. We wrapped poor Tommy
in an additional blanket, and the coach drove off, taking him away
for ever on this earth from his “old lady and his half-dozen babies
over on the Sandy.”

After having examined the “signs” about the place of the murder,
the lieutenant and the conductor estimated the number of Indians
engaged in the bloody deed at about fifty. Matters became critical.
I could not stay inside the stage any longer. I mounted the roof
once more, feeling that if I were to be killed by Indians--a fate
to which I did not in the least aspire--I wanted to see whence my
death-bolt came, and have plenty of room to die in.

The party on top of the stage seemed quite cool, but by no means
conversationally inclined. I could see their keen eyes continually
making the circuit of the horizon, which traced around us a perfect
circle unbroken by mound or shrub.

We reached the Lone Hollow Station, a “swing,” twenty-eight miles
from Artesian Wells, without seeing any more signs of Indians.
Here we found yesterday’s Western-bound stage. It had started at
the usual time, but when within a mile or so of Cypress Spring,
an abandoned intermediate or “swing” station, the driver saw the
buildings in flames. With a glass he could discern Indians about
the burning structures. He had wisely concluded to turn back to the
station he had left, and there we found him. He had no passengers.

Lone Hollow Station was kept by a solitary stock-tender--an old
fellow who received “$75 per month and found,” for offering himself
as a perpetual candidate for immolation by his red brethren.

When we arrived at the Lone Hollow, I felt an unaccountable
buoyancy and a rather humiliating craving for food--animal or
vegetable. Fortunately, the old stock-trader had some biscuit and
a large panful of dried apples. Tea was soon made, and I ate an
immense meal. I was not alone in this, however; the lieutenant,
the conductor, in short everybody, ate voraciously, except the
women, who still clung to the coach, and could not be prevailed
upon to change their position for a moment. The men were all in
high spirits, and there seemed to be no more trace of Tommy John’s
memory than if he had never been.

“How do you find it here now?” asked the lieutenant of the old
stock-tender. “Pretty lonely?”

“Well,” answered John, “rather. Before they sent away the hosses
and tuk to mules, things wuz more sociable-like. I got fond of
them hosses, and them hosses got fond of me. But a mule ain’t got
no feelin’ for nobody. You can’t trust ’em. They’re too tricky. I
didn’t feel near so lonesome last year. I had a big yellow dog that
was the best companion I ever had. But he got pisoned, by eatin’
wolf-bait most likely; and now I ain’t got nothin’ but two small
pups, and they ain’t no society for a man.”

“I should think not,” said the lieutenant.

With an abominable want of _savoir-faire_, I must strike in at this
point with the following:

“Being alone here, are you not afraid of Indians?”

The question was one which evidently disturbed the old fellow. I
saw it was a sore subject with him, and regretted having touched
upon it. It was plain he wished to keep it out of his thoughts.

“The Injuns won’t bother me,” he said nervously and impatiently,
as if hastily thrusting the skeleton out of sight.

The “dug-out” has its skeleton-closet as well as the palace.

“What do you do to pass the time, John?” asked the conductor.

“Well,” replied John, “I cook--look after the mules--_promenade_
up to the crest of the ridge. When all my work is done, and I want
something to keep my mind occupied, I mend old clothes.”

Our colloquy was cut short, by the warning cry of “All aboard!”

Both coaches were ready to start. The conductors had concluded to
unite their forces. This arrangement gave more room. We divided our
party; the lieutenant and I mounted the empty coach, which now took
the lead, followed at about fifty yards by the other.

The flash of good spirits which blazed momentarily at the station
soon died out. Everybody seemed disposed to silence. We were all
busy, straining our eyes, watching for Indians.

Ten miles passed thus without other conversation than monosyllabic
remarks. From the top of a “divide,” we now looked upon the
charred and smouldering relics of Cypress Station. We stopped and
reconnoitred carefully before descending. There were no Indians
to be seen. Having descended the Hollow in which the station
had stood, we found the tracks very fresh. The lieutenant, the
sergeant, and the conductor, attended by the writer (through
curiosity rather than bravery), alighted and examined the ground.
The Indians had destroyed everything they could lay hands on
outside of the redoubts or “dug-outs.” These they had not dared to
enter. The rough “bunks” of undressed timber used by the guards
were untouched. In one was found a water-keg, and in the other
a woollen blanket, left in the hurry of departure, but which no
Indian could have seen and not appropriated to his own use and
benefit.

“The Indians are afraid of those ‘dug-outs’ even when unoccupied,”
said the lieutenant. “They do not like to go near them--much less
enter them. They fear a trap of some kind. An Indian always strives
to keep his lines of retreat open; he wants a good chance to run
away. Indians have been known to watch about abandoned stations for
days before daring to go within rifle-range of the ‘dug-outs.’”

Within four miles of Sandy Station, a spur sweeping semicircularly
from a high bluff to the north nearly touches the road on that
side, while the great bend of the Big Dryasdust cuts into it on the
south. The lowland to the west of the spur is entirely concealed
from the view of the traveller. This was a favorite place for
Indian ambuscades, and we approached it with great caution. After
crossing the bridge the driver said to the conductor:

“Ain’t that Mac’s pony out yonder?”

“Let’s see!” said the conductor, taking the field-glass and
adjusting it. “Pull up a minute, Joe! I can’t see with this outfit
while the coach is moving. Now, then! By the law, sir, that there’s
Mac’s pony! He acts mighty strange, too. He is either lamed or
hobbled. No! by gracious! he’s not hobbled. He’s saddled, too! He’s
wounded, sir! You may bet your bottom dollar!”

“Drive over to him and see,” said the lieutenant.

The coaches were driven to where the pony was on the prairie, about
a mile from the road. The lieutenant jumped out.

“Gentlemen!” said he, “this is more Indian work.”

And so it was. The pony had one bullet-hole through the near
foreshoulder. A second ball had struck it on the lower jaw, and
turned a portion of it with the teeth over on the tongue, which was
held as in a vice. The poor animal seemed to suffer intensely. It
was proposed to shoot it to end its suffering, but the proposition
was not agreed to.

“Let’s try and prise back his teeth so that he can eat, and he’ll
find his way back to the station.”

With a “king-bolt” for a lever, by the united efforts of four men
the teeth with the portion of the lower jaw containing them were
turned back, and resumed their natural position with a snap like
that of a spring-lock. The poor animal, relieved, at once began
grazing.

“Come, gentlemen,” said the driver, “get aboard, and let’s make for
the station. There’s been trouble, sure.”

When we reached the road again the conductor of our coach said
he heard a shot in the direction of the station. The lieutenant
said he thought he had heard it, but it might be imagination, our
thoughts being occupied by such anticipations. All doubts were
soon at an end, however, for we all heard the next shot, and then
another and another.

You get within half a mile of Sandy Station before you see it. As
soon as we reached the point from which it is visible, we could
see that a pretty lively fight was going on between the men at the
station and a mounted party on the opposite bank of the stream.
The attacking party were about fifty in number, all mounted, some
having remounts which they led. They rode at full speed in single
file, at intervals of some paces, in a circle whose circumference
at the point opposite to the station nearly reached the stream.
Each horseman fired as he reached this point. The party at the
station were well covered by the roof of a “dug-out” stable cut
in the bank. The attacking party looked more like Mexicans than
Indians. They wore wide-brimmed straw hats, and their body-covering
was of a dark color.

The conductor, however, pronounced them Indians.

“They have,” said he, “the broad-brimmed straw hats, uniform coats,
and six-shooters given them by the Peace Commissioners last spring.”

The drivers now dashed on with all the speed of their animals, “to
have a little piece of the fight,” they said; but, no doubt, also
to escape being cut off by a party who were evidently preparing to
cross the creek for that purpose. Fortunately, though there was
very little water in the stream, it was very wide, and full of
soft, wet, treacherous sand. Half a dozen Indians galloped to the
bank when they saw us, and rode up and down seeking for a crossing.
One of them dashed in, and his pony soon went down to its flanks.
Two snap-shots from our stage as we dashed by grazed him pretty
closely. A third wounded him and caused him to abandon his pony.
He was helped up the bank by the others, put on a spare pony, and,
supported by an Indian on either side, was carried at full speed
out of range. Luckily for the other Indians, they succeeded in
doing this while we were getting out of the stage, which we did as
quickly as possible after getting the ladies’ coach under the lee
of the stable.

We were all anxious, of course, “to get a shot in the fight.” I was
in a state of intense excitement. I received a pretty lively shock
from the unexpected discharge of my gun while I was in the act of
cocking it. Its position was fortunately, however, a vertical one.
My friends, hearing the fire in the rear, swore, started, turned
round, as if each and every one of them had received a bullet.
Seeing the source of the firing, and finding nobody hurt, they
laughed, but insisted I should henceforth move in advance, as they
could not stand such firing as mine. After this little episode, I
“got in” a couple of shots; I cannot say with what success, as for
the life of me I could not tell where my bullets struck.

There were now on our side ten men and a non-commissioned
officer of regular infantry, two or three station men, and our
reinforcement of two drivers, two conductors, the lieutenant, the
sergeant, and myself. One or two good volleys from our party soon
put an end to the circus performances of the “friendly Indians.”
They scattered and disappeared as if by magic. They sent us their
P.P.C. compliments in some stray shots, the flash and smoke
revealing whence they came, not an Indian being in sight.

“Now, gentlemen!” said Mr. Bunter, the station-keeper, “I think we
can take a bite o’ dinner.”

The worthy landlady, Mrs. Bunter, furnished a notable instance of
the susceptibility and indifference to externals of the lovers
of the plains. She was known, I was informed, as the “widow,”
though her husband, a tall, broad-chested, intelligent-looking man
of about thirty-three or thirty-four, was “alive,” and probably
capable of a good deal of vigorous “kicking.” The _sobriquet_
had clung to the lady from her very general appearance in the
character indicated by it. Her present husband was the fourth or
fifth occupant of the position. Notwithstanding the number of her
husbands, her terms of wedded bliss were very brief. Widowhood
was the rule, connubial felicity the exception. Hence was it
that, though married, she was still universally spoken of as “the
widow,” and some not very intimate acquaintances already knew her
as the Widow Bunter. The stalwart husband did not appear to see any
unpleasant significance in the title given his fair spouse. He was
jovial, and seemed contented.

“The widow” did the service of the table, and very well served and
supplied it was. A good antelope stew, with cabbage and potatoes
(luxuries in the then uncultivated world of the plains), good bread
and butter, pies, and an excellent cup of tea, made us all feel,
as our driver expressed it, “mighty good.” Mrs. Bunter evidently
made pretensions to personal attractiveness. She was a woman of
thirty--perhaps past that proverbially captivating age--very tall,
lank, concave-chested, with great projecting teeth and bony,
clawlike fingers. Her long, thin visage was thickly coated with
rice powder (or flour), which stood out in bold ridges on her high
cheek-bones, while pools of rouge shone in the cavities of her
hollow cheeks. She had a clear, cold, steady eye, however, which
showed that, if she was devoid of heart, as was commonly supposed,
she was not without a will of her own. In her time, she had created
quite a flutter among the gentlemen of the stage-driving and
stock-tending professions. The dread of relicts which embittered
the maturer years of the elder Weller had no place in the bold
bosoms of the “whips” of the desert. More than one man (not
including her four dear departed) had died “for her sake.” The
shooting of one suitor only had the effect which hanging a British
admiral formerly was supposed to have--that of “encouraging the
others.”

Swift and ample justice was done to the “squarest meal,” as the
driver termed it, we had upon the road. A very few minutes sufficed
us to make a hearty dinner, and we were seated in the porch, pipes
were being filled and lighted, preparatory to a discussion of the
various incidents of the fight, when the wounded pony we had seen
upon the road limped into the station. His master had not been dead
more than a few hours, but he was completely forgotten until the
arrival of his wounded horse brought him to mind again. So ordinary
an event was the killing of a man by Indians, at that time, on the
Misty Mountain.

“Where’s Mac?” asked the driver.

“In yonder,” answered our host, nodding toward the granary.

“Hurt?”

“Killed.”

“How?”

“The fust we knew there wuz Injuns around wuz when Mac was
attacked. He rode down to the Butte to bring in a horse from the
herd. We heard shootin’ down that way. Jim and I and the blacksmith
took our arms and rode toward the firin’. When we got near the
Butte, we seen three our four Injuns circlin’ round Mac, whose
pony was wounded, firin’ at him from all directions. I think he
wuz already dead when we first seen him. We made all the haste we
could, and druv them from the body, but we wuz too late to stop
‘em from playin’ some o’ their usual tricks. We got the body on
to one of the horses, and started back for the station at an easy
pace, drivin’ in the loose stock afore us. When we’d come within
about three-quarters of a mile of the station, we seen the soldiers
runnin’ towards us with their muskets in their hands and makin’
signs to us. I looked back and seen the durned Injuns with twenty
or thirty more comin’ for us. I hollered to Jim and the smith to
light out for the station. We separated, to give the soldiers a
chance to git in their fire on ’em, which they did. This staggered
’em somewhat and saved us. They got two of our animals, though!”

Some one proposed going to the granary to look at poor Mac’s
remains. The body lay among corn-sacks and miscellaneous stores.
Mac was a tall, well-shaped young fellow of twenty-three or
twenty-four. He had evidently made the best fight he could. When
he left the station, his revolver had but two loads. He fired them
both at his savage foes. Bunter said, had it not been for the
wounding of his pony, “the Indians would not have got him.”

The Indians had raised Mac’s entire scalp, slitting it through the
centre and turning it down over his face. This sight was not beheld
unmoved by even the most hardened frontierman in the party. Had
one of those worthy and humane gentlemen, the Peace Commissioners,
unfortunately dropped in at that moment, I fear he might have been
the recipient of much personal indignity, if not of serious bodily
harm. The presence of a regular officer with the station-guard
would have saved him from falling a martyr to his humanitarian
convictions. Without the soldiers he might even attain the crown of
martyrdom.

“As we’re here, boys,” said the driver, with a view to economy of
time, “let’s fix him out like a Christian.”

Rough in speech, yet tender in action, they set to work to make
ready poor Mac’s remains for the grave. His scalp was returned
to its proper place and sewed together, his hair combed, and his
blood-stained face cleansed of its gory marks. He was shrouded
in a pair of soldier’s drawers and an under-shirt. Several empty
chests in the room were measured, but proved too short for a
coffin. A large arms-chest was furnished by the soldiers, which,
with a slight addition to its length, supplied the improvised bier
on which we laid “poor Mac.” Scarcely had these sad offices been
performed when the sentinel without shouted:

“Indians in sight!”

There was a rush for the outside. Every man picked up his gun. With
the glass the Indians could be seen crossing the stream near where
they had murdered MacSorley. The party was increased to a hundred
and fifty or two hundred. They moved to the top of the bluff, and
remained there for some time, apparently holding a council as to
their future movements. The lieutenant, after instructing the
commander of the station-guard to wake him as soon as the Indians
showed a disposition to move, spread out his blankets, lay down,
and fell asleep over a novel. The driver and conductor followed his
example; and the latter was soon in the arms of Morpheus. But I
could not sleep. I was too much excited by the unusual events I had
witnessed during the past twenty-four hours. So I fraternized with
the soldiers of the guard, and listened to their opinions on Indian
matters, and their tales of Indian adventure.

About sunset the Indians began to move. Unanimity of action was not
the result of their council; they separated into two parties, one
of which went due east, the other to the northwest, passing in rear
of the station, but at the respectful distance of three or four
miles from it.

Night fell at last. Sentinels having been properly posted, all
who were not on guard, except the lieutenant and the writer, went
to bed, or, rather, to a blanket on the floor. I sat up to write
some letters by a dirty, sputtering candle on a lame, old table,
the only furniture in the room, except a greasy, rickety chair. The
lieutenant read his novel by the better light of a civilized candle
which, knowing the customs of the region, he had had the good sense
to bring with him.

The savage stillness of night on the plains fell upon the place. No
sound was heard save the occasional wailing of the hungry wolves,
that thronged around the barn where the dead man lay.

“Confound that horrible noise!” said the lieutenant, at last
jumping up and shutting his novel with a bang. “It sets my teeth on
edge, and rasps every nerve in my body. Let us go out and smoke in
the open air before turning in!”

We lighted our pipes and went forth, turning our steps toward the
barn. Half a dozen wolves sat around the building, looking like
professional mourners, and moaning their hunger-melancholy moans.
We were close to them before they would move. One of them was so
hunger-bold that he stood at bay for a moment, and the lieutenant
thought it necessary to draw his pistol and cock it. The click
was enough for the wolf, who dashed off at once, growling with
head still turned towards us, and teeth shining in a parting
snarl. After smoking we proceeded upstairs, to a cold, cheerless,
unfurnished room, and betook us to our blankets. The wind howled
dismally through the unglazed sashes. We sought positions the
least exposed to cross-draughts. Spreading our blankets on the
floor, unswept except by the wind, we lay down to such rest as
excitement, fatigue, and youth can bring.

We did not rise so early next morning as might be supposed from
a calm consideration of our sleeping accommodations. We were up
in time for breakfast, however. It was a good one, and we enjoyed
it. After its conclusion arrangements were made for the burial of
MacSorley. It was decided that he should be buried on the top of a
high mound within about a thousand yards of the station.

The funeral _cortége_ was neither large nor imposing. It consisted
of Mr. Bunter, two or three stage drivers and stock-tenders, the
lieutenant, the sergeant, and the writer. The guards, excepting
those necessary to protect the station, were out, posted around on
commanding eminences to prevent a surprise.

The grave was already dug. The rough substitute for a coffin, drawn
to the place of interment on a hayrack, was covered with its earthy
bed as tenderly as possible.

Bunter had asked the lieutenant to read prayers at the grave; and
the latter had consented. But there was no prayer-book to be found
at the station. Bunter requested the lieutenant to improvise a
prayer for the dead, when one of the men began shovelling the earth
into the grave.

“Hold on, Jack!” said Bunter, “the lieutenant’s goin’ to say a
prayer.”

Jack “held on,” looking rather astonished at this unusual delay.

The lieutenant threw earth upon the coffin, repeating, with a
voice full of emotion, such devotional passages, appropriate to
the occasion, as occurred to him, ending with the simple but
all-including words of the church: “May God have mercy on his soul!”

Jack, supposing it unnecessary to “hold on” any longer, commenced
pitching in the clay with the rather out-of-place energy usually
displayed in the performance of that last duty.

“Hold on, Jack!” cried Mr. Bunter a second time, “the lieutenant
ain’t through yet.” And Jack unwillingly ceased his labors for
awhile.

“I have finished,” said the lieutenant. “I am but a poor hand at
public praying; but if I spoke for an hour it would amount to no
more than what I have said.”

“We don’t know whose turn it may be next,” said a young driver,
feeling it proper to indulge in the hackneyed morality of such
occasions--words given forth, perhaps, as mere conversational small
change; but their truth was made terribly manifest shortly after.
It was the young driver’s turn next. A month had not elapsed before
he was killed and scalped within a mile of the station. When I
passed there at a later period, they recalled what he had said, and
showed me his grave by the side of MacSorley’s.


ROUTE IV.

The Big Sandy Station soon became terribly dull. I felt I would
rather risk being scalped than stay there any longer. Learning that
some emigrants with their families, two wagons, etc., were about to
push westward, and that the lieutenant had determined to go to the
next station with them, though they set out against his advice, I
concluded to go on with him.

We made an early start next morning. We had two government wagons
and some half a dozen men besides the emigrant contingent. When we
had reached a point about a mile and a half from Big Sandy Station,
the sergeant said to the lieutenant in a low tone:

“Lieutenant, there are Indians on that hill in front of us.”

The hill was about fifteen hundred yards distant. The lieutenant
called a halt, and examined the redskins through a field-glass.

“They are Indians,” he said, “and in pretty strong force,” at the
same time handing me the glass.

The hillside literally swarmed with mounted Indians, moving
incessantly, like ants crawling up and down an ant-hill. The
dust of two parties--each about fifty strong, judging by that
indication--could be seen rising from a ravine which ran along the
base of the hill and across the road over which lay our route. It
was also noticed that the dust aforesaid ceased at the road.

The move was evident. They lay in ambuscade to capture us. We got
out our arms, but eight or nine weapons in all, the emigrants being
unarmed, and began withdrawing slowly to Big Sandy.

The children wept and screamed. The women howled that they _would_
be taken by the Indians. They scolded and lamented by turns. The
men said nothing. They were not in a talking mood, nor was anybody
just then--except the ladies. We effected our retreat in good
order, the unarmed men driving the teams, the armed protecting “the
movement.” Some Indians followed us, just out of range, and one
whom I shall always see in my mind’s eye, on a white pony, followed
on at the same distance until we reached Big Sandy Station once
more.

The next day we again got tired of smoking, talking, and reading
novels. The lieutenant succeeded in getting a coach, and he and I
with three men and the sergeant, all armed this time, started once
more for Welcome Spring Station--the next on our route West.

We had a good driver and a splendid team of mules. Arrived at
about six miles west of Big Sandy, we saw some Indians, twelve
or fifteen, coming toward us from a distance. A judicious use of
mule power soon put them out of sight. We had no further trouble
until we came within five or six miles of Welcome Station. There,
after we had almost entirely dismissed Indian dangers from our
minds, we suddenly discovered three parties in uncomfortably close
proximity. They were coming towards us at a good round pace. Two of
the parties numbered about fifty each, the third about half that
number. The last mentioned was evidently trying to cut us off from
the station, while the other two were closing in upon us from the
right and left.

The curtains were thrown up. The coach bristled with needle-guns on
every side.

“NOW GO IT,” said the lieutenant.

_And we went it!_

“If the wheels don’t take fire,” said the driver tremulously, “we
may make it!”

On we went!--good Springfield breech-loaders, loaded and cocked,
thrust out behind, before, and on each side of the coach. On came
the Indians! Rather chary, however, of the breech-loaders, but
looking for something to turn up. Their sudden dash had failed.
There was now the chance of our being cut off by the third party.
The driver plied whip and voice. The mules almost flew to gain the
turning-point.

We passed the important point without breaking anything. Then our
mules were brought down to a less expeditious, though by no means
contemptible pace. The Indians slackened their speed and gave up
the job. They still followed us, however, at a respectful distance,
until we came in sight of the station.

Welcome Spring Station was a welcome station to us. I felt so
happy that I jumped out through the coach window, disdaining the
commonplace convenience of a door. What appetites we had! What a
dinner we ate! And what a glorious sleep we had on some corn-sacks
in the stable!

Our route henceforth lay through a more settled country. No further
danger from Indians was to be feared. We enjoyed the ride. The
sight of mountains in the distance and soon, of tall pines all
around us had a cheering influence on me. The lieutenant, who was
in the very best humor, said he was so much accustomed to life on
the plains that he had acquired a dislike to wooded countries. Even
when on leave of absence in the East, where there was not the ghost
of an Indian to be feared, he experienced a feeling of insecurity
when in woodland. He wanted to have plenty of elbow room, he said,
and to see all around him for miles.

We reached Sierra City without further incident next morning. The
lieutenant and I parted, with many kind wishes on both sides and
hope of meeting again.

I have not since met my military friend. I have even forgotten his
name. My memory never was much better than a waste, and names were
the very last things that would take root in it. I hope yet to meet
my old Misty Mountain companion. When I do, may he be, at least, a
major!

I returned over the same route. All was then quiet on the Misty
Mountain. The only change I saw was that two more graves had been
made by the side of MacSorley’s, on the high mound near the Big
Sandy--“killed by Indians.”

Before I made my Misty Mountain trip, I had a boy’s usual desire
for a soldier’s life. That trip was the turning-point in my
desires. I have “seen Indians” since, and in my summer vacations
have occasionally accompanied scouting parties against the hostile
tribes. My further experience completed the change in my tastes.
The life of a soldier on the frontier has no charms for me.
Fighting Indians is far harder work than fighting a civilized foe.
It is continued privation, suffering, and danger. Even success, so
difficult of achievement in this species of warfare, is generally
repaid, not by glory, but by misrepresentation and ingratitude.

I am content with my old desk in the dingy old office in the
leathery old Swamp. The smell of the leather is more grateful to me
than the purest of prairie breezes, which, when it plays with your
locks, is unpleasantly suggestive, to those acquainted with the
usages of Indian warfare.




ORLÉANS AND ITS CLERGY.


In the outskirts of Orléans, between the roads leading to Paris and
Chartres, stands an antique chapel under the invocation of Notre
Dame des Aydes--the remains of a former hospital. Thousands of
pilgrims have been here to pray, from age to age: among them the
last of the Valois, the indolent Henry III. A small statue of Our
Lady of Aid on one of the gables seems to welcome and bless the
traveller. To this sacred spot, that for ages had known no other
sound but the voice of prayer and praise, and no other smoke but
that of holy incense, came the din of war and the smoke of cannon.
Around this asylum of peace took place one of the most thrilling
scenes of the late war. The battalion of foreign legions held the
place for a time under a frightful cannonading on the part of the
Prussian forces. M. Arago, the commander, perished gloriously on
the field of battle. The thirteen hundred men under him were of all
races and climes. The Austrian mingled with the Italian; the negro
of the desert with the Polish exile; the Chinese with the Servian
prince. Of these, six hundred were killed or wounded; three hundred
made prisoners; the remainder escaped to recommence the combat
elsewhere. The Germans pressed on, leaving behind them the flaming
houses of the faubourgs to record their triumph. They pushed into
the very heart of the city--to the statue of Joan of Arc, which
must have wept out its very heart of stone at its powerlessness to
drive out this new invader--to the steps of the church where the
holy maid once worshipped, or, if not the same, to one on the same
spot, for the ancient church of Ste. Croix was destroyed by those
_Brise-Moutiers_, the Calvinists, and rebuilt by Henry IV.

Among the inhabitants of Orléans, one man of sacred character and
European reputation stands out prominently at the time of this
invasion--the illustrious Bishop Dupanloup. This eminent prelate
has had the unique privilege of displaying his eloquence before
a very unusual variety of audiences--at the Sorbonne, the French
Academy, the Palais de Justice, the National Assemblies, the
pulpit of Notre Dame de Paris, and the Council of the Vatican. He
has also pleaded the cause of weakness, justice, and patriotism
before an arrogant conqueror. In this time of universal alarm, the
Bishop of Orléans proved himself a worthy successor of the bishops
in the times of the invasions of the barbarians, around whom
gathered the multitude with a feeling of security. Wherever there
was severity to be tempered, crime to be denounced, wounded to be
rescued, or condemned to be saved, he was brought to interpose.
The panic-struck women from the smoking ruins of Châteaudun betook
themselves to him. He was a refuge when every other hope failed.
The august function of Defensor Civitatis, Defender of the City,
which the popular voice once bestowed on the bishops, had come
down from the ages of faith. St. Agnan’s holy prayers are said to
have delivered Orléans from Attila, who besieged it in the fifth
century. Hence, every bishop of Orléans, when he took possession
of his see, enjoyed for ages the privilege of delivering all
prisoners. When the new bishop approached the city, all the
prisoners came out in procession with ropes around their necks, and
knelt before him to implore release. Then they went back to the
city, and heard Mass in the church of St. Yves. At a later hour
they assembled in the court of the _évêché_ to listen to an address
from the bishop, who, from a window, exhorted them to atone for
their previous misdeeds by their penitential lives. He then gave
them his blessing, a dinner was provided for them, after which
they all went where they pleased. This was only one of the results
of the moral power of the first bishop of the country. What the
popular voice at first bestowed, afterwards merged into political
power when the time of peril was past, and the burden accepted as a
possible duty to their flock became a source of reproach, as if it
were usurped.

Bishop Dupanloup was worthy the old title Defensor Civitatis.
He filled the office simply and generously, with a devotedness
nothing could exhaust and a firmness nothing could bend. At the
second occupation of Orléans, when the Prussians had replaced the
Bavarians, the kind of Truce of God that naturally established
itself around the servant of the Most High was done away with. The
bishop was an object of severity in his turn; he was imprisoned in
a corner of his own palace and strictly guarded. Prince Frederick
Charles was impolitic. He should have been mindful of a great
captain of loftier genius than his--Prince Eugene, whom history
honors for honoring Fénelon at Cambrai.

In speaking of the Bishop of Orleans, we must not forget the
priests that everywhere, in town as well as hamlet, walked in his
noble footsteps. In the engagements at Notre Dame des Aydes and
Coulmiers, as well as elsewhere, the priests, both curé and vicar,
were at their posts, going to and fro among the wounded, with hands
not raised with murderous weapons, but uplifted to bless; not
inflicting death, but braving it, and consoling the dying.

The _Moniteur Officiel_ at Berlin has reproached the clergy of
Orléans for what is really their glory. “At the approach of our
troops,” says the Prussian journal, “the solitary laborer threw
down his spade, seized his musket on the ground beside him, and
fired. Every day such opponents were brought to headquarters and
shot according to martial law. Priests were often brought with them
who had abetted or been actors in some instance of bold resistance.”

Such was the touching emulation of all classes in rallying to
defence against the invader.

In the Armée du Nord, General Faidherbe also testifies to the
same devotedness on the part of the clergy, and mentions with
special gratitude the bold stand of the Archbishop of Cambrai,
the Bishop of Arras, the hospital sisters at Corbie, and the
clergy generally. He especially holds up one brave Dominican monk
for admiration--doubtless a disciple of Lacordaire, or one of
the companions of the Martyrs of Arcueil--the Père Mercier, “who
received four wounds at the battle of Amiens, where he displayed
remarkable courage.”

The bravery and patriotism of the priesthood is no new thing. How
constantly were they evinced during the middle ages! If their
sacred character did not allow them to participate actively in the
fray, they were there to animate and encourage, and especially to
succor the dying. Among a thousand instances, we read that, at the
battle of Neville’s Cross, the Prior of Durham, England, and his
monks, took the sacred banner of St. Cuthbert, and repaired to
a hillock in sight of both armies, hoisted it, knelt around it,
and prayed. Other brethren from the belfry of the cathedral sang
hymns of praise and triumph, which were heard afar off in a most
miraculous manner.

Yes: Orléans has reason to be proud of its clergy, with its
hereditary spirit. “The heart of France” has not lost its ancient
courage. The service its people rendered the crown in ancient times
induced Louis XI. to give it as its arms an open heart, showing the
lilies of France within. Above this _blason_ is the quatrain

    “Orléans, ville de renom,
    De haut pris, de grand’ excellence,
    Eut pour blazon le cœur de France
    De Loueys, onzième du nom.”

And another poet has said:

    “Non potuit regni caput esse Aurelia magni
    Ergo quod superest, corque, animusque fuit”--

Orléans being so-called from the Emperor Aurelian, who enlarged the
city towards the end of the third century, and gave it the name of
Aurelianum, from which Aurliens, and finally Orléans.

Perhaps Orléanais has had the glorious privilege of suffering
more than any other part of France for its country. It has been a
battle-field on which some of the most famous personages in history
have figured. Cæsar ran over the country as a conqueror; Attila
withdrew from it conquered and humiliated; here the Maid of Orléans
delivered France; here Francis de Guise died after forcing Charles
V. to give up Metz; and here Turenne saved the country threatened
by the Fronde. For two centuries the valley of the Loire had not
been disturbed by the noise of arms, but Orléans, Coulmiers,
Villepion, etc., now testify how the open heart of France has again
bled and suffered.




USE AND ABUSE OF THE STAGE.


We are a very theatrical people. The old unbending Puritan stuff
has almost died out amongst us; whether for better or worse,
such is the fact. If a Brutus appeared in our midst to-day, he
would be dubbed a “rowdy”; a Cato, a decided bore. Where we would
not turn to look at them, we rush pell-mell to catch the first
glimpse of a prince; even a lord finds a following here that must
rather surprise him in a nation where he only expected to meet
with the stern virtues of republicanism. We crowd in the same way
to see a new “star” in the theatrical firmament, whether that
star’s radiance consist in a melodious voice, or a dexterous use
of the limbs, or a display of physical charms, so artistically
concealed that not one of them is missed. So we throng to hear
a great preacher or a loud one, provided he is “puffed” enough.
Our politics have degenerated into a money-making concern; our
religion, almost to a fashion. As it was a fashion in the old
days when the Pharisee went up to the temple to pray, and his
prayer consisted in thanking God that he was so far above the
poor publican, together with a grand recital of his fastings and
self-flagellations, and alms given to the poor; as it was a fashion
later on, in the time of the Puritans and the Scotch under right
John Knox, as Carlyle would call his hero--when the godly sat out
their two hours’ sermon, and at the end applauded, and begged the
preacher to continue, and sat them grimly a two hours more; going
their way, comforted at heart, to murder Cavalier and Catholic, and
all who wore the mark of the beast and the color of the scarlet
woman.

We have touched on religion, for it is inwoven with our theme,
the theatre, which sprang from religion, and, could it be made
to preach as it has done, would, without lack of amusement or
attraction, become a house of prayer, and not, as it now is, a home
of corruption. The Greeks used it for a twofold purpose: to lash
vice or as a political weapon. And nothing pierced so fatally the
thick hide of the low demagogue, Cleon, as the barbed shafts of
Aristophanes, scattered with all the great master’s skill among
the keen-witted and appreciative Athenians. We see a similar
instance to-day in the attack by one of the leaders of the modern
French drama on a much greater man than Cleon. The _Rabagas_ of
Sardou has tended to demoralize Gambetta more than the holocaust
he sacrificed, in his unwise and inopportune zeal, to the glory of
France, as he would claim; in reality to its ruin. It has done more
to lower him in the eyes of the people than the terrible logic of
events. Why have not we a man to do the like for the _rings_ and
the political immorality that inundates us; from which we are only
just beginning to emerge, without the certainty of not sinking
beneath it again?

The stage with the Greeks was, moreover, a preacher. It held up
lofty thoughts in language worthy of them. It preached the virtue
of self-sacrifice and its nobleness in tones that could not fail
to be heard. It did not mock the false with puny laughter and weak
travestie; but laid it bare in all its ugliness, cutting deep
into it and round about it, probing the soil that it grew in,
piercing its thick rind with a weapon whose wound was death. And
there stands out that wonderful play of the _Prometheus Vinctus_:
the bold story of the god-born man, who, with the insight of the
god-nature that was in him, saw the misery of his brethren, and
dared to filch the sacred fire from heaven that he might lift them
up from their degradation; who suffered on an eternity of woe,
with the relentless bird ever gnawing at his vitals; and, as the
curtain fell upon the convulsion of nature, foretold, in words
indeed prophetic, the fall of Jove and of his false heaven. We read
and stand amazed; wondering, now at the grace, now at the terrible
power of the words; pitying the great and tameless soul enduring
an agony unspeakable for his kind, chained there to the bare rock
with the pitiless heavens above him, the starry-curtained night,
and the ever-dimpling ocean smiling beneath him. We see Calvary and
the Saviour there; and marvel at the boldness of the conception,
the magnificence and prophetic truth of its carrying out. From this
story of a pagan Greek, told to pagans before Christ came into the
world, bearing the fire that he willed only to be kindled, we turn
with shame and sickness at heart to the things of this day, of this
era of civilization and enlightenment.

But first let us trace the course of the drama when it fell into
Christian hands.

That fierce Northern blast which overthrew for ever the gorgeous
fabric of the Roman Empire, withered and blighted everything
that could be called intellectual or refined. The civilization,
the literature, the very language of Greece and Rome, were
extinguished, and the world had to begin its intellectual
schooling anew. Then the church stepped in, and moulded those rough
elements into a nobler race than that which had been swept away.
The Roman had been taught to live for the state; the Christian was
taught to live for Christ. The church filled their rugged minds
with great ideas and noble purposes; she laid the foundation of
a great faith, and on that built up everything. A belief in one
Supreme God, in eternal joy for the good, eternal pain for the
wicked: such was the doctrine, easily learned, easily understood,
which she unceasingly poured into their untutored minds. It was a
hard task. There was no press then; there were no newspapers, no
telegraph wires flashing thought from world to world in less time
than it takes to conceive it. Men were taught by word of mouth.
And when we contemplate the magnitude of the work--the education
and conversion of an illiterate world--we can only wonder at its
success, and see therein the finger of God, guiding and directing
his daughter--the one stumbling-block to the march of reason,
according to our modern notions.

Then came up those quaint old miracle plays, performed at fairs
and festivals, and sometimes even in the cathedrals and churches.
They clothed the mysteries of religion in simple language, well
adapted for simple minds, and brought home to the crowds assembled
great and impressive truths. A relic of them to-day attracts the
fashionable world, _ennuyé_ of the opera, the conventional stage,
and an existence weary of itself and its emptiness. It takes
its opera-glasses and scent-bottles and flirtation to the rude
rocks of the Tyrol to behold the Ammergau _Passion Play_. It is
a novelty. We wonder that no enterprising manager has offered
fabulous sums to bring the performers out here to us. They would
certainly “draw.” To be sure, he could scarcely transport the
Tyrol, but then the scene-painter and machinist could manage that.
If the butterflies of fashion can find motive enough to brave the
terrors of sea-sickness and flit out thither to behold a novelty,
can sit it out without a yawn, and be struck by the reverence of
the performance and its effect on the grave mountaineers, surely
something far less taxing on our conventional notions, but bearing
the germ of a great truth within it, might send the thousands who
flock nightly to our theatres home with a thought in their heads
and a more earnest feeling in their hearts.

The stage grew with the growth of time and the spread of education,
till, at the close of the sixteenth century, we find it at its
zenith in Spain and in England. The French and Italians never
possessed a _great_ stage--a stage, that is, for all time and all
nations; the German is of recent growth. At this point the stage
was great; was in the broad sense moral, elevating, high. It
towered above men, above the times; it educated while it attracted
them. In plot, in action, in delineation of character, in thrilling
scenes and happy conceptions, the plays of the sixteenth century
are unrivalled, while their language makes of them classics. Dr.
Arnold of Rugby proposed that the English classics should be made
one of the principal studies of boys at school. We wonder what
benefit boys would derive from the study of the trash we listen to
and applaud in these days--whether it would be better calculated to
improve their morals than a close application to the pages of the
_Newgate Calendar_ or the columns of the _Police News_?

From that period the course of the stage has been a downward one
passing from bad to worse, till it has been our fortune, with
a solitary exception here and there, to light upon the worst;
for the plays of the time of Charles II., bad as they are and
revolting, are safer from their very outspokenness than the gilded
licentiousness that allures us. We rival them in obscenity, as we
fall immeasurably below them in wit. The reason of this decline, at
a time when the discovery of the art of printing gave a new impetus
to the spread of education, is foreign to our present purpose.
With a glance at the past, at what the theatre was, and what it
might become, we turn to that which immediately concerns us, the
present: what the theatre now is, and why--restricting our remarks
principally to New York.

Now the dramatic season has just drawn to a close,[203] so it
is a fair time to indulge in a retrospect. We believe it has
been on the whole what managers might term a fairly good season;
that is, people have gone to the theatres, paid their money, and
endorsed, by their presence and applause, the various species of
entertainments which the managers, in their capacity of public
caterers, have provided for them.

Our question is, What have we endorsed? What have been the
theatrical “hits” of the season? What are the plays which have
brought crowds to the theatre, money to the manager, and delight to
the public at large? The answer, looked at soberly and honestly, is
startling.

With the exception of the Shakespearian and a few other classical
plays at one of the theatres, some transitory pieces got up
occasionally for “stars,” and French adaptations, which we shall
refer to after, we have not had a single play worthy of the name,
worthy of the actors who performed them, worthy, we sincerely hope,
of the audiences who witnessed them.

It may be as well to explain that by actors we mean ladies and
gentlemen who are equal to the very difficult position they have
taken upon themselves; who can speak pure English in a manner we
can all understand--a slight qualification seemingly, yet in these
days one of the rarest; who can portray emotions with fidelity;
who can forget, first of all, themselves; secondly, the audience,
in the character they have assumed. We do not mean those with
whom vulgarity passes for wit, coarseness for humor, or a liberal
display of the person for all that is needed. The name of the
latter class is legion; the individuals who compose the former,
exclusive of passing stars, might be almost counted on our fingers.

And now for the performances we have endorsed. The great
attractions, the “hits” of the season, beyond _Humpty Dumpty_,
which is no play at all, but a display of the antics of the
cleverest mime who has appeared on our stage, have been the _Black
Crook_ and _Lalla Rookh_. These two pieces drew the largest crowds
for the longest time; one of them is an old favorite, and vies with
_Humpty Dumpty_ in duration; the other, but for its untimely end
by fire, was as likely to become so, and may yet, for all we know
to the contrary. We wish to place this well before the public; the
chief theatrical attractions in New York, the commercial capital
of our Republic and the New World, during the past year, have been
_Humpty Dumpty_, the _Black Crook_, and _Lalla Rookh_!

What are these two latter things? Are they plays? Is there any
acting in them at all? Is there a single good thought inculcated,
good feeling stirred, good end attained by their presentation?
Are they fit to place before a public composed of ladies and
gentlemen, of virtuous men and women, above all before the young,
the pleasure-seekers, of both sexes?

To all these questions we answer an emphatic no; and we are certain
that the managers who got them up would agree with us. Yet all
New York--speaking generally--crowded to see them. The expense
in producing them was enormous. Actresses, scenery, dresses,
machinery, were purchased and brought from over the sea; and all
for what? A display of brilliant costumes, or rather an absence of
them; crowds of girls set in array, and posturing so as to bring
out every turn and play of the limbs. Throughout it was simply a
parade of indecency artistically placed upon the stage, with garish
lights and intoxicating music to quicken the senses and inflame the
passions. The very advertisements in the streets and in the public
press set forth as their crowning attraction the crowds of “ladies”
and their scanty raiment.

How women with any pretensions to modesty could sit out such an
exhibition without a blush--how men could take women for whom they
had any respect to witness it, are things we cannot understand.
That such things can succeed at all, can succeed so well, can
beat everything else from the field, among us, speaks ill for
us; speaks ill for our taste, our morality, our civilization. To
Protestants and Catholics alike we say: Cry down, with all the
power that is in you, public exhibitions that are daily undermining
and uprooting the morality of this great nation, which affects, as
it must continue to affect more and more day by day, the destiny
of the world. They influence the fashions; they fill the public
streets with impurity. Their effect is in the very air we breathe,
the press we read, the pictures that meet our eyes on every
stand. To the recognition and open admiration we display for such
performances on the public stage, we owe those lower dens of infamy
that corrupt our youth, poison their life, and cause the whole race
to degenerate; and the bloody tragedies in real life which have
from their frequency almost ceased to create a sensation. They are
a blot upon our institutions, a stain upon our morality, a scandal
to every decent eye.

But who is to blame?

The public deplores the depravity of the taste of the age, and
carries its opera-glass to the theatre so as not to miss an iota.
The manager blames the actor, the actor the author, and the author
the manager. Perhaps all are to blame more or less; but undoubtedly
the onus of it rests with us who pay for and go to see such
things. The manager whom we blame so much objects very properly:
The people want to be amused, and we must find something to amuse
them. Good plays that are presentable are almost as rare as good
actors to interpret them, as an appreciative audience to come and
admire them. If the public did not demand such sights, you may be
perfectly certain we should not present them. Our interest in the
whole matter is merely one of dollars. Love of art, and educating
the public taste, and so forth, sound very well in the abstract,
but they do not pay. These things are of enormous cost in the
scenery, the putting on the stage, the costumes, and, as far as the
actors are concerned, to-day we are compelled to pay a higher price
for limbs than for genius.

Now, this sounds very plausible, and there is, no doubt, a vast
amount of reason in it. Certain it is that, if the public kept away
from such exhibitions, the manager would scarcely ruin himself by
presenting them to empty houses. But are good plays so scarce, and
why?

Shakespeare, we fear, is almost out of the question. We confess,
in common with very many, a secret misgiving, almost amounting to
horror, at the idea of going to see Desdemona or Banquo doubly
murdered. The education of the vast majority of our actors renders
them incapable of catching the meaning of the great master’s
words, far less of interpreting them in a manner to enchain our
attention or enthrall our senses: the invariable result when we sit
down to read them. We generally find one or two characters ably
sustained, and the rest, as a rule, rendered absolutely ridiculous.
Notwithstanding, we take it as a very encouraging thing, and a
great sign of advancement in intelligence and education, to see
in one instance, at least, this class of drama drawing houses the
whole year through. The more we have of such plays, the less we
shall see of _Black Crooks_ and _Lalla Rookhs_. Sheridan, again,
and Colman are almost beyond our actors, though they are scarcely a
hundred years old. An actor undertaking a character must understand
not merely the words he utters, but the _character_ he represents,
the position it holds in the play, its _bearings_ on the others;
for our modern actors are too apt to consider that there is only
one character in every play, and that their own. The costume, mode
of life, look, gait, air, _tout ensemble_, should fit the person
to the age in which he lived. Now, how many of those employed to
personate the fops, or fools, or men about town of Sheridan, know
the age in which those characters lived, the mode of conversation,
the walk, “the nice conduct of the clouded cane,” the way of
passing the time, the affected laugh and pronunciation of certain
letters, the ceremony thrown into a bow or a proffer of a pinch
of snuff, with a thousand other little things only to be found
in a close study of the writers of the time? Yet, without this
intimate knowledge, our modern actor must trust to his wig and
antique coat and ruffles to give us an idea of Charles Surface or
Sir Peter Teasle. Passing regretfully by these, then, we come to
the question before us, the drama of to-day, where we atone for
lack of genius by sensation; where words give place to “business”;
where for a good author we substitute a good carpenter, aided by
a good scene-painter; where a conflagration, or a shipwreck, or a
cab, drive Shakespeare and the rest off the boards. Wherein lies
the excellence of the sensational school of playwrights? Strip them
of their drowning scenes, fires, chloroform, and slang phrases,
and what have we left? Simply nothing. Not a single conception of
a great idea or a great character; no noble purpose to fire the
soul; no keen wit to scorch the age and purify while it burns;
but in their stead sorry jokes, and the meanest and most ordinary
characters speaking bad grammar; with plenty of howling, and
climbing, and swimming, and water and fire and limelight, and a
stirring song that is not the author’s, all interspersed with stray
spars of wit floating about here and there in the heterogeneous
mass, and turning up at happy places--wit, by the way, which is
generally stolen from the French or from some well-known story, all
adjusted to slow music, set to magnificent scenery, with mechanism
enough to construct a city; and the audience, wheedled there by
puff, is amazed and overcome, and, going away, tells its friends
that there is not much in it, but the scenery alone is well worth
the money.

This is undoubtedly the English drama of the day, dividing the palm
with the anatomical exhibitions we have previously referred to, and
almost as prolific of good results to the public. _Eileen Oge_, one
of the latest and best plays of this class, was the only one which
attracted audiences to that splendid failure, the Grand Opera House.

There is another class of play to which we promised to refer--the
modern French school--which finds its home in one of our theatres,
and which, by lavish expenditure, the splendor of costume,
excellence of mounting, and general efficiency of the cast, has
proved more or less a success. They pass among us as dramas of
society. Let us examine the most recent of these “society plays,”
and see if they are worthy of their name.

_Article 47_ runs as follows: A lover, in a moment of jealousy,
shoots his mistress, attempting at the time to gain possession
of a casket belonging to her. She escapes with life, but that
life is dead to her, for her beauty, though not destroyed, is for
ever marred. Her love changes to hate. She appears as a witness
against her lover on a charge of attempted murder and robbery.
He is acquitted of wilful attempt to kill, but condemned to five
years at the galleys, and placed for ever, by Article 47 of the
penal code, under police surveillance. Both lives are embittered,
the one with the consciousness of a wrong done to the woman he
loved, but loves no longer; the other from the consciousness of,
to her, an irreparable loss sustained, a beauty marred in the
dawn of life, and a love contending with hate for the man who
once loved her, and whom she still, in her sane moments--for the
crash of contending emotions and the brooding over her lost life
are goading her to madness--loves. The term of his confinement
ended, the lover changes his name, flies to Paris, and hopes thus
to escape the surveillance of the police. He enters society again,
and falls in love with an old acquaintance who has ever loved
him. They are married. In society he meets with the old love. She
recognizes him, and, finding that his love is turned to abhorrence,
hate again strives for mastery, and she compels him to frequent
the _salon_ where she is to be seen, and spend a certain time of
each day in her society, on pain of disclosing to his wife that
he is a convicted felon, and the whole story of her wrong. In a
moment of despair he unfolds all to his wife in her presence; they
determine to fly. The madness has been working all this time in the
other’s blood. She retains enough reason to send a message to the
prefect of police, disclosing the person and whereabouts of the
ex-prisoner. The letter is intercepted, and she finally dies at
his feet, still mad, and thinking that he loves her. The play is
a powerful one, but revolting. The gradual growth of the madness
in the woman is well worked up. But the woman is a fiend, and her
fiendishness is the whole point of the play. We have women as bad
or worse in plays that are infinitely superior, Lady Macbeth,
for instance; but the mastermind that conceived that character
conceived it aright--laid it bare in all its hideousness, and
surrounded it with such moral strength and contrasts that we hate
it. The French writer enlists a forced sympathy for his heroine.
Everybody is in a chronic state of misery all the way through; the
vice of the thing is condoned or glossed over, and the character
most to be pitied at the end is the hideous thing that is called a
woman. It is a delineation and upholding of a false principle from
beginning to end; and, if such is society, we can only pity it.
While there are such things as truth, honor, womanly nature, and
manly strength among us, such a play should hold no place in our
midst; and the writer debases his talents when he can turn them
to so much better account. Most French plays of the modern school
come to us in this fashion. They are all unhealthy, morbid, false
to God and man; and though they are well written, abounding in
felicitous repartee, clever tirades against society, witty mockery
of characters that go down among us, and in their English dress are
stripped of the dangerous _équivoque_ and _double entendre_, it
is better for us either to let them alone, or so change them that
we do not recognize them, as the late Mr. Robertson succeeded in
doing. All, or nearly all, of his comedies were originally founded
on the French. But he did not reproduce; he adapted. And his
plays, the most charming, as they are by far the wittiest and most
brilliant, of the day, are always presentable, always enjoyable,
though they strike out no great thought, nor, indeed, aim at it,
but are clever satires on society as we find it, as it comes and
goes. We should very much like to see them produced oftener here.
There is only one house which, as a rule, attempts this class of
play; and its programme has to be changed so often that it looks
very much as though the public did not appreciate its efforts. Yet
we have never met with a single person who has witnessed one of Mr.
Robertson’s plays and would not be very happy to witness another.
We think the fault lies chiefly with the company. The rank and file
are not adequate. At the Prince of Wales’ theatre in London the
same company performs still that performed when Mr. Robertson first
produced his plays; and each one of them, from first to last, is
a thorough actor. We hear a great deal about people, immediately
they make a hit, demanding an enormous increase of salary; and,
if their demands are not conceded, rushing off to “star it in the
provinces.” In England it is just the reverse. If actors can obtain
a footing at all in London, they abide there. And we cannot but
think that, if fair inducements were held out here, a stock company
of excellent actors could be organized who might form a school;
and the manager would not be compelled to hunt Europe for a name,
and spend a small fortune nightly on a single individual, which he
might much more judiciously divide among his own staff, and keep
his house well filled in spite of all the stars of the firmament.

But good plays are needed as much as good actors; and good plays we
shall never have so long as managers can procure gratis the latest
London success, which London itself has generally derived from a
French source. Managers are cautious of new playwrights, and wisely
so. But this caution may be, is carried a little too far. We have
a society of our own, and a history of our own. We have already a
host of clever and even brilliant writers. We have had a great war
and a great convulsion. We have plenty to attack, and plenty to
uphold. Our society, political, social, and religious, is scarcely
what it might be. There is many a foul thing to sweep away; there
is a meeting of many elements in this land of ours; there is a
history to look back upon, and a glorious history to build up, if
we build rightly. At the same time, there is a licentiousness,
outspoken, scornful, and gaining ground day by day, which it is our
duty to withstand by every force in our power. There is that aping,
too, of the worst imported fashions, that running after wealth
and rank, when they come among us, that betokens a wandering from
the sturdy ways of our fathers. There is a widespread corruption
in the administration of the law, a venality in political life,
which it would be well to crush. There is here field enough for the
native dramatist, without looking abroad for the “cheap and nasty.”
Could a Sheridan rise up among us now, he would find no lack of
subjects for his pen in the extravagance, the contradictions, the
licentiousness of this age and this great Republic. At all events,
if we must import, let us import the best, and not things which
poison our life, and stop our intellectual and natural as well as
our moral growth, and make us a laughing-stock to the outer world.

FOOTNOTE:

[203] At the time of writing this article.




HOW I LEARNED LATIN.


When I was young, I travelled a good deal, but travel then was very
different from what it is now. My travelling was all obligatory, it
was on business, and I sometimes found myself detained in places
from which I would gladly have taken a quick departure. It happened
once that, during my tour through France, I had to stay a Sunday at
Lyons. The stages on Saturday were few, and did not suit me, and
of course it was against my principles to travel on the “Sabbath.”
I had been brought up a very strict Presbyterian, and was very
particular, especially in a foreign country, about attending
service. I could hardly speak any French, which perhaps you will
think strange, since I had business to transact in France, but my
business was with English and American houses and their agents. You
know, too, in my time young people did not learn French as they do
now, any more than young ladies learned to play on the piano. But
I was determined I would go to church, and so set about finding
out whether there was any English-speaking clergyman in Lyons. I
could not find any, and, when I inquired after a church, I was
deafened and confused by the number of St. Marys’, St. Monicas’,
St. Vincents’, St. Josephs’, that were pointed out to me. If it
had not been the “Sabbath,” I think I should have been tempted to
swear at the whole calendar and its Lyons representatives. I asked
for a _Protestant_ church. “Oh! yes,” said one (all the others
looked blank), “there is a ‘temple’ (so they call them in France)
in such and such a street,” naming it, and giving me directions
by which I could not fail to discover it. I started, fearing I
should be late. I had heard that the French Protestant religion
was not unlike the Presbyterian, but I had never been to one of
its churches before, having always been luckily within reach of
some church where my own tongue was used. At last I found my
“temple,” and got in, rather behind time, to be sure. The people
were singing. The church--meeting-house, I should say--was bare
and whitewashed, large square windows lighted it with a painful
exuberance of brightness, the seats were stiff and uncomfortable.
I could not understand one word, and thought the voices rather
nasal. The congregation sat down and the minister got up. This
evidently meant a sermon. I tried hard to fix my mind on some Bible
texts I knew by heart, so as to prevent my thoughts from wandering.
As the preacher went on, his voice droning into my ear, I caught
myself wondering whether I were in the right place after all, and
whether his doctrine was the same as mine. I could not tell what
he might be saying, but, of course, the hymns must be all right.
I took up a hymn-book, and tried to make out from their analogy
to some English words what these French words could mean. I could
see the name of “Jesus” pretty often, and could make out “Saviour”
too, but that was about all. The sermon was very long, and I was
hardly quite awake at the end. Then the people sang again, and a
harmonium joined in from somewhere. When it was all over, I felt
very dissatisfied, and somehow it did not seem to me as if I had
been to church at all. I lost my way going back to my hotel, and
happened to pass one of the “saints’” multitudinous shrines, just
as the Catholic congregation were coming out. An acquaintance of
mine, a young Englishman, was among them. He came across the street
and shook hands.

“Why, where have you dropped from?” he said.

“From church,” I answered.

“What church?” he asked, rather blankly.

“The Protestant ‘temple,’ of whatever religion that may be,” I
said, not in the best of humors. I told him my whole adventure,
whereat he seemed very serious.

“My dear fellow,” he said at last, “have you not often heard us
Catholics abused for all sorts of mummeries, for muttering and
mumbling in an unknown tongue, for bowing and scraping, and popping
down, suddenly on one knee, and so forth?”

“Of course I have,” I said.

“Well, and what do you think of what you saw in the French
Presbyterian church, this morning?”

“Think! I simply think it was unintelligible.”

“Well, say, quite as unintelligible as our Latin, for instance?”

“Yes, but not for the Frenchmen who were there.”

“But if those Frenchmen had been in a Presbyterian church in
America, they would have been as badly off as you were this
morning. And if both you and they went to a German church, as
Calvinistic as you could wish and as like your own in belief, would
not you and your French friends be all at sea, as the saying is?”

“Exactly so; but what are you driving at?”

“Only this: that, when you go to the church, and know that the
people believe pretty much as you do, you would like, I think, to
be able to join in their devotions, and not feel yourself left out
in the cold, as if you were a heathen or a Mormon, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course; but it can’t be helped.”

“I tell you it can, my dear fellow. Look at us, millions and
millions of Catholics, all believing the same doctrine, all going
to the same ceremonies, and taking part in the same devotions,
because we have only one language for our services, one language
that is spoken in Canton, in San Francisco, in London, in Africa,
everywhere where a Catholic altar is put up and a Catholic priest
says Mass.”

“There is some convenience in that, I’ll grant you.”

“I tell you, my friend, when I come to a foreign city and find
everything strange and feel very lonely in the hurrying crowd that
has not one idea in common with me, I just find out a Catholic
church as quick as I can, and hear Mass. See if every worshipper
does not become a brother then, and if one’s feelings don’t change!
I take my chair, put it where I like, open my book, and follow the
same old prayers that I heard long ago in little poky chapels in
England. I feel quite at home.”

“Well, it _is_ pleasant: but that is not all one wants.”

“But is it not a great deal? What do you think of a religion that
meets you everywhere, just the same, dear old familiar faith, never
changing among the mandarins of China, the Red Indians of your own
territories, the blacks of South Africa, and the traders of London
and Birmingham? Don’t you call it comfortable, homely, to say the
least?”

“Yes, but I suspect it is all sentimentalism: you like the sound of
the old words, but you don’t really understand them. A baby would
like the same cooing it was used to at home, supposing it got lost
and picked up somewhere, but there would be no sense in the cooing,
for all that.”

“But, my dear fellow, we _do_ understand our Latin. All of us who
can read have the translation of it plainly printed alongside
of the text in our books of devotion, and the greater part we
are already familiar with on account of its being taken from the
Gospels and the Psalms.”

“No, really? Is that so indeed?”

“Indeed it is. And, now, what do you think of this? You see the
priest ‘pop down suddenly on one knee, and pop up again,’ as you
would put it. Well, he has been saying, ‘The Word was made flesh
and dwelt among us.’ Is not that in the Bible, in St. John’s
Gospel? Of course you are well up in texts, you know where _that_
is. And, again, when you see the priest beat his breast three
times, and you call out ‘Superstition!’ do you know what he is
saying? ‘Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my
roof; but say the word, and my soul shall be healed.’ Is not that
in the Bible (with the substitution of ‘soul’ for ‘servant’),
where the centurion begs our Lord to cure his servant? And so on
through the greater part of the Mass. When you see the priest
wash his hands, he repeats a whole Psalm, the Twenty-fifth; and
at the very beginning, when you see him stand at the foot of the
steps, he is also repeating a Psalm, the Forty-third. Further on he
repeats the ‘Our Father,’ and there are other parts of the Mass,
whose names would only confuse you, which change according to the
ecclesiastical seasons, but are always exclusively composed of
Scripture texts, aptly chosen for the different solemnities of the
year. So, you see, we know all about what we hear said in Latin.”

“Well, you surprise me; all that mumbling seemed to me so childish.”

“Do you think these Frenchmen childish when they speak their own
tongue, and do their business in it, and their courting, and their
literature?”

“Well, no, of course that would be absurd.”

“And the Italians, the Germans, the Greeks, the Spaniards, don’t
they all talk foreign languages, yet you don’t think them childish,
or call their conversation _mumbling_?”

“No; I simply say I am sorry I cannot understand them.”

“Then don’t you see that as a Catholic you would be even better
off, for though the Latin would be a foreign language, yet you
_would_ understand it?”

“Certainly, if all you say is true, the Latin is by no means a bad
contrivance.”

“Do you know that, up to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries at
least, most books were written in Latin, no matter to what country
the author might belong, and that till even later than that all law
business was transacted in Latin all over the civilized world?”

“Was it indeed? Well, I have learnt something this morning, and it
is really worth thinking over.”

“Come this afternoon to St. Vincent’s, and I will show you at
Vespers how well every one understands the service.”

“All right! agreed.”

And so we parted, and in the afternoon my English friend and I went
to a Catholic church, and sat down among a crowd of very attentive
worshippers, all of whom were reading their prayer-books. My
friend opened his, and pointed out the Psalm the choir was singing;
it was one I knew very well: “The Lord said to my Lord.” The people
about us were all French; their books had the same Latin Psalm on
one column as my friend’s book showed, while the French translation
was in the place of the English one which he had on the opposite
page. Many of the congregation were singing alternately with the
choristers at the altar. My friend sang too; he did not mumble,
but said the words distinctly, so that I heard each syllable,
though I could not understand the meaning. He gave me his book
presently, and chanted by heart. As we came out, there was a group
of dark-skinned men, talking eagerly near the door. They were
Spaniards; they too seemed quite at home. The next day, I was
curious enough to go to Low Mass with my friend; as the ceremony
went on, he showed me every word, and made me follow everything,
even the introit, collects, gradual, communion, which he looked
out for me in a missal he had with him. I was puzzled by all these
names then, though they are A B C to me now. My friend had to leave
in a day or two, but I had bought a book like his in the meanwhile
at an English library, and continued through curiosity to go to the
different Catholic services, just to assure myself that the Latin
was not gibberish. It struck me as strange that three-quarters of
the prayers should be my own Bible texts!

Well, to make a long story short, I left Lyons soon after, and
travelled to many other places, European and Asiatic. At last
one day I was in Canton, in high spirits, for I was to go home
soon and be a partner in the firm whose foreign business I had
been managing. Sunday came, and I went to church; I was just as
anxious as ever about my Sunday duties, but somehow it was not for
a Presbyterian church that I was looking. I knew my way very well
to _my_ church, and my church had a cross on its gable end, and
was called “The Church of the Holy Childhood.” There were plenty
of Chinese there, a few English, a few Americans, and a good many
French people. They all had the Latin on one page of their books,
and their respective languages on the opposite page. But I did not
need to look at my English translation, for I knew the Latin by
heart now. I am sorry to say I had distractions, and during one
of them I suddenly perceived my old friend of Lyons. When Mass
was over, I went to him and called him by name; he stared and did
not recognize me; we had never met since, and I had a beard of
many years’ growth. I told him my name, and asked him if he had
forgotten St. Vincent’s Church at Lyons? I can tell you we had a
good long talk over the past, and he congratulated me heartily,
while I thanked him eagerly for the best lesson I ever learned in
my life.

And that, boys, was how I learned Latin.

But I have only told you about one reason which our church has for
keeping to the Latin tongue; that particular reason struck me most,
because it was through that I was converted; but of course, when
I came to examine things thoroughly, I learnt all about the other
very good reasons assigned by the church for this practice. You
know how modern languages are always changing, and how the same
word will mean a different thing in two separate centuries; there
is the word “prevent,” for instance, which now means to hinder, but
which formerly was used in the Anglican liturgy in its Latin sense,
to succor and to help. Well, it would not do for the dogmas or the
rites of the church to be subject to these apparent changes, which
would lead most likely to misunderstandings and perhaps heresies,
so the church chose to fix her liturgy in a language whose rules
and construction undergo no alteration from century to century. You
know the law, also, has Latin terms, probably used for the same
reason. Then, besides, it is not necessary for the people to be
able to join in the absolute words of the Mass and other services,
provided they join heartily in the _intention_ of the sacrifice
and prayers. As I have told you already, the _fact_ is that
most Catholics do understand the words themselves, and not very
imperfectly; still, the _theory_ remains that such comprehension
(which after all is more a grammatical accomplishment than a devout
necessity) is not absolutely required. If it were otherwise, you
see, the doctrine of intention would suffer. In the old days, the
Hebrews--on whose ritual all non-Catholics claim to take their
stand, or by which at least they measure their standard of adequate
worship--used to stand outside the temple, where they could neither
see nor hear, though they knew that by their presence alone they
were participating in the sacrifice and receiving the blessing
attached to it. Then, again, we forgot, when as Protestants we used
to object to the Latin liturgy, that the Catholic ceremony of Mass
is essentially a _sacrifice_ offered to God _for_ the people, the
priest being the sole representative of the people and interceding
in their name. Long ago, at the English court of the Plantagenet
kings. French was the language universally spoken, while the
Saxons, the subjects, adhered to their own tongue. The petitions of
the people were offered to the king in the language of the court,
that is, French; but the result was identical with that which would
have been the consequence had the prayer been in a tongue the
people could understand. So in the church it is sufficient for God
to hear the petition of his children; they themselves would not be
benefited the more for understanding every word of the pleading of
the priest. The things that are said _to_ us, not _for_ us, the
sermons and instructions which are to explain God’s will and our
duty to us, are always in the tongue common to each particular
country; and when there is a large foreign settlement in a town,
it has a church of its own where such instruction is administered.
Look at this large city of New York: have we not German churches
and a French church besides our English-speaking churches? The Mass
is identically the same in each, but for those who are to be taught
the language is varied according to their nationality. And so for
all offices which the priests perform toward us, as, for instance,
confession. In the great church of which you have all heard, St.
Peter’s at Rome, there are confessionals where priests of every
nation are ever ready to receive and console the sinners of every
clime, while above each box is plainly written “For the English,”
“For the Spaniards,” “For the French,” “For the Germans,” “For the
Greeks,” “For the Poles,” etc., etc. So, you see, the church, after
all, is quite as wise as she is loving, and indicates her claim to
be our mother in every way. Take my advice, and always look well
into things before you condemn them; for, if _I_ had done so when a
boy, I should have saved myself a great deal of trouble in getting
rid of prejudices which every year increased and deepened, till
it needed a miracle of the grace of God to strip the tightening
garment they were wrapping round my fettered soul.




THE HANDKERCHIEF.


If there is one article of the toilette that, more than another,
appeals particularly to the imagination, it is certainly the
handkerchief. The favored glove that has encased a fair hand is
often treasured up by a sentimental admirer; a broidered scarf or
a knot of ribbon has been worn by many a gallant knight as the
colors of the lady of his choice; the collar encircling some ivory
neck is envied to such a degree as to almost warrant the ambition
of Winnifred Jenkins: “God he nose what havoc I shall make among
the mail sects when I make my first appearance in this killing
collar”; but a thousand killing collars bear no comparison to that
delicate fabric of muslin and lace which plays as important a part
in the flirtations of fashionable life here as the fan among the
ladies of Spain. Who could imagine so small a square of cloth--if
it be not profanity to apply so common a term to so wondrous a
tissue--could be made to express or conceal so much in the hands
of its fair owner? Such an expressive toss or whisk could only be
the result of the profoundest study. And what a delicate attractive
odor it gives out, suggestive of roses, and violets, and all the
flora of occidental as well as oriental gallantry. And then the
touching _rôle_ it plays in the pathetic--it is the recipient of
some timely tear--perhaps too, vain coxcomb, a screen for many a
yawn. We can never be too sure of what is confided to this bosom
companion.

The sacredness imputed to the handkerchief is no modern idea. It
came to us from the East, whence sprang religion, science, and
romance itself. Ages ago the handkerchief was regarded in Egypt as
a kind of amulet. The fair one of later days, who interweaves a
thread of her own life into the handkerchief she intends for some
favored knight, hopes it may prove like the magic handkerchief
given by the Egyptian charmer to Othello’s mother, endued with a
power to subdue him “entirely to her love.”

          “There’s magic in the web of it:
    A sibyl that had number’d in the world
    The sun to make two hundred compasses
    In her prophetic fury sew’d the work:
    The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk:
    And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful
    Conserved of maidens’ hearts.”

The handkerchief is the strongest proof of love, not only among the
Moors, but among all Eastern nations, says Byron, who approved of
Shakespeare’s making the jealousy of Othello turn on this point.
But poor Desdemona found the inherited talisman she “kissed and
talked to” a fatal gift.

Perhaps the handkerchief immortalized by Drummond of Hawthornden,
embroidered for him by the beautiful Lesbia to whom he was
betrothed, was likewise ominous, for she died “in the fresh April
of her years,” and the handkerchief she gave him was steeped in
tears at her loss.

Calderon says:

    “She gave me too a handkerchief--a spell--
    A flattering pledge, my hopes to animate,
    An astrologic favor, fatal prize
    That told too true what tears must wipe these eyes.”

The significance of the handkerchief is referred to in Horace
Walpole’s letters: “Lord Tavistock has flung his handkerchief to
Lady Elizabeth Keppel. They all go to Woburn on Thursday, and the
ceremony is to be performed as soon as her brother, the bishop, can
arrive from Exeter.”

Miss Strickland tells us that when Anne Boleyn dropped her
handkerchief from the balcony at the feet of Henry Norris, the
latter, heated from the part he had just been taking in the
jousts, took it up, presumptuously wiped his face with it, and
then returned it to the queen on the point of his lance. At this,
King Henry changed color, abruptly retired in a fury of jealousy,
and gave orders for the arrest of the queen and of all who were
suspected of being favored by her. It proved a fatal handkerchief
to him also, for he was soon after executed.

The handkerchief may be regarded as one of the great indications of
civilization. Though the Celestials have not yet arrived at this
climax, and still carry their small sheets of delicate paper as a
substitute, but which possess no moral significance whatever, so
far as we know, more refined nations have made its use universal.
Even the poorest may whip out of his pocket, in these days, not
that red cotton flag of abomination that used to offend the
sight, but one of pure white linen, betokening a higher state of
cultivation.

We are quite well aware that the handkerchief is, notwithstanding,
a luxury some of the laboring classes reserve for Sundays and high
festivals, which alone should invest the article with a quasi
sanctity, associated as it is with religious observances. With
what careful deliberation such an one draws it forth from the
receptacle devoted to its use! With what a tremulous awkwardness he
applies it, as though he were making an unaccustomed experiment; or
losing his caution, perhaps he charges with desperation, like Miss
Wix, one of whose peculiarities was that she always blew her nose
as if it belonged to an enemy! And how carefully it is refolded
and returned to the secret depository. What heaps of “wipes” the
astonished Oliver Twist saw in the Jew’s den, and all so badly
marked, too, that the stitches had to be picked out!

We cannot help rejoicing over the handkerchief the Artful Dodger
drew from Mr. Brownlow’s pocket which led to such a change in
Oliver’s fortunes.

The handkerchief is an important article in many a romance, as well
as in real life. Tears more touching than those of Mr. Mantalini
have brought it into requisition. If all the handkerchiefs in the
world could tell their experience, how many a sad tale they would
unfold!--We cannot help regarding Adam and Eve with the deepest
commiseration without a handkerchief between them, as hand in hand
through Eden they took their solitary way. What bitter tears poor
Eve shed!--but those that fell on the ground were turned into
roses, and those that dropped into the water were changed into
pearls, as ours too will be shown not wholly lost at some future
day.

Many a hero’s bleeding wounds have been bound up by the
handkerchief of some Sister of Charity on the battle-field, and
many such handkerchiefs have been sent as sacred remembrances to
dear ones at home, ensanguined like that Orlando sent his Rosalind,
but, alas! not always so happy an omen.

The handkerchief has been made a signal of distress from more than
one watch-tower besides that we used to linger by in our childhood
with fear and trembling, waiting anxiously till Sister Ann’s
fluttering kerchief brought deliverance to Bluebeard’s fearful hold.

We will not pass over the handkerchiefs, or aprons, mentioned
in the Acts of the Apostles, that received a virtue from the
very touch of the holy Apostle Paul to heal the sick--the first
intimation, perhaps, of the wonder-working scapular; nor of that
other handkerchief over which have been shed the tears of the whole
Christian world--the _sudarium_ of Veronica, sometimes called
her veil, and again a napkin (Othello’s handkerchief is called a
little napkin), which has been enshrined by tradition, and to which
artists and poets have paid tribute, Dante himself mentioning it
in his _Paradiso_--the handkerchief that wiped the dust and sweat
from the face of the Divine Sufferer and bore away the impress of
his wondrous face.

To those of our readers who think every article in a magazine of
this character should have a direct moral bearing, and can see none
in what has just been said, we will mention an important instance
of the possible power so humble an article as the handkerchief may
exert in the spiritual world. We beg leave to refer them to the
noble society so solemnly recommended by the Rev. Mr. Stiggins,
for providing the infant negroes in the West Indies with moral
pocket-handkerchiefs.

“What’s a moral pocket-ankercher?” said Sam. “I never see one o’
them articles of furniter.”

“Those which combine amusement with instruction, my young friend,”
replied Mr. Stiggins, “blending select tales with wood-cuts.”

“Oh! I know,” said Sam, “them as hangs up in the linen-drapers’
shops with the beggars’ petitions and all that ’ere upon ’em?”

Mr. Stiggins began a third round of toast, and nodded assent.

So do we. And it is not difficult to imagine the budding Othellos
contending loudly for their share of the didactic “ankerchers.”

    “Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
    Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain!”




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  LECTURES AND SERMONS. By the Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke, O.P. New
      York: P. M. Haverty, 5 Barclay Street. 1872. pp. 644.

Mr. Haverty has brought out this eagerly expected volume in
splendid style, and, what is better still, in a style which
is tasteful and appropriate. The title-page, adorned with the
Dominican coat-of-arms, is especially beautiful, and the portrait
of F. Burke is both an excellent engraving and a good likeness. We
are also pleased to notice that there are but few typographical
errors, and, in general, that the care and pains which were due
from courtesy and gratitude to the immense labors which the
author of these lectures and sermons has performed for our profit
and pleasure, have been diligently bestowed in making his first
published work worthy of his high character and reputation. The
cost of the volume will not, we trust, deter any who can possibly
afford it from adding this rich legacy of instructive and eloquent
teaching to the Catholics of the United States to their libraries,
and thus, at the same time, contributing some trifling offering
to the Order with which the author is identified, and which is
itself wholly identified with the good of the poor Catholic people
of Ireland for seven long centuries of labor and martyrdom. It
is much to be desired, however, that as soon as the first costly
edition is disposed of, a cheap one should be issued for the vast
body of people who cannot afford to buy an expensive book. We hope,
however, for the credit of our country, that no publisher will
so far forget himself as to publish any such edition without F.
Burke’s permission and full sanction.

The contents of the volume, which is a large royal octavo, comprise
thirty-eight lectures and sermons on a great variety of the most
important and interesting topics of the Catholic religion, and
Irish history in its relation to religion, although there are
sometimes several lectures on the same or very similar topics.
Only a few of these were written out for the press by the author,
most of them being extemporaneous discourses which were taken down
by reporters, and only hastily revised by the father in the short
and broken intervals of his incessant labors. It is due to the
reporters, however, to say that their work has been performed with
the utmost diligence and accuracy, and that they have reproduced,
with almost literal fidelity, everything which fell from the lips
of the orator--a service to religion and literature for which we
tender them our most sincere thanks. F. Burke, with characteristic
modesty, apologizes for the publication of his discourses, which,
he tells us, he would have prevented if possible. We are very
glad that it was not possible, for we have gained in this volume
a new and rich casket of real jewels of truth and beauty. It is
true that it is necessary to hear F. Burke in order to appreciate
and enjoy fully the power of his word, which is emphatically a
spoken word, and not a mere written and readable expression of
thought in language. His voice, with its baritone richness; his
action; his Dominican habit, so beautiful and graceful a dress
for a sacred orator in itself, and so sacredly impressive from
its associations; and, above all, the magnetic power of his vivid
faith and noble enthusiasm for truth and justice, together with
the surrounding circumstances of the scene and audience, all
enter into the correlation of causes producing the convincing,
persuasive, inspiring, and captivating effect of his eloquence.
The power of producing the effect which he does produce, and
that generally and continually, would prove F. Burke to be an
orator of a high order, even if his discourses, written out and
read, like those of Massillon and Henry Clay, were incapable
of producing a similar effect upon a cultivated reader. But F.
Burke’s discourses will bear reading, and their publication will
enhance instead of diminishing his fame. Their intrinsic merits as
products of learning, intellect, and imagination, prove him to be
something more than an orator: they prove him to be a theologian, a
philosopher, and a poet, although he is all these in subservience
to his distinctive and specific character and vocation as a popular
preacher and orator. F. Burke is a master of the most profound
Catholic theology, a true disciple of St. Thomas. His logical and
argumentative ability in proving the Catholic doctrines, especially
those relating to the constitution of the church, is equal to that
of our best controversialists; he is a scholar and a historian
of rich and varied acquisitions, and he has the sentiment of the
beautiful in nature and art to a high degree, joined to a happy
descriptive faculty which belongs to his oratorical gifts. He has
also an abundance of wit and humor.

But, beyond and above all this, F. Burke is a man of faith; pure,
intelligent, uncompromising, Catholic faith and loyalty to the
Vicar and the Church of Christ; an apostolic preacher and champion
of the truth and law and cause of God. All his gifts are placed in
the censer, and made to send up the incense of praise to God; they
are laid on the altar and consecrated to our Lord Jesus Christ. The
great aim and effort of his sermons and lectures has been to revive
and strengthen faith and virtue in the breasts of the people, to
arouse their devotion to the Holy See, and enlighten them on the
duty of obedience and loyalty to the teaching and the cause of the
Holy Father. As an instance of the effect which he has produced
on the minds of the people, we may relate an incident which came
to our knowledge a few days ago. A longshoreman, who had come to
a priest to take the pledge, said to him: “You see, father, that
since we heard F. Burke, we have been talking among ourselves a
great deal about penance and putting ourselves all right, and so I
have just come up to your reverence to begin by taking the pledge.”
These are the best triumphs of the Catholic priest, and of far more
value to him than the applause of listening thousands. There is no
one who has such an empire over the hearts of his countrymen at
present in New York as F. Burke. We think there is a greater work
for him here than anywhere else in the world, and we therefore
conclude by expressing the hope that he may remain here to do it.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MEMOIR OF ROGER B. TANEY, LL.D., Chief-Justice of the Supreme
      Court of the United States. By Samuel Tyler, LL.D., of the
      Maryland Bar. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1872.

This long-expected and important book has just appeared. It was
known that Chief-Justice Taney had, in his lifetime, selected Mr.
Tyler to write his biography, a fact well calculated to prepossess
the public favorably towards the author and his work. It inspired,
also, the hope that ample materials were placed within his reach,
and that he would be peculiarly favored in his labors. But as the
Chief-Justice, with characteristic modesty, preserved but little
of his own writings, and was in the habit of destroying most of
the letters he received, and of retaining no copies of those he
wrote, it appears that Mr. Tyler labored under great difficulties
in accomplishing his appointed duty. Towards the close of his
life, when in his seventy-eighth year, the Chief-Justice was
reminded, by seeing his biography in Van Santvoord’s _Lives of the
Chief-Justices_, that his life would form a part of the history of
his country, and he commenced then a _memoir_ of himself, ending
with the account of his early life and education, which now forms
the first and an extremely interesting chapter of Mr. Tyler’s
_Memoir_. It seems that the author had to rely, beyond this,
chiefly upon his own industry and researches. He has done his work
well and faithfully, not as an allotted task, but as a labor of
love, a tribute of manly friendship. He has collected a vast amount
of historical matter relating to the scenes and times in which the
Chief-Justice’s lot was cast, to the great lawyers and judges of
the past, most of whom Judge Taney survived, to the public men and
statesmen who have shaped the destiny and made the history of our
country for the last fifty years, and to the great constitutional
questions which, during that period, have agitated the public mind.
In order to vindicate the memory of the eminent jurist, he has,
from necessity, introduced into his book issues that are now dead;
he does not do this in a partisan or aggressive spirit, but treats
them rather historically, and with the view of showing what were
Judge Taney’s sentiments and what the motives of his action. In the
Appendix he gives at length the opinions of the Chief-Justice in
the celebrated Dred Scott case, in the cases of Ableman _vs._ Booth
and Kentucky _vs._ Ohio, both relating to the same subject, and
in the noted Merryman _habeas corpus_ case, and has done well in
doing so, because these remarkable papers are thus brought within
the reach of many not in the habit of reading the law-books. Mr.
Tyler’s style is easy and fluent, though not of a high literary
order. The book must prove very interesting and instructive to
all connected with the law and the administration of justice.
Perhaps the subject has been treated too much from a professional
standpoint, and for this reason may not prove as interesting to the
general reader as such a theme might have been made.

There is one respect in which we regard this work with regret.
Chief-Justice Taney was a Catholic and his biographer is a
Protestant. It was, then, impossible for Mr. Tyler, even with
the best intentions, to do full justice to the character of the
Chief-Justice, to his interior life, to his Catholic virtues, and,
consequently, to the motives which governed his public actions.
We find no fault with Mr. Tyler for this, for he has shown an
earnest desire to be fair and just, and has done his best in
this as in every other respect. But that best does not meet the
necessities of the subject. Mr. Tyler, himself a lawyer, was
selected to write the life of a great lawyer and judge, and he has
performed his work with ability and zeal, but he has performed it
as a lawyer--he could not perform it as a Catholic. To the eyes
of Catholics the faith and piety of Chief-Justice Taney were more
beautiful and more precious than even his transcendent abilities
and profound learning. We think they were the glory of his life
and the motive power which made him superior to fear and to all
human respect. We think they constituted the charm of his public
and private life; and had they been handled by a Catholic, and as
none but a Catholic can handle them, the work would have been far
more valuable. There were points in the Chief-Justice’s life as a
Catholic which remain to this day undeveloped and unelucidated, and
for this reason, while Mr. Tyler’s memoir will prove invaluable to
the legal profession and general reader, it will disappoint the
expectations of his Catholic readers. No Protestant writer could
be more free from bigotry than Mr. Tyler, and none could have
written Chief-Justice Taney’s life as well. We impute no blame;
on the contrary, we thank him for the admiration he expresses of
the Chief-Justice’s religion and piety. But the subject was deeper
and more fruitful than any Protestant eye could perceive or pen
portray. Notwithstanding this, we can and do earnestly commend the
work to all Catholics. It is a noble tribute to one of the purest
and greatest men of our age. No one, be his faith or politics what
they may, can read it without instruction and improvement. Indeed,
no one can fairly read it without conceiving a greater respect for
that ancient church of which its hero was so devoted a son.

Our duty obliges us, however, to add that Catholics should also
take warning from his life of the fatal effects flowing from early
disobedience to the precepts and counsels of the church, which
subsequent penance is frequently unavailing to remove. All the
children of the Chief-Justice were Protestants--a sad fact which is
its own best comment.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HISTORICAL SKETCHES. Rise and Progress of Universities, Northmen
      and Normans in England and Ireland, Mediæval Oxford,
      Convocation of Canterbury. By John Henry Newman, of the
      Orator, sometime Fellow of Oriel College. London: Basil
      Montagu Pickering. 1872. (New York: Sold by The Catholic
      Publication Society.)

Mr. Pickering, who is the very pink of elegant and aristocratic
publishers, edits Dr. Newman’s works in just the style most
suitable to the classic productions of that thoroughly English
gentleman and scholar. We cannot give a better or more attractive
description of this new volume in the series of the Newman
republications, than by simply copying the table of contents:

“1. Introductory; 2. What is a University? 3. Site of a University;
4. University Life: Athens; 5. Free Trade in Knowledge: The
Sophists; 6. Discipline and Influence; 7. Influence: Athenian
Schools; 8. Discipline: Macedonian and Roman Schools; 9. Downfall
and Refuge of Ancient Civilization: The Lombards; 10. The Tradition
of Civilization: The Isles of the North; 11. A Characteristic of
the Popes: St. Gregory the Great; 12. Moral of that Characteristic
of the Popes: Pius the Ninth; 13. Schools of Charlemagne: Paris;
14. Supply and Demand: The Schoolmen; 15. Professors and Tutors;
16. The Strength and Weakness of Universities: Abelard; 17. The
Ancient University of Dublin; 18. Colleges the Corrective of
Universities: Oxford; 19. Abuses of the Colleges: Oxford; 20.
Universities and Seminaries: L’Ecole des Hautes Etudes.”

Every scholar will eagerly desire to read these essays on such
interesting topics, handled by the masterly pen of Newman. The
subject of universities is one just now of great practical
importance, and Dr. Newman’s long experience qualifies him in a
special manner to write about it. We can only hope that we may not
much longer confine ourselves to writing and reading about the
matter, but may soon be up and doing, both in England and in the
United States.

       *       *       *       *       *

  (1.) THE DIVINE TEACHER. With a Preface, in Reply to No. 3
      of the “English Church Defence Tracts,” entitled “Papal
      Infallibility.” By Wm. Humphrey, of the Oblates of St.
      Charles.

  (2.) ANGLICAN MISREPRESENTATIONS: A Reply to “Roman
      Misquotations.” By W. E. Addis, of the Oratory. London: Burns
      & Oates. 1872. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication
      Society.)

The polemical writers of the High Church party have taken to
the swamp, like the old moss-troopers, where it is vexatious to
follow them. The rehashing of old, stale lies, calumnies, and
misrepresentations, interspersed with a good deal of impudent
abuse, has become, alas! the tactics of a party once so remarkable
for calm reasoning, conscientious adhesion to truth, so far as
known, and courtesy. It is a sign that their cause is nearly
desperate. Meanwhile, they dupe and mislead, or at least perplex
and distress, for a time, some very sincere inquirers after truth.
It is necessary, therefore, although very vexatious, to chase them
out of their morass. Happily, there are some Englishmen who have a
talent and a liking for this work. They are cool and quiet, patient
and minute, accurate, logical, and clear in their statements and
arguments. They enjoy hunting such writers as the Canons Liddon
and Bright out of their hiding-places, as much as Grahame of
Claverhouse did beating up the quarters of the Covenanters. The
two young and chivalrous knights of the faith whose names stand
at the head of this notice are of this sort, and their raid has
been performed gallantly and well. The essay first on the list, in
particular, is an excellent little treatise on Papal Infallibility,
which we commend to our readers who like something short and sweet.

       *       *       *       *       *

  GREAT TRUTHS IN LITTLE WORDS. By the Rev. Father Rawes, O.S.C.
      Third Edition. London: Burns, Oates & Co. 12mo. (New York:
      Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

A well-printed book of modest pretensions, and not devoid of merit,
containing in its two hundred and sixty pages thirty chapters on
various religious topics, both of controversy and devotion, and a
good deal of simple, practical instruction.


  THE OLD GOD: A Narrative for the People. Translated from the
  German of Conrad von Bolanden. By the Very Rev. Theodore Noethen.
  Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1872.

Some time ago, we published one of Bolanden’s longer and more
elaborate novels, entitled “Angela,” in this magazine. He has
written a number of these, and particularly a series of historical
romances on the Thirty Years’ War, of the first order of merit;
all of which we hope to see translated. We are now publishing one
of his short popular novels, entitled “The Progressionists,” and
the present volume is another of the same class. The subject of
it is the imprisonment of Pius VII. in France. There are several
more of the same series, “The New God,” “The Infallibilists,” “The
Marvel of the Cross,” etc. They are very popular in Germany, where
they sell at the rate of 85,000 copies of a single story. They are
capital for their purpose, and we are glad to see the indefatigable
Father Noethen giving them to the public in an English dress.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE ORDER AND CEREMONIAL OF THE MOST HOLY AND ADORABLE SACRIFICE
      OF THE MASS EXPLAINED, ETC., ETC. By Frederick Oakeley,
      Canon of the Metropolitan Church. New York: The Catholic
      Publication Society.

We take great pleasure in announcing, in behalf of The Catholic
Publication Society, a new edition of Canon Oakeley’s well-known
and admirable little book on the ceremonies of Holy Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PONTIFICATE OF PIUS IX. By J. F. Maguire, M.P. London: Longmans.
      1870. (From the author.)

Mr. Maguire is well known on both sides of the Atlantic as an able
and upright member of the British Parliament, representing an Irish
constituency, as the editor of one of the best Catholic newspapers
in the English language--the _Cork Examiner_--and as the author
of several interesting books. The present volume, published two
years ago, has just been sent to the editor of this magazine by
the author, for which courtesy he will please accept our thanks.
It is a revised and enlarged edition of a work already well known
and extensively read in this country, under the title “Rome and
its Ruler.” The author has made many additions to it, and has
brought it down to the year 1870, so that its value is, we may
say, trebled, so great are the events which have crowded these
later years of our glorious Pontiff now happily reigning. It is
impossible to exaggerate the value and importance of a work like
this. In momentous interest, the topics of which it treats are
on a level with those of the Sacred History itself. The means of
information for English readers are scanty. Mr. Maguire is a loyal
and devout Catholic, an able, well-informed, and conscientious
statesman and historian. It is therefore of the utmost consequence
that his book should be circulated and read extensively. We trust
the demand for it will be such as to induce American publishers to
make ample provisions for supplying the American public with this
most necessary and valuable work.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TRAVELS IN EUROPE AND THE EAST. By Rev. J. Vetromile, D.D. New
      York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1872.

This is a volume of quite large size, handsomely printed, and
ornamented with a fine portrait of the reverend author, who is an
Italian priest, for many years laboring as a missionary among the
Indians of the State of Maine. The style is easy, agreeable, and
entertaining, and the book is very much like a cosy afternoon chat
with an intelligent and travelled gentleman about the scenes and
countries he has visited. Reading the description of the pleasant
home and delightful circle of friends which the author has left, we
can better appreciate the great sacrifice he has made in banishing
himself to the Indian settlements of Maine, and we are sure he will
make a friend of every reader of his book.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MEMOIRS OF THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE CHURCH IN NEW ENGLAND. By
      Rev. James Fitton. Boston: P. Donahoe. 1872.

Father Fitton is the oldest priest in New England, having exercised
his sacerdotal ministry there during forty-seven years. At the
time when, in company with one other young deacon, he was
ordained priest by Bishop Fenwick, there were only three other
priests in that prelate’s diocese, which embraced all New England.
Father Fitton is entitled to the reverence and gratitude of all
the Catholics of New England, as one who has been an apostolic
missionary and a laborious parish priest for almost half a century.
He is also worthy of confidence and credence as a competent and
truthful witness and annalist of the principal facts and events
in the history of the Catholic religion in New England. He has
prefaced his history of the church as existing in modern times
by an interesting account of the ancient mission in Rhode Island
during the residence of the Northmen at Newport, and of the early
Indian missions. This is the romantic part of the history. The rest
of it is prosaic and commonplace, and yet of great value, and made
interesting by the great results which have come from small and
humble beginnings. Every priest and layman in New England ought
to have this book and read it attentively, and it is worth the
perusal of all those out of New England who take an interest in the
progress of the Catholic religion in the United States of America.

       *       *       *       *       *

  HORNEHURST RECTORY. By Sister Mary Frances Clare. New York: D. &
      J. Sadlier & Co. 1872.

The appearance of a novel from this distinguished writer will be
an agreeable surprise to her numerous admirers in this country,
who have read with so much pleasure and profit her graver
historical and biographical works. _Hornehurst_ is an English tale
illustrative of the movement in the ranks of the English Church
towards Catholicity, inaugurated some forty years ago by Dr. Newman
and the Tractarians. The characters throughout are well drawn, the
writer being of course thoroughly acquainted with the expressions,
modes of thought, and arguments of the class she portrays.

The book presents a handsome appearance, and we anticipate for
it an extensive patronage, and a permanent place in our Catholic
libraries.

       *       *       *       *       *

  GOING HOME. By Eliza Martin. Philadelphia: Eugene Cummiskey. 1872.

We are glad to see that this novel, which has already appeared
serially in a Philadelphia Catholic newspaper, has been published
in a more portable and permanent form. It is a work of very
considerable merit, combining amusing and exciting incidents
with sound instruction; and from its latent power and partially
developed dramatic strength we judge that it is not the last nor
the ablest of the productions with which the authoress is likely
to favor the public. We are sadly in need of books of its refined
and humanizing character, for, if our young people must read
fiction, they ought to be supplied with the very best attainable
in temper and tendency. The plot of the tale is not complicated,
the leading characters are well and clearly delineated, the moral
obvious, and the scene confined to our own country, not overdrawn.
As a whole, its tone is sad, sometimes even painfully so, and in
our opinion the contrasts between abject poverty and unlimited
affluence, virtue almost superhuman and unmitigated villany--though
all drawn with great vigor--are too violent to be thoroughly
artistic. A novel should be like a well-finished painting, with a
middle distance softening and blending the more prominent lights
and shadows of the picture. It might be objected, also, that the
physical beauty of Mrs. Martin’s heroines, of whom there are three,
is too highly colored, too elaborately depicted, for actual life;
but as this is a fault which carries with it its own palliation,
we presume it will not be considered a very great blemish by most
of her readers. For the sake of the authoress, who doubtless has
devoted much time and labor to her work, as well as from the
respect in which we hold her publisher, we would be glad to be
able to extend our praise from the literary qualities of _Going
Home_ to its mechanical execution, but in common justice we find
it impossible to do so. On the contrary, it must be admitted that
the paper upon which it is printed, the type, ink, and presswork,
are all of the most inferior sort--carelessness or want of ordinary
taste, for we cannot attribute it to design, is evident on every
page, lessening in no slight degree the unalloyed pleasure one
might otherwise feel in reading so interesting a story.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE PLEBISCITE. By Erckmann-Chatrian. New York: Scribner,
      Armstrong & Co. 1872.

This prettily bound and printed book is the combined effort of the
authors of the _Conscript_ and other tales well known by English
translations on this side of the water. Its object is to give,
in the form of a tale, a picture of French peasant manners and
opinions immediately before and during the late Franco-German war;
and to a certain extent it may be considered a success. A vein of
irony and sly humor, at which our “volatile neighbors” are such
adepts, runs through every page, and, Napoleon III. having been
unfortunate, of course it is directed against him and his line of
policy. There is nothing, it is said, so successful as success,
and, now that the mighty Empire has failed, every good Frenchman
with brains enough to write a pamphlet or a song considers that he
is perfectly justified in heaping obloquy on everything connected
with the late order of things. The authors of the _Plebiscite_ are
foremost among this army of ingrates, but they go even further than
politics, and venture their ridicule on more sacred matters, a step
which much greater men than Erckmann-Chatrian have attempted before
now, and for which they have repented when too late.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A BAKER’S DOZEN. Original Humorous Dialogues. By George M.
      Baker. Boston: Lee & Shepard. 1872.

The dialogues contained in this neat little volume, first appeared
in _Oliver Optic’s Magazine_. They are well adapted to school
exhibitions, etc., and will meet a very general and urgent demand.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MARION HOWARD; OR, TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS. By F. A. Philadelphia:
      Peter F. Cunningham.

In the modest preface to this volume, we have the reason for its
appearance before the public, which is most praiseworthy--‘the
dearth of Catholic light literature.’ While the majority of
readers will seek light reading, it is certainly to be regretted
that there is so little that can be read without injury to faith
or morals. The author of _Marion Howard_ has given us a pleasing
story of English life, into which she has skilfully introduced
conversations on various Catholic dogmas, which are well sustained,
and in which the principles of the faith are given in a form that
may attract the attention of numbers who would never look into a
controversial work. It is doubtful if Protestants can be persuaded
to any great extent to read even the light literature of Catholics,
but such a work as _Marion Howard_ will bring pleasure and help to
many a young Catholic, in need of a pleasing answer to the common
objections of Protestants to the Catholic faith. The youth of the
church in this country, surrounded by and mingled with those who
have a false faith or no faith, should be prepared to meet the
assaults they are sure to receive, and books like the one under
notice will be a great assistance to them. We surmise that the
author is a convert, from the multiplicity and variety of the
conversions related in the book. We only wish this were true to
life, and that friends would follow each other into the church in
such rapid succession. There are carelessly written sentences
scattered here and there through the story, but the narrative is
interesting to the end, and we find a loving, tender devotion to
our mother the church, like a golden thread woven into beautiful
thoughts of our holy religion, that could only have been wrought by
one who has the eye of faith.

The type is large and clear, and the volume presents an attractive
exterior.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BY THE SEASIDE. By a Member of the Order of Mercy, authoress
      of “The Life of Catherine McCauley,” “Glimpses of Pleasant
      Homes,” etc. New York: P. O’Shea. 1872.

This is a prettily got up book, written by one who has heretofore
shown her capacity to interest and benefit the young folk. We are
glad to see attractive books of a healthful tone, suited to the
rising generation, thus multiplying on our publishers’ lists, as
a necessary antidote to the baneful literature with which those
addressed are frequently assailed. The church is the home of beauty
as it is of goodness and truth, and we should not allow those who
do not possess either, except in fragments, to excel us in the
artistic features of their publications, any more than in what
relates to ethical proprieties.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CHRISTIAN COUNSELS, selected from the Devotional Works of
      Fénelon. Translated by A. M. James. London: Longmans, Greene
      & Co. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Our Protestant friends have, of late years, set to work very
industriously in translating Catholic books and in writing original
works on Catholic subjects. Besides the Edinburgh edition of the
Ante-Nicene Fathers, just completed, and individual and collective
lives of the saints we could once enumerate, the English versions
of Continental devotional works have increased so rapidly as
to alarm those High Churchmen who are averse to any further
investigation. Of course we can only augur favorably of such
enterprises when undertaken in the right spirit, though we may fear
lest formulas be adopted without the necessary accompaniments of
faith and obedience. Their “starved imaginations and suppressed
devotional instincts,” as Dr. Bellows once phrased it, cannot
long be satisfied with words only, one would think. The writings
of the Archbishop of Cambrai have been too long before the
English-speaking public to need any characterization at our hands,
and we therefore simply chronicle the appearance of a new edition
of the _Christian Counsels_ under Protestant auspices.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PUBLIC SCHOOL EDUCATION. By Michael Müller, C.SS.R. Boston: P.
      Donahoe. 1872.

This is Father Müller’s contribution to the literature of one of
the great questions of the day. It will have attained its end if
it awakens Catholics to the importance of the general theme and
their duty in its regard; and also enables judicious Protestants
to comprehend why we are so solicitous that our children should
receive their religious training at the same time that they acquire
secular knowledge.

       *       *       *       *       *

  SIR HUMPHREY’S TRIAL: A Book of Tales, Legends, and Sketches,
      in Prose and Verse. By Rev. Thomas J. Potter. Boston: P.
      Donahoe. 1872.

Father Potter seems equally at home in addressing the young and the
mature, priests and people; as witness his works on homiletics and
those of a miscellaneous character adapted to different ages. He
evidently believes that variety is the spice of books as well as
of life, as will be seen by the title of the present volume; and
readers indisposed to take up a more serious book will find this an
agreeable substitute.

_The Catholic Review_ of Brooklyn has already established its
position among our best weekly papers. Its sound principles, and
the tact and liveliness with which it is edited make it well
worthy of support. We trust that it will soon attain a sufficient
circulation to furnish the means of still further increasing its
value and interest, and that it will prove to be permanently
successful.

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY will publish at an early day a
new work, now in preparation, by the author of _The Comedy of
Convocation_, entitled _My Clerical Friends_. It will be published
with the consent and approval of the author.

       *       *       *       *       *

WANTED.--Numbers 494, 501, 502, 504, 505 of the _Civilta
Cattolica_, for which a fair price will be paid. Address the editor
of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, 9 Warren Street, or corner of Ninth Avenue
and Fifty-ninth Street.




BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.


  From KELLY, PIET & CO., Baltimore: Excelsior; or, Essays on
      Politeness, Education, and the Means of Attaining Success in
      Life. Part I. for Young Gentlemen, by T. E. Howard; Part II.
      for Young Ladies, by A Lady (R. V. R.) 12mo, pp. 318.--The
      Gold-Diggers and other Verses. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton.
      12mo, pp. xi., 187.--Dramas: The Witch of Rosenburg.--The
      Hidden Gem. By H. E. Cardinal Wiseman. 12mo, pp. 76,
      105.--Lectures by the Most Rev. Henry Edward Manning: The
      Four Great Evils of the Day; The Fourfold Sovereignty of God;
      The Grounds of Faith. 18mo, pp. 133, 170, 101.--St. Helena. A
      Drama for Girls. By Rev. J. A. Bergrath. Paper, 12mo, pp. 43.

  From P. DONAHOE, Boston: Devotions for the Ecclesiastical Year.
      By the author of “Jesus and Jerusalem,” etc.

  From P. O’SHEA, New York: Meditations on the Passion of Our
      Lord Jesus Christ. By Brother Philip. 12mo, pp. ix.,
      483.--The Profits and Delights of Devotion to Mary. By Rev.
      J. O’Reilly, D.D. 12mo, pp. 153.--The Crown of Mary. By a
      Dominican Father. 24mo, pp. 101.--The Agnus Dei: Its Origin
      and History. 32mo, pp. 78.--Evaline. By P. J. Cohen. 12mo,
      pp. 225.--Spiritual Retreat of Eight Days: Extracted from the
      Works of St. Alphonsus Liguori. 12mo, pp. viii., 160.

  From SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO., New York: Within and Without.
      By George MacDonald, LL.D. 12mo, pp. 219.--Easy Experiments
      in Practical Science. By L. R. C. Cooley, Ph.D. 12mo, pp.
      85.--Natural Philosophy. By L. R. C. Cooley, Ph.D. 12mo, pp.
      192.




Transcriber’s Notes:


Obvious punctuation errors have been repaired. Common alternate
spellings were retained. Hyphenation is not necessarily consistent
from author to author, and was retained as written.

It appears that “Sand” was used where “Shund” was meant on page
624, but the text has been left as printed. (How come you, then,
to call Mr. Sand a good-for-nothing scoundrel)

“Voltarian” changed to “Voltairian” on page 17. (you will find
under it a Voltairian)

Repeated word “the” removed on page 27. (the diary of the first
Mrs. Williams)

“Honi” changed to “Honni” on age 32. (Honni soit qui mal y pense)

“Amecan” changed to “American” on page 35. (An American best
understands the American mind.)

“felfow” changed to “fellow” on page 41. (doing good to his
fellow-men)

“has” changed to “have” on page 50. (the principles which have
always guided them)

“Cathoolic” changed to “Catholic” on page 51. (by which Catholic
life)

“inpired” changed to “inspired” on page 71. (Felix had always
inspired her)

Extra word “to” removed on page 73. (But their claims are not
equal to his) “Marceliinus” changed to “Marcellinus” on page 81.
(Alexander, Marcellinus, and _Peter_)

“migh” changed to “might” on page 105. (might go on indefinitely)

“Castel-Gaudolfo” changed to “Castel-Gandolfo” on page 108. (the
pleasant hamlets of Castel-Gandolfo)

“á” changed to “à” on page 138. (Demander à tes champs leurs
antiques ombrages)

“Engénie” changed to “Eugénie” on page 138. (Eugénie de Guérin’s
library)

“orgin” changed to “origin” on page 140. (origin of the Greek
people)

“ehurch” changed to “church” on page 142. (the church honors real
reformer)

“glace” changed to “glance” on page 161. (cast an indignant glance
on her sister)

Repeated word “to” removed on page 185. (it amounted to any
reproach to be a new man)

“fel-asleep” changed to “fell asleep” on page 188. (I fell asleep
and actually dreamed)

“Gallaic’s” changed to “Galliac’s” on page 206. (at Madame de
Galliac’s)

Repeated word “at” removed from page 207. (They were both sound at
heart)

“abandantly” changed to “abundantly” on page 234. (perhaps more
abundantly accorded)

“step” changed to “stept” on page 247. (Her bosom heaved, she stept
aside)

“copmanions” changed to “companions” on page 260. (Melania and her
companions)

Extra word “of” removed from page 266. (the wife of King Ethelbert)

“Captains” changed to “Captain” on page 301. (Captain Cary’s way of
expressing the fact)

“familar” changed to “familiar” on page 317. (a familiar swing and
freedom)

“Elyseés” changed to “Elysées” on page 324. (drive home by the
Champs Elysées)

“bétises” changed to “bêtises” on page 326. (Edgar _a fait des
bêtises_)

“formulalation” changed to “formulation” on page 334. (its precise
formulation)

“where” changed to “were” on page 367. (were shamed into less
inhuman ways)

Extra word “to” remove on age 368. (she had it placed in a shrine,
to which it was carried)

“Bulter” changed to “Butler” on page 376. (After her husband’s
death, Adelaide, says Butler)

“illustrous” changed to “illustrious” on page 379. (the merits of
its illustrious foundress)

“surrended” changed to “surrendered” on page 379. (voluntarily
surrendered itself)

“seventeeth” changed to “seventeenth” on page 382. (the beginning
of the seventeenth century)

“succcessful” changed to “successful” on page 384. (more successful
than Lord Derby)

“ἡροων” changed to “ἡρωων” on page 385.

“οἰονοισι” changed to “οἰωνοισι” on page 385.

“ψύχας” changed to “ψυχὰς” on page 385.

“προ-ιαψσεν” changed to “προ-ιαψεν” on page 385.

“Byrant” changed to “Bryant” on page 389. (reproduced by Mr. Bryant)

“Τροων” changed to “Τρωων καιοντων” on page 389.

“εὐθρονον” changed to “ἐυθρονον” on page 390.

“Byrant” changed to “Bryant” on page 392. (Then Mr. Bryant:)

“Byrant” changed to “Bryant” on page 392. (Voss and Mr. Bryant)

“know” changed to “known” on page on page 431. (discovery known as)

“becauuse” changed to “because” on page 434. (because Streichein
has lavishly greased their palms)

“dedeprive” changed to “deprive” on page 445. (combine not only to
deprive the building of scale)

“picturesqe” changed to “picturesque” on page 449. (part of a
picturesque whole)

“freqently” changed to “frequently” on page 450. (frequently
supplied the place)

“remaing” changed to “remaining” on page 452. (the richness of our
remaining material)

“cenventionality” changed to “conventionality” on 455. (An utter
absence of conventionality)

“â” changed to “à” on page 459. (_A l’eau! à la lanterne!_)

“sufficent” changed to “sufficient” on page 478. (having sufficient
control)

“equilibrum” changed to “equilibrium” on page 544. (poised in
rational equilibrium)

“eradiate” changed to “eradicate” on page 544. (It seeks to
eradicate)

“inflnences” changed to “influences” on page 576. (correct these
literary influences)

“wordly” changed to “worldly” on page 598. (sagacity as of worldly
ambition)

“importanc” changed to “importance” on page 612. (which gives them
their importance)

“sieze” changed to “seize” on page 673. (seize some unlucky porter)

“beggers” changed to “beggars” on page 676. (all the beggars who
were refused entrance)

“envv” changed to “envy” on page 729. (envy is but thinly concealed)

“unburbened” changed to “unburdened” on page 740. (the sweetness of
an unburdened heart)

“Adelentado” changed to “Adelantado” on page 750. (the title of
Adelantado of Florida)

Extra word “of” removed from page 754. (Many of these missions and
residences)

“westtern” changed to “western” on page 757. (the power of Spain in
the western world)

“Lallemant” changed to “Lalemant” on page 762. (Jogues, Brébeuf,
and Lalemant)

“Christain” changed to “Christian” on page 763. (their white
Christian neighbors)

Extra word “my” removed on page 772. (I prevail on myself)

“descending” changed to “descended” on page 825. (Having descended
the Hollow)

“posisition” changed to “position” on page 827. (fourth or fifth
occupant of the position)





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Catholic World, Volume 15, Nos.
85-90, April 1872-September 1872, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48790 ***