The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Catholic World, Vol. 26, October, 1877,
to March, 1878, by E. Rameur

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Title: The Catholic World, Vol. 26, October, 1877, to March, 1878
       A Monthly Eclectic Magazine

Author: E. Rameur

Release Date: April 26, 2019 [EBook #59364]

Language: English

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THE OUTLOOK IN ITALY.

The revolutionary movement in Italy headed by Victor Emanuel has, step by step, trampled under foot every principle of religion, morality, and justice that stood between it and its goal. No pretext of the welfare of a people, even when based on truth, can ever make perfidy and treachery lawful, or furnish a covering of texture thick enough to hide from intelligent and upright minds so long and black a list of misdeeds as the Piedmontese subjugation of Southern Italy contains. “All iniquity of nations is execrable.” What is more, the catalogue of the crimes of this revolution is by no means filled, and, what is worse, the future forebodes others which, in their enormity, will cast those of its beginning into the shade. That the natural desire for unity among the Italian people might have been realized by proper and just means, had the religious, intelligent, and 2influential classes exerted themselves as they were in duty bound to do, there is little room for reasonable doubt. For it would be an unpleasant thing to admit that civilized society, after the action of nineteen centuries of Christianity, could find no way to satisfy a legitimate aspiration, except by a process involving the violation and subversion of those principles of justice, right, and religion for the maintenance and security of which human society is organized and established. It is indeed strange to see the Latin races, which accepted so thoroughly and for so long a period the true Christian faith, now everywhere subject to violent and revolutionary changes in their political condition. How is this to be reconciled with the fact that Christianity, in response to the primitive instincts of human nature, and in consonance with the laws which govern the whole universe, aims at, and actually brings about when followed, the greatest happiness of man upon earth while 3securing his perfect bliss hereafter? For so runs the promise of the divine Founder of Christianity: “A hundred-fold more in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.”

What has beguiled so large a number of the people of Italy, once so profoundly Catholic, that now they should take up the false principles of revolution, should accept a pseudo-science, and unite with secret atheistical societies? How has it come to pass that a people who poured out their blood as freely as water in testimony and defence of the Catholic religion, whose history has given innumerable examples of the highest form of Christian heroism in ages past, now follows willingly, or at least submits tamely, to the dictation of leaders who are animated with hatred to the Catholic Church, and are bent on the extermination of the Christian faith, and with it of all religion?

Only those who can read in the seeds of time can tell whether such signs as these are to be interpreted as signifying the beginning of the apostasy of the Latin races from Christianity and the disintegration and ruin of Latin nations, or whether these events are to be looked upon as evidence of a latent capacity and a youthful but ill-regulated strength pointing out a transition to a new and better order of things in the future.

Judging from the antecedents of the men placed in political power by recent elections in Italy, and their destructive course of legislation, the former supposition, confining our thoughts to the immediate present, appears to be the more likely. It is not, therefore, a matter of surprise that Catholics of an active faith and a deep sense of 4personal responsibility feel uneasy at seeing things go from bad to worse in nations which they have been accustomed to look upon as pre-eminently Catholic. Nor is it in human nature for men of energetic wills and sincere feelings of patriotism to content themselves when they see the demagogues of liberty and the conspirators of atheistical secret societies coming to the front and aiming at the destruction of all that makes a country dear to honest men. Nowhere does the Catholic Church teach that the love of one’s country is antagonistic to the love of God; nor does the light of her faith allure to an ignoble repose, or her spirit render her members slaves or cowards.

Serious-minded men, before going into action, are wont to examine anew their first principles, in order to find out whether these be well grounded, clearly defined, and firm, and also whether there may not be some flaw in the deductions which they have been accustomed to draw from them. An examination of this kind is a healthy and invigorating exercise, and not to be feared when one has in his favor truth and honesty.

II.—THE UNITY OF ITALY.

The idea of unity responds to one of the noblest aspirations of the soul, and wherever it exists free from all compulsion it gives birth to just hopes of true greatness. Would that the cry for unity were heard from the hearts of the inhabitants of the whole earth, and that the inward struggle which reigns in men’s bosoms, and the outward discord which prevails between man and man, between nations and nations, and between races and races, had for ever passed away!

Unity is the essence of the Godhead and the animating principle of God’s church; and wherever her spirit penetrates, there the natural desire for unity implanted in the human heart is intensified and universalized, and man seeks to give to it an adequate embodiment in every sphere of his activity. It was this natural instinct for unity guided by the genius of Catholicity that formed the scattered tribes of Europe of former days into nations, uniting them in a grand universal republic which was properly called Christendom. Who knows but, as there reigned, by the action of an overruling Providence, a political unity in the ancient world which paved the way for the introduction of Christianity, that so there may be in preparation a more perfect political unity of peoples and nations in the modern world to open the way for the universal triumph of Christianity?

But there is a wide difference between recognizing that political unity is favorable to the strength and greatness of nations and the spread and victory of Christianity, and the acceptance of the errors of a class of its promoters, the approval of their injustice, or a compromise with their crimes.

The actual question, therefore, is not concerning the union of the Italian people in one nation, or whether their present unity will be lasting, or revoked, or by internal weakness be dissolved, or shaped in some way for the better. But the actual and pressing question is, How can Italy be withdrawn from 6the designing men who have managed to get control over her political government under the cloak of Italian unity, and who are plainly leading her on towards a precipice like that of the French Revolution of 1789, to be followed by another of even more atrocious notoriety—that of 1871? He must be blind to the sure but stealthy march of events who does not see that, under the control of the present party at the head of the legislative power, Italy is rapidly approaching such a catastrophe. A few thousand frenzied men held and tyrannized over France in 1789; a greater number in Italy—which, like all Europe, is worm-eaten by secret societies—are only waiting for the spark to produce a more destructive explosion, when the character of their leaders and the more inflammable materials they have to work upon are considered.

There is running through all things, both good and evil, an unconquerable law of logic. What is liberalism on Sunday becomes license on Monday, revolutionism on Tuesday, internationalism on Wednesday, socialism on Thursday, communism on Friday, and anarchy on Saturday. He who only sees the battered stones made by the cannon fired against its walls when the Piedmontese soldiers entered into Rome by Porta Pia, sees naught. There are more notable signs than these to read for him who knows how to decipher them. In the invasion and seizure of the temporal principality of the head of Christ’s church, which had stood for centuries as the keystone of the Christian commonwealth, the independence of nations was overthrown, international law trampled under foot, and the sacred rights of religion sacrilegiously violated. It was 7then—let those who have ears to hear listen—that rights consecrated through long ages, and recognized by 200,000,000 of Catholics to-day, were broken in upon by the Piedmontese army; and yet men are found to wonder that the violation of these rights by the Italian revolutionary party should fire with indignation the souls of the faithful in all lands. But revolution will take its course; and so sure as the Piedmontese entered by Porta Pia into Rome and took possession, and held it until the present hour, so sure is it that the conspirators of the secret international societies will in turn get possession of Rome and do their fell work in the Eternal City. “They that sow wind, shall reap the whirlwind.”

Who foresaw, or anticipated, or even dreamed of the atrocities of the Commune in Paris of 1871? What happened at Paris in the reign of the Commune will pale in wickedness before the reign of the internationalists in Rome. As Paris represents the theatre of worldliness, so Rome is the visible sanctuary of religion. Corruptio optimi pessima.

Is there a man so simple or so ignorant of the temper and designs of the conspirators against civilized society in Europe, as well as in our own free country, who fancies that these desperate men will shrink from shaping their acts in accordance with their ulterior aims?

No one who witnessed the reception of Garibaldi in Rome in the winter of 1875 can doubt as to who holds the place of leader among the most numerous class of the population of Italy. The views of this man and the party to which he belongs are no secret. “The fall of the Commune,” he 8wrote in June, 1873, “is a misfortune for the whole universe and a defeat for ever to be regretted.... I belong to the internationals, and I declare that if I should see arise a society of demons having for its object to combat sovereigns and priests, I would enroll myself in their ranks.” It is only the well-officered, strictly disciplined, and large army of Victor Emanuel that hinders Garibaldi from hoisting the red flag of the Commune in Rome and declaring an agrarian republic in Italy. But how long will the Italian army, with the present radicals at the head of affairs, remain intact and free from demoralization?

The army is drawn from a population which the internationalists have penetrated and inoculated with their errors and designs, and their emissaries have been discovered tampering and fraternizing with the troops.

Who can tell how near is the hour when St. Peter’s will be officially declared the pantheon of red-republican Italy, and the statue of Garibaldi will be placed on the high altar where now stands the image of the Crucified God-Man? This will not be the end but the prelude to the final act of the present impending tragedy, when the black flag will be unfurled and the palaces of Rome, with St. Peter’s and the Vatican, and all their records of the past and centuries of heaped-up treasures of art, will be reduced by petroleum and dynamite to a shapeless heap of ruins. To those who can tell a hawk from a handsaw this is the hidden animus and the logical sequence of the entrance of the Piedmontese army into Rome. 9This is the real reading of the hand-writing on the walls of Porta Pia:

“Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice To our own lips.”

But is there not a sufficient number of conservatives in the present national party of Italy to stop the men now at the head of affairs before they reach their ultimate designs? Perhaps so; it would be pleasant to believe this. But the present aspect of affairs gives but little hope of this being true. These conservatives, who did not, or could not, or would not stop the spoliation of the property of the church and the trampling upon her sacred rights; these conservatives, who did not take measures to hinder the Italian radicals from possessing themselves of the legislative power of the present government and pursuing their criminal course—these are not the men to build one’s hopes upon in stemming the tide that is now sweeping Italy to her destruction. The dictates of common sense teach us to look to some other quarter for hopes of success.

III.—THE MISSION OF THE LATIN RACE.

How much of the present condition of the Latin peoples, politically, commercially, or socially considered, can be satisfactorily explained or accounted for on the score of climate, or on that of their characteristics as a race, or of the stage of their historical development, or of the change made in the channels of commerce in consequence of new discoveries, it is not our purpose to stop here to examine or attempt to estimate and decide. One declaration we have no hesitation in making at the outset, and 10that is: If the Latin nations are not in all respects at the present moment equal to others, it is due to one or more of the above-enumerated causes, and not owing, as some partisans and infidels would have the world believe, to the doctrines of their religious faith.

The Catholic Church affirms the natural order, upholds the value of human reason, and asserts the natural rights of man. Her doctrines teach that reason is at the basis of revelation, that human nature is the groundwork of divine grace, and that the aim of Christianity is not the repression or obliteration of the capacities and instincts of man, but their elevation, expansion, and deification.

The Catholic Church not only affirms the natural order, but affirms the natural order as divine. For she has ever held the Creator of the universe, of man, and the Author of revelation as one, and therefore welcomed cheerfully whatever was found to be true, good, and beautiful among all the different races, peoples, nations, and tribes of mankind. It is for this reason that she has merited from those who only see antagonism between God and man, between nature and grace, between revelation and science—who believe that “the heathen were devil-begotten and God-forsaken,” and “this world a howling wilderness”—the charge of being superstitious, idolatrous, and pagan.

The special mission of the people of Israel by no manner of means sets aside the idea of the directing care of divine Providence and the mission of other branches of the family of mankind. The heathens, so-called, were under, and are still under, the divine dispensation given to the patriarch Noe; and so that they live up to the light thus received, 11they are, if in good faith, in the way of salvation. The written law given by divine inspiration to Moses was the same as the unwritten law given to Noe and the patriarchs, and the patriarchal dispensation was the same as was received from God by Adam. There is no one rational being ever born of the human race who is not in some sort in the covenanted graces of God. It is the glory of the Catholic Church that she exists from the beginning, and embraces in her fold all the members of the human race; and of her alone it can be said with truth that she is Catholic—that is, universal both in time and space: replevit orbem terrarum.

Affirming the natural order and upholding it as divine, the Catholic Church did not hesitate to recognize the Roman Empire and the established governments of the world under paganism, and to inculcate the duty, “Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s.” Hence she willingly accepted alliance with the Roman state when Constantine became a Christian, and approved, but with important ameliorations, the Roman code of laws; and of every form of government, whether monarchic or democratic, established among the Gentile nations of the past or by non-Christian peoples of the present, she acknowledges and maintains the divine right.

The great theologians of the church, after having eliminated the errors and supplied the deficiencies of the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, accepted and employed their systems, and the labors of these “immortal heathens” have contributed no little to the glory of Christianity. It is to the labor of Christian monks that the world 12is indebted for what it possesses of the writings of the genius of the “heathen” poets, moralists, and other authors. It was the church’s custom to purify the heathen temples by her blessing, and transform their noble buildings, without altering their structure, into Christian temples. It was in the bosom of the Catholic populations of Italy that the revival of classical literature and art took its rise in modern Europe. Notwithstanding the extravagance of some of its votaries, which called forth the righteous indignation and condemnation of Savonarola, its refining influence, combined with the wealth due to industry and commerce, elevated the Italian cities to a height of civilization that has not been surpassed, if equalled, by the foremost nations of our day. When the ships of Spain covered every sea with commerce, and its activity broke through the confines of the known world and discovered, by the guiding genius of Columbus, a new continent; when it was said of Spain that the sun never set upon its realms; when Spain was most productive of great warriors, great statesmen, great artists, and great saints, it was then, and precisely because of it, that Spain was most profoundly and devoutly Catholic.

All the joys that spring from the highest intellectual and artistic culture, the happiness derived from man’s domestic and social affections, the gratification of the senses in the contemplation of the beauty of all creation, and the pleasure drawn from the fruits of industry and commerce—all these, when pure, are not only consistent with, but form a part of, the life and worship of the Catholic faith. The very last accusation for an intelligent man to make against the Catholic 13Church is that she teaches a “non-human” religion.

No political government, at least in modern times, has ventured to rely so far upon the natural ability of man to govern himself as that of the republic of the United States. It may be said that the government of this republic is founded upon man’s natural capacity to govern himself as a primary truth or maxim. It assumes the dignity of human nature, presupposes the value of man’s reason, and affirms his natural and inalienable rights.

These were declarations of no new truths, for they spring from right reason and the primitive instincts of human nature, and belong, therefore, to that natural order which had ever been asserted and defended by the great theologians and general councils of the Catholic Church. These truths underlie every form of political government founded in Catholic ages, correspond to the instincts of the people, and were only opposed by despots, Protestant theologians, and the erroneous doctrines concerning the natural order brought into vogue by the so-called Reformation.

Our American institutions, in the first place, we owe to God, who made us what we are, and in the next place to the Catholic Church, which maintained the natural order, man’s ability in that order, and his free will. Under God the founders of our institutions owed nothing to Englishmen or Dutchmen as Protestants, but owed all to the self-evident truths of reason, to man’s native instincts of liberty, to the noble traditions of the human race upheld by God’s church and strengthened by the conviction of these truths; their heroic bravery and their stout arms did the rest.

This is why Catholics from the 14beginning took an integral part in the foundation and permanent success of our republic. Among the most distinguished names attached to the document which first declared our national independence and affirmed the principles which underlie our institutions will be found one of the most intelligent, consistent, and fervent members of the Catholic Church. The priest who was first elevated to the episcopate of the Catholic hierarchy in the United States took an active part in its early struggles, and was the intimate friend of Benjamin Franklin and an associate of his on a mission to engage the Canadians to join in our efforts for independence.

The patriotism of Catholics will not suffer in comparison with their fellow-countrymen, as is witnessed by the public address of General Washington at Philadelphia immediately after the close of the war with England. And when they now come to our shores from other countries, it matters not what may have been the form of their native governments, they are at once at home and breathe freely the air of liberty.

Sincere Catholics are among our foremost patriotic citizens, and, whatever may befall our country, they will not be found among those who would divide her into factions, or who would contract her liberties, or seek to change the popular institutions inherited from our heroic forefathers. Catholic Americans have so learned their religion as to find in it a faithful ally and a firm support of both political and civil liberty.

Nowhere, on the other hand, does the Catholic Church reckon among her members more faithful, more fervent, and more devoted children 15than in the citizens of our republic. Everywhere the Catholic Church appears at the present moment under a cloud; there is only one spot in her horizon where there breaks through a bright ray of hope of a better future, and that is in the direction of our free and youthful country. What better test and proof of the Catholic Church’s sanction of the entire natural order can be asked than her unexampled prosperity in the American republic of the United States?

If the Latin peoples are backward in things relating to their political or material or social prosperity, or in any other respect, in the natural order, this is not to be laid to the charge of the Catholic faith. If the races are not wanting to her, the church will never be wanting to the races.

The force which is at work in the actual turmoil in Italy we are firmly convinced will renew the Catholic faith, and open up to its people—let us hope without their passing through a catastrophe feared by many, and not without grounds—a new and better future.

IV.—THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.

They are blind to the lesson which every page of the history of the Catholic Church teaches who indulge in the fancy that the Christ laden and guided bark of Peter will not ride safely through the present world-wide, threatening storm. As the fierce beating of the storm against the majestic oak fixes its roots more firmly in the soil and strengthens and expands its limbs, so by the attacks of calumny the militant church of Christ is made better known, by persecution she is strengthened, and the attempts at her overthrow prepare the way 16for new and more glorious triumphs.

The pages of history point out in other centuries dangers to the existence of the church equal to those of the present crisis, through which she passed with safety and renewed strength. A master-pen in word-painting has given a picture of one of those critical periods, all the more striking as the events which it portrays are within the memory of men still living, and also because the writer is famed for anything rather than Catholic leanings. “It is not strange,” he says, “that in the year 1799 even sagacious observers should have thought that at length the hour of the Church of Rome was come, an infidel power ascendant, the pope dying in captivity, the most illustrious prelates of France living in a foreign country on Protestant alms, the noblest edifices which the munificence of former ages have consecrated to the worship of God turned into temples of victory, or into banqueting houses for political societies, or into theophilanthropic chapels. Such signs might well be supposed to indicate the approaching end of that long domination. But the end was not yet. Again doomed to death, the milk-white hind was still fated not to die. Even before the funeral rites had been performed over the ashes of Pius VI. a great reaction had commenced, which, after the lapse of more than forty years, appears to be still in progress. Anarchy had had its day. A new order of things rose out of the confusion, new dynasties, new laws, new titles, and amidst them emerged the ancient religion. The Arabs have a fable that the Great Pyramid was built by antediluvian kings, and alone, of all the works of men, bore the weight of the 17Flood. Such as this was the fate of the Papacy: it had been buried under the great inundation, but its deep foundations had remained unshaken; and when the waters had abated it appeared alone amid the ruins of a world which had passed away. The republic of Holland was gone, the empire of Germany, and the great Council of Venice, and the old Helvetian League, and the house of Bourbon, and the parliaments and aristocracy of France. Europe was full of young creations—a French Empire, a kingdom of Italy, a Confederation of the Rhine. Nor had the late events affected only territorial limits and political institutions. The distribution of property, the composition and spirit of society, had, through great part of Catholic Europe, undergone a complete change. But the unchangeable church was still there.”^[1]

Three centuries of protests against the idea of the church and of her divine authority have served to bring the question of the necessity of the church and the claims of her authority squarely before the minds of all men who think on religious subjects. So general was the belief in them before the rise of Protestantism that theological works, even the Sum of St. Thomas, did not contain what is now never omitted by theological writers: the “Tractatus de Ecclesia.” The violent protests of heresy, joined with the persecutions of the despotic power of the state, have ended in showing more clearly the divine institution of the church, and proving more conclusively her divine authority.

The idea of the church is a divine conception, and the existence 18of the church is a divine creation. The church as a divine idea lies hid in God, and was an essential part of his preconceived plan in the creation of the universe. Hence the error of those who consider the church as the creation of “an assembly of individual Christian believers”; or as the product of the state, as in Prussia, Russia, England, and other countries; or as the effort of a race, as Dean Milman maintains in his History of Latin Christianity; or as “the conscious organization of the moral and intellectual forces and resources of humanity for a higher life than that which the state requires.” Hence also the failure of all church-builders and inventors of new religions from the earliest ages down to the Luthers, Calvins, Henry VIIIs., Wesleys, Charles Foxes, Mother Ann Lees, Joe Smiths, Döllingers, and Loysons, et hoc genus omne. Poor weak-minded men! had they the slightest idea of what the church of God is, or had they not become blind to it, they would sooner pretend to create a new universe than invent a new religion or start a new church. The human is impotent to create the divine.

Christ alone could replace the Jewish Church by his own, and that because he was God. And this substitution was accomplished, not by the way of a revolutionary protest, but in the fulfilment of the types and figures of the Jewish Church and the realization of its divine prophecies and promises. The ideal church and the historical church which have existed upon earth from Adam until Noe, and from Noe until Moses, and from Moses until Christ, and from Christ until now, which is the actual Catholic Church, are divine in their idea, are divine in their institution, 19are divine in their action, and their continuity is one and unbroken. The church can suffer no breaks without annihilation.

God created man in his own image and likeness, and supplied from the instant of his creation all the means required for man to become one with himself. This was the end for which God called man into existence. This commerce and union between God and man, with the means needed to elevate man to this intercourse and to perpetuate and perfect these relations in an organic form, constitutes the church of God.

The great and unspeakable love of God for man led God, in the fulness of time, to become man, in order to make the elevation of man to union with himself easier and more perfect. To this end the God-Man, while upon earth, declared to his apostle Peter: “I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

This places beyond all doubt or dispute the fact that Christ built a church, and therefore its institution was divine. Moreover, it is clear by these words, not that his church should be free from the attacks of every species of error and wickedness which lead to hell—they rather imply the contrary—but that these attacks should never prevail against her, corrupt, overcome, or destroy her.

He added: “Lo! I am with you always, even to the consummation of the world!” This promise connects Christ’s presence with his church inseparably and perpetually. Hence once the church, always the church. The whole world may go to wreck and ruin sooner than Christ will desert his church. “Heaven and earth shall pass, but my words shall not pass.” Let, 20then, attacks come from any quarter, let revolutions shake the foundations of the world and conspirators overthrow human society, let anarchy reign and her foes fancy her destruction—the Catholic Church will stand with perfect faith upon this divine Magna Charta of her Founder as upon an adamantine rock.

Before Christ’s ascension he appointed the rulers in his church; he gave “some apostles, and some prophets, and other some evangelists, and other some pastors and doctors, for the perfecting of the saints, for the ministry, for the edifying the body of Christ.” He commanded them to tarry in Jerusalem until they should receive the Holy Ghost. When the days of Pentecost were accomplished, the Holy Ghost descended upon them visibly, “and they were all filled with the Holy Ghost.” That was the moment when the divine institution of the church was completed, and then began her divine action upon men and society that never was to cease while the world lasts. The past dispensations of God were all fulfilled in Christ, and his church, which was to embrace all mankind in her fold and guide humanity to its divine destination, was divinely established.

It is quite natural that those races which, by God’s providence, have been intimately connected with the church from her cradle should be inclined to think that the church is confined to their keeping and is inseparable from their existence. Christianity and the church are undoubtedly affected in their development by the peculiarities of the races through which they are transmitted, and it is natural that they should accentuate those truths and bring to the front those 21features of organization which commend themselves most to the genius, instincts, and wants of certain races. This is only stating a general law held as a maxim among philosophers: Whatever is received, is received according to the form of the recipient. Thus, the contact of the church with the intellectual gifts of the Greeks was the providential occasion of the explicit development and dogmatic definition of the sublimest mysteries of the Christian revelation. And through her connection with the Latins, whose genius runs in the direction of organization and law, the church perfected her hierarchy and brought forth those regulations necessary to her existence and well-being known under the name of “Canon Law.”

The objective point of Christianity, the church of Christ, is to embrace in her fold all mankind; but she is, in her origin, essence, and institution, independent of any human being, or race of men, or state, or nation.

The Italians, the Spaniards, the French, or any other nation or nations, may renounce the faith and abandon the church, as England and several nations did in the religious revolution of the sixteenth century, yet the church exists and is none the less really and essentially Catholic. The church has existed in all her divinity without including any one nationality or race, and, if it please God, can do so again. The sun would give forth its light the same though there were no objects within the reach of its rays, as when they are reflected from nature and display all their hidden beauty; so the divinity of the Catholic Church would exist in all its reality and power the same though there were no Christians to manifest it by 22their saintly lives, as at some future day when, after the victory over her enemies, she will unite in one the whole human race, and all her hidden glory will be displayed.

This law also holds good and is applicable to her visible head, the supreme pastor of the faithful. The pope, as pope, was no less the father of the faithful and exercised his jurisdiction when driven into the Catacombs, or violently taken by a despot and imprisoned at Fontainebleau, or, as at present, forced by the action of a desperate faction of Italians into retirement in the Vatican, than when his independence and authority were recognized and sustained by the armies of the Emperor Constantine or defended by the sword of Charlemagne, the crowned emperor of Christendom.

“The pope,” to adopt the words of Pius IX., “will always be the pope, no matter where he may be, in his state as he was, to-day in the Vatican, perhaps one day in prison.”

The perpetuity of the Catholic Church is placed above and beyond all dangers from any human or Satanic conspiracies or attacks in that Divinity which is inherently incorporated with her existence, and in that invincible strength of conviction which this divine Presence imparts to the souls of all her faithful children. It is this indwelling divine Presence of the Holy Spirit from the day of Pentecost which teaches and governs in her hierarchy, is communicated sacramentally to her members, and animates and pervades, in so far as not restricted by human defects, the whole church. Hawthorne caught a glimpse of this divine internal principle of life of the Catholic Church and embodied it in the following passage: “If there were,” he says, “but angels to work the Catholic Church 23instead of the very different class of engineers who now manage its cranks and safety-valves, the system would soon vindicate the dignity and holiness of its origin.”^[2] This statement put in plain English would run thus: The Catholic Church is the church of God actualized upon earth so far as this is possible, human nature being what it is. The indwelling divine Presence is the key to the Catholic position, and they who cannot perceive and appreciate this, whatever may be their grasp of intellect or the extent of their knowledge, will find themselves baffled in attempting to explain her existence and history; their solution, whatever that may be, will tax the faculty of credulity of intelligent men beyond endurance; and at the end of all their efforts for her overthrow these words from her Founder will always stare them in the face: “Non prævalebunt”—“the gates of hell shall not prevail against her.” If this language be not understood, perhaps it may be in its poetical translation:

The radical party now in power in Italy may succeed in ruining their glorious country, but they may rest assured that this does not include, as her foes foolishly and stupidly imagine in every turn of her eventful history, the ruin of the Catholic Church. “What God has made will never be overturned by the hand of man.”

V.—THE SYLLABUS.

One of the principal offices of the Catholic Church is to witness, guard, and interpret the revealed truths, written and unwritten, which 24was imposed upon her by Christ when he said: “Go and teach all nations whatsoever I have commanded you.” This duty she has fulfilled from age to age, in spite of every hindrance and in face of all dangers, with uncompromising firmness and unswerving fidelity, principally by the action of her chief bishop, whom Christ charged to “feed his sheep and lambs” and “to confirm his brethren.” This Supreme Pastor, in watching over the sheep of Christ’s flock, has never failed to feed them with the truths of Christ, and, lest they should be led astray, he has pointed out and condemned the errors against these truths one by one as they arose.

Whatever some critics may have to say as to the form in which the Syllabus has been cast, or as to the technical language employed in its composition, this document nevertheless is all that it purports to be,—an authoritative and explicit condemnation of the most dangerous and subversive errors of our epoch.

Were the Syllabus the product of the private cogitations of an Italian citizen named John Mary Mastai Ferretti, promulgated and imposed upon the unwilling consciences of Catholics by his personal authority, Catholics would indeed have reason to resist and complain. But the violent opposition, the hostility and hatred, that the Syllabus has excited among so many non-Catholics and leading minds is a cause of no little surprise.

Suppose things were as they dream them to be, the attitude of 25that venerable Pontiff in the Vatican, powerless to do physical harm to any one, even if he would, standing up in the sole strength of his convictions, and, in spite of the clamors of fanatics, the rage of conspirators, and the threats of the prime ministers of powerful empires, proclaiming to them and the world that what they hold to be truth is a lie, what they maintain to be right is wrong, and what they desire as good is evil—this presents the most august and sublime figure the nineteenth century has witnessed. O noble old man! well dost thou merit to be placed among the great men of the holy church, and as chief pastor to be ranked on the pages of her history in the list of her heroic and saintly pontiffs, with her Leos and Gregories.

But read the Syllabus—and few of its opponents have done this; take the trouble to understand rightly what you have read—and fewer still have taken this pains—and if you have not lost sight of the prime truths of reason, and have any faith left in the revealed truths of Christianity, you must at least assent to its principal decisions and approve of its censures. For its condemnations are chiefly aimed against pantheism, atheism, materialism, internationalism, communism—these and similar errors subversive of man’s dignity, society, civilization, Christianity, and all religion. What boots it that these distinctive errors are cloaked with the high-sounding and popular catch-words, “intellectual culture,” “liberty of thought,” “modern civilization,” etc., etc.? They are none the less errors, and all the more dangerous on account of their attractive disguise.

The opposition of those who are not internationalists and atheists 26to the condemnation and censures contained in the Syllabus, can be explained, putting it in the mildest form, on the ground of their lack of the sense of the divine authority of the church and its office, and the misapprehension or misinterpretation in great part of its language. For at bottom the Syllabus is nothing else than the Christian thesis of the nineteenth century, as against its antithesis set up by modern sophists and conspirators, who openly put forth their programme as in religion atheism, in morals free-love, in philosophy materialism, in the state absolute democracy, in society common property.

This, then, is the significance and the cause of the rage which it has called forth: the Supreme Pastor of Christ’s flock, with his vigilant eye, has detected the plots of those who would overthrow the family, society, and all religion, and, conscious of the high obligations of his charge, would not in silence take his repose, but dared, in protection of his fold, to cry aloud and use his teeth upon these human wolves, and thus warn the faithful and the whole world of their impending danger. This is the secret of the outcry against the Syllabus and Pius IX. Herein is the Quare fremuerunt gentes. But does not the Syllabus declare that there can be no reconciliation between the Catholic Church and modern civilization? O blind and slow of heart! do you not know that modern civilization is the outcome of the Catholic Church? What was the answer of Christ to Satan when he offered to him “all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them”? “Begone, Satan!” Which means, What you offer is already mine, and not yours to 27give; away, hypocrite and deceiver! So to-day, when the declared enemies of Christian civilization come in disguise to the Catholic Church and insist upon her reconciliation with modern civilization, she replies with Christ: Begone, Satan; modern civilization is the product of the Catholic Church, and not yours, and not under your protection or jurisdiction; away, hypocrites and conspirators!

Reconciliation with what these conspirators call “modern civilization”? Do men who have their wits about them know what this means? This means the overthrow of the great institutions of society, which have cost nineteen centuries of toil and struggle of the noblest men and women of the race. And for what? Only for the tyranny of a commune of declared atheists, the emancipation of the flesh, and the reign of Antichrist. Thank God! there is one man who cannot be bought by bribes, or won by flattery, or made to stoop by fear; who dares meet face to face the foes of Christ and the enemies of mankind, open his mouth and lift up his voice, and, in answer to these hypocritical invitations, speak out in tones that ring in the ears of the whole world and can never be forgotten: “Non possumus.”

The question is not whether the church will be reconciled with modern civilization. The real question is whether modern society will follow the principles of eternal justice and right, and reject these false teachers; whether it will legislate in accordance with the rules of right reason and the divine truths of Christianity, and turn its back upon revolution, anarchy, and atheism; whether it will act in harmony with God’s church in upholding modern civilization and in 28spreading God’s kingdom upon earth, or return to paganism, barbarism, and savagery. The question, the real question which in the course of human events has become at the present moment among the Latin race a national question, and particularly so in Italy, is this: “Christ or Barabbas?” “Now, Barabbas was a robber.”

It is because the Syllabus has placed this alternative in so clear and unmistakable a light that Satan has stirred up so spiteful and so wide-spread an opposition to it among his followers and those they can influence. Here is where the shoe pinches.

VI.—THE VATICAN COUNCIL.

It is folly to attempt to interpret any society without having first discovered its animating principle and fairly studied the nature and bearings of its organization. How great, then, is the folly of those who seem not to have even a suspicion that the greatest and grandest and the most lasting of all societies and organizations that the world has ever known—the Catholic Church—can be fathomed by a hasty glance! Yet there are men well known, and reckoned worthy of repute, who bestow more time and pay closer attention to gain knowledge of the structure and habits of the meanest bug than they deem requisite before sitting in judgment on the church of the living God. There is in our day a great variety of demagogues, and their number is very great, but a truly scientific man is a rara avis.

There are also men standing high in the public estimation, and some of them deservedly so in other respects, who imagine that the decree of the Vatican Council defining the prerogatives of the successor of St. 29Peter has seriously altered the constitution of the Catholic Church, when it has done nothing more or less than make the common law of the church, whose binding force from universal usage and universal reception was admitted, a statute law.

Starting off from this serious mistake as their premise, they wax warm and become furious against the Vatican Council and its decree concerning the Roman Pontiff. And the new-born pity with which they are seized for benighted Catholics, would be worthy of all admiration, were there not good grounds to question their common sense or suspect their sincerity. They talk about “a pontifical Cæsar imposed upon the Catholic Church,” “priestly domination carried to its highest point of development,” “the personal infallibility of the pope,” “the Roman Church transformed into an enlarged house of the Jesuit Order,” “the incompatibility of the Catholic Church, with its new constitution, with the state,” etc., etc. Then follows a jeremiad over “the mental dependency of Catholics,” and so forth. All this and much more has, according to their opinion, been accomplished by a single decree of the Vatican Council. Apparently this class of men look upon the Catholic Church as a mere piece of mechanism, abandoned to the control and direction of a set of priests swayed by personal ambition and selfishness, and whose sole aim is to exercise an absolute tyranny over the consciences of their fellow-Christians; or as an institution still more absurd and vile, for heresy and infidelity have in some instances succeeded in so blinding men’s minds that they do not allow the good the church does 30as hers, and, stimulated by malice, heap upon her every conceivable vice and evil. Christ had to defend himself against the Jews, who accused him of being possessed by a devil; and is it a wonder that his church should have to defend herself against the charge of misbelievers and unbelievers as being the synagogue of Satan? The servant is not greater than his master.

Even Goethe, in spite of his anti-Christian, or rather his anti-Protestant, instincts, would have saved these men from their fanatical blindness and their gross errors by imparting to their minds, if they were willing to receive it, a true insight into the real character of the Catholic Church. “Look,” he says, after premising that “poems are like stained glasses—”

The “Philistines” we are speaking of infuse into the Catholic Church their own forensic spirit, and fancy that she is only a system of severe commandments, arbitrary laws, and outward ceremonies enforced by an external and absolute authority which, like the old law, places all her children in a state of complete bondage. They are blind to the fact that the Catholic Church confines her precepts, such is her respect for man’s liberty, chiefly to the things necessary to salvation, leaving all the rest to be complied with by each individual 31Christian as moved by the instinct of divine grace.^[4]

The aim of the Catholic Church is not, as they foolishly fancy, to drill her children into a servile army of prætorian guards, but to raise up freemen in Christ, souls actuated by the Holy Spirit—to create saints.

They are also ignorant of the nature and place, of the authority of the church, as they are of her spirit.

It is the birthright of every member of the Catholic Church freely to follow the promptings of the Holy Spirit, and the office and aim of the authority of the church is to secure, defend, and protect this Christ-given freedom.

To make more clear this relation of the divine external authority of the church with the divine internal guidance of the Holy Spirit in the soul, a few words of explanation will suffice.

It is the privilege of every soul born to Christ in his holy church in the waters of regeneration, to receive thereby the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit. It is the bounden duty of every Christian soul to follow with fidelity the promptings of the Holy Spirit. In order that the soul may follow faithfully the indwelling Holy Spirit, it must be secured against all mistakes and delusions and protected against all attacks from error. Every child of the church has therefore a claim in justice upon the authority of the church for this security and protection. But it would be absurd and an intolerable indignity for the soul to obey an authority that might lead it astray in a matter concerning its divine life and future destiny; for 32in the future world no chance or liberty is left for a return to correct the mistakes into which the soul may have fallen. Therefore the claim is founded in right reason and justice that the supreme teaching and governing authority of the church should be divine—that is, unerring. And it is the intrusion of human authority in the shape of private judgment, or that of the state, as supreme, in regard to the truths of divine revelation, that is the radical motive of the resistance to Protestantism as Christianity on the part of Catholics.

Now, when the soul sees that the authority which governs is animated by the same divine Spirit, with whose promptings it is its inmost desire to comply, and appreciates that the aim of the commands of authority is to keep it from straying from the guidance of the indwelling divine Spirit, then obedience to authority becomes easy and light, and the fulfilment of its commands the source of increased joy and greater liberty, not an irksome task or a crushing burden. This spiritual insight springing from the light of faith is the secret source of Catholic life, the inward principle which prompts the obedience of Catholics to the divine authority of the holy church, and from which is born the consciousness of the soul’s filiation with God, whence flow that perfect love and liberty which always accompany this divine Sonship.

The aim of the authority of the church and its exercise is the same as that of all other authority—secondary. The church herself, in this sense, is not an end, but a means to an end. The aim of the authority of the church is the promotion and the safeguard of the divine action of the indwelling Holy Spirit in the 33soul, and not a substitution of itself for this.

Just as the object of the authority of the state is to promote the common good and to protect the rights of its citizens, so the authority of the church has for its aim the common good of its members and the protection of their rights. And is not the patriotic spirit that moves the legislator to make the law for the common good and protection of his fellow-countrymen identically the same spirit which plants in their bosoms the sense of submission to the law? Consequently, to fix more firmly and to define more accurately the divine authority of the church in its papal exercise, seen from the inside, is to increase individual action, to open the door to a larger sphere of liberty, and to raise man up to his true manhood in God.

It does, indeed, make all the difference in the world, as the poet Goethe has so well said, to “look at the church” with “Sir Philistine” in a “narrow and captious” spirit from “the market square” stand-point, or to gaze on the church from the inside, where all her divine beauty is displayed and, in a free and lofty spirit, fully enjoyed.

VII.—THE VATICAN COUNCIL (continued).

To define the prerogatives of the papal authority, and its place and sphere of action in the divine autonomy of the church, was to prepare the way for the faithful to follow with greater safety and freedom the inspirations of the Holy Spirit, and thus open the door wider for a fresh influx of divine life and a more vigorous activity. Thanks for these great advantages to the persistent attacks of the foes of the church; for had they let her 34authority alone, this decree of the Vatican Council would not have been called for, and the prerogatives of the papal functions might have been exercised with sufficient force as the unwritten and common law, and never have passed into a dogmatic decree and become the statute law.

The work of the Vatican Council is not, however, finished. Other and important tasks are before it, to accomplish which it will be sooner or later reassembled. Divine Providence appears to be shaping events in many ways since the adjournment of the council, so as to render its future labors comparatively easy. There were special causes which made it reasonable that the occupant of St. Peter’s chair at Rome should in modern times be an Italian. Owing to the radical changes which have taken place in Europe, these causes no longer have the force they once had. The church is a universal, not a national society. The boundaries of nations have, to a great extent, been obliterated by the marvellous inventions of the age. The tendency of mankind is, even in spite of itself, to become more and more one family, and of nations to become parts of one great whole rather than separate entities. And even if the wheel of change should, as we devoutly hope, restore to the Pope the patrimony of the church, the claims of any distinct nationality to the Chair of Peter will scarcely hold as they once held. The supreme Pastor of the whole flock of Christ, as befits the Catholic and cosmopolitan spirit of the church, may now, as in former days, be chosen solely in view of his capacity, fitness, and personal merits, without any regard to his nationality or race.

35It must be added to the other great acts of the reigning Pontiff—whom may God preserve!—that he has given to the cardinal senate of the church a more representative character by choosing for its members a larger number of distinguished men from the different nations of which the family of the church is composed. This, it is to be hoped, is only a promise of the no distant day when the august senate of the universal church shall not only be open to men of merit of every Catholic nation of the earth, but also its members be chosen in proportion to the importance of each community, according to the express desire of the holy œcumenical Council of Trent. Such a representative body, composed of the élite of the entire human race, presided over by the common father of all the faithful, would realize as nearly as possible that ideal tribunal which enlightened statesmen are now looking for, whose office it would be to act as the arbitrator between nation and nation, and between rulers and people.

Since the close of the first session of the Vatican Council nearly all the different nations of Europe have, of their own accord, broken the concordats made with the church and virtually proclaimed a divorce between the state and the church. This conduct leaves the church entirely free in the choice of her bishops; which will tend to bring out more clearly the spiritual and popular side of the church; to set at naught the charge made against her prelates as meddling in purely secular affairs; and to wipe out the stigma of their being involved in the political intrigues of courts.

Modern inventions and improvements, 36such as telegraphs, railroads, steamships, cheap postage, the press, have added time, increased efficiency, and lent an expansive power of action to men which poets, in their boldest flights of fancy, did not reach. These things have changed the face of the material world and the ways of men in conducting their secular business.

Pope Sixtus V. readjusted and improved in his day the outward administration of the church—a reform that was greatly needed—and placed it by his practical genius, both for method and efficiency, far in advance of his times. This same work might, in some respects, be done again and with infinite advantage to the interests and prosperity of the whole church of God.

One of the most, if not the most, important of the congregations of the church is that De Propaganda Fide. It is the centre of missionary enterprises throughout the whole extent of the world. No other object can be of greater interest to every Catholic heart, no branch of the church’s work calls for greater practical wisdom, more burning zeal, and more energetic efficiency.

There is, perhaps, no position in the church, after that of the papal chair, so great in importance, so vast in its influence, so wide in its action, as the one occupied by the cardinal prefect of the Propaganda. Could it be placed on a footing so as to profit by all the agencies of our day, it would be better prepared to enter upon the new openings now offered to the missionary zeal of the church in different parts of the world, and become, what it really aims to be, the right arm of the church in the propagation of the faith.

Who can tell but that one of the 37results of the present crisis in Italy will lead by an overruling Providence to an entire renewal of the church, not only in Italy, but throughout the whole world? Such a hope has been frequently expressed by Pius IX., and to prepare the way for it was one of the main purposes of assembling the Vatican Council.

VIII.—IMPENDING DANGER.

Scarcely any event is more deplorable to the sincere Christian and true patriot than when there arises a discord, whether real or apparent, between the religious convictions and the political aspirations of a people. Such a discord divides them into separate and hostile camps, and it is not in the nature of things that in such a condition both religion and the state should not incur great danger. Every sacrifice except that of principle should be made, every material interest that does not involve independence and existence should be yielded up without reluctance or delay, in order to put an end to these conflicts, unless one would risk on one hand apostasy and on the other anarchy.

The discord which has been sown between the state and the church by the revolutionary movement in Italy has not only excited a violent struggle in the bosom of every Italian, but has created dissension between husband and wife, parents and children, brother and brother, friend and friend, neighbor and neighbor, and placed different classes of society in opposition to each other. The actual struggle going on in Italy is working every moment untold mischief among the Italian people. Already symptoms of apostasy and signs of anarchy are manifest. Every day these dangers 38are becoming more menacing. A way out of this dead-lock must be speedily found.

The church has plainly shown in ages past that she can live and gain the empire over souls, even against the accumulated power of a hostile and persecuting state. She has shown in modern times, both in the United States and in England and Ireland, that independent of the state, and of all other support than the voluntary offerings of her children, and with stinted freedom, she can maintain her independence, grow strong and prosperous. The church, relying solely upon God, conquered pagan Rome in all its pride of strength, and, if needs be, she can enter again into the arena, and, stripped of all temporal support, face her adversaries and reconquer apostate Rome.

But who can contemplate without great pain a nation, and that nation the Italian, passing through apostasy and anarchy, even though this be necessary, in the opinion of some, as a punishment and purification? Can those who believe so drastic a potion is needed to cure a nation give the assurance that it will not leave it in a feeble and chronic state, rendering a revival a work of centuries, and perhaps impossible? Every noble impulse of religion and humanity should combine to avert so dire a calamity, and with united voice cry out with the prophet: “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why, then, is not the wound of the daughter of my people healed?”

The balm that will cure the present wound in Italy is not likely to be found in a closer alliance of the church with the actual state. For the state throughout Europe, with scarcely an exception, has placed 39itself in hostility to the church, and to expect help from this quarter would indeed be to hope in vain, and to rivet more closely the shackles which bind the free action of her members. Is it not the apparent complicity of the church with some of the governments of Europe, since they have thrown off the salutary restraints of her authority, that has been one of the principal causes of the loss to a fearful degree of her influence with the more numerous class of society, giving a pretext to the tirades of the socialists, communists, and internationals against her? The church has been unjustly identified, in the minds of many, with thrones and dynasties whose acts and policy have been as inimical to her interests as to those of the people.

In the present campaign it would be far from wise to rely for aid on states, as states now are—whether they be monarchies, or aristocracies, or republics, or democracies—or upon contending dynasties; the help needed in the actual crisis can come only from the Most High. “Society,” as Pius IX. has observed, “has been enclosed in a labyrinth, out of which it will never issue save by the hand of God.”

The prime postulate of a sound Catholic is this: The church is divine, moved by the instinct of the Holy Spirit in all her supreme and vital acts. The Catholic who does not hold this as a firm and immovable basis has lost, or never had, the true conception of the church, and is in immediate danger of becoming a rebel and a heretic, if he be not one already. Whoso fails to recognize this permanent divine action in the church, the light of the Holy Spirit has departed from 40his soul, and he becomes thereby external to the church. Of this truth De Lamennais, Döllinger, Loyson, are modern and sad examples. Instead of seeking a deeper insight into the nature of the church, and drawing from thence the light and the strength to labor for the renewal of Christianity and the unity of Christendom, they have become blinded by passion and deluded by personal conceits, and have fallen into heresy and sectarianism. For the divine Spirit embodied in the church and the divine Spirit indwelling in every Christian soul are one and the same divine Spirit, and they bear testimony to each other, and work together for the same end.

The errors which menaced the truths of divine revelation and the peace of society are known and condemned by the supreme authority of the church. The same voice of the Chief Pastor called a general council to remove all evils from the church, “that our august religion and its salutary doctrine might receive fresh life over all the earth.”

Again and again he has exhorted the faithful to uphold and encourage the Catholic press in defence of religion as one of their important duties, and followed up his advice by his own personal example.

Everywhere he has approved of the formation of societies for the advancement of science, art, and education; for the protection and amelioration of the working-classes; and the meeting of Catholic laymen for the discussion and promotion of the interests of the church and society.

“Prayer, Speech, and the Press”—these are the watch-words of Pius IX. These words, which have the 41impress of the seal of divine grace upon them, have awakened the universal consciousness of the church. The church gained her first victories by prayer, by speech, and by writing, and these peaceful weapons are not antiquated, and, if earnestly employed, are in our day more than a match for needle-guns, Krupp cannon, or the strongest iron-clads. Above all, when handled by Catholics they have the power of Almighty God to back them, and that strength of conviction in Catholic souls which knows no conquerors.

If there be one thing more than any other that strikes dismay in the camp of the foes of the church, it is the united action of Catholics in defence of their faith. Let Italian Catholics act unitedly and, wherever and whenever they can, act politically, saving their faith and their obedience; uphold generously the Catholic press; let them speak out manfully and fearlessly their convictions with all the force of their souls; and for the rest, look up to God, and the enemies of God and of his church and of their country will disappear “like the dust which the wind driveth from the face of the earth.”

“It is time, my brethren, to act with courage.”^[5]

42

I.—OUR BOND.

II.—NOON.

III.—NIGHT.

IV.—DAWN.

V.—ON FIRE.

ROC AMADOUR.

There is not a place of pilgrimage in France without some special natural attraction, from Mont St. Michel on the stormy northern coast to Notre Dame de la Garde overlooking the blue Mediterranean Sea; from Notre Dame de Buglose on a broad moor of the Landes to Notre Dame de la Salette among the wild Alps of Dauphiné; but not one of these has the peculiar charm of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour in Quercy, which stands on an almost inaccessible cliff overhanging a frightful ravine once known as the Vallée Ténébreuse. And not only nature, but history, poetry, and the supernatural, all combine to render this one of the most extraordinary of the many holy sanctuaries of France. For this is the place where, as hoary legends tell, the Zaccheus of the Scriptures ended his days in a cave; where the peerless Roland hung up his redoubtable sword before the altar of the Virgin; where Henry II. of England, Louis IX. of France, and so many princes and knights of the middle ages 45came to pay their vows; where Fénelon, the celebrated Archbishop of Cambrai, was consecrated to the Virgin in his infancy, and where he came in later life to pray at his mother’s tomb; and which has been sung by mediæval poets and rendered for ever glorious by countless miracles of divine grace.

On a pleasant spring morning we left Albi to visit the ancient province of Quercy. From the fertile valley of the Tarn, overlooked by the fine church of Notre Dame de la Drèche—the tutelar Madonna of the Albigeois—we entered a dreary, stony region beyond Cahuzac, then came into a charming country with wooded hills crowned with old towers and villages, as at Najac, where the railway passes through a tunnel directly beneath the ancient castle in the centre of the town, and crosses the Nexos on the other side of the hill, which we found merry with peasant women washing their linen in the clear stream and hanging it on the rocks to bleach in the hot sun. The whole region is full of wild ravines kept fresh by 46capricious streams and the shadows of the numerous hills. The wayside grows bright with scarlet poppies, the cherry-trees are snowy with blossoms, the low quince hedges are aflush with their rosy blooms, and the pretty gardens at the stations are full of flowers and shrubbery. We pass Capdenac, supposed by M. de Champollion to be the ancient Uxellodunum whose siege is related by Cæsar in his Commentaries, also on a high hill around which the river Lot turns abruptly and goes winding on through a delicious valley, the water as red as the soil, perhaps owing to the recent rains. Soon after the country becomes rocky and desolate again, with stone walls instead of flowering hedges, and flocks of sheep here and there nibbling the scant herbage among the rocks, looking very much inclined, as well they may, to give up trying to get a living. The whole region is flat, the earth is ghastly with the pale stones, everything is subdued in tone, the horizon is bounded by low, dim hills, the sky becomes sombre and lowering. But there is something about all this desolation and silence and monotony that excites the imagination. Even our epicurean friends felt the strange charm, for this is the region where truffles abound, scented out by the delicate organ of the animal sacred to St. Anthony the Great!

We were now in Quercy, which comprises such a variety of soil and temperature. In one part everything is verdant and flowery, the hills wreathed with vines and the trees covered with fruit-blossoms, and over all a radiant sun; perhaps a little beyond is a stunted vegetation, the trees of a northern clime, and a country as rough and bleak as Scotland, with long, desolate 47moors, arid and melancholy in the extreme.

Some way this side of Roc Amadour we came upon the singular gap of Padirac, where St. Martin is said to have had a race with the devil. They were both mounted on mules, St. Martin’s a little the worse for wear, and, starting across the country, they flew over walls and precipices and steep cliffs, without anything being able to arrest their course. Satan at length turned to the saint and laid a wager he could open a gap in the earth no unaided mortal could pass. St. Martin laughed him to scorn. The angel of darkness then stretched forth his hand, and, laying on the ground his forefinger, which suddenly shot out to an enormous length, the earth instantaneously opened beneath it to the depth of a hundred and fifty feet. “Is that all?” cried the undaunted saint, as he spurred his beast. The mule sprang across the yawning gulf, one hundred feet broad, leaving the impress of his hoofs in the solid rock, as is to be clearly seen at this day. One of these foot-prints turns out, because, we are told, St. Martin’s mule was lame. This, of course, made his victory the more wonderful. After this feat the saint, in his turn, challenged the demon, and, resuming their race, St. Martin hastily thrust a cross of reeds into the fissure of a rock they came to, whereupon Satan’s mule reared and plunged and overthrew its rider, to the everlasting glory of St. Martin and the triumph of the cross. A more durable cross of stone now marks the spot where this great victory was won over the foul fiend.

Roc Amadour is in the diocese of Cahors, which is a picturesque old town built on and around a cliff in a bend of the river Lot. It 48is quite worthy of a passing glance and has its historic memories. In ancient times it bore so imposing an appearance that one of its historians pretends Cæsar, when he came in sight of it, could not help exclaiming in his astonishment: “Behold a second Rome!” In the middle ages, if we are to believe Dante, it was notorious as a city of usurers. He ranks it with Sodom; but perhaps this was owing to his strong Italian prejudices against the French popes, for at Cahors was born John XXII., whom he severely consigns to ignominy. We are shown the castle where this pope passed his childhood, at one edge of the town. Passing by the university, we are reminded by a statue of Fénelon, in the centre of a square called by his name, that he was once a student here. There is likewise a street named after Clement Marot, whose version of the Psalms became so popular among the Huguenots. He was born at Cahors, and is now regarded as one of its chief celebrities, though not tolerated in the place in the latter part of his life from a suspicion of heresy, then almost synonymous with treason, which caused him to be imprisoned in the Châtelet. He thus protested against the accusation:

Though released, he was obliged to take refuge in Geneva on account of the use of his paraphrase of the Psalms in the conventicles, but there he was convicted of misdemeanors, and, by Calvin’s orders, ridden on an ass and sent out of 49the city. Neither fish nor flesh, he now sought an asylum in Italy—“the inn of every grief,” as Dante calls it—and died at Turin in 1546.

In passing through Quercy we are struck by the constant succession of old castles bearing some historic name like that of Turenne. Among others is Castelnau de Bretenoux, associated with Henry II. of England, on a lofty eminence on the left shore of the Dordogne, overlooking one of the most beautiful valleys of France, which is said to have inspired Fénelon with his description of the island of Calypso. A few years since this vast château was one of the finest specimens of feudal architecture in France. Its embattled walls and massive towers; the long gallery, with its carvings and gildings, where the fair ladies of the time of Louis Treize used to promenade in their satins and rich Mechlin laces, admiring themselves in the rare Venetian mirrors; the spacious cellars with their arches; the vaulted stables, and the vast courts with their immense wells, have been greatly injured by fire and now wear an aspect of desolation melancholy to behold. Galid de Genouilhac, a lord of this house, who was grand écuyer in the time of Francis I., and would have saved his royal master the defeat of Pavia had his advice been listened to, was disgraced for presuming to admire the queen, and, retiring to this castle, he built a church, on which he graved the words still to be seen: J’aime fort une.

“Roc Amadour!” cried the guard, as he opened the door of our compartment, disturbing our historic recollections. We looked out. There was nothing to correspond with so poetical a name. No village; no church. Nothing but a 50forlorn station-house on a desolate plain. Behind it we found an omnibus waiting to catch up any stray pilgrim, and we availed ourselves of so opportune a vehicle, rude as it was. We could not have asked for anything more penitential, so there was no occasion for scruples. It leisurely took us a few miles to the west, and finally dropped us mercifully in the middle of the road before a rough wayside inn that had a huge leafy bough suspended over the door to proclaim that poor wine only needed the larger bush. We were not tempted to enter. The driver pointed out the way, and left us to our instinct and the pilgrim’s staff. There was nothing to be seen but the same dreary expanse. But we soon came to a chapel in the centre of a graveyard, where once stood a hospice with kind inmates to wash the bleeding feet of the pilgrim. Then we began to descend diagonally along the side of a tremendous chasm that suddenly opened before us, passing by a straggling line of poor rock-built huts, till we came to the archway of an old gate, once fortified, that stands at the entrance of a village. This was Roc Amadour.

Imagine a mountain suddenly cleft asunder, disclosing a frightful abyss several hundred feet in depth, lined with gray rocks that rise almost perpendicularly to the very clouds, and, far down at the bottom, a narrow stream winding sullenly along, looking like one of the fabled rivers of the abisso doloroso of the great Florentine. Half way up one side of this Vallée Ténébreuse, as it was once called, hangs the village of Roc Amadour like a cluster of birds’ nests along the edge of a precipice, over which are suspended several churches, one 51above the other, that seem hewn out of the very cliff. These are the famous sanctuaries of Roc Amadour that have been frequented from time immemorial.

Several hundred feet above these churches, on the very summit of the mount, is the old castle of La Charette, with its ramparts overlooking the whole country. This served in the frequent wars of the middle ages not only for the defence of the sanctuary below, but of the town of Roc Amadour, which was then a post of strategic importance, and has its page in history, as every reader of Sir John Froissart knows.

The sight of this mountain, that looks as if rent asunder by some awful convulsion of nature, with the castle on its summit; its rocky sides once peopled with hermits, and still alive with the voice of prayer; the churches that swell out of the cliff like the bastions of a fortress; the village on the ledge below; and the dizzy ravine in the depths, is truly astonishing.

The town looks as if the breath of modern progress had never reached it. It is the only place in all Europe where we did not meet an Englishman or an American. One would think the bivalve in which it is lodged just opened after being closed hundreds of years. There is the Rue de la Couronnerie, where Henry Court-Mantel was crowned King of Aquitaine. There are the remains of the house occupied by his father, Henry II. of England, with the huge well he caused to be dug, from which the inhabitants still draw water. And there are the remains of the four fortified gates ruined in the wars of the sixteenth century.

We stopped at the Grand Soleil—a hostel of the ancient time, with 52an immense kitchen that would have delighted Jan Steen, with beams black with the smoke of a thousand fires, hung with smoked hams, and gourds, and strings of onions, and bright copper kettles—the very place for roistering villagers such as he loved to paint. It looked ancient enough to have been frequented by King Henry’s soldiers. It had a very cavern for a fireplace, with seats at the yawning sides beneath the crook, with which M. Michelet says the sanctity of the fireside was identified in the middle ages far more than with the hearth, and curious old andirons, such as are to be seen at Paris in the Hôtel de Cluny, with a succession of hooks for the spits to rest on, and circular tops for braziers and chafing-dishes. Stairs led from the kitchen to the story above, well enough to mount, but perilous in descent, owing to their steepness. Everything is rather in the perpendicular style at Roc Amadour. An invocation to Marie conçue sans péché was pasted on the door of our chamber, and a statuette of the Blessed Virgin stood on the mantel. The windows looked out on a little terrace dignified with the name of Square, where children were playing around the great stone cross. At table we found the sacrifice of Abraham and other sacred subjects depicted on our plates, and a cross on the salt-cellar. Roast kid and goat’s milk were set before us with various adjuncts, after which patriarchal fare we issued forth to visit the celebrated chapel of Our Lady of Roc Amadour. We found we had done well in fortifying the outer man for such an ascent, particularly as the day was far advanced, and the morning supplies at Albi had been of the most unsubstantial nature. We 53passed several houses with old archways of the thirteenth century, but the most imposing house in the place is a seigneurial mansion of the sixteenth century, now occupied by the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine. We soon came to the foot of the staircase leading up the side of the cliff to the sanctuaries. It consists of about two hundred and forty steps, partly hewn out of the rock, and is generally ascended by the devout pilgrim on his knees and with prayer—an enterprise of no trifling nature, as we are prepared to vouch. On great festivals this sacred ladder is crowded with people ascending and descending. Their murmured prayer is a gradual Psalm indeed. The first flight of one hundred and forty steps leads to a platform around which stood formerly the dwellings of the fourteen canons consecrated to the service of Mary. A Gothic portal, with a stout oaken door covered with fine old scroll-work of iron, leads by another flight of seventy-six steps to the collegiate church of Saint-Sauveur, one of the six remaining sanctuaries. Formerly there were twelve chapels built among the rocks in honor of the twelve apostles, but these all disappeared in the time of the unsparing Huguenots. Twenty-five steps more, at the left, bring you to a terrace with the miraculous chapel of Our Lady on one side and that of St. Michael on the other. Between them, directly before you, is the cave-like recess in which Zaccheus is said to have ended his days, and where he still lies in effigy on his stone coffin. Rupis amator he was called—the lover of the rock—whence St. Amateur, and St. Amadour, the name given him by the people. Amadour quasi amator solitudinis, say the old chronicles. 54His body remained here from the time of his death, in the year of our Lord 70 (we adhere to the delightful old legend), till 1166, when, according to Robert de Monte, who wrote in 1180, his tomb was opened at the request of a neighboring lord who was extremely ill and felt an inward assurance he should be healed by the sacred relics. His faith was rewarded. The body was found entire, and, on being exposed to public veneration, so numerous and extraordinary were the miracles wrought that Henry II. of England, who was at Castelnau de Bretenoux, came here to pay his devotions. It was now enshrined in the subterranean church of St. Amadour, where it remained several ages so incorrupt as to give rise to a common proverb among the people: Il est en chair et os, comme St. Amadour. But when the country was overrun by the Huguenots, his châsse was stripped of its silver mountings, his body broken to pieces with a hammer and cast into the fire. Only a small part of these venerable remains were snatched from the flames.

The terrace between the chapel of Our Lady and that of St. Michael is called in ancient documents the Platea S. Michaelis. Here all official acts relating to the abbey were formerly drawn up. The overhanging cliff, that rises above it to the height of two hundred and twenty feet, gives it the appearance of a cavern. Built into it, on the left, is the chapel of St. Michael, on the outer wall of which, suspended by an iron chain, is a long, rusty weapon popularly known as the sword of Roland. Not that it is the very blade with which the Pyrenees were once cleft asunder and so many kingdoms won. That 55shone as the sun in its golden hilt, the day the mighty Paladin came, on his way to Spain, to consecrate it to the Virgin of Roc Amadour and then redeem it with its weight in silver; whereas this is as dim and uncouth as the veriest spit that ever issued from a country forge. The wondrous Durandel, to be sure, was brought back after Roland’s death and hung up before the altar of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour, to whom it had been vowed, where it remained till carried off by Henry Court-Mantel, who, adding sacrilege to hypocrisy, came here in 1183 on the pretext of a pilgrimage, and, in order to pay the soldiers who served him in his rebellion against his father, pillaged the holy chapel so revered by King Henry. But his crime did not remain unpunished. He was soon after seized with a fatal illness, and died, but not unabsolved, in the arms of Gerard III., Bishop of Cahors.

Over Roland’s sword hang the fetters of several Christians delivered from a terrible slavery on the coast of Barbary by Our Lady’s might. Among these was Guillaume Fulcheri of Montpellier, whose mother came to Roc Amadour on the eve of the Assumption to offer a cake of wax to burn before the image of Mary for the redemption of her son. That same night, while she was keeping vigil with prayers and tears before the altar of the Virgin, his fetters were loosened in a mysterious manner, and he made his escape. One of his first acts on his arrival in France was to come to Roc Amadour with an offering of gratitude.

So, too, Guillaume Rémond of Albi, being unjustly confined in prison, with no other hope of liberty but his trust in the power of the glorious Virgin of Roc Amadour, 56while he was persevering in prayer during the night-watches his chains suddenly fell off about the ninth hour, to the utter amazement of the jailer, who became too powerless to hinder his escape. He took his fetters with him to hang up before the altar of his potent protectress.

On the pavement beneath these and other trophies of divine grace is an old chest with iron bands, fastened with a double lock of singular mechanism, in which pilgrims centuries ago deposited their offerings. Just beyond is a doorway over which is painted St. Michael holding the balance of justice in which we must all be weighed. This door leads by a winding stone staircase up to St. Michael’s chapel, the oldest of the existing edifices of Roc Amadour. This singular chapel is built against the rough cliff which constitutes one side of it, as well as the vault. It is chilly, and cave-like, and dripping with moisture. A niche at one end, like an arcosolium in the catacombs, is lined with faded old frescos of Christ and the evangelists. The windows are low and narrow, like the fissures of a cave, being barely wide enough for an angel in each—Michael with his avenging sword, Gabriel and his Ave, and Raphael looking protectingly down on Tobias with his fish. On one side is a spiral ascent to a balcony over the Platea S. Michaelis, from which the abbot of Roc Amadour used to bestow his solemn benediction on the crowd on the great days of pardon.

Descending to the Platea, we stop before the entrance to Our Lady’s chapel to examine the half-effaced mural paintings of the great mysteries of her life around the door. Near these can be traced 57the outlines of a knight pursued by several spectres, popularly believed to be the ex-voto of a man who sought to be delivered from the ghosts of those whose graves he had profaned. But the learned say this fresco refers to the famous old Lai des trois Morts et des trois Vifs of the thirteenth century, in which three young knights, gaily riding to the chase, with no thought but of love and pleasure, meet three phantoms, who solemnly address them on the vanity of all earthly joys. This painting was a perpetual sermon to the pilgrims, enforced, moreover, by the numerous tombs that surrounded the sanctuaries of Roc Amadour. For many noble families of the province, as well as pilgrims from afar, wished to be buried near the altar where their souls had gotten grace. So great was the number buried here in the middle ages that the monks became alarmed, and refused to allow any more to be brought from a distance. But Pope Alexander III. issued a bull declaring this place of burial free to all except those under the ban of the church.

It is, then, with these thoughts of death and the great mysteries of religion we enter the miraculous chapel around which we have so long lingered with awe. The season of pilgrimages has not yet fairly opened, and we find it quiet and unoccupied except by a stray peasant or two, and a few Sisters of Calvary with sweet, gentle faces. We hasten to drop our feeble round of prayer into the deep well fed by the devotion of centuries. Over the altar is the famous statue of Our Lady of Roc Amadour in a golden niche—black as ebony, perhaps from the smoke of the candles and the incense of centuries, and dressed in a white muslin robe 58spangled with gold. It is by no means a work of high art. Perhaps it is as ancient as this place of pilgrimage. Tradition says it was executed by the pious hands of St. Amadour himself, who was doubtless incapable of expressing the devout sentiments that animated him. It is carved out of a single piece of wood, and is now greatly decayed. The Virgin is stiff in attitude. Her hair floats on her shoulders. Her hands rest on the arms of the chair in which she is sitting, leaving the divine Child, enthroned on her knee, with no support but that of his inherent nature. A silver lamp, shaped like a fortress, with towers for the lights, hangs before her, and beneath is a blazing stand of candles. The profusion of lights in the chapels of popular devotion throughout France is truly remarkable. It was the same in the middle ages. The old chronicles tell us how the mother who sought the cure of a beloved child sometimes sent his weight in wax to be burned before the powerful Virgin of Roc Amadour. Others brought candles of the size of the limb they wished to be healed. And those who had already obtained some supernatural favor generally sent a candle once a year in token of gratitude. So numerous were the lights formerly given to this chapel that there was scarcely room for them. Poets even celebrated this profusion. Gauthier de Coinsy, one of the most celebrated cantadours of the thirteenth century, among other poems has left one entitled Du cierge que Notre Dame de Roc Amadour envoya sur la vièle du ménestrel qui vièlait et chantait devant sy image, relating how our benign Lady accorded one of these votive candles to a pious minstrel as he was singing her praises: Pierre de Sygeland was in the habit 59of entering every church he passed to offer a prayer and sing a song of praise to the sound of his viol. One day, as he was prolonging his pious exercises before the altar of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour, drawing every one in the church around him, both “clerc et lai,” by the melody of his voice, he raised his eyes to the sacred image of Mary and thus sang: “O sovereign Lady, Dame de toute courtoisie, if my hymn and the sound of my viol be acceptable to thee, be not offended at the guerdon I venture to implore: bestow on me, O peerless Lady! one of the many tapers that burn at thy sacred feet.”

His prayer is heard. The candle descends in the presence of five hundred persons and rests upon his viol. Friar Gerard, the sacristan, accuses him of using incantations, and, seizing the candle irefully, restores it to its place, taking good care to fasten it firmly down. Pierre continues to play. The candle descends anew. The good brother, suspecting him of magic, is more vexed than before and replaces the candle. The enraptured minstrel—

—sighing and weeping, singing with his lips and weeping in heart—continues sweetly to praise the Mother of God. The candle descends the third time.

The crowd, in its transport, cries: “Ring, ring the bells,

—greater miracle was never seen.” The minstrel, with streaming eyes, returns the candle to her who has so miraculously rewarded his devotion, 60and continues during the remainder of his life not only to sing the praises of Our Lady of Roc Amadour, but to offer her every year a candle still larger than the one she so graciously bestowed on him.

The moral of this old poem dwells on the obligation of honoring God, not merely with the lips, but with a sincere heart:

—that is, many bray, and scream, and distend their throats, but their heart-strings are not rightly attuned.... The mouth lies to God, and makes a discord, if the heart be not in harmony therewith.

Of the many miraculous chapels of the Virgin, consecrated by the devotion of centuries, that of Roc Amadour is certainly one of the oldest and most celebrated. Pope Pius II., in a bull of 1463, unhesitatingly declares “it dates from the earliest ages of our holy mother the church.” And Cardinal Baronius speaks of it as one of the oldest in France. The original chapel, however, built by St. Amadour himself in honor of his beloved Lady and Mistress, is no longer standing. That was destroyed several centuries ago by a portion of the impending cliff that had given way, but another was erected on the same spot in 1479 by Denys de Bar, bishop and lord of Tulle, whose arms are still to be seen over the door. This chapel was devastated in 1562 by the Huguenots, who swept over the country, destroying all that was most sacred in the eyes of Catholics. They gave not only a fatal blow to the prosperity of the town of Roc Amadour, but 61pillaged all the sanctuaries, carrying off the valuable reliquaries, the tapestry, the sacred vessels and vestments, the fourteen silver lamps that burned before the Virgin, the necklaces and earrings, and the pearls and diamonds, given by kings, princes, and people of all ranks in token of some grace received. Their booty amounted in value to fifteen thousand livres—an enormous sum at that period. They only left behind an old monstrance, a few battered reliquaries, and a processional cross of the twelfth century, carved out of wood and ornamented with silver, still to be seen. They mutilated the statues, burned the wood-carvings, and of course destroyed the bells, which was one of their favorite amusements. The roofless walls were left standing, however, and the venerated statue of Our Lady was saved, as well as the sacrificial stone consecrated by St. Martial, and the miraculous bell that rang without human hands whenever some far-off mariner, in peril on the high seas, was succored by Notre Dame de Roc Amadour.

The chapel has never fully recovered from this devastation. It was repaired by the canons, but their diminished means did not allow them to restore it to its former splendor. Not that it was ever of vast extent. On the contrary, it is small, and the sanctuary occupies full one-half of it. It is now severe in aspect. The wall at one end, as well as part of the arch, is nothing but the unhewn cliff. The mouldings of the doorways, some of the capitals, and the tracery of the low, flamboyant windows are of good workmanship, but more or less defaced by the fanatics of the sixteenth century and the revolutionists of the eighteenth, who could 62meet on the common ground of hatred of the church.

Suspended beneath the lantern that rises in the middle of the chapel is the celebrated miraculous bell, said to be the very one used by St. Amadour to call the neighboring people to prayer. It is undoubtedly of great antiquity. It is of wrought iron, rudely shaped into the form of a dish about three feet deep and a foot in diameter.

The Père Odo de Gissey, of the Society of Jesus, in his history of Roc Amadour published in 1631, devotes several chapters to this merveilleuse cloche, in which he testifies that “though it has no bell-rope, it sometimes rings without being touched or jarred, as frequently happens when people on the ocean, in danger from a tempest, invoke the assistance of Our Lady of Roc Amadour, the star of the sea. Some persons,” he goes on to say, “may find it difficult to believe this; but if they could see and read what I have the six or seven times my devotion has led me to Roc Amadour, they would change their opinion and admire the power manifested by the Mother of God.” The first miracle he relates is of the fourteenth century, but when he came to Roc Amadour the archives had been destroyed by the Calvinists, and he could only glean a few facts here and there from papers they had overlooked. Most of the cases he relates had been attested before a magistrate with solemn oath. We will briefly relate a few of them.

On the 10th of February, 1385, about ten o’clock in the evening, the miraculous bell was heard by a great number of persons, who testified that it rang without the slightest assistance. Three days after it rang again while the chaplain was 63celebrating Mass at Our Lady’s altar, as was solemnly sworn to by several priests and laymen before an apostolic notary. One instance the père found written on the margin of an old missal, to the effect that March 5, 1454, the bell rang in an astonishing manner to announce the rescue of some one who had invoked Mary on the stormy sea. Not long after those who had been thus saved from imminent danger came here from a Spanish port to attest their miraculous deliverance.

In 1551 the bell was heard ringing, but the positive cause long remained uncertain. It was not till a year after a person came from Nantes to fulfil the vow of a friend rescued from danger by Our Lady of Roc Amadour at the very time the bell rang.

The sailors of Bayonne and Brittany, especially, had great confidence in the protection of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour, and many instances are recorded of their coming with their votive offerings, sometimes of salt fish, after escaping from the perilous waves. The sailors of Brittany erected a chapel on their coast, to which they gave her name. It is of the same style as that of Quercy, and the Madonna an exact copy of St. Mary of Roc Amadour.

In those days, when the miraculous bell was heard the inhabitants of the town used to come in procession to the chapel, and a solemn Mass of thanksgiving was sung by the canons amid the joyful ringing of the bells.

St. Amadour’s bell has not ceased to proclaim the power of Christ’s 64holy Mother. It is still heard now and then softly announcing the benefit of having recourse to her efficacious protection.

To many this may sound weird-like, and recall

We leave such to fathom the mystery. Our part is only that of the historian. Blessed is he who finds therein something more than sounding brass or tinkling cymbal!

The holy chapel is no longer adorned with the rich offerings of other times, but there are still many objects that attest the piety of the people and the clemency of Mary. On the rough cliff that forms one end hang a great number of crutches and canes, and models of limbs, in token of miraculous cures. A glass case suspended on the side wall contains watches, rings, bracelets, gold chains, lockets, etc., the memorials of grateful piety. At the side of the altar stand immense Limoges vases, an offering from that city. And around the chapel are hung several votive paintings, of no value as works of art, but full of touching beauty to the eye of faith.

The most interesting of these is one offered by M. and Mme. de Salignac de Lamothe Fénelon in gratitude for the restoration of their child to health. The little Fénelon lies with a head of preternatural size in a long box-like cradle with no rockers. Beside him kneel his father and mother, the former with a long curled wig, a flowing scarlet robe, over which is turned a Shaksperian collar, lace at the wrists, his hands crossed on his breast, and his face bent as if in awe before the Virgin. Mme. Fénelon wears an amber-colored 65tunic over a scarlet petticoat, with deep lace around the low-necked waist. Her hands are prayerfully folded and her face raised to the Virgin, who appears in the clouds holding in her arms the infant Jesus, who bends forward with one hand extended in blessing over the cradle—almost ready to escape from his Mother’s arms.

Madame Fénelon always manifested a particular devotion to Notre Dame de Roc Amadour, and by her will of July 4, 1691, ordered her body to be buried in the holy chapel, to which she bequeathed the sum of three thousand livres, the rent of which continued to be paid till the Revolution. She is buried near the door that leads to the church of Saint-Sauveur.

The Château de Salignac, where Fénelon was born, and which had been in his family from time immemorial, is not far from Roc Amadour. Old documents go so far as to assert that St. Martial, when he came to Aquitaine to preach the Gospel in the first century, was hospitably received at this castle, and that St. Amadour, hearing of his arrival, went there to see him.

Beyond the miraculous chapel of Our Lady is the church of Saint-Sauveur, built in the eleventh century for the use of the canons. It is a large edifice of a certain grandeur and severity of style in harmony with the cliff which forms one end. Two immense pillars stand in the middle of the nave, each surrounded by six columns, and between them is a large antique crucifix quite worn by the kisses of the faithful who come here to end their pilgrimage at the feet of Christ Crucified.

This church presents a striking aspect on great solemnities, with its crowded confessionals, the Holy 66Sacrifice constantly going on at the different altars amid solemn chants or touching hymns, and the long lines of communicants moving devoutly to and from the table of the Lord. Over all is the divine Form of Christ depicted on the arches in the various mysteries of his earthly life, filling the church, as it were, with his Presence. On the walls are the majestic figures of some of the greatest pilgrims of the ages of faith. To mention a few of them: St. Louis, King of France, came here in 1245 in fulfilment of a vow, after recovering from a severe illness, accompanied by Queen Blanche, his three brothers, and Alphonse, Count of Boulogne-sur-Mer, afterwards King of Portugal. In 1324 came Charles-le-Bel and his queen, with King John of Bohemia. In September, 1344, came John, Duke of Normandy, eldest son of Philippe de Valois. In 1463 Louis XI., on his return from Béarn, paid his devotions to Notre Dame de Roc Amadour on the 21st of July. St. Englebert, Archbishop of Cologne, of illustrious birth, had such a tender love for the Blessed Virgin that for many years he fasted every Wednesday in her honor, and twice during his episcopate he visited her chapel at Roc Amadour. Simon, Count de Montfort, came here in 1211 with his German troops, who wished to pay their homage to the Mother of God before returning to their own country.

To come down to recent times: It was at the feet of the Virgin of Roc Amadour that M. Borie made his final choice of a missionary life that won for him the glorious crown of martyrdom in Farther India at the age of thirty.

The mill where M. Borie was born stands solitary on the border of a stream, surrounded by chestnut-trees, 67in a deep, narrow, gloomy valley of La Corrèze, near Roc Amadour—a humble abode, but the sanctuary of peace, industry, and piety. When the news of his martyrdom came to this sequestered spot, his heroic mother was filled with joy, in spite of her anguish, and his youngest brother cried: “I am going! God calls me to the land where my brother died. Mother, give me your blessing. I am going to open heaven to my brother’s murderers!” He went; and we remember hearing a holy Jesuit Father relate how, like the knights of the olden time, he made his vigil before the altar of Our Lady of Roc Amadour the night before he joined the sacred militia of the great Loyola.

Beneath the church of Saint-Sauveur is the subterranean church of St. Amadour, with low, ponderous arches and massive columns to sustain the large edifice above. You go down into it as into a cellar. At each side as you enter are elaborate carvings in the wood, one representing Zaccheus in the sycamore-tree, eager to behold our Saviour as he passed; the other shows him standing in the door of his house to welcome the divine Guest. On the arches is painted the whole legend of St. Amadour. Then there is Roland before the altar of the Virgin redeeming his sword with its weight in silver, and beyond is a band of knights bringing it back from the fatal battle-field. In another place you see St. Martial of Limoges and St. Saturnin of Toulouse, coming together to visit St. Amadour in his cave. And yonder is St. Dominic, who, with Bertrand de Garrigue, one of his earliest disciples, passed the night in prayer before the altar of Our Lady in the year 1219.

68All that remains of the body of St. Amadour is enshrined in this church behind the high altar.

A service for the dead was going on when we entered this crypt, with only the priest and the beadle to sing it. Black candlesticks stood on the altar, and yellow wax-lights around the bier. The church was full of peasants with grave, devout faces and lighted candles in their hands. The funeral chant, the black pall, the motionless peasants with their lights, and this chill, tomb-like church of the eleventh century, all seemed in harmony.

The pilgrim, of course, visits the chapel of St. Ann overhanging the town, and that of St. Blaise, with its Roman arches of the thirteenth century, built to receive the relics, brought by the Crusaders from the East, of a holy solitary who lived many years in a cave of the wilderness, the wild beasts around as submissive to him as to Adam in Paradise.

The chapel of St. John the Baptist was founded in 1516 by a powerful lord named Jean de Valon, who became a Knight of St. John of Jerusalem. Out of piety towards Our Lady of Roc Amadour, he built this chapel, authorized by the pope, as the burial-place of himself and his family, and bequeathed the sum of five hundred livres to the prebends, as the foundation for a Mass of requiem every Monday, and the Mass of Our Lady every Saturday, for the remission of his sins and those of his friends and benefactors.

The family of Valon, which still exists, has always shown a remarkable devotion to Notre Dame de Roc Amadour. We read of a Dame de Valon whose pilgrimage to this chapel in the twelfth century 69was marked by a miracle. This family owned considerable property in the neighborhood, and had a right to part of the revenues from the sale of the sportulas, or sportellas, which were medals of lead bearing the image of Our Lady on one side and of St. Amadour on the other. Sir Walter Scott, in his Quentin Durward, deridingly depicts Louis XI. with a number of leaden medals of like character in his hat. The pilgrim who wore one needed no other safe-conduct in ancient times. His person was so sacred he could even pass in safety through the enemy’s camp. In 1399, during the war between the French and English, the sanctuary of Roc Amadour was frequented by both parties, and both camps regarded the pilgrim hither with so much respect that if taken prisoner he was set free as soon as his quality was discovered. Three of these old almond-shaped sportellas are still to be seen in the Hôtel de Cluny at Paris.

The ancient standard of Our Lady of Roc Amadour was held in great veneration. It was not only carried in religious processions, but sometimes to the field of battle. Alberic, a monk of Trois Fonts, relates that the Virgin appeared three Saturdays in succession to the sacristan of Roc Amadour, and ordered her standard to be carried to Spain, then engaged in a critical contest with the Moors. The prior, in consequence, set forth with the sacred banner and arrived at the plain of Las Navas on the 16th of July, 1212. The Christians had refused to give battle the day previous, because it was the Lord’s day, but the fight began early Monday morning. The Templars and Knights of Calatrava had been put to flight and the army partly routed. 70At the last moment, when all hope seemed lost, the prior of Roc Amadour unfurled the banner of the Virgin. At the sight of the holy image of Mary with the divine Babe every knee bent in reverence, fresh courage was infused into every breast, the army rallied, and the fight was renewed to such purpose that they smote the infidel hip and thigh. Sixty thousand of the enemy were slain and a greater number taken captive. The archbishops of Toledo and Narbonne, the bishop of Valencia, with many other prelates and a great number of priests, sang the Te Deum on the field of battle. The King of Castile, Alfonso IX., had always shown a special devotion towards Our Lady of Roc Amadour. In 1181 he consecrated to her service the lands of Fornellos and Orbanella, in order, as he says in the charter, to solace the souls of his parents and secure his own salvation. And, by way of intimidating the lawless freebooter of those rough times, he severely adds: “And should any one trespass in the least on this gift or violate my intentions, let him incur the full wrath of God, and, like the traitor Judas, be delivered over to the torments of hell as the slave of the devil. Meanwhile, let him pay into the royal treasury the sum of one thousand livres of pure gold, and restore twofold to the abbot of Roc Amadour.”

This gift was afterwards confirmed by Ferdinand III., Ferdinand IV., and Alfonso XI.

King Alfonso was not the only royal benefactor of the miraculous chapel. Sancho VII., King of Navarre, for the weal of his soul and the souls of his parents, gave in 1202 certain rents amounting to forty-eight pieces of gold, to be employed in illuminating the church 71of St. Mary of Roc Amadour. A candle was to burn night and day before the blessed image on Christmas, Epiphany, Candlemas, Whitsunday, Trinity Sunday, the Assumption, and All Saints’ day. And twenty-four candles, each weighing half a pound, were to be placed on the altar on those days. The remainder of the money was to be used for the incense.

Sancia, wife of Gaston V. of Béarn, and daughter of the King of Navarre, sent the chapel of Roc Amadour a rich piece of tapestry wrought by her own royal hands.

Count Odo de la Marche in 1119, during the reign of Louis-le-Gros, offered the forest of Mount Salvy to God, the Blessed Mary of Roc Amadour, and St. Martin of Tulle, free from all tax or impost, adding: “And should any one presume to alienate this gift, let him incur the anger of God and the saints, and remain for ever accursed with Dathan and Abiram.”

In 1217 Erard de Brienne, lord of Rameru, allied by blood to the royal families of Europe, and Philippine, his wife, daughter of Henry, Count of Troyes and King of Jerusalem, made an offering of two candles to burn night and day before the image of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour for the redemption of their souls and the souls of their parents.

Alfonso, Count of Toulouse, brother of St. Louis, presented a silver lamp to burn before the statue of Our Lady, and another was given by the Countess de Montpensier, a French princess.

Letters are still extant by which Philip III., King of France, in 1276, ratified the foundation of his uncle Alfonso, Count of Toulouse, amounting to twenty livres of Touraine money, to be paid, one-half 72at the Ascension and the other at All Saints, to keep a candle constantly burning before the Virgin of Roc Amadour.

Pope Clement V. bequeathed a legacy to this church in 1314 that a wax candle might burn continually in Our Lady’s chapel, in her honor and to obtain the redemption of his soul. It was to be honorably placed in a silver basin or sconce.

Savaric, Prince de Mauléon and lord of Tulle, celebrated for his familiarity with military science and the elegance of his poesy, among other gifts in 1218 gave the lands of L’Isleau, exempt from all tax, to the church of St. Mary of Roc Amadour.

Louis of Anjou, afterwards King of Sicily, in 1365 ordered twenty livres to be given annually to this church from his domain of Rouergue, out of the love he bore the holy Virgin.

The Vicomte de Turenne, in 1396, assigned a silver mark annually from one of his seigneuries as a contribution to the support of the miraculous chapel.

On the 22d of June, 1444, the noble and puissant lord, Pierre, Count of Beaufort, moved by his devotion towards Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the world, and to Mary, his glorious Mother, and desirous of procuring his own salvation and the solace of the suffering souls in purgatory, assigned to the monastery of Roc Amadour the sum of ten livres annually from the ferry over the Dordogne at Mount Valent, that a solemn Mass might be sung every Thursday, at least in plain chant, with three collects, one in honor of the Holy Ghost, another of the Blessed Virgin, and the third for the repose of the faithful departed. After Mass the 73priest, laying aside his chasuble, was to go daily, with all the clergy of the chapel, to sing before the statue of Our Lady either the Salve Regina or the Regina Cœli, according to the season, with the Libera or the De Profundis, for the repose of his and his wife’s souls and the souls of his parents.

We could multiply these beautiful examples of devotion to the Blessed Virgin, but forbear, though it is not useless to recount the deeds of our forefathers in the faith. They have their lesson for those who know how to read aright.

Among the glorious prerogatives with which the chapel of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour is favored is the Grand Pardon, accorded by several popes of the middle ages, on the feast of Corpus Christi whenever it coincides with the nativity of St. John the Baptist. This frequently happened before the correction of the Calendar by Gregory XIII., but it now only occurs when Easter falls on St. Mark’s day—that is, the 25th of April. The Grand Pardon comprises all the privileges of a solemn jubilee, and is gained by all who visit the miraculous chapel on the appointed day, receive the sacraments with the proper dispositions, pray for concord among Christian princes, the extirpation of heresy, and the exaltation of our holy mother the church. So great was formerly the affluence of the pilgrims on such occasions, as in the jubilee of 1546, the town could not contain them, and tents were set up in the country round. Pilgrimages to this ancient chapel are still common.

A remnant of the old palace of the abbot of Roc Amadour is still standing, but is used for the sale of objects of devotion. Here Arnaud Amalric, the papal legate, 74spent the whole winter of 1211, and many other eminent prelates received hospitality, as the holy martyr St. Englebert, Archbishop of Cologne. Behind this building a narrow, dangerous path leads along the side of the cliff to an ancient hermitage that now bears the title of Maison à Marie, where people desirous of spending a few days in retreat can find an asylum. It hangs like a bird’s nest on the edge of a fearful precipice, and must be a trying residence to people of weak nerves. The Sisters of Calvary, who have charge of it, look like doves in the clefts of the rocks. Still further along the cliff is their convent.

A winding stair of two hundred and thirty-six steps, hewn out of the live rock, and lighted only by the fissures, leads from the sacristy of the church up to the ancient castle, and a scarcely less remarkable ascent has been constructed zigzag over the cliff. This castle, half ruined, was bought by the Père Caillau about forty years ago, and repaired as a residence for the clergy who served the sanctuaries of Roc Amadour under his direction. The old ramparts remain, affording a fine view of the whole country around. Bending over them, you look straight down on the group of churches below, and the village still further down, while in the very depths of the horrid abyss is a faint line marking the course of the 75Alzou along the bottom of the Vallée Ténébreuse.

A few years ago the ruined castle and crumbling churches below looked as if they belonged to the time of King Dagobert, but they have lost in a measure their air of charming antiquity in the necessary restorations, by no means complete. Nothing, however, can destroy the singular grandeur and wild beauty of the site, or the thousand delightful associations—historic, religious, poetic, and legendary—connected with the place.

We close this imperfect sketch by echoing the sentiments that animated the saintly Père Caillau when he entered upon his duties as superior of Roc Amadour: “With what joy I ascended the mysterious stairs that lead, O Mary, to thy august sanctuary! With what fervor I celebrated the holy mysteries at thy altar! With what love and respect I kissed the sacred feet of thy statue! With what impatience I awaited the hour for returning! Happy the moments passed at thy feet! The world seemed as nothing in my eyes. What devotion, what profound silence there was in my soul! What sweet transports of joy! My heart seemed consumed by a sacred fire. Why, why were such moments so short? May their remembrance, at least, abide for ever! And may I never cease to chant thy praise and exalt thy wondrous mercy!”

Italian hotels of the old kind are a very pleasant remembrance to travellers from the north; they have the romance and the forlorn beauty which one expects to see, and few of the obtrusively modern arrangements called comforts. The new hotels that have arisen since the age of progress are very different, and not nearly so pleasant, even to the traveller with the most moderate expectations of the picturesque. The less-frequented towns inland have kept the old style of hostelry, as travel does not increase enough in their neighborhood to warrant the building of new-fashioned hotels; and though the palace floors and walls may be cold and look cheerless on a damp winter day, there are a hundred chances to one that no foreigner will be there to note down such an experience.

But Macchio, in the Umbrian Marches, once had a hotel more singular than almost any other. It had no name, such as even the most unmistakable palazzo generally puts on to show its present destination; it was called after the name of the old family whose stronghold it had once been; and as of this stronghold only one part was whole, the hotel was called “Torre Carpeggio.” It consisted, indeed, of a tower—that is, only the tower was whole, furnished, and usable; among some ruins of the rest of the building were a rude kitchen and stables, patched up with modern masonry not half so solid as the original, and some servants slept in the lofts above these apologies for “offices,” but the remarkable 77tower only was in good repair. The owner, a native of the place, and whose family had been for generations in the service of the Carpeggios, was an unsophisticated countryman of the old school, not at all like the exasperating landlord of city hotels, who has just begun to wake up to the dignity of his position and to experiment in his behavior towards his foreign guests. He was the real owner, having paid good money down for the castle; but he still called the last Carpeggio his young master, and loved him like his own son. This youth, like some of his remoter forefathers, was fond of learning, and, seeing no other means of securing an education and a start in life that should make something better out of him than a starveling noble of the Marches, had sold his inheritance to his old retainer, keeping back only one-third of the vintage produce as a small yearly income to fall back upon, and had gone to a German university, where even the most exacting of the professors considered him a modern Pico della Mirandola. The selling of his old ruined castle had brought down upon him the anger and contempt of neighbors of his own class, but he was indifferent to local opinion and despised the disguised meanness of too many of his neighbors. He had in reality passed through a severe struggle with his own prejudices before yielding to his better sense and parting with the shadow to pursue the substance.

If learning should ever bring him money, he meant to reclaim 78the old place, which in the meanwhile could not be in safer hands; but on this he did not reckon, and while he looked down on the sordid poverty that only prompted his neighbors to sell butter and milk, and take toll from visitors coming to see the faded frescos or old armor in their ruinous dwellings, he saw with very different eyes the probable future of another kind of poverty before him: the pittance and privations of a student’s lot, the obscure life of a professor or the uncertain one of a discoverer; but withal the glorious counterweight of intellectual life, the wealth of vigor and progress, and stimulated, restless thought, doubling and trebling his interests, and making akin to himself all the mental processes or achievements all over the world, which would come of a few years’ study and the sacrifice of his home. Far more patriotic and far more proud was this youth who sold his inheritance than the indignant vegetators around him, who all felt the honor of their order insulted by his unheard-of deed, and their country deprived of another son unworthy of her because he could see in Germany something more than a barbarous, hereditary tyrant and enemy!

So it came about that the good Salviani kept a hotel in Carpeggio tower, the walls of which had always been kept in good repair, and which was easily furnished, at no great expense, from the contents of various lumber-rooms and a little intelligent help from the local carpenter, who, like most Italians, had an intuitive understanding of the artistic. Tourists who had stopped here for a night or two; artists who had established their sketching headquarters here; Italians of some fortune who passed here on their 79way to their inland villeggiature; anglers and peddlers, friars, and even commercial travellers of various nations who had begun to experiment on the rural population hereabouts; pilgrims to the two neighboring shrines hardly known beyond twenty miles around, and yet the boast of the neighborhood for nearly four hundred years; wine merchants from the next cities—these and many more could witness to the satisfactory way in which Salviani kept the only hotel in Macchio. And of course his prices were moderate—indeed, to a foreigner they seemed absolutely ridiculous; and he always made it a point to give an Englishman or an American plenty of water, having found that by experience a salve to the fault-finding spirit, and his young master having also accustomed his old attendant to it by requiring it himself ever since his boyhood. Foreigners with a “turn” for antique furniture spent more time roaming the old chambers than they did eating at the landlord’s excellent, if strictly national, table (for Salviani, knowing that he was ignorant of foreign dishes, never attempted to drive away his guests by bad imitations). The tower was very high and uncommonly large in proportion; in fact, it reminded you rather of two Cecilia Metella tombs raised one above the other than of an ordinary tower; and it was oddly distributed within. A staircase wound in the centre of the building, communicating with the rooms on each tier by a circular corridor on which the doors opened; but from the third floor this staircase ceased, and from that to the fourth there was no access except from a winding stair within the thickness of the outer wall. The great stairs were of stone and uncarpeted, and in 80the corridor on which the doors of the rooms opened were placed at intervals pieces of furniture, such as chairs, tables, stands, bronzes, vases, marble cornices, things picturesque, but not always available for use, and many sadly injured and mutilated, yet forming such a collection as sent a thrill of envy to the heart of a few stray connoisseurs who had come across it and never been able to bring away even a specimen. Old Salviani had his superstitions, but, unlike his countrymen in general, he felt that these forbade him to sell anything belonging to the old family seat, especially to a foreigner.

One day two travellers stopped at the hotel, a mother and daughter—“English, of course,” said the landlord with a smile, as he saw their costume and independent air. The daughter was, equally of course, in evident and irrepressible raptures about everything she saw in the place, from the ruinous outhouses to the museum-like interior. Their own rooms on the first floor, large, marble-paved, and scantily but artistically furnished with the best preserved of the antique things, satisfied them only for a short time; they wanted to be shown over the whole house. The bedrooms were not quite in such good taste, they thought; and indeed, as Salviani was not perfect, here the “cloven foot” did appear, for a peddler had once beguiled him into buying some Nottingham lace curtains with which he disfigured one of the third-story rooms, and some cheap chintzes which he had made into curtains for some of the patched-up bedsteads. But as the two strangers went up through each corridor, looking down at the tier below and at the various beautiful things beside them, they forgot these blemishes 81in their delight at a sight so unusual as this large, inhabited, well-preserved tower. They had seen nothing like it and could never have imagined it. It had an air of dignity, of grandeur, of repose, and yet of connection with the present to which one is more accustomed in old English country-houses than in Italian palaces.

One of the rooms on the fourth tier was almost unfurnished, having only two dilapidated bedsteads, one very large and promiscuously heaped with bed-quilts of equal dilapidation, while the other, in the form of a cot, or child’s bed, was also much larger than such beds are made now. On this was thrown an old-fashioned but almost new black mantle trimmed with silk ribbon. This was the room afflicted with the Nottingham lace curtains, which were cleaner than seemed natural in such a room. The view hence was beautiful, and the young Englishwoman was moved to suggest that they should change their plans a little and stay here a few weeks, when she would endeavor to learn the language and would make a study of this tower-nest with the fine view. It would be so out of the way, and a few antique chairs and a table would be enough furniture to replace the beds, which could be put into the next room. The mother smiled; she was used to these sudden schemes growing up full-fledged out of any pleasant and suggestive-looking circumstances, but the landlord, seriously entering into the proposal, said he feared the other room was too small to hold the beds—certainly the big one, which could not be got through the door, and, in fact, did not take to pieces. This set the young girl to examining the bed, and suddenly 82she called her companions to notice a panel in the tall head-board, which reached nearly to the ceiling. It seemed movable, she said, and might she not try to find the spring? Did the signor know anything about it? Salviani turned rather pale and hastily crossed himself, muttering something in Italian; then, in bad French, attempted to explain to his guest that there was a story of a former Carpeggio who was said to have lived alone on this top story and to have been a wizard, but how long ago he could not tell, nor if the bed had been there then. The young girl insisted on getting to the bottom of the secret of the panel, which at last yielded, and revealed a space between itself and another room of which only a corner was visible, and a very small grated window high up in the wall. She scrambled through the panel opening, out into a lot of rubbish which filled the intervening space and covered the sloping floor several inches deep. The door into the other room was gone, or else there had never been one, and there were large hooks on either side of the gap, as if curtains might once have hung there. The floor was sunk much lower than this level—quite three feet—giving one the impression of a shallow well, so that there must have once been some movable way of descent. An old press or chest, with two drawers at the bottom, filled one corner, and on it was a faded piece of green silk, looking unmistakably part of a woman’s dress, and a beautiful, delicate ivory desk lying open, with many thin plates folding together like the leaves of a portfolio. The curious girl handled it with a sort of dread, yet eagerly and closely inspected it, leaving it 83afterwards in just the position in which she had found it. As she turned from it she gave a cry of surprise; a chair stood in the corner, half hidden by the press, and across the back of it hung a long lock of hair, brown and silky, now fluttering in the unaccustomed draught from the open panel. Suddenly the intruder was aware that the walls were covered with books but they were hidden behind a close, thin green wire netting, which had at first looked like the pattern of the wall. She eagerly called for a chair to stand on to examine them; the landlord handed her one through the door, and then for the first time, fascinated yet afraid, gazed into the room. Many were the voluble and simple exclamations he uttered; but he was evidently more concerned as to the risk of touching such uncanny things than pleased at the discovery of the energetic stranger. Meanwhile, she looked at the books, which filled up two sides of the room from floor to ceiling—they were a treasure, as she knew: old Italian and German books on theological and philosophical subjects; translations into Italian of some Elizabethan authors—these, perhaps, unique of their kind, and rarer than originals in either English or Italian; Italian translations of more modern English books; poetry, science, illuminated manuscripts, first editions of sixteenth-century printed books—the Italian ones, even those in black-letter, perfectly clear and legible to a tyro, while a few English books of a century later were not half so decipherable; a good many Greek and Latin books, but not so many as of the Italian and German; and a few Oriental manuscripts, chiefly Hebrew, Arabic, and Syriac. In two places 84on the wall, which showed traces of a rough kind of painting as a background, were hung unframed Chinese landscapes on wood, and in other parts of the room old engravings, some plainly framed, some not, but pasted on to boards, and one or two unfinished etchings. The most interesting purported to be a head of St. Peter—not a conventional one, but a copy from some old painting, itself copied from a Byzantine fresco, and claiming to be—so said the quotation at the foot of the etching—a portrait of the apostle as he really was. The pedigree of the portrait, however, was the really interesting point, and this was minutely traced in the foot-note, added by one signing himself Andrea C., to the unfinished etching of the artist, who, it seems, had died while engaged on this work.

And here ends the part the strangers took in the affair; for they continued their journey to Ancona, and often in after-years, in their quiet English home between lake and rocky fell, wondered what became of the books of Torre Carpeggio. But the faithful Salviani had written to his young master at once, and Carpeggio returned a joyous answer, full of excitement and curiosity, promising a visit as soon as his means and his studies combined would allow of it. It was a year before he was able to come—a year during which he had changed and ripened, but which had left the old tower, and, indeed, the sleepy, beautiful old city, as unchanged as anything can be where human beings are being born, married, and buried in due season. Even this inevitable change, however, was neutralized by the firmly-grooved life which, as each generation grew up, it placidly inherited from the last and religiously carried 85out, undreaming of any other possibilities and ignorant even of its own dormant energies. This was before the commotions of the last twenty years, and there was not even a political ferment, much less an intellectual one, to disturb the even flow of things. One or two of the cathedral clergy had the reputation of being great scholars, and, indeed, had the right to be so looked upon, if by scholarship we understand the kind of knowledge which made the men of the Medici days fully the equals of the Oxford dons of only one generation ago; but that sort of scholarship harmonized well with the air of serene drowsiness that covered the picturesque and half-deserted old city. The old canons kept much to themselves, and studied in a dainty, desultory, solitary way, not extending the daintiness to dress or furniture, but keeping up an unconscious kind of picturesqueness which they chiefly owed to such details as velvet skull-caps and bits of stray carving, or an old and precious ivory crucifix or Cellini relic-case—things prized by them for their meaning rather than for their art-value.

To this quaint, quiet city Emilio Carpeggio came back, after a two years’ absence, a youth still—for he was only twenty—but a phenomenon, if any one had known what was passing in his brain. He found the state of things more deplorable than ever, now that he had had experience of a different lot; he had thought it hopeless enough before. Practical and far-seeing, he did not find a panacea in reckless political disturbances, and in impossible strivings to make citizens and statesmen out of his easy-going neighbors, so he was saved the loss of time that clogged the efforts of so many well-meaning men of his acquaintance 86abroad; individual mental activity was what he looked forward to as the thin edge of the wedge that should break up this spell of what he could not help looking upon as lamentable stagnation, however beautiful the disguise it wore.

His three months’ holiday came to an end, and he disappeared again, carrying off his treasures with him to Germany, where they became the wonder and envy of the professors. But such luck, after all, was only due, said the kindly old men, to one who had done so much to win knowledge.

There was one of these men, not nearly so old as the rest, the special teacher to whom Carpeggio had attached himself, who was the young man’s best friend. To him only the dreams and hopes and resolves of this concentrated young mind were made freely known; for, though young as regards most of the professors, Schlichter was like a father to the Italian student. He was only forty-two, and already had a European reputation in his own line—mining engineering. A year after Carpeggio came back from his visit to Italy his master received an invitation from a scientific society in England to give a course of lectures in London during the summer. He proposed to the young man to accompany him, telling him that there was no knowing what practical advantages might result from his visit to a country where you needed only energy to grasp success.

“But you forget the Mammon-worship of the English,” said Emilio, “of which you yourself have so scornfully told me, and that obscure young foreigners without interest are not likely to have a chance of showing off their energy. 87I think I had better stay and study here another year or two, instead of deliberately exposing myself to the vertigo of London.”

“Nonsense!” said Schlichter impatiently. “Society is not likely to dazzle us, or, indeed, take much notice of us; they know how to keep the streams separate, even if the fine ladies do play at a little pretty enthusiasm for science now and then. A lecture nowadays is only another excuse for a pretty toilette, a change from the breakfast and morning concert or the afternoon kettle-drum; but that does not imply a real, personal notice of the lecturer, or, indeed, of any other working-bee. But, seriously, I know some men in London who might help you, if they had a mind to do it. You know how many surveys and plans there are—always some new expedition to far-away places—and young men of brains are always useful, especially single men, who can leave home without regret or difficulty. You speak English and other useful modern languages, and you have every chance, I tell you, if you will only keep your eyes open. As for study, a man need never say he can find no time for it, however busy he is. If my evil genius had made me a merchant, I should have found time for study, and so will you, just as well as if you stayed at home. It is settled, is it not?”

So they went, and the lectures were given, and the little world of learned men which is the leaven of England met the two strangers heartily; but, as Schlichter had foretold, nothing very remarkable or very dazzling occurred to them, though, to be sure, the elder man kept a jealous eye on his young friend, as if he had fears or expectations of something happening. 88But Emilio calmly came and went, studied and saw sights, went to quiet family gatherings or to large parties which the uninitiated could not have distinguished from those of the charmed uppermost circle, and yet no one of the many girls he saw seemed to dwell in his thoughts more than courtesy required while he was in their presence. One day Schlichter told him that a friend of his had recommended him to a mine-owner as general overseer and agent of his underground property, and that he probably would have nothing to do but to step into the place. “You would rather have been tacked on at the tail of some South American expedition or Central African survey, I dare say,” he said; “but you had better take this and be thankful, Carpeggio. The country is wild and picturesque, I believe—Monmouthshire, just on the Welsh border—and you will be pretty much your own master. It only depends on you to go up higher; but still I would not have you forget the practical altogether. One must live, even if one does not run after money for its own sake, which you, at all events, are not likely to do.”

So Emilio was left alone in England, in a responsible if not very brilliant position, and faithfully did his work so as to gain his employer’s whole confidence and respect. The local society decidedly flattered the grave young overseer, whose title had over women the vague charm it always awakens in romantic or speculating Englishwomen, and was even not obnoxious to the men, whose practical minds forgave the “foreign bosh” for the sake of the man’s good English and modest, hard-working life. He was popular among the miners, and altogether, in his little sphere, supreme. 89But parties and picnics sadly wearied him, and he feared he was growing misanthropic (so he wrote to Schlichter), when his employer took a new turn and began to court the notice of guests for one of his newest mines, of which he made a pet and a show. Whenever he had people to see him he arranged a party for going to see the mine and its new improvements; it was to be a model, the machinery was carefully chosen on improved principles—in fact, the place became a local show. Strangers came, and the country people began to take pride in it, so that Carpeggio often had to escort fat dowagers, experienced flirts, fast young men, and statesmen on a short holiday, down the mine. The contrast between this and his old home among the vineyards of Umbria often made itself felt with strange vividness as he sat by these people in the large cage or basket, swinging up or down between the dark, damp, unfragrant walls of the shaft, he shouting one steady word to the men who held the ropes, and then quieting the half-sham tremors of a young lady, or smiling at the equally assumed carelessness of another whose part in the play was the reverse of the old-fashioned ingénue.^[7]

It was the contrast between his old life in Germany, so true and still, and this English one, so full of froth and shifting scenes, that kept him from feeling the fascination of his new surroundings. Graver and graver he grew, as the wonder in his mind grew also, concerning the effect that all this whirl of unreality must have, in its different degrees, upon its victims. Were they all willing or passive 90ones? Did no one ever rebel against the mould? Did no woman’s heart and woman’s hopes strive against those worldly calculations which seemed to hedge in every family, from that of the half-starving village solicitor, and even that of the hard-working vicar, to that of his employer, and no doubt also of the squires and the marquis, whose two daughters had just been presented at court? Report said that one of these was very beautiful; it also added, wilful. But that probably meant only a spoilt child, not a woman with an individuality of her own.

One day Emilio was in the mine, making a sketch by the light of a lantern for an improvement that had just occurred to him, when he heard a noise not far off, and knew it to be the basket coming down the shaft. He was putting his papers together to go and see who had come, when he was met by one of the men smiling covertly, who told him that two young ladies had insisted on coming down with him as he returned from an ascent with a load of ore. They were alone, he said, and wore gray waterproof cloaks and rubber boots, which they said they had put on on purpose, meaning to go down the mine. He had begged them to wait till he brought the overseer to do them the honors. “As pretty as pictures,” said the man as Carpeggio moved off, “but evidently strangers to the place.” A solution at once darted to the young man’s mind, but he said nothing, and, when he got to the opening, he saw before him the great, dirty basket, and two laughing, fresh faces still inside, as the girls clung with ungloved hands to the ropes and peered out into the darkness beyond them.

91“Allow me,” he said, as he offered one of them his hand. “I am afraid you will be disappointed in the very little there is to see, but I shall be happy to show you over the place.” The two girls seemed suddenly confused and answered only by letting him help them down. He led them on, and here and there explained something which was Greek to them. Presently one whispered to the other: “Why, Kate! he is a gentleman.” “Hush,” said the other in sudden alarm: “he will hear you.” And she immediately asked a question of their guide. When she found out that there was a lower level than the one they were on, she asked to go down at once, but Carpeggio gravely declined, on the plea of their being alone and his not wishing to take the responsibility if they should get wet through.

“No one need know,” said one of them. “We ran away on purpose, and there is just time to go down and get home for tea. Luncheon does not matter.”

“Forgive me, madam,” said the young man with a smile, “but I would rather not, and you can easily come again, with any one authorized to let you have your own way. I cannot in conscience allow it while you are alone.”

“It is no fun coming with a lot of old fogies, and in a carriage, and one’s best behavior, and so on,” said the spokeswoman; “is it, Kate?” The other blushed and hesitated, and at last said she thought it was best to give up the lower level and go home; yet she seemed just as full of life and fun as her companion, and had evidently enjoyed the escapade just as much. Carpeggio looked at her for a moment and led the way towards the basket. He went up with them and courteously 92bade them good-by at the mouth of the shaft. The younger one held out her hand and said: “You will tell us whom we have to thank, I hope?”

“Oh!” he said confusedly, glancing at the other and only seeing the outstretched hand just in time not to seem rude, “I am only the overseer.”

The other girl suddenly looked up and held out her hand to him, saying: “Thank you; I am sure you were right about going further down. And now we must say good-by.”

Carpeggio went down again to his interrupted drawing, but the face and name of “Kate” came between him and his work. He saw neither of the girls again for weeks, and carefully forbore to make any inquiries; the gossip of the men did not reach the society which might have twitted him with the visit of those unexpected explorers, and he kept his surmises to himself.

Yet the door had been opened, and he was no longer the same, though to outsiders no change was visible. Two months later there was a public ball in the county town—an occasion on which many persons meet officially on terms that are hardly kept up all the year round, but which yet offer opportunities of social glorification “warranted to keep” till the same time next year. This ball was to be followed the next night by another, given by the regiment; and though this was “by invitation,” it was practically nearly as public as the other. These gayeties greatly excited the small world of the mining district, and for the first time became of interest to Emilio, though he was angry and ashamed to acknowledge it to himself. His 93work was the only thing that did not suffer; as to his studies, they were interrupted, and even his calm gravity became absent-mindedness. He was one of the earliest guests present at the county ball, and watched the door eagerly for an hour at least before he was rewarded. Then came a large party, to whom the appointed ushers paid unusual attention, though the head of it seemed but a kindly middle-aged man, remarkable only for his geniality. Every one, however, knew the marquis by sight; Carpeggio, who did not, felt it was he before even the deference paid to him told him so. By his side were the two girls he had first seen in the mine-basket, now dressed in white ball-dresses, airy and commonplace, just the same society uniform as the three co-heiresses, the daughters of his own employer, but to him how different, how tender, how sacred! That is to say, Lady Katharine’s; for her pretty sister seemed an ordinary woman beside her.

And now began all the sweet, old-fashioned, foolish tumult of which bards and romancers weave their webs; the trembling and fear and joy and jealousy which Carpeggio had read of, but thought impossible in this century of sham excitements and masqueraded lives. He thought that she looked much more beautiful in her gray cloak and drooping black hat; but still “Kate” in any dress was a vision of heaven rather than a common mortal. As she came into the room, she looked anxiously around and saw him at once. She had expected to meet him here, then—both were conscious of it in that one look, and it seemed as if this blissful understanding between them were enough. The youth 94turned to do his duty by his employer’s three daughters and all the rest of his acquaintances, to whom, in the character of a “dancing man” as well as a good match, he was interesting; he spun off little courteous speeches, not untrue but commonplace, until he felt that he had satisfied natural expectations, and then he allowed himself a respite and gazed at the marquis’ youngest daughter. Towards supper time Carpeggio’s employer, proud of the great man’s courteous notice of him, suddenly bethought himself that an “Italian nobleman” in his wake might make the marquis respect his all-powerful purse the more, so he introduced his young overseer to the marquis with a flourish very unpleasant to the former and rather amusing to the latter. Emilio was struck with dumbness or confusion; his new acquaintance took compassion on him and led him up to his daughters, whose eyes had been for some time fixed upon him with breathless interest. As he shook hands with them the second time he was in an awkward bewilderment whether or no to allude to their former meeting; in fact, his usual indifference was wholly upset. Lady Katharine was equally silent; whether she shared his embarrassment he could not tell; but the other, Lady Anne, skilfully and with a latent, suppressed gleam of mischief in her eye, talked so as to cover his confusion and clear away the thorns that seemed to grow up between him and her sister. At last he had the courage to ask each of the girls for a dance, and this, together with a word in the cloak-room as he escorted them to their carriage, and the certainty of meeting them again at the military ball next night, was all that happened to 95feed the flame of a feeling he knew to be already beyond the bounds of reason.

Yet he did nothing to check this feeling; are not all lovers fatalists for the time being? Of course it was hopeless, insane, impossible—he could see it with the eyes of the world; but he also knew that it was true love, the ideal and pure love of Arcadia, the one thing which, whether realized or not, lifts men above conventional life and turns gold to dross. He also fancied that this love might be returned, and did not care to inquire further just now, when to be blind to details was to be happy. Besides, these were the first girls he had seen that had not lost their naturalness, and he wanted to watch and see if they could keep it in the atmosphere in which they lived. This was not quite an excuse; for the young cynic had really got to be a sharp observer of human nature, and had, like most such observers when young, hastily concocted one or two theories which he was now becoming anxious to test.

Nothing happened at the military ball more than the most uninterested spectator might see at any ball; and yet much happened, for Carpeggio met Kate and danced with her, and both, as if by mutual understanding, were very silent. Her sister, however, made up for this by chattering in the most meaningly meaningless way, and delighting the lovers by her tacit abetment of anything they might choose to think, say, or do. After these balls there was for a long time no more opportunity for meetings, and Emilio chafed against his fate, using the leisure time he had before spent in study for long walks to the marquis’ 96house—that is, as near as he dared go without danger of trespassing. Once or twice he was lucky enough to meet the girls on the highroad outside the park, and this he enjoyed indeed; the progress was quicker, though as silent as in the ball-room. Then once he met them out driving with their father, and on another occasion came upon them at a neighboring squire’s, where they were on a state visit. But all this made little outward difference, though he felt as if he no longer needed anything but a solemn pledge to change the inner certainty into an acknowledged fact. Lady Anne was evidently a thorough partisan, and her sister’s silence and looks told him all he wanted to know; yet he refrained from saying the word, and knew that she understood why he did so. The fact was, he trusted to Providence and his own power of shaping any opportunity sent him. The whole thing seemed to him wonderful and mysterious; and as it had begun, so doubtless would it be guided to a happy end.

One day his employer told him with much importance that he was going to bring a “very distinguished” party to see the mine, and afterwards to go through the works and see the melted ore pouring out from the furnaces, “as that always amused young people so.” The marquis was coming with his daughters and his only son from Eton, and a young friend, a cousin of his, Lord Ashley; then he would have one or two of the “best people” from the immediate neighborhood, and his own daughters, besides the son of a friend out in Australia, a Mr. Lawrence, whom Carpeggio had heard rumor speak of as a not unwelcome son-in-law in the eyes of the rich mine-owner. 97He wondered whether Lord Ashley might be destined by her father as a suitor for Kate; but the elder daughter would be more likely to be thought of first, besides being the prettier.

The day came, and with it the party, who arrived in the afternoon, picnicked in the adjoining woods, and then sauntered over to the shaft, where Emilio met them. Kate wore the same gray-water proof, and, as he took her hand to help her into the basket, he gave it the slightest pressure, with a look that spoke volumes. She was almost as grave as himself. I cannot describe all that went on during the inspection, which to all, save Mr. Lawrence and the marquis, was a pleasure party in disguise; for the former knew something of the subject from Australian experiences, and the latter was considering the question of renting, or himself working, a mine lately found on his own property. Technical questions, explanations, and discussions, between these two visitors and the owner and overseer took up the time, while the young ladies, Lord Ashley, and the jolly Eton boy, who was a counterpart of his livelier sister, laughed and joked like a mixed school in play-time. Carpeggio, however, kept his eye on Kate the whole time, and was comforted; for there was no fear of that nature being spoiled, though he thought with sorrow that it might be bruised and crushed. Suddenly, in the midst of a discussion, his ear caught an unaccustomed sound, and he turned pale for a moment, then bent forward composedly and whispered in his employer’s ear. The latter, after an almost imperceptible start, said briskly to his guests: “As it is near the hour for the furnaces to show off at their best, I 98think we had better be moving,” and led the way rather quickly to the shaft. Carpeggio contrived to get near Kate, whose silence showed how glad she was of the companionship, but he was preoccupied and anxious and spoke a few words absently. A loud noise was heard, seemingly not far away, and the visitors asked, “What is that?” while the master hurriedly said, “Oh! it is only a blast, but we must not be late for the furnaces; come,” and tried to marshal his guests closely together. Instinctively they obeyed and hurried forward; the marquis looked round for his children. Anne and the boy were near him, but Kate not to be seen. There was a corner to be turned, and she was just behind it, when another noise overhead was heard and Carpeggio rushed like the wind from behind the angle, carrying the girl in his arms. It was the work of a second; for as he set her on her feet by her father’s side, and almost against the basket, down came a huge fragment and all but blocked up the gallery behind them, falling on the spot where she might have been had she lingered another moment. Whether or not she had heard his passionate whisper, “My own,” as he gathered her suddenly in his arms and took that breathless rush, he could hardly tell, for she was dazed and half-unconscious when he set her down again. Her father thanked him by an emphatic shake of the hand and a look he treasured up in his soul; but there was no time for more, as the basket was hastily loaded with the girls and drawn up. As the signal came down that they were safe, the owner’s tongue was loosed, and he explained rapidly that something had happened on the second level (they were on the third) and shaken 99the rock below; he trusted nothing more would happen, but he must beg his guests to visit the works alone, as he must stop to see to the damage.

“No,” said the overseer, “think of your daughters’ anxiety, my dear sir; there is probably nothing very serious, and it is nearly time for the men to come up. I shall do very well alone.”

The marquis looked at him admiringly; he could not advise him to leave without doing his duty, yet he felt suddenly loath to have anything happen to the preserver of his daughter. After a short altercation the master consented to go up, provided Carpeggio would send for him, if necessary; and the basket came down again. As they reached the next level, where the overseer got out, they heard uncomfortable rumblings at intervals; and when they got out at the mouth of the shaft, where they met a good many of the men who had come up by another opening, they were very unlike a gala party. Kate was still there; they had wanted her, said the girls, to go in and rest in a cottage near by, but she insisted on waiting; and when she saw all but Carpeggio she only turned away in a hopeless, silent way that concerned her sister, who alone knew the cause. Anne immediately put questions that brought out the facts of the case; and as their host tried hard to put the party at their ease again by hastening to the furnaces under the sheds, she whispered: “Kate, do keep up, or there will be such a fuss.”

“Never fear,” said the girl; “and try and make them stay till we hear what has happened, Anne; I do not want to go home without knowing.”

It was nervous work for the master 100and the men who were tending the molten ore to conceal their anxiety. The beautiful white iron, flowing like etherealized lava, rushing out from the dark, oven-like furnaces and spreading into the little canals made ready for it, gave one a better idea of pure light than anything could do. The heat was intense, and the men opened the doors with immense long poles tipped with iron; the gradual darkening of the evening threw shadows about the place, and the streams of living light, that looked as the atmosphere of God’s throne might look, settled into their moulds, hardening and darkening into long, heavy, unlovely bars. A suppressed excitement was at work; groups of men came up every minute with contradictory reports as to the accident; women and children met them with wild questions or equally wild recognition; and the master repeatedly sent messages to the mouth of the shaft. At last, throwing by all pretence, he begged his guests to wait for news, and with Lawrence went back to the mine. More men were coming up—the last but five, he was told—and Mr. Carpeggio had said he thought he and his four mates could do all that was needed and come up before any mischief happened to them. The soil was loosening under the action of water, and to save the ore accumulated below, and which could not be hauled up in time, they had built a sort of wall across the gallery as well as the circumstances and the time would allow; Mr. Carpeggio had sent the men away as fast as he could spare them, and kept only four with him to finish, which was the most dangerous part of the business, as the water threatened them more and more.

101“He sent all the married men up first, and asked the rest to volunteer as to who among them should stay, as he only wanted four,” said one of the men; “and I thought they would all have insisted upon staying, but he grew angry and said there was no time; so they agreed to draw lots.”

Another quarter of an hour’s suspense, and then a low, muttering sound that spread horror among the whispering multitude gathered at the mouth of the shaft. Some men went down to the first level, and soon came up with blank faces and whispered to the master: no sound but that of water was to be heard below, and fears for the safety of the workers were too confidently expressed. Nothing remained but to give orders for affording relief; the only comfort was that there had been no sign of the air becoming vitiated. Here the master’s experience was at fault, and he had to rely on that of some of the older men. “If Carpeggio had been here, he would have got the men out in two hours,” he asserted confidently; “but he must go and get himself mewed up there, and leave me no one to direct things—though I believe he can get himself out as quick as any of us can dig him out,” he said, with a half-laugh; and one of the men whispered to his neighbor:

“I do not wonder he sets such store by him; I had rather be down there myself than have him killed.”

At last it became certain, by signs which this faithful chronicler is not competent to explain technically, that the five men had been cut off behind a mass of rock and ore, and that it would take two days or more to get them out. Work was vigorously begun at once; relays of men went down to search, 102by making calls and rapping on the echoing walls, in which direction lay the least impenetrable of the obstacles between them and the sufferers; the pumps were set going and every one worked with a will. The news was received by the party at the works in a silence that marked their interest well, and the young men eagerly asked their host if they could be made of any service personally, while the marquis offered to send down some of his men to help, if more were wanted, and promised to send all he and his daughters could think of as useful to the imprisoned men when they should be brought out of their dangerous predicament. But as this accident refers only, so far as our tale is concerned, to the links between Emilio and Kate, we must pass over the hourly exciting work, the reports, the surmises, the visits and inspections of newspaper men and others, the telegrams and sympathy of people in high places, the details which accompany all such accidents, and which it takes a skilled hand to describe in words that would only make the expert laugh at the ambitious story-teller. Space also, and mercy on the feelings of practised novel-readers, make us hesitate to do more than hint at the state of mind of the girl whose dream of love and happiness hung in the balance for nearly five days. Only her sister guessed the whole, and skilfully managed to shield her from inconvenient notice and inquiry; and, indeed, the excitement of the time helped her in her work. The fifth day, towards evening, a messenger on horseback brought word of the safety of the men—all but one, who had died of exhaustion and hunger. Carpeggio and the rest had narrowly escaped drowning as well as starvation, but had 103nevertheless managed to help on his deliverers by working on his own side of the bed of earth and clearing away no small part (considering his disadvantages) of the embankment. The men had declared that but for him and his indomitable spirit, their suspense, and even their danger, would have increased tenfold; and, besides, he had contrived, by his efforts previous to the final falling in of earth and rushing in of water, to save a large portion of valuable ore which must otherwise have been either lost or much spoilt. He had been taken to his employer’s house, where the greatest care was bestowed on him, and the other men to their respective homes. The marquis resolved to go over the next day and inquire after him, and showed the greatest interest and anxiety about him; but Lady Anne shook her head as she said to her sister:

“He will do anything, Kate, for Mr. Carpeggio” (the young man had tacitly dropped his proper title for the time being), “except the one thing you want; and you know that, with me, the wish is far from being father to the thought in this matter.”

There was nothing to do but to wait, and then came the overseer’s recovery and first visit to the house of his love as a cherished guest, his silent look of longing and uncertainty, the gradual and still silent knitting together of a new and happier understanding than before, and finally the offer of the father to make him manager and part owner of the new mine on his own estate. The ownership he at once refused; but, as he could well manage the overseeing of the marquis’ colliery without prejudice to his first employer’s interests, he joyfully accepted the first part of the proposal. 104Then a cottage was pressed upon him, and this also he accepted, provided it was understood to form part of his salary. The old man was both pleased and nettled at his stiff independence; but when Anne reminded him that the circumstances of the case made this the only proper course, he forgot his vexation and heartily praised the manliness of his new employé.

Carpeggio was often at the house, and in fact grew to be as familiar a presence there as that of the inmates themselves, and still the silent bond went on, seemingly no nearer an outward solution, though the marquis’ favor visibly increased. The colliery prospered and brought in money, and the overseer carefully put by his salary and studied hard at night, till his name got to be first known, then respected, in the scientific world; and one day an official intimation was made to him that the third place on a mining survey expedition to South America was at his disposal. He had written to Schlichter constantly, and at last had made a clean breast of what he called his unspoken but not the less sealed engagement. The two girls had gone through two London seasons; Lord Ashley and Mr. Lawrence had become brothers-in-law by each marrying one of the trio who had so long expected to make a conquest of the overseer himself; and Carpeggio had enough to buy a large share in the concern of either of his two employers. Such was the state of affairs when the proposal of an American trip was made to him; if the survey was satisfactory, and a company formed in consequence, he would be out at least three years, with the chance of a permanent settlement as director of the works and sharer in the company. 105Both pecuniarily and scientifically a career was open to him, while at home there was success in all but love—nearly as certain. Schlichter strongly advised him to go; the marquis himself saw the thing as a thorough Englishman, and was willing to lose his right-hand man, as he called him, for the sake of this opening; Carpeggio saw the alluring chance of travel, adventure, the prestige of his possible return in a different character, the enlarged field which he could not help looking on as more tempting than success—equally solid, perhaps, but more humdrum—at his very elbow, and the glorious southern climate, like to, and yet more radiant than, the old home one to which he had been used as a boy among the vineyards of Umbria. He knew that Kate would follow him there gladly, as she would had he gone to the North Pole; but there was the intangible yet terribly real barrier. In everything but the weighty affair of mating he was held as Kate’s equal, and the equal of all whom he met at the marquis’ house; even in London, where he had once stayed with them a week, and gone into that society which was “their world,” he had been received in a way unexceptionally satisfactory; he was put on more than an equal footing with young Englishmen of good standing, but he knew that he shared with them the cruel, tacit exclusion from competition for first-class prizes. He was good enough to dance with, ride with, flirt with, and escort to her carriage the daughter of a duke; so were the many young fellows who made the bulk of the young society of the day; but there were preserves within preserves. The second sons, the young lawyers, the men in “marching” 106regiments, the naval cadets, the government clerks, and even the sons of admirals, clergymen, and men who had made their mark in the literary and scientific as well as the social world—all these were tacitly, courteously, but inexorably tabooed as regards marriage with their partners, friends, and entertainers. In fact, society had bound these youths over to “keep the peace,” while it encouraged every intimacy that was likely to lead to a breach of it. Carpeggio had lived long enough in England to be quite aware of this and to “know his own place” in the world; but he trusted to time and Kate’s faithfulness. He at last made up his mind to go to South America, and that without saying anything that would weigh Kate down with the knowledge of a secret to be withheld from her father; but he had likewise made up his mind to speak to the marquis on his return. He would be true to his employer, but could not afford to be false to himself; his own rights as a man were as present to his mind as the position and prejudices which he appreciated and tolerated in the person of a man so thoroughly gentlemanlike as his patron; and this compromise of a three years’ absence and silence seemed to him to honorably fulfil all the expectations that could be formed of him. He said good-by to the girls together in their father’s library, and the old man blessed him and bade him Godspeed in the heartiest fashion, almost with tears in his eyes; but of more tender and definite speech there was none. Who is there, however, but knows the delicate, intangible farewell, the firm promise conveyed by a pressure of the hand, and one long, frank, brave look, and all that true love knows 107how to say without breaking any other allegiance and without incurring the blame of secrecy?

So Emilio Carpeggio went and prospered, while Kate remained a beauty and a moderate heiress (she had half of her mother’s small fortune), courted and loved, and going through the weary old treadmill of London seasons and country “parties.” People wondered why she did not marry. Her sister did, and made a love-match, though there was no violent obstacle in the way, and the lover was perfectly acceptable as to station and fortune. She was lucky, also, in loving a man who had some brains to boast of. This unknown brother-in-law in after-times became a powerful lever in favor of Carpeggio’s suit; but long before the young engineer came back the kind, tender-hearted old marquis had found out his daughter’s secret, and after some time overcame his natural prejudices, and as generously agreed to Kate’s hopes as he had before vigorously opposed them. And yet all this was done while hardly a word was spoken; for if any courtship was emphatically a silent one, it was this. Everything came to be tacitly understood, and a few hand-pressures, a kiss, a smile, or a long look expressed the changes and chances of this simple love-story. At the end of three years the young man came home on a holiday, which he meant to employ in determining his fate. He had promised the new company to go back permanently and take charge of their interests as a resident, and many of the native members had shown themselves willing and eager to make him a countryman and a son-in-law. He went home, and saw the marquis the first evening of his stay, two hours after he got off the train. To his surprise, he 108found his request granted before he made it and his road made plain before him. The old man did not even ask him not to return to America. It is of little use to descant on his meeting with Kate and on his (literally) first spoken words of love. They told each other the truth—that is, that the moment they met in the mine, five years before, was the beginning of their love. They were married with all the pretty pastoral-feudal accessories of a country wedding in England, and spent their honeymoon in the old tower of Carpeggio, where the bride explored the library-room with great curiosity, and was charmed with the old-fashioned figures of the principal people of the town, whom she entertained in what was now again her husband’s own house.

Signor Salviani had built a pretty, villa-like hotel half a mile further, and was as proud on the day when his young master again took possession of the old tower as the bridegroom himself. From there Carpeggio went to his German friends, presented the famous Schlichter to his wife, and got his rough and fatherly congratulations on his choice, his perseverance, and his success. In three months the young couple set sail for their new home, where Carpeggio had sent the last orders needed to set up quickly the nest he had half-prepared already in anticipation of his visit to England. When they arrived, Kate found a lovely, fragile-looking, cool house, half-southern, half-northern, covered with vines which the natives still looked upon 109with distrust, but beautiful and luxuriant beyond measure (this was the oldest part of the house, the original lodge which the overseer had lived in when he first came), some rooms with white tile floors, and some partially covered with fancy mats of grass, while one or two rejoiced in small Turkey rugs, suggestive of home, yet not oppressively hot to look at. All his wife’s tastes had been remembered and gratified, and Carpeggio was rewarded by her telling him that if she had built and furnished the house herself, she could not have satisfied her own liking so thoroughly as he had done. One room was fitted up as their den (or, as the world called it, the library), and was as much as possible the exact counterpart of the room in Torre Carpeggio where the books and curiosities had been found. Of course the collection had been carefully transferred here. Years afterwards this place was the rallying-point of English and American society; travellers came to see it and its owners; its hospitality was the most perfect, generous, and delicate for a hundred miles around; no jealousies arose between its household and those of the natives; the mining company prospered, Carpeggio grew to be an authority even in German scientific circles, and a sort of paradise was once more realized. True, this kind of thing only happens once or twice in a century; but then it really does, so it is pardonable for a story-teller to choose the thousand-and-first couple for the hero and heroine of his tale.

The judicious management of the criminal classes is a question which has long occupied the serious consideration of legislators and social reformers throughout the civilized world; and though much of what has been said and written on the matter is visionary and based on imperfect data, the agitation of the question cannot but be productive of advantageous results. In pagan times penal laws were enacted chiefly with a view to the punishment of crime, and but little account was taken of the criminal. The Julian law and the Justinian Code and Pandects inherited this cruel and unchristian character, which attached itself to them for centuries even after the birth of our Saviour. The influence of Christianity was long powerless to mitigate the horrors of barbarous legislation. In vain did the bishops of the church protest against the atrocities which were everywhere practised on prisoners. So far from listening to these humane appeals, hard-hearted rulers exhausted their ingenuity in devising new modes of penal torture, while for the wretched culprit not a pitiful word went forth from royal or baronial legislative halls. Among the Romans treason was punished by crucifixion, the most cruel of deaths. The parricide was cast into the sea enclosed in a sack, with a cock, a viper, a dog, and a monkey as companions. The incendiary, by a sort of poetic retribution, 111was cast into the flames, while the perjurer was flung from the heights of Tarpeia’s rock. But the treatment of prisoners for debt was still more barbarous and quite out of proportion to the magnitude of the offence. The unfortunate being who could not meet the demands of his creditors was compelled to languish in a filthy dungeon for sixty days, during which time he was fed upon twelve ounces of rice daily and had to drag a fifteen-pound chain at every step. If, at the expiration of that time, the claim against him was still unsatisfied, he was delivered over to his obstinate and unrelenting creditors to be torn limb from limb as a symbol of the partition of his goods.

The severity of these provisions was somewhat softened in later times, but throughout the middle ages, and, indeed, down to the latter half of the eighteenth century, the same fierce and Draconian spirit pervaded all laws having reference to the punishment of crime. Vast numbers of prisoners, without distinction of age, sex, rank, or character of crime, used to be huddled together in wretched pens, where they rotted to death amid blasphemous and despairing shrieks. Spiritual comfort and advice were withheld from them; for it was a feature of these miserable laws to pursue their victims beyond the grave by a clause which stipulated that they should die “without benefit of clergy.”

Individual efforts here and there were not wanting to alleviate the sufferings of prisoners, and many a 112bright page of the martyrology grows brighter still with a recital of the noble sacrifices made by the saints of the church to ameliorate the condition of captives. St. Vincent de Paul, a voluntary inmate of the bagnes of Paris, teaching and encouraging his fellow-prisoners, was the prototype of Goldsmith’s kind-hearted Dr. Primrose, with the exception that the saint outdid in reality what the poet’s fancy merely pictured. Other saints, when prevented from offering relief at home, sold themselves into foreign servitude; and we read of their noble efforts to render at least endurable the acute sufferings of captives in Barbary, Tripoli, and Tunis.

But these spasmodic and unsystematic endeavors to better the condition of criminals were attended with no lasting good, and not till the serious labors of the noble Howard invited attention to the importance of the matter was public attention fully awakened. His visits to the prisons of the Continent of Europe, and his frequent appeals to the governments to introduce much-needed reforms and to redress palpable wrongs, enlisted the active sympathies of the wise and good. Then for the first time the doctrine which Montesquieu and Beccaria had so often admirably set forth in their writings was adopted in practice, and legislators and governments assumed as the basis of prison reform the principle that all punishment out of proportion to the crime is a wrong inflicted on the criminal. Advances at first were exceedingly slow, but the true impetus to prison reform was given and a new and higher social lode was struck.

While John Howard was yet engaged in the effort to solve the problem he had set before himself, 113a new science was springing into existence which was to lend to his labors the full promise of success. The value of statistics was but little understood and appreciated till the latter portion of the last century, and so imperfect in this respect had been the records of town, provincial, and national communities that history has keenly felt the loss of this important adjunct to her labors, and has been compelled to grope in darkness because the light of statistical information could not be had. Since this century set in, however, statistics have risen to the dignity of a science, and the truly valuable information they afford, the floods of light they have shed on all social matters, the service they have lent to medical science, to hygiene, to sanitary reforms, and above all to the prevalence of crime with its grades and surroundings, fully attest the sufficiency of its title.

Through statistics, then, we are placed in possession of the facts relating to crime and criminals, and facts alone can give the color of reason and good sense to all measures of reform, to all projects looking to the suppression of crime and the elevation of the criminal classes. Statisticians, therefore, whatever may be their theories, whatever their pet views about crime and criminals, deserve well of the community; for without their close and painstaking work the most ingenious theorist and the best-inclined philanthropist would be utterly at sea; for as Phidias could not have chiselled his unrivalled Zeus without the marble, neither can the most zealous reformer advance a foot without clear and well-tabulated statistics.

For this reason we bid especial welcome to the interesting monogram 114of Mr. Dugdale, which is a monument of patient and laborious exploration in a field of limited extent. It is evident that he did not set about his work in a dilettante spirit, but spared no effort and avoided no inconvenience—and his inconveniences must have been many—to ascertain the utmost minutiæ bearing on his topic. He has not contented himself with adhering to the methods of inquiry usually in vogue, but has added to the law of averages, which ordinary statistics supply, individual environments and histories which may be considered causative of general results, and as such are the key to common statistics.

“Statistics,” he says, “cumulate facts which have some prominent feature in common into categories that only display their static conditions or their relative proportions to other facts. Its reasoning on these is largely inferential. To be made complete it must be complemented by a parallel study of individual careers, tracing, link by link, the essential and the accidental elements of social movement which result in the sequence of social phenomena, the distribution of social growth and decay, and the tendency and direction of social differentiation. To socio-statics must be allied socio-dynamics. Among the notable objections to pure statistics in the present connection is the danger of mistaking coincidences for correlations and the grouping of causes which are not distributive.”

Thus, Mr. Dugdale recognizes as underlying the testimony of mere figures a variety of factors essentially modifying the inferences which the former, exclusively viewed, would justify us in drawing, and endeavors to catch the ever-shifting influences of individual temperament, age, and environment. Heredity and sex, being fixed, are covered by the ordinary methods of statistical compilation. 115But as environment is the most potent of the varying factors which determine a career of honesty or crime, so heredity may be regarded among the fixed causes as the most contributive of effect in the same direction. “Heredity and environment, then, are the parallels between which the whole question of crime and its treatment stretches, and the objective point is to determine how much of crime results from heredity, how much from environment.” It is to the solution of this rather complicated problem that Mr. Dugdale addresses himself; and when we say it is complicated we do not exaggerate, so that we may be pardoned if, at times, in the course of the sinuous meanderings the question must necessarily take, we find ourselves at variance with some of his conclusions. Heredity is of two sorts: 1, that which results from cognate traits transmitted by both parents; and, 2, that which exhibits the modification dependent on the infusion of strange blood. This distinction is important as bearing on the question of heredity in its tendency to perpetuate propensities. If consanguineous unions intensify and transmit types of character with any degree of constancy and uniformity, we are justified in conceding that heredity is a criminal factor quite independent of environments, and that its relation to the solution of the problem why crime is so prevalent cannot be ignored. Now, the test furnished by the infusion of strange blood will enable us to judge whether constancy and uniformity of types are confined to consanguineous unions or not; for if, the environments remaining the same, a change of type is induced by non-consanguinity, then to the admixture of fresh 116blood alone can we attribute change of type, and so we must again admit the importance of heredity in the study of the case, but only to the extent and within the limits we shall hereafter point out. Mr. Dugdale is of opinion that both heredity and environment play a very important part in the career of the criminal, and it is with the design of sustaining his opinion that he has given us the history of the “Jukes.” Before we deal further with his conclusions we will here present a brief summary of the facts as related by him.

The term “Jukes” is a sort of pseudonym very considerately intended to cloak the identity of members of the family who may now be engaged in honest pursuits. The family had its origin in the northern part of the State of New York, and has rendered the place notorious by the unbroken chain of crime which, link after link, binds the jail-bird of to-day with the jolly and easy-living “Max” of a century ago, who drank well, hunted well, and ended his days in the quiet enjoyment of animal peace. He certainly was more intent on hospitable cares and the gratification of his passing desires than on the welfare of his progeny; for no man ever left behind him a more serried array of criminal descendants whose name has become the synonym of every iniquity the tongue can utter or the mind conceive. This man had two sons, married to two out of six sisters whose reputation before marriage was bad. The eldest of the sisters is called “Ada Juke” for convenience’ sake, though in the county where the family lived her memory is unpleasantly embalmed as “Margaret, the mother of criminals.” Ada had given birth before her marriage 117to a male child, who was the father, grandfather, and great-grandfather of the distinctively criminal line of descendants. She afterwards married, and thus commingled in her person two generations exhibiting characteristics essentially peculiar to each, though they often bear leading features of resemblance. The sisters “Delia” and “Effie” married the two sons of Max, and in this way, though somewhat obscurely, Mr. Dugdale connects Max with the most criminal branch of the Jukes. We say somewhat obscurely; for the reader is first inclined to believe that Ada was married to one of Max’s sons, till on chart No. iv., page 49, he quite casually lights on the remark “Effie Juke married X——, brother to the man who married Delia Juke, and son of Max.” While acknowledging the inherent difficulty of a lucid arrangement of facts so complicated and bearing such manifold relations, we believe that a little more fulness of statement would lead to at least an easier understanding of Mr. Dugdale’s work. “Effie” became, through her marriage with the second son of Max, the ancestress of one of the distinctively pauperized branches of the family. The progeny of Delia inclined more to crime, and Ada thus became the parent stem whence both the criminal and pauperized army of the “Jukes” mainly sprang; for it is a circumstance deserving notice that, whereas the offspring of “Ada” before marriage founded the criminal line of the family, her offspring after marriage inclined rather to pauperism than to crime. So likewise in the case of “Effie,” whose known offspring was the result of marriage; we find few criminals, but nearly all paupers, among her descendants.

118In the first chart Mr. Dugdale exhibits a detailed history of the illegitimate posterity of “Ada” throughout seven generations. The first legitimate consanguineous union in the family took place between the illegitimate son of “Ada” and a daughter of “Bell,” from which six children resulted. The branch is considered illegitimate, as far as “Ada” is concerned, so that Mr. Dugdale sets down each collateral branch as either legitimate or illegitimate, according to the legitimacy or illegitimacy of that child of the five sisters which stands at the head of the list. Now, glancing along the column of the third generation, or that exhibiting the six legitimate children of the illegitimate son of “Ada” and a legitimate daughter of “Bell,” we find their history to be as follows: The first, a male, lived to the age of seventy-five; was a man of bad character, though inclined at times to be industrious, and depended on out-door relief for the last twenty years of his life. The sisters and brothers of this man strongly resembled him in character, being all noted for their longevity, their propensity to steal, and their habitual licentiousness. They were, moreover, exceedingly indolent, with one exception, and were a constant burden on the township. It is unnecessary to trace out the history of these or of their descendants, except to present a few typical cases which will enable us to understand the conclusion arrived at by Mr. Dugdale.

The first son of “Ada,” just mentioned, married a non-relative of bad repute, by whom he had nine children. This woman died of syphilis; and it is well to note at what an early period this poisonous strain showed itself in this the illegitimate branch of “Ada’s” descendants. 119These nine children surpassed their father, their uncles, and their aunts in criminal propensity. They were especially more violent, were frequently imprisoned for assault and battery, and, though no more licentious than their father, were especially addicted to licentiousness in its grosser forms. They inherited the constitutional disease of which their mother died, and with it the penalty of an early death, the oldest having died at the age of fifty-one and the youngest at twenty-four. It will be observed that they were not so constantly dependent on out-door relief as the generation immediately preceding them; this fact being attributable to the greater violence of their temper, which induced them to acquire by robbery and theft the means of livelihood, while the others preferred to beg. One aunt of these nine—viz., the second sister of their father and fourth from him in birth—never married, but had four children by a non-relative; and, for a purpose soon to be understood, we will compare their career with that of their nine cousins, who, it must be remembered, were born in wedlock. These four were illegitimate all the way back to their grandmother, “Ada”; and if there be any force in the statement that prolonged illegitimacy has an influence in the formation of character, we here have an opportunity of verifying it. The first of these, a male, was arrested at the age of ten; was arraigned for burglary soon after, but acquitted; was indicted for murder in 1870, and, though believed to be guilty, was again acquitted; was in the county jail in 1870, and in 1874 was depending upon out-door relief. The second, a female, began to lead a loose life at an early age, which rapidly developed 120into a criminal one. The third, a male, was guilty of nearly every known crime, and at last accounts was undergoing a term of twenty years’ imprisonment in Sing Sing for burglary in the first degree. The fourth, also a male, died at the age of nineteen, after having spent three and a half years in Albany penitentiary. Thus, though the record of the nine cousins is not very flattering, the vicious proclivities of these four illegitimates are manifestly more marked and decided.

If we now turn to the chart exhibiting the posterity of the legitimate children of Ada Juke, we will find an order of things entirely different. The husband of “Ada” was lazy, while her paramour, on the contrary, was always industrious. Syphilis likewise showed itself at a still earlier period than in the illegitimate branch; for whereas this disease first appeared in the generation of the illegitimate line, Ada’s first child by marriage became a victim to it at an early age, and her two legitimate daughters are set down as harlots at an equally early age. Ada’s first child, a son, married after the poisoned taint had got into his blood, and transmitted the loathsome heritage to his eight children. The immediate descendants of these eight were for the most part blind, idiotic, and impotent, and those who were not so became the progenitors of a line of syphilitics down to the sixth generation. Moreover, the intermarriages between cousins were much more frequent along this line than in the illegitimate branch. It is a noteworthy fact that in this chart one of the “Juke” blood is, for the first and only time, set down as being a Catholic—the only time, indeed, that reference is made to the question 121of religion. Mr. Dugdale allows us to infer from this exceptional allusion that he found but one Catholic in this edifying family. We would recommend this fact to the consideration of our rural friends who think that chiefly in the metropolis abound the criminals, quorum pars maxima they believe to be Catholics. The first time these unco-pious people had the fierce light that beats upon a town turned upon themselves, the spectacle thus revealed is not over-pleasant. This en passant. Were we to examine the other statistical exhibits of Mr. Dugdale, we would find pretty nearly the same result made clear. Without, therefore, entering into details that are painful in character and difficult to keep constantly in view, we will give a summary of the conclusions which the detailment of facts seems to justify:

1. The lines of intermarriage of the Juke blood show a minimum of crime.

2. In the main, crime begins in the progeny where the Juke blood has married into X—— (non-Juke blood).

3. The illegitimate branches have chiefly married into X——.

4. The illegitimate branches produced a preponderance of crime.

5. The intermarried branches show a preponderance of pauperism.

6. The intermarried branches show a preponderance of females.

7. The illegitimate branches produced a preponderance of males.

8. The apparent anomaly presents itself that the illegitimate criminal branches show collateral branches which are honest and industrious.

We here find a most curious and interesting history and an epitome of conclusions which challenges serious consideration. That the 122family of the “Jukes” was more vicious than their neighbors whose surroundings were similar cannot be disputed, and the question arises, What was there peculiar and exceptional in their case that made the fact to be such? The habits of life of the immediate descendants of Max were bad in the extreme, but partly forced upon them by environments. These people dwelt in mud-built cabins, with but one apartment, which served all the purpose of a tenement. Here they slept and ate, and of course privacy was rendered entirely impossible. Decency and modesty were out of the question, and the anomaly of whole families utterly bereft of all regard for domestic morals began to exhibit itself. We will now lay down a fundamental principle, by the light of which we hope to be able to solve the knotty question of this intense perversity of a series of blood-related generations, and Mr. Dugdale himself will furnish the proofs.

Early impurity beyond all other causes warps the moral sense, blunts the delicacy of womanly modesty, dims the perception of the difference between right and wrong—in a word, is quickest to sear the conscience. Crimes of violence, crimes of any sort, which are not traceable to this origin are outbursts of momentary distemper; but impurity of the sort mentioned lays the foundation of an habitual aptitude to commit the worst crimes, as though the tendency to do so were inborn and natural. Let us examine the facts as exhibited in the history of the Jukes family. Throughout the six generations studied by Mr. Dugdale he found 162 marriageable women, including, as facts required him to do, some of very tender years. Of these 84 123had lapsed from virtue at some time or other. This is an enormous percentage compared with the police returns of our most crowded seaboard cities. Among the Jukes women 52.40 per cent. were fallen women. In New York, London, Paris, and Liverpool the highest calculation does not exceed 1.80. If such was the moral status of the female portion of the family, it is not difficult to conceive what a low ebb morals among the males must have reached. The more closely we look into the facts recorded by Mr. Dugdale, the more irresistible becomes the conclusion that these moral pariahs yielded themselves up without restraint to every excess from the moment sexual life dawned upon them, and blushed not to commit crimes which do not bear mention. In the record of their lives we meet at every line expressions which brand these people as the modern representatives of the wicked ones who 3,700 years ago shrivelled in the fire of God’s anger on the plains of the Dead Sea. Indeed, the fact that the infamous practices which made the “Jukes” family notorious are the beginning of an utter loss of conscience has been long recognized by Catholic theologians, who, while admitting that loss of faith is a more serious loss than that of purity, contend that the latter is more degrading, more profoundly disturbs the moral nature of man, and speedily blinds him to the perception of every virtue. Many more facts might be adduced in support of this proposition, both from the pages of Mr. Dugdale and the various reports of our reformatory and punitive institutions, but what has been said will no doubt be deemed sufficient.

If, then, it be admitted that a corrupt 124life begun in early youth and continued for a long time is the broadest highroad to crime, it is interesting to enquire how far so-called criminal heredity is influenced by the transmission of impure propensities. It has become the fashion of late days to allow to hereditary influence a vast importance in the discussion and management of crime, so that there is danger even that the criminal will be led to look upon himself as naturally, and consequently unavoidably, vicious, and that society ought not to visit upon him the penalty of his misdeeds any more than it should punish the freaks of a madman. Dr. Henry Maudsley, in his recent work entitled Responsibility in Mental Disease, holds language startling enough to make every inmate of Sing Sing to-day regard himself as one against whom the grossest injustice had been done. He says:

“It is certain, however, that lunatics and criminals are as much manufactured articles as are steam-engines and calico-printing machines, only the processes of the organic manufactory are so complete that we are not able to follow them. They are neither accidents nor anomalies in the world, in the universe, but come by law and testify to causality; and it is the business of science to find out what the causes are and by what laws they work. There is nothing accidental, nothing supernatural, in the impulse to do right or in the impulse to do wrong—both come by inheritance or by education; and science can no more rest content with the explanation which attributes one to the grace of heaven and the other to the malice of the devil than it could rest content with the explanation of insanity as a possession by the devil. The few and imperfect investigations of the personal and family histories of criminals which have yet been made are sufficient to excite some serious reflections. One fact which is brought strongly out by these inquiries is that crime is often hereditary; that just as a man may 125inherit the stamp of the bodily features and characters of his parents, so he may also inherit the impress of their evil passions and propensities; of the true thief, as of the true poet, it may indeed be said that he is born, not made. That is what observation of the phenomena of hereditary [sic] would lead us to expect; and although certain theologians, who are prone to square the order of nature to their notions of what it should be, may repel such doctrine as the heritage of an immoral in place of a moral sense, they will in the end find it impossible in this matter, as they have done in other matters, to contend against facts.”

We have quoted the words of Dr. Maudsley at some length, in order to show to what unjustifiable lengths the recent advocates of heredity are inclined to go.

The argument employed by Dr. Maudsley is very weak—happily so, indeed; for were his conclusions correct man’s misdeeds would be neither punishable nor corrigible, any more than the blast of the tempest which strews the shore with wrecks and desolation. They would be the necessary outcome of his constitution. The trouble is that Dr. Maudsley pushes to excess a doctrine which has in it much that is true. We do not deny the doctrine of hereditary impulses; we know that some are more prone to evil than others, that the moral lineaments are often transmitted from parent to child to no less an extent than physical traits and resemblances; but we know that free will remains throughout, and that, no matter how strong the impulse to do a certain act may be, the power to resist is unquestionable. Habit and association may render the will practically powerless, but, unless a man has lost the attributes of his race, he never becomes absolutely irreclaimable. The allusion to grace and diabolical temptation is, to say the least, stupid. Dr. 126Maudsley knows as much about the matter, to all appearances, as the inhabitants of Patagonia. No theologian deserving the name ever asserted that man is swayed to good by grace alone, or equally moved to evil by the spirit of darkness, without any will-activity. The doctrine would be just as subversive of free-will and moral order as Dr. Maudsley’s, and consequently as absurd. The truth is that man’s will has been weakened by his fall (labefactata ac debilitata), is weaker in some than in others, but never becomes extinct, unless where the abnormal condition of insanity occurs. We regret that Mr. Dugdale accepts Dr. Maudsley as an authority and quotes approvingly the following words:

“Instead of mind being a wondrous entity, the independent source of power and self-sufficient cause of causes, an honest observation proves incontestably that it is the most dependent of all natural forces. It is the highest development of force, and to its existence all the lower natural forces are indispensably prerequisite.”

This is simply scientific jargon. It conveys no meaning, and in reality substitutes new and more obscure terms for old and well-understood ones. We are told to reject the “wondrous entity” mind, and to consider instead all so-called mental operations as the outcome of force. In a previous article^[9] we pointed out the great diversity of meanings annexed to the word force, and proved that none of those who so glibly use it have a clear conception of what it signifies. Mr. Dugdale further accepts the recent materialistic doctrine of Hammond, Vogel, and the so-called modern school of physiologists, who 127make will a mere matter of cerebral activity and cell-development.

His system of psychology is exceedingly brief and meaningless, and invites the social reformer to deal with the criminal as the watchmaker would deal with a chronometer out of repair, or as a ship-calker would attend to a vessel that had felt and suffered from the hard buffets of the ocean. Now, while we utterly repudiate the doctrine which views the criminal as a mere machine, we do not wish to reject any doctrine or theory which facts sustain, and we accept the doctrine of heredity in the sense we shall shortly mention, and contend that the facts justify its acceptance to no further extent.

In the first place, most people of good sense will admit that environment is a far more potent criminal factor than heredity, and that the constant similarity of environments where heredity exists disqualifies the observer for ascertaining the exact extent to which the latter operates. The children of the vicious for the most part grow up amid the surroundings which made their parents bad, and no child born of the most depraved mother will fail to respond to healthful influences early brought into play, unless an obviously abnormal condition exists. The advocates of heredity in the ordinary sense point to the vast army of criminals propagated from one stock, and claim this to be an incontestable proof of their doctrine. But right in the way of this argument is the fact that it ignores similarity of environment, and that it overlooks the diversity of crimes. If the law of heredity were strictly as stated by many writers, then the burglar would beget children with burglarious instincts, the pickpocket ditto, 128and so throughout the whole range of crime. But nothing of this sort is the case. The vicious descendant of a sneak-thief is as likely to be a highwayman or a housebreaker as to follow the safer paternal pursuits. No special propensities to commit crime are transmitted, but appetites are transmitted, and appetites beget tendencies and habits. Now, the two appetites which prove to be of most frequent transmission are the erotic and the alcoholic. The erotic precedes the alcoholic, and, indeed, excites it to action. Mr. Dugdale says (p. 37): “The law shadowed forth by this scanty evidence is that licentiousness has preceded the use of ardent spirits, and caused a physical exhaustion that made stimulants grateful. In other words, that intemperance itself is only a secondary cause.” And again: “If this view should prove correct, one of the great points in the training of pauper and criminal children will be to pay special attention to sexual training.”

It would appear, then, from this that heredity chiefly affects the erotic appetite, and through it the entire character. The impure beget the impure, subject to improvement through grace and will-power, and, despite of changed environments, the diseased appetite of the progenitor is apt to assert itself in the descendant, though it is not, of course, so apparent in the matter of the erotic passion as in the alcoholic. These are the facts so far as they justify the view of crime as a neurosis. This conclusion, while harmonizing with the data of observation, renders the solution of the question, What shall we do with criminals? comparatively easy, and points to the best mode of treatment. Until society holds that 129the virtue of purity is at the bottom of public morality, and that the custom to look indulgently on the wicked courses of young men is essentially pernicious, we cannot hope to begin the work of reform on a sound basis. Corrumpere et corrumpi sœclum vocatur is as true to-day as eighteen hundred years ago, only now we call it “sowing wild oats.” And how is this change to be wrought? By education? Yes, by education, which develops man’s moral character—by that education which gives to the community a Christian scholar, and not a mere intellectual machine. Mr. Richard Vaux, ex-mayor of Philadelphia, who is a believer in Maudsley, and consequently an unsuspected authority, speaks in these significant terms:

“Without attempting to discuss the value of popular instruction for the youth, or to criticise any system of public or private education, we venture to assert that there are crimes which arise directly out of these influences, and which require knowledge so obtained to perpetrate. If the former suggestion be true, that the compression of the social forces induces to crime, then those offences which come from education are only the more easily forced into society by the possessed ability to commit such crimes. If facts warrant this suggestion, then education—meaning that instruction imparted by school-training—is an agent in developing crime-cause.... It is worthy of notice that a far larger number of offenders are recorded as having attended ‘public schools’ than those who ‘never went to school.’”^[10]

This is a startling exhibit, upheld, it seems, by undeniable figures. Is it possible that the state is engaged in “developing crime-cause,” and that it is for this purpose oppressive school-taxes are imposed? Alas! it is too true. The majority of those 130who get a knowledge of the three “Rs” in our public schools come forth with no other knowledge. God is to them a distant echo, morality a sham, and they finish their education by gloating over the blood-curdling adventures of pirates and cracksmen in the pages of our weekly papers. Mr. Dugdale proposes some excellent means for the reclamation and reformation of the criminal, but they come tainted, and consequently much impaired, by his peculiar psychical theories. On page 48 he says:

“Now, this line of facts points to two main lessons: the value of labor as an element of reform, especially when we consider that the majority of the individuals of the Juke blood, when they work at all, are given to intermittent industries. The element of continuity is lacking in their character; enforced labor, in some cases, seems to have the effect of supplying this deficiency. But the fact, which is quite as important but less obvious, is that crime and honesty run in the lines of greatest vitality, and that the qualities which make contrivers of crime are substantially the same as will make men successful in honest pursuits.”

These remarks are full of significance and point unmistakably to the necessity of supplying work to the vicious. Hard work is the panacea for crime where healthful moral restraints are absent. The laborer expends will-force and muscular force on his work, and has no inclination for deeds of violence or criminal cunning. But how absurd it is to suppose that, as an educational process, its whole effect consists in the changed development of cerebral cells, and not, as is obviously true, in the fatigue which it engenders! Mr. Dugdale thus sets forth the philosophy of his educational scheme for the reformation of the criminal (p. 49):

“It must be clearly understood, and practically accepted, that the whole question 131of crime, vice, and pauperism rests strictly and fundamentally upon a physiological basis, and not upon a sentimental or a metaphysical one. These phenomena take place, not because there is any aberration in the laws of nature, but in consequence of the operation of these laws; because disease, because unsanitary conditions, because educational neglects, produce arrest of cerebral development at some point, so that the individual fails to meet the exigencies of civilization in which he finds himself placed, and that the cure for unbalanced lives is a training which will affect the cerebral tissue, producing a corresponding change of career.”

This is downright materialism, and is the result of Mr. Dugdale’s hasty acceptance of certain views put forward by a school of physiologists who imagine that their science is the measure of man in his totality. We admit that crime is closely connected with cerebral conditions, that the brain is the organ of manifestation which the mind employs, and that those manifestations are modified to a considerable extent by the condition of the organ. But this does not interfere with the character of the mind viewed as a distinct entity; indeed, it rather harmonizes with the facts as admitted by the universal sentiment of mankind. Mr. Dugdale makes a fatal mistake when he supposes that a changed cerebral state may be accompanied by a change in the moral character; for it is possible that a chemist may one day discover some substance or combination of substances which might supply the missing cells or stimulate the arrested growth. Man is not a machine; neither is he a mere physiological being. He is a rational animal, consisting of a soul and a body, two distinct substances hypostatically united; and until this truth is recognized no reform can be wrought in the ranks of the 132criminal classes by even greater men than Mr. Dugdale. If the “whole process of education is the building up of cerebral cells,” admonitions, instructions, and example are thrown away on the vicious. There is naught to do but to “build up cells” and stimulate “arrested cerebral development.” How false is this daily experience proves; for we know that a salutary change of prison discipline often converts brutal and hardened criminals into comparatively good men. Take as an instance what occurred in the Maison de Correction de Nîmes in 1839. This prison was in charge of certain political favorites who were fitter to be inmates than officials. Mismanagement reigned supreme, and the excesses committed by the prisoners can scarcely be believed. The most revolting crimes were done in broad daylight, not only with the connivance but at the instigation of the keepers. At last things had come to such a pass that the government was compelled to interfere, and, having expelled the unworthy men in charge, substituted for them a small band of Christian Brothers under the control of the late venerable Brother Facile, when an amazing change soon ensued. There was no question with the brothers of studying the increase of cerebral cells or stimulating arrested development. They changed the dietary for the better; they separated the most depraved from those younger in crime; they punished with discrimination; they encouraged good conduct by rewards; they set before the convict the example of self-sacrificing, laborious, and mortified lives; and in three weeks they converted this pandemonium into the model prison of France.

Can these facts be made to accord 133with the statement that the whole process of education is “building up of cerebral cells”? If Mr. Dugdale would substitute the term “moral faculties” for “cerebral cells,” he would theorize much more correctly and to better practical effect. Speaking of subjecting the growing criminal to a system of instruction resembling the Kindergarten, he says:

“The advantage of the Kindergarten rests in this: that it coherently trains the sense and awakens the spirit of accountability, building up cerebral tissue. It thus organizes new channels of activity through which vitality may spread itself for the advantage of the individual and the benefit of society, and concurrently endows each individual with a governing will.”

We agree with Mr. Dugdale that such a system of training is well calculated to bring about these results, but certainly not in the manner he indicates. Let us translate his language into that which correctly describes the process of improvement in the criminal, and we find it to be as follows:

Let the subject on whom we are to try the system of training in question be a boy of fourteen rescued from the purlieus of a large city. His education must be very elementary indeed. His intellectual faculties are to be treated according to their natural vigor or feebleness, but his moral faculties are especially to be moulded with care and watchfulness. He has been accustomed to gratify his evil passions and to yield to every propensity. The will, therefore, is the weakest of his faculties, and constant efforts must be made to strengthen it. With this view he should be frequently required to do things that are distasteful to 134him, beginning, of course, with what is easy and what might entail no discomfort on the ordinary boy. The will is thus gradually strengthened, both by this direct exercise and by the reaction upon it of the intellect, which is undergoing a concurrent training.

This is all that Mr. Dugdale means to convey when his words are translated into ordinary language. When he dismounts from his scientific hobby, however, he imparts counsel for the treatment of criminals which we heartily endorse. Thus, in speaking of industrial training, he says (p. 54): “The direct effect, therefore, of industrial training is to curb licentiousness, the secondary effect to decrease the craving for alcoholic stimulants and reduce the number of illegitimate children who will grow up uncared for.” He tells us that with the disappearance of log-huts and hovels—and, we might add, the reeking tenements of our cities—lubricity will also disappear. This is true to a great extent, but surely it is not all that is required. We might cultivate the æsthetic tastes to the utmost, we might have a population dwelling in palaces and lounging in luxurious booths, and be no better morally than those who, while enjoying those privileges, tolerated the mysteries of the Bona Dea and assisted at the abominations which have made the city of Paphos the synonym of every iniquity. All attempts at the reformation of our criminal classes 135without the instrumentality of religion will prove unavailing. You may “make clean the outside of the cup and of the dish, but within you are full of rapine and uncleanliness.” These words will for ever hold true of those who inculcate and pretend to practise morality without religion. The attempt has often been made, and has as often signally failed, so that we regard the presentation of proof here superfluous. The student of the history of social philosophy is well aware of the truth of this principle, and none but the purblind or the unwilling fail to perceive it. Religion is the basis of morality, and morality the pivot of reform. Let the friends of the criminals recognize these fundamental truths, and they may then hope to make some progress in their work. Then it will be time to defend and demonstrate the merits of the congregate system of imprisonment; then we might with profit insist upon the proper classification of prisoners, the necessity of proportioning penalty to offence, and not blasting the lives of mere boys by sending them for twenty years to Sing Sing for a first offence, thus compelling them to consort with ruffians of the most hardened description during the period which should be the brightest of their lives. Then all those reforms which philanthropists are ever planning might be wisely introduced, but not till then can we hope for the millennium of true reform to dawn upon us.

The population of Jamaica numbers about half a million, of whom nearly four-fifths are blacks, one hundred thousand colored people, and only thirteen thousand Europeans. In addition to these there are several thousand Cubans and Haytians, who have been driven from their homes by political troubles, some thousands of Indian coolies, and a few Chinese and Madeira Portuguese.

Of this motley population only a few thousand are Catholics. The greater part of the English belong to the Church of England, which, however, has been disestablished in Jamaica for some years. These enjoy the full benefit of the usual High Church and Low Church party warfare. One of the leading clergy of this denomination has started a monthly paper in Jamaica, called the Truth-Seeker. It is to be hoped that he may be successful in his search. The last number which the writer saw contained arguments in favor of spiritualism, homœopathy, and Extreme Unction. The editor is a vegetarian and teetotaler, and is said to have employed in the communion service, as a substitute for wine, the juice of a few grapes squeezed into a tumbler of water. When the bishop was asked about it he made a wry face and expressed a hope that he might never receive the communion in his teetotal friend’s church again. This reminds us of an incident related by a Church of England parson. He arrived at Kingston by the mail steamer from England on a Sunday morning, and duly betook himself to a church. It happened to 137be communion Sunday, and he “stayed.” He noticed that most of the white people went up to receive first, and that the few who neglected to do so, and who communicated with the negroes, came back to their seats screwing up very wry faces. Our friend solved the mystery when, going up nearly last, he found that his black friends’ lips had imparted such a flavor to the cup that he did not lose the taste of it for hours!

But the most popular sect amongst the blacks is the Baptist. The Baptist ministers are credited with having been the cause of the insurrection a dozen years ago, which was attended with so much bloodshed. Their great recommendation to the people appears to consist in their teaching virtually that the country belongs to the black man, and that the whites endeavor to defraud them of their rights by giving them insufficient wages and by other means. The consequence is that the negroes frequently defraud their employers by theft, shirking work, injuring their property, and so forth.

The Wesleyans and Presbyterians have large followings. There are also some Moravian stations. After a certain term of years the Moravian missionary is judged worthy to be rewarded with connubial bliss, and a spouse is selected by the authorities in Europe and sent out to him. The Jews are numerous and opulent, a great part of the commerce of the country being in their hands. But they are said to be very indifferent as to their religion, Jewish ladies often marrying people of 138other religions and ending by professing none at all.

It is pleasant to turn from these conflicting sects to consider the Catholic Church. Kingston, the capital of Jamaica, contains forty thousand people, and of these seven thousand are Catholics. The Jamaica mission is in the hands of the Jesuits. They do not number more than half a score, and are consequently hardly worked. They have a convenient house, popularly called the “French College,” though there is only one French priest there. Attached to it is a small college for the education of Catholic youths, but several Protestants are permitted to benefit by the instruction there given. In the little chapel at the back of the house the Blessed Sacrament is reserved. Among the priests is a venerable man whose tall, ascetic figure commands universal respect. He was formerly a Protestant clergyman, a fellow of his college at Oxford, and one of that remarkable band of men who founded the Oxford or Tractarian party. His quiet, instructive sermons are of a very high order, simple, admirably expressed, and pregnant with matter. Equally beloved is a white-headed French priest who has labored in Kingston for thirty years, and who endeared himself to all by his indefatigable devotion to the sick and dying during a terrible epidemic of yellow fever which raged there some years ago. He is well acquainted with, and sympathizes in, the joys and sorrows of all the congregation, and, in spite of a strong French accent which renders his conversation nearly unintelligible to a stranger, all seem to understand him perfectly. There are several younger priests who conduct the college, and one devotes his energies 139especially to work amongst the Cubans. There is also an excellent lay brother, a convert from Protestantism, who presides over a school for the children of poor Catholics. The church, dedicated to the Holy Trinity, is a plain brick structure, like all the churches and chapels in Kingston, but it is distinguished from the others by crosses on the gable ends. There are two side altars in addition to the high altar. The latter is handsomely adorned, and above it is a rose-window of stained glass. There is a good attendance at the daily Masses, which are said from five to half-past six, the congregation consisting mainly of black or colored people.

Besides the large church there is a smaller one dedicated to St. Martin, and commonly called the “Cuban Chapel,” because it is employed especially for their use. Spanish sermons are preached there at the eight o’clock Mass on Sundays. At the commencement of the month of May a handsome new altar was built and High Mass celebrated, the church being crowded with devout worshippers.

Near the large church is a convent with a private chapel, the nuns devoting themselves to the education of a number of young ladies, mostly Haytians, who reside with them.

A mile from the town is the camp of the First West India Regiment, a corps of Black Zouaves. Some of them being Catholics, Mass is said there on Sundays by a priest from Kingston. Another goes on alternate Sundays to Port Royal, a few miles from Kingston, where the guard-ship, the Aboukir, is stationed, and says Mass for the Catholic seamen.

The whole of the remainder of the 140island is served by three priests, who lead a most arduous life, constantly riding or driving from one station to another. Newcastle, a beautiful place in the Port Royal mountains nearly four thousand feet above the sea, is the station of the Thirty-fifth Regiment of the Line, and Mass is said here on alternate Sundays by a young priest who has just arrived from England, and replaced a stalwart father who was formerly senior captain in his regiment. Another extensive district is served by a worthy Belgian father with venerable beard and simple manners. This apostolic man rides long distances, often having to ford dangerously swollen torrents, and frequently having no lodging but the sacristy of a rural chapel, and no food but a little yam and salt fish.

But the most experienced missionary in the island is the superior of the Jesuits, who is vicar-apostolic. He has travelled about Jamaica on missionary journeys for sixteen years, and boasts that he knows every road and track in the country. He is generally beloved by Catholic, Protestant, and Jew alike, his genial manners and cheerful conversation making him a welcome guest everywhere, and his medical skill (for he was a physician before he joined the Society of Jesus) having enabled him to confer material benefits on many suffering persons. He has always led an active life, and is especially fond of relating his reminiscences of the siege of Sebastopol, where he was senior Catholic chaplain to the British forces. He drives about in a buggy, with spare horses following under the charge of his servant, or “boy,” who rides on horseback. The Jamaica horses are small, poor-looking animals, costing little, and very 141hardy and inexpensive, but they are capable of a great deal of trying work.

To reach Kingston for the confirmation on Pentecost Sunday, the good father had to drive for some miles over a road on which the water had risen from a neighboring river to such an extent that it was as high as the axles, and sometimes even came into the buggy. Fording swollen streams on horseback in the rainy season is often very dangerous work. This father having one day with difficulty crossed such a stream, a negro, who had been watching him all the time, told him that he was the first person who had succeeded in crossing there for some days, three men who had attempted it having been drowned.

“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” asked the priest.

“My sweet minister, me want to see what you do.”

Not that the man bore him any malice, but these people seem to be totally reckless of human life.

If he can be said to have any home, the vicar-apostolic lives in a pretty little house on the northwest coast. It is about a mile from the sea, but some hundreds of feet above it, and commands a magnificent view of the well-wooded hills, the sea, and the numerous small islands covered with mangroves. Near the house is a small oratory, built as a coach-house. It is very plain, and yet unpaved, the congregation kneeling on small pieces of board placed on the earth. Attached to the house is a pen, or grazing farm, of about seven hundred acres. It is for the most part overgrown with bush, the property having been much neglected; but strenuous efforts are being made to set it in good 142order, and not without success. It is hoped that it will eventually realize sufficient to support four or five missionary priests, which will be a great advantage to the church in Jamaica, as the mission there is very poor. The property was left to the church by a Catholic gentleman who resided on it and died some few years ago. It now supports about one hundred head of cattle, besides which it is planted with a number of pimento, lime, and cocoanut trees, the fruits of which are of value.

A private chapel, which stands in the grounds of a gentleman who resides on one of the most beautiful pens in the island, is well worthy of mention. This gentleman is a convert and has done much for the church. His chapel is the most charming little rustic oratory imaginable, the chancel screen and other wood-work being made of rough twisted branches of trees, and the staircase to the gallery consisting of the trunk of a pine tree with steps cut in it. On the Sundays when Mass is said here the Catholics from eight or ten miles round drive or ride in, and the chapel is sometimes nearly filled. After Mass they take their dinner, which they have brought with them, and walk about and admire the beautiful garden, the hospitable proprietor and the ladies of the family saying kind words of 143welcome to their humbler friends. An hour after Mass there is rosary and benediction, after which the people return to their distant homes.

But not always can a church be had for Mass. In some places a room in a private house is all that can be obtained, and the Catholics of the neighborhood, having been warned by letter of the intended service, assemble at the appointed hour. The priest will sit in one room to hear confessions, whilst the people wait in an adjacent one, where a sideboard or table is prepared as an altar. After Mass will often follow baptisms, marriages, or confirmations. But the great work before the church in Jamaica now is to form stations with churches where Mass may be celebrated at stated times. Several such are already established, and things are better than formerly, when the Holy Sacrifice had often to be offered up in the houses of Protestants. But much has yet to be done, and there is good reason to hope that the time will come when the small Jamaica church will develop into a flourishing diocese. In spite of the prevalent indifference as to religion, some of the Protestants are beginning to see that truth is not to be obtained in their conflicting sects, and they are turning their eyes Romeward in search of peace.

“Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy a few frogs!” cried a sweet girl’s voice, which blended strangely with the other sounds and voices round about the little booth near Fulton Market. “Frogs, fresh frogs!”

“Ride up, gentlemen, ride up!”

“Move on quick, move on!”

“Look out, mister, or I’ll run over you!”

And on the ’buses and drays and express-wagons rumbled and rolled, and the policeman screamed himself hoarse trying to keep the great thoroughfare clear; the mud, which was knee-deep, flew in all directions, the jaded horses floundered and fell in the grimy slough, and ’twas Pandemonium indeed just here where pretty Marguerite’s frog-stand stood. But the girl, who was used to the bustle and din, went on quietly knitting a stocking and calling out, “Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy a few frogs!” while her words, like a strain of sweet music, floated away upon the muggy April air, heavy with oaths and villanous cries.

We have called our heroine pretty; yet this was not strictly true. Many a young woman passed through the market with more beautiful features than she had. Her nose was of no particular shape—we might term it a neutral nose—and her mouth was decidedly broad; while the tall, white cap she wore gave her a quaint, outlandish appearance that made not a few people stare and smile. But Marguerite’s eyes redeemed, ay, more than redeemed, whatever was faulty in the rest of her countenance. Oh! what eyes she had—so large and black and lustrous. 145Like two precious stones they seemed; and when she turned them wistfully upon you, you were fascinated and rooted to the spot, and if the girl ever sold any frogs it was thanks to those wonderful eyes.

Poor thing! at the age of seventeen to be left an orphan, alone and friendless in the big city of New York. Poor thing! From the Battery up to Murray Hill, and across from river to river, not a solitary being knew or cared about her; and had she died—died even a violent, sensational death—the coroner’s inquest would have taken up scarce three lines in the daily papers, after which, like a drop of water falling into the ocean, she would have passed out of sight and mind for ever.

But no, we are wrong; there was one who did care for Marguerite—one who had known her parents when they first came over from France, and had done everything she could to help them. But, alas! down in the whirlpool of poverty husband and wife had disappeared and died, and many a pang shot across Mother Catherine’s breast as she thought of the child left now to shift for herself like so many other waifs.

The girl’s home was in a tenement-house, and the room where she slept was shared by three other women, who would have made it a filthy, disorderly place indeed except for Marguerite. Every morning she swept the floor, opened the window to let in fresh air, and imparted a cosey look to what would otherwise have been the most squalid chamber in the building. 146By her mattress hung a crucifix, a gift from Mother Catherine, and near the crucifix was a piece of old looking-glass which Marguerite had found in a dust-barrel. Before this she would daily spend a quarter of an hour making her toilet. Her dark hair was neatly gathered up beneath her Norman cap—only one little tress peeping out; across her bosom was pinned a clean white kerchief; the mud-spots were carefully brushed off her tattered gown; then, after lingering a moment to admire herself, she would sally forth, the envy of all the slatterns in the neighborhood, and the boys would wink to one another and say: “What a nice-looking gal!”

Marguerite often wished that she had a better class of admirers than these. “But, alas!” she would sigh, “I am poor. Poverty like a mountain presses me down. If I could sell more frogs and get a new dress, then real gentlemen might notice me. But, alas! I must be thankful I have this old calico thing to cover me. But even this is falling in rags, and I may soon be without shoes to my feet.”

One day, while she was thus inwardly bemoaning her hard lot and crying out: “Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy a few frogs!” without having anybody come to buy even a dime’s worth, her attention was drawn to a middle-aged man, dressed in a faded suit of black, who had paused on his way up the street, and seemed to be listening with wonder to her cry.

He was not at all handsome, yet there was something very striking about him, and you would have marked him out in a crowd as one who did not follow in the beaten ways of other men.

When he first halted, his thin, wan face had assumed an air of 147surprise; but presently, advancing nearer to the booth, this changed to an expression of melancholy which caused the girl to feel pity for him.

“Are you selling frogs, miss—frogs?” he said, fixing his deep, sunken eyes upon her.

“Yes, sir. Would you like a few?” replied Marguerite, her heart fluttering with hope.

“Well, now, I thought I had eaten almost everything that is eatable; but upon my word this does go a little beyond my experience,” said Abel Day, as he bent down to examine the delicate white frogs’ legs, which were ranged in rows, tastefully fringed with a border of parsley leaves. “But are you sure they are what you say they are? No toads among them?”

“We don’t eat toads in France, sir,” returned Marguerite, the blood mounting to her cheeks.

“In France! Why, are you from France?”

“I am. O la belle France! And father and mother used to keep a frog-stand in Rouen; and they had a fine mushroom garden there, too. But folks here don’t know what is good to eat. Oh! I wish my parents had never come to America; and so did they wish it before they died.”

“Well, what sort of a place is France?” inquired the other, who began to feel interested in the girl.

“I was very young, sir, when I left it; therefore I cannot describe it to you. But I know France is a beautiful country. It must be beautiful; no country in all the world can compare with it. Father and mother used to drink wine in France.”

“Well, people here drink wine, too, sometimes.”

“Do they? All those I know 148drink nasty water or else horrid whiskey,” said Marguerite, making a wry mouth.

“Humph! you are the first I ever met who didn’t like America,” pursued Abel Day. “However, I’ll not let this set me against you; so what is the price of your frogs?”

“How many do you wish?” inquired Marguerite, who hardly expected him to take over a quarter of a dollar’s worth at most.

“Let me have the whole lot.”

“Well, will four dollars be too much?” she said hesitatingly.

“Here is your money,” answered Abel, drawing forth the sum. “And now, while you are wrapping up these funny-looking creatures—verily, I might take ’em for little pigmies just ready for a swim—please tell me how business is.”

“Bad, sir. It always is with me; and I sometimes think of giving it up.”

“And trying something else? Well, now, take my advice—don’t. This business can be made to pay as well as any other. All that’s wanted is to know how to go about it.”

“Oh! I’d be only too thankful if you’d tell me what to do,” exclaimed Marguerite. “Too thankful; for I’m almost in despair.”

“Well, then, open your ears, and I’ll give you a ‘wrinkle’ that’ll set you on the highroad to prosperity.” Here Abel lifted his forefinger; then, after clearing his throat, “My young friend,” he went on, “you must know that the world is largely composed of fools. Of course it wouldn’t do to tell ’em so; nevertheless, it’s the truth, though they are not to be blamed for it—not a bit. We are born what we are; we don’t make ourselves. A pumpkin can be nothing 149but a pumpkin; a genius is a genius. And this makes the world all the more interesting, at least to me. Why, what a dull place ’twould be if we were all alike! Oh! I do love to look down upon the broad pumpkin-field of humanity, and feel how far, far above it some few men are elevated—some very few.”

“Like yourself,” interposed Marguerite, with an air of seriousness, only belied by a laughing gleam in her eyes.

“Please let that pass; no digressions,” said Abel, waving his hand. “But come back now to where we started from—namely, how to make the frog business pay.” Here he gave another cough. “In the first place, my young friend, this booth is altogether too small. It not only doesn’t allow your frogs half a chance to be seen, but you yourself are almost hidden inside of it. And, speaking of yourself, do not be offended if I observe that you have wonderfully attractive eyes, and a charming voice, and spirits which keep bright and cheerful no matter how cloudy the sky is. Yes, this much I know, though I never met you before. Well, now, here is the advice I give: Hire a small store close by; then have an immense sign-board hung over the entrance, with Frog Emporium painted on it in twelve-inch letters, and let every letter be of a different color, so that people will be attracted by it when they are a good block off. Then beneath the words Frog Emporium, and on the left-hand side, you must paint a fat, contented old mother frog, squatting, at the edge of a pond, watching a lot of merry tadpoles swimming about. This will represent maternal felicity. At the other end of the sign you may paint a hungry-looking man with mouth wide open, and Mr. Bullfrog 150taking a header down his throat, and screeching out as he goes down, ‘This fellow knows what’s good!’ You should likewise get a cooking-stove, so as to have a dainty dish of frogs all prepared for anybody who may come in and wish to taste them. There, now, is my plan; I submit it to your consideration. Carry it out, and you’ll soon find it difficult to supply all your customers.”

“Well, indeed, sir,” answered Marguerite, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the interest you take in me. But, alas! I am too poor to pay the rent of ever so small a store; why, I couldn’t even pay for such a sign-board as you describe. In fact, if you knew how very narrow my means are, you would wonder that I can manage to keep alive.”

“Is that so?” said Abel, in a tone of compassion. “Well, then, leave the sign to me; I will order it this very day, and the moment it is ready it shall be brought to you. I’ll also go security for your rent.”

At these words Marguerite’s eyes filled with tears, glad tears, and, clasping one of his hands, she pressed it warmly; while Abel thought to himself, “How full of sentiment she is! Poor creature!”

“Oh! what a blessed thing it is to be rich,” exclaimed the girl presently. “But all rich people, sir, are not like you—no, indeed.”

“Never mind my wealth,” said Abel; “we’ll talk about that some other time. Go ahead, now, and carry out my notion; put implicit trust in me. Everything will come out right in the end.”

Again Marguerite pressed his hand—her heart was too full for words—after which Abel Day went away, promising to return before the week was ended to see how she 151was getting on. The girl followed him with her eyes until he was lost to view, wondering who he could be. “Well, whoever he is,” she thought to herself, “he is a real gentleman. True, his clothes are rather worn; but we cannot judge a man by his clothes. Yes, he is a real gentleman, and different from any other that I have ever seen. He didn’t beat me down in my price; no, he bought all my frogs and paid me what I asked. Anybody else would have forced me to take three dollars and a half or three dollars. I might even have let them go for two and a half. But no, he isn’t like other rich persons. And, oh! may God bless him and make him happy; for I am sure from his looks there is something weighing on his heart.”

During the next few days Marguerite’s thoughts constantly turned upon her strange friend, who had evidently been in downright earnest and kept his word; for the sign-board was promptly sent to her, and she could not contain her delight when she saw it hanging above the doorway of the little store which she hired.

True to his promise, Abel Day came soon again to visit Marguerite, bringing money wherewith to pay her month’s rent in advance. It seemed to do him good to talk to her, and his face brightened when she told him how many people had already entered the Frog Emporium. “And every one, sir, who eats a plate of my frogs declares they are better than an oyster-stew. And they say, too, that the sign-board makes them roar with laughter and entices them in whether they will or no. O sir! how can I thank you enough for what you have done for me?”

“Don’t speak any thanks,” replied 152Abel. “No, don’t speak any; but show your thanks by being good and virtuous. ’Tis getting down in the world leads so many to the bad. Ay, misery is the devil’s best friend. Therefore, my dear girl, improve your condition as fast as you can. Put money in the savings-bank; then when you meet any poor wretch hard up, and you have the means to help him, do it.”

“Oh! indeed I will,” said Marguerite. “But now please, kind sir, let me know the name of my benefactor. I wish to know it, that I may tell it to the only other friend I have on earth—Mother Catherine. She’ll be sure to ask me who you are.”

“My name is Abel Day,” he replied.

“And you live—? Well, perhaps I shouldn’t ask that, sir. Though if I did know your address, I’d slip into your kitchen some morning bright and early, and cook you a nice mess of frogs for breakfast.” Then, arching her pretty eyebrows: “You live in Fifth Avenue—beautiful Fifth Avenue?”

“I do, and yet I don’t,” answered Abel. “I often see myself there, dwelling in a marble mansion; ’tis sure to happen—so sure that I may consider myself already in Fifth Avenue.” Here, observing a puzzled look upon Marguerite’s face, “Ah!” he added, “you do not understand me. Well, nobody else does, either. But never mind. The world will wake up some fine morning and find the name of Abel Day on every lip. And ’tis all coming out of here—here.” At these words he tapped his forehead. “My fortune will not be built on other men’s misfortunes; ’twill not come through gambling in stocks, through swindling, through falsehood, 153through dishonor. But out of my brain the great thing is slowly but surely taking shape and form which ere long will astound the world.”

“Well, truly, sir, I believe you. Oh! I do,” exclaimed Marguerite, who felt herself carried away by his own enthusiasm. “I knew from the first moment I laid eyes on you that you were an extraordinary man.”

“’Tis often thus,” pursued Abel musingly. “Genius is not seldom recognized by the humble ones of earth, when those who dwell in high places, with ears and eyes stuffed and blinded by prosperity, have only fleers and gibes to give.”

“And would it be showing too much curiosity,” inquired Marguerite, “if I were to ask what is this wonderful thing which I doubt not will bring you in riches and renown? And certainly no one deserves these more than yourself; for but for you, oh! I shudder to think what might have become of me. My future was dark—dark—dark.”

“And I have brightened it a little. Yet what is what I have done compared with what remains to be done!” said Abel, speaking like one who thinks aloud. “O mystery of life! Why is there so much misery around me?” Then, addressing Marguerite: “Well, if you like, I will be here at four o’clock this afternoon, when I shall make clear to you what now you do not comprehend. But, remember, it must be a profound secret; no other human being except yourself must know what I am inventing—no other human being.”

“You will find, sir, that I can keep a secret,” said Marguerite. “So please come at the hour you mention.”

154Punctual to the minute Abel Day was at the Frog Emporium, which was so thronged with customers that he had to wait half an hour for the girl. But at length, the last frog being sold, off they went together; and as they took their way along the streets Marguerite wondered whither he would lead her. Would it be to some fashionable quarter of the city—to some place where quiet, well-mannered people dwelt? And as her companion did not open his lips, she was left to her own hopes and conjectures, and kept wondering and wondering, until by and by she found herself, with a slight pang of disappointment, in Tompkins Square. A few minutes later the girl was following Abel Day into a third-class boarding-house, and, observing several scrawny females making big eyes at her as she mounted up to his room, which was on the top story, he whispered: “They are jealous of you, my dear; but pay no attention to them, and above all do not reveal to any of these Paul Prys what I am going to show you.”

Presently they reached the door of his chamber, which he hastily unlocked, saying to Marguerite: “Pass in quick—pass in quick”; for Abel fancied he heard footsteps and voices close behind him.

Marguerite obeyed and made haste into the room; then, while Abel was stuffing paper into the keyhole, she threw her eyes about her in utter astonishment.

The apartment was barely half the size of her own at the tenement building; nor could it compare with it for order and neatness. Indeed, ’twas in the greatest disorder. Numberless slips of paper were strewn over the floor, with queer pencil-marks upon them, and the wall was covered by the same odd 155drawings, especially near the bed, as though Abel did most of his brain-work after he retired for the night and before he arose in the morning. On a shelf by the window lay a dust-covered manuscript, and beside it a cigar-box half full of buttons, dimly visible through a spider’s web.

But where was the wonderful machine he had told her about?

“Here it is,” spoke Abel in a semi-whisper and drawing something out from under the bed.

“Really! Oh! do let me see,” cried Marguerite, flying towards him.

“It is almost finished,” added Abel. “But pray lower your voice, for there are listeners outside—vile eavesdroppers.”

He now went on to explain what this curious object was, which looked like nothing so much as a big toy; for all the girl could perceive was a stuffed chicken sitting in a box, gaudily painted red, white, and blue.

“You must know,” said Abel, “that every time a hen lays an egg the very first thing she does is to turn and look at it, as if to make sure it is really laid. Well, now, this machine which you behold is the Magic Hen’s Nest. There is a spring bottom to it, so that the instant the egg is dropped it will disappear. Then, when the fowl turns to see if it is there—lo! she’ll find it isn’t there. Whereupon, concluding she must have made a mistake, like a good creature she’ll sit down again, and presently out’ll come egg number two, which will likewise vanish through the trap. And so on and on and on, until—well, really, I can’t tell what may happen in the end, for of course there is a limit to all good things: the hen may lose her wits. 156But if she doesn’t—if she keeps her senses, and if I can force her to continue laying and laying—why, my fortune is made sure, and I’d not change places with old Howe and his sewing-machine—no, indeed I wouldn’t.”

“Well, I declare!” ejaculated Marguerite when Abel was through with the explanation. “This is certainly a grand idea. Why, one hen will do the work of a score of hens.”

“Of five hundred,” said Abel solemnly. “And I wrote some time ago to a couple of my acquaintances on Long Island, advising them to sell off every hen on their farm except one. But they are not willing to follow my advice; and, what’s more, they both came here last week when I was out, and asked all kinds of questions about my health. The fools! But never mind; it’s all the worse for them, for just as soon as I get out my patent down will go the price of hens to zero.”

“Well, upon my word, this is wonderful, wonderful!” said Marguerite, kneeling and stroking the back of the stuffed chicken.

“Ay, and I am filled with wonder at myself for having invented such a thing,” continued Abel. “But it only shows what the brain of man can do. And yet what man is able to accomplish now is nothing compared with what he will accomplish in the ages to come.”

“Well, what is needed, sir, to make this Magic Nest perfect? It seems to me to be in good working order.”

“Nothing remains to be done but to get a live hen and put it to the proof; though I have no more doubt of its success than I have of my own existence.”

“Well, do let me be present 157when you make the trial. Will you?”

“Yes, you may come, for you do not laugh and jeer at me like the rest of the world; and, moreover, there is something soothing in your presence. Oh! I believe if I had had you always by my side this Magic Nest would have been ready long ago.”

“And when I come again,” said Marguerite a little timidly, “I’ll put the room in order—may I?”

Here Abel’s brow lowered; but quickly the dark look passed away, for she was gazing so sweetly at him, and he said: “You perceive, then, that it is not in order? Well, you are right. I live all by myself and have no time to sweep and dust—no time.”

“All by yourself!” repeated Marguerite compassionately.

“Yes; and when evening comes round I light my candle and play at solitaire, and listen to the cats caterwauling on the roof.”

“How lonely!” exclaimed the girl.

“Perhaps it may be. Yet in solitude one hears and sees strange things. I love solitude.”

“Really?”

“I do; nevertheless, I own ’twould be better in some respects not to dwell so much by myself. Therefore I give you leave to come here whenever you please; yes, come and sweep and rummage and turn things topsy-turvy, if you like.”

At this Marguerite burst into a laugh.

“Ha! probably you think my apartment is already topsy-turvy? Well, it only seems so to you; to my eye there is perfect order in all this chaos.”

“And the buttons, sir, in yonder cigar-box—”

Marguerite did not end the 158phrase; she hoped he would understand her, and Abel did.

“Humph! you have discovered those buttons, eh? Well, they came off my clothes. And here let me observe, my young friend, the next important thing to invent is a suit of clothes without any buttons.”

“Well, until you invent one, please allow me to sew those buttons on again. Will you?”

“Alas!” replied Abel, “the shirts and coats and trousers to which they once belonged are long since worn out; and now I have no clothes left but the clothes I have on.”

“This was a very fine suit once,” said Marguerite. “The cloth is excellent.”

“Yes, I had it made by a fashionable tailor; for I intended to wear it when I went to visit influential people, and try and interest them in my—in my—”

Here Abel heaved a sigh, while a look of deeper gloom shadowed his face than the girl had yet observed upon it.

“Pray tell me what troubles you,” said Marguerite. “Do tell me. Perhaps I may be able to comfort you.” Then, as he made no response, she went on: “Have those of whom you sought aid turned a cold shoulder upon you? Have they refused to help you with this Magic Hen’s Nest? Why, I thought, sir, ’twas a profound secret; that you had told nobody about it.”

“No, no; I don’t allude to this, but to something else—to something which I cannot think of without an agony of mind I hope God may spare you from ever suffering. I had forgotten all about it; I had not thought of it for ever so long, till our conversation brought it back to me. Oh! do let me forget it—forget it for ever.”

159“I guessed when I first saw you, poor dear man, that there was a heavy burden on your heart,” spoke Marguerite inwardly. “Now your own lips have confessed it to me. Oh! if I only knew you better, I might be able to console you.”

She refrained, however, from asking again what his cross was; but little doubting that ’twas connected in some way with another invention, she determined on a future occasion to ask him to tell her the history of his life. “And who knows but I may find the means of bringing back the smiles to his mournful visage. If I do, ’twill be a slight return for all the kindness he has shown me.”

Here Marguerite cast another glance about the forlorn-looking chamber, and wondered how he had been able to pay the first quarter’s rent of her store. “He must have pinched himself to do it,” she thought to herself. “Oh! what other man in New York with only one suit of clothes would have been so generous?”

And now, ere she withdrew, her feelings got the better of her judgment, and she burst into a fervent expression of thanks for his great benevolence and sympathy, and hoped that for her sake he had not deprived himself of money which he really needed. But Abel sharply interrupted her.

“Do not talk thus,” he said, “if you have true faith in my Magic Nest. Poor I may seem, but I consider myself rich—ever so rich; a mountain of gold is within my reach. You ought to be convinced of it, yet still you doubt.”

“Oh! no, no; I don’t doubt it for one moment,” answered Marguerite, very much confused. “Pray, sir, be not offended at my words—I forgot”; then, looking up in his 160face, “But I cannot help speaking what is in my heart. O sir! you are the dearest person to me in all the wide world.”

“Well, come here some evening and play at solitaire with me,” said Abel in a milder tone. “But no, it won’t be solitaire with you—it will be two-handed euchre.”

“Oh! I’ll come most willingly. True, I know nothing about cards, but you can teach me.”

The girl now bade him adieu, and his parting words to her were:

“I will inform you when I am ready to experiment with the live hen. But, remember, breathe not a syllable of it to any human being.”

During the week which followed this visit to Abel Day’s den—as the other boarders called his room—Marguerite did not see her benefactor. But daily she looked for him, and he was seldom absent from her thoughts. He was so vastly unlike other people—the selfish, deceitful herd around her; loving solitude, yet evidently glad to have her with him; poor, yet calling himself rich; full of bright hopes, yet a prey to melancholy. His very singularities possessed a charm for the girl and made her long for his coming.

“He brings me into quite another world,” she said; and while she was selling frogs (business at the Frog Emporium was increasing rapidly) Marguerite would indulge in pleasing reveries about good Abel Day. She almost hoped that his fortune might not come too soon.

“Yes, I should like him to stay awhile longer in his humble home, so that I might have a chance to make it snug and cosey for him. We might pass happy days there together—happy days.”

161And every morning and evening she knelt before her crucifix and prayed for Abel.

But if Marguerite often thought of Abel Day, he did not think of her; no, not once during these seven days. Her presence had indeed flashed a ray of light into the darkness of his soul; but it was like the coming and going of a meteor, and the instant she left him he relapsed into his sombre mood. The paper remained stuffed in the keyhole; ever and anon he would utter a word to himself, but ’twas in a whisper; and thus from morning till night, solitary and silent, he passed the time, seated on a bench with his hollow eyes fixed upon the Magic Nest—inventing, inventing, inventing; for, although Abel had not told Marguerite, there was still one little thing wanting to make the invention absolutely perfect.

Then, when dusk approached and the first cat began to caterwaul, he would get into bed, and there rack his brain for hours longer and until the candle went out. People wondered how he managed to live without eating; but a few crusts of bread sufficed to keep Abel alive, and ’twas one of his odd fancies that we might in time bring ourselves to live without nourishment.

“Oh! he is thinner than ever, poor dear man,” exclaimed Marguerite, when she saw Abel entering her store the next Monday afternoon; and he was carrying a hen under his arm. Then, after the first warm greeting was over, she made haste to prepare a nice dish of frogs, which she invited him to partake of. But Abel shook his head, and it was not until she had almost gone on her knees that he finally placed the hen in her safekeeping and sat down to the savory repast.

162“Oh! I’m so glad you relish my frogs; everybody declares I cook so well,” said the girl, as she stood watching him.

“The world thinks far too much about eating,” returned Abel. “It is the grossest act humanity can perform; and I believe if we tried we might exist without food.”

“Well, I hope that day is far off,” said Marguerite; “for when it arrives I’ll have to close my business.”

“Ah! true, I didn’t think of that,” said Abel, rising up from the table. “But now are you ready to accompany me and witness the triumph of my Magic Nest?”

“Yes, indeed I am; I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” answered Marguerite; and so, telling a customer, who appeared just at this moment, that the last Emporium frog was sold, not a single one left, she closed the store and they departed.

“You are happy to-day,” observed the girl when they had gone half-way to Tompkins Square, and hearing Abel give a laugh. “Oh! I’m so glad. Let us always try to be happy.” But even as she spoke his countenance settled once more into the old look, and, bending down (for Abel was rather tall), “Learn this truth, my young friend,” he said: “Nothing lies like a laugh.”

“Oh! no, no,” exclaimed Marguerite, making bold to disagree with him; “people only laugh when they feel happy. Laughter always tells the truth. And since I have known you, sir, I laugh ever so much; for I have now a good thick pair of shoes, and the water cannot soak in and wet my feet. And don’t you see, too, I have a new dress? And I am already laying by money in the savings-bank; and it all comes from your brilliant idea 163of setting up a Frog Emporium. Oh! yes, yes, I laugh a great deal now—a very great deal.”

Then, as he made no response, she went on: “You are a genius, sir, a genius!”

“Ah! you recognize in me the divine spark?” murmured Abel, his visage faintly brightening. “Well, you are the first who has done so—the very first—and you shall share in my triumph; ay, half the gold-mine shall be yours.” Then, after a pause, “Do you know,” he added, “you may ere long be dwelling in Fifth Avenue and wearing diamonds and silks; though, if you follow my advice, you will always dress plainly and never change your pretty French cap for a fashionable hat full of feathers and ribbons.”

“Really!” cried Marguerite, whose faith in Abel Day was unbounded. “Living in Fifth Avenue, beautiful Fifth Avenue!” And she clapped her hands and skipped merrily along in front of him.

But presently from Abel’s lips burst another laugh, and this time there was something strange and wild about it which caused Marguerite to pause and look around; then, taking his hand, they walked on side by side in silence, and oh! how much she wished that he might not appear so unhappy.

At length they reached Abel’s home; and if Abel’s fellow-boarders had stared with astonishment the first time they saw him mounting to his room accompanied by a strange young woman, they made bigger eyes now as he ascended the stairway with a hen under his arm; nor was it easy for Marguerite to keep a grave countenance when presently the chicken began to cackle; and the cackling of the chicken and the giggling of the inquisitive 164females, who were following at a proper distance, made a very queer chorus.

“Let ’em laugh,” growled Abel after he had entered his chamber and fastened the door—“let ’em laugh; my day of triumph is nigh, and then they’ll be the veriest sycophants at my feet. But I’ll spurn them all; let ’em laugh.”

And now began the trial of the Magic Nest; Abel first cautioning Marguerite to speak in an undertone, if she had anything to say. Gently, as tenderly as a mother might handle her baby, the fowl was placed in the box; and forthwith she ceased to cackle, while the others ceased even to whisper. Then, motioning the girl to sit down on the bench, Abel stood beside her, awaiting with intense excitement the laying of the first egg. In a couple of minutes his brow was wet with perspiration, then his whole face became moistened; and when, by and by, after what seemed an age—’twas only a quarter of an hour—the hen did lay an egg, then rose up to look at it, Abel trembled so violently that Marguerite inquired if he were ill. But without heeding her question he went on trembling and saying, “The egg has vanished, vanished! and she can’t believe her eyes—she can’t believe her eyes!” And now for about a minute and a half it did really seem as if the hen, concluding she had made a mistake, was going to proceed and lay another egg, when, lo! she coolly stepped out of the box, and, after shaking her feathers, commenced pecking the bits of paper scattered over the floor.

When Abel Day perceived this his head swam a moment; then clenching his fists, and his cavernous eyes flashing fire, he sprang towards the chicken, and, forgetting 165all about eavesdroppers, he screamed loud enough to be heard from cellar to garret: “I’ll force you to do your duty! I will, I will!”

But, as ill-luck would have it, the window was open, and out of it flew the hen, so hotly pursued by Abel that he came within an ace of passing through it too; which had he done, his neck would certainly have been broken, for Abel had no wings.

Then, as if to make sport of him, the perverse creature perched herself on a neighboring chimney, where she set up a loud cackling.

“Hark, they are mocking me again! Hear them, hear them!” groaned Abel Day, clapping his hands to his head. “And the horror, too, is coming over me again: it always comes with those jeering voices.”

“I hear nobody. Oh! I beg you to be calm,” said Marguerite, now thoroughly alarmed on Abel’s account. Then, leading him to the bench, “What agitates you so, dear friend? Oh! do, do calm yourself and tell me what you fear.”

Abel sank down on the bench, and, after groaning once more, “Hark! hark! They are mocking me,” did not utter another word, hard though she urged him to speak; but, with eyes glued to the Magic Nest, he remained dumb and motionless.

Then by and by evening came, and the twilight deepened into night, yet still Abel moved not, nor opened his lips, unless occasionally to heave a sigh. Then the moon rose, and as its pale rays streamed into the room and fell upon the sufferer’s face, it assumed an expression so unearthly that Marguerite was filled with awe.

And now a dreadful, startling thought occurred to her: her dear 166friend might be mad! What a pang this gave her tender heart! What bright, new-born hopes became suddenly blasted. How many fair castles in the air crumbled away into ghostly ruins at the thought that Abel Day was mad!

“Is it possible,” she asked herself, “that this good man—he who has been so kind to me, whom I looked up to as one far, far above the cold, heartless world—is it possible that he is bereft of reason?” And even as Marguerite breathed these words she for the first time grew conscious of something glowing in her bosom more ardent than friendship for Abel Day.

“I love him,” she murmured—“I love him. And no matter what people may think of me, I’ll stay by him and nurse him; I’ll be his servant and truest friend as long as he lives.”

Trying indeed was this night for Marguerite—oh! very, very. It seemed as if it never would end. Nor did day bring any relief to her anxiety. The blessed, life-giving sunshine shimmered in; the chimney-swallows twittered by the window; a stray bee, blown away by the morning breeze from his far-off hive, flew in and buzzed about the chamber; still Abel remained like one turned into stone, except for the deep-drawn sighs which ever and anon escaped his lips.

And so this day passed, and so day followed day, without bringing any change in his mysterious condition.

Of course Marguerite was not with him the whole time. But she took care whenever she quitted the room to lock the door; then she would hasten with winged feet to the Frog Emporium, where she would spend four or five hours; then back Marguerite hurried, hoping 167and praying that no ill had befallen Abel during her absence. But while she was with the poor man she did more than simply watch him. The ugly pencil-marks were rubbed off the wall; the floor was thoroughly swept; the cobwebs were brushed out of the corners; and many another thing which only woman’s hand can do Marguerite did. On a little table, too (the only piece of furniture besides the bench and bed), was spread a good, substantial meal for Abel to eat the moment he felt hungry; and it amazed her to see him fasting so long.

We need not say that everybody in the house had his curiosity now raised to the highest pitch; and the gossiping, prying females shook their virtuous heads and muttered no complimentary things of Abel’s faithful nurse.

“Well, they may say of me whatever they like,” said the brave girl. “My conscience doesn’t reproach me; it tells me I am doing right. When I was down Abel Day helped me, and now, when he is down, I’ll help him.”

At length, one afternoon, weary of the long, unbroken silence of the chamber, Marguerite began to sing. The song was one she had learnt from her mother, and was called “Normandie, chère Normandie.” She had a rich contralto voice, and the effect which the melody wrought upon Abel was something perfectly marvellous; and as her face happened to be turned towards his, she noticed the change at once, and her eyes filled with glad tears.

“Glory! glory! I am escaping from the infernal regions; the darkness and the voices are leaving me. Thank God! thank God!” he cried. And Marguerite, only too happy to 168rouse him out of his lethargy, continued singing for well-nigh half an hour. Then, placing herself beside him on the bench, she gave way to her joy in laughter and merry talk, while Abel’s countenance wore an expression almost radiant, and, resting one of his hands on her head as a father might have done, “All is blue sky at last,” he said. “I feel as I have not felt in many a day. Oh! had I had you always with me, the demons would never have shrieked in my ears; your angelic songs would have driven them away.”

“Well, you can’t imagine,” returned Marguerite, “how happy it makes me to make you happy.” Then, after a pause: “But now, dear friend, I have a favor to ask: I wish you to tell me the history of your life; for there is a mystery in it—I am sure there is. Do tell it to me. Not that I am curious, but I firmly believe ’twill do you good to let me carry a part of the burden which has almost crushed you down.”

“Fool, fool that I was to live all by myself so many years!” spoke Abel in a musing tone, and paying no heed to her request. “The mocking voices cannot abide cheerful company; it frightens them off.” Then, turning to Marguerite: “You’ll not let them come back, will you?”

“You are dreaming,” answered the girl, patting his hand. “Why, this room was still as the tomb until I began to sing.”

“No, no, it wasn’t; I heard them all the while.”

“Well, don’t fear them any more. I’ll stay with you; I’ll be your canary, your nightingale, your musical box,” she said with a merry laugh. “So pray begin and give me a little of your past history; for 169the sooner you begin the sooner you’ll end, and then I’ll sing another song.”

“Well, well, to please you I’ll do anything. Therefore learn that I was born in Massachusetts. But of my early years I need say very little. My father died when I was a child; at the age of fourteen I had to shift for myself, and from that time on it was a hard struggle against poverty. Somehow I didn’t succeed in anything I put my hand to. I tried this thing and that; I tried everything almost, but was always unfortunate. And, do you know, I believe in luck. Oh! I do. Some are born with it, others are not; and these last will turn out failures, be they ever so honest and hard-working. Well, undoubtedly I belong to the unlucky ones; and, what’s more, I verily believe there is such a thing as having too much brains. Why, many a pumpkin-headed fellow I used to know is to-day a millionaire—can’t explain it, but there’s the fact; while I am—well, you see what I am, and I have reached middle life; and my miserable home”—here he threw a glance around the room; then, clasping his hands: “But dear me, what has happened? Is this my den? Why, how changed it looks!”

“I have been turning things topsy-turvy,” answered Marguerite, with a twinkle in her eye. “But pray don’t stop to admire the change. Please go on; I am so interested.”

“Well, finally, after trying everything,” continued Abel, “and, as I have observed, failing in everything I tried, I one day bethought myself of turning inventor. And the more I thought about it the more confident I felt that I should succeed; indeed, I passed a whole 170week in a delightful reverie, wherein I saw myself wealthy and famous, and all from one single invention. Then, when this dreamy, happy week was gone by, I set about inventing a Patent Log—a thing very much needed by mariners; for the present method of determining the speed of a vessel is both clumsy and unreliable. ’Twas here in this chamber, on this bench, I began my brain labor, and for a while I made excellent progress. But after a couple of months I got tired of sitting up and took to my bed, where I used to lie inventing—inventing all day long, and even all night too. I seemed to be able to do without sleep; until one evening—oh! I’ll never forget it”—here he paused and shuddered—“one evening the room became suddenly full of voices. From under the bed, through the keyhole and window, down the chimney, on every side of me these horrible voices were yelling and screeching, ‘He’ll never succeed—never succeed’; ‘Born to ill-luck’; ‘All time wasted’; ‘He’ll go to the dogs and hang himself!’ What happened after this terrible moment I can’t say; I must have gone off into a fever. I remember nothing. All I know is that one day—but how long afterwards I cannot tell—I became, as it were, alive again, and found myself inventing quite a different thing—namely, the Magic Nest, which, as you know, has once more proved that I am born to fail in whatever I undertake. And now, alas! I don’t see how I’ll be able to earn a living; to confess the truth, I have not one dollar left in the world.”

“Bah! Don’t be down-hearted on that account,” said Marguerite. “My Frog Emporium is a little gold-mine, and you shall need for 171nothing. Why, as I have already remarked more than once, I’d have been ere now in a wretched plight but for you. You stretched out a helping hand; and whatever the world may think of you, and whatever you think of yourself—I—I call you a genius.”

When Marguerite had delivered this speech, so full of balm to poor heart-broken Abel, she rose from the bench and flew to the old, neglected manuscript. A bright idea had flashed upon her—’twas an inspiration. She had already turned over its pages and found them covered with drawings as unintelligible to her as Egyptian hieroglyphics; but she remembered that in one place, written in pencil, were the words, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.”

In a moment she was back at Abel’s side, and, holding up the manuscript before him, “I do believe,” she said, “had I been with you when you were laboring on this invention, that you would not have fallen ill, for I should not have let you overtask your brain; and by this time ’twould have been quite finished, and you’d have been in the eyes of the whole world what I know you to be—a great, great, great man.”

But Abel, instead of replying, put his hands to his ears and shivered as if he were stricken with cold.

“O dear friend! what is the matter now?” exclaimed Marguerite.

“The very sight of that manuscript makes me dread the voices—the horrid voices. Hark! one is beginning to yell again. It says I must hang myself in the end. Hark! Don’t you hear it?”

“Listen to me, and not to the voice,” said Marguerite, still holding before his eyes the page whereon 172was written, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.” “Take courage and look bolder at this manuscript, while I sing for you.”

It was a cheery, jovial song she sang. She threw her whole soul into it, and it wrought upon Abel the happy effect she hoped it would. When the song was ended, he bowed his head and murmured: “O my blessing! my good angel! How much sunshine you bring to me! Already the voice is gone. You have indeed power to drive the fiend away.”

“Well, now, Abel,” answered Marguerite, “you whom—whom I—I—” Here her tongue faltered.

But as mother earth cannot restrain the crystal waters murmuring within her bosom, so it was impossible for the girl to hold back the words which were bubbling up from the pure fountain of her heart; and presently, with a blushing rose on each cheek, she spoke out and said: “You whom I love, let me ask you to kneel with me and offer thanks to Almighty God that I am able to drive away your melancholy. Yes, let us say a prayer of thanksgiving.”

Abel did as she wished, and they knelt and prayed together.

Then, when they had risen from their knees, “And now,” added Marguerite, “I hope you will set courageously to work at this Patent Log, and while you are thus engaged I’ll play the nightingale and sing my very best; will you?”

Abel’s eyes were swimming with tears, and, taking her hand in his, “You love me?” he said in tremulous accents. “Oh! how kind, how good it is in you to love me. I have been alone since my boyhood—all alone. Nobody since the far-off day when I parted from my mother ever spoke to me as you do. 173The world appeared like a desert to me. I cared very little for life. All was a barren waste on every side of me until this hour. But now I would not die for anything. I wish to live because you live; and, O Marguerite! my heart would stop beating if you were to leave me.”

“But I never will leave you.”

“No, don’t. Let us live together, Marguerite, always together; be my wife.”

“Well, now,” answered Marguerite, her heart overflowing, yet at the same time speaking with firmness and decision, “you must set immediately to work; a quarter of an hour will be enough for to-day. To-morrow you may labor half an hour, and perhaps next day an hour, until this invention is completed; and, remember, all the while you are inventing I’ll play the lark, the canary, or whatever you choose to call me.”

Abel listened to her words, and, albeit weak and hardly in a state to use his brain, he actually made a little progress with his invention during the brief space she allowed him to work. What unspeakable joy it gave Marguerite to think that she might be able to restore him to full mental health! “And when he does become entirely himself—oh! then—then—” Here her song waxed louder and more melodious; for her heart was thrilling with a rapture which only the voice of music can express.

Yes, Marguerite, ’twas verily an inspiration that caused you to direct Abel’s mind anew to the Patent Log; for this is a sane and wholesome object whereupon to exert his faculties, and not a madman’s dream like the Magic Hen’s Nest.

Day by day Abel gained in health; his appetite and sleep returned; 174he laughed as merrily as Marguerite; and people could scarcely believe he was the same man. But the girl never relaxed her vigilance. So passed away the spring and summer; and when autumn came round not the fairest castle in the air which Marguerite had built for herself did surpass the bright reality which opened before her vision. For, lo! the Patent Log was patented, and its success went beyond Abel’s most extravagant hopes. A mass-meeting of ship-owners and merchants was held at the Cooper Institute to do him honor; the press lauded him to the skies; the tongue of Fame was chiming his name far and wide. But, better than all, a cataract of gold was rolling into his pocket.

Of course before long our friend changed his quarters; and, in his new and elegant home, right above the bed Marguerite hung the crucifix which Mother Catherine had given her; then she and her betrothed went to the Convent of Mercy to visit the good nun, who 175wept glad tears when she heard their story.

“Well, I lean upon her as much as she leans upon me; we love and help each other in all things,” spoke Abel.

“And always, always will,” continued Marguerite.

“God bless you, my children!” said Mother Catherine.

A fortnight later the happy couple were married; after which they sailed on their wedding tour across the sea to Normandy. And one day, as they were leaving the beautiful church of Saint-Ouen, whither they had gone to give thanks to God for their great happiness, Marguerite spoke and said: “I once thought there was no country in all the world like France; but now, my dear husband, I love America more.”

“And I,” returned Abel, “love France as much as I do America; for, although I believe good wives may be found everywhere, it was this sunny land which gave me my pretty Marguerite.”

THE BELLS.

“While it cannot be denied that the government of the United States, in the general terms and temper of its legislation, has evinced a desire to deal generously with the Indians, it must be admitted that the actual treatment they have received has been unjust and iniquitous beyond the power of words to express. Taught by the government that they had rights entitled to respect, when these rights have been assailed by the rapacity of the white man the arm which should have been raised to protect them has been ever ready to sustain the aggressor. The history of the government connections with the Indians is a shameful record of broken treaties and unfulfilled promises.”

We take the above sentences from the first report of the Board of Indian Commissioners appointed by President Grant under the act of Congress of April 10, 1869. The commissioners, nine in number, were gentlemen selected for their presumed piety, philanthropy, and practical business qualities. None of them was a Catholic; in taking their testimony not only with respect to the general treatment of the Indians, but in regard to the religious interests of some of the tribes, we shall not be suspected of summoning witnesses who are prejudiced in favor of the Catholic Church. One of the commissioners, indeed, Mr. Felix R. Brunot, of Pittsburgh, the chairman of the board, appears to have been inspired at times with a lively fear and hatred of the church; his colleagues—Messrs. Robert Campbell, of St. Louis; Nathan Bishop, of New York; William E. Dodge, of New York; John V. Farwell, of Chicago; George H. Stuart, of Philadelphia; Edward S. Tobey, of Boston; 178John D. Lang, of Maine; and Vincent Colyer, of New York—are gentlemen quite free from any predilection in favor of Catholicity. The passage we have taken from their first report relates only to the worldly affairs of the Indians. But a perusal of the various annual reports of this board, of the Commissioners of Indian Affairs, and of the Indian agents, from 1869 until 1876, has convinced us that the injuries inflicted upon the Indians have been by no means confined to those caused by the avarice and rapacity of the whites. Sectarian fanaticism, Protestant bigotry, and anti-Christian hatred have been called into play, and the arm of the government has been made the instrument for the restriction, and even the abolition, of religious freedom among many of the Indian tribes.

We are confident that such treatment is not in consonance with the wishes of the American people. Have we not been taught, from our youth up, that the two chief glories of our country were the equality of all its citizens before the law and their absolute freedom in all religious matters? True, the Indians are not citizens, but we have undertaken the task of acting as their guardians, with the hope of ultimately fitting them, or as many of them as may be tough enough to endure the process, for the duties of citizenship. To begin this task by teaching our pupils that religion is not a matter of conscience—that the government has a right to force upon a people a form of Christianity against which their consciences revolt—and to punish them for attempting 179to adhere to the church whose priests first taught them to know and to fear God, is not merely a moral wrong; it is a crime.

The whole number of Indians in the United States and Territories, according to the very careful and systematic census contained in the report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs for 1875, was 279,333, exclusive of those in Alaska. It is not a very large number; the population of the city of New York exceeds it nearly fourfold. The Indian Bureau classifies these people under four heads:

I. 98,108 Indians who “are wild and scarcely tractable to any extent beyond that of coming near enough to the government agent to receive rations and blankets.”

II. 52,113 Indians “who are thoroughly convinced of the necessity of labor, and are actually undertaking it, and with more or less readiness accept the direction and assistance of government agents to this end.”

III. 115,385 Indians “who have come into possession of allotted lands and other property in stock and implements belonging to a landed estate.”

IV. 13,727 Indians who are described as “roamers and vagrants,” and of whom the commissioner, the Hon. Edward P. Smith, speaks in the following Christian and statesman-like language:

“They are generally as harmless as vagrants and vagabonds can be in a civilized country. They are found in all stages of degradation produced by licentiousness, intemperance, idleness, and poverty. Without land, unwilling to leave their haunts for a homestead upon a reservation, and scarcely in any way related to, or recognized by, the government, they drag out a miserable life. Themselves corrupted and the source of corruption, they seem to serve by their 180continued existence but a single useful purpose—that of affording a living illustration of the tendency and effect of barbarism allowed to expand itself uncured,”

—or, perhaps, of “affording a living illustration” of the wisdom and mercy of a policy which, neglecting these poor wretches “without land,” comes down upon other tribes, living peaceably and thrivingly upon reservations “solemnly secured to them for ever,” takes from them their homes and farms, and drives them forth to a new and desolate land; or, if they resist, exasperates them into a war that ends by adding them to the number of “roamers and vagabonds.” The sanguinary conflict which, as we write, is still being waged between a portion of the Nez-Percés Indians and the troops under command of that eminent “Christian soldier,” General Howard, is a flagrant instance of the manner in which Indians of the first and second classes enumerated by the commissioner are driven into the category of “roamers and vagabonds.” We cannot pause to trace the history of this our last and most needless Indian war; we pass it by with the remark that one of the indirect causes of it, according to the report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs for 1874, appears to have been the action of the “American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions,” a Presbyterian organization, in selling to a speculator certain lands within the reservation which did not belong to the board, but to the Indians themselves.

The report of the commissioner for 1876—the Hon. J. Q. Smith—contains a number of statistical tables, an analysis of which will aid us in forming a correct conception 181of the present condition of the Indians embraced in the commissioner’s third class, as well as a portion of those in his second class. According to these tables—which contain the latest official returns from all the agencies—the whole number of Indians, exclusive of those in Alaska, and of the “roamers and vagrants,” is put down at 266,151, of whom 40,639 are of mixed blood. The latter are for the most part the children of Indian mothers and of French, Spanish, and American fathers. No less than 153,000 of the whole number “come directly under the civilizing influences of the government agencies,” and of these 104,818 “wear citizen’s dress.” The abandonment of the picturesque blanket for the civilizing coat, the embroidered buckskin leggings for the plain pantaloons, and the gay plume of gorgeous feathers for the hideous hat, is certainly a mark of progress. But when the wigwam is torn down, and the log, frame, or stone house is erected in its stead, a still more decided step towards civilization has been taken; and it may be with surprise that some of our readers will learn that our “savages” have built for themselves, or have had built for them, 55,717 houses, of which 1,702 were erected during last year.

The progress of education is a still further test of the condition of these people. There are 367 school buildings upon the reservations; and in these are conducted 63 boarding-schools and 281 day-schools, 23 of the school buildings, apparently, being unoccupied. The number of teachers is 437, and of pupils 11,328, of which number 6,028 are males. The amount of money expended for education during the year was $362,496, an average 182of $32 per pupil. The number of Indians who can read is 25,622, of whom 980 acquired that useful accomplishment during the year. The number of births (exclusive of those in the five civilized tribes in the Indian Territory) was 2,401, and of deaths 2,215. The religious statistics in this table are evidently incorrect in at least one particular. The number of church buildings on the Indian reservations is 177; the number of missionaries “not included under teachers” is 122; and “the amount contributed by religious societies during the year for education and other purposes” was $62,076.

These figures we do not call in question, but the “number of Indians who are church members” is put down at only 27,215. It is to be desired that the compiler of the statistics had furnished us with a definition of what he understands by the words “church members.” He sets down for the Pueblo agency, in New Mexico, for example: “Number of Indians, 8,400; number of church buildings, 19; number of church members, none!” The truth is that all, or nearly all, of these Pueblo Indians are Roman Catholics, as their fathers were before them for more than three centuries; and that the 19 “church buildings” on their reservation are Catholic churches, in which the Indians are baptized, shriven, married, and receive the Holy Communion; but in the opinion of the honorable commissioner none of the Pueblos are “church members.” So with the Papago Indians in Arizona, who are 5,900 in number, who have a Catholic school, four Catholic teachers, and a Catholic church, but none of whom, in the eyes of the commissioner, are “church members.” In the seven 183reservations of which the religious control has been assigned to the Catholic Church there is a population of 24,094 souls and 32 churches, but the commissioner’s tables admit only 7,010 “church members” among this population. The truth is, as we shall show, the number of Catholic Indians alone is more than thrice as large as the whole number of “church members” accounted for by the commissioner’s tables. When a human being has received the Catholic rite of baptism he becomes a member of the Catholic Church; and from that moment it is the duty and the privilege of the church to watch over and protect the soul thus regenerated. It is because the church has wished to discharge this duty to her Indian children that certain of the sects have cried out against her, and even the commissioner (Hon. E. P. Smith), in his report for 1875, has not been ashamed to reproach her.

“At the seven agencies assigned to the care of the Catholics,” he remarks, “no restriction has been placed upon their system and methods of education, and no other religious body, so far as I am aware, has in any way attempted to interfere. I regret to say that this is not true, so far as the Catholics are concerned, of some of the agencies assigned to other religious bodies, and in some instances the interference has been a material hindrance to the efforts of this office to bring Indians under control and to enforce rules looking toward civilization.”

We regret to say that while, on the one hand, the Catholic Church has sought only to continue her ministrations to those of her children who were dwelling upon reservations “assigned to other religious bodies”—a duty which she could not neglect nor permit to remain unfulfilled—on the other hand, the most cruel, persistent, and 184petty persecution has been waged against Catholic Indians under the charge of Protestant agents, for the reason that they were Catholics, and the most unwarrantable interference, opposition, and maltreatment have been in many instances manifested in cases where Catholic priests were merely exercising the rights they possessed as American citizens, and discharging the duties imposed on them as Christian teachers.

But before we enter upon the proof of these unpleasant facts let us return to the statistics of the commissioner’s report, for the purpose of completing our review of the condition of the semi-civilized and civilized tribes. The whole number of acres of land comprised in the Indian reservations as they now exist is 159,287,778, of which, however, only a very small portion (9,107,244 acres, or 14,230 square miles) is “tillable”—that is, land fitted for agricultural pursuits, and on which crops can be raised. Now, from these figures, which are official, a very important truth may be deduced. The policy of the government, as explained by the commissioners in successive reports, is to gather all the Indians upon these reservations (or upon a few of them), to wean them from their life of hunting and fishing, and to teach them to support themselves and their families by purely agricultural pursuits. The idea may perhaps be a good one; but care should have been taken to provide ample means for its execution. There are, as we have seen, 266,151 Indians, exclusive of those in Alaska and of the “roamers and vagrants.” All these, if the present policy of the government be successful, will be finally planted upon this region of 14,230 square miles 185of tillable land, and bidden to live there, they and their children, for ever, earning their bread by the sweat of their brow in cultivating the soil. Now, 14,230 square miles of land is equal only to 28,460 farms of 320 acres each, or to 56,920 farms of 160 acres each. The tradition established by the government, by its original surveys of the public lands, by its Homestead Law, and by its Land Bounty Acts, is that 160 acres of land is the normal quantity for an ordinary farm; general experience has shown that this is none too much. But if the attempt were made to arrange the 266,151 Indians into families of 4 persons each, and to allot to each family a farm of 160 acres, there would not be tillable land enough “to go round”; 9,617 families would be left out of the distribution. We do not mean to say that a farm of something less than 160 acres may not be found sufficient for the maintenance of a family of four persons; but we do wish to call attention to the fact that the Indian reservations have been now reduced so far that only 56,920 farms, of 160 acres each, of “tillable land” remain in them. There is the more necessity for accentuating this fact since even in the last report of the commissioner is repeated the suggestion that the reservations are still too large, and that a few more treaties might be broken and a few more sanguinary wars provoked with advantage, in order to reduce further the area set apart for Indian occupation. This suggestion is made plausible by the device of calling attention to the whole area of the reservations—159,287,778 acres, or 248,886 square miles—while hiding away in very small type, and at the end of an intricate table of figures, the fact that 150,180,534 186acres, or 234,656 square miles, of these lands are wholly unfitted for tillage, and can never be made available for agricultural purposes.

The number of acres of land cultivated by the Indians during the year covered by the last report of the commissioner was 318,194, and 28,253 other acres were broken by them during the year. No less than 26,873 full-blood male Indians were laboring in civilized pursuits, exclusive of those belonging to the five civilized tribes in the Indian Territory. These people are not savages; they worship God—many of them enjoying the light of Catholic truth; they educate themselves and their children; they live in houses and wear decent clothes; they toil and are producers of valuable articles. Let us see, now, what is said about these and the other Indians less advanced in civilization, by their rulers, the successive Commissioners of Indian Affairs and their subordinates, the agents. When we remark that we select our quotations from nine volumes of official reports, the reader will understand that we lay before him only a very few out of the numberless proofs of two facts:

1. That the commissioners, while repeatedly confessing that the Indians have been most cruelly and unwisely wronged in the past, are of the opinion that it would be a kind and wise thing to wrong them a little more in the future.

2. That the Indians are perfectly well aware of their wrongs; are quite able to formulate them; are often hopeless, from long and painful experience, of any effectual redress for them; and very frequently display a remarkable degree of Christian forbearance and forgiveness 187in resisting the wanton provocations to revolt offered to them.

“The traditionary belief which largely prevails,” writes the Hon. J. Q. Smith, in his report for 1876, “that the Indian service throughout its whole history has been tainted with fraud, arises not only from the fact that frauds have been committed, but also because, from the nature of the service itself, peculiar opportunities for fraud may be found.”

After an exposition of the duties of an Indian agent he thus proceeds:

“The great want of the Indian service has always been thoroughly competent agents. The President has sought to secure proper persons for these important offices by inviting the several religious organizations, through their constituted authorities, to nominate to him men for whose ability, character, and conduct they are willing to vouch. I believe the churches have endeavored to perform this duty faithfully, and to a fair degree have succeeded; but they experience great difficulty in inducing persons possessed of the requisite qualifications to accept these positions. When it is considered that these men must take their families far into the wilderness, cut themselves off from civilization with its comforts and attractions, deprive their children of the advantages of education, live lives of anxiety and toil, give bonds for great sums of money, be held responsible in some instances for the expenditure of hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, and subject themselves to ever-ready suspicion, detraction, and calumny, for a compensation less than that paid to a third-class clerk in Washington or to a village postmaster, it is not strange that able, upright, thoroughly competent men hesitate, and decline to accept the position of an Indian agent, or, if they accept, resign the position after a short trial. In my judgment the welfare of the public service imperatively requires that the compensation offered an Indian agent should be somewhat in proportion to the capacity required in the office, and to the responsibility and labor of the duties to be performed.”

It is impossible to avoid making the remark, in this place, that there 188is a class of men who have no “families”; who are ever ready to renounce the “comforts and attractions of civilization”; who are accustomed to “live lives of anxiety and toil”; and who are impervious to “suspicion, detraction, and calumny,” while at the same time they are “able, upright, and thoroughly competent.” If the government, when it inaugurated its plan of filling the Indian agencies with men nominated by “the churches,” had allowed our bishops to nominate agents in proportion to the number of Catholic Indians, the chances are that the right men would have been forthcoming, and the commissioner would not now be complaining that, in order to keep an Indian agent from stealing, he must be paid $3,000 a year.

“Relief had been so long delayed,” says the same officer in the same report, “that supplies failed to reach the agencies until the Indians were in almost a starving condition, and until the apparent intention of the government to abandon them to starvation had induced large numbers to join the hostile bands under Sitting Bull.”

Two other instances of the same kind are mentioned; and a third is recorded, in which, owing to the failure of Congress to provide money promised by a treaty, “hundreds of Pawnees had been compelled to abandon their agency, to live by begging and stealing in southern Kansas.” “In numerous other instances,” adds the commissioner pathetically, “the funds at the disposal of this office have been so limited as to make it a matter of the utmost difficulty to keep the Indians from starving”—and this, too, when the same Indians had large sums of money standing to their credit held “in trust” for them in the treasury of the United States. 189A long discussion advocating the removal of all the Indians to a few reservations—although this could not be done without violations of the most solemn treaties—is clinched with the cynical remark that “there is a very general and growing opinion that observance of the strict letter of treaties with Indians is in many cases at variance both with their own best interests and with sound public policy.”

And these words are from the official report of the chief of a great bureau in the most important department of our government! Did we know what we were about when we made these treaties? If “no,” we were fools; if “yes,” then we are knaves now to violate them without the consent of the other, the helpless party. “The Indians claim,” says the commissioner, “that they hold their lands by sanctions so solemn that it would be a gross breach of faith on the part of the government to take away any portion of it without their consent, and that consent they propose to withhold.” Still, let us do it, cries the commissioner; “public necessity must ultimately become supreme law.” “Public necessity”—which in this case means private rapacity—“public necessity,” and not truth, good faith, and justice, must rule. Many tribes are living peaceably and doing well, on lands solemnly promised to them for ever, in various parts of the West; the civilized and semi-civilized tribes in the Indian Territory are living peaceably and doing well on lands solemnly promised to them for their own exclusive use for ever, and in some cases bought with their own money. But it would be more convenient for us to have them all together; so let us tear up 190the treaties, and drive all the Indians into the one territory.

From the same report we take this paragraph, which is only one of very many like it:

“The Alsea agency, in Oregon, has been abolished, but inadequate appropriations have worked hardship and injustice to the Indians. They are required to leave their homes and cultivated fields” (for no other reason than that white men covet them) “and remove to Siletz, but no means are furnished to defray expense of such removal or to assist in their establishment in their new home.”

The Board of Indian Commissioners, in their third annual report (1871), in view of the continued violation of treaties by the government in compelling tribes to remove from the reservations assigned to them, found themselves constrained to say:

“The removal of partially civilized tribes already making fair progress and attached to their homes on existing reservations is earnestly deprecated. Where such reservations are thought to be unreasonably large, their owners will themselves see the propriety of selling off the surplus for educational purposes. The government meanwhile owes them the protection of their rights to which it is solemnly pledged by treaty, and which it cannot fail to give without dishonor.”

But it has failed to give this protection in numberless instances, and it seems to rest very easily under the stigma of dishonor thus incurred—as, for instance, in the case of the Osages, of whom their agent, in a report dated Oct. 1, 1870, thus speaks:

“This tribe of Indians are richly endowed by nature, physically and morally. A finer-looking body of men, with more grace and dignity, or better intellectual development, could hardly be found on this globe. They were once the most numerous and warlike nation on this continent, with a domain extending 191from the Gulf to the Missouri River and from the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains; but they have been shorn of their territory piece by piece, until at last they have not a settled and undisputed claim to a single foot of earth. It is strictly true that one great cause of their decline has been fidelity to their pledges. More than sixty years ago they pledged themselves by treaty to perpetuate peace with the white man. That promise has been nobly kept—kept in spite of great and continual provocation. White men have committed upon them almost every form of outrage and wrong, unchecked by the government and unpunished. Every aggressive movement of the whites tending to the absorption of their territory has ultimately been legalized.”

These Osages are nearly all Catholics, and the agent who thus writes of them is Mr. Isaac T. Gibson, a Quaker, or an “Orthodox Friend.” Would it be believed that three years afterwards the kind and sympathizing Friend Gibson was busily engaged in inflicting upon the people for whose wrongs he was so indignant an injury greater than any they had yet suffered? “Enterprising scoundrels” of whom he wrote in his report had robbed the Osages of everything save their faith; and good Friend Gibson tried to rob them of that. How he set about the task, and how he fared in it, will be told later.

If this be not enough, look at the picture of a model Indian reservation drawn by a lawyer of California, and addressed to J. V. Farwell, one of the members of the Board of Indian Commissioners. He is describing the Hoopa Valley reservation:

“I found the Indians thoughtful, docile, and apparently eager to enter into any project for their good, if they could only believe it would be carried out in good faith, but utterly wanting in confidence in the agent, the government, or the white man. Lethargy, starvation, and disease were leading them to the 192grave. I found, in fact, that the reservation was a rehash of a negro plantation; the agent an absolute dictator, restrained by no law and no compact known to the Indians. During my stay the superintendent visited the valley. He stayed but a few days. We had drinking and feasting during this time, but no grave attention to Indian affairs; no extended investigation of what had been done or should be done. The status quo was accepted as the ne plus ultra of Indian policy. He, too, appears to think that annihilation is the consummation of Indian management. If the reservation was a plantation, the Indians were the most degraded of slaves. I found them poor, miserable, vicious, degraded, dirty, naked, diseased, and ill-fed. They had no motive to action. Man, woman, and child, without reference to age, sex, or condition, received the same five pounds of flour per week, and almost nothing more. They attended every Monday to get this, making a day’s work of it for most of them. The oldest men, or stout, middle-aged fathers of families, were spoken to just as children or slaves. They know no law but the will of the agent; no effort has been made to teach them any, and, where it does not conflict with this dictation, they follow the old forms of life—polygamy, buying and selling of women, and compounding crime with money ad libitum. The tribal system, with all its absurd domination and duty, is still retained. The Indian woman has no charge of her own person or virtue, but her father, brother, chief, or nearest male relative may sell her for a moment or for life. I was impressed that really nothing had been done by any agent, or even attempted, to wean these people from savage life to civilization, but only to subject them to plantation slavery.”

The official volumes from which we are taking our information contain the successive annual reports of the various Indian agents and superintendents, who are 88 in number, and the reports of many councils held between the Indians and the Board of Indian Commissioners, agents, army officers, and special commissioners. The Hon. Felix R. Brunot, chairman of the 193Board of Indian Commissioners, is the Mercurius in many of these councils. He does nearly all the talking on the side of the government, and before he talks he always prays. Thus: “Gen. Smith announced that Mr. Brunot would speak to the Great Spirit before the council began. Mr. Brunot offered a prayer.” In the interests of religion it is to be regretted that councils thus begun sometimes appeared to have been designed for the purpose of inflicting new wrongs upon the Indians. But we mention the councils here only for the purpose of taking from the reports of their proceedings, as well as from the annual reports of the agents, a very few of the remarks made by the Indian chiefs concerning themselves, the government, the agents, and the whites generally. The limits of our space compel us to string these together without further introduction:

Red Cloud: God raised us Indians. I am trying to live peaceably. All I ask for is my land—the little spot I have left. My people have done nothing wrong. I have consulted the Great Spirit, and he told me to keep my little spot of land. My friends, have pity on me, if you would have me live long. My people have been cheated so often they will not believe.

Buffalo Good.: If you are going to do anything for us, do it quick. I saw the Commissioner of Indian Affairs at Washington, and he told me he was going to fix it up, but I have heard that so often I am afraid it is not true. I have been disappointed, and I think Washington is not so much of a chief after all. Because we do not fight, he takes away our lands and gives them to the tribes who are fighting the whites all the time.

Howlish-Wampo (“the Cayuse chief, a Catholic Indian, in dress, personal appearance, and bearing superior to the average American farmer”): When you told me you believed in God, I thought that was good. But you came to ask us for our land. We will not let you have 194it. This reservation is marked out for us. We see it with our eyes and our hearts; we all hold it with our bodies and our souls. Here are my father and mother, and brothers and sisters and children, all buried; I am guarding their graves. This small piece of land we all look upon as our mother, as if she were raising us. On the outside of the reservation I see your houses; they have windows, they are good. Why do you wish my land? My friend, you must not talk too strong about getting my land; I will not let it go.

Homli (chief of the Walla-Wallas): My cattle and stock are running on this reservation, and they need it all. It is not the white man who has helped me: I have made all the improvements on my own land myself.

Wenap-Snoot (chief of the Umatillas): When my father and mother died, they gave me rules and gave me their land to live on. They left me to take care of them after they were buried. I was to watch over their graves. I will not part from them. I cultivate my land and I love it.

Pierre (a young chief): I do not wish money for my land; I am here, and I will stay here. I will not part with lands, and if you come again I will say the same thing.

Wal-che-te-ma-ne (another Catholic chief, as, indeed, were the three last named): You white chiefs listen to me: you, Father Vermeerch, are the one who rules my heart. I am old now, and I want to die where my father and mother and children have died. I see the church there; I am glad to see it; I will stay beside it and die by the teachings of the father. I love my church, my mills, my farm, the graves of my parents and children. I do not wish to leave them. (Happily, the firmness of these Catholic Indians, the Umatilla, Cayuse, and Walla-Walla tribes, carried the day, and they were permitted to remain on their little reservation).

Tenale Temane (another Catholic Indian): We cannot cheat our own bodies and our own souls. If we deceive ourselves we shall be miserable; only from the truth can we grow ourselves, and make our children grow. Of all that was promised to me by Gov. Stevens I have seen nothing; it must have been lost.

The Young Chief: What you promised 195was not done; it was as if you had taken the treaty as soon as it was made, and torn it up. The treaties made with the Indians on all the reservations have never been kept; they have all been broken. I do not want to teach you anything about God; you are wise and know all about him. (The irony of this is exquisite.)

Tasenick (a Wascoe chief): The people who are put over me teach me worse things than I knew before. You can see what we were promised by the treaty: we have never got anything; all we have we bought with our own money. Our Great Father may have sent the things promised, but they never got here.

Chinook: When we made the treaty they promised us schoolmasters and a great many other things, but they forget them. We never had any of them. They told us we were to have $8,000 a year; we never saw a cent of it.

Mack (a Deschutes chief): It is not right to starve us; it is better to kill us.

Jancust: I cannot look you in the face; I am ashamed: white men have carried away our women. What do you think? White men do these things and say it is right.

Napoleon (a Catholic chief of the Tulalip reservation, who “came forward with much dignity and laid before Mr. Brunot a bunch of split sticks”): These represent the number of my people killed by the whites during the year, and yet nothing has been done to punish them. The whites now scare all the Indians, and we look now wondering when all the Indians will be killed.

Johnny English: We like Father Chirouse very well, because he tries to do what is right; when he begins to work he does one thing at a time.

Henry (a Catholic on the Lumni reservation): I have been a Christian for many years. We have some children at school with Father Chirouse; we want our lands for them to live on when we are dead.

David Crockett (a Catholic chief): I ought to have a better house in which to receive my friends. But we want most an altar built in our church and a belfry on it; this work we cannot do ourselves.

Spar (a young chief): All the agents think of is to steal; that is all every agent has done. When they get the money, where does it go to? When I 196ask about it they say they will punish me. I thought the President did not send them for that.

Peter Connoyer (of the Grande Rondes): About religion—I am a Catholic; so are all of my family. All the children are Catholics. We want the sisters to come and teach the girls. The priest lives here; he does not get any pay. He teaches us to pray night and morning. We must teach the little girls. I am getting old. I may go to a race and bet a little, but I don’t want my children to learn it; it is bad.

Tom Curl: We want to get good blankets, not paper blankets. I don’t know what our boots are made of; if we hit anything they break in pieces.

When, in 1870, President Grant announced the inauguration of his new Indian policy, the sects saw in it an opportunity of carrying on their propaganda among the Indians with little or no cost to themselves, and of interfering with, and probably compelling the total cessation of, the work of the Catholic Church among many of the tribes. To begin with, here were 72 places in which they could install the same number of their ministers, or laymen devoted to their interests, with salaries paid by the general government. Once installed as Indian agents, these men would have autocratic power over the affairs of the tribes entrusted to them; and they could make life so uncomfortable for the Catholic missionaries already at work there that they would probably retire. If they disregarded petty persecutions, the agent could compel them to depart, since it is held by the Indian Bureau that an agent has power to exclude from a reservation any white man whose presence he chooses to consider as inconvenient, as well as to prevent the Indians from leaving the reservation for any purpose whatever. There were, it was known, many Indian agencies at 197which the Catholic Church had had missions for many years, and where all, or nearly all, the Indians were Catholics. If these agencies could be assigned to the care of the sects, how easily could the work of converting the Indian Catholics into Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, Quakers, or Unitarians be accomplished! The priests could be driven away and forbidden to return; the sectarian preachers would have full play; and the Indian appetite for Protestant truth could be sharpened by judicious bribery and intimidation. On the borders of the reservation there might be—as there are—Catholic churches and Catholic priests; but the Catholic Indians on the reservation might be—as they have been—forbidden to cross the line in order to visit their priests and to receive the sacraments.

The new Indian policy which furnished this opportunity was probably not original with President Grant, and we are not disposed to call in question the purity and kindness of his motives in adopting it. At the time of its inauguration, however, he was surrounded by influences decidedly hostile to the Catholic Church; and it is probable that from the beginning the men “behind the throne” had a clear conception of the manner in which the new policy could be worked for the benefit of the sects. It was based upon an idea plausible to non-Catholics, but which no Catholic can ever accept—the idea that one religion is as good as another, and that, for example, it does not make much difference whether a man believes that Jesus Christ is God, or that he was simply a tolerably good but rather weak and vain man. This idea has been carried out in practice-for 198even to the “Unitarians” have been given two Indian agencies: those of the Los Pinos and White River in Colorado, whose entire religious education for 1876, as reported by the agents, consisted in “a sort of Shaker service of singing and dancing held for two or three days.” The chairman of the Board of Indian Commissioners, Mr. Brunot, appears to have been anxious to spread abroad the doctrine of indifferentism among the Catholic Indians. Whenever, in his numerous “councils,” he found himself in company with such Indians, he undertook to enlighten them after this fashion:

“A chief said yesterday: ‘I don’t know about religion, because they tell so many different things.’ Religion is like the roads; they all go one way; all to the one good place; so take any one good road and keep in it, and it will bring you out right at last.” ... “I heard an Indian say that the white man has two religions. In one way it looks so; but if you will understand you will see it is only one.” ... “It is not two kinds of religion, but it is as two roads that both go the same way.”

We scarcely think it is within the province of the federal government to pay a gentleman for preaching this kind of doctrine to Catholic Indians. But what was the new Indian policy? It was explained by President Grant, in his message of December 5, 1870, in these words:

“Indian agents being civil officers, I determined to give all the agencies to such religious denominations as had heretofore established missionaries among the Indians, and perhaps to some other denominations who would undertake the work on the same terms—that is, as missionary work.”

There is an undesirable lack of exactness in these words—for, as they stand, they might be understood as promising the agency of 199a tribe to a sect which had established on its territory a missionary station years ago, and had subsequently abandoned it. This, however, was certainly not the intention of the President; if he intended to act in good faith in the matter, he proposed, doubtless, to assign the agencies to churches that had established successful missions—missions actually existing, having churches, schools, and converts. It is impossible to believe that it was the intention of the executive to transfer tribes of Catholic Indians to Protestant sects, under the pretence that the sects, at some remote period, had made feeble and fruitless attempts to establish missions among them. This, however, has been the construction placed upon the President’s policy by the sects; and, strange to say, they have experienced no difficulty in persuading successive Commissioners of Indian Affairs to agree with them in this interpretation, and to carry it out in a manner productive of the most wanton cruelty and injustice.

There are seventy-two Indian agencies: three in Arizona, three in California, two in Colorado, fifteen in Dakota, eight in the Indian Territory, one in Iowa, two in Kansas, one in Michigan, three in Minnesota, four in Montana, five in Nebraska, five in New Mexico, one in New York, two in Nevada, six in Oregon, one in Utah, seven in Washington Territory, two in Wisconsin, and one in Wyoming. According to any fair construction of the new policy, no less than forty of these agencies should have been assigned to the Catholic Church. In all of them the church had had missions for many years; in many of them all of the Christian Indians, or the great majority 200of them, were Catholics; in some of them the Indians had been Catholics for centuries, and their civilization was wholly due to the instruction they had received from Catholic priests. The following is a list of these agencies, with their location and the number of Indians embraced in each:

Within the jurisdiction of these agencies there are 52 Catholic churches, 18 Catholic day-schools, and 10 Catholic boarding industrial schools. The Catholic priests and teachers employed among the Indians during the year 1875 numbered 117; while for the same year the Protestant sects had only 64 missionaries employed in all the agencies under their control. Would it not have been supposed that a 201fair interpretation of the new policy of President Grant—nay, that the only fair interpretation of it—would have awarded these 40 agencies to the Catholic Church? The missions of the church, in 1870, were in almost uncontested possession of these fields of labor. Her priests had borne the labor and the heat of the day; asking and expecting no aid from the state, and receiving very little from any other source, they had given themselves to the work of Christianizing these Indians; and while the sects had from time to time made spasmodic and desultory attempts at Indian missions, our priests and their coadjutors, the sisters of the teaching orders, had remained steadfast in their self-denying and arduous labor. But the sects were now inspired with a new and sudden zeal for the salvation of the Indians. They were not content with the 32 agencies in which, although there were many Catholic Indians, the church had not been able to establish permanent missions. They set up claims to the agencies we have enumerated, and it was observed that the fervor with which these demands were pressed was in exact proportion to the richness of the reservation and its desirableness as a future home for a missionary with a large family and with a numerous corps of needy relations. So fierce was their onslaught, and so rapidly were their demands conceded by the then commissioner, that, almost before the authorities of the church had been informed of what was going on, no less than 32 of the 40 agencies which, by any fair interpretation of the President’s policy, should have been assigned to Catholic care, were divided among the sects. Fourteen of the agencies, with 54,253 Indians, 202fell to the Methodists, the sect then, and perhaps now, most in favor with the administration; five, with 21,321 Indians, went to the Presbyterians; the same number, with 5,311 Indians, were awarded to the Quakers; the Congregationalists received three, with 2,056 Indians; the Reformed Dutch Church were given two, with 6,026 Indians; the “American Missionary Association” (a Congregational society) obtained two, with 2,126 Indians; and the Protestant Episcopal Church was gratified with one agency, the Chippewas of Missouri, 1,322 in number, who had been Catholics all their lives. There remained eight of the agencies to which the Catholic Church possessed a claim, and these were left in her possession, not, however, without a threat that they also would be taken from her—a threat already carried into execution in one case, the Papagoes, a tribe of 6,000, residing in Arizona, having been kindly transferred to the care of a sect called the “Reformed Church.” The agent of this tribe, in his last report, says:

“There is no school at present taught among these Indians. The intellectual and moral training of the young has been, for a long time, in the hands of the Roman Catholics, and the school hitherto kept by the sisters of the Order of St. Joseph.”

The school is now closed, it appears; and the “Reformed Church” seemingly does not intend to open another, as their agent remarks that “there is, perhaps, but little use to establish schools, or look for any considerable advance in education among them.”

The seven agencies still left to the care of the church are those of Tulalip and Colville, in Washington Territory; Grande Ronde and 203Umatilla, in Oregon; Flathead, in Montana; and Standing Rock (or Grand River) and Devil’s Lake, in Dakota. These agencies, according to the last report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, have a population of 12,819 Indians. No less than 7,034 of these wear “citizen’s dress”; they have 825 frame or log houses; they have six boarding-schools and three day-schools, taught by 19 teachers; 382 of the adults can read; they have 12 churches, and 7,510, or more than half the whole number, are “church members.” Nothing like this can be shown at any of the agencies under Protestant control, save the five civilized tribes in the Indian Territory. The whole of the Indians on the Grande Ronde reservation—755 in number—are so far civilized that all of them wear citizen’s dress. They have 375 houses, and 690 of them are “church members.” Their agent speaks of them in glowing terms; last year, without receiving a penny of the sums due them by the government, they not only supported themselves in comfort, but were able “of their charity” to relieve the necessities of two neighboring tribes, the Salmon River and Nestucca Indians, who were starving to death “in consequence of the failure of the government to fulfil the promises made by the honorable Commissioner Simpson.” The parsimony of the government compelled them to dispense with the services of their regular physician; but, writes the agent, “we have been fortunate in securing the services of a sister, who has, in addition to her duties as a teacher, kindly dispensed medicines with the most gratifying success.” “The school,” he adds, “is in a very prosperous condition under the efficient management of 204Sister Mary, superior, and three assistants.”

The Indians on the Tulalip reservation, 3,250 in number, are equally well advanced; the whole of them wear citizen’s dress; they have 2 boarding-schools, with 6 teachers, and 2,260 of them are “church members.” We look in vain for statistics like these among the agencies under Protestant control; when there is anything like it, it is found in the reports from the tribes which have been civilized and Christianized by the Catholic Church and then stolen away by the sects.

In addition to the 33 agencies which belonged by right to the church, but were distributed among the sects, 30 others were portioned out among them, so that, according to the last report of the commissioner, while the church, entitled to 40 agencies, has but 7, the Quakers have 16; the Methodists 14; the Baptists 2; the Presbyterianscc 7; the Congregationalists 6; the “Reformed” 4; the Protestant Episcopalians 9; the Unitarians 2; the “Free-will Baptists” 1; the “United Presbyterians,” who seem to be disunited from the other Presbyterians, 1; and the “Christian Union,” which is not in union with any of the other sects, 1. If our space permitted, we should point out the miserable results after a seven years’ possession of these agencies. The four agencies under the care of the “Reformed” body, for example, embrace 14 tribes, numbering 17,049 souls. Among these are the Papagoes, 5,900 in number, already tolerably well-civilized by Catholic instruction, and all of whom wear citizen’s dress. With the exception of these, the “Reformers,” after seven years’ labor, have 50 205Indians who wear citizen’s dress, 2 schools, 1 church building, and 4 church members! As they have not thought it worth while to send out any missionaries, one wonders what they do with their church building, but it is probably used as a store-house by the “Reformed” agent.

The Hicksite Quakers have 5 agencies in Nebraska, with 4,098 Indians. They have 392 “church members,” but 348 of these belong to a civilized tribe—the Santee Sioux, who are 793 strong. After seven years of labor the Quakers have got only 44 out of the other 3,300 Indians under their care to call themselves “church members.” In the Hoopa Valley reservation, given to the Methodists, there is a “school building,” but no school, no teacher, and no pupils; there is a “church building,” but no missionary and no “church members.” The poor mission Indians in California, the children of Catholic parents for many generations, also under the tender care of the Methodists, have neither houses, nor school, nor church, nor missionary. The 6,000 Indians on the Red Cloud agency in Dakota, under the charge of the Protestant Episcopalians, have a “school building,” but no teacher, no scholars, no church, no missionary, and no “church members.” The 3,992 Cheyennes and Arapahoes in the Indian Territory, in charge of the Quakers, have a school-house, but no church, no missionary, and no “church members,” and so with the rest.

In selecting a few typical illustrations of the injustice perpetrated by the assignment of tribes of Catholic Indians to non-Catholic sects, we are embarrassed by the richness and plenitude of our facts. We mention only two—the 206Chippewas of Lake Superior, and the Osages.

The agency of the Chippewas of Lake Superior became vacant early in 1873, and General Ewing, on the 19th of March of that year, addressed a letter to the Secretary of the Interior, submitting “that, under the Indian policy of President Grant, this agency should be assigned to the Catholic Church.” He accompanied his letter with a brief of the facts on which he thus claimed the agency for the church. The Chippewas number 4,551, and 3,696 of them wear citizen’s dress; they have six schools and three churches. More than 200 years ago the Catholic fathers Dablon and Marquette established the mission of St. Mary among the Chippewas, and the church has ever since looked upon them as her children. The Catholic missions, first permanently established among them in 1668, continued in a flourishing manner until the year 1800; they were revived after a lapse of 30 years; and for the past 47 years they have been continuously attended by Catholic priests—one being assigned exclusively and continuously to the religious instruction, education, and care of the Indians. The Indians at their own expense have built three Catholic churches, at Bayfield, La Pointe, and Bad River. The successive reports of the Commissioners of Indian Affairs from 1868 to 1872 set forth these facts. Praise is given in 1868 to Father Chebal for the good result of his labors; the agent, writing in 1870, says: “The religious instruction has been almost entirely under Catholic missionaries; 99 out of 100 of them are Catholics, and Father Chebal has labored industriously and successfully among them.” 207The agent, writing in 1871, again says: “Most of these people are members of the Roman Catholic Church. Their pastor has been a missionary among them for many years, and has labored with the zeal for which his church is proverbial to secure converts. He has accomplished much good.” The report of the agent for 1868 likewise mentions that the “Rev. L. H. Wheeler and his most estimable lady” had been conducting a Protestant mission there “under the control of the A. B. C. F. M. Society,” but that “this society having almost withdrawn their support, and further for the purpose of educating their own children, Rev. Mr. Wheeler has abandoned his mission.” The agent in 1869, Lt.-Col. Knight, of the army, thus writes:

“The Chippewas of Lake Superior generally have abandoned the heathen faith of their fathers. If they have not all been made intelligent Christians, they have abandoned heathenism. The Catholic missionaries are the most assiduous workers among them, and the largest portion of them have espoused that religious faith; yet the Protestant religion has its adherents among them. Father Chebal, of the Catholic faith, is untiring and devoted in his labors with them. The Protestant religion is without a missionary representative, which is unfortunate,” etc.

The case, it will be seen, was plain. The Catholic missions were shown to be the oldest and the only successful missions among the Chippewas, and “the right of the Catholic Church, under the policy of the administration, to the agency” was incontestable. But the agency had already been given to the Congregationalists, who had never before attempted to establish a mission among the Chippewas, and whose minister knew nothing about the tribe. Pressed hard by General Ewing, 208the secretary referred the matter to our pious friend Mr. Brunot, who, in an elaborate and most disingenuous opinion, decided that, although the assignment of the agency to the Congregationalists might have been erroneous, now that it was made it ought not to be changed—and this, too, although the department had made similar changes in other instances, taking, for example, the Nez-Percés agency from the Catholics, to whom it had been assigned, and giving it to the Methodists in 1870. General Ewing, unwilling to submit to this palpable injustice, again addressed the Secretary of the Interior, reviewing the whole question and incontestably proving the justice of his claim. But all was in vain; the agency remains in the hands of the Congregationalists, and the Catholic Chippewas and their priests are at the mercy of men who have no sympathy or bond of common feeling with either.

The Osages, now in the Indian Territory, are and long have been almost wholly Catholic. But they were assigned to the Quakers, and good Friend Gibson, whose pathetic lament over the worldly sufferings of his protegés we have already given, had not been long in charge of them ere he issued an edict forbidding Catholic priests or teachers to remain on the reservation. Accustomed to oppression and maltreatment of every kind, the Indians felt that this last blow was too hard to bear without remonstrance, and in June, 1873, they drew up and signed a memorial to the President, asking that “their former Catholic missionaries and school-teachers be restored to them and allowed to again locate in the Osage nation.” No response was given to this petition, and on the 31st of March in 209the next year a delegation of the tribe, with the governor of the nation at their head, arrived at Washington, and, without assistance or suggestions, drew up and presented to the Assistant Secretary of the Interior a memorial which it is impossible to read without emotion. After setting forth that the signers of the memorial are “the governor, chiefs, and councillors of the Great and Little Osage nation of Indians, and all duly-constituted delegates of said nations,” they recount the story of their former petition, and say:

“... In the name of our people, therefore, we beg leave to renew our said petition, and to ask that our former Catholic missionary, Father Shoemaker, and those connected with him in his missionary and educational labors among our people previous to the late war, be permitted to again locate among us. We think that this request is reasonable and just. Catholic missionaries have been among our people for several generations. Our people are familiar with their religion. The great majority of them are of the Catholic faith, and believe it is right. Our children have grown up in this faith. Many of our people have been educated by the Catholic missionaries, and our people are indebted to them for all the blessings of Christianity and civilization that they now enjoy, and have for them a grateful remembrance. Since the missionaries have been taken away from us, we have done but little good and have made poor advancement in civilization and education. Our whole nation has grieved ever since these missionaries have been taken away from us, and we have prayed continuously that the Great Spirit might move upon the heart of our great father, the President, and cause him to return these missionaries to us. We trust he will do so, because in 1865, when we signed the treaty of that date, the commissioners who made it promised that if we signed it we should again have our missionaries.”

The assistant secretary received the memorial, promising to present it to the President at once and to 210obtain for the delegation a reply: but on the next day Mr. Gibson, who had followed them to Washington in a state of great alarm, hurried them away from the capital to Philadelphia, and thence homewards, not permitting them to return. Immediately after their departure the petition they had filed in the department was missing, and its loss was only supplied by General Ewing, who had a printed copy with the certificate of the secretary placed on file. Simultaneously with the mysterious disappearance of this petition the Commissioner of Indian Affairs received a paper purporting to come from the Osages at home. We dislike to use the phrase, but the proof is clear that this document was a forgery. It purported to be signed by twenty-eight chiefs and braves, with their “mark”; but, as General Ewing says, “it was evidently got up by interested white men and the names of the Indians signed without their knowledge.” The substance of it was that the delegation which had gone to Washington was not to be regarded. Upon their return home the delegation met their people in council, and the result of this conference is related in a letter to General Ewing, signed by Joseph Paw-ne-no-posh, governor of the nation; Alexander Bezett, president of the council; T. L. Rogers, secretary; and the eighteen councillors. The letter is too long to be given here. In presenting it to the Secretary of the Interior, with a full account of the whole transaction, General Ewing used some very strong, but not too strong, language. “Their petitions,” said he, “have not been heard, and now, through me as the representative of the Catholic Indian missions, they make a final 211appeal. The petition of a defenceless people for simple justice at the hands of a great government is the strongest appeal that my head or heart can conceive; and it is of course unnecessary for me to urge it upon you. It is as plain and open as the day; and if you can decline (which I cannot believe) to comply with the repeated petitions of this people, it is useless for me to urge you to it. You must give this agency to the Catholic Church, or you publish the announcement that President Grant has changed his policy, and that he now intends to force that form of Christianity on each Indian tribe that he may think is best for each.”

But it was all in vain. Friend Gibson carried his point, and, although he has since been compelled to retire from the agency, it is still in the hands of the Quaker organization. The population of the reservation, according to the last report, was 2,679; very nearly the whole of these are good and faithful Catholic Christians; but the agent reports: “Church members, none; churches, none; missionaries, none!” The Quakers have driven away the Catholic priests, and have not even taken the trouble to send a missionary of their own to fill their place.

But we must make an end, although we have only, as it were, touched the skirt of our subject. Time and space would fail us to tell of the priest in California who was thrown into prison, brutally beaten, and expelled from his flock, for the offence of coming to his old mission after the agency had been assigned to a Protestant sect; of the bishops who have been denied permission to build churches and schools on reservations for the use of Catholic Indians; of the frauds 212committed by Protestant agents on Catholic tribes; of the mingled tyranny and temptation with which the Protestant agents have repeatedly assailed our poor Indian brethren, making their apostasy the condition of their rescue from starvation. Are not all these things written in the reports of the Indian Bureau, in the annals of the Catholic Indian missions, and in the letters of our bishops and priests published from time to time?

The duty of the Catholic laity throughout the United States in this business is clear. Happily, the way for the discharge of this duty has been made easy. It is simply to provide generously for the support and increase of the work of the Bureau of Catholic Missions at Washington. This bureau was established in January, 1873; it is composed of a commissioner, appointed by the Archbishop of Baltimore, with the concurrence in council of the archbishops of the United States; a treasurer and director; and a Board of Control, of five members, appointed in like manner. The commissioner is a layman; he is recognized by the government as the representative of the church in all matters among the Indians. The treasurer and director must be a priest; the president of the Board of Control must be a priest; the other four members are laymen. The salaries of the commissioner and of the Board of Control are—nothing. Their work, like that of the directors in the councils of the Propaganda, is given in charity. “General Charles Ewing, the commissioner,” says Father Brouillet, “has for over four years generously given to the work of the bureau his legal services and a large portion of his valuable time gratuitously. He never made any 213charge nor received any pay for his services, and on more than one occasion he has advanced his own money to keep up the work.” The director and treasurer and two clerks are the only persons connected with the bureau who are paid, and their united salaries are only $1,000 a year. The whole expenditures of the bureau, for salaries, printing, stationery, postage, rent, and travelling, have not exceeded $1,600 a year during the four years of its existence—all the balance of its funds going directly to the benefit of the missions. The business of the bureau is to defend Catholic Indian missions against the organized assault which has been made upon them. For those desirous of aiding so good a work we add the information that “all remittances to the treasurer of the Catholic Indian mission fund should be by draft on New York or by post-office order, and should be addressed to lock-box 60, Washington, D. C.”

The bulwark of Christendom is the title which Poland long claimed and well deserved, even when the country now known as that of Sobieski and Kosciusko was itself half-barbarous, and, instead of being a brilliant, many-provinced kingdom, was a disunited confederation of sovereigns. Among the many mediæval heroes who fought the invading Tartars on the east, and the aggressive heathen Prussians on the west, and looked upon their victories as triumphs of the cross and their death as a kind of martyrdom, were two Henrys, “the Bearded” and “the Pious,” the husband and the son of the holy Princess Hedwige, Duchess of Silesia and Poland during the first half of the thirteenth century. Her life, chiefly through her connection with other princely houses, was an eventful and sorrowful one, and, towards the last years of it, personally a checkered one. If God chastises those whom he loves, the mark of grace was surely set upon St. Hedwige of Andechs, the aunt of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and second daughter of a Bavarian sovereign whose titles and possessions included parts of Istria, Croatia and Dalmatia, Swabia, and the Tyrol. The life and customs of the thirteenth century, the magnificence on state occasions, and the simplicity, not to say rudeness, of domestic life at ordinary times; the difficulty of communication, and consequently the long separations between friends and kindred; the prominent part of religion in all the good works and public improvements of the day; the tales and legends that grew up among the people; the traditions which there was no one to investigate or contradict, and which did duty then for newspaper and magazine gossip; the personal connection between 215the sovereign and his people, and the primitive ideal of charity unclouded by doubts and theories, experiments and “commissions”; the summary processes of justice, tempered only by the pleadings of generous and tender women; government in a chaotic state, the profession of arms the dominant one, private wars at every turn, and individual acts of heroism, barbarity, and charity all alike received as a matter of course—all this is well known, and is equally true of all Christian and civilized lands of that day.

But as you went eastward through Europe confusion increased and manners grew rougher; primitive standards of right and wrong existed under the name of the law of the strongest; and whatever generosity human nature displayed was an untutored impulse, a half-heathen quality guided by a natural sense of honor rather than by fixed rules of morality. The Slavs, the Czechs, and the Magyars were magnificent barbarians, as the Franks and Teutons of four centuries earlier had been—Christians, indeed, and as fiercely so as Clovis when he drew his sword at the first recital of the Passion and exclaimed, “Would to God I and my Franks had been there”; but unrestrained and wild, more generous than obedient towards the church, which they would rather endow and defend than curb their passions in accordance with its teachings—splendid material, but an unwrought mine. Bishops and priests had fallen into loose ways among them and lost the respect of the people; vassals of the great lords, they stood on much the same level as the secular clergy at present do in Russia, and the popes had long striven in vain to make 216them give up marriage when they took Holy Orders. The parish clergy were mostly ignorant men, often employed in common labor to support their families, while of teaching monasteries or any places where learning was imparted and respected there were very few.

Hedwige came from a well-regulated country, where church dignitaries were the equals of civil ones, where the Roman standard was paramount, and churchmen were looked upon as powerful and learned men. Monasteries for both sexes abounded; Hedwige herself had been brought up by the Benedictines at Kitzingen, where her special friend and teacher, Petrussa, many years afterwards, followed her into Silesia and became the first abbess of the monastery of Trebnitz, near Breslau. Hedwige, whose mind was from her earliest years in advance of her time, and who mastered all the accomplishments of a woman of high station at that day before she was twelve years old, set herself the task of bettering her adopted country as soon as she had entered it. The men of that time knew less than the women; for their education, unless they were destined for the church, was purely military. Ecclesiastics were lawyers, doctors, authors, travellers, savants, poets, and schoolmasters; while the majority of laymen were only soldiers. But the women of corresponding birth were taught Latin and a good deal of medicine, besides household knowledge, embroidery, the national literature, music, and painting. For the times this was no unworthy curriculum. They had a practical knowledge of surgery and of the healing herbs of the field—which, in days when the chances of life and death often hung on the possibility of reaching or 217finding a physician within the radius of forty or fifty miles, was a very valuable gift—and an equally practical and useful acquaintance with all the details of housekeeping. Nothing in those days was “made easy”; mechanical contrivances for saving time and trouble were not thought of; and even the highest people worked slowly with their hands and did cheerfully without the luxuries which a cottage would scarcely lack in these days. Hedwige in her later years—for she never gave up her habits of industry—often reminded her attendants of the maxim, “He that worketh not, neither let him eat,” and would never allow that the rule did not apply to sovereigns as well as to private individuals. Her own life was laborious; she rose with the dawn, winter and summer, and, though her devotions took up many hours, she yet had enough to give to the education of her children, the making of vestments for poor churches, and of clothes for her pensioners. Her virtues, which were great and generous, flowed naturally into the mould of her time; she built and endowed monasteries, interceded for prisoners and criminals, made daily distributions of alms to the poor, nursed the sick and leprous in the hospitals—which she was the first in her adopted country to found and secure—and she brought up a number of orphan children. Of these she was so fond that when she travelled she took them with her in several covered wagons. Later on she kept in the palace at Breslau, at her own expense, thirteen poor men, whom she served every day at dinner, just before her own meal, and otherwise ministered to their wants in memory of our Lord and his apostles. In fact, her life is a kind of transcript 218of that of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and even the poetical legends of miracles wrought to turn away her husband’s displeasure, familiar to us all through the pictures of St. Elizabeth and the bread turned to roses, have a counterpart in Hedwige’s life.

There is a prevalent idea that holiness and the present time are incompatible, or rather that the holiness of which the biographers of mediæval saints admiringly tell us is out of place in this century. The mistake lies in the frame of the picture presented to us. Holiness is of all times, and is the same in substance as it ever was. If, instead of reproducing the beautiful legends of old, and restoring a sort of literary Preraphaelitism in the history of the strong and wise women of by-gone times, the modern biographer were to go to the root of the matter and bring out in strong relief the commonsense virtues, the simplicity and faithfulness to natural duties, the reliance upon God, and the single-minded purpose which distinguished the women who are known as saints, they would succeed in winning the interest of modern readers. These saints were wives, mothers, and mistresses, lived and loved, sorrowed, rejoiced, and suffered, as women have done from the wives of the patriarchs down to the good women of our own century, perhaps of our own acquaintance. They were models whom it is praiseworthy to copy—not pictures held up to our gaze as beautiful inaccessibilities. The very rudeness of life then should make them more human in our eyes; they made mistakes with good intentions; they had predilections which savored of weakness; they struggled through temptations to final perfection—for 219saintship implies, not the glorification of every act they ever did, but the general state of their life and soul after they had suffered and conquered in the fight that we all have to wage with the world, the flesh, and the devil. Of the striking incidents of a saint’s life it is best to judge as one would of those in the life of any other personage of by-gone ages—that is, according to the standard of the age in which he or she lived; of the root-virtues which won the saint’s canonization: by the everlasting standard of the Ten Commandments. There is no more mischievous error, nor one more likely to blind us to the good we can draw from the lives of men and women who have gone before us, than the view which sets a barrier between historic holiness and every-day life at the present day.

Hedwige lived in times which had their share of wars, invasions, pestilences, and other such stirring events: Poland and Germany were in a stormy state, and the fate of many of her own family was peculiarly stormy; indeed, hardly a sensational drama of our day could deal in more violent incidents than did the half century through which she lived. Her sister Agnes became the wife of Philip, King of France, in place of his lawful but divorced wife, Ingeburga, and incurred not only personal excommunication as an adulteress, but was the cause of the French kingdom being laid under an interdict for more than a year. Her elder sister Gertrude, Queen of Hungary, was assassinated by a political faction in the absence of her husband, who had left her regent. Her two brothers, Henry and Egbert (the latter Bishop of Bamberg), were the accomplices of Otho of Wittelsbach, the suitor of 220Hedwige’s only daughter, in the murder of Philip, the Emperor of Germany, whom he slew to revenge himself for the warning the emperor had given the Duke of Silesia against the would-be suitor of the young princess; for Otho was as cruel as he was brave. For this deed the Electors at Frankfort degraded the brothers from their dignities, titles, and possessions, after which Henry exiled himself to the Holy Land, where he fought the Saracens for twenty years, and Egbert fled to Hungary, where the queen, his sister, gave him a home and shelter for the rest of his life. Otho was beheaded, his head thrown into the Danube and his body exposed to the birds and beasts of the forest.

But the punishment of treason did not end here; Hedwige’s home was destroyed by the indignant avengers of the emperor, and her father’s heart was broken at the news of his son’s crime; so that of the old cradle-land of the family nothing but smoking ruins and sad memories remained, while a few years later she saw her two sons, Henry and Conrad, meet in deadly conflict as the heads of two rival parties in the duchy, the latter defeated and pursued by his brother, and only saved by his father to die a few days later from a fall when out hunting. Her husband and her remaining son died within three years of each other, the latter in battle against the invading Tartars; and, what no doubt pierced her heart still more, her husband was excommunicated for retaining church property in provinces which he claimed as his by right of the testament of the Duke of Gnesen and Posen. The early death of three other children must have been but a slight sorrow compared 221with these trials, and the peaceful life of her sister Matilda, Abbess of Kitzingen, and of her daughter Gertrude, second abbess of Trebnitz—the same who escaped becoming the bride of “Wild Otho,” as he was called—could not but have made her envy it at times. She had had in her youth an inclination towards the monastic life, but gave it up at her parents’ desire, and married, according to the customs of her time and class, at the childish age of twelve. But she had seemed from her infancy marked out for no common lot; she was grave, sedate, and womanly; she felt her marriage to be a mission and the beginning of duties; she saw at a glance the state of neglect and uncivilization and the need of betterment in which her adopted country stood, and set about imbuing her husband with her ideas concerning improvement. He was only eighteen, and loved her truly, so he proved to be her first disciple. She began by learning Polish, which her husband’s sister Adelaide taught her, and then gathered all the inmates of the palace, to teach them prayers and the chief doctrines of the faith, in which they were very imperfectly instructed, although full of readiness, even eagerness, to believe. Her father-in-law, the reigning duke, fully appreciated her worth and respected her enthusiasm. Her husband joined her in plans for founding monasteries and building churches when it should come to his turn to reign over Silesia; and in the meanwhile she strove to teach the nobles and the people a greater respect for the priesthood by herself setting the example of outward deference towards priests, whether native or foreign, ignorant or learned. The strangers she always asked to the 222palace, gave them clothes and money for their journey, attended their Masses, and sometimes served them at table.

In order to introduce clerical learning and morals into Silesia and Poland, it was necessary to rely upon Germans, as has often been the case in other countries, where a foreign element has been, for some time at least, synonymous with civilization. In England Italians chiefly, in a less degree Normans, and in one signal instance a Greek,^[12] brought with them the knowledge of church architecture and chant, besides secular learning; Irish missionaries had before that helped on the Britons, and Saxons, later on, carried the same influence across the sea to heathen Germany, who in her turn became the evangelizer of the Slav nations. Still later, when Poland was as fervent a Catholic country as Germany, another Hedwige (the name had then grown to be a national one) converted the Lithuanians and became the mother of the Jagellon dynasty. Here, on the confines of Russia, the Latin Church stood face to face with the Greek, and the tide of progress and conversion was stayed. Then came the perpetual turmoils with the warlike Turks, till religion became rather an affair of the knight than of the missionary, until that wave of circumstances having passed away, and the Turks having sunk from the height of their military renown to the insignificance of a mongrel and undisciplined crowd, the battle between faith and scepticism—the modern form of heathenism—has shifted to a great degree to the arena of the mind. The Lepanto of our day is being fought out as obstinately on 223paper as that of three hundred years ago was on sea; of its nature it cannot be as short or as decisive, but it is nevertheless the counterpart—and the only worthy one—of that romantic and daring feat of arms. The struggle in the days of Hedwige was in some sense much narrower; but though her husband and son engaged in it rather as blind instruments than far-seeing directors, she, with the instincts of her sex and her habitual union with God, helped in it as a teacher and missionary. She proved her gift for it first upon her household, then, in the years of her retirement, upon her special charge—some young heathen girls, natives of Prussia, whom she taught herself and provided for in life. One of these, Catherine, to whom she was godmother, she married to her trusty chamberlain, Schavoine, and left them the estate of that name after her death. But notwithstanding her thirst for doing good and her high idea of her duty to her subjects, she thoroughly enjoyed the quiet of home-life, away from the court, and, whenever it was practicable, would spend some weeks at a time with her young husband and her children at Lähnhaus. It is here that her memory lives freshest at present; here that she tended her dovecot, which is brought to mind by the yearly market of doves, unique of its kind, still held at Lähn on Ash-Wednesday; here that she and her favorite doe crossed the Hedwigsteig, a rough, rocky pathway, to the Chapel of the Hermit and the image of the Blessed Virgin, which afterwards became a pilgrimage-shrine, where the neighboring peasants came to see her and unite in her prayers, so that the present village dates back to the huts of branches hastily put up 224around the spreading tree that formerly protected the image; here that she rested on the Hedwigstein, or moss-grown boulder, yet remaining, with her name attached to it; here that she built a chapel dedicated to St. Nicholas, and established some Benedictine monks; and here that in her later years she received the confidence of her friend, Baroness Jutta of Liebenthal, a pious widow, who founded the monastery of that name for Benedictine nuns and the education of young girls, and herself became its first abbess.

Duke Henry, when he came to be sovereign, did not forget his plans and promises, but helped her generously in the endowment of her hospitals, churches, and monasteries. Himself the son of a German princess, he had great faith in the influence for good, in morals, in agriculture, in learning, of his mother’s and his wife’s countrymen; and, according to the custom of the time, Hedwige was accompanied on her journey to Silesia, as a bride, by an escort of German knights, who were not to compose a separate court or household for her, but to settle in the country and make it their home. Such immigration, of course, had its sad as well as its good side; it led to jealousies that were neither unnatural nor inexcusable, although it also leavened the country with some useful and healthy habits. It was on this delicate question that her two sons quarrelled so violently as to make it the pretext of a civil war; Conrad, the youngest, being passionately attached to the old Polish customs and not discriminating between these and crying abuses, while Henry, the eldest, inherited his father’s love for the Germans. The old nobility formed 225a powerful party and rallied round Conrad, hailing him as their future national sovereign, although his father was still alive and his elder brother the acknowledged heir. Henry the Bearded had by that time retired from public life, and divided his possessions between his two sons, giving the eldest the city of Breslau and all Middle and Lower Silesia, while the youngest received the provinces of Leubus and Lausitz. The latter were less cultivated than the former, but this was chiefly due to that want of, or remoteness from, German influence and immigration; so that the father, knowing his sons’ opposite views on this subject, hoped to satisfy each by his partition. Conrad, however, resented the gift of a less civilized and extended territory, and took this pretext to make war on his brother, with the result already noted.

The retirement of Henry, the husband of Hedwige, which lasted for twenty years or more, was the result of a strange form of piety and self-renunciation not uncommon in the middle ages. The Duke and Duchess of Silesia had been married twenty-three years, and had had six children, three of whom died in infancy. A little after the birth of the youngest, in 1209, Hedwige, still in the bloom of her years (she was only thirty-five and her husband forty-one), and after many prayers and struggles, felt herself impelled to dedicate the rest of her life to God only, and, with her husband’s consent, to live separate from him. They had always loved each other tenderly, and Henry’s conduct, unlike that of many sovereigns of his and of later times, had been irreproachable; he looked upon his wife as a saint, and upon her wishes 226as commands; he had allowed her to guide his charities and public improvements, had followed her advice, had trusted to her to bring up his children exactly as she thought fit, which was more rigorously and less luxuriously than is often the case with royal children—in a word, had leant wholly upon her. To signify his full acquiescence in this half-monastic vow, he received the tonsure, and, contrary to the custom of his class at that time, let his beard grow, whence came his surname, the Bearded.

Hedwige retired to Trebnitz, where she lived in a separate house with her own women and the chamberlain Schavoine, who took his name from the estate which Henry gave her on their separation. Other grants of money were also made her, and her husband promised his countenance and help in any good work she should wish to do there or elsewhere throughout his possessions. They often met in after years, generally at festive ceremonies for the building or opening of churches, and once at the grave of their unhappy son Conrad; and Henry himself, though keeping up a court and moving from place to place, betook himself to prayers, study, and good works, having given over the government to his sons. In his old age he came forth again in the character of a sovereign and a leader, and, indeed, led a stormy, stirring life for a few years before his death.

Hedwige, in this proceeding of her retirement, had another object in view—that is, the example which she hoped her voluntary giving up of married life would be to the married priesthood of Poland and Silesia. Such was, to a great extent, the case, and the celibacy of the clergy, so long preached in 227vain, became in a few years the rule instead of the exception.

The Cistercian abbey of Trebnitz, now Hedwige’s home, was the first institution of its kind for women. It was begun in 1200 and finished eighteen years later, but was ready to be inhabited in 1202. It stood in a wooded region, three miles from Breslau. The legend of its foundation, as commemorated in an old rhyme or Volkslied (people’s song), refers it to a vow made by Henry, who, while out hunting, got entangled in a morass and could see no human means of rescue; but what is certain is that the royal couple had long planned and looked forward to a monastery for women, and the date of the laying of the first stone of Trebnitz corresponds with that of Henry’s accession to the throne. The building was intended to accommodate a thousand persons, and was built by the hands of convicts and prisoners, even those who were condemned to death, whose work on it was to be equivalent to the rest of their sentence. Hedwige’s pity for, and kindness to, captives, whether innocent or guilty, was a conspicuous trait of her character; and the undeserved physical hardships of prisoners in those times were enough to turn the sympathies of every kind-hearted person from justice towards the criminal. In the same way did the neglected sick, and especially the lepers, touch her heart; indeed, all the oldest hospitals in Silesia are due to her.

The neighboring Cistercian monks of Leubus cast the leaden plates for the roof and the smaller bells of the new monastery, in return for which Henry gave them two estates; and the duke himself with his foremost nobles inspected the progress of the work, and solemnly 228made the round of the land deeded to the institution, marking his own name on the boundary stones. Bishop Egbert of Bamberg, Hedwige’s brother (this was before his disgrace), procured a body of Cistercian nuns of his diocese as a beginning, and accompanied them himself on their journey to their new home. Hedwige’s great-uncle, Provost Popo of Bamberg, came too, and the meeting of these strangers with the high clergy of Silesia and Poland was, as the old chroniclers would have said, “a brave and pleasant sight.” The buildings were decorated with evergreens, and the pomp of jewelled garments, clerical and national costumes, armor, horses richly caparisoned, embroidered robes and canopies, was dazzling. It was the Sunday within the octave of the feast of the Epiphany—a sharp, bright winter’s day; the cavalcade from the court of Breslau, consisting of the duke and duchess and their retinue, escorted the nuns and the foreign ecclesiastics, while the bishops of Breslau and Posen, each with his chapter, and the Cistercian abbot under whose jurisdiction Trebnitz was placed, received the latter at the gate of the finished portion of the new church. Here the duke handed the Abbess Petrussa, Hedwige’s old friend and teacher, a deed of the property henceforth belonging to the order—a document which, like all following ones of the same kind, ended with a forcible denunciation of any future injury to the rights of the abbey. “Whoever injures this foundation, without giving full satisfaction therefor, shall be cut off from the church; and let his everlasting portion be with Judas, the Lord’s betrayer, who hanged himself, and with Dathan and Abiron 229whom the earth swallowed up alive.”

When the deed had been read, and the dedication of the building “to the honor of God and of the holy apostle Bartholomew” declared, the clergy, who held torches in their hands, threw them on the ground, as a sign of all secular claims on the possessions of the abbey being extinguished; and during this ceremony the solemn excommunication against all who should injure the monastery was read aloud once more. The men who had worked at the building, or in any way contributed to it, were freed from all feudal claims, from the obligation to fight, to furnish huntsmen, falcons, or horses for the ducal household, to work at the fields or at the public works, and received the immunities and protection usual to the vassals of a monastery.

Although Trebnitz was undoubtedly named after the neighboring village so called, a story grew up of the humorous mispronunciation of a Polish word, trzebanic, by the German abbess, when asked by Henry if “there was anything else she needed?” The word signifies “We need nothing more,” and has some likeness to the name of Trebnitz; but popular tales such as this abound everywhere. Among the later gifts to the monastery were three villages, bound to supply the nuns with honey, wax, and mead—the first for their “vesper-meal,” the second for their candles and torches, and the third for their “drink on holidays.” The object of the institution, which the original deed set forth as being the securing of “a place of refuge wherein the weaker sex may atone for its sins through the mercy of God,” was at once obtained, and other advantages 230also grew up around the women’s republic of Trebnitz. It was soon filled with young girls sent there to be educated; widows came either to enter the order or to live under its rule and protection as out-door members; women fled there to repent, and others to avoid temptation; and lastly came Gertrude, the duke’s daughter, to become a nun within its walls. Seven years after its festive opening Hedwige herself retired there and began the second half of her long life by caring for and educating the heathen maidens from Prussia. Trebnitz was her favorite home until her death, and the institution which was most identified with the holy Duchess of Silesia; but the list of great works she and her husband set on foot, each of them a starting-point of much hidden good, is a long one. The parish church of Bunzlau having, with most of the town itself, been burnt, she built a new one, dedicated to Our Lady. At Goldberg, a village near one of the royal summer palaces, she founded a Franciscan convent, intended to serve the purpose of a school for the neighborhood. Nimptsch, her place of refuge during the civil war between her two sons, was not forgotten; for while there she laid the first stone of a church, and almost at the same time began one dedicated to St. Andrew for the town of Herrnstadt. Her friends often remarked on her lavishness in building, and asked her whence she could expect to draw the means. She used to answer confidently: “I trust that the heavenly Architect who made the world, and my dear and faithful husband Henry, will not let me be shamed, so that I should be unable to finish what I have begun with good motives and to their honor. Do not be too 231anxious about my doings; all will end well with God’s help.” In Breslau, the capital, she built three hospitals—that of the Holy Ghost, that of St. Lazarus (this was for lepers), and that of St. Barbara. For many years Hedwige’s charity towards the sick had produced a rivalry among all good men, both nobles and burghers, to tend and care for some sick persons in their own houses or in rooms hired or built for the purpose; but her wish always was to found a public hospital. The duke gave her a suitable piece of land for the building and garden; the abbot of the Augustinians, Witoslaus, gave his lay brothers as sick-nurses and his choir-monks as overseers and confessors. Contributions flowed in from the rich members of the population, and the first hospital was finished in a very short time. The third contained what was an immense luxury in those days—a number of bath-rooms, open gratis to the poor on certain days, and rooms where they could be bled, as was the custom on the slightest illness. All those who came in contact with Hedwige caught her spirit of generosity, and rich men, lay and ecclesiastic, vied with her in founding churches and monasteries. Canon Nicholas of Breslau, the duke’s chancellor, obtained Henry’s leave to endow a Cistercian monastery with the estates which the duke had given him for his lifetime, and others followed his example.

These ceremonies were always solemn and the deed of gift publicly read, signed, witnessed, and sworn to. As much pomp hedged them in as was usual in a treaty of peace or the betrothal of sovereign princes; and, indeed, the foundation of churches, though a common occurrence, was looked upon as quite as 232important as any civil contract. In 1234 a terrible famine, fever, and pestilence decimated the land, and, among many other Silesian towns that possessed as yet no hospital, Neumarkt was in special distress. Hedwige hurried there and set on foot a temporary system of relief and nursing, but also entreated her husband to build a permanent hospital for incurables, where they might be cared for till their death. This he did, and attached to it a provostship, the church dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, and Pope Innocent IV. sent special blessings to the Bohemian Benedictine monks who were entrusted with the care of the sick. Four years later Henry built a church in Löwenberg and gave it to the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem; this was a month or two before his death. But these are only a few of the works of this generous couple. Many villages and remote places obtained benefits from them, travelling priests were cared for, young girls helped in their need and protected or dowered, many poor families housed and fed; and the famine of 1234 especially gave Hedwige an opportunity of justifying her title of “Mother of the poor.” She distributed unheard-of quantities of grain, bread, meat, and dried fruits to the people, who came for relief from long distances. She gave lavishly, with that apparent recklessness that marks the charities of saints, smilingly saying, “We must help the poor, that the Lord may have pity on our own needs and appease our own hunger.” She forgave all feudal dues for years on her own possessions, and looked after her employés so diligently that they complained that the “duchess left them nothing but the leavings of the peasants.” When she did not 233distribute her alms in person, the poor groaned and wept, and cared less for the charity than if it had been seasoned by her gracious presence. When Breslau was wholly burnt down in 1218, and three years’ distress fell upon the land, she did the same and relieved thousands. That year was marked by the death of the Abbess of Trebnitz, Petrussa, and the choice of Princess Gertrude as her successor, which coincided with the festival held to celebrate the entire finishing of the monastery and the dedication of the church. The religious ceremonies were followed by a banquet in the refectory and by games for the people in the courtyard. Henry was present and rejoiced with her; her son’s wife, Anna, daughter of King Ottokar of Bohemia, was there with her children, one of whom was to fill, but unworthily, the throne of Silesia. It was a family gathering as well as a religious feast; but if, as tradition says, Hedwige was then gifted with a more than ordinary insight into the future, she must have felt sad to think of the turmoil that was coming and that would part her more and more in spirit from her husband.

After the death of his second son, Conrad, Henry turned his arms against a relation of his own, Duke Ladislaus of Gnesen and Posen, and came off victorious. His old warrior-blood once again stirred in him, it was impossible to keep him from the excitement of war, and Hedwige’s entreaties and messages were of no avail. She feared the excommunication which Pope Innocent had more than once threatened to launch against the restless Polish sovereigns, and was relieved when he undertook a war against the Prussians, who at least were 234heathens, and whose cruelties really needed strong repression. Still, it was rather the thirst for fighting that led the Duke of Silesia against them than any exalted motive of justice or desire to open the way for their conversion.

The pretext for the expedition was the cruelties they committed on their inroads into Poland, and especially the duchy of Masovia. To attack them among their own forests and morasses was so hopelessly difficult that the bishops, whom the pope had admonished to preach a “crusade” against them, had hitherto refrained from doing so. The event proved the wisdom of this inaction; for after marching a large army over the border, under the command of Henry of Silesia and Duke Conrad of Masovia, with whom the bishops with their men-at-arms joined forces, the assailers found themselves in a network of marshes, behind which the assailed quietly waited. The wearied troops had at last to be ingloriously marched back again, while the enemy came out in their rear, made a raid into Masovia, carried off five thousand Christian captives, burnt a thousand villages and hamlets as well as almost every church in the province, and drove Duke Conrad into Germany for refuge. Henry then advised the fugitive duke to call upon the German Knights of Venice, a military order who afterwards under their grand master, Hermann Balk, settled in Kulmerland and effectually routed and conquered the Prussians. The conversion of the latter was, therefore, a feat of arms rather than a triumph of missionary zeal; and perhaps it was less to be wondered at that, after only three hundred years’ Christianity, they should have accepted another change in the shape of the 235Lutheran Reformation. The order itself, however, was more blamable, in that it departed, in the person of its head, the famous Albert of Brandenburg, from its old chivalric standard of honor, and went over to the “new doctrine,” as it was called, because this defection promised political independence. And, again, it strikes one, in reading of these thirteenth-century feuds, that history repeats itself; for a new religious war has sprung up between Prussia and Posen, and the two civilized races are in much the same relative positions, speaking broadly, as the two barbarous ones were then, although Posen can point to a short and dazzling career between the two eras of persecution.

It is impossible here to recount the various and sad events that led up to the death of Henry. He died in 1238, at the age of seventy, under the ban of excommunication, which was only partially removed, and deprived to the last of the presence of his saintly wife. The scene of the return of his body to the abbey church at Trebnitz was heartrending. The nuns and vassals, no less than his widow and children, looked upon him as their stay and their protector; they bewailed him with genuine grief as their benefactor, and buried him with all imaginable respect and pomp as their founder. Hedwige’s life as a widow became more penitential than before.

After her death a hair-shirt and a belt with small, sharp points turned inwards were found on her body; but these she had worn for many years before her widowhood. Her cloister-life, however, was not her only one, for she watched with intelligent interest the politics of the time, the great events, and even 236the less obtrusive details, whose consequences to the cause of good might afterwards be manifold; and above all she lived in her son, Henry the Pious, a worthy and able sovereign, whose reign was to be short, stormy, and glorious.

In January, 1241, the Tartars, under their chiefs Batu and Peta, having previously desolated Russia, fell with nearly three hundred thousand fighting men upon Bohemia, Hungary, Silesia, and Poland. The King of Hungary, Bela, was beaten by Batu, while Peta besieged, took, and burnt Cracow on his way to Silesia. The King of Bohemia, Wenzel, brought as large an army as he could to defend his frontiers, while Henry gathered thirty thousand men in his father’s city of refuge, Liegnitz, waiting to attack Peta on his road to Breslau. Trebnitz was in dire confusion; monasteries always fell the first prey to the heathen invaders, and the nuns judged it prudent to scatter themselves and claim each the protection of her own family, while Hedwige, with her daughter, the Abbess Gertrude, and her daughter-in-law, Anna, shut themselves up in the strong castle of Crossen on the Oder. Before she left she gave her son a scarf, or rather sword-belt, embroidered with her own hands, which he received as an omen of good-fortune, cheering her with hopes of his speedy and victorious return, while the stricken, heroic mother feared but too surely that she should never see his face again. All Breslau retired within the citadel to await the attack, and Henry tried to intercept the foe on his way. He drew up his army on some high ground just outside the walls—Wahlstatt, a good battle-ground, as he judged—and himself gave the signal to attack the oncoming 237foe. He commanded the main body, while lesser brother-sovereigns directed the wings; but the irresistible might of numbers, which was the chief reliance of the Tartars, bore down all opposition, as a whirlwind does the densest forest. The Poles and Silesians fell like heroes, defending themselves and asking no quarter, until a cry arose in German, “Strike dead! strike dead!” which, whether raised by accident or by treachery, produced a panic by its likeness to the Polish word for “Fly! fly!” The army seemed literally to melt away; squadrons broke and ran, and a cloud of small, sharp Tartar arrows clove the air after them; the Asiatic cavalry hunted and trampled down the fugitives. One of the Polish leaders at last succeeded in rallying part of the troops, and the fight began again with some hopes of victory, when the enemy had resort to a kind of infernal machine used in ancient Indian warfare, the likeness of a gigantic head, which was so made as to give out a dense smoke and unbearable stench, besides being in some degree explosive. The contrivance was held by the Christians to be magical and devilish, and the Tartars themselves, so dangerous was it to those of their own men who had the handling of it, only resorted to it in the utmost extremity, which shows how hard-pressed they were on this occasion by the Silesian soldiery. But the terrible device stood them in good stead this time. The panic was renewed, and once more a wild flight and wilder pursuit took place; the leaders, the knights, and Henry himself, regardless of the flight of their followers, fought on long after they knew their fate to be hopeless and death 238certain. One by one the brave fellows were cut down, the little band decreased at every stroke of sword or flight of arrows, and the duke, with four knights, found himself almost alone on the lost field of battle. They urged him to try to save his life by flight; he scouted the proposal, and told them that since God had not willed that he should conquer, he would at least die. “For the faith,” he said; “at least, it will be a martyr’s death.” His charger was killed under him, and he fought on foot for some time, hewing a lane for himself through his enemies. One of his knights managed at last to bring him a fresh horse, which he had no sooner mounted than his person was recognized by hundreds of his foes and he was hemmed in on all sides. While in the act of lifting his sword to cut down a Tartar in his front, he was wounded from behind by a long lance thrust in precisely where a joint in his armor exposed the shoulder; the spear went right through and pierced the lung, and the son of Duchess Hedwige sank dying from his horse. The enemy cut off his head, and, hoisting it on a spear, paraded it before the walls of Liegnitz, summoning the defenders to surrender; but they, guarding Henry’s young sons, answered back from the battlements: “If we have lost one duke to-day, we have four yet with us in the castle, and these we will defend to the last drop of our hearts’ blood.” The next day they were relieved by King Wenzel of Bohemia, who, however, came too late to do anything but hasten the departure of the Tartar horde, which had suffered severely in the encounter, but rallied soon enough to maraud, burn, and sack churches, abbeys, villages, etc., throughout 239Hungary and Silesia, Bohemia and Mähren, until, one year later, Jaroslaus von Sternberg finally routed their diminished army under the walls of Olmütz. This roused Germany and France, and the Christian sovereigns combined sent a mighty army, under the command of Wenzel of Bohemia, to defend the Austro-Hungarian frontiers, whence the Tartars retreated, by the same road by which they had come, to their steppes on the high table-lands of Asia. Their traces in Europe, however, were not blotted out for half a century; the ruined churches, blackened villages, and ravaged fields long showed their awful track; and the outward work of Hedwige’s life would have been well-nigh destroyed had not the spirit she had brought with it remained alive as the germ of a future exterior restoration.

The night of the lost battle, when Henry’s headless body lay on the field, Hedwige, after a prayer of unusual length, woke her nearest friend and favorite attendant, and said to her:

“Demundis, this night I have lost my only son. He has left me as swiftly as a bird flies upwards, and I shall never look upon his face again.” She forbade her to say anything of this to the dead man’s wife and sister until some messenger from the army should bring news of the battle; and it was not till the third day that Jaroslaus von Janowitz came with the terrible tidings. Anna, Henry’s young widow, hastened to the field to seek and recover her husband’s body, which was so mutilated that she only recognized it by the six toes of the left foot. The corpse was brought to Trebnitz and buried with his father, brother, and infant sons in the abbey church. Hedwige prayed thus aloud over his grave: “O Lord! I 240thank thee that thou hast given me such a son, who, as long as he lived, loved and honored me truly, and never gave me an hour’s sorrow. However gladly I would have kept him by my side on earth, I hold him blessed in that, by the shedding of his blood, he is now united in heaven with thee, his Creator. With supplication, O Lord! do I commend his soul unto thee.”

Hedwige’s life and work were drawing to an end. Her last public act was one of charity to the dead and comfort to the bereaved living. The bodies of many heroic defenders of their country had been left to rot upon the field of battle. She had these gathered together and buried in consecrated ground, and ordered solemn requiems to be sung for the repose of their souls, while she made herself accessible to every sorrowing widow, mother, sister, or orphan of the dead soldiers, listened to their complaints and laments, comforted and helped them, and brought God’s peace once more into their hearts. After this she prepared herself to die. Her first care was a practical one: she set her affairs in order—a moral duty too often foolishly confounded with worldliness. Then she redoubled her devotions, and, sending for her chaplain, asked to receive Extreme Unction. He demurred, seeing no sign of death about her; but her holiness was so well known that he asked her the reason of her request.

“It is a sacrament,” she answered reverently, “which should be received in full consciousness, that we may treat it with due reverence and thankfulness; and I fear that sickness would make me receive it with little or no preparation, and would prevent me from being, as far as possible, worthy of this dying 241grace. I shall belong to the sick before many days are over, and I would fain be strengthened for the passage through death to the joy of meeting my God.”

Her agony was not long, but she seemed to struggle with a fear of death and of the devil’s temptations. When her daughter wished to send for Anna, she said: “No; I shall not die before she comes home” (she was then absent on a visit to her brother, King Wenzel of Bohemia). Her biographers tell us that angels and saints visited her on her death-bed. She died with the veil of her holy niece, Elizabeth of Hungary, wound round her head, and held in her hand, and often to her lips, a little ivory image of the Blessed Virgin. At the very last she was calm and peaceful, blessed her daughter and daughter-in-law, and every nun in the monastery of Trebnitz, her chosen home, and died at evening twilight, on the 15th of October, 1243. Twenty years later the clergy of Silesia, Poland, and Bohemia sent deputies to Rome to beg for her canonization, which Pope Clement IV. proclaimed almost immediately. Many miracles through her intercession were sworn to by credible witnesses, and the neighborhood blossomed with gracious and beautiful legends of the sainted duchess, the mother of the poor and the guardian angel of Silesia. The ceremony of transferring her body to a shrine in the abbey church at Trebnitz in 1268 was the occasion for a national festival; pilgrims flocked in from the remotest districts, and many foreigners came too. Sovereigns and knights, in costly robes and armor, walked in procession to her altar; lay and ecclesiastical pomp was showered upon and around her remains; but nothing of all this was so great a tribute as the memory she left, deep in the heart of the people, of a model wife, mother, mistress, and sovereign, a woman strong in principle, truthful in every word and deed, charitable yet not weak, merciful yet not sentimental, a wise, far-seeing, but tender, brave, and thoroughly womanly woman.

Every one agrees that “business is bad”; but how many give themselves the trouble to look for the causes of this persistent stagnation? Some are distressed, others astonished, by it. The calmer observers—those who are not dismayed beyond measure by a deceptive view from the bank of the river of fortune—seek for comparisons in the crises of 1837, 1848, and 1866.

A gifted writer, who conducts with deserved success a technical magazine of our country, the “Monitor of Material Interests” (Le Moniteur des Intérêts Matériels), has examined this interesting subject in a series of remarkable articles. M. George de Laveleye—who must not be confounded with his relative, the professor at Liege—maintains that the present crisis is not transient. He attributes to it a permanent character. If the reader will follow attentively the summary that we are about to give 243of the argument of M. De Laveleye, he will not be too alarmed at his conclusion.

Generally, these crises have had the effect of rarefying the capital by which the great industrial enterprises were fed; these, then, deprived of the food which enabled them to live, seemed to hesitate; then they shook and fell. But to-day what do we see? Entirely the reverse. Money, floating capital, unused funds, are more abundant than ever; the cash-boxes overflow; the large banks literally sweat with gold; and this excess, this plethora of unemployed capital causes the public funds to advance and the price of money to decrease. It is business that is wanting; it is the employment of capital that is in default.

Whence comes this accumulation of savings and this inertia of capital, and how does it happen that new and tempting enterprises do not attract it, notwithstanding its apparently low price? M. De Laveleye thus instructs us:

“All these tempests,” says he, speaking of the crises of 1837, 1848, 1857, and 1866, “which reproduced themselves at almost equal intervals, were periods of settlement which marked the impatience of the industrial speculation over-excited during a period of forty years; each time that it had abused credit, each time that there was a disproportion between the engagements entered upon and the available resources, industrial, commercial, and financial Europe received a warning; credit vanished suddenly; there was a series of commercial or industrial failures; there was a violent contraction in the stock exchanges and in business; there was a slackening of new enterprises or of those already in hand; there were more losses than one could reckon. But at each of these momentary and transitory crises a remedy was very quickly found. Thus we had free trade and the upward movement of commercial relations; we had 244the play of free joint-stock companies; we had the war of secession, which, from a European point of view, was a powerful derivative; finally, during this long period we had the discovery of gold and silver mines, coming annually to swell the stock of metal at the disposal of business and of speculation. Thus these crises were not of long duration. It sufficed to let the overworked market have time to assimilate the stocks of paper or of merchandise from which it suffered, to re-establish the equilibrium between the current debts, circulating capital and credit, and immediately industrial and commercial Europe resumed her progressive march; the new enterprises which presented themselves obtained public favor; the warning was forgotten; the play of credit renewed itself; and after a period of enforced quiet, which never exceeded three years, we felt vibrating anew that febrile activity which, in forty years, has caused a veritable transformation of the world.”

This was always the course of these crises in the past. To-day there is nothing like this; on the contrary, “if there be a disproportion between undertakings and resources, it is absolutely the reverse of that which marked the preceding crises: the undertakings are almost null, and the resources are exaggerated.”

Why? Because the present crisis is not merely a transitional crisis: it is a permanent, final one; the origin of the evil from which the industry and the commerce of Europe suffer is to be traced to other causes than those commonly attributed to it. The true origin of the crisis, says M. De Laveleye, is the withdrawal of capital from the operations in which it had been employed, and the inactivity and unproductiveness to which it has been since doomed. At the beginning of the crisis of 1873 a general panic was produced among the lenders, whose confidence was profoundly shaken, and they exerted 245themselves all at once to realize their money. The bankers and the money-lenders of Europe were seized, by a unanimous accord, with a desire to have their capital, or that which remained of it, in their hands—“to see their money again,” as M. De Laveleye says. They realized their foreign securities; they retired en masse from the industrial enterprises in which they were engaged abroad; and, above all, they cut off credit. The countries and the establishments which lived on credit and on outside capital saw their resources cut off and suspended their activity, believing, however, that the crisis would be only temporary. The three principal lending countries—England, France, and Holland—realized their money, at the price of heavy losses on more than one occasion; and, under the influence of the panic, they contented themselves with keeping it under lock and key in their cash-boxes. From this resulted a great and rapid decline in the rate of interest. Bank paper fell to one per cent., and the lenders upon short bills, with incontestable securities, got but a half per cent. This was the result of the return of the capital drawn back from the foreign countries to which it had been lent; the capitalists had but one ambition: they wished to be certain that their money was running no risk whatever.

The result of all this was that, in every instance where they lived on borrowed capital, industrial works were stopped and all sorts of enterprises were cut short. On the other hand, a plethora of capital was produced among those who had realized, and who could no longer find means to employ their funds with profit. This is the explanation 246and the first characteristic of the present crisis—the accumulation of capital and the low price for the use of money.

The accumulation is general; but it is principally in the rich countries, like England and France, that this excess was produced. The same phenomenon, however, also showed itself in Austria, Italy, Sweden, etc.—countries which live in part upon foreign capital. On the other hand, the countries which depended entirely upon this capital—Turkey, Egypt, Peru, etc.—were crippled, as they were deprived of the resources which credit had previously placed at their disposal.

Thus, then, nothing happened as in the preceding crises, and from 1873 to 1877 all has been new, the phenomena themselves and their causes. There would be reason for surprise and bewilderment at this if one did not admit, with M. De Laveleye, that only now has ceased the industrial and speculative movement which has led Europe for forty years to send her money abroad. New employments for capital are very nearly exhausted; new sources of riches have been exploited as much as they can be. The movement of the last forty years, especially active since 1851, is not merely arrested for a moment to resume its march once more, as in the previous crises; it is definitely terminated.

The design of the past movement was the economical furnishing of Europe and of the world: and this equipment is completed, or nearly so. But in giving proof of this assertion and seeking for its justification, M. De Laveleye supplies a very clear account of the direct and specific causes of the crisis through which we are passing.

247“Western Europe,” he says—“and by this generic expression we mean Europe rich in capital and feeding great foreign enterprises—Western Europe has made a rude return upon herself. She has retaken her money; she has made an inventory of what she possessed abroad, and she shows herself solicitous to preserve, to keep by her, this scattered wealth. The first element of the force of progress, then, is in default; the money is wanting; it is hidden; it is refused. Concurrently, what have the borrowing countries done since 1873? They have abandoned the game and ceased an impossible struggle, which consisted in paying to Western Europe a revenue which was not produced by the soil or by practicable enterprises. They have become bankrupt, and the crisis in their government funds has opened the eyes of the two champions. Each perceived that he was ruined: the borrower by becoming indebted without sufficient motive; the lender not only by lending his capital upon illusory guarantees, but by receiving finally only a part of it, under the form of arrearages.”

This is the second cause. As for the third:

“It is the depreciation of silver, due to the incapacity and the improvidence of the Western states, which imagined they could make a good stroke of political economy by allowing one of the agents of circulation to debase itself.

“Principal possessors of the stock of gold these states have obeyed an egoistic thought in seconding the movement for a single metal as currency—gold; a movement which had for its first effect an increase in the relative value of their metallic circulation. But they took no note of another very grave consequence of this disturbance of equilibrium.

“When a nominal money submits to variations in value as great as those which have been noted in silver, it becomes provisionally inapt for its functions. Commercial enterprises, based upon this metal, become extremely dangerous, and are no longer attempted by those who wish to operate only with the security attached to studied and matured plans. But all the commerce with the East is based upon silver, which, for these countries, is the nominal money. When the value of silver, and, following 248it, the course of exchange, became subject to oscillations of ten and fifteen per cent., there was no longer any security for international commerce. The cost of despatching and of selling raw material or manufactured goods could no longer be precisely fixed; and the most careful merchant became a speculator in spite of himself. He then stopped, and by that very act he added to the difficulty of the situation. The fall in the value of silver broke the charm exercised by the constant augmentation of the stock of metals put at the disposal of international enterprises.

“This is the third element in the advance of progress which has disappeared in its turn; and we may thus sum up:

“1. The lenders are not willing, provisionally, to enter upon new schemes.

“2. The borrowers, weary or feeble, are incapable of giving birth to new illusions.

“3. The monetary crisis has added its action to these two negative elements.

“So that to-day, after proper deliberation, people decide to do nothing; or, at least, to do nothing under the former conditions of international enterprises.”

But is it admissible that we shall do nothing henceforth, and that the present situation will prolong itself indefinitely? No, assuredly; and, so far as this goes, M. De Laveleye recognizes with every one that the stagnation of business cannot endure, that a reaction is inevitable, and that it will come in its time.

“But,” he hastens to add, “this return to activity will not be produced at all in the form known and hoped for by those who have seen the revivals of speculation after the crises of 1837, 1857, and 1866; and this for the logical reason that the industrial, commercial, financial, and speculative activity of the middle of this century has had for its base and aim the economical furnishing of the world (l’outillage économique du monde), and that this furnishing is very nearly completed.

“The base and the object of the former activity will no longer exist, or scarcely so. We must, then, wait for a profound modification in the form and conditions of this activity.

249“This is why we have called the present crisis a permanent, a final crisis”—une crise définitive.

He goes on to give his reasons for this idea, that the economical furnishing of the world is finished, or so far advanced that henceforth we can expect no such development as we have seen in the past:

“In Holland the great works are done: the drains are continued; Amsterdam is connected with the sea; international communications are established.

“In Italy, in Spain, the great arteries are provided with iron roads, and the products of their working are notoriously below what one could reckon as remuneration upon the capital. The seaports, the mines, are sufficiently provided for in these countries; the towns, there as elsewhere, have their markets, their water and gas works, their new quarters, their tramways.

“As for the Pyrenees, they are crossed; the Alps also; and after the tunnel already made by Mont Cenis toward France, the road in construction through Saint-Gothard toward Germany, and the very sufficient pass through the Brenner toward Austria, industrial activity will no longer find any occupation in this quarter.

“In Russia the principal railroad lines are completed.

“The railway system of Prussia is finished, and in that country industry is so well furnished that she is murdered with her own tools; the means of production and of transportation are too vast, and in evident disproportion to the possible business of the country.

“Austria is supplied, and there it would be rash to go further.

“Turkey has railroads. It has been difficult enough to construct them; one does not speak of them willingly.

“The United States have borrowed enough from us to establish their system; it is compact and well provided with lines, even opposition lines. That country has regained its lost time; it is necessary to watch its steps now that it is furnished sufficiently to put itself in competition with the industry of Western Europe.

“The Isthmus of Suez is opened.

“The transatlantic cables are laid.

250“The transformation in the merchant marine is three-fourths completed; the sailing ship has disappeared, or at least is relegated to the second place; the steamers have the principal trade.

“On whatever side we turn our eyes we see these accomplished results of the work of the last forty years. These results may not be always excellent from the financial point of view; many errors have been brought out, and by the side of some brilliant exceptions we must count a number of deceptions for the capitalists engaged, and for the governments which have become needy and insolvent. But, whatever may be the financial result, these lands have been stirred up and dug out; the blocks and the rails have been laid; the towns have been transformed; the distances have been shortened; the new apparatus has been given in profusion to the rich countries, in more reasonable limits to countries less open; everywhere what was strictly necessary has been done; often too much has been done.”

Here, very clearly expressed, is the result of the forty years of activity which we have had, and this result is really the end toward which tended the great industrial movement that, for so long a time, has held minds awake, has kept the dockyards, the workshops, the factories, the forges at work. This end is attained; we see it; and among the serious consequences of this fact is one which M. De Laveleye exposes with his usual lucidity:

“Thanks to the facilities of communication, to the new routes opened, to steam and to electricity, the conditions of commerce and industry are changed. There is no longer any place, as there was at the beginning of this century, for the boldness of the manufacturer or the trader, counting upon his skill as well as on his risk to obtain a large remuneration due to his audacity, to his special knowledge, and to his capital.

“Between the new and the old commerce and industry there exists the same difference as between the wars of the empire and the last campaigns of France and of Austria.

“The same causes have produced the 251same results. In war the cannon and guns of perfection, the railways and the telegraphs, the vast masses of men, have produced rapid campaigns, in which personal valor and the chances of war, going almost for nothing, contributed very little to the final result. In industry the same perfection of apparatus has changed the conditions of trade; and the masses of men are replaced by the abundance of circulating capital and the facility of the means of credit—two other products of this active period of forty years.

“Only, in war the final result places the vanquished at the mercy of his foe, who can, as it appears, dictate his laws; in industry and in commerce the final gain is not left arbitrarily to the swiftest or to the best equipped. He must content himself with little; he is forbidden to abuse the victory which, without this moderation, will not be long in escaping him.”

This is what we have come to; and from a purely economic point of view we can recognize, with the judicious writer who has furnished us with the process of the struggle, that the most certain consequences of all this will be the following:

.pm letter-start “There will be an excess of circulating capital, free from employment.

“Now, as long as this has not been the case the product of capital has been as follows:

“From three to four and a half per cent. on unquestionable securities of the first class.

“From four and a half to six per cent. on real estate security of the second class.

“From six to eight per cent. on loans and limited liabilities.

“From eight to ten per cent. and upwards on industrial, financial, and speculative ventures.

“In the future and during a still indefinite period, which cannot fail to be long, very long, this scale must be modified by the excess of unemployed capital.

“Unquestionable securities will descend to three per cent., or below that; those of the second class will bring four and a half; men will be happy to make six per cent. in manufactures or production; finally, one can obtain eight per cent. only by running wild risks. There will be a general change in the rate of 252capitalization, in the sense of lessening the interest while increasing the amount of capital. Some exceptions—that is to say, some happy chances, some skilful personal strokes—may occur to confirm this rule. The general movement, however, will, we believe, be that which we have indicated.”

But what remains, then, to be done? Little of anything, if we wish to attribute to the revival of activity, which will come in its own time, only the sense and the direction which the movement has had until now. On the other hand, forced to admit that the human spirit has not at all gone to sleep, and that the inventive genius which the Master of all things in his goodness has bestowed upon his humble creatures has not in the least diminished, it is necessary also to confess that in the future it is the unknown which opens before us; and just as, before this century, people had not even thought of all the beautiful applications of heat, electricity, steam, and light which have made the material glory of our age and of an illustrious galaxy of savants, even so to-day we cannot say toward what end the efforts of humanity might tend to-morrow. One Being only knows it—he who knows all and sees all, he for whom the past, the present, and the future are but one, he who does not depend at all on time—God, in fact, the creator of all that has been, that is, and that shall be, the great dispenser of all good and of all progress; he who disposes of man at his will in one way or the other, often while the latter, in his folly, refuses to abase his blind presumption sufficiently to recognize him.

Let us, then, leave to the future that which belongs to the future, and let us hold ourselves, each one for his own account, ready to obey the impulse which it may please God to give us.

When the traveller who is visiting the beautiful localities of the Channel Peninsula quits the southern faubourg of Avranches—a picturesque little town built of sparkling granite—a road, marked by a succession of rapid declivities, brings him to the shore of a large bay formed by the sinking of the coasts of Normandy and Brittany. Before him reaches, far away and out of sight, the flat extent of sands, furrowed by the rivers Sée, Sélunce, and Coësnon, whose silvery windings the eye can follow to a considerable distance. On the higher parts of these sands grows a fine kind of grass, the poa of the salt-meadows, and which, mingled with marine plants and sand-weeds, furnishes a favorite pasture for sheep. The lower and barren portion of the sands disappears twice a day beneath the tide, which at times spreads gently and caressingly over them, while at others it rolls foaming in with precipitate fury, as if eager to pass its appointed boundary. At high tide nothing is visible but an immense lake, partially engirdled with hills; and in the distance, like a pyramid of granite, sometimes from the bosom of the waves, sometimes from the expanse of sand, rises a nearly circular rock, laden with constructions of various kinds intermingled with vigorous vegetation, and crowned by large and lofty buildings.

This is the famous Mont Saint-Michel: au péril de la mer—in periculo mortis, as our fathers were wont to say in their strong and simple language, which, like nature, speaks in images.

254The first time we saw St. Michael’s Mount was in sailing from Southampton to St. Malo, towards four o’clock one bright morning in June. The early sunshine lighted up the higher part of the rock, with all its wealth of natural and architectural inequalities, in one blaze of gold, while its base lay still in shadow. The only illuminated object, rising from a purplish haze, its brightness heightened by the blue of sea and sky, above, beneath, and around, it appeared rather like an ethereal vision than anything of earth.

Mount St. Michael! What memories are awakened only by the name, which is in itself a magical evocation of bygone centuries! Here, too, present realities still rival the memories of the past. With respect to its natural situation, as well as the share which human hands have had in its formation, there is about it much that defies comparison. It is at once a nest of legends, the home of religious thought, of prayer and meditation, as well as of learning and the arts. Mount St. Michael, being a monastery, a cathedral, and a fortress, is, in its triple unity, a summary of the three great elements of the life of France during all the poetic, heroic, and religious though stormy period of the middle ages.

Beaten into ruggedness by the storms of heaven, and discrowned of the golden statue of its patron archangel, the summit of the mount no longer springs upward into space with the same loftiness and lightness that used to strike so forcibly those who beheld it for the 255first time. The great human work thus seems as if arrested in its heavenward climbing; but, like other and grander majesties, St. Michael’s Mount has been uncrowned without undergoing any diminution of its glory, and it still presents its singular threefold aspect to the eye. On the western side the rock, stern and bare, seems to bid defiance to the hand of man; on the north a strong wall rises to the height of two hundred feet from base to battlements, strengthened with buttresses and flanked by bastions, pierced irregularly with pointed windows, and surmounted by a series of elegant arcades. To the south we find a rich display of architectural art, the exuberance of which is almost equalled by its caprice. Above all, and larger than all the rest, rises the church, with its forest of granite pinnacles and turrets overlooking the distant horizons of Normandy and Brittany, and, to use the language of the ancient chroniclers, imposing the fear of the archangel on the vast expanse of ocean—immensi tremor oceani.

In ages long anterior to any of its architectural constructions, and before the Christian era, this rock, much loftier then than now, rose from the midst of a vast forest which extended from Coutances to the rocks of Cesembre beyond St. Malo. This forest of Scissey, or Chesey (Sissiacum), took its name from the goddess Sessia, who was invoked at the time of sowing, and worshipped as the protectress of the corn while in the ground. The rock itself was called Tomba, and also Belenus, the name given by the Gauls and Druids to their sun-god,^[13] and 256which was identical with Baal of the Phœnicians, Bel of the Assyrians, and the Apollo of the Greeks.

On Mount Belenus was a college of nine Druidesses, the eldest of whom, like the pythoness of Delphi, uttered oracles.^[14] The Romans, in the course of their conquests in Gaul, made Bel give place to Jove: Tomba Belenus became Mons Jovis and was sacred to Jupiter.

In the year 708 Mount Belenus, which until that period had formed a part of the mainland of Armorica, was suddenly detached from it by a terrible catastrophe which spread desolation over the country. The sea, flowing in with tempestuous fury, overpassed its limits, submerged the ancient forest, as well as the inhabited parts of the coast, and, except when the tide is out, made an island of the Mount.^[15] It was in this same year of 257708, in the reign of Childebert II., that St. Aubert, the first Bishop of Avranches, in obedience to a vision built there a church dedicated to the Archangel St. Michael, and at the same time founded a monastery of clerks regular, who replaced the two or three hermits who had formerly lived in seclusion on the Mount.

This monastery acquired, later on, a fresh importance under the Dukes of Normandy. Duke Richard I. enlarged and made of it an abbey of the Order of St. Benedict. In 1002 or 1003, great part of the church and surrounding buildings being consumed by a fire which broke out, Duke Richard II. considerably enlarged as well as strengthened the foundation by the construction of the crypt, upon which the new edifice was raised. This crypt appears to be cut out of the solid rock, and is divided in two parts by a wall. Its low and vaulted roof is supported by massive pillars, round or square. A larger or grander subterranean vault does not perhaps exist, with its space of seventy metres in length by twelve in breadth, and its three aisles formed by about twenty pillars. The roof sustains the weight of two stories of building, the dormitory over the refectory, and the magnificent cloister over the Hall of the Knights.^[16]

The original church soon becoming too small to contain the numerous pilgrims who flocked thither, the construction of a new one was begun by the Abbot Raoul, who, in 1048, raised the four pillars and the arch of the great tower. The nave, and that part of the monastery 258called La Merveille, were built by his successor, Renaud.

It was in 1091 that Henry, the youngest son of the Conqueror, was besieged in the fortress of Mont Saint-Michel by his brothers Robert and William. After the expulsion of the wretched John from Normandy, Abbot Jourdain wishing to preserve the Mount to the kings of England, Philip Augustus sent against him Guy de Thouars, who, after a lengthened siege, being unable to take it, set in on fire. It suffered severely from another conflagration in 1350, when struck by lightning during a terrible storm. The liberality of Philip de Valois restored the church and monastery to more than their former splendor.

Early in the fifteenth century Abbot Jolivet surrounded the town with fortifications. The English, at this time invading France, besieged Mont Saint-Michel, but were repulsed by the brave d’Estouteville and his companions-in-arms, one hundred and twenty-nine in all, who successfully defended the post entrusted to them when the greater part of France had submitted to the conquerors.

During the religious wars Mont St. Michel was several times attacked by the Protestants. On the Feast of St. Mary Magdalen, July 22, 1577, a number of them, habited as pilgrims and concealing their weapons, were admitted without suspicion into the church, where, after hearing several Masses with great show of devotion, they divided into small groups, and, with an air of calm indifference, occupied different parts of the buildings, until, secure of their position, they murdered such of the guards as did not escape by flight or concealment, and then fell not only upon the garrison but on the monks, 259even massacring the priests who had been saying Mass for them.

This noble abbey had for more than a thousand years an existence worthy of its origin. Mingling in the religious and warlike history of France, it was simultaneously or by turns occupied by knights and monks; the abode of faith and courage; an advanced sentinel in the direction of England, and thus affording protection against the foes of this world and of the next, defending alike with the cross and with the sword, and held in veneration by the whole of Christendom.

During the ages of faith pilgrims came hither by thousands, from all lands, braving the danger of these treacherous sands, to invoke in this his sanctuary the prince and leader of the armies of heaven.

The sacrilegious impiety of modern times could no more spare St. Michael’s Mount than so many other holy and beautiful relics of the past which it has seen fit to mutilate or destroy. The First Republic suppressed the monastery, drove out the monks, demolished a portion of their church, changed the name of Mont Saint-Michel to that of le Mont Libre, or the Free Mount, and turned it into a prison!—doubtless in order to prove the suitability of its new appellation.

The first prisoners there were the priests of Brittany and Normandy. Prayer was thus at least not yet banished from its ancient abode. In 1811 Napoleon made of it a Maison de Réclusion, which, in 1818, became a Maison de Détention, and it was at the same time also a state prison. Rarely has any place seen more sad and strange vicissitudes. The chosen dwelling-place of those called to serve God in a religious life became the sink of every crime pursued 260and punished by society, and the population of Mount St. Michael was now recruited not from men who had received a holy vocation, but from courts of assize.

A decree of 1863, however, relieved it from this unworthy fate, alike saddening to Christians, archæologists, and poets, and Mont Saint-Michel, which now belongs to the see of Coutances, has been confided by the ecclesiastical administration to the charge of twelve priests of the Congregation of Pontigny in the diocese of Sens, who carry on the services in its church, receive the visitors drawn thither by the sanctity or historical interest of the place, and fulfil the office of preachers and missionaries to all the parishes of the Channel Islands. An orphanage for boys is now flourishing in the old barracks, and by its side are ateliers where painting on glass is carried on—a kind of painting (or staining, rather) which, more than any other, has a religious object. All this is, so far, a return to a better state of things, but the solicitude of its diocesan does not find it enough, feeling that, though much has been done, still the present is too unlike the past, and earnestly desiring to restore the abbey to its former splendor. And he will do it yet. Already the pilgrimages thither are renewed with a fervor worthy of ancient days.

Few things can be more beautiful and edifying than the holy festivities of which the most recent of these pilgrimages has just been the occasion, and which have left so deep an impression on those who took part in them, and who followed the imposing order of the successive religious ceremonies, stamped as they were with the character of dignity and grandeur which the 261Catholic Church has impressed upon her liturgy and worship.

From earliest dawn long bands of pilgrims, conducted by the priests of their respective parishes and preceded by their banners, began to enamel with picturesque groups the white monotony of the sands. On arriving at the Mount they formed into regular columns and slowly ascended the steep acclivity to the church. Towards nine in the morning the Mount presented a singular aspect, not unlike a gigantic ant-hill: the flights of steps disappeared under the long processions mounting them, while the ramparts were as if crenellated with the heads of the crowds watching for the arrival of the Bishop of Coutances and Avranches and the Bishop of Bayeux and Lisieux. An involuntary delay on the part of the bishops was for a time the cause of extreme anxiety. Anything may be feared from this dangerous bay, whose shifting sands change their direction after every tide, and engulf the late or unwary traveller in an abyss of mud. The first carriage had passed safely on to terra firma, but the wheels of the second were perceived to be sinking, and the horses, terrified at no longer finding any footing, were becoming so unmanageable that a fatal catastrophe would have been almost inevitable, had not the men of the place hastened to the rescue and succeeded by their prompt energy in dragging the carriage out of danger.

The two prelates presented themselves at the entrance gate as the clock of the great tower began to strike eleven, and were saluted by acclamations so enthusiastic that it seemed as if the whole Mount were bidding them welcome. They proceeded up the steep lane that winds 262upward between houses that look as if piled almost one upon another, and which date from three or four centuries back, low, square, and solid, and having for the most part only one story, plunging their foundations into the rock, and wedged, as it were, against each other, the better to resist the force of hurricanes and tempests. Here and there trees of thick foliage overshadow the narrow, winding ascent, which at intervals through some unexpected opening shows a vast horizon over the waters of the Channel, with its lovely islands, and the coast of France.

The procession reached in due time the threshold of the ancient abbey, and, after a few words of warm and respectful welcome spoken to the bishops by the reverend father prior, entered the church.

There is something unique in the beauty of this basilica which so nobly crowns the summit of Mont Saint-Michel, and of which the four extremities rest on four enormous arched vaults founded in the rock. It possesses all the essential parts of a great cathedral—nave, aisles, transepts, choir, and apse. The nave is Roman, the choir Gothic, and the aisles Moresque or Byzantine. Boldly cut in granite, the architecture is as remarkable as the site.

The nave was formerly two hundred and forty feet in length, but underwent an irreparable mutilation under the First Republic, when it was shortened by the cutting away of four of its eight transverse vaultings. It nevertheless remains singularly imposing—simple even to severity, but relieved by its triforium and a gallery with deep arcades. The collateral arches, which are somewhat narrow, have the horseshoe form usual in Arabian 263architecture; the transepts, like the nave, are Roman, but of more recent date; the choir, which is of the best period of flamboyant Gothic, very delicately sculptured, has in the clerestory a square window of remarkable richness; and in the apse, which is of granite, delicate lines of tracery spring upwards with exquisite lightness. On the keystone of its vaulted roof is the escutcheon of the abbey. The choir is surrounded by bas-reliefs representing the four evangelists, and a ship, symbolical of the church militant, tossing on an angry sea which cannot overwhelm her, guided as she is by an unerring pilot—Fluctuat, non mergitur.

The noble edifice had on this day received an additional decoration from the number and beauty of the banners there displayed, the principal of which was a large standard in the nave representing the archangel St. Michael victorious over the dragon. On the balustrade in front of the altar were hung the sword and banner of General Lamoricière, with his motto, In Deo spes mea. Within the balustrade were erected the two episcopal thrones. The chapel of St. Michael, which occupies the left arm of the cross, and in which is the statue of the archangel, was thickly hung with the banners of the different parishes represented in the pilgrimage. Among their mottoes were such as these: Quis ut Deus? Defende nos in periculo; Deo soli semper Honor; Deo et Patriæ, etc. Above these floated the banner of the Sovereign Pontiff. There is in the same chapel some rich tapestry, the work and offering of the ladies of Avranches—les Avranchines, as they are prettily called in the country.

In the chapel facing this one, 264and in the left arm of the cross, are the two crowns offered to the glorious archangel, the one by the Holy Father, the other by the faithful of France. The latter, resplendent with diamonds and other precious stones of great value, is to be used next year for crowning the statue of St. Michael.

High Mass having been sung by the Bishop of Bayeux, his right reverend colleague addressed the assembled multitude. Mgr. Germain, although one of the youngest members of the French episcopate, is also one of the most eloquent, and owes simply to his merit the rapidity with which he has risen to be chief pastor of one of the most religious dioceses of France. As chaplain of the Lycée of Caen, he quickly gained the hearts of the youth placed under his spiritual care; as curé of the Cathedral of Bayeux, he made his influence felt in the whole city; and now, as Bishop of Coutances and Avranches, the influence for good which has marked each step of his career finds a wider field of action, of which he does not fail to profit. With a few words from his discourse, which are a summary of the whole, we conclude:

“The days in which we live find the church still engaged in a warfare similar to that which St. Michael, the champion of God, sustained against the rebel angels. Still the same revolt continues, and man has learnt from Satan to declare, ‘Non serviam!’ As children of God and of his church, let it be our happiness, as it is our privilege, to obey. God and his church having an authoritative claim on our obedience, let us see that ours shall resemble that of the blessed angels, which is loving, intelligent, thorough, and prompt.”

The Life of Marie Lataste, Lay Sister of the Congregation of the Sacred Heart. With a brief notice of her sister Quitterie. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society Co.)

The history of the church is marked at intervals by the appearance of favored souls whose wonderful gifts of the supernatural order fully attest the holiness which our divine Lord has willed should be the pre-eminent attribute of his blessed spouse. These manifestations of sanctity in individual souls have, besides, a special reference to the wants of those times in which they appear. When rapacity and luxurious wastefulness characterized the upper classes of French society, Almighty God raised up St. Vincent de Paul, the grand apostle of charity, to rebuke men’s hardness of heart towards their poor and suffering fellow-creatures. So likewise, in an era of spiritual torpor and cowardice, he gave to the world that prince of spiritual warriors, Ignatius of Loyola, and his devoted band of spiritual heroes to awaken men from their lethargy. Our own times are a period of intellectual pride, of contempt for spiritual things, and a corresponding exaltation of the material order; and divine Providence has seen fit to confound this dangerous spirit by working great things through weak instruments, and by proposing new devotions which demand an increased exercise of faith. As there is nothing more opposed to the peculiar spirit of the world of to-day than devotion to the Real Presence, the Sacred Heart, and the Blessed Virgin Mary, so the church directs the attention of her faithful children to these objects of pious veneration with renewed fervor, and God himself attests her wisdom by many wonderful signs having reference to these three goals of spiritual life. No doubt it was with such intent that he bestowed those extraordinary favors on the simple peasant girl of Mimbaste, Marie Lataste, which, studied in the light of worldly philosophy, confound and bewilder, but which, viewed as part of God’s supernatural economy, cannot fail to edify and encourage the devout Christian.

266Marie Lataste was born in the department of the Landes in 1822, and died a lay sister of the Congregation of the Sacred Heart in the year 1847; so of her it may be said that she compressed a long career of virtue into a brief compass of time, and earned by intensity of work the crown which is most frequently won by many years of laborious effort. No sooner had she made her First Communion than our divine Lord began to attract her most powerfully to himself as he exists in the sacrament of the altar. As a little girl she had been wilful and rebellious, and with difficulty was brought to study her catechism and the merest rudiments of learning. Indeed, her schooling never went beyond the art of reading and writing, so that the wonderful theological and ascetic knowledge which her letters disclose cannot be otherwise regarded than as revealed to her by God. After her First Communion a wonderful change was made manifest in her. Thenceforth her sole delight was to commune for long hours at a time with our divine Lord in the tabernacle, to converse familiarly with him, and to hold him for ever in her thoughts. She was never easy when other occupations kept her aloof from him, and when released from these she sped to him again with all the ardor which could impel a loving heart. Nor did our Lord fail to reward in a signal manner this intensity of devotion to the sacrament of his love. One day, towards the close of the year 1839, as Marie was repairing to the village church to perform her usual acts of adoration, a mysterious but irresistible force hurried her along; earthly objects faded from her view, the Spirit of God filled her soul, and when she entered the sacred edifice she beheld our Lord himself upon the altar, surrounded by his angels. “She did not,” the recital states, “see him at first with perfect distinctness. A thin cloud, like an almost imperceptible veil, appeared partially to conceal him from her sight.... At last Jesus descended from the altar and approached, calling her benignantly by name and raising his hand to bless her. Then she beheld him with perfect clearness in the brilliant light with which he 267was invested.” “From that moment,” she said, “the society of mankind has never ceased to be displeasing to me; I should wish to fly from them for ever and shut myself up in the tabernacle with him.” Thus did her interior life at once ascend to the highest plane of sanctity, and she, the poor, almost illiterate peasant girl, began to experience those intimate dealings and relations with our divine Lord which are usually deemed to be the prerogative of the greatest saints—of those in whom supreme holiness goes hand in hand with profound knowledge.

But it is a well-known characteristic of the divine economy to select feeble instruments for its higher operations and manifestations, and in this manner to confound human presumption and to put our pride of intellect to the blush. “Thou hast hidden these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them to little ones.” And if ever it pleased Almighty God to show forth his power through the humblest of his creatures, he seems to delight in doing so at the present time. He permits our philosophers to split hairs over the subtleties of evolution, to wander in perplexity through the mazy intricacies in which they have enveloped themselves, whilst he reveals the undreamt wonders of his wisdom to the lowly and simple-minded. Father Faber has happily designated a too common class of Christians as “viewy”—i.e., holding opinions which are but the reflection and expression of their petty egotism. Such was not the case with Marie Lataste; she was simplicity itself, and our Lord favored her accordingly. She sat at his feet as meek and docile a pupil as ever listened to the words of an instructor, and he poured into her heart the treasures of his wisdom. It is truly wonderful to read the profound sentiments with which her letters abound, and to reflect that she, a girl barely able to read and write, has given expression to the most abstruse and difficult points of dogmatic theology with correctness, clearness, and force, and has left behind her precepts for our spiritual guidance which savor of the wisdom and prudence of the most consummate masters of the spiritual life. Many things in her letters may appear strained because of the minuteness with which she describes her visions of spiritual things, unless they are scanned with the 268eye of faith. But both internal and external evidences of the genuineness of the apparitions with which she was favored, and of the absolute reliability of her statements, are so numerous that in the face of them to doubt is to question the validity of all human testimony. There can be no doubt that God has vouchsafed to our generation this beautiful picture of a soul thoroughly united to himself in order that our pride may be abashed, our faith strengthened, and our love for him, because of his manifold mercies towards us, increased. The style of the book is attractive, and whoever reads it cannot fail to reap a large share of edifying knowledge.

A Popular Life of Pope Pius the Ninth. By Rev. Richard Brennan, A.M. New York: Benziger Brothers. 1877.

The Life of Pope Pius IX. By John Gilmary Shea. New York: Thomas Kelly. 1877.

A Life of Pius IX., down to the Episcopal Jubilee. By Rev. Bernard O’Reilly. New York: P. F. Collier. 1877.

The appearance within the space of a few months of three extended and elaborate biographies of His Holiness Pius IX., some of which have already run into two or three editions, is a fact most significant of the deep interest which is taken by the reading public of America in everything connected with the venerable head of the church on earth. The length of years vouchsafed the present successor of St. Peter, his own illustrious character, and the preternatural malice of his enemies have naturally heightened the curiosity regarding him of the non-Catholic portion of the community, while his piety, benevolence, and long-suffering have endeared him to the hearts of all true children of the church. The magnificent displays of Catholic sympathy and loyalty to the Holy See which everywhere characterized the celebration of his late episcopal Jubilee have also increased the popular demand for information concerning the life of a man who, morally and officially, is acknowledged to be the foremost in Christendom. Judging by the volumes before us, it will not be the fault of our Catholic writers if this laudable desire remain long unsatisfied. Each of these valuable works, written by gentlemen of varied accomplishments and qualifications for the task, is, in style, mode of 269treatment, and selection of matter, different from the others; yet all present the same leading facts and reproduce the same vivid scenes which have rendered so instructive and dramatic the long and eventful life of the Holy Father.

Father Brennan’s book, justly called a popular life of the great Pope, is written in a simple, concise, yet comprehensive manner, with little attempt at ornamentation or philosophic deduction. The author evidently intended that his work should be read and understood by persons of average intelligence as well as by those of higher mental gifts. He has therefore aimed at telling the story of Pius IX.’s life plainly and consecutively, without departing to the right or left, except when absolutely compelled to do so in order to elucidate what is yet but imperfectly understood in the policy of the Catholic powers of Europe. While stating conscientiously the details of a career so full of changes and reverses of fortune, he succeeds in placing before us the true lineaments of his august subject in all their simplicity and beauty of expression. This is more particularly observable in the chapter on “The Supernatural Life of the Pope,” which will doubtless be read with great satisfaction by those who consider the Sovereign Pontiff a providential man; and by such as do not, with respect and admiration. It is to be regretted that Father Brennan had not given at length an account of proceedings in Rome and the Catholic world generally for the past few years, thus completing an otherwise very full and instructive biography.

Mr. Shea has also succeeded in producing a very readable life of the Holy Father, though we do not think he has done full justice to his own merits as an accomplished and painstaking writer. There are evident marks of haste throughout his pages which, though they do not seriously interfere with the continuity or authority of the work, are apt to produce an unsatisfactory impression on the minds of critical readers. His Life of Pope Pius IX. will, however, have its admirers; for, excepting these slight defects, it is a book that will interest the general reader, no matter what may be his opinions or prepossessions, written as it is by an intelligent layman whose reputation as an author has long since been established in this country and in Europe.

270The Rev. Father O’Reilly’s biography is, however, not only more voluminous and more ample in its details than either of the preceding, but it is enriched by copious extracts from encyclical letters and other important documents, the proper understanding of which necessarily belongs to the elucidation of the history of Pius IX.’s pontificate. Apart from its completeness and elegance of style, its chief distinguishing feature is the insight it gives us into the policy and designs of contemporary rulers and conspirators in France, Italy, and Germany in their attempts on the integrity of the church, and their underhand alliances with the secret societies to effect their evil purposes. Only a man who has had personal knowledge of the actors who figured in the bloody drama of “United Italy,” and an intimate acquaintance with their present and prospective strategy, could unfold to the public gaze, in all its base enormity, the culpable indifference of the men who professed the greatest regard for the sovereign of the states of the church, and the insidious schemes of the modern champions of liberty, whose sole and whole object is the disruption of all forms of government under which civil and religious freedom would be possible. This it is that makes Father O’Reilly’s book not only interesting but highly instructive; for, to a certain extent at least, it furnishes us with a key to the enigma of European Continental politics which we Americans, happily removed from kingcraft and secret terrorism, so much require. The venerable and venerated Chief Pastor of the church has been fortunate in his American biographers, and we have little doubt that he will find some solace in his afflictions in the thought that three among our writers have almost simultaneously devoted their pens to recording the incidents of his life and defending his rights as a spiritual and temporal sovereign.

Report of the Special Committee of the Medico-Legal Society upon School Hygiene. New York: Terwilliger. 1876.

Few subjects are of more engrossing importance than the conditions requisite for the physical well-being of the rising generation; and as our embryo men and women spend a very large portion 271of their lives in school-rooms, it becomes a serious matter to determine whether these nurseries of learning are constructed in such a manner as to consist with the highest possible health standard. The investigations undertaken by Dr. R. I. O’Sullivan and his fellow-committeemen at the instance of the Medico-Legal Society reveal a condition which is truly startling. Oxygen is the life of our life-blood, and, if it is not supplied in the requisite quantity, the human system becomes predisposed to every disease and the foundation of a lifetime of misery is laid. Yet it is notorious that the arrangements of our much-vaunted school buildings go far short of ensuring a sufficient supply of this life-sustaining gas. Much of this deplorable lack of suitable arrangements is the result of ignorance. Many self-constituted sanitarians deem loftiness of ceiling to be the main and, indeed, the only condition required to ensure proper ventilation and a sufficient supply of air. They accordingly build without referenced horizontal breathing-space, in the absurd belief that all foul air ascends and is got rid of, some way or other. Now, the truth, says the report, is “that a lofty ceiling only makes that portion of space above the tops of the windows a receptacle for foul air, which accumulates and remains to vitiate the stratum below.” This is of itself a proof that a scientific supervision of our school buildings is the only guarantee we can have that the health of the children will be properly considered. The quantity of carbonic acid gas given off at each expiratory effort is far in excess of what our amateur sanitarians imagine; and when school buildings are erected without due regard for the diffusion of this deadly emanation, we must not be surprised to see our schools filled with pale and stunted children. In addition to the carbonic acid gas other deleterious exhalations of the human body poison crowded rooms, and are especially the cause of the peculiarly offensive and stuffy odor at which healthy olfactories revolt. Who that has entered one of our city public school class-rooms, between the hours of two and three in the afternoon, has failed to experience this disagreeable sensation? Yet physiology, as well as common sense, tells us that this effete organic matter which is constantly escaping from the lungs and from 272every pore of the skin is eminently injurious to health. Not only this, but in certain crowded portions of the city the adjoining streets and buildings lend their quota of noxious effluvia to the poisonous agents mentioned. The committee visited “one of the newest, best-arranged, and best-appointed schools in the city, and found it overcrowded and unventilated, tainted throughout the halls, and at times, by way of the fan-lights over the doors in the class rooms, odors arising from the latrines in the basement, which are emptied only once or twice a week.” In this model school-house only from thirty-three to forty-one cubic feet of air are allowed to each child, while nature vigorously clamors for at least eight hundred feet in the twenty-four hours.

In the second report read by Dr. R. I. O’Sullivan we are invited to contemplate a picture which but faintly reveals the evil effects that the early overcrowding exercises in after-days over the adult population: “Look around us in public assemblies, and see in those scarcely entering middle life the evidence of physical decline, the prematurely bald and gray, the facial muscles photographing the wearied brain and overtaxed nervous system.” Few can fail to realize, on due reflection, how much of the terrible truth of this picture is attributable to the bad condition of our school-houses. The conclusion is plain that the judgment of the trained sanitarian is of vital importance in the erection of school buildings, and that, until the necessity of his sage interposition is recognized by the Department of Public Instruction, diseases, the result of early confinement in close and crowded schools, which are quite preventible, will continue to prevail among us.

God the Teacher of Mankind: A plain, comprehensive explanation of Christian Doctrine. By Michael Müller, C.SS.R. New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis: Benziger Bros. 1877.

Catechism of Christian Doctrine, for Academies and High Schools. With the approbation of the Most Rev. J. Roosevelt Bayley, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimore. Intermediate No. III. Benziger Bros. 1877.

This is a most useful and comprehensive book, clear and definite in its plan, popular and interesting in its style. It is divided into two parts. Part I. deals 273with “The Enemies of the Church” from the beginning down to our own times. These enemies Father Müller sets down in the order of time as “Heathenism,” “Heresy,” and “Freemasonry.” Part II. is occupied with showing what in these days of vague beliefs and religious indifferentism it is most important to show—namely, that God himself is the teacher of mankind, and therefore that his voice must be listened to and obeyed. The church is the voice of God on earth; consequently, the everlasting object of the enemies of God is to silence and destroy the church. These avowed enemies were in the old days the heathen; later on the heretics. A deadlier foe than either, and combining the evil elements of both, the author points out to-day as Freemasons, the term covering, of course, all forms of secret oath-bound societies.

Father Müller’s sketch of Freemasonry is very extensive. For his charges against the societies comprehended under that head he relies mainly on Masonic documents and publications. Amid a vast amount of rubbish and jargon in the official rites and ceremonies of Masonry is plainly discernible a distinct purpose and plan, which can be considered none other than the destruction of all fixed belief in God and his revelation, in his church, and in the order of society and government founded on that belief. To expose this conspiracy against God and man—for such it is, and nothing less—is as much a service to any civilized state as it is to the direct cause of religion. On this account we do not think that in a book intended as much for ordinary readers as for those who are better instructed Father Müller has been at all wasteful in the large amount of space devoted to this portion of his subject. There is a tendency sometimes to pooh-pooh Masonry as a convenient scarecrow. Yet those who have noted the march of events in Europe within the century, and particularly within the latter half of it, will discover a startling resemblance between events as they have occurred, and as it was desired they should occur according to the programmes laid down beforehand by the leaders of the secret societies.

The church does not waste her excommunications, and the fact that these societies have been again and again solemnly condemned by her ought to be 274sufficient warning against any Catholic joining, not simply societies which are avowedly Masonic, but secret societies of any kind whatever. A good and lawful society has no need of secrecy.

The second and more important portion of the book is taken up with what is really a most lucid and careful explanation of that portion of the catechism which refers more especially to God and the church. The questions and answers in the catechism are necessarily brief, and the explanation of the answers is left to the teacher. The teacher, unfortunately, is not always as instructed as he or she might be, without at all being a paragon of learning. For such, as indeed for all, this portion of Father Müller’s book will be of the greatest assistance. Here, for instance, is a question in the catechism: “How do we know that Jesus Christ is the promised Redeemer and the Son of God?” Now, upon a right answer to this and a thorough comprehension of the answer depends a Christian’s faith. The answer in the catechism is: “We learn it, 1, from the mouths of the prophets; 2, from the declarations of the angels; 3, from the testimony of his heavenly Father; and 4, from his own testimony.” A correct reply, doubtless; but simply to give such an answer to the ordinary student of whatever age is to speak to him almost in an unknown tongue, while to saddle the average Sunday-school teacher with a clear and comprehensive explanation of the answer is quite to overweight him.

Father Müller’s explanations attached to such questions are excellent. They are full without being tedious, and condensed without being obscure. About half the second part is very wisely devoted to an exposition of the Ninth Article of the Apostles’ Creed—“The Holy Catholic Church”—which is to be commended, as, indeed, may be the whole book, just as highly to the attention of earnest and inquiring non-Catholics as of Catholics. As a whole, the book serves two great ends: it is a solemn warning against the prevalent evils of the day, unbelief and hatred of the truth; also, a judicious and able exposition of the two great facts in the Christian belief, God and the church. The work has this advantage over more learned treatises on the same subjects: that while it commands the attention of the highest, 275it is within the comprehension of any person of ordinary intelligence. We know of no work in English better adapted to afford Catholics whose opportunities of study have not been very great a clear and intelligent reason for the faith that is in them. The catechism, noticed at the head, in addition to the usual instruction, contains a short form of morning and evening prayers, instructions for confession, prayers at Mass and before and after communion, as well as a brief but useful summary of sacred history.

The Grammar-School Speller and Definer: Embracing graded lessons in spelling, definitions, pronunciation, and synonymes; proper names and geographical terms; a choice selection of sentences for dictation; and a condensed study of English etymology; also ecclesiastical terms, etc. By E. D. Farrell. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1877.

With the exception of Swinton’s, there is scarcely a speller in general circulation through the schools of this country which is worthy of the name. Whatever is valuable in many of them has been unscrupulously pilfered, directly or indirectly, from Sullivan’s Spelling-Book Superseded, the text-book used in the Irish national schools; and doubtless it is all the better for the pupils that it has been so. The present work possesses at least one merit: it is a brave departure from the well-beaten path of the plagiarist. Not that it is completely original; that is impossible; but it is as nearly so as is compatible with utility. It has strong marks of individuality in every page and lesson, and is evidently the production, not of a mere book-maker, but of an experienced instructor of youth, who has felt, in common with other teachers, the necessity of more thought in the conception, and system in the arrangement, of lessons in orthography.

We find, after a careful inspection, that the work contains information, not to be found in similar works, on Anglo-Saxon roots, ecclesiastical terms, noted names of fiction and of distinguished persons; words relating to various occupations and sciences, etc., all of which are strict essentials to a useful education. Miscellaneous words and definitions, Latin roots and English derivatives, 276and miscellaneous sentences for dictation occupy nearly half the volume, the remainder being distributed between twenty-six other subdivisions of the subject; and well-informed and competent teachers will say that such an apportionment of the space is right.

We have noticed what we consider a few imperfections, unimportant, doubtless, but needing emendation—viz., on page 33 this definition: “Assassinate, to attack and murder a person of importance.” Assassination is not necessarily restricted to persons of importance. The author also takes the trouble to correct such pronunciations as pī an´ o for pĭ ä´ no, thrissle for thistle, akrawst for across. Of what use is the teacher, if the book must attend to such matters? He also orders us, on page 114, not to pronounce ge-og jog in the words geography and geometry. There are pupils who pronounce these words joggraphy and jommetry, we know, and such is evidently the error against which he wishes to guard. These oversights, so prevalent in other spellers, are, fortunately, of rare occurrence in this, and a little careful revision will render the book still more worthy of the title, to which it has already such strong claims, of the model speller of the present day.

Missa de Beata Maria et Missa in Festis duplicibus, item in Dominicis Adventus et Quadragesimæ: uti in Graduali Romano et Ordinario Missæ, ab illustri Domino Frederico Pustet, S. Sedis Apost. typographo, “sub auspiciis SS. D. N. Pii IX., curante Sacr. Rit. Cong.” Cum permissu superiorum. Opus II. Published by the author, P. Ignatius Trueg, O.S.B., St. Vincent’s Abbey, Beatty P.O., Pa.

We heartily congratulate all who may be interested in the study or execution of Gregorian chant upon the production of this work. Within a very few years the study of the holy chant of St. Gregory has occupied the attention of church musicians both in Europe and America, and many notable efforts have been made to restore it to its rightful place in the sanctuary. In fact, there is a true revival and reformation of church music in progress.

One of the chief difficulties which presents itself to the ordinary modern musician who acts as choir-master or organist is the simple melodic form of the 277chant with its musical notation as it is printed in all authorized office-books. Unaccustomed to its tonality, he makes wretched work of the phrasing and accentuation, and his execution is like that of a schoolboy spelling his words before pronouncing them. Ignorant also of its modality, his attempts at harmony are more wretched still. Under the hands of such performers the chant becomes poor music, without expression, in the minor key.

Translations of the chant into modern notation harmonized with a view to giving some notion of the distinctive character of the various modes, are therefore a necessity for all who have not made such a thorough study of the chant as to enable them to read from the original notation and harmonize it at sight.

The present work of Rev. F. Trueg has been composed to supply this want, and will be found in many respects to be superior to the greater number of such translations hitherto published. It comprises the three masses of the Graduale Romanum as given in the Ratisbon edition—viz., for feasts of the Blessed Virgin, for double feasts, and for the Sundays in Advent and Lent, together with the responses at Mass. The harmonization is arranged in such a manner that it serves not only as an instrumental (organ or string quartette) accompaniment, but also, if so preferred, for a vocal execution in four parts without instrumental accompaniment. Some excellent remarks also accompany it by way of preface, explaining the notation employed, and giving some valuable hints as to the proper tempo to be observed.

We commend its careful study to organists and chanters, and trust that it may receive such patronage as to warrant the composer in completing his design of publishing the entire Graduale and Antiphonarium in the same form.

Blanche Carey; or, Scenes in Many Lands. By Patricia. New York: P. O’Shea. 1877.

“Blanche Carey was a charming girl of twenty-two summers, beautiful and accomplished. She had just completed her education at a fashionable boarding-school, and was gifted with those graces which constitute the true characteristics of woman. She was the admired of all who knew her, the pride of the family circle, the delight of society, unrivalled 278in intellectual attainments. If we add to these beauty and grace of form, the picture is complete.”

Phew! And we are only at the first page. What is one to say of so oppressively perfect a heroine? But “the picture” is not “complete” yet; for in the second page the inventory of her qualities and accomplishments is continued in this thrilling style: “The harp she fingered with unrivalled skill; the piano keys she swept like a whirlwind” (good gracious!), “while she executed on the guitar with no less grace and finish.” We are slightly at a loss to understand whether or not this highly-accomplished young lady performed all these startling feats at once, as the author would seem to imply. The picture of a girl “fingering” the harp with unrivalled skill, “sweeping” the piano-keys “like a whirlwind,” while she “executes” on the guitar “with no less grace and finish” than a whirlwind presumably, is something that certainly possesses the merit of novelty. “Finding that she was already proficient in music, she did not wish to devote further time to painting”—why, we do not know. However, “it’s of no consequence,” as Mr. Toots would say.

Blanche goes to Rome and sees the Holy Father, who “was quite affable” to her, she assures us. Here is one of the “Scenes in Many Lands”:

“Our Irish tourists” (Blanche and her grandfather, a Mr. O’Rourke) “had already made quite a sojourn in Italy, and to the old gentleman’s astonishment, as he entered the coffee-room with his granddaughter leaning on his arm, both apparently fatigued after a long drive in the suburbs” (we are at a loss to understand whether the writer means by “suburbs” the suburbs of Italy or the suburbs of the coffee-room), “they observed a young man of prepossessing appearance seated at an opposite table, gazing at them very earnestly. His travelling companions were two ladies. One of them, though by no means elderly, might be taken for his mother; the other young and somewhat coquettish in manner—evidently his sister from the striking resemblance she bore him. All denoted the air of the Parisian.

“‘That gentleman must be going to make our acquaintance,’ said Blanche. ‘He must, I imagine, be dying to know us. All three are looking at us. I know 279they are French by the way they drink wine.’

“The party in question rose to adjourn to their apartments. As they left the room, Frank Mortimer—for such was his name—glanced several times at Blanche. She, of course, not condescending to notice the supposed curiosity, evaded it.”

Artful yet discreet Blanche! Of course she makes his acquaintance in the next page—we have only reached page 6 yet, so that it will be seen events move rapidly—and here is how she makes it:

“Having waited for some moments in the pretty boudoir, looking out on a veranda of orange-trees not yet in blossom” (we copy verbatim), “Blanche was humming one of her favorite airs, ‘Beautiful Isle of the Sea,’ which she imperceptibly changed to ‘Let each man learn to know himself.’ Frank entered on the words, and seemed slightly confused for an instant, but, quickly recovering his composure, he addressed his visitors with the ease and grace of a debonair.”

“May we not hope to meet ye in Paris?” is one of the questions put by the easy and graceful “debonair” to his visitors. He falls in love with Blanche, of course, though he confesses that he “almost fell in love once with a lady from South America,” and no wonder. “She was a most perfect creature in face and form; that delicate cast of countenance with an exquisite profile; hair that might be called golden, coiled on the tip of her head.”

The parting at the end of the first chapter, between Blanche and Frank, is not altogether as poetical as it might have been made. The train whistle interferes with it considerably. “A whistle, and all was confusion; everybody astir to get on board. A second one, and Frank started to take leave. He tried to speak, but it was impossible. His face quivered with emotion. He pressed the hand of Blanche in silence, and, darting out of the carriage, he encountered Mr. O’Rourke at the door. Bidding him a hasty farewell, he was soon lost in the crowd. ‘What a fool I am!’ he thought, ‘but I am human nature. Yet is it not a weakness to bow to its dictates? Should I ever meet that gifted creature again, I will tell her all....’ He wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead, and, with a sigh, tried to forget his misery.”

280What a fool he was indeed! Yet he said one sensible thing: “‘Oh!’ said Blanche, laughing, ‘am I not a favored child of fortune? When I go home I shall write a novel or some work of fiction.’

“Frank Mortimer smiled as the words fell from her lips. ‘Heaven save you,’ he said, ‘from such a fate!’”

Frank’s prayer was not heard, seemingly, and the result, we suppose, is Blanche Carey. We have not got beyond the first chapter of this fascinating “work of fiction,” and we are not likely to get beyond it. The reader may easily judge of its attractions by the extracts given, which were positively too tempting to pass by.

The Letters of Rev. James Maher, D.D., late P.P. of Carlow-Graigue, on Religious Subjects. With a memoir. Edited by the Rt. Rev. Patrick Francis Moran, D.D., Bishop of Ossory. Dublin: Browne & Nolan. 1877.

Seldom do we have an opportunity to welcome the appearance of so valuable a book as this, which is the embodiment of those sentiments, views, and convictions that distinguish the modern Irish priest. Few men loved his religion and his native land with a more intense fervor than Father Maher. This double love nourished his frame, increased his strength, stimulated his thoughts, nerved his heart, and underlay every thought and action of his life. He was a man who simply delighted in every opportunity of saying a word or doing a deed in behalf of his creed or his country. As a controversialist his enthusiasm made him almost bitter, but with that bitterness which is born of zeal for the truth. A man of stalwart frame and magnificent proportions, he exercised a magnetic influence over his listeners by his presence alone. Throughout the entire range of controversial literature it would be hard to find anything equal to his scathing arraignment of Archbishop Whately apropos of the Nunnery Inspection bill: “I have myself,” he writes, “two sisters and eighteen nieces who, following the call of Heaven, have selected the religious life. Some of them are in convents in England, some in Ireland, some in America; all engaged in the noble service of forming the tender minds of the children of the poor to virtue, for whose sake and the sake of their Father in heaven they most 281willingly surrendered in the morning of life all earthly prospects. I well remember what they were under the paternal roof. I know what they are in the cloister. I have never lost sight of them; and as to their happiness, to which I could not be indifferent, I have only to affirm, which I do most solemnly, that I have never known people more happy, more joyous, more light-hearted, or with such buoyant hopes as good religieuses. Their character, my lord, is unknown and will remain a mystery to that world for which Christ refused to pray.” These are the brave words of one of the most conspicuous champions of religious freedom, and one of the most determined antagonists of the smelling committee who strove to insult the purest and noblest of women. His spirit is not dead among his confrères in the Irish vineyard, for Cardinal Cullen, the nephew of Father Maher, and the distinguished prelate who has given these inestimable letters to the world—a near relative of the great priest—lives to represent every feeling and pulse of his heart.

Specialists and Specialties in Medicine. Address delivered before the Alumni Association of the Medical Department of the University of Vermont. Burlington. 1876.

This address of Dr. Henry, though unpretending in form, is exceedingly well timed and full of suggestiveness. The doctor evidently belongs to the conservative class of his profession, who long for the day when eminent respectability, which is the escutcheon of the medical man in European countries, will be fairly won and worn by every one who subscribes M.D. to his name. As a consequence, he is the bitter enemy of every form of quackery and undue pretentiousness. He certainly handles soi-disant specialists without gloves, and gives the best of reasons why the community should rebel against their assumption of skill. Too many so-called specialists are men who have devoted their time and attention to a special branch of the profession while entirely neglecting the others. This is illogical and cannot be done. Medicine is a science whose parts are bound together as indissolubly as the stages of a reasoning process, and whoever imagines that he can master one department without a 282knowledge of the others simply follows the advice of Dogberry. We have oculists and aurists and gynœcologists without number who have no knowledge of general pathology. This is altogether wrong. The true raison d’être of a specialist is that, having profoundly studied the science of medicine, he finds that his natural aptitude or taste draws him to one branch of the profession rather than to others. In this manner only have the prominent and highly-reputed specialists in Europe and among ourselves won their fame and fortune. Dr. Henry, in a clear and trenchant style, demonstrates the absurdity of specialties, as such.

Mongrelism. By Watson F. Quinby M.D. Wilmington, Del.: James & Webb.

This curious monogram is worth perusing, if for no other reason than the fanciful and novel views which it presents. The author attributes many of our present social evils to mongrelism, or the admixture of distinct types of men. He finds in the Book of Revelation the foreshadowing of the natural distribution of men into white, red, and black, deeming the three similarly colored horses to be typical of those three branches of the human family, while the fourth horse, on which sat Death, he considers to be the emblem of mongrelia. He opposes J. J. Rousseau’s idea that man’s primitive condition was one of barbarism, and contends that historical and archæological discoveries prove rather a retrogression than an improvement. The Chinaman is Dr. Quinby’s ideal of a mongrel. In the land of flowers every art once flourished, learning was cultivated, the harpist filled the air with sweetest strains, and the poet sang delicious lays in the beautiful vale of Cashmere, till the bane of mongrelism fell on it and all progress ceased. Mexico and South America are other evidences of the pernicious influence of hybridism. The conclusions of the author are in many instances sound, but his reasoning is too fanciful to satisfy a sober-minded reader. His statement that the rapid influx of Chinese into our midst is fraught with mighty perils is well worth pondering over, and no true statesman will shun the serious consideration of this knotty problem.

283Jack. From the French of Alphonse Daudet. By Mary Neal Sherwood, translator of Sidonie. Boston: Estes & Lauriat. 1877.

Another painful story by this gifted author. It is cleverly told and the treatment is highly artistic, showing all that careful finish that French writers bestow even on their smallest characters. The characters in this story are most of them wretched enough. Lovers of the real in fiction will find them realistic enough. There is a tone of hopelessness and helplessness in Jack, as in Sidonie, that is very disheartening. According to M. Daudet, a relentless Fate would seem to clutch some miserable mortals, and hold them till death came as a happy release. “The mother cried in a tone of horror, ‘Dead’?” “No,” said old Rivals; “no—delivered,” are the last lines of Jack.

There is much truth and also much untruth in the lesson of the book. Social surroundings, of course, influence very materially the growth, physical and moral, of lives. But they are not everything; over and above them all is a man’s own will, and that is the true lever of his life. “Jack” only needed a little more resolution and nerve to have made him a very useful member of society instead of a nincompoop. As in Sidonie, so here, the minor characters are to us the most interesting. The humor in Jack is unfortunately less in quantity and more sardonic in quality than in Sidonie. We suppose it is hopeless to expect M. Daudet to look for once at the brighter side of life and find his heroes and heroines among respectable people. Meanwhile, we give him all praise as a very powerful artist, though a very unpleasing one. He is fortunate in his American translator.

McGee’s Illustrated Weekly: Devoted to Catholic Art, Literature, and Education. Vol. I. New York: J. A. McGee, Publisher. 1877.

An illustrated Catholic weekly journal, which should successfully compete in point of illustration and literary workmanship with the numerous non-Catholic and anti-Catholic—we had almost said diabolic—journals that are so abundant to-day, was something greatly needed in this country. Various attempts have been made in the past to establish such a journal. They were so many failures. The volume 284which forms the subject of the present notice is certainly the most successful we have yet seen here, and we have great hopes that, with an increased patronage, which it certainly deserves, it may be all we could wish it to be. It has advanced very much, both in style of illustration, in selection of subjects, and above all in editorial character and ability on its own earlier numbers.

The publisher has had the good fortune as well as the good sense to secure a really able editor in Col. James E. McGee, who, in addition to being an excellent writer, possesses that sound journalistic sense and judgment without which the very best matter is simply wasted in a publication of this kind. Most of the illustrated journals of the day are so much mental and moral poison, and the deadliest are those that are most generally liked and enjoy the widest circulation. To furnish an antidote to this bane is a good as well as a bold work, which deserves well of Catholics everywhere. We most heartily wish continued success to the new venture.

The Bible of Humanity. By Jules Michelet. Translated from the French by Vincenzo Calfa. With a new and complete index. New York: J. W. Bouton. 1877.

This is a translation of what may be called a sensational romance by Jules Michelet, founded on the earliest records of various races of the human family, including the Old and the New Testament. The author runs riot amidst these ancient documents; and his disordered imagination misinterprets them unscrupulously, denies boldly what does not answer his purpose, and invents at pleasure, until in the end nothing is left on the mind of the reader except the impression of a defying, scoffing, and voluptuous disciple of M. Voltaire—Jules Michelet.

The translation is in good English; we have no reason to think it is not faithfully done.

The Poetical and Prose Writings of Charles Sprague. New edition. With a portrait and a biographical sketch. Boston: A. Williams & Co. 1876.

Mr. Sprague’s writings, whether in prose or poetry, are of that kind, we fear, that are not destined to live long in 285men’s memories, however much immediate interest and attention they may excite at the time of their publication. His verse was smooth enough and sweet enough as a rule, with little or nothing in it to jar on sensitive feelings, and little or nothing in it also to rouse feeling of any kind. The present edition is handsomely brought out.

Annals of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart. Monthly bulletin of the Archconfraternity of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, published with the approbation of Rt. Rev. Edgar P. Wadhams, Bishop of Ogdensburg. Printed for the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart, by Chas. E. Holbrook, Watertown, N. Y.

We have received the first number of this little publication, the object of which is best set forth in the words of the dedication “to the clergy, religious communities, colleges, institutions of learning, and Catholic societies of America.” “The Missionaries of the Sacred Heart of Jesus established at Watertown earnestly recommend to the zeal of Catholics the monthly publication entitled Annals of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart. Its object is to make known and to propagate in America, and in the English possessions, the admirable devotion to Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, and, through Mary, to lead souls to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.” The publication begins with the June number.

The Catholic Parents’ Friend. Devoted to the cause of Catholic education. Edited monthly by M. Wallrath, pastor of the Church of the Immaculate Conception, Colusa, California. Numbers for May, June, and July, 1877.

We think this little publication may do great good to the cause of Catholic education. We trust it may have an extensive patronage. A little more timeliness and brevity in the articles, and a more pointed and direct application of them to matters moving around us here at home, would add greatly to the value and interest of so excellently conceived a work.

We have received from the Catholic Publication Society Co. advance sheets of Cardinal Manning’s latest volume, reprinted from the English plates, which were specially furnished to this house 286by the English publishers. It is impossible at so short a notice to deal fitly with a work by so eminent an author, and touching on a variety of subjects, each one of which is timely and important. Some indication of the value of the volume may be gathered from the titles of the various papers: “The Work and Wants of the Catholic Church in England”; “Cardinal Wiseman”; “French Infidelity”; “Ireland”; “On Progress”; “The Dignity and Rights of Labor”; “The Church of Rome”; “Cæsarism and Ultramontanism”; “Ultramontanism and Christianity”; “The Pope and Magna Charta”; “Philosophy without Assumptions,” etc., etc.

Saint Elizabeth, Queen of Hungary. By the author of Life in a Cloister, etc.

Hortense: an Historical Romance. Translated from the French. By R. J. Halm. Kelly, Piet & Co., Baltimore.

The Crown of Heaven, the Supreme Object of Christian Hope. From the German of Rev. John N. Stöger, S.J. By Rev. M. Nash, S.J. P. O’Shea, New York.

Selections from the Imitation of Christ. Selections from the Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. Roberts Bros., Boston.

Strength and Calculation of Dimensions of Iron and Steel Constructions, with reference to the latest Experiments. Translated from the German of J. J. Weyrauch, Ph.D., Prof. Polytechnic School of Stuttgart. D. Van Nostrand, New York.

Ten Years of My Life. By the Princess Felix Salm-Salm. R. Worthington, New York.

The Forty-seventh Annual Report of the Inspectors of the State Penitentiary for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, for the year 1876. Sherman & Co., Philadelphia.

Sixth Annual Report of the Woman’s Baptist Missionary Societies. With the Proceedings of the Annual Meetings. Rand, Avery & Co., Boston.

Ninth Annual Report of the Clarke Institution for Deaf Mutes at Northampton, Mass., for the year ending September 1, 1876.

On the Value and Culture of Roots for Stock Feeding. By David Landreth & Sons. McCalla & Stavely, Philadelphia.

Final Announcement of the Woodruff Scientific Expedition around the World. Indianapolis Journal Co., Indianapolis.

Annals of the Catholic Indian Missions of America. Bureau of Catholic Indian Missions, Washington, D. C.

Indulgences Apostoliques, ou Indulgences Applicables aux Vivants et aux Defunts. Que le Saint Père Pie IX. attache aux Rosaires, Chapelets, Croix, etc., qui en ont obtenu le pouvoir approuvé par l’autorité compétente. Rome: Libreria di Roma.

I.—THE NEW-ENGLANDER.

This pamphlet^[17] of ninety-five pages gives an account of the last annual meeting in Boston of the “Free-Religious Association, its object being to promote the practical interests of pure religion, to increase fellowship in spirit, and to encourage the scientific study of man’s religious nature and history.” Associations of this kind seem to be necessary as safety-valves to a certain class of men and women, chiefly found in New England, who, especially in matters of religion, are in a state of effervescence, and feel the pressing need at times of publicly delivering themselves of such thoughts as come uppermost in their minds on this and kindred subjects. The phenomenon is a peculiar one, and perhaps in no other country could such a variety of odd spirits as are usually found in these assemblies be convoked. Their proceedings are full of interest to the student of religion and 288the mental philosopher, no less than to the observer of the phases of religious development of some of the most active thinkers of this section of our country.

The American mind at bottom is serious, clings with deathless tenacity to a religion of some sort; and of none is this more characteristic than of the descendants of the Puritan Fathers. The children of the Puritans may be eccentric, at times fanatical, and inclined to thrust their religious, social, political, and even dietetical notions upon others; but they are men and women who think; they are restless until they have gained a religious belief, and are marked with earnestness of some sort, energy, and practical skill. The Puritan race is a thinking, religious, and an aggressive race of men and women. Whatever he may be, there is always in a genuine Puritan a great deal of positive human nature. Let him be under error, and his teeming brain will breed countless crotchets, any one of which he will maintain with the bitterest fanaticism, and, if placed in power, will impose it upon others with a ruthless intolerance.

289Give him truth, and you have an enlightened faith, indomitable zeal, and not a few of the elements which go to make up an apostle. The main qualities which distinguish the typical New-Englander, though not altogether the most attractive, are nevertheless not the meanest in human nature, and we candidly confess, though not a drop of Puritan blood runs in our veins, that we have but few dislikes, while we entertain many feelings of sincere respect, for the New England type of man. It is, therefore, with special interest that we read whatever offers an insight into the workings of the minds of so large, influential, and important a class of the American people.

II.—WHAT IS THE FREE-RELIGIONIST MOVEMENT.

The Unitarian Association did not go far enough and fast enough to suit the temper of a class of its more radical and ardent members; hence the existence of the separate organization of “The Free-Religious Association.” The movement of the free-religionists may be said to spring from a laudable desire to get rid in the speediest way possible of the spurious Christianity which was imposed upon them by their forefathers as genuine Christianity and pure religion.

Suppose they have accomplished this laborious task of purification, what then? Have they found wherewith “to yield the religious sentiment reasonable satisfaction,” which Mr. Tyndall says “is the problem of problems at this hour”? By no means; this discovery is quite another affair.

They have only reached its starting-point. 290Let them begin their search, and investigate every form or scheme of religion that has existed among men from the beginning of the human race; let them speculate on these to their hearts’ content, and indulge in the fancy that they have a mission to invent or construct a new religion—and what then? Why, they will find, at the end of all their earnest efforts, that there are, and especially for those who have been under the light and quickening influences of Christianity, but two possible movements, one a continuous curve and the other a tangent. One or the other of these lines they will be inevitably forced to take. If they pursue the first and push their premises to their logical consequences, they will, if intelligent and consistent, be led at some point into the circle of the Catholic Church; if they follow the latter, and have the courage of their opinions, they will declare themselves first infidels and then atheists. The fact is becoming daily more and more plain to intelligent and fearlessly honest men that there is no logical standing ground, we do not say between Catholicity and atheism—for atheism has no logical standing position whatever—but that there is no logical standing ground at all outside of Catholicity. For Catholicity professes to be, and has ever maintained that it is, the most perfect manifestation to men of the supreme divine Reason, and to reject the truths which it sets before human reason with the convincing evidence of their divine origin necessarily involves the denial of human reason itself; consequently, human reason inevitably falls, in the end, with the rejection of Catholicity. A man may reject Protestantism and claim human 291reason; nay, he is bound to repudiate Protestantism, if he holds to human reason, for the doctrine of “total depravity” taught by orthodox Protestant sects undermines altogether the value of human reason.^[18] But Catholicity appeals confidently to human reason for its firm support, since its entire structure is based upon the infallibility of human reason in its sphere, and the irrefragable certitude of its great primary truths. The interdependent relations, therefore, existing between reason and Catholicity are essential, and they stand or fall together. The way that Dr. Holmes has put this question is not, we beg his pardon, the right way; he says: “Rome or Reason?” He should have said: Rome and Reason.

There can be no rational belief in God, in the immortality of the soul, in human responsibility as against Christianity, as there can be no rational belief in Christianity as against Catholicity. Outside of the Catholic Church there is only nihilism.

III.—THE DRIFTS OF FREE-RELIGIONISM.

It would be difficult to predict the precise course of these “come-outers” of the latest date, called free-religionists. Some will probably stop after having repudiated Protestantism, rest upon the truths of reason, and, without inquiring further, vainly try to satisfy, with a species of theism, the great aspirations and deep needs of their souls; eventually they may fall back on old Unitarianism. Others will venture to examine, as some before them have done, the claims of the Catholic Church, and finding that 292these are founded on human reason, that her doctrines perfect the truths of human reason, and that she alone is adequate to satisfy all the wants of the human heart, will become in the course of time Catholics, and save their souls—that is, reach their high destiny. Another section will, during, perhaps, their whole lives, seriously amuse themselves with the study of Brahminism, Buddhism, and every other kind of outlandish religion—not a vain intellectual amusement, except when associated with the absurd idea of concocting a new religion. While the larger section, we fear, will follow the tangent and end in nihilism. For although the main drift of the religious world outside of the Catholic Church, especially in the United States, is towards naturalism; although the face of each free-religionist looks in a somewhat different way, yet the actual movement of the greatest number of these Unitarian dissenters is apparently in the direction of zero.

Precisely where the president of the Free-Religious Association stands, to what definite truths he assents as undeniable, and what convictions he holds as settled, is not to be gathered from any of his sermons, tracts, speeches, and several published books. He seems to be laboring under the impression that he has a mission to bring forth a new religion, but thus far he or his associates in this illusive idea have given to the world no new word in religion, or in morals, or in philosophy, or in politics, or in social life, or in art, or in science, or in method, or in anything else scibile. Mr. William R. Alger has ventured to predict to his free-religionist brethren in their last annual gathering a new incarnation and its 293gospel, in which we fail to see anything new or important, if true. “The spirit of science,” such are the words of his prophecy, “enriched with the spirit of piety, is the avatar of the new Messiah.”

Francis Ellswood Abbot, a conspicuous member of the Free-Religious Association, as well as one of its active directors and the editor of the Index, a weekly journal which is in some sort the organ of the free-religious movement, has, among other notable things, come to the front and publicly impeached Christianity. His indictment contains five counts against the Christian religion: “human intelligence, human virtue, the human heart, human freedom, and humanitarian religion.”^[19] Here are his charges: “Christianity,” he says, “no longer proclaims the highest truths, inculcates the purest ethics, breathes the noblest spirit, stimulates to the grandest life, holds up to the soul and to society the loftiest ideal of that which ought to be.”^[20] But this is neither new nor original; for what is the Christianity which Mr. Abbot so boldly impeaches? Why, in all its main features it is that disfigurement of Christianity which he has inherited from his Calvinistic progenitors, and which the Council of Trent impeached, and for the most part on the very same grounds as he does, more than three centuries ago; so that in each of his articles of impeachment every Catholic to-day will heartily join, and to each of his charges say: Amen; Anathema sit!

What is surprising to Catholics is that there should be intelligent and educated men living in this enlightened nineteenth century who have found out that Calvinism is 294false, and have not yet discovered in the intellectual environment of Boston that Calvinism is not Christianity. “They do not attack the Catholic Church,” said Daniel O’Connell, in speaking of a similar class of men, “but a monster which they have created and called the Catholic Church.”

But Mr. Abbot is not of the men who are content to rest in mere negation. In a lecture delivered by him in a course under the auspices of the Free-Religious Association, entitled A Study of Religion, after much preliminary discourse, he gives with the heading, “The New Conception of Religion,” the following definition of religion: “Religion,” he says, “is the effort of man to perfect himself.”^[21] Now, what is the origin of “man’s effort to perfect himself”? “Religion,” he affirms, “appears in its universal aspect as the decree of Nature that her own end shall be achieved. Religion is the inward impulsion of Nature, seconded by the conscious effort of the individual to conform to it,” etc.^[22]

What Mr. Abbot calls “nature” and “ideal excellence in all directions” is what the common sense of mankind has named God. Mr. Abbot has no objection to the same name; only he insists that the idea of God, which is very proper, should be submitted “to the educated intelligence of the human race.”^[23] “It is,” he says, “because I do believe in God that I am willing to submit my belief in him to the sharpest and most searching scrutiny of science.”^[24]

Now, Mr. Abbot admits that if you once concede the Messianic claim of Christ, “then it is true that Catholicism is itself Christianity 295in its most perfect form.”^[25] He therefore stops virtually in his analysis of religion at the idea of God, and, if he believed in the Divinity of Christ and did not eschew logic, he would have to embrace Catholicity. Mr. Abbot, like many Unitarians, agrees on this point with P. J. Proudhon, but with this difference: the Frenchman recedes a step, and maintains that “outside of Christianity there is no God, no religion, no faith, no theology.... The church believes in God, and believes in God more faithfully and more perfectly than any sect. The church is the purest, most perfect, and most enlightened revelation of the divine Being, and none other understands what is worship. From a religious stand-point the Catholicism of the Latin peoples is the best, the most rational, and the most perfect. Rome, in spite of her repeated and frightful falls, remains the only legitimate church.” Hence Proudhon and those of his school lay it down as a sine qua non that the elimination of the idea of God, and of all obligation to any divine law, is the condition of all true progress. From this we may draw the conclusion that Francis E. Abbot is on the curve line, and, if he follows out his definition of religion to its logical consequences, he will surely land, whatever may be the sweep of his continuous curve, in the bosom of the Catholic Church. There is no escape from this ultimate result, if reason is to rule, except by hastily taking the back track, and starting on the tangent, and eventually plunging with Proudhon into the dark abyss of nihilism. Hence every sagacious straight-line radical cannot but look upon the platform of the editor of the Index as 296the jumping-off place into popery for all consistent theists. That this is not meant as pleasantry, but is written in downright earnestness, we quote the conclusion of his lecture on A Study of Religion, and preface it by saying that the language with which he urges his definition of religion on his hearers finds in every word an echo in the hearts of all sincere and instructed Catholics, and receives their full endorsement.

“I speak now,” he says, “as one who believes in religion, thus conceived, from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head, without apology either for the name or the thing, and without the smallest concession to the prejudice that assails either the one or the other. To-day I speak only to the large in heart and broad in mind—to those who must accept science and would fain accept religion too. To these I say that science itself would lose its fearless love of truth, were it not that religion fed its secret springs; that social reform would lose its motive and inspiration, literature and art their beauty, and all human life its sweetest and tenderest grace, did not religion evermore create the insatiable hunger after perfection in the soul of man. Bright, cheerful, ennobling, stimulating, emancipating, religion is the greatest friend of humanity, ever guiding it upward and onward to the right and the true; ay, and to all we yearn for, if, as we believe, the right and the true are indeed the pathway to God.”

But not all free-religionists are gifted with so deep, intelligent, and healthy an appreciation of the essence of religion as Francis E. Abbot, who leaves nothing at present to be desired but the courage of his convictions—proficiat!

There is, however, in the Christian Inquirer a revelation made by William Ellery Channing, a distinguished nephew of the celebrated Dr. Channing, which tells quite another story. It appears by this article that the president of the Free Religious 297Association, O. B. Frothingham, had attributed to Mr. Channing, one of the speakers in the tenth annual assembly, a “poetic Christianity,” a “religion in the air,” an “up-in-a-balloon” religion, and in reply to this accusation he draws from nature the following unattractive personal portraits:

“Let me,” says Mr. Channing, “make a clean breast of it to you before all onlookers. What you mean by the ‘rumors’ that I had become ‘ecclesiastical in tastes and opinions’ I can but conjecture. But the simple facts are in brief these: You remember how seven years ago, on the public platform, and in the reunions of the Free-Religionists in dear John Sargent’s hospitable rooms, and in private ‘confabs’ with yourself, and W. J. Potter, and S. Longfellow, and S. Johnson, and J. Weiss, and T. W. Higginson, and D. A. Wasson, and F. E. Abbot, etc., I tried to preach my gospel, that the vital centre of free religious union is the life of God in man as made gloriously manifest in Jesus the Christ. And you remember, too, how around that centre I illustrated the historic fact that the great religions of our race arranged themselves in orderly groups. For nearly a year I opened my heart and mind to the free-religionists and liberal Christians, without a veil to hide my inmost holy of holies. But shall I tell you, my friend, that when I bade you all farewell, in the summer of 1870, it was with sad forebodings? And why? The story, too long to tell in full, ran thus: One, in his wish to be bathed in the sense of ever-present Deity, had ceased to commune with the Spirit of spirits in prayer. Another, in his repulsion from imprisoning anthropomorphism, had abandoned all conceptions of a personal God, and so lost the Father. A third, in his historic purpose to lead a heavenly-human life, here and now, gave up the hope of immortal existence, as a sailor might turn from contemplating the cloud-palaces of sunset to pull the tarry cordage and spread the coarse canvas of his ship. And, saddest of all, a fourth, in his bold purpose to be spontaneous in every impulse and emotion, spurned the motherly monitions of duty so sternly that conscience 298even seemed driven to return to heaven, like ‘Astræa Redux.’ In brief, one felt as if the liberal college of all religions in council with pantheism, agnosticism, and atheistic materialism was destined to fall flat to dust in a confused chaos of most commonplace spiritual ‘know-nothingism.’ Such was my disheartening vision of the near future for dearly-loved compeers. And a darker valley of ‘devastation,’ as our Swedenborgian friends say, than I was driven into I have never traversed.”

But Mr. Channing goes further; he shows that he has studied the religious philosophers of antiquity to some purpose, seized their true meaning and real drift, and in touching language takes his readers into his confidence, offering to them an insight into his present relations to Christianity.

The following remarkable paragraph possesses a thrilling interest for Catholics; and if it affects others as it has the present writer on reading it, they will not fail to offer up an aspiration to Him who has given such graces to the soul of the man who penned it—and doubtless to others among the free-religionists—that he will render their faith explicit and perfect it.

“Once again,” he says, “I sought comfort with the blessed company of sages and saints of the Orient and Hellas—with Lao-Tsee and Kung Fu-Tsee; with the writers of the Bhagava-Geeta and the Dhamma-Bada; of the hymns of ancient Avesta and the modern sayings and songs of the Sufis; with radiant Plato and heroic Epictetus, etc., etc. Once more they refreshed and reinspirited me as of old. But they did something better: hand in hand they brought me up to the white marble steps, and the crystal baptismal font, and the bread and wine-crowned communion-table—ay, to the cross in the chancel of the Christian temple—and, as they laid their hands in benediction on my head, they whispered: ‘Here is your real home. We have been but your guides in the desert to lead you to fellowship with the Father and his 299Son in the spirit of holy humanity. Peace be with you.’ And so, my brother, once again, and with a purer, profounder, tenderer love than ever, like a little child, I kissed the blood-stained feet and hands and side of the Hero of Calvary, and laid my hand on the knees of the gentlest of martyrs, and was uplifted by the embracing arms of the gracious elder Brother, and in his kiss of mingled pity and pardon found the peace I sought, and became a Christian in experience, as through a long life I had hoped and prayed to be. Depend upon it, dear Frothingham, there is on this small earth-ball no reality more real than this central communion with God in Christ, of which the saints of all ages in the church universal bear witness.”

IV.—THE MEETING.

But we have wandered off somewhat from our present point, which is the proceedings of “the tenth annual meeting” of the free-religionists in Boston. What is singularly remarkable among so intellectual and cultivated a class of men as assemble at these gatherings, and especially among its select speakers and essayists, is that they should display so great a lack of true knowledge of the Catholic Church. If the Catholic Church is not worthy of serious study, then why make it a subject for speeches and essays in so important an assembly? But if it be worthy of so much attention, why not give it that investigation which its significance demands? We dare not say that the leaders among the free-religionists are not intelligent men, that they have not read considerably. But when they charge the Catholic Church with heresies which she has condemned; when they attribute to her doctrine which she always has detested and does detest; and when they blacken her with stale and oft-refuted calumnies, and recklessly traduce her dearest and best, her holiest children, we dare not trust 300ourselves to give expression to what comes uppermost in our thoughts. Shakspeare gives good advice in this matter:

We recommend this to the consideration of our free-religionists. It will do them “no hurt” to show more of this virtue when speaking of the Catholic Church. It becomes those who talk so much about science to talk a little less about it, and, when the Catholic religion is concerned, to give more evidence of scientific study. Especially does this course become men who claim to be public teachers belonging to a body whose object is “to encourage the scientific study of man’s religious nature and history.”

The first essay, delivered by William R. Alger, entitled Steps towards Religious Emancipation in Christendom, and published in their tenth annual report, will serve to illustrate our meaning. Mr. Alger is a scholar of repute, a man who has travelled abroad, written and published several books displaying extensive reading, refined tastes, and high literary culture. He is, moreover, a distinguished minister of the Unitarian denomination. His essay, we have reason to believe, was prepared with the usual care bestowed upon such papers; for the president of the association, in introducing the author, said: “The discussion will be opened by an essay by Mr. William R. Alger, of New York, who has made this matter in its historical aspects the study of years, and is carefully prepared to present the result of his deepest thought and investigation.”^[26]

301In its fourth paragraph the essay proposes to give a rough sketch of the “doctrinal thought” on which in mediæval times the “intellectual unity” of the church rested. Our limits will not allow us to quote it entire, but it is enough for our purpose to say—and we weigh our words before putting them on paper—that scarcely any one sentence of this paragraph contains a correct statement of the “doctrinal thought” of the Catholic Church either in the middle ages or in any other age.

Here are some of the statements: “The whole human race, descended from Adam, who lived five thousand years before,” etc. Mr. Alger would convey new information to the readers of The Catholic World, if he would give his authorities for this assertion. Thus far, if our authorities do not deceive us, the Catholic Church has, in her wisdom, left the question of the date of man’s appearance upon this earth to the discussion of chronologists and to the disputes among scientists.

Again: “The Bible, a mysterious book dictated by the Spirit of God, containing an infallible record of what is most important in this scheme of salvation, is withheld from the laity.” It would also increase the knowledge of our readers if the author had given his authorities to prove the above charge. The testimony of Catholics, if we be a judge, is precisely the contrary to this accusation. They entertain the conviction that it was the most earnest desire of the church in the period of which Mr. Alger is speaking to render the Bible accessible to all classes of men. Her monks devoted themselves to the severe manual labor of copying the Bible, and engaged in the noble toil of 302translating it into the vulgar tongues of various nations, that the people might become readers of the Bible. She exposed the Bible publicly in her libraries, and chained it to their walls by the windows, and to desks in her churches, in order that it might be read by everybody and not stolen. The charge is simply an old and oft-repeated calumny quite unworthy a man of reputed intelligence.

“The actual power or seal of salvation is made available to believers only through the sacraments of the church—confession, baptism, Mass, and penance—legally administered by her accredited representatives.” There is such an inextricable confusion pervading this statement that it is difficult to discern its meaning. No one, we venture to say, who had mastered the “doctrinal thought” of the church would have ever penned so distracted a sentence on so important a point. One would suppose that, according to Mr. Alger, there were two sacraments, one “confession” and the other “penance”; whereas every Catholic who has learned the little catechism knows that “confession,” the popular term, means, in the language of the church, the Sacrament of Penance. Then what is meant by “baptism legally administered by her accredited representatives”? This is not clear; but the whole statement is so confused in thought and tangled in expression that the only hope of understanding the author’s meaning is to give him an opportunity of trying again. It would be, among ourselves, interesting to read from non-Catholic authors the “doctrinal thought” of the church on what is essential to salvation and what is ordinarily necessary to salvation. It would also, we are inclined to 303think, clear up many of their misconceptions and do them no little good to have correct ideas on so important a matter.

“Those,” says Mr. Alger, “who humbly believe and observe these doctrines shall be saved; all others lost for ever.”

This sentence follows the preceding one, and the same confusion and error underlie both. When the ingenuous author of this essay has corrected the former sentence by reading up on the point involved, he will, as a matter of course, correct the error contained in the latter.

Passing now over several paragraphs containing many charges, we regret to say, in unusually bitter words, we come to the following: “The revival of the Greek learning, the study of the works of Plato, Aristotle, the classic poets, orators, and historians, with their beautiful and surprising revelations of genius, virtue, and piety, entirely independent and outside of the church and Bible, exerted an immense force in liberalizing and refining the narrow, dogmatic mind of the Christian world, refuting its arrogant pretensions to an exclusive communion with God and heritage in Providence.” If the cultivated writer of this essay had qualified the phrase “outside of the church” as I understand it, “exclusive communion” as I view it, this sentence might pass; but, as it stands, the position in which the Catholic Church is placed is entirely false, and we refer our readers to what is said on these points under the heading of “The Mission of the Latin Race,” commencing on page 5, in the last number of this magazine.

“Now the Pope,” says Mr. Alger, “excommunicates the emperor, sets up a rival, foments a rebellion 304among his subjects, or launches the terrible interdict on a whole nation, shutting the churches, muffling the bells, forbidding confession to the penitent, unction to the dying, burial to the dead.”^[27] Either the author has been imposed upon by his authorities, or perhaps he has not weighed sufficiently his words. The effect of an interdict of the Pope is inaccurately stated. These are “terrible” matters, and one who is reciting history should be careful and exact in his specifications. Here, as before, he is bound to give his authorities, and learned and credible ones, or change his language.

“The repeated gross contradictions of bishops, councils, and popes, their inconsistent decrees reversing or neutralizing each other, infallibility clashing with infallibility, begat irrepressible doubts.”^[28] This sentence may pass for a rhetorical flourish, but it involves a grave, a very grave, a most grave charge, and is backed up by no example, or proof, or relation of authorities! These cutting and slashing assertions where conscientious accuracy is required and sound scholarship ought to be displayed, place the intelligence and education of his Boston audience in no enviable light. Let us have some specimens of “infallibility clashing with infallibility” by all means:

“Luther sprang forth with one-third of Christendom in revolt at his back.... But the fundamental doctrines of the church scheme otherwise remained essentially as they had been, unchallenged.”^[29] What a pity that the theologians of the sixteenth century had not known that “the fundamental doctrines of the church scheme remained essentially” 305the same! The Council of Trent, if it had only understood this, might have saved its anathemas.

“After Luther, then, we see Christendom, with fundamental agreement of belief, differing, for the most part, only in affairs of polity and ritual, split into two bodies—those who rest their belief on the inspired authority of the church, and those who rest it on the inspired authority of the Bible.”^[30] Here again we have another fundamental erroneous idea of the church. “Inspired” authority is not what Catholics believe. This language shows poor theological training or a loose way of handling delicate and important points. But on this point we shall have more to say.

“Third,” says Mr. Alger, “a revolt of common sense against errors with which the teachings of church and Scripture were identified, but which, by the simple lapse of time, had been demonstrated to be false. For example, in the twentieth chapter of the Book of Revelations it is recorded: ‘And he laid hold of the dragon, that old serpent, which is the devil, and cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal on him that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand years should be fulfilled; after that he must be loosed a little season.’ This passage was thought to fix the date of the Day of Judgment. And as the time drew near the terror was profound. Throughout the generation preceding the year one thousand the pulpits of the Christian world rang with this frightful text and with awful descriptions of what it implied. The fear was as intense as the belief was general.”

Has not the author of this essay taken some romancer of history or some idle tale for his authority in the above charge? When and where did the church identify her teachings with this error? We 306grow uneasy in asking for authorities and examples; and when we are given an example of things which are said to have taken place eight hundred years or more ago, no authority is cited to authenticate the fact. The author may have given his hearers “the result of his deepest thought,” but he is too chary of the authorities for his “historical study of years.”

“The priests,” he tells us, “from the first hour scented this enemy from afar, and declared war against it [physical science], as the meaner portion of them still do everywhere. In the twelfth century the Council of Tours, in the thirteenth century the Council of Paris, interdicted to monks the reading of works on physical science as sinful.”^[31] We retract having said that Mr. Alger cites no authorities; he does in the above accusation, but fails to quote the decrees or give their language, or tell what kind of councils these were and what their weight. We feel suspicious, and have grounds for this feeling, and we demand more definite proofs. The charge is precise; let the proofs be equally so. Let us have the authentic decrees and ipsissima verba. This is asking only fair play. It would not be pleasant to find this accusation, on serious investigation, a misconception, or a misinterpretation, or perhaps an invented calumny, but not by our author. We take real pleasure in finding a point in which we agree with him. Here is one: they are the “meaner portion,” if there be such “priests,” who “war against” the study of “the physical sciences.” We know of priests who are devoted to the study of the physical sciences, and some who are distinguished in these 307studies; but we have no acquaintance with the “meaner portion” who have “declared war against physical science.” Perhaps Mr. Alger has, and, if so, he will inform us who they are.

“Ethnology,” he asserts, “multiplies the actors in its drama [that of history], and takes the keystone from the arch of the church theology by disproving the inheritance of total depravity from one progenitor of all men.”^[32] Here the author shares the error in common with almost all, if not all, Unitarians and free-religionists. They seem not to be able to grasp the idea that the Catholic Church, in the œcumenical Council of Trent, condemned the doctrines of Protestantism concerning original sin; and, whatever may be said to the contrary, the Catholic Church never goes back on her authoritative decisions. Mr. Alger well says that the doctrine of original sin is “the keystone of the arch of theology”; so much the more reason, therefore, that there should be no mistake on a point which shapes theology almost entirely. And if he and his brethren, free-religionists and Unitarians, could be got to understand and acknowledge that the Catholic Church has condemned the doctrines of Protestantism on original sin, as well as “the five points of Calvinism”—for they go together—then there would be some hope that the gross error of identifying Catholicity and Protestantism as “fundamentally and essentially the same” on this most important subject would be corrected. The error is an egregious one, which is constantly appearing in their addresses, sermons, tracts, essays, books, weekly papers, and journals, and with that error a 308thousand dependent errors would disappear. But, alas! we fear that we shall have to regard this as hopeless, and resign ourselves, for the present generation at least, to placing this, with other radical errors, among the points of “invincible ignorance”! May we just here be allowed, without being stigmatized as one of the “meaner portion” of the priesthood, to put in a humble demurrer to the unsustained assertion that “ethnology” has “disproven” “one progenitor of all men”?

If the reader is weary of following up with us this labyrinth of error in this not very long essay, he will pity the present writer; for he has not touched upon one-tenth of the errors which the same short essay holds. We have been careful, too, to be silent on language which might have come from Exeter Hall ranters or from the late Dr. Brownlee, a notorious anti-popery lecturer of former days. Indeed, we can scarcely allow ourselves the freedom of expressing our feelings of indignation at reading such language coming from men who have a reputation for polite culture. “Men,” we say; for at the close of its delivery Mr. Alger’s essay was endorsed by the president of the association as “the admirable essay by Mr. Alger, at once a history and an argument, a summary of facts and also a summary of apprehensions and suggestions, etc.”^[33] Another speaker pronounced it a “most magnificent and masterly essay.”^[34] We are not over-sensitive in matters of this kind, and before concluding our remarks we give a specimen of the language and spirit of the “most magnificent and masterly essay.”

“Few men,” says our estimable writer, “duly feel what a debt the nineteenth century owes to the illustrious founders and cultivators of science, Aristotle, Archimedes, Kepler, Newton, and the hundreds of lesser lights in many departments. What a beneficent and herculean task they have accomplished in breaking the chains of false authority, opening the dungeons of superstition, removing the incubus of religious terror! Their sunlit and open-air minds, in harmonious working connection with nature and their race, have done much to dispel the baneful power of a celibate church, the cloistered and mephitic minds of monks and hermits, introspective dreamers, tyrannical theorizers, who, set apart from the living interests of men, had woven over Christianity a horrid web of diseased logic spun out of the entrails of their own morbid brains.”

Let free-religionists honor Aristotle, Archimedes, Kepler, Newton, and other great masters in natural science; they are worthy, and we also pay them honor. Let them be grateful to those “cultivators of science” for all the hidden truths which, by their genius and toil, they have brought to light, and in this we also sympathize. Let them join with this class the men of our own day distinguished in this line of studies: the Herschels, the Faradays, the Agassiz, the Quatrefages, the Darwins, the Secchis, the Huxleys, the Tyndalls, the Drapers, etc.; they are all worthy of honor and gratitude for every new truth which they have discovered and made known to the world. Not to love all truth unreservedly is to renounce the light of reason and to repudiate God; for he was God who said, “I am the truth.” But this grateful acknowledgment for the labors of cultivators of the sciences by no manner of means implies the acceptance of every hypothesis or theory, put forth by some of them, 310which for the most part are based upon insufficient data or spun out of misconceptions of religion with secret hostility to Christianity. For there are men who pass for scientists who seem to be actuated more by a spirit of opposition to religion than a sincere desire for the discovery of the secrets of nature. Hence genuine science has to suffer no less than true religion from bigots and hypocrites, who erect their untenable opinions into final decisions of scientific investigation, and cloak themselves with the honorable livery of science to put forth the ignoble doctrines of materialism. Speculations, however brilliant, ought not to pass for science, and one must be on his guard in our days, lest he allow the authority of great names to impose upon his credulity the romance of science for real science.

But could not the author of this essay honor the really great men of science and be content, without dishonoring another class of men who devoted their gifts and gave their toil as enthusiastically at least, and with an equal self-sacrificing spirit, to the contemplation and discovery of another, and even, in degree, a higher, class of truths? Could he not pay Paul without robbing Peter?

Then, again, why this bitterness of expression towards the monks? Have these monks no aspirations that are holy? no convictions that are sacred? no rights worthy of respect? Why could not the monks with equal liberty lead such lives as the highest feelings in their souls called them to do as well as a Bronson Alcott, a Ralph Waldo Emerson, a Henry Thoreau, or William R. Alger? What or who has given to these Americans the liberty to lead such lives as they 311chose, and deprived men of other climes of this same personal privilege? Is it a commendable thing for a Sir Isaac Newton to lead a celibate life out of devotion to mathematics, and a sin for a St. Benedict to lead a single life out of as pure a devotion, at least, to the religion of Christ? If Reverend Ralph Waldo Emerson throws up his pastorate over a respectable Unitarian congregation, and retires to a remote country village to devote himself to the cultivation of literature and whatever he may please to think a more useful calling, in fidelity to his best aspirations, why may not a Bernadotti of Assisi retire from the business of a silk merchant, renounce his gay companions, and, in obedience to the voice of God in his soul, practise poverty and turn a religious reformer under the name of Francis? If Henry Thoreau repudiates the calling to be a clergyman not to be false to his highest convictions, devotes his leisure hours to the study of nature and the Greek poets, and, living for the most part on bread and water, takes up the manual labor of making lead-pencils to meet the cost of his scanty support, and in so doing not lose cast among the literary brahmins of Boston, why not let, with equal freedom, Anthony retire to the deserts of Egypt and give himself to divine contemplation and the making of baskets and mats for his innocent way of life, without being loaded with a heap of most abusive epithets? Was it heroic in Mr. Bronson Alcott to make an attempt to realize his ideal of a pure and holy life with a few choice spirits at Fruitlands, in the State of Massachusetts, while it was only the “mephitic” action of a “morbid brain” in a saintly Bernard 312actually to realize the ideal at Clairvaux, in the province of Burgundy in France? Are we to praise and never be weary of praising the Pilgrim Fathers for abandoning their country, their homes, their friends, and their relations to come to the wilds of inhospitable New England, in order that they might worship God according to the dictates of their consciences, and must we condemn the first pioneers in the wilderness who plunged into the solitudes of Egypt for precisely the same reason, in order to fulfil the great aspiration of their souls to God—the pilgrim saints of the desert? Who can read the riddle why the aspiration or effort of the soul to perfect itself is the result of “mephitic minds” in a Hebrew, or an Egyptian, or a Latin, or a Celt, and the same aspiration is religious, sacred, holy, when found in the soul of a New-Englander?

Did it not suggest itself to the mind of the author of this essay, when he perused the passage quoted against the monks, that he exposed himself to a flank movement? For where could you find better specimens and more plentifully of “introspective dreamers” and “tyrannical theorizers” than in the State, in the very city, nay, in the actual audience which assembled at the time to listen to Mr. Alger’s essay?

Why is it that a certain number of New England authors, whenever they can find an occasion or make an opportunity, are sure to cast a fling at monks and nuns and a celibate priesthood? Even the genial author, Dr. Oliver Wendell 313Holmes, not to mention Whittier and others, from some yet unexplained cause, will turn bitter and his temper grow ruffled when he encounters in his literary excursions a monk or speaks of the celibate clergy of the church. There is no difficulty in acquitting such authors of intentional malice, but men so well bred and of such broad experience ought and do know better, and should not blot their otherwise pleasant pages with foul abuse.

But whence does this acrimony spring? Does it spring from the bully who strikes a victim, knowing himself safe from a return blow? or is it that the intellectual faculty of insight is lacking in these highly-gifted authors? Is this rancor to be attributed to their environment? or, finally, is it to be classified by some future clerical Darwin as an instance of Puritanical “inherited habit”? Be that as it may, Catholics ask no favors from the opponents of the church, but they have good reason to look for, and the right to demand, fair play, sound scholarship where scholarship is needed and claimed, and at least an average amount of intelligence.

These monks—and let us add also nuns, for their aim is identical—who have as a distinctive principle of life the resolve always to tend towards perfection, are not perfect and make no pretension to being saints, for although human nature is immanently good, there is notwithstanding much evil in the world, and no class of men or women, whoever they may be, is wholly free from the possibility of deviating from the path which leads to their true destiny. That there have been among monks and nuns hypocrites, fanatics, and those who have forgotten the sacredness of 314their calling and given public scandal everybody knows: “Canker vice the sweetest buds doth love.” Had these incurred the severe animadversion of the author of this essay, his abusive language might have passed unnoticed; but no qualification is made between innocent and guilty—the exemplary and scandalous, one and all, are passed upon as the same by a most unsparing and unjust sentence.

But not all free-religionists have read the history of the church and of the influence of monks upon civilization in the light of the author of this essay. We cannot forego the gratification of quoting a passage written many years ago by one, a speaker in this tenth annual meeting too, in which he gives a different estimate of the church and the monks in the precise period of which Mr. Alger has attempted to draw a rough sketch, it is true, but still his intention must have been to give a correct picture.

“Truly,” says the Rev. William Ellery Channing, “the church has been a quickening centre of modern civilization, a fountain of law and art, of manners and policy. It would not be easy to estimate how much of our actual freedom and humanity, of our cultivation and prosperity, we owe to her foresight and just acknowledgment of rights and duties. It is easy to ascribe to the cunning and love of power of priests the wonderful sovereignty which this spiritual dictator has exerted; but it is proof of surprising superficiality that these critics do not recognize that only sincere enthusiasm and truth, however adulterated by errors, can give such a hold upon human will. The Christian Church has been unquestionably the most dignified institution which the earth has seen.... Beautiful have been its abbeys in lonely solitudes, clearing the forests, smoothing the mountains, nurseries of agricultural skill amidst the desolating wars of barbarous ages, sanctuaries 315for the suffering. Beautiful its learned cloisters, with students’ lamps shining late in the dark night as a beacon to wandering pilgrims, to merchants with loaded trains, to homeless exiles—their silent bands of high-browed, pallid scholars watching the form of Science in the tomb of Ignorance, where she lay entranced. Beautiful its peaceful armies of charity, subduing evil with works of love in the crowded alleys and dens of cities, amid the pestilences of disease and the fouler pestilence of crime, and carrying the sign of sacrifice through nations more barren of virtues than the deserts which have bordered them.”

VI.—THE FREE-RELIGIONISTS AND THE MYSTICS.

Mr. Alger must have seen that his canvas up to this moment was overcharged with sombre colors, and to give it a vraisemblance he put in the following words:

“There has been another marked class of persons, in the extreme opposite sphere of life to those just described—a class nourished in the inmost bosom of the church itself—whose very important influence has acted in harmony with that of science, which seems so wholly contrary to it—acted to melt away dogmatism, free men from hatred and force and fraud, and join them in a heavenly enthusiasm of accord. I allude to the mystics, who cultivated the sinless peace and raptures of the inner life of devotion, absorption in divine contemplation, ecstatic union with God. Boundless is the charm exerted, incalculable the good done, in impregnating the finest strata of humanity with paradisal germs by Victor, Bonaventura, Suso, Tauler, Teresa, Behmen, Fénelon, Guyon, John of the Cross, and the rest of these breathing minds, hearts of seraphic passion, souls of immortal flame. This class of believers, devoted to the nurture of exalted virtue and piety, were the choicest depositaries of the grace of religion.”

The general reader would suppose that this “marked class of persons, in the extreme opposite sphere of life to those just described,” were not, of course, “monks.” 316But such is the fact, with the exception of two he mentions. Let us examine this list. Here is the first mystic, Victor. Victor! Who is he? Whom does the essayist mean? There was St. Victor of Marseilles, who suffered martyrdom under Diocletian, July 21, A.D. 303. He surely does not mean this Victor? Then there was the celebrated Abbey of St. Victor, near Paris, named after St. Victor of Marseilles, founded in the first year of the twelfth century; he cannot mean that? There is no telling, though. Then there was Hugh, born in Flanders, and Richard, a Scotchman, the latter a disciple of the former, both inmates of the monastery of St. Victor, both illustrious by their writings on mystical theology, and saintly men. Perhaps he means one of these, or both? Perhaps that is not his meaning. If it be, then his sentence should have run thus: Hugh of St. Victor, or Richard of St. Victor. Let us proceed; both of these were “monks.” St. Bonaventure, disciple of St. Francis, was a “monk.” John Tauler, a disciple of St. Dominic, another monk. St. Teresa, a nun, a “cloistered” nun, consequently as bad, at least, as a “monk.” Behmen? Behmen? Jacob Boehme. Oh! yes; a German, a shoemaker—not to his discredit—a Protestant, and mystical writer. O blessed saints in Paradise! do not, we beg, lay it to our charge of making you “acquainted with so strange a bed-fellow!” Then comes Fénelon the saintly archbishop, the friend, be it known, of monks and nuns. Now Mme. Guyon; it is singular that there is always a strange hankering among a class of Protestants after Catholic writers of suspected orthodoxy. St. John of the Cross is next, and the last, though not least, 317the Aquinas of mystical theology, a Carmelite, a “monk.” Now let us count up. But we have forgotten our beloved Swabian, Henry Suso, the Minnesinger of divine love; and he too was a Dominican, a “monk.” In sum—excluding, of course, the Protestant; for of him it cannot be said that he was “nourished in the inmost bosom of the church”—we have six “monks,” if you include both Hugh and Richard of St. Victor in the number, and one “cloistered” nun, all, without exception, “celibates,” of the eight examples selected by our author as “devoted to the nurture of exalted virtue and piety,” and “the choicest depositaries of the graces of religion!” Six out of eight—not a bad showing for monks and nuns “as the choicest depositaries of the graces of religion,” where a learned author has his pick, running over many centuries.

VII.—THE FREE-RELIGIONISTS AND CHRISTIANITY, OR THE FINAL ISSUE.

It is time to draw these remarks to a close, and that, too, without even casting a glance at the speeches that followed the essay which has been under review.

We did not offer, as our readers will have remarked, a refutation of the misconceptions, misinterpretations, and errors which have been pointed out in the essay of Mr. Alger. We intentionally abstained from doing so until its author brings forth his authorities and proves his assertions, in obedience to a commonly-received maxim rightly followed in discussion, which says, Quod gratis affirmatur, gratis negatur. Besides, the Catholic Church is in possession, and therefore the burden of proof rests not on her defenders, but on the 318part of her assailants. Our refutations will come soon enough when we have learned that there is something to refute. But, that our purpose might not be ambiguous, we have italicized, in most instances, the words which contain the special errors to which we wished to call attention.

The opponents of the church have not changed their mode of attack, but only their weapons. They no longer charge her with atheism, as the early pagans did, or of worshipping the head of an ass, or drinking the blood of an infant, but absurdities and idle tales of the “dark ages” are trumped up and laid at her door.

Just now, as if by a general conspiracy, an attempt is made to place the church in a false position, as hostile to reason, science, education, civilization, liberty, and the state. These are the popular charges of the day, and these show at least that the “gall” of her enemies is active and “coins slanders as a mint.” Counterfeits, however, may pass current for a limited period, but in the long run they are detected and bring upon their authors’ heads grief and shame. Only truth and justice are enduring and immortal.

The true position of the Catholic Church is now, as it ever has been, not against but for reason and God, science and revelation, for education and Christianity, for civilization and progress, for liberty and law, for the state and the church; as against atheism, naturalism, infidelity, barbarism, license, and anarchy.

Let us have in this free country, where all religions to an uncommon degree are placed on an equal footing, a fair and honest discussion, avoiding unsupported 319assertions, refuted charges, and all bigotry. Whichever religion is worsted in such an encounter by fair and honest blows, why, let it die. If the free-religionists can clear the whole field from Christianity, as they appear to think, and invent instead a better religion, as some fancy, let them do so and come on with their new religion. Give it a fair chance, and, if their new religion proves to be a better one, let it have a joyful greeting.

Until then the Catholic Church is in possession of the field, and in the congress of intelligent men holds its high place; for all thoroughly-instructed minds see clearly the impossibility of entertaining honorable ideas of God without being Christians, and of being Christians and not becoming Catholics. The real issue, if the free-religionists can be induced to look at it, is between Catholicity and nihilism.

320

Although most have heard the name of Santiago in Galicia, yet it is now a place that is scarcely known. In the days of our infancy there were still such beings heard of as the pilgrims of Compostella, but the silence of the present day is well-nigh oblivion: and of this famous sanctuary, which still exists, there only remains an almost forgotten and far-distant renown. France has unlearnt the very roads which led to the apostle’s tomb; and the Spaniards themselves, who will speak to you freely of Nuestra Señora del Pilar, scarcely guess that the Madonna of Saragossa placed her origin under the patronage of St. James, whose shrine all Christendom in former days bestirred itself to go and visit.

The apostle venerated at Compostella is St. James the Great, whose vocation to the apostolate is related in the fourth chapter of St. Matthew, immediately after that of Peter and Andrew, and where we are told that at the call of Jesus the brothers forthwith “left the ship and their father and followed him.” According to the most probable opinion, Zebedee and his family dwelt at the little town of Saffa, now called by the Arabs Deir, about three miles distant from Nazareth. Andrichomius, in his Theatrum Terræ Sanctæ, mentions a church there, which some years later no longer existed. Their prompt obedience indicates the generous character which rendered the brothers particularly dear to their divine Master, and caused them to be, with St. Peter, the chosen witnesses of scenes and 323miracles at which the other disciples were not present. The last mention made of St. James in the Gospel is in the narrative of the miraculous draught of fishes after the Resurrection. The next is in the Acts of the Apostles, which briefly recounts his martyrdom: “Herod ... killed James, the brother of John, with the sword.”

This took place in the year 42. Of the nine years which intervened between the Ascension of our Lord and this event the Holy Scriptures say nothing, and tradition is our only source of information. According to this, St. James departed early from Jerusalem, and, directing his course towards the western countries of Europe, arrived in Spain, where he preached the Gospel and appointed some of the first bishops. Here also, according to an ancient and constant tradition, he caused to be built at Saragossa a church dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, known as “Our Lady of the Pillar,” and, on the termination of his sojourn in the west, returned to Jerusalem, where, a few days after his arrival, about the time of the Jewish Passover, Herod caused him to be seized and slain.^[35]

324It is certain that the apostles delayed not in obeying the divine command to “go and teach the nations”; neither can one explain in any other manner how the light emanating from Syria so rapidly illumined (as even the infidel critic, Renan, confesses) the three great peninsulas of Asia Minor, Greece, and Italy, and soon afterwards the whole coast of the Mediterranean, so that in a short space of time the Christian world was co-extensive with the Roman—Orbis Romanus, orbis Christianus. St. Jerome and Theodoret both affirm that Spain was evangelized by some of the apostles. The Gothic liturgy, which is considerably anterior to the Mozarabic, and which dates from the fifth century, is the most ancient interpreter of this tradition. “The illustrious Sons of Thunder,” it says, “have both obtained that which their mother requested for them. John rules Asia, and, on the left, his brother possesses Spain.” The great doctor St. Isidore, who lived in the first half of the seventh century, writes: “James the son of Zebedee ... preached the Gospel to the peoples of Spain and the countries of the west.” The Bollandists furnish a number of additional witnesses.^[36] The breviary of St. Pius V. and the enactments of Urban VIII. corroborate their testimony, the Roman Breviary saying also that St. Braulio not only compared St. Isidore to St. Gregory the Great, but declared that he had been given by Heaven to Spain as her teacher in the place of St. James.^[37]

325Whatever opinion may be adopted with regard to the mission of St. James, it does not affect the facts relating to the translation of his body to the Iberian peninsula. The following account of this event is given in the curious History of Compostella, written previous to the twelfth century by two canons of that church, and confirmed by a letter of Leo III. which is quoted in the Breviary of Evreux. The facts as there given appear to be free from the legendary embellishments, more or less probable, with which, in certain other manuscripts, they have been adorned.

At the time when the apostle was put to death at Jerusalem the persecution was so bitter, and the hatred against the Christians so extreme, that the Jews would not suffer his body to be buried, but cast it ignominiously outside the walls of the city, that it might be devoured by dogs and birds of prey. The disciples of the saint watched for the moment when they might carry away his remains, and, having secured them, they could not venture to re-enter Jerusalem with their precious burden, but turned their steps toward the sea, and, on arriving at Joppa, found a ship on the point of sailing for Spain. They embarked, and in due time reached the northwest coast of that country, and landed at the port of Iria, whence they proceeded some distance inland, and buried the body of the apostle at a place called Liberum Donum, afterwards Compostella. His sepulchre was made in a marble grotto which already existed, and which in all probability had been formerly dedicated to Bacchus, as its name seemed to indicate. Thus the spot received the highest Christian consecration, and the people of Galicia, 326among whom were numerous converts, held in great veneration the tomb of their apostle. The pagan persecution became, however, so violent in this province that Christianity entirely disappeared from it, and was not planted there again until after the first victory of the Goths.

The invasion of these barbarians, instead of being a misfortune, was of the greatest benefit to the country, and resulted in prosperity which continued through several centuries. The favor shown to Arianism by some of the earlier kings for a time imperilled the truth, but it was not long before Spain saw the faith of her first apostle flourishing in all its purity; and her sons would doubtless have flocked to the tomb of him who was declared in the Gothic liturgy to be the patron of Spain, if the same thing had not happened with regard to the tomb of the second martyr of our Lord as had before happened to that of the first. When the faith had disappeared from Galicia the place of the apostle’s tomb was forgotten; it is, moreover, possible that the last Christians had buried the grotto which contained it, that it might be hidden from pagan profanation. The spot was overgrown with underwood and brambles. Tall forest trees rose around it, and there was no trace left of anything which could indicate the sanctity of the spot. Thus, in the early and bright days of the faith in Spain, the night of oblivion rested on the remains of her great patron; but when evil times came upon the land God’s hour was come for pointing out the tomb of his apostle. The Gothic kings were about to disappear, and their sceptres to be wielded by the followers of Mahomet.

327Invited to fight against King Roderic, by a competitor to the throne of the country to which he thus proved himself so great a traitor, the Arabs thronged into Spain, which in less than ten years they entirely conquered. Their domination was not always violent and persecuting; a certain toleration was at times accorded to the Christians; but, thanks to the proud courage of Pelayo and a handful of brave men who would not despair of their country, and who could not be driven from the mountains of the Asturias, war had set her foot on the soil of Spain, to quit it no more until the utter expulsion of the Moors had been effected. Galicia, with Leon and the Asturias, had the honor of being the centre of the national resistance, and consequently suffered from frequent and sanguinary devastation while the long struggle lasted.

It was in these troubled times that the apostle’s tomb was brought to light.

Already several kings had established themselves in the northern and western parts of Spain. Miron, King of the Suevi, had regulated the limits of each diocese; Alfonso the Chaste was then king of Leon and Galicia; and Theodomir, a holy and faithful prelate, was Bishop of Iria.

Certain trustworthy persons one day came to inform Theodomir that every night lights of great brilliancy were seen shining above a wood on the summit of a hill at a little distance from the town, and that all the neighborhood was illuminated by them. The bishop, fearing lest there might be some deception or illusion, resolved to see for himself, and repaired to the place indicated. The prodigy was 328evident to all, the lights throwing a marvellous splendor; and as this continued night after night, the bishop caused the trees to be cut down on that spot and the brushwood cleared away, after which an excavation was commenced on the top of the hill. The workers had not dug far before they came to a marble grotto, within which was found the apostle’s tomb.

Theodomir lost no time in repairing to the court of Alfonso to announce the discovery, which caused great joy to the pious monarch, who saw in it a sign of God’s protection and a presage of the triumph of the Christian arms. He hastened to the spot and assured himself by personal observation of the reality of the facts related to him by the bishop. Mariana, the Spanish historian, says: “After having examined all that has been written by learned authors for and against the matter, I am convinced that there are not in all Europe any relics more certain and authentic than those of St. James at Compostella.”

The first care of King Alfonso was to raise a sanctuary on the spot where the tomb had just been miraculously discovered. Built in haste, and at a time when, owing to the unsettled state of the kingdom, the royal resources were very limited, the edifice was of a very humble character as regarded both size and materials: “Petra et luto opus parvum” is the description given of it in the Act of Erection of the second church, built later by Alfonso III. The king was nevertheless able to endow it with a certain revenue, and to secure a permanent provision to its ministers. The archives of Compostella long preserved a privilege granted by Alfonso the Chaste, in virtue of which all the lands with their villages, 329for three miles round, were made over to the church.

Spain was speedily made aware of the discovery; the neighboring nations, and in particular the Gauls, heard of it also, and the faithful from both countries flocked in great numbers to the tomb, drawn by the fame of the miracles which immediately began to be wrought there, and of which Valafrid Strabo, who died in the year 849, makes mention: Plurima hic præsul patravit signa stupenda.

The relations of Gaul with Christian Spain were at that time very frequent. The infidels were the common enemy. Charles Martel had driven them from Gaul, but the struggle that still went on south of the Gallic frontiers had an intense interest for all Christendom. Charlemagne was allied in friendship with Alfonso the Chaste, though it is doubtful whether he ever made the pilgrimage of Compostella, as some have said. It is, however, certain that he joined his entreaties to those of the king of Leon to obtain from Pope Leo III. the transfer of the bishopric of Iria to Compostella. This was the name already borne by the town which had rapidly risen round the apostle’s tomb, and which was given in remembrance of the starlike lights which had revealed its locality—Campus Stellæ.

The pope granted the request of the two monarchs. Compostella replaced the bishopric of Iria and remained suffragan to the archbishop of Braga until the town of St. James should be raised to the metropolitan dignity. King Alfonso, who had no children, offered to bequeath his throne to Charlemagne, on condition that that monarch would drive the Moors out of Spain. Charlemagne accepted the 330terms and crossed the Pyrenees; but the Spanish princes, disapproving of Alfonso’s proposal, leagued together against the emperor, and some of them, later on, allied themselves with the Moorish king of Saragossa, and destroyed at Roncesvaux the rearguard of Charlemagne’s army, in which perished Roland, the hero par excellence of the lays and chronicles of the time.

Some time afterwards, when Ramira had succeeded Alfonso the Chaste, and Abderahman II. was King of Cordova, the latter, inflated by his successes, sent to demand of the Spanish king an annual tribute of a hundred young maidens. Ramira indignantly drove away the ambassadors, assembled his troops, and declared war. He was defeated in the battle of Alaveda, and forced to withdraw with the remnant of his army to a neighboring elevation, where the Moor could not fail to attack him. The Christian monarchy in Spain seemed on the very brink of ruin. That night the king had a dream, in which the apostle St. James appeared to him, grand and majestic, bidding him be of good courage, for that on the morrow he should be victorious. The king related his vision to the prelates and leaders of his army, and made it known to the soldiers also. Immediately every heart kindled with fresh enthusiasm; the little band threw itself upon the infidel host, while on all sides arose the shout, Sant’ Iago! Sant’ Iago! which has ever since been the war-cry of Spain.

The Moors were thrown into confusion and completely routed, leaving 60,000 of their number on the field of battle. It was averred that during the whole engagement the apostle St. James, mounted on a white charger, and bearing in his 331hand a white banner with a red cross, was seen at the head of the Christian battalions, scattering terror and death among the ranks of the enemy. Thus was fought, in 846, the famous battle of Clavijo, all the glory of which is due to the patron of Spain.

After a solemn act of thanksgiving to God the army made a public vow, obligatory on all the kingdom, to pay yearly to the church at Compostella one measure of corn and one of wine from every acre of land. Immense riches were found in the Moorish camp, and these were consecrated to the erection of two magnificent churches—one at Oviedo, in honor of the Blessed Virgin, and another under the invocation of St. Michael.

From this time the devotion to the apostle who had shown himself the protector and deliverer of the country spread far and wide. Pilgrims thronged from every quarter to his tomb, which became the great pilgrimage of the west, the pendant to Jerusalem, with Rome between the two.

The humble church erected by Alfonso the Chaste was by no means suitable to the dignity of the deliverer of Spain, nor sufficient for the ever-increasing number of pilgrims. In the year 868 Alfonso III., together with Sisenand, then Bishop of Compostella, undertook to replace it by a cathedral. “We, Alfonso,” it is written in the Act of Erection, “have resolved, together with the bishop aforesaid, to build the house of the Lord and to restore the temple and tomb of the apostle which aforetime had been raised to his august memory by the Lord Alfonso, and which was only a small construction of stone and clay. Urged by the inspiration of God, we are come with our subjects, 332our family, into this holy place. Traversing Spain through the battalions of the Moors, we have brought from the city of Ebeca blocks of marble which we have selected, and which our forefathers had carried thither by sea, and with which they built superb habitations, which the enemy has destroyed.”

All the materials for the new building were thus gathered together, the slabs and columns of marble being of great beauty, but we have little information as to its architectural style or merit. The arts were at that time in a state of temporary decay. The edifices of the Roman period had for the most part perished in the invasions of the Goths, the Suevi, and the Alani. These nations, after having embraced the faith, were speedily civilized, and under its inspiration had raised numerous religious buildings which were not without a certain grandeur, when the Moorish conquest of Spain brought again an almost universal ruin over the land. The influence of the climate, the beauty of the Andalusian skies, softened the fierce character of the victors, and their minds speedily received a wonderful intellectual development. Never did any people make so much progress in so short a time, in art, in science, in culture of ideas, and also in a certain elevation of sentiment. Architecture of great magnificence and originality made rapid advances among them, of which the richness always bore the stamp of a peculiar tastefulness and delicacy.

The vanquished were unable to make the same progress, nor were they to attain to great results until after having received the contact of the works of their conquerors. 333These results were arrived at later on, thanks to a certain courtesy which, outside the war as it were, and in times of truce, established between the two peoples mutual relations and currents of influence which left their impress on all the creations of genius.

When King Alfonso commenced the cathedral of Compostella, the conquest was still too recent and the animosity too great between the Spaniards and their subduers to allow of any amicable intercourse or interchange of ideas on matters connected with the arts of peace. The architecture of the close of the ninth century was heavy and the forms massive; not without grandeur, though for the most part devoid of grace. Such, doubtless, in its general features, was the ancient cathedral of Compostella, which was completed about the year 874. Mariana, following the statement of Sandoval, says that there was held there in 876 a council of fourteen bishops, who consecrated the new edifice. The high altar was dedicated to our Lord under the title of St. Saviour, that on the right to St. Peter, and that on the left to St. Paul, while the ancient altar over the apostle’s tomb, which reached back to a remote antiquity, received no consecration, it being regarded as certain that this had received it from the first disciples of St. James.

The erection of the cathedral gave a new impetus to the pilgrimage, to facilitate which roads were made in the south of France and the north of Spain. Monasteries and houses of refuge were built along the wild and lonely defiles of the Pyrenees, and bridges thrown across the streams and rivers. The roads were thronged by the multitudes, 334who came, some from simple devotion, others to do penance and seek pardon of their sins, and many also to obtain some particular favor—the cure of a sickness or the success of an undertaking. Great was the renown of Monsignor St. James, the power of whose intercession and the splendor of whose miracles were held in high esteem at Rome. Pope John X., at the commencement of the tenth century, sent to his tomb a priest named Zanelus to obtain correct information respecting the number of pilgrims and the authenticity of the numerous miracles; he was also charged to examine the liturgical books of the Goths, respecting which it had been stated that they were full of errors. The bishop, Sisenand, received him with all honor, supplied him with every means of faithfully acquitting himself of his mission, and convinced him of the purity of the ancient liturgy of Spain. All the books which Zanelus took from thence received the Supreme Pontiff’s approval, the only alteration he required being that in the words of consecration the Spanish rite should conform itself exactly to that of Rome.

Compostella, daily enriched by travellers too numerous for her to entertain, became a town of ever-increasing importance. The church especially, to which very costly offerings were continually being made, which had immense revenues and possessed superb domains, was in richness and magnificence one of the first in the world. Her prelates, however, did not always make good use of their riches. The church was then passing through deplorable times, and corruption, which was invading all besides, made inroads also in the sanctuary. 335The bishops of Compostella were usually chosen from among the noble and illustrious families of the kingdom, brought up amid luxury, pleasure, and the tumult of arms, and, carrying their worldly predilections with them to the episcopal throne, they might be seen constantly in the chase or at the war, sometimes driven from their see, and, attempting to return by force, dying a violent death. One of these, Sisenand, unlike his worthy predecessor of the same name, was in 979 killed at the head of a squadron while charging the Normans, who had invaded Galicia. He would have been a good captain; why was he made a bishop? Compostella owed to him the solid walls and strong towers with which he fortified the town. His successor, Pelayo, being equally unfitted for his office, was deposed, and replaced by a pious priest named Pedro Mansorio, upon whom the misdoings of his predecessors were visited. He had the grief of seeing the city taken by the Moors, who profaned and devastated the cathedral. His immediate successors failed to profit by this chastisement, and, after three unworthy prelates had occupied the see, the enemy advanced from the direction of Portugal (which they had invaded and ravaged) in greater numbers than before; again they besieged and took the city, which they set on fire and razed the walls. Alman-Zour fed his horse from the porphyry urn in the cathedral which was used for the baptismal font, and which still exists; gave up the sanctuary to pillage and destruction, throwing down many of the pillars, as well as a portion of the walls; and, taking down the bells, caused them to be dragged by Christian captives to the great 336mosque at Toledo, where they were turned upside down and made to serve as lamps. He was proceeding to make havoc also of the apostle’s tomb, when a bright light, suddenly emanating from and enveloping it, so terrified the infidels that they stopped short in their sacrilege, fearing lest they should be stricken by the “apostle of Isa” (Jesus). An aged monk sat by the tomb, alone, and doubtless hoping for martyrdom in that spot at the hand of the spoilers. Alman-Zour asked why he stayed there, and, on his answering that he was “the friend of Santiago,” commanded that no one should lay hands upon him, and the Mussulmans respected the fakir. It is the Moorish annals nearly contemporary with the events we are noticing which mention this incident, and which appreciate in a very curious manner the pilgrimage of St. James, describing as follows Shant Jakoh, the sacred city of Kalikija (Galicia): “Their Kabah is a colossal idol in the centre of the church; they swear by it, and come on pilgrimage to it from the most distant lands, from Rome as well as from other countries, pretending that the tomb which may there be seen is that of Jakoh, one of the best beloved of the twelve apostles of Isa. May happiness and the benediction of Allah be upon him and upon our Prophet!”

The army of Alman-Zour did not reap any benefit from its sacrilegious plunder: a contagious malady made such terrible ravages in its ranks that there were scarcely any soldiers left; he therefore hastened his departure from Galicia, but was himself also stricken by death upon the way.

It was not possible immediately to raise the cathedral from its 337ruins, but the confluence of pilgrims never ceased, and the offerings of Christendom were such as to render the hope almost a certainty that it would at no distant period be worthily rebuilt.

Towards the year 1038 Ferdinand, having been made king of Castile and Leon, fought the Moors in several engagements, defeated them in Portugal, and, having dispossessed them of numerous strongholds and fortified places, desired to testify his gratitude to the God of armies by repairing to Compostella. There he prayed long at the apostle’s tomb, and took the resolution never to lay down his arms until he had broken the power of the enemy.

After taking the powerful city of Coimbra, the capture of which he attributed to the protection of St. James, the king returned to Compostella laden with booty, which, in gratitude for his victory, he presented to the church.

Compostella had now bishops worthy of their sacred dignity. In 1056 Cresconius, who then ruled the diocese, presided, at a council held there, in his quality of bishop of the Apostolic See. Rome thus exercised her influence, and this influence was so salutary that Pelago, a near successor of Cresconius, desired to give it a larger place in his church. He laid aside the Mozarabic Rite and adopted the Roman in the celebration of Mass and the recitation of the Canonical Hours, accepting at the same time all the Roman rules on important matters of sacerdotal discipline. And Compostella had not long to wait before receiving the recompense of her submission and good-will. In 1075, the same year in which Ferdinand took Toledo, the see of Santiago (for this had become 338the name of the town), which had hitherto been suffragan to Merida, was raised to the metropolitan dignity.

We have now reached the period in which, thanks to the liberality of the faithful, the cathedral of Compostella was not only raised from its ruins, but entirely rebuilt on a larger scale and with much greater splendor. Gemirez, the first archbishop of Santiago, was one of its greatest prelates.

The work of reconstruction, which had been commenced about the year 1082, he not only actively continued, but also proposed to the chapter to build cloisters and offices, as well as commodious lodgings for those who came on pilgrimage from distant lands, engaging for his part to pay a hundred marks of pure silver towards the expense.

The sole aim of this prelate was the glory of God and the honor of St. James, never his own worldly advantage; the people knew this, and that the use made of their offerings was always in conformity with their intentions. The times, however, were troubled, and the archbishop had his share of their disquiet.

Queen Urraca, the sister of Alfonso VI. of Castile and Leon, and widow of Raymond of Burgundy, claimed as her right, until her son should be old enough to reign, the government of Castile and the countries dependent on it, while her second husband, Alfonso of Aragon, repudiated these pretensions. Gemirez, whose influence was so great that he might be regarded as the real sovereign of the country, took the part of Urraca, and her cause prospered for a time, owing to the weight of his support; but she ruined her own case by her haughtiness and ambition; 339a rebellion broke out, and the prelate narrowly escaped falling a victim to the fury of the populace, who set fire to the cathedral. Happily, the solidity of its structure was such as to resist the flames, the interior wood-work and fittings, etc., only being destroyed, so that not many years afterwards, in 1117, we find the archbishop, in an address to his canons, able to speak of it as one of the richest and most beautiful as well as one of the most illustrious churches in the world.

In 1130 Gemirez ended his career, but not until he had lived to see the work far advanced towards its completion. We hear no more of its progress for forty years afterwards. The crosses of the consecration, which are still to be seen, are floriated at their extremities, and between the arms are the sun and moon above, and the letters [Greek: A Ô] below, some of them bearing also a date which appears to be that of 1154.

The pilgrims, who came in continuous multitudes, had innumerable perils to encounter on their way. The roads were bad; the countries through which they passed often so barren and thinly peopled that they were in danger of dying of hunger; the highways so infested with brigands that in those days they were avoided as those in the East had been in the time of Deborah, every one seeking rather the by-ways, which were also beset with obstacles of all kinds. St. Dominic of Calzada had done well to make roads and build bridges, but something was still wanting to his work, and that was the safety of those who travelled by them, and who were constantly liable to be attacked and despoiled by the infidels, to be taken captive, and condemned to slavery or death.

340This state of things could not be allowed to continue. The Moors had their rabitos, or armed fakirs—a sort of warrior-monk—to protect their pilgrims and defend their frontiers; the religious and military orders of the Templars and Knights of St. John were covering themselves with glory in the East, and Spain could not fail to profit by these examples. The canons of St. Eloi had recently founded a chain of hospices, reaching from the frontiers of France to Compostella, specially destined for the reception of pilgrims, the most considerable being that of St. Mark, on the borders of Leon. These places of refuge, which were productive of the greatest good, were richly endowed by various princes; but even this was not enough: some brave noblemen of Castile resolved to devote their whole life to the defence and protection of the pilgrims. They placed their possessions in one common stock, and, joining the canons of St. Eloi, dwelt with them in a convent not far from Compostella. Being advised by Cardinal Jacinthus to go to Rome and obtain from the Pope the confirmation of their institute according to the rule of St. Augustine, they charged Don Pedro Fernandez de la Puente with this embassy, and obtained a bull, dated July 5, 1175, which regulated their manner of life, their duties, and their privileges, and created, under the title of Knights of St. James, a military order, of which Don Pedro was the first grand master. They wore a white tunic, with a red cross in the form of a sword on the breast. Their principal house was at first the hospice of St. Mark; but the castles and domains which were made over to them from time to time were so numerous that 341their riches became almost incalculable, and their influence and importance increased in proportion. They established themselves at Uclès, the better to carry on the warfare against the infidel, whose terror they had become. We soon find them a power in the state, the grand master taking rank with kings, and at times appearing to rule them. Even the simple knights had great privileges. It was not until the reign of Ferdinand that, owing to the skilful management of Isabella, the power and influence of the order began to decrease.

Our notice would be incomplete without a few words on the subject of the miracles which took place at the tomb or by the intercession of the apostle. The countless favors which have rendered many a chosen sanctuary justly illustrious will never be known; indeed, their absence would make the continual faith of the people—always asking and never receiving; always believing, and yet to be ever disappointed and deceived—not only inexplicable but impossible, whereas it was absolute and complete; but exaggeration, which, even in the world of ordinary facts, so frequently goes hand in hand with truth, plays still more freely with facts which are beyond and above the events of daily life, and, not being satisfied with the simple beauty of miraculous deliverances, it must fain make marvels still more marvellous—quit the domain of faith for that of myths and chimera. A MS. of the monastery of La Marcha is full of the recital of prodigies which a faith the most robust would nowadays find it difficult to accept; and Cæsar of Heisterbach tells us that a young man of Maestricht having been condemned and hung on a false accusation, commending himself 342to St. James, was preserved alive a whole month hanging from the gibbet, where his father found him safe and sound at the end of that time. Whereupon the people of Toulouse, jealous of the glory which the renown of this announcement gave to St. James of Compostella, attributed to their St. James a miracle exactly similar.

In numerous instances the accounts of the dead restored to life have nothing impossible or exaggerated about them, and often in their pathos and simplicity remind one of those mentioned in the Gospel narrative; for instance, a poor woman, by the intercession of St. James, obtained a son, who became not only her greatest comfort, but in time her only support. He fell ill and died. With a breaking heart the mother hastens to the apostle’s tomb, and in her agony of desolation mingles reproaches with her prayers and tears, asking the saint why he had won for her the blessing she had desired, only to let her lose it when her need was greatest, and herself a thousand times more sorrowful than before; and then, full of faith, entreated him to obtain from God the life of her son. Her prayer was granted, and, returning home, she found the youth restored. But of a very different character is the extraordinary legend related by Guibert, Abbot of Nogent, and which we quote as a curiosity. A certain pilgrim was on his way to Compostella to perform penance and obtain the pardon of a crime he had committed. On the road the enemy of mankind appeared to him under the form of St. James, and, telling him that his sin was far too great to be remitted by a simple pilgrimage, insisted that there was only one means of obtaining mercy, 343and that was by the sacrifice of his life; he must kill himself, and then all would be forgiven him. The pilgrim, who believed that he was listening to St. James in person and was bound to obey him, stabbed himself and died, a victim to the fraud of the demon. He appears before the tribunal of God, and there Satan claims him as his prey by a double title: first, because of the old crime, which had not been remitted; and, secondly, because of the new one of which he had been guilty in committing suicide. In vain the poor man pleads that he had acted in good faith and in the simplicity of his heart; he was in great danger of being condemned. But St. James hears what is going on and hastens to the scene. He does not intend that the evil one should take his form and name to deceive his pilgrims and then have all the profits, and pleads that the only way to do perfect justice in the affair is to put everything exactly as it was before Satan had so odiously meddled in the matter, and to send back the soul of the unfortunate man into his body again. This representation, being just, was acceded to, and the resuscitated pilgrim continued on his way to Compostella, where he confessed with great contrition and was absolved of all the sins of his past life.

We must, however, leave the realm of legend and return to historical facts. The anchoretic life was at an early period introduced into Europe from the East, and Spain appears to have been a land where hermits especially abounded. We often find them mentioned as coming on pilgrimage to Compostella, as St. Simeon and St. Theobald in the twelfth century, St. William somewhat later, and St. John the 344Hermit, who built near the cathedral a place of shelter for pilgrims, where he himself received them, rendering them all the offices of Christian hospitality.

Another William also came hither on pilgrimage, who was an illustrious personage, though not a hermit; this was the Count of Poitou and Duke of Aquitaine, whose past life had been anything but exemplary. In Normandy and elsewhere he had been guilty of grievous misdemeanors, for which he desired to do penance before his death; and, more than this, he did his utmost, by good and upright administration, to repair the evil he had done before. For this reason Hildebert, Bishop of Mans, was not well pleased at his setting out for Spain, and wrote to him as follows: “We are told, most noble count, that you have undertaken a pilgrimage in honor of Blessed James. We do not desire to deny the excellence of this, but whosoever is at the head of an administration is bound to obedience, nor can he free himself therefrom without deserting his post, unless, at least, he be called to one of greater usefulness. Wherefore, very dear son, it is an inexcusable fault in you to have preferred that which is not necessary before that which is—repose rather than labor, and, instead of duty, your own will.” But the great prelate would probably have been less severe could he have foreseen the holy death of Count William, who, on Good Friday, after having received the Blessed Sacrament, peacefully rendered up his soul to God before the altar of St. James.

About the same time a young maiden of Pisa, afterwards St. Bona, came to Compostella, and there received singular favors and graces. 345Sophia, Countess of Holland,^[38] journeying thither also, fell into the hands of robbers, and through one whole night found that she had nothing to expect but spoliation and death. In the morning their resolution was changed; they threw themselves at her feet and entreated her pardon, allowing her to proceed unharmed on her way. After visiting the tomb of St. James the princess went to Jerusalem, there to spend the remainder of her life.

At the beginning of the thirteenth century pilgrims from all lands had become so numerous that it was frequently impossible, especially on the feast of the patron saint, for all to find even standing-room in the cathedral. The tumult was indescribable, and did not always end outside the doors. On some occasions there were not only blows but bloodshed, so that Pope Innocent III. wrote to the archbishop, saying that his church had need of reconciliation, and the ceremony was performed with water, wine, and blessed ashes.^[39]

Alman-Zour, as we have previously mentioned, had caused the bells of Compostella to be carried to Cordova on the backs of Christian captives. In 1229 Ferdinand, who had united under his sway the kingdoms of Castile and Leon, made the conquest of Cordova, and, finding the bells in the great mosque, he inflicted retaliation on the infidels by compelling them to carry them, on their shoulders, back to the place whence they had been taken two hundred and sixty years before.

After Louis VII. of France had been on pilgrimage to Compostella, 346we hear of several other sovereigns from time to time who did the same, among whom was St. Elizabeth, Queen of Portugal. The Frieslanders, who had a great devotion to St. James, and attributed to his aid a victory they had gained over the Saracens, visited his tomb in immense numbers; the English did the same, and from the time of Edward I.’s marriage with Eleanor of Castile, having stipulated for the safe-conduct of their pilgrims, they arrived in such multitudes that the kings of France became uneasy at so great a concourse, and made an agreement with the king of England that his subjects should obtain permission of them before proceeding to Compostella. In 1434 this leave was granted to about two thousand five hundred persons.

These were the palmy days of pilgrims, who were not only well received at Santiago, whither they brought activity, riches, and life, but they were everywhere sheltered and protected. No cottager was too poor to offer them a resting-place or to share his loaf of hospitality with them. A pilgrim was not only a brother come from perhaps some far distant land to do honor to Monseigneur St. James, but he was also, in those days when postage was unknown, the walking gazette, who brought the news of other countries, and enlivened with his narratives and conversation the hearth of the poor as of the rich.

From the time of the Reformation pilgrimages began to decrease. England and Germany were the first to discontinue them. France showed herself less fervent as soon as the spirit of rationalistic philosophy had infected the upper classes of her people, after which the Revolution carried down the lower 347ranks into the gulf of irreligion. The wars of the empire, the spoliations of which Napoleon’s generals were guilty, and consequently the deadly hatred which they evoked against their nation in the heart of every Spaniard, struck the last blow at these pious journeyings. Only the inhabitants of the country continued to visit the shrine of their apostle, and even they by degrees lost the habit. Pilgrims are nowadays but few, excepting only on the feast of the patron, and they have ceased to be popular at Santiago. If they chance to be poor, the townspeople turn a deaf ear when they ask an alms “for the love of St. James”; or, should they be rich, seek only to turn them to account and to lighten their purses.

Although greatly fallen from its ancient splendor, Santiago, formerly the capital of Galicia, and now the simple chief town of a judicial circuit, still has importance in the ecclesiastical order. Her archbishop is, by right, the first chaplain of the crown, and her cathedral still subsists in its integrity. She has two collegiate and fifteen parochial churches, though her numerous convents, pillaged in 1807, and subsequently despoiled and suppressed, are at the present time inhabited dwelling-houses, destined to inevitable ruin, and throwing an additional shadow into the general air of melancholy which now hangs over this old city.

There are but few public buildings of antiquity or interest. The streets, with their dark and narrow archways, all start, like the threads of a spider’s web, from the one centre occupied by the cathedral. Everything wears an aspect that is sombre, damp, and cold, augmented by the hue that the granite, of which most of the edifices are 348built, takes under a climate of such humidity that it has given rise to the disrespectful saying that this city is the sink of Spain. And yet the site is picturesque. Seen from the neighboring heights, Santiago, itself also built upon an elevation, with its ancient buildings, walls, and towers, presents a very striking appearance, and to any one who mounts the towers of the cathedral the grand girdle of mountains encircling the horizon affords a spectacle that well repays the trouble of the ascent.

We are in the great square, and facing the western front, containing the principal entrance of the building, which occupies the middle of a long architectural line, having at its left the episcopal palace, melancholy enough and not in any way remarkable, and at its right the cloister, with its turrets and pyramidal roofs, and its long row of arched windows. This is not the cloister of Gemirez, of which nothing remains, but was built in the sixteenth century by Archbishop Fonseca, who furnished it with a fine library, and also added the chapter-house and other dependencies of the cathedral. The cloister is one of the largest in Spain, half Gothic in style, and half Renaissance.

This western entrance, between the cloister and the palace, is called El Mayor or El Real—the great or royal entrance; not that it merits the title from any particular artistic beauty, but rather from a certain effective arrangement. The four flights of steps, two large and two small, ascend very picturesquely from the square to the doors of the cathedral, allowing a procession to spread into four lines, while above rise the lofty towers, curiously adorned with columns, vases, 349balustrades, and little cupolas. You see at once that you are not beholding a work which dates from the construction of the building, although the towers are ancient up to the height of the church walls, but the upper portion is much more recent, and the same is evident of the façade, which occupies the space between the towers.

Proceeding onwards to the left, we follow a vaulted passage of the twelfth century, bearing the stamp of ancient simplicity, until we reach the Plaza San Martino, the north side of which is formed by the vast convent of St. Martin, where, on the centre of the front, are placed, mounted on their chargers, the two warrior saints of France and Spain. Here is the market-place, whither those should come who wish to study favorably the picturesque costumes of the peasants of Galicia, and, it might be added, to hear cries more shrill and louder vociferations than it would be supposed possible for ordinary human lungs to send forth. Before appearing at market the sellers of fruit and vegetables make an elaborate toilette, which must be not only neat but effective, those who are unable to comply with its requirements remaining at home. Side by side with the splendid fruits of Galicia, and fish from river and sea, rosaries, medals, and the scallop-shells of St. James are offered for sale.

The building forms a beautiful cross, of which the arms are nearly equal to the upright, the transepts having a great development. The arrangement follows that of most of the churches in Spain, the choir being in the nave and ending where the transept begins. The aspect of the latter is particularly grand, being less interrupted than the view along the nave, as the 350eye easily penetrates the light trellis-work which makes a passage across it from the choir to the Capilla Mayor. The rounded arches of the three roofs are evidently of the close of the eleventh or the commencement of the twelfth century. The pillars of the aisles, with their capitals sculptured in foliage, are light and graceful, contrasting pleasingly with the heavy mass of the edifice. The triforium, which runs round the nave, is composed of semi-circular arches, each containing two smaller ones which spring from a slender column in the centre. The east end remains as it was, with the chapels radiating from it, but the pillars and arches of the choir have undergone great alterations. The Silleria, or enclosure of the choir, is ornamented by a series of religious subjects carved by Gregorio Español in 1606. Many of the windows of the cathedral are very fine.

Beneath the Capilla Mayor is situated the great object of the pilgrimage—the subterranean chapel containing the tomb of St. James and those of two of his first disciples. The famous statue of the apostle is in the Capilla itself, above the great altar, which remains as it was in the time of Alman-Zour. This is a monumental altar of richly-wrought marble, ornamented with incrustations of silver, the working of which occupied no less than twenty years. It is surrounded by an enclosure of open metal-work, gilt, adorned with vine-branches and surmounted by an immense hojarasco, or canopy, which has little to recommend it in an artistic point of view, being carved and gilt in the height of the style churrigueresque. This serves as a dais to the statue, and is supported by four angels, about whose ponderous 351forms no remnant of celestial lightness lingers. Even the statue itself, before which kings and princes have knelt, is not free from the faults of style inevitable to the period. The apostle is seated, and holds in his right-hand the pilgrim’s staff, with a gilded gourd and wallet (cum baculo perâque), and in his left a scroll inscribed with the words, Hic est corpus Divi Jacobi Apostoli et Hispaniarum Patroni. He wears on his shoulders the pelerine, or pilgrim’s mantle, embroidered with gold and precious stones. This cape has the form of those worn by cardinals, and has replaced the ancient one of gold, which was carried off by Marshal Ney.

It is a high honor to be allowed to say Mass at the altar of the great patron. Bishops and canons only have the right. On grand occasions it is splendidly adorned; the four statues of kings which stand behind that of St. James then support another small image of the apostle of exceeding richness, having a nimbus of emeralds and rubies, and which is placed in a shrine of wrought gold and silver of wonderful delicacy. This beautiful custodia, which is nearly six feet high, was finished in 1544 by Antonio d’Arphe, and is in the style designated by the Spaniards Plateresque.

Pilgrims are admitted to pay their homage to St. James by mounting some steps behind the altar to kiss the cape or mantle of the apostle, as at Rome one kisses the foot of St. Peter. There is another resemblance also to St. Peter’s at Rome in the long range of confessionals, dedicated to different saints, and served by priests speaking different languages; for it is not until after confession and communion that the pilgrim can be allowed 352any right to the title, or receive his brevet or Compostella, which is a declaration written in Latin, and signed by the canon-administrator of the cathedral, that he has fulfilled all his duties. These documents are frequently found among family papers, and in certain cases constitute a title without which such or such possessions could not be claimed.

The treasures of St. James of Compostella were formerly renowned throughout the world; but there seems to have been some exaggeration respecting their immensity, as, from all the objects of which the French plundered the cathedral in 1809, they obtained no more than 300,000 francs. There still remain various rare and curious things—reliquaries, statues, sacred vessels, etc.—some of which are of great value and antiquity; amongst others a crucifix containing a fragment of the true cross, and which is of exquisite workmanship, being also one of the most ancient specimens of chasing known. The cross is wrought in gold filagree, enriched with jewels, and resembles that of Oviedo, which is said to be the work of angels. It bears the inscription: “Hoc opus perfectum est erâ LXOO. et duodecimâ. Hoc signo vincitur inimicus. Hoc signo tuetur pius. Hoc offerunt famuli Dei Adefonsus princeps et conjux.”

353Among the chapels must be noticed the Capilla del Pilar, dedicated to Our Lady in memory of her apparition to St. James. This, which is behind the high altar, and rich in precious marbles and jasper, was founded by Arthur Monroy, a rich Mexican prelate, whose kneeling statue on his tomb has a fine and attractive expression. Many of the other chapels are also remarkable; that of the kings of France, of the Conception, of the Relics, etc.

Let us add to these riches of the old cathedral a large concourse of worshippers at all the services, a people profoundly religious, a magnificent ceremonial, the officiating archbishop surrounded by his clergy, grand and solemn music swelled by the multitudinous voices of the faithful; let us imagine a vast procession beneath these vaulted roofs, and the trembling light of the tapers illuminating the sombre walls as the seemingly interminable train of choristers, clergy, and people pass along, and we shall have evoked a scene which, though its like may be witnessed in other lands, still bears in Spain a peculiar stamp of gravity and fervor, and possesses the earnest features and the vigorous relief of which the Spanish artists knew the secret, and which they have reproduced on their canvas in warm shadows and golden lights.

I.

Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte is a dull little town, situated in Cotentin, that long eastern strip of the coast of Normandy which extends directly in front of the lovely isles of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark. Cherbourg lies to the north of it, but we only mention that fact en passant; for the incident related in these pages occurred long before the Second Empire, long before Cherbourg attracted visitors to admire its naval displays, long before railways had shortened distances and brought the Cotentinians within daily hearing of their “ne plus ultra” of cities—inimitable Paris. The little towns then slumbered peaceably amidst their corn-fields and apple-orchards; and none slept sounder than Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, whose very existence was scarcely known beyond the limits of its native district. It was remarkable, indeed, for nothing; its church was old and fine, as most French provincial churches are; the open space around it formed the market-place, deserted and silent except on market-days; and the Grande Rue contained the one hostelry of the town—the Hôtel Royale—and various stores.

But there were also a few cross-streets, interspersed with flowery, bowery gardens, and it is in a house situated in one of these that our scene is laid. It was a plain, unpretending dwelling, but large and exquisitely neat. It had the widest local reputation of being the snuggest in winter, the coolest in summer, and the most hospitable at all 355seasons of any in Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte—nay, in the whole stretch of Cotentin! The garden behind it, too, was famous; the owners, M. and Mme. Dupuis, cultivated it themselves with rare enthusiasm and taste. Alphonse Karr’s world-celebrated flowers would have been considered pale and scentless beside Mme. Dupuis’—at least, by the Cotentinians. And the fruits—the peaches and green-gages, the pears and grapes—it was not believed possible that the like could be found even in Paris. Let us add that, when in their first flush of ripeness and bloom, the greater portion of these carefully-tended flowers and fruits were culled by Mme. Dupuis’ own hands, and sent forth to carry light and beauty, perfume and freshness, into every sick-room of the little town.

The Dupuis were a thoroughly worthy couple; they had married young, for love, and had been blessed with an only child, a daughter, good and pretty as her mother, and, like her mother, wedded early and happily.

When the episode in their lives which is the subject of this little story took place, they had passed together thirty years of tranquil, uneventful felicity. M. Dupuis had shortly before sold his business—he was a notary—and was now enjoying a well-earned rest. He was a man of sixty, well-educated, intelligent, and still strong, active, and enthusiastic. His plump little wife had just completed her fifty-fifth year—she did not appear to be forty-five. 356She was of a deeper, more thoughtful nature than her husband, but nevertheless her sympathy with him was unbounded—she loved all he loved, the same people and the same things. She was the type of a true wife and of a true Christian.

Too modest and timid to have any personal pretensions, Mme. Dupuis’ great pride lay in her well-ordered home, her exquisitely clean house, her nicely-arranged kitchen, and, though last, certainly not least, in her cook and housemaid, whom she considered absolutely unparalleled in their several vocations. And it must be allowed that Jeannette and Marianne had, during twenty years, fully justified their mistress’ good opinion of them. During all this time the two women had constantly studied her every wish, and the result was the perfection of domestic economy.

The family party was completed by a large white Angora cat, promoted since the marriage of Mlle. Dupuis to the enviable position of “pet of the household,” and universally considered in Cotentin to be the most remarkable animal of its species.

II.

One winter’s evening, when the snow lay deep in the streets and the north wind whistled fiercely around the eaves, M. Dupuis’ dining-room looked particularly cheerful. The heavy tapestry curtains were drawn close before the windows, and a flaming wood fire showered sparkles of reflected light on the crystal and silver placed on the round dining-table, and lighted up the portraits of some sober-looking personages in powdered wigs which adorned the walls. The handsome tortoise-shell and copper clock, a masterpiece of the 357style Louis Quinze, standing on a hanging shelf above the sofa, was, perhaps, the best article of furniture in the room; the chimney-piece was too encumbered with porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, and china jars filled with artificial flowers and covered with great glass globes, for the taste of the present day. Fashion had slumbered in Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte for many a long year. But there was light and warmth, and a pervading feeling of comfort, worth all the gilded, satin-covered chairs and lounges that Parisian taste can devise, all the Venetian mirrors and Sevres vases that luxury can afford. Mme. Dupuis’ dining-room was certainly rococo and provincial, incongruous in some respects, deficient in harmony, but what sincere, cordial hospitality those four walls had witnessed! what pleasant repasts! what real good, wholesome eating! what merry toasts had been drunk there in claret, in sherry, and champagne—wines as bright as Mme. Dupuis’ eyes, and as pure and unadulterated as her heart!

A second clock, a very ugly one it must be confessed, a representative of the bad taste of the First Empire, which stood in the centre of the already too encumbered mantel-shelf, marked five minutes past six, and Mme. Dupuis was seated at the head of her dining-table. She was neatly dressed in black silk; her dark brown hair, streaked here and there with silver threads, was arranged in simple bandeaux on each side of her temples, and a small lace cap trimmed with a few knots of pink ribbon concealed the paucity of the “back hair”; for Mme. Dupuis was behind her time. She had not “marched with her age,” and had not yet learned to wear a “switch.”

358M. Dupuis, somewhat old-fashioned in his attire, but scrupulously neat, sat opposite to her. At an equal distance from each was placed a gentleman as old apparently as the ex-notary, but infinitely more pretentious in his style both of dress and manner. His coat and trowsers were of Parisian cut; his beard in the latest mode; his voice dictatorial—a man of the world evidently, and evidently also accustomed to think more of himself than of any one else. The little party was busily engaged in the agreeable duty of eating sundry “plats” which diffused a most appetizing odor. Marianne, madame’s right hand and faithful aid during many long years, waited at table, while the beautiful Angora sought its fortune around and under.

“Well, it happened just as I tell you,” said Mme. Dupuis, as she handed her guest a delicious-looking chop—“it happened just as I tell you, M. Rouvière. I believed that he had gone crazy—completely crazy; get down, puss! He came rushing up-stairs, four steps at a time, crying at the top of his voice, ‘It’s Tom! it’s Tom Rouvière, that fellow Tom!’ Excuse me, M. Rouvière, but that’s his word, you know. As for me, I followed, stumbling as I went along, killing myself trying to make him hear that it was much more likely to be M. du Luc in his new carriage; for I knew through Mme. le Rendu that M. du Luc was to dine to-day at Semonville, and, as he never passes through Saint-Sauveur without stopping to wish us good-day, I had every reason to believe....”

“O my dear Reine!” interrupted M. Dupuis, “what necessity is there for telling all that to Rouvière? He knows nothing about M. du Luc and Mme. le Rendu; 359how can all that interest him? Besides, you know that M. du Luc never has post-horses to his carriage, so it could not be he.”

“But I believed it was,” replied madame.

“Allons! never mind now, dear,” returned her husband, “but do keep your cat off; she is teasing Rouvière.”

“Puss! puss!” cried Mme. Dupuis, “come here and behave yourself, do. Now, George,” she continued, “you must acknowledge that it was much more natural that I should expect to see M. du Luc, our country neighbor, than M. Rouvière, whom I did not know, and from whom you had never heard for more than thirty years—really, now. What do you say, M. Rouvière? You shall be judge.”

M. Rouvière, who during this dialogue had been silently eating and drinking with evident appetite, looked up from his plate with an expression of impatience anything but flattering to the lady.

“Of course you are right, madame,” replied he sharply; “of course you are right. But, God bless me, madame, I really believe that your chops are fried with crumbs!”

Poor Mme. Dupuis started at this abrupt interpellation; her good-tempered smile vanished; one might have fancied there was a tear in her eye as she answered gently: “I am so sorry! It was I who made Jeannette crumb them. I thought they would be more delicate.”

“What heresy!” exclaimed Rouvière. “My dear lady, nobody now fries chops in crumbs, just as nobody now wears leg-of-mutton sleeves! Gracious heavens! Providence has granted you one of the very best articles of food that the 360culinary art is acquainted with—real, genuine, pré-salé mutton, pure Miels mutton—and you fry it in crumbs—you actually dare to fry it in crumbs! Parbleu! I have sailed round the world, but I had to come to Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte to see Miels mutton fried in crumbs.”

“How sorry I am!” cried poor Mme. Dupuis humbly. “Let me help you to some sole, M. Rouvière. We have a market for fish only once a week, but, as M. Dupuis is very fond of fish, I have made an arrangement with a fisherman from Porthail, so that we have a little extra ‘plat’ every Wednesday, and as, most fortunately, to-day happens to be Wednesday....”

“Oh! come, Reine,” interrupted M. Dupuis, who had been listening with a very vexed expression of countenance to what was passing between his wife and his friend, “don’t go on with all these details; what interest can they have for Rouvière? Well, Tom, tell me, now, where were you eight days ago at this very hour?”

“Eight days’ ago, George,” said Rouvière, and he stopped eating to reflect—“eight days ago I was in Dublin.”

“In Dublin!” exclaimed Dupuis admiringly. “What a fellow!”

“From Dublin,” continued M. Rouvière, “I went to London, and from London to Jersey, and from Jersey—here!”

“And was it when you got to Jersey that the happy thought occurred to you to come and stir up your old friend?” asked Dupuis; and his bright, soft eyes rested affectionately on Rouvière’s face.

“Yesterday morning, my dear boy,” replied Rouvière. “There was a map of Normandy hanging up in the hall of the hotel where I was staying, and I was looking at it 361almost mechanically, when suddenly I came across the name of Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte. ‘Saint Sauveur-le-Vicomte!’ I repeated two or three times to myself. ‘Isn’t that the name of the little town where George Dupuis used to live—my friend George? I’ve a mind to go and dine with him, if he be still alive.’”

M. Rouvière seemed to be looking for something on the table as he finished these words. Mme. Dupuis, watching every feature, anxiously inquired what he wanted.

“Some lemon, madame, for this sole,” replied he. “Marianne—I think I heard you call her Marianne,” he added, turning towards his hostess—“Marianne, haven’t you a lemon?”

“Here is one,” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis, rising hastily and running to the sideboard. “Now tell me, M. Rouvière,” she said with her pleasant smile, as she laid the lemon by his plate, “have you really been going up and down the highways and by-ways of the world during thirty long years, just like the Wandering Jew?”

“I have indeed, madame,” replied her guest, squeezing the lemon-juice out over his sole.

“You must have eaten some strange things in your travels,” continued the lady.

“I rather think so,” replied Rouvière, with his mouth full of fish; “things you never heard of! Marianne, my good girl, I smell coffee roasting in your kitchen. Now, nearly every one, especially here in the provinces, roasts it too much—all the aroma is driven off; run quick, that’s a good lass, and tell the cook—Jeannette, isn’t it?—that the coffee must only be toasted—just scorched. Do you understand, eh?”

362“Yes, yes, I understand well enough,” muttered Marianne as she went out; “that fellow seems to like nothing!”

“My dear lady,” went on Rouvière, turning to Mme. Dupuis, “the very accident I feared for your coffee has happened to your chicken—it is cooked too much, or rather it has been cooked too fast. It is a great pity, for it was an excellent fowl!”

“Oh! dear, oh! dear,” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis, who was beginning to feel a kind of despair thus far unknown to her. All her dinners hitherto had been subjects of compliment; this was quite a new experience. “Oh! dear, oh! dear, how many misfortunes at one time. Pray excuse me, M. Rouvière; you came so unexpectedly, you know. We had no time to do things well. But do, pray, stay a few days with us, and you shall see. I promise you that everything shall be better.”

“Impossible, madame,” replied the guest, as he accepted a fine snipe done to a turn; “you are very kind, but at nine o’clock this evening I must be on the road again. Yes, madame, you may well say that I have eaten strange things,” he continued, raising his voice. “I’ve eaten kouskoussou under the Arab’s tent; curry—that incendiary curry—on the shores of the Ganges; I’ve dined off the frightful tripang in Java; and in China on swallows’ nests stewed in castor-oil!”

“Good gracious!” ejaculated Mme. Dupuis.

“What a wonderful fellow!” exclaimed M. Dupuis enthusiastically.

M. Dupuis was unwontedly silent; he was evidently exceedingly annoyed, and it was pitiful to see 363the deprecating glances his little wife directed towards him from time to time. He, however, kept his eyes fixed steadily on his plate.

“In Panama,” went on Rouvière, “I’ve eaten roasted monkey. But what need to enumerate? There’s nothing edible in creation that I have not swallowed. So that I believe I may say,” here he bowed thanks for a second snipe, “there does not exist a man under the firmament of heaven easier to satisfy than myself. The Rocky Mountain Indians—those Indians are most extraordinarily sagacious—the Rocky Mountain Indians, I say, gave me a surname while I was among them—‘Choc-ugh-tou-saw,’ which signifies good-humored stomach, because I was always satisfied with my dinner!”

“What a wonderful fellow!” reiterated Dupuis. “Come, Tom, try this Burgundy; your throat must be dry. What a wonderful fellow, to be sure!”

“Do let me prevail on you to take another snipe,” said Mme. Dupuis, holding up to the guest’s acceptance a third fine, fat bird; “I’m so glad to find that you like them!”

“No, madame, no, a thousand thanks. Yes, I don’t deny that I am fond of snipes, but, I’m sorry—I can’t deceive you—these are not just what they ought to be. In the first place, they have not been killed long enough; and, secondly, you have forgotten to pepper them—a process absolutely necessary with game. But, excuse me, for the last half-hour I’ve been looking at that covered dish, wondering what there is in it. I really don’t believe that I have ever felt more curiosity in the whole course of my life; excuse me, I must look into it.”

He raised the cover as he spoke, peering in with eyes and nose.

364“In the name of all the saints, what is it?” he exclaimed, as he contemplated the contents and sniffed up the steam.

“My dear friend,” answered Dupuis, a little nervously, “it is something I had concocted on purpose for you—it is macaroni.”

“Macaroni! That macaroni!” shouted Rouvière, as if never more surprised in his life.

“Yes, M. Rouvière,” explained Mme. Dupuis, no longer smiling, poor little woman! “This dish was inspired by George’s friendship. He remembered that you were very fond of Italy, so I sent in haste to the grocer’s; he fortunately had still a small quantity of macaroni on hand, and then, with the help of my cookery-book—for Jeannette couldn’t manage it—I made you a plat à l’italienne.”

“A l’italienne!” repeated George’s old friend with a sneering laugh. “My dear, good lady, that’s not macaroni à l’italienne! Oh! no, no. However, who knows?—it may be good to eat all the same. Let us try!” So saying, M. Rouvière helped himself to a spoonful, while his hosts looked on anxiously.

“Well, how do you like it?” asked George, when the taster, after many grimaces, had got down a mouthful.

“Like it!” replied Rouvière, “why, not at all; you might as well try to masticate organ-pipes! It really is something remarkable; it’s fossil macaroni, petrified macaroni! The grocer who sold it to you deserves the jail; I shouldn’t wonder if he belonged to some secret society!”

“Marianne, quick! change M. Rouvière’s plate,” said Dupuis sharply—for the old servant was gazing at her master’s friend with a very unmistakable expression of disgust on her honest face. “My 365dear Tom,” he continued, “what a bad dinner you have made!”

“You are jesting,” replied Rouvière carelessly; “at all events, your wine is capital.”

“I don’t know what to say,” sighed poor Mme. Dupuis. “I feel ready to die with vexation. But, dear M. Rouvière,” with a pretty supplicatory gesture, “do, I beg and pray of you, do taste my rice-pudding.”

“Very willingly, my dear lady,” answered the terrible guest—“very willingly; only let me first finish eating these green peas, which have been very well preserved, and would be really perfect had the cook spared her butter a little!”

At this moment the church bells began to ring the Angelus, and Mme. Dupuis rose precipitately from the table.

“You will pardon my leaving you to finish dinner with George,” said she to Rouvière; “I shall be back long before you go.”

“Surely you are not going out such an evening as this!” exclaimed Rouvière. “Why, there’s a foot deep of snow in the streets!”

“My wife goes to church every evening, winter and summer, at the Angelus, no matter what the weather,” remarked George. “She has done so for nearly fifty years, and nothing will break her of the habit now.”

“Ah! very well,” returned Rouvière. “I hope you like your pastor, Mme. Dupuis?”

“Oh! yes, indeed I do,” replied the good little woman enthusiastically; “he is a most worthy man. Do stay twenty-four hours longer with us, M. Rouvière, and I will ask him to dine with us; you will be glad to know him, I am quite sure.”

“So am I,” returned her husband’s 366old chum, with the little sneering laugh which seemed to be natural to him; “but I must wait for another opportunity.”

“Now, George,” said Mme. Dupuis, as she tied her wadded hood and slipped on the cloak and india-rubber shoes which had been placed ready for her on a chair, “do beg your friend to taste the rice-pudding; and, M. Rouvière, do try my preserves. I make them myself, and I really believe that they are excellent. Good-by for the present!”

“Good-by, madame.”

“Hem! hem!” ejaculated Rouvière as the door closed behind the lady, “so! so! Now let us look at this rice. Your wife’s given to piety, eh, George?”

“Yes, she is a religious woman,” replied George slowly; then added, with some slight eagerness in his manner, “but she never imposes her opinions upon any one. She never teases me, I can assure you, although I do happen to be somewhat lukewarm about church matters. But tell me, Tom”—here M. Dupuis hesitated and appeared embarrassed—“don’t you find her very provincial, very rustic?”

“Oh! no, not at all,” answered Rouvière in a tone which seemed to imply the contrary of his words.

“Yes, you do—I know you do!” cried George passionately. “But what can you expect? It’s not her fault! She has lived in this hole all her life. And your unexpected visit has excited her—upset her. She really talked as if she did not know what she was saying—such nonsense, such silly gossip!”

“Oh! no, not at all,” repeated Rouvière, as he steadily devoured the rice-pudding.

“Parbleu! yes; don’t deny it!” cried Dupuis peevishly. “It made 367you nervous—I saw it did. It irritated me, I know: it really seemed as if she was trying to show you her defects. It vexed me more, too, because she really has many good qualities—admirable qualities, poor little woman!”

“My dear George,” returned Rouvière, pushing away his plate and coolly wiping his mouth with his napkin, “I don’t doubt it in the least; her rice-pudding is certainly delicious.”

Dupuis at this moment caught sight of the pretty Angora with one soft white paw laid in silent petition on his friend’s knee. His irritation, with difficulty kept under so far, instantly boiled over on the head of the innocent cat. “Get down!” he roared, “get down, you brute! I’ll drown that beast one of these days! Take that animal away,” he continued, turning angrily towards Marianne, who had just brought in the coffee; “if she comes into this room again, I’ll throw her out of the window!”

“Come to me, pussy,” said Marianne in an extra-gentle tone of voice, taking the cat in her arms and kissing it; “these Parisian gentlemen don’t like you, it seems. A regular Turk he is, too, turning the house topsy-turvy,” she muttered as she went out of the room, scowling over her shoulder at the visitor.

Rouvière had risen from the table during this episode, and, tongs in hand, was busy with the bright wood fire. He smiled maliciously when the cat was carried away, and, as if in very lightness of heart, broke forth in song:

“‘O bell’ alma innamorata! O bell’ alma innamorata!’ Tell me, George,” he interrupted himself to say, “have you a good theatre here in Saint-Sauveur?”

368“A theatre? That’s an idea! Well, yes, we have a theatre once a year, on the fair-day at mid-Lent!”

“That’s too bad!” laughed Rouvière. “How on earth do you contrive to get through your evenings?”

“Well, in winter,” answered George, “we chat by the side of the fire, or my wife and I play at piquet; sometimes two or three neighbors come in, and then we have a game of whist!”

“Phew!” whistled the man of the world. “With the curé, I’ll swear,” said he presently with his customary mocking smile, as he planted himself comfortably with his back to the blaze and his coattails gathered up under his arms.

“Yes,” went on George simply, apparently unconscious of his friend’s sneer; “sometimes with the curé. And then in summer I water my garden, and Reine and I take a walk on the highroad up to the top of the hill, or in the wood by the river’s side; and then—well, everybody goes to bed early here.”

“Very moral, indeed!” sneered Rouvière again, picking his teeth.

By this time Marianne had cleared away the dinner things, and, after placing a provision of glasses and a bottle of brandy, another of rum, and a case of liqueurs on the table, had finally departed to dine in her turn with Jeannette, and to confide her observations on the obnoxious Parisian to her companion’s sympathizing ear.

III.

“So at last we are alone!” exclaimed Dupuis with a sigh of satisfaction, as the maid closed the door behind her. “Now, Tom, sit down and let us drink. Come and 369tell me what you think of this brandy. Here’s to your health, old friend!” filling himself a glass of old Cognac and tossing it off excitedly. “Do you know how many years it is since we last met, Tom? Five-and-thirty, Tom—five-and-thirty years!”

“Yes, parbleu!” said Rouvière, helping himself to the brandy. “I suppose it must be some thirty-five years since we parted in the diligence yard, Rue Montmartre. I remember that we swore eternal friendship and constant correspondence. The correspondence did not last long—less than two years, it seems to me—but our friendship, George, it smouldered under its ashes, but it kept alive, my boy!”

The two friends clasped each other’s hands for a moment silently.

“Your brandy is first-rate,” remarked Rouvière presently, as he finished his petit-verre.

“You like it? Bravo! Well, there are still some pleasant hours in life—aren’t there now, Tom?”

“I believe you,” answered the guest meditatively.

“Who should know it better than you, fortunate fellow as you are! But I say, Tom, how does it happen that you have not changed in the least? Not in the least, by Jove! You’ve remained young and handsome.... ‘I was young and handsome!’—do you remember how magnificently Talma used to say that? Your beard and moustaches might belong to an African lion! You make me think of Henri Quatre! But drink, Tom; you don’t drink!”

“My dear old George,” said Rouvière in a quiet, confidential tone of voice, and resting his two arms on the table, while he fixed 370his eyes on his friend’s flushed face—“my dear old George, what was your reason for burying yourself alive in Cotentin? Tell me.”

“Why do you ask me that, Tom?” cried Dupuis, who suddenly became serious. “You find me rusty, then?”

“No, no; but what was your reason? Tell me in confidence, you know.”

“Yes, I am rusty; I feel it!” said poor Dupuis mournfully. “I tell you what, Tom, the provinces of France deserve all that is said against them. They are like those springs of mineral waters which turn to stone every living creature you throw into them! What reason had I, do you ask? Gracious heavens! What is life, Tom, but a series of chances; some fatality gets you into a groove, and you are pushed on and on until you reach your grave. Try this rum, Tom.”

“Do you indulge in such prolonged libations every evening?” asked Rouvière.

“No, never. These are in honor of you.”

“So I suspected. This is the rum, isn’t it? Come, go on, George; I want to hear the rest of your Odyssey.”

“Well, Tom,” resumed his friend, taking a sip at his glass of rum and breathing at the same time a sigh which was almost a groan, “you remember that my prospects were pretty bright in Paris. I fully intended to buy that solicitor’s office where I was working—it had been offered to me on good conditions; but some family affairs called me home here, and here I stayed. I don’t know how it happened, but it is certain that I found a charm in this provincial life—in its futile comfort, its indolent habits, its tame monotony.”

371Here poor Dupuis stopped, that he might give vent to an angry gust of self-reproach by punching the fire with the tongs; after a sip of rum he continued: “All these got possession of me, wound themselves around me like a net, and I remained their captive.”

His head bowed itself forward, and he sat gazing regretfully on the ugly clock in the middle of the chimney-piece.

“All right, George!” laughed Rouvière; “you don’t say it, but I suspect that Madame Dupuis had a good deal to do with this final catastrophe!”

“It is true, Tom,” replied the other, his countenance lighting up for a moment; “and you may believe it or not, as you like, but I swear that she was a charming girl! Moreover, my dear old mother was living then, and it was a great pleasure to her to have me settle here where we were all born. The long and the short of it was that I married, bought my father-in-law’s office, and all was over—the die was cast! Take some of the Kirschwasser, Tom,” he added hurriedly, as if his remembrances were too painful to be dwelt on.

“Presently,” said Rouvière, a smile flickering over his worldly-wise face; “but tell me, first, you’ve not stayed walled up in Saint-Sauveur, I hope, all these thirty-five years? You take a run to Paris every once in a while, don’t you?”

“Don’t mention it,” groaned Dupuis. “I’ve not seen Paris since I said good-by to you in the Rue Montmartre!”

“Phew!” whistled Rouvière, helping himself to the Kirschwasser. The friends remained silent for a time, gazing at the fire.

“But you used to like to travel,” exclaimed Rouvière, at last.

372“And so I do still, my dear Tom; my taste has not changed in that respect, I can assure you. But what could I do? When I married, my idea was to work steadily for fifteen years, and then sell my business and live on what I had saved. I intended then to take a trip to Paris with my wife, after that to the Pyrenees—I always wished so much to see the Pyrenees! But it was not to be; as the old women say, Man proposes and God disposes. We had been married just five years when our daughter was born....”

“What’s that you say—you have a daughter?” interrupted his friend.

“A daughter and a granddaughter, Tom,” replied George, with an inflection in his voice that sounded very like pride, and a soft look in his eyes; “so you understand that I had to stick to my business for ten years more, that I might get her a dowry; and then, when at last I did sell out—well, I was old ... and I couldn’t think of anything pleasanter than just to stay quietly in my arm-chair! Didn’t I tell you that my life has been nothing but a chapter of accidents from beginning to end? Come, shall we have some punch, Tom? I’ll make it.”

“If you will. So you have a daughter! And she is married! Well married, I hope?”

“Well, yes; her husband is a sub-prefect.”

George’s voice again took a tone of gratified pride, which elicited a smile from his observant friend.

“A sub-prefect! Bravo, bravissimo! But you’re putting too much lemon into that punch.”

“Do you think so? And now, Tom, that I’ve made a clean breast of it—told you all—you must explain something to me that I never 373could comprehend: how have you contrived to make your modest fortune suffice for nearly half a century’s constant travel?”

“It is easy enough to explain,” said Rouvière, sitting up straight in his chair and becoming very animated and somewhat loud as he proceeded. “I began life with ten thousand francs a year in land; my first operation was to change my patrimony into bank-notes, by which means I doubled my income; then I invested it in the sinking funds, which trebled it. And then, freed from every narrow calculation, from every family tie, from every social trammel, I took my flight into space! Here’s to your health, my old friend George! Hip! hip! hurrah!”

“What a wonderful fellow!” cried George in a paroxysm of admiration, excited, very probably, much more by the brandy and the rum and the punch than by Rouvière’s comprehension of life and happiness. “What energy! what grandeur!”

“I consecrated my youth,” continued Tom in a declamatory style, “to distant adventures, reserving Europe for the autumn of life. My foot—this foot, this very foot, George, which now touches yours on this carpet—has left its print among those of the tiger and the elephant on the sands of India! Nay, it has even followed those terrible prowlers into their forests of bamboo, lofty and solemn as our cathedrals!”

“Ah! that was something like living!” ejaculated Dupuis, who listened with almost breathless interest.

“Two years later I arrived in Canton. What an arrival, ye gods! Never shall I forget the scene. It was a lovely summer night. The 374accession of the emperor of the Celestials to his ancestral throne was being celebrated. Our canoe could scarcely force its way among the junks and flower-boats, all of them decorated with innumerable paper lanterns. Fireworks of a thousand different hues were reflected, mingled with the stars, in the flowing river, and we could watch their rainbow tints playing on the porcelain temples that rise on its banks!”

“What a fairy-like sight! Happy, happy Tom!” murmured Dupuis.

“From China,” pursued Rouvière, after quaffing off his glass of punch, “I sailed for the Americas. I travelled about there for several years, going to and fro, from north to south, from the savannas to the pampas, from the great austere Canadian woods to the smiling Brazilian forests; sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, oftenest in a pirogue. My longest stay was in Peru. I could not tear myself away from that coquettish city of Lima!”

“Ha! ha! traître, gay deceiver! O Tom, Tom!” laughed Dupuis, shaking his head in ecstasy.

“I turned gamester, too. It is impossible for you, George, to conceive the immense attraction a gaming-table possesses in that land of gold and silver and jewels. One might almost fancy that one of those fabulous trees we read of in Oriental tales had been shaken over the green cloth! There is little or no regular coined money to be seen on it, but dull yellow ingots, bright golden spangles, fiery diamonds, and milk-white, lustrous pearls are heaped up there pell-mell! All the treasures of earth and ocean seem to be brought together on that table, tumbled and jostled in dazzling confusion! 375You can stay whole nights by that board—nights that fly like minutes—your eyes fascinated, your brain on fire! Twenty times in twenty-four hours you are raised to the throne of Rothschild—as often precipitated down, down to Job’s dunghill. You become bald, you may become mad, but you feel what life is—you live!”

“It is true, it is true!” cried Dupuis in a state of intense excitement; “you are right, Tom, there is no doubt of that. And to think that I have never played at anything but that blackguard whist at a sou the counter! But go on, Tom, go on; you really electrify me!”

“Everything has its end,” continued Rouvière, highly flattered by the effect he was producing; “there came a day of sadness and discouragement, and I took passage on board an American whaler bound for the south pole. Yes, my hand has touched the frozen limits of our globe; I have contemplated, with feelings akin to awe, those creatures with human-like faces, the morse, on their pedestals of ice, recumbent and dreamy as the sphinx of Thebes. And in the midst of those silent spaces, so strangely different from all I had hitherto seen, I experienced sensations that seemed to belong to another world. A kind of posthumous illusion of being in another planet took possession of me. Certainly I am much deceived if the days and nights I saw in those regions of ice do not resemble those in our pale satellite. What more shall I tell you, my dear friend? Three years after this I found myself in Rio Janeiro, whence I returned to Europe, after having literally described the whole circumference of our globe with the end of my walkingstick! 376And thus passed away my youth!”

M. Rouvière here threw himself back in his arm-chair, and stroked his beard with a sigh.

“Every king living might envy you, Tom!” cried Dupuis. “But tell me more. What have you been doing since then?”

“Since then, George,” said Rouvière with nonchalance, “I have not travelled; I have merely made excursions. First upon the Mediterranean—but, pshaw! it was like sailing on the basin in the Tuileries’ garden! I have visited all the countries on its shore. And by degrees, as I grew older, my circle became smaller, so that now I live entirely in Europe, going from city to city, according to the attraction of the moment. Indeed, I may say, my dear fellow, that Europe is my property, my domain!” Here the speaker began to wax warmer and louder. “Every festival given by nature or man in Europe is given to amuse me. For me Naples displays her bay and her volcano, and keeps open her grand theatre, San Carlos; for my recreation Paris adorns her boulevards and builds her opera-house; to amuse me Madrid has a Prado and bull-fights. All the great exhibitions were made for me, beginning with that of London. Evviva la libertà! Let’s drink!” So saying, he filled for himself a brimming bumper of punch, and tossed it off with a very self-satisfied smile.

“Tom!” cried Dupuis delightedly, “you are a genius! But you have said nothing about the great monuments—the Alhambra, the Coliseum, the Parthenon.”

“Pshaw! those are your friends!” retorted Tom with his peculiar sneer. “I’ve said nothing about 377them because they are dragged about everywhere. Who hasn’t seen them?”

There was a minute of silence, broken by an emphatic “Ah!” breathed not loudly but deeply by the excited listener. Starting from his seat, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, he began hurriedly to pace up and down the room. His friend glanced at him uneasily.

“What’s the matter? What annoys you?” he asked.

“O Tom, Tom!” cried George, still continuing his agitated walk, “I blush when I compare your life with mine. While your heart has counted each pulsation by some noble or beautiful emotion, mine has stupidly gone on ticking off the hours and days and years as calmly as a kitchen clock! Have I really lived, tell me?” He stopped in front of his friend, gesticulating violently. “I was born, and I have slept, and I have eaten; but what else? And what has been the result? My intelligence is extinguished; I have dried up; I have descended in the scale of being, until I have come to be on a level with the idiot of the Alps, with a shellfish, with an oyster!”

“Come, come, George, you’re going too far!” said Rouvière soothingly. “Even supposing that you no longer possess as much freshness of imagination, as much vivacity of wit, as you used to have....”

“I thought so! I knew it!” interrupted Dupuis, resuming his hurried walk backwards and forwards; “you acknowledge that you find me rusty!”

M. Rouvière rose slowly from his seat, and, after lighting a cigar, remained standing with his back against the chimney-piece, his eyes fixed on his friend, who paused in front of him at his first word.

378“Listen to me, George,” said he seriously, caressing his moustache with his fingers as he spoke; “I will be frank with you. You know that I always used to be frank with you. The impression your house made on me when I first entered it was, I must confess, a sinister one. I seemed to breathe the air of a cemetery in it. I could have fancied that I was in one of those long-buried dwellings which the patient labor of enthusiastic antiquaries has restored to light and life. While the servant went to call you I could not prevent myself from examining, with a kind of wondering, stupid curiosity, the old-fashioned furniture, and the pictures, and those dismal tapestries worthy of figuring in a museum! I remembered the delicacy of your character, the elegance of your manners, your intelligent taste, your love of art; and positively I could not reconcile the bright memories I retained of you with the dull, insipid existence of which I had the evidence before my eyes. You came to me; I looked at you; you spoke. What was it? Was my sight affected, or my judgment biassed by the thoughts which were literally preying on me at that moment? I can’t tell what it was—I can’t explain—but your language astonished me! Your forehead actually seemed to me to have grown narrower! I wiped away a secret tear, and I sighed as I should have sighed had I been standing by your grave! I even half spoke the words, ‘This, then, is all that remains of my friend!’ You’re not offended, George?” added M. Rouvière, stopping short and looking inquiringly into his victim’s anxious, attentive face.

“Not a bit, Tom; not a bit,” replied George. “I tell you I felt that 379I had sunk; at least, I suspected it, and the suspicion was intolerable. I prefer the certainty.” He turned away with an attempt at a smile, and resumed his agitated walk up and down the room.

Rouvière applied himself to the fire, put on a new log of wood, shovelled up the glowing embers and ashes and threw them with much care and skill to the back, gazed on his work for a minute, and, finally assuming again his favorite pose, with his back leaning against the chimney-piece, started the conversation afresh in a lively, chatty tone.

“Let us change the subject,” said he. “You have sold your business; what do you think of doing now?”

“What do you expect me to do?” cried Dupuis vehemently. “I shall finish by dying!”

“Morbleu! you had better resuscitate. Let us talk seriously, George. When you married you created for yourself new duties, which you have fulfilled to the utmost, honestly and generously. You have provided amply for the future of your wife and daughter. What is there, then, to prevent you now from plunging yourself for two or three years into the vortex of life, and so awaken and reinvigorate your benumbed faculties? The facilities of travel nowadays are wonderful. In the space of two years you can run over the whole of Europe, and even explore a part of Asia and Africa. All the freshness and vivacity of thought you once possessed will return to you when you find yourself in contact with the most glorious creations of art and nature. In the course of two years—two years, mark you!—you can lay at rest for ever every one of those regretful feelings which 380are now eating out your heart and shortening your life! Choose now: suicide or travel? Remember that you are free in your choice—you are free to do as you like!”

“Pish!” cried George, turning on his heel and pursuing his walk. “Is it probable that at my time of life I shall set out alone to scour the highways of Europe?”

“But who wants you to go alone?” said Rouvière, going up to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Am not I ready to go with you? My experience, my post-chaise, my servant—everything I have is at your service, George!”

“Is it possible, Tom? Are you really in earnest?” exclaimed Dupuis, gratified beyond expression at this proof of his friend’s affection. “You really will accompany me?”

“I will lead you by the hand, my boy!” answered Rouvière gaily; and, falling into step with George, the two friends paced the room together. “I will spare you the torment of guides and ciceroni, and all that species of vermin which besets the tourist. No, don’t thank me,” he continued, when Dupuis began to express his gratitude. “The thought delights me as much as it does you. Your new impressions will revive mine of past days. And won’t it be delicious, George, to end our lives as we began them—participating in the same adventures, in the same pleasures, and even sharing our purses? Come, now, is it settled?”

“My dear friend,” replied Dupuis, with a slight hesitation in his voice, “I will confess to you that no project was ever more agreeable to me, but....”

“No buts! no buts!” cried Rouvière imperatively; “it is settled! We will go direct from this to Paris and wait there until the spring. 381The museums and theatres will help us to while away the time. I will take you behind the scenes; you shall hear Ristori and Patti! You used to love music!”

“I love it still,” said George, smiling; “I play the flute!”

“So much the better!” cried Tom with increasing animation, as they continued to pace the room side by side; “so much the better! You shall bring your flute with you. What was I saying? Oh! yes; well, the winter in Paris—that’s settled; but at the very beginning of spring we’ll cross the Pyrenees and spend three glorious months in Spain. Then we’ll take advantage of the summer to visit all the principal cities of Germany; and after that we’ll get down into Italy by Trieste and Venice. What do you say to this programme?”

“I say,” replied Dupuis, stopping in his walk and speaking in a strong, decisive tone—“I say that it opens Paradise to me. Give me a cigar, Tom. I say that you are right. I have lived long enough for others. I have offered up a sufficiently large portion of my life as a sacrifice. Bah! a man has duties towards himself.” He lighted his cigar and puffed vigorously for a minute or two. “Providence has conferred gifts on us,” he resumed, “for which we have to render an account. Intellect, imagination, the feeling of the beautiful—these are gifts which bind us. Savages only ought to be capable of such a crime as to allow these sacred flames to die out for want of nourishment!”

“Well said!” exclaimed Rouvière exultingly; “that’s my old George again! Now let us strike while the iron’s hot. Marianne!” He went towards the door to open it as he spoke.

“Hush! hush!” cried Dupuis, 382stopping him and speaking under his breath; “what do you want with her?”

“I want to tell her that you are going away to-night, and that she must look after your portmanteau. Marianne!” he called again.

“Hush, I beg of you!” repeated poor George earnestly. “Surely we are not going to start to-night?”

“At nine o’clock to-night,” answered Rouvière decisively; “you know very well that I ordered horses for nine o’clock.”

“Yes, I know,” said Dupuis, hesitating and embarrassed; “but the night is going to be deucedly cold—Siberian. I think we should do better to wait until to-morrow morning.”

“Now, just let me tell you this, George,” cried the other impatiently: “if you’re afraid of frosted fingers or toes, and of a night in a post-chaise, you’d better pull your night-cap over your ears at once and go to bed, and never talk again about travelling!”

“I’m afraid of nothing and of nobody,” replied poor Dupuis, driven to his wits’ end; “but the truth is this haste rather puts me out. I had reckoned upon two or three days to look about me and to make my preparations.”

“Preparations! What preparations?” cried Tom in a tone of indignant surprise. “You need a portmanteau and a few shirts and stockings, and you have an hour before you to get them together, and that’s more than time enough. Come, now, George, no childishness; if you defer your departure for two or three days, you know just as well as I do that you won’t go at all. I’ve no need to tell you what influences will be brought to bear on you, what obstacles will rise up before you, to unman you 383and break down your resolution. Believe me, my dear fellow, in such cases as this, however you yourself may suffer and make suffer, you must cut down to the quick or give up....”

“Once more you are right, Tom,” said Dupuis after a moment’s silent thought. “I’m your man; there’s my hand on it.”

“Marianne!” shouted Rouvière, shaking his friend’s hand with a will.

“No, no, don’t call Marianne,” cried Dupuis hurriedly, and getting between Rouvière and the door. “I know better than she does what I shall need. I shall pack my portmanteau myself as soon as my wife comes in. It’s just eight now,” looking at the clock; “she’ll not be long. Well,” he continued with some agitation, “I shall have to pass a few minutes—sad ones they will be, I know—but my conscience reproaches me with nothing; ... and after all, if my cup be filled with generous wine, what does it matter though the edge be a little bitter?... O Tom!” he continued after a moment’s pause, during which he seemed to have roused his courage, “what a perspective you have opened out before me—what a horizon! Granada! Venice! Naples! It is a dream!” He glanced at the clock and his voice fell. “Five minutes past eight! I would willingly give twenty-five louis to be a quarter of an hour older—a quarter of an hour! I know that I am very weak, but....”

“Shall I tell your wife for you?” interrupted Rouvière, who was watching him anxiously.

“Well, frankly, Tom, you would do me a service,” cried Dupuis eagerly.

“Go and pack your trunk, then, and I’ll settle the business.”

384“There’s no danger of a scene,” said George, stopping short near the door; “you would be quite mistaken in your estimate of her character if you feared that.”

“I shall see,” returned his friend laconically.

“Tell her that I entreat her to keep calm. Tears might unman me, but could change nothing in my plans.”

“I’ll tell her. Go to your trunk.”

“I’m going, Tom.”

He opened the door, hesitated, then closed it again and came back to the fireplace, near which Rouvière was still standing.

“My dear friend,” said he softly, laying his hand on Tom’s arm, “you will be very gentle with her, will you not?”

A kind smile gleamed in the usually cold, sharp eyes of the traveller, as he looked in his friend’s anxious, agitated face.

“Don’t be afraid,” he replied; “but you—don’t you desert me when I’ve gone to the front.”

“Desert during the battle! You don’t know me, Tom!”

“Why, you see,” said Tom, “I should look wondrous silly if you did!”

“Tom Rouvière,” cried Dupuis solemnly, “permit me to assure you that my mind is made up, and that this evening at nine o’clock, come what will, I go with you. I pledge you my word of honor. Are you satisfied?”

“Go and pack your trunk!” laughed Rouvière, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him out of the room.

Left to himself, M. Rouvière returned to the chimney-piece and stood over the fire, rubbing his hands meditatively, and from time to time breaking out into words.

“Now then, Mme. Dupuis, it’s 385between you and me,” said he, half-aloud, with a kind of chuckle. “It’s very certain that my principal object is to make poor George something like himself again, but I really sha’n’t be sorry to try the effect of a thunder-bolt on that serene-looking lady!” Here M. Rouvière rubbed his hands gleefully and laughed heartily; picturing to himself, probably, the poor wife’s consternation and despair when he should announce the fatal news.

“I’m not a Turk,” he muttered presently—“far from it, I’m sure; until now I always believed, like every true Christian, that polygamy deserved the gallows; but, hang it! only think of a decent man condemned to perpetual communion with such a disagreeable creature as that old village sauce-pan! Such a life is clearly impossible!” A minute’s silent thought followed, and then M. Rouvière roused himself, and sat down before the fire to warm the soles of his feet. But not for long.

“I understood that woman,” he suddenly exclaimed, starting up from his seat and beginning to pace rapidly up and down the floor—“I understood her and judged her before I saw her! I knew her to be exactly what she is, from her cap to her shoes! She was always odious to me! Just see with what stupid symmetry all this furniture is arranged: two chairs here and two chairs there, everything square with its neighbor, all at equal distances—how wearisome! That old barometer, too, and these absurd curiosities”—he stopped, as he spoke, in front of the chimney: “a stuffed bird, a shell-box, spun-glass, and horrid cocoanut cups carved by galley-slaves! They absolutely give one the height and the breadth and the weight of the 386woman, both physically and morally. Poor George! an intelligent man, too. I was sorry for him,” he continued, taking a seat in front of the fire, “but I couldn’t help it. How I pegged into her all dinnertime! Ha, ha, ha! I was as disgusting as a Kalmuck! I really was ashamed of myself! but, the deuce take it! every one’s nerves are not made of bronze. M. du Luc! Mme. le Rendu! and her fish ... and her cat ... and her curé ... hang it! I couldn’t stand it.”

Here M. Rouvière interrupted his monologue for a minute to examine the toe of his boot; satisfied that it was intact, he resumed his train of thought.

“No, I really don’t believe that it would be possible to meet with a more perfect type of the humdrum existence, the narrow-minded ideas, and flat conversation prevalent in these provincial mole-hills than this dowdy female presents! That good fellow—how much he must have suffered before he learnt to bow his intellect beneath her imbecile yoke! God bless me! I know the whole story. He probably struggled hard at first, and then, little by little, he was bowed and bent and broken, as so many others have been, by the continued pressure of a feminine will! Thirty years’ martyrdom. But, ha! ha! Mme. Dupuis, your hour has come; he shall be avenged.”

Here M. Rouvière drew himself up straight in his chair and laughed merrily. “It reminds me,” continued he half-aloud, “of my battle with that old Indian woman when I stole her idol while she was asleep. What a good-for-nothing hussy she was! Extraordinary how much old women resemble one another all the world over.”

[TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.]

Let us begin by considering the Indian himself. As soon as he is able to stand alone he commences that practice with the bow and arrow which makes him a good marksman before he is well in his teens. He is tied in his saddle before he can walk, and a horse becomes as much a part of his nature as if he were a Centaur. While yet a child he learns the subterfuges of the chase: the quiet, patient, breathless watchfulness, the stealthy, snake-like advance, which enable him in adult life to crawl, unseen and unheard, upon his unsuspecting victim, to take him at a disadvantage, surprise and kill him without the risk of a wound. From his earliest years he hears the warriors of his tribe relate their acts of treachery and blood, of rapine and violence, and boast of them as brave and glorious deeds. He is taught to consider treachery courage, robbery and murder honorable warfare, and the most renowned warrior the one who despatches his foe with the least possibility of 388danger to himself. For him revenge is a sacred duty. He hears shouts of savage laughter and applause greet the warrior who devises the worst tortures for the miserable captive. His initiation to the order of warriors is a terrible ordeal of physical suffering, which must be borne without flinching or murmuring to ensure the success of the candidate. The grossest sensuality is practised openly under his childish eyes. He learns to regard cunning and falsehood as virtues, and to look upon the warrior most skilled in the arts of deceit as the greatest hero of his tribe. Until he has committed some signal act of murder, treachery, or robbery, he is without influence among the braves or attractions for the squaws.

All is fair in the wars of Indians, either with the white man or foes of their own color. The Sioux kills the Crow—man, woman, or papoose at the breast—at sight. The Crow will brain the sleeping Sioux equally without regard to age or sex. A small party of Minneconjon Sioux went to the Tongue River Cantonment, last December, to surrender. They carried a flag of truce. Unfortunately, they rode into the camp of some Crow scouts which was situated within a few hundred yards of the cantonment. The Crows received them in a friendly manner, shook hands with them, and while with one hand they gave the pledge of amity, with the other they poured the contents of their revolvers into the breasts of the bearers of the white flag. The Crows could not understand the indignation of the officers and soldiers at such an act of treachery and cowardice (we regret to say that it was not without apologists and applauders among white frontiersmen), 389but they feared it enough to run away to their agency, where the leader in the bloody deed was the recipient of high honors. There he was the hero of the time.

HOW THE INDIAN IS CIRCUMSTANCED.

Next let us consider the circumstances in which this creature, so savagely nurtured and developed, is placed.

We find him in a district of country which he believes to be his by immemorial right of possession. It is the land of his fathers. The white man formally recognizes his claim by making solemn treaties for the transfer of portions of the Indian’s heritage. The land being his, the game is his. The Great Spirit created the buffalo for the sustentation of his red children. The buffalo-hunter enters the Indian’s domain, and slaughters the buffalo by tens of thousands for the robes, leaving the flesh to rot upon the plain. Thousands are wantonly destroyed by wealthy idlers who call themselves sportsmen. The buffalo supplies the Indian not only with food, but with raiment and shelter. It furnishes him the article of exchange which enables him to obtain the necessaries of his savage life. The diminution of the buffalo means privation, suffering, nakedness, starvation to the Indian and his family.

The white man by formal compact purchases from the Indian some certain district, and solemnly binds himself to respect the Indian’s remaining rights within certain prescribed limits, to keep trespassers from entering the now diminished territory, and to ensure it to him and his tribe for ever. But this does not stop the insatiate adventurer, 390who again crosses the newly-defined limit.^[41] The government seems powerless to compel its citizens to respect its treaty obligations or to punish their infraction. The exasperated Indian kills some of the trespassers. Would it be astonishing that he should do so, even if he had been reared under the influences of Christianity instead of those of barbarism? Troops are now sent against the Indians. After the sacrifice of a greater or less number of brave soldiers the hostile tribe is subjected, compelled to return to a quasi-peaceful condition, and to consent to a further reduction of its territorial limits. Before the ink is dry with which the so-called treaty is written the adventurer again crosses the newly-designated boundary. Thus the process goes on ad infinitum, or until the Indian, driven from the last foot of his ancestral earth, starving, naked, the cries of his suffering women and children ringing in his ears, is compelled to accept any terms which will give him food and covering.

THE INDIANS ON THE RESERVATIONS.

The Indian is now taken to a reservation. Even his removal may be a transportation job by which some politicaster in New York or Boston or friendly Philadelphia, who never saw a hostile Indian, and who invests no money in the enterprise, makes a fortune. From this time on he is a means of money-making for a crowd of sharpers. A scanty supply of bad beef at a high price, a little coffee and sugar of the lowest grade, with sometimes indifferent flour, compose his ration. If he happens to be where 391he can occasionally kill a buffalo, a deer, or a wolf, his squaw dresses the skin, and he takes it to the trader’s store, where he barters it for a little sugar, coffee, or pemican to add to his meagre ration. He gets in exchange for his peltries what the trader chooses to give him. For a calf-robe or a wolf-skin he may get a few cupfuls of the coarsest sugar, or a tin cup worth about ten cents in New York. For a fair calf-robe the trader will ask three dollars! “We make every white man rich who comes to our country,” said Sitting Bull to Gen. Miles in the council which preceded the fight on Cedar Creek, in Montana, last October. The remark was not without truth, so far as Indian traders and reservation rings are concerned.

It is alleged that Indians on reservations have been compelled to kill some of their ponies to feed their families. We do not personally know this to be so, but we can well believe it. We do know that not three years ago the Kiowas and Comanches were without flour for months; that the beef issued to them was miserable. We have seen it stated and have been told time and again that rations have been drawn for numbers greatly exceeding those actually at the agencies; and, with the developments made through the honesty and courage of Professor Marsh still fresh in our memory, we can well believe it also. Is it a subject of special wonder that, being the victim of such a system, in addition to his peculiar training, the Indian should look upon deceit and robbery as not only justifiable but laudable?

WHAT WE ASK OF THE INDIAN.

All men are naturally tenacious of their rights of property; the more 392civilized the community the more sacred those rights. The Indian has the instinct of property very strongly developed. After we have subdued, swindled, and reduced him to the verge of starvation we say to him: “You must now surrender your horses and your arms.” The earliest ambition of an Indian is to possess a fire-arm. He will pay thirty to forty ponies for a good rifle. Ponies are his currency. If the government sells this rifle by auction, it will bring perhaps five to ten dollars. It is hard for the Indian to see his rifle carried off and his horse ridden away by some white hunter, “wolfer,” or trapper. He is very fond of his ponies. No consideration of value will induce him to part with a favorite horse. A friend of the writer saw a squaw, with tears in her eyes, cut a lock from the mane of her favorite pony before surrendering the animal to the representative of the government. Thus, we starve the Indian; we deprive him of his arms, with which he might kill game to eke out a subsistence; we take away his ponies, which furnish him food when he is reduced to extremity through our fault or failure. What Christian people would be content under such treatment? Can we be surprised that an untutored savage, who cannot understand our clashing of bureaus, our shifting of responsibility, or our red-tape refinements of official morality, should look upon the white man as the liar of liars and the thief of thieves, and, when he is on the war-path, should execute the wild justice of revenge on any of the race who happens to come within reach of his rifle? Can we be surprised if he leaves his reservation and chooses to fight to the last rather than be the patient victim of such 393a system of injustice and spoliation? It is not astonishing that the Indian should surrender only his poorest animals, should hide his magazine guns and rifles and give up only rusty old smooth-bores or arms for which he cannot procure fitting ammunition. In our every transaction with him we strengthen by example the lessons of deception he was taught in his childhood.

INDIAN LIFE AT AN AGENCY.

An Indian agency is not usually a school of morality. Interpreters, traders’ clerks, “squaw-men,” have what are euphemistically termed “Indian wives.” It is scarcely necessary to say that these are nothing more than concubines. These poor red slaves are usually purchased from their savage sires for a blanket, a cheap trinket, a pony, or a few cartridges. Sometimes they are presents given for the purpose of making interest with influential underlings. Agency life has no tendency to elevate the Indian. He lives in idleness and inaction. He has nothing to do and nothing to hope for. He has no future. He must occupy his time in some way, and he becomes a slave to gambling and sexual indulgence. Occasionally the young men, wearied by the monotony of such a life and ambitious of distinction, seize upon the first real or fancied wrong as a pretext for revolt, fly the agency, and go upon the war-path.

OUR INDIANS IN CANADA.

Why is it that the Indians who give us so much trouble become peaceable, and remain so, when they settle on the Canadian side of the border? There they receive no 394governmental aid, and are able to procure their own subsistence. We read of no outrages or robberies there. It is simply because the Indian’s rights are respected. He has been protected in his rights even against the greedy nephews of English statesmen who cast covetous eyes upon his lands. If he is guilty of offence, he is promptly and sternly punished. The arm of the military is not held back when offending Indians are within reach of punishment because a million or so has been appropriated to be expended for their benefit as soon as they can be reported peaceable, and because the vultures of the ring are a-hungering for the spoil.

THE FRONTIERSMAN AND THE INDIAN.

It is difficult for the honest frontiersman—the hardy pioneer who, with an axe in one hand and a rifle in the other, hews himself a farm out of the wilderness—to be just toward the Indian. The memory of massacre of his neighbors or relatives, of outrage on defenceless women, stirs up, even in gentle breasts, a hatred of the red man which prompts an undying vendetta, which begets a feeling that a remorseless shedding of Indian blood to the very last drop would not be an adequate punishment for such atrocities. There is many a worthy and otherwise humane and law-abiding pioneer who believes that dead Indians are the only good ones; and such a feeling seizes even the strongest advocate of a humane policy when he sees the scalp of a white woman dangling from the girdle of a filthy savage. There are men on the frontier, otherwise brave and gentle-hearted, who 395would have no more scruple to shoot an Indian at sight than to kill a prairie-wolf. Peace is difficult to keep between two opposing elements imbued with corresponding sentiments toward each other. For this state of things the rapacious Indian rings, the violators of treaty stipulations, the ruthless adventurers, the horse-thieves, the murderers, fugitives from justice, respecting no laws, human or divine, who infest the Indian country, are mainly responsible. An American gentleman who spent two years recently in Manitoba told the writer that he found many of the Sioux who were engaged in the Minnesota massacre living there peaceful and contented. “Wearing a red coat,” said he, “I can travel alone from one end of the Territory to the other without danger of molestation.”

THE QUAKERS AND THE INDIANS.

The failure of the Quaker specific does not need to be dwelt upon. We have had under the Quaker management the most serious and bloody Indian wars that have afflicted the frontier for many years. Besides, there is scarcely a wild tribe of which some portion has not been in a state of hostility to a greater or less extent. There are itching palms among the Quakers as well as among the other religious denominations. What was needed was not men who made professions of peace—or “made-up Quakers,” who put on the Friendly drab for the occasion—but men who practised honesty and fair-dealing.

THE ARMY AND THE INDIANS.

The worst elements of society on the frontier—“wolfers,” buffalo-hunters, trappers, guides, scouts, 396contractors, venders of poisonous whiskey, and keepers of frontier gambling-saloons—may and generally do desire Indian wars; for to them they are a source of employment and profit. Territorial officials, their friends and clients, may desire a state of hostility, on account of the money it causes to be expended in their districts, especially if authority can be obtained to raise special forces. This, in addition to opportunities of profit, offers a means of augmenting and strengthening what is delicately termed “political” influence by a judicious distribution of patronage. It is not very long since a force was raised, in a certain frontier State, which, during an Indian war then raging, did not kill or capture an Indian, inflict or receive a scratch, or fire a shot. This force, which was in service only for a few months, cost the country at large nearly two hundred thousand dollars. This was very pleasant for the force, very profitable to the State. No doubt a repetition of the experience would be agreeable at any time. It was not very economical or beneficial to the country at large. But to suppose that the regular army desires wars with the Indian tribes is a very great mistake. Why should it? To the army Indian wars are neither sources of honor nor of profit. To it they only mean hard work, no glory, increased personal expenditures without additional pay. For our hard-worked little army receives no field allowances. A member of the non-combatant branches of the military establishment can effect more toward his advancement in one campaign in Washington than can the live, the real soldiers, the fighting men, in five lustres of laborious and dangerous field-service in 397the Indian country. Operations against hostile tribes, though attended by exposure, hardship, suffering, and dangers to which civilized warfare presents no parallel, with the possibility of death by indescribable tortures in the event of capture, are not considered “war” by certain gentlemen who sit at home at ease and enjoy, if they do not improve, each shining hour. Hundreds of brave men in blue may fall in Indian battle, crushed by the mere power of numbers; but this, forsooth, is not “war.” It is only wounds, or maiming for life without hope of recognition or reward, or death upon a battle-field to which glory is denied.

THE TRANSFER OF THE INDIANS TO THE WAR DEPARTMENT.

The transfer of the Indians to the War Department would be advantageous, for a time, both to the government and the Indian, but it would be ruinous to the army. The Indian Ring would eventually either effect the abolition of the army altogether—which would be bad enough—or fill it with the material of which Indian traders and reservation sharks are made—which would be still worse. The country cannot afford to risk the deterioration or destruction of a class of officials admitted on all hands to be among the most honorable and trustworthy servants of the government.

CAUSES OF INDIAN WARS.

The usual cause of Indian wars is want of good faith in carrying out the obligations of treaties. It is scarcely too much to say that we rarely, if ever, carry out treaty stipulations with Indians. The great majority of the people of the United 398States wish to treat the Indian not only fairly, but kindly, generously, magnanimously. Money enough is appropriated, if it were judiciously and honestly expended. But the sums appropriated seem to become small by degrees and wonderfully less before they reach the Indian. It is not the interest of the Indian Ring to have the Indian question settled.

The transgression of limits solemnly agreed upon has been already mentioned. The lawless classes enumerated above steal Indian ponies and do not scruple to kill an unoffending Indian occasionally. The Indian does not understand individual responsibility for crime. He holds the whole race or tribe accountable for the actions of one of its members, and avenges the killing of his brother on the first victim presented to him.

Indian wars have doubtless been caused by more than usually grasping traders whose rapacity has made the Indians discontented and driven them from the reservations. We have read, at least, of cases in which numbers have been fed on paper in excess of the actual number present on the reservation. We are told that in such cases, when an impending investigation has made discovery possible, the tribe is reported hostile and large numbers said to have left the agency. The Indians who have lived quietly on the reservation, utterly unable to comprehend the forcible measures about to be adopted, suspicious as Indians always are, and supposing they are all to be killed, leave the reservation and go upon the war-path.

THE FIRST STEP TOWARD PEACE.

The first step toward bringing the Indian to a permanently peaceful 399condition is to place in his country a military force strong enough to show him the utter madness of keeping up the war. In general, a show of sufficient force is all that is necessary to bring the Indian to subjection. No one understands the lesson of force better or applies it more readily than he. It is the only thing he respects or fears. Instead of doing this, however, we place in the Indian country meagre garrisons, barely able to protect themselves, and powerless for offensive operations. The Indian does not believe our statements of the numbers we could put in the field if we would. He thinks we are boasting, or—as he plainly calls saying anything that is not exact truth—lying. With the directness of mind of a child of nature, he takes a plain, logical view of the situation, and cannot imagine that we have strength and do not use it, or, at least, exhibit it. After the annihilation of Custer on the Little Horn in 1876, and the retirement of all forces from the country between the Yellowstone and the Missouri, except four or five hundred infantry, the Indians at certain agencies, who sympathized and held constant communication with the hostiles, thought they had succeeded in killing nearly all the white soldiers, and boasted that at length the Great Father in Washington would have to accede to their terms. There should be to-day 10,000 men in the Sioux country—6,000 infantry, 2,500 thoroughly drilled and disciplined light cavalry (not raw boys from the great cities who can neither ride nor shoot, mounted on untrained horses), and 1,500 light artillery with light steel guns easily transportable over rough country, but possessing considerable comparative 400length of range. Such a force would thoroughly complete the work done by the infantry amid the snow and ice of the past winter. It would be the most humane and least expensive mode of laying the indispensable foundation for further work toward the elevation and amelioration of the Indian’s condition. Such a force would drive all the Indians between the Yellowstone and the British line to their agencies, with little, if any, loss of life. If the humanitarians would end the war with the least possible shedding of blood, this is the way to do it. When such a display of force is made as makes resistance hopeless—and the Indian will be quick to see it—there will be an end of Indian wars and we may begin the work of civilization in earnest.

THE MODE AND EXTENT OF INDIAN CIVILIZATION.

We must not try to push the Indian forward too fast. There is no use in trying to make the adult Indian of to-day an agriculturist, or to take him far out of the sphere in which he was brought up. Once the writer happened to be in company with a gentleman who has given some thought to the Indian question, and has had some experience of the Indian character, when a feathered and beaded warrior made his appearance. He was richly dressed—scarlet cloth, eagle’s feathers, profusely-beaded moccasins. “It is nonsense to expect such a creature as that to dig in mud and dirt,” said our friend. “He would spoil his fine clothes and ruin his dainty moccasins.” And there was much wisdom in the remark. The best you can do with the adult Indian is to make him a stock-raiser. Give 401him good brood mares. Introduce good blood among his herds of ponies. Then find a market for his horses. Buy them for the cavalry. Let him raise a certain proportion of mules, and let the government buy them for the Quartermaster’s Department. Encourage him to raise beef-cattle enough at least for his own consumption; and if you can induce him to raise a surplus, buy the surplus for the Subsistence Department. Give the Indian a fair price for his produce. Dash down the monopoly of Indian trading. Allow any merchant of good standing to trade with the Indian, under proper restrictions as to exclusion of ammunition and spirituous liquors. Let the red man have the benefit of free-trade and competition. Ammunition should be furnished, when necessary, only by the Ordnance Department.

Let the red man also have the same liberty of conscience which is accorded to the white, the black, and even the yellow. Let there be no more parcelling out of Indians among jarring sects. Let them have missionaries of their choice.

Compel all children now under fourteen years to attend schools. Vary school exercises with the use of tools in the workshop or agricultural training in the field. Thus you may make some mechanics and some agriculturists out of the generation now rising. You will have more out of the next generation. But you cannot make an agriculturist out of the grown-up Indian, nor a mechanic. It is folly to attempt it. You cannot reconcile to our nineteenth-century civilization those who have grown up to maturity with the ideas, manners, and morals of the heroic ages. You can no more expect Crazy Horse 402to use the shovel and the hoe than you could Achilles and Tydides Diomed to plant melons or beans.

THE ONE GREAT REMEDY, AND THE HOPELESSNESS OF ITS APPLICATION.

The remedy of remedies is common honesty in our dealings with the Indian, backed by a force strong enough and always ready to promptly crush any attempt at revolt, and punish speedily and severely every act of lawlessness committed by an Indian. But too many are interested in keeping up the present system to warrant even the slenderest hope of any radical change. To put it in crude frontier terms: “There is too much money in it.” Politicasters, capitalists, contractors, sub-contractors, agents, traders, agency employés, “squaw-men”—or degraded whites who live in a state of concubinage with Indian women, and who are generally tools and touters for the traders—hosts of sinecurists and their friends, find “money in it.” The links of the ring are legion. It is too strong. It can shelve or crush any man with honesty and boldness enough to attack the system. It is too strong for the commissioner or the secretary. It is to be feared that it may prove too strong for the country.

The man whose rollicking pen has made more dragoons than all the recruiting-sergeants in her Britannic Majesty’s service; who has “promoted” the “Connaught Rangers” and Faugh a ballaghs into corps d’élite; who has broken more bones across country than the six-foot stone walls of Connemara; whose pictures of that land “which smiles through her tears like a sunbeam in showers” are as racy of the soil as her own emerald shamrock; who has painted Irish girls pure as angels’ whispers, bright as saucy streamlets, and the “boys” a bewildering compound of fun, fight, frolic, and “divarshin”; whose career was as stainless as his success was merited, and whose memory is an heirloom—was born in the city of Dublin in the year of grace 1806. Graduating at Cambridge University, and subsequently at the U-niversity of Göttingen, his student-life betrayed no symptoms of the mental élan which was to distinguish him later on, and, save for its Bohemianism, was absolutely colorless, and even dull. The boy was not father to the man. Selecting the medical profession as much by chance as predilection, he succeeded, during the visitation of cholera in 1832, in obtaining an appointment as medical superintendent in the northwest of Ireland, in the districts of Londonderry and Coleraine, and for a time continued to “guess at prescriptions, invent ingredients,” and generally administer to the requirements of afflicted humanity. But the task was uncongenial, the life a dead-level, flavored with no spice of variety, uncheckered in its monotonous routine. It was a “bad billet, an’ no Christian man cud live in it, barrin’ a say-gull or a dispinsiry docthor.” Doctor Lever!—pshaw! 404Charley Lever; who ever thinks of the author of Harry Lorrequer as Doctor Lever? Nevertheless, his experiences at this period bore him rich fruit in the after-time, and in Billy Traynor, “poet, peddler, and physician” (The Fortunes of Glencore), we have a type of the medical men with whom he was then associated. “I am the nearest thing to a doctor going,” says Billy. “I can breathe a vein against any man in the barony. I can’t say that for any articular congestion of the aortis valve, or for a seropulmonic diathesis, d’ye mind, that there isn’t as good as me; but for the ould school of physic, the humoral diagnostic touch, who can beat me?” The hedge-doctor and hedge-schoolmaster, pedants both, are now an institution of the past.

Charles Lever, however, was not destined to blush unseen or waste his sweetness on a country practice. Appointed to the Legation at Brussels, he bounded from the dreary drudgery of a dispensary to the glittering gayety of an embassy, from the hideous squalor of the fever-reeking cabin to the coquettish gravity of the palatial sick-room. In “Belgium’s capital” the cacoethes scribendi seized him, and the result was Harry Lorrequer. He awoke, and, like Lord Byron, found himself famous. The distinct portraiture, the brilliant style, the thoroughly Hibernian ensemble, claimed a well-merited success for the book, and, written at the right moment—how many good works have perished by being floated on an ebb tide!—the public, who had hitherto accepted Ireland through the clever but trashy effusions of Lady Morgan, and the more genuine metal of Maria Edgeworth and Samuel Lover, joyously turned towards the rising sun, and, seizing upon 405this genuine bit of shillelah, clamorously demanded a fresh sprig from the same tree. The wild dash, as exhilarating as “mountain dew,” the breezy freshness, the gay abandon of society and soldiering, the “moving accidents by flood and field,” acted upon the jaded palates of the British public like a tonic, and Harry Lorrequer, instead of being treated as an entrée, became respected as the pièce de résistance. Harry’s appearance on parade with the Othello blacking still upon his face; Miss Betty O’Dowd’s visit to Callonby on the “low-backed car”; her desire of disowning the nondescript vehicle, and its being announced by her shock-headed retainer as “the thing you know is at the doore”; the description of boarding-house life in Dublin sixty years ago; Mrs. Clanfrizzle’s, in Molesworth Street—the establishment is still in existence, and may be recognized in Lisle House; the “amateur hotel,” so graphically described by Mr. Lever; the picture of “dear, dirty Dublin” itself:

a night at Howth; the Knight of Kerry and Billy McCabe—form a succession of sketches teeming with vivacity, humor, and wit, and dashed off with a pen which almost makes a steeplechaser of the reader, so exciting and so rapid is the pace.

To Lever’s official career at Brussels we are indebted for several diplomatic portraits, notably those of Sir Horace Upton (The Fortunes of Glencore) and Sir Shally Doubleton (A Day’s Ride); the former of “a very composite order of human architecture, chivalrous in sentiment and cunning in action, noble 406in aspiration and utterly sceptical as regards motives, deep enough for a ministerial dinner and fast enough for a party of young guardsmen at Greenwich,” and the latter who could receive a Foreign Office “swell” thus: “Possibly your name may not be Paynter, sir; but you are evidently before me for the first time, or you would know that, like my great colleague and friend, Prince Metternich, I have made it a rule through life never to burden my memory with what can be spared it, and of these are the patronymics of all subordinate people; for this reason, sir, and to this end, every cook in my establishment answers to the name of Honoré, my valet is always Pierre, my coachman Jacob, and all Foreign Office messengers I call Paynter.” Upon the small-fry of diplomacy Mr. Lever is occasionally very severe, and his pictures of life at Hesse Kalbbratonstadt and similar unpronounceable principalities are as amusing as they are possibly realistic.

The success of Harry Lorrequer set its author at quill-driving in the same direction, and Charles O’Malley, or The Irish Dragoon, was given to the world. The very name sounds “boot and saddle”—rings of the spur and clanks of the sabre. What a romance: the high-spirited lad who leads his rival to the jaws of the grave in the hunting-field, and follows him in a ride of death against the unbroken front of Cambronne’s battalions on the blood-stained field of Waterloo! What a picture of the old Peninsular days! What portraits of Le petit Caporal, as the French army loved to call Napoleon, of the “Iron Duke,” the gallant Picton, and the great captains of that eventful period! What glimpses of dark-eyed 407señoritas and haughty hidalgos; of lion-hearted sons of Erin charging to the cry of Faugh a ballagh, and leading forlorn hopes with saucy jokes upon their laughing lips; of “Connaught Robbers,” as the Connaught Rangers were jocosely called, on account of the number of prisoners which they invariably made, and for the most part single-handed; of Brussels the night before Waterloo; and of the Duchess of Richmond’s celebrated ball:

What pictures of old Ireland—of Daly’s Club-House, the resort of the Irish members in College Green, still standing, but now converted into insurance offices. “I never pass the old club,” said Sir Thomas Staples, the last surviving member of the Irish House of Commons, to the writer, “without picturing it as I remember it, when Grattan, and Curran, and Ireland’s best blood strolled in after a fiery debate, or rushed out on the whisper of that awful word, ‘division.’ Very little would restore Daly’s to its original shape; and who knows but it may yet be revived, if repeal of the Union be carried?” Sir Thomas Staples is dead some years, and the Home-Rule question had not come to the front whilst he was yet numbered amongst the living. Shall we behold an Irish Parliament sitting once again in College Green? Shall Daly’s club be restored to its former splendor? Shall we see Mr. Butt, Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Mitchell Henry, with many other earnest sons of Ireland, enrolled amongst its members?

Who can forget the account of Godfrey O’Malley’s election, when, 408in order to avoid arrest for debt, he announced his own death in the papers, and, having travelled in the hearse to Connemara, reached his stronghold in the west, where bailiffs and process-servers foolhardy enough to cross the Shannon were compelled to eat their own writs under penalty of tar and feathers, and from whence he triumphantly addressed his constituents, appealing to their sympathies and support on the very powerful plea of having died for them? There is a story extant of Jackey Barrett which has not travelled far, if at all, beyond the walls of Trinity. Upon one occasion the vice-provost was dining off roast turkey in the glorious old Commons Hall, and next to him sat his nephew, the heir expectant to his enormous wealth. The turkey was somewhat underdone, and the nephew sent the drumsticks to be devilled. Some little delay occurred, which caused the vice-provost to observe to his kinsman with a malicious grin: “That devil is keeping you a long time waiting.” “Not half as long as you are keeping the devil waiting,” was the retort. Jackey never forgave him. What a creation is Mickey Free, that devoted, warm-hearted, rollicking Irish follower, that son of song and story, who, by his own account, sang duets with the commander-in-chief in the Peninsula, and wore a masterpiece of Murillo for a seat to his trousers! Mickey was quoted recently, during a debate in the British House of Commons on the Eastern question by Major O’Gorman, the jester-in-chief, vice Mr. Bernal Osborne, the rejected of Irish constituencies:

409The House roared, and even Mr. Disraeli, that was, allowed his parchment visage to snap into smiling. Charles Lever informed the writer that he originally intended Mickey Free for a mere stage servant, who comes on with a tray or exits with a chair or a table; but upon discovering that Mr. Free had made his mark he wrote him up. “I never could give a publisher a complete novel all at once,” said Mr. Lever, “although I have been offered very large sums of money for one; I always wait to see how my public like me, and write from month to month, trimming my sails to suit the popular breeze.”

Charles O’Malley was a brilliant success. A spirit of martial enthusiasm inflated the minds of the rising generation, until to be a dragoon became the day-dream of existence, and many an embryo warrior who failed in obtaining a commission compromised with a cruel destiny by accepting the queen’s shilling. The charm of the book is complete; and for break-neck, dashing narrative, for wit, sparkle, and genuine Irish drollery, interspersed here and there with tender touches of pathos and soft gray tones of sorrow, Charles O’Malley stands unrivalled, and will hold its own when hundreds of so-called Irish romances shall have returned to the dust out of which they should never have emerged, even into a spasmodic vitality.

Perhaps the only smart thing ever uttered by King George III. was when he taxed Sheridan with being afraid of the author of the School for Scandal; and perhaps Lever was afraid of the author of Charles O’Malley, as he published Con Cregan, Maurice Tiernay, Sir Jasper Carew, and one or two other novels anonymously; but a quickwitted 410public, detecting the ring of the true metal, compelled “Harry Lorrequer” to stand revealed. Novel followed novel in quick succession, Ireland providing the mine from which he dug his golden ore; and although he carries his readers to fairer climes and sunnier skies, somehow or other he contrives to land them safely and soundly in the “ould counthry” at last. We have not space, nor is it our province, to deal with Lever’s works in detail. No modern productions of fiction have gained a greater or more popular reputation for their writer. By no Irish author is he equalled in Irish humor, by no author is he surpassed in unwearying narrative. The foreign tone infused into some of his later productions is due to his residence in Italy. “You wish to have nothing to do, Lever? There is eight hundred a year; go and do it,” said the late Lord Derby, bestowing the vice-consulship of Spezzia upon him. Later on he was promoted to Trieste.

For a time Charles Lever edited the Dublin University Magazine, then a coruscation of all that was brilliant in literature. He resided at the village of Templeogue, situated in the lap of the Dublin mountains, with Sugar Loaf at one extremity, and Mount Pelier, with its ruined castle renowned for the orgies of the infamously-celebrated “Hell-fire Club,” at the other. Templeogue Lodge was the Mecca towards which all “choice spirits” devoutly turned, and the wit, repartee, song, jest, and story circulated within its walls made the Noctes Ambrosianæ but dull affairs in comparison. “One little room rises to recollection, with its quaint old sideboard of carved oak, its dark-brown cabinets, curiously sculptured, its heavy 411old brocade curtains, and all its queer devices of knick-knackery, where such meetings were once held, and where, throwing off the cares of life—shut out from them, as it were, by the massive folds of the heavy drapery across the door—we talked in all the fearless freedom of old friendship.” There are a few still surviving who will recognize that room, and recall with a throb of painful pleasure the nights at the little lodge at Templeogue.

Lever was fond of portraying banished heroes, misanthropes—men who had dug their own graves, or, overtaken by some whirlwind of misfortune, “gave signs that all was lost.” The character of Lord Glencore is admirably drawn, and his life of torture in his mad cry for vengeance fearfully vivid. Luttrell of Arran is the story of a disappointed life, from out of which springs a bright flower of maidenhood—Kate, one of Lever’s most charming creations. Again, we have the Knight of Gwynne, over whose gentle head wave after wave of hard fortune pitilessly breaks, and, driven from the lordly home of his ancestors to a sheeling by the sad sea-wave, he is as cheerful in adversity as he was noble in prosperity. The portrait of the fire-eating Bagenal Daly is not overdrawn, and the introduction of Freeny the robber, although highly melodramatic, is not only possible but probable. Freeny’s “character” stood remarkably high. He would rob a rich miser to save a poor family from starvation, and his word was as good as his bond; ‘98 turned many a man upon the king’s highway who, but for being “out,” would have lived respecting and respected. The Martins of Cro’ Martin is another ghastly narrative of the wreck and ruin of 412a proud old Irish race. It is “an owre true” story. A few miles outside of the town of Galway, on the road to Oughterard, stand two gaunt pillars surmounted by granite globes. The gates have disappeared, as also the armorial bearings; but this was formerly the entrance to Ballinahinch, the seat of the “ould, anshint” Martins, and from that gate to Ballinahinch Castle was a drive of forty Irish miles. The castle, situated in one of the loneliest and loveliest valleys in Connemara, was maintained in a style of regal magnificence, the stables, marble-stalled, affording accommodation for sixty hunters. On an island, in the centre of a small lake opposite the castle, stands a desolate, half-ruined keep, within the four walls of which such of his retainers or neighbors as proved refractory were imprisoned by “The Martin” of the period. Recklessness and improvidence scattered the broad acres, mortgage overlapped mortgage, and every inch of the grand old estate became the property of the London Law Life Assurance Society. Notably the last of the family was Richard Martin, commonly known as “Humanity Dick,” in reference to a bill introduced by him into the British House of Commons for the repression of cruelty to animals. Upon the occasion of its introduction the English members essayed to cough him down. “I perceive,” said Mr. Martin, “that many of you seem troubled with severe coughs; now, if any one gentleman will cough distinctly, so that I may be able to recognize him, I can give him a pill which may, perhaps, effectually prevent his ever being again troubled with a cough on this side of the grave.” Mr. Martin’s prescription was at once effectual.

413With “Humanity Dick’s” granddaughter perished the race; and her name is still breathed in Connemara as a prayer, as one “who never opened a cabin-door without a blessing, nor closed it but to shut hope within.” The farm-house where she was nursed is still fondly pointed out, and “Miss Martin’s lep”—she was a superb horsewoman—is proudly shown to every “spalpeen” of an Englishman who travels that wild, bleak, and desolate road between Oughterard and Clifden. Mr. Lever, with that magic all his own, has told the sad story. His Mary Martin is but the portrait of that fair young Irish girl who dearly loved “her people” unto the last, and who, in the bright blossom of her life, died an exile from that western home which was at once her idol and her pride. Where but in Ireland could this sad and solemn gathering around the bedside of a dying girl take place?

“And yet there was a vast multitude of people there. The whole surface of the lawn that sloped from the cottage to the river was densely crowded with every age, from the oldest to the very infancy; with all conditions, from the well-clad peasant to the humblest ‘tramper’ of the highroads. Weariness, exhaustion, and even hunger were depicted on many of their faces. Some had passed the night there, others had come long distances, faint and foot-sore; but, as they sat, stood, or lay in groups around, not a murmur, not a whisper, escaped them. With aching eyes they looked towards an open window where the muslin curtains were gently stirred in the faint air. The tidings of Mary Martin’s illness had spread rapidly; far-away glens down the coast, lonely cabins on the bleak mountains, wild, remote spots out of human intercourse, had heard the news, and their dwellers had travelled many a mile to satisfy their aching hearts.”

This is Ireland. This is the undying affection of the people for 414the “rale ould stock.” This is the imperishable sentiment, as fresh at this hour as the emerald verdure upon the summit of Croagh Patrick.

In A Day’s Ride: a Life’s Romance, Mr. Lever has given us Algernon Sydney Potts—one of those romantic visionaries who believe in destiny, bow to their Kismet, and, going with the tide, clothe the meanest accidents of life in dreamy panoply. The adventures which befall the Dublin apothecary’s son, from his ride in Wicklow to his imprisonment in an Austrian fortress, are as varied as they are exciting, and we are strongly inclined to believe that Lever, “letting off” a good deal of Bohemia, is at his best in the wild vagaries of this reckless day-dreamer. Tom Burke of Ours is a dashing military story, as is also Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. The O’Donoghue is charmingly written and is thoroughly Irish. That Boy of Norcott’s is unsatisfactory. Commencing in Ireland, it wanders from the old country with the evident intention of returning to it; but a change came o’er the spirit of the author’s dream, and it bears all the imprint of having been hastily written, a changed venue, and of being “hurried up” at its conclusion. Sir Brook Fosbrooke, on the other hand, bears traces of the utmost care, the details of character being worked out with microscopic minuteness. The old lord chief-justice is supposed to have been meant for Lord Chief-Justice Lefroy, of the Court of Queen’s Bench in Ireland, who died at a very advanced age a few years since, in full possession of the astounding legal acumen which marked his extended career at the bar, and subsequently upon the bench.

The writer spent a long-to-be-remembered day with Charles Lever 415in the April before his death. He was stopping in Dublin at Morrison’s Hotel, Dawson Street. We found him seated at an open window, a bottle of claret at his right hand and the proof-sheets of Lord Kilgobbin before him. It was a beautiful morning borrowed from the month of May; the hawthorns in the college park were just beginning to bloom, and nature was young and warm and lovely.

At the date of our visit he looked a hale, hearty, laughter-loving man of sixty. There was mirth in his gray eye, joviality, in the wink that twittered on his eyelid, saucy humor in his smile, and bon mot, wit, repartee, and rejoinder in every movement of his lips. His hair very thin, but of a silky brown, fell across his forehead, and when it curtained his eyes he would jerk back his head—this, too, at some telling crisis in a narrative when the particular action was just the exact finish required to make the story perfect. Mr. Lever’s teeth were all his own, and very brilliant, and, whether from habit or accident, he flashed them upon us in company with his wonderful eyes—a battery at once both powerful and irresistible. He spoke slowly at first, but warming to his work, and candying an idea in a short, contagious, musical laugh, his story told itself all too rapidly, and the light burned out with such a glare as to intensify the succeeding darkness. Like all good raconteurs, he addressed himself deferentially to his auditor in the beginning, and as soon as the fish was hooked, the attention enthralled, he would speak as if thinking aloud. Mr. Lever made great use of his hands, which were small and white and delicate as those of a woman. He made play with them—threw them up in ecstasy or 416wrung them in mournfulness, just as the action of the moment demanded. He did not require eyes or teeth with such a voice and such hands; they could tell and illustrate the workings of his brain. He was somewhat careless in his dress, but clung to the traditional high shirt-collar, merely compromising the unswerving stock of the Brummel period. “I stick to my Irish shoes,” he said, thrusting upwards about as uncompromising a “bit of leather” as we have ever set eyes on right under our nose, “and until a few years ago I got them from a descendant of the celebrated Count Lally, who cobbled at Letterkenny. There is no shoe in the world equal to the Irish brogue.”

“You are ‘taking time by the forelock,’ as we say in the play,” said the writer, pointing to the rough copy of the Cornhill Magazine, in which the story was running.

“Always at the heel of the hunt,” he replied. “This is the May number, and not corrected yet.”

“I consider Lord Kilgobbin as good as, if not better than, anything you have written.”

There was unutterable sadness in his tone and gesture as he said, with a weary sigh:

“Ah! I have been tilting the cask so long that the lees are coming out very muddy.”

“Which of your novels do you like best?” was asked.

“Well, my most careful work is Sir Brook Fosbrooke, but I prefer the Dodd Family Abroad, and all for the sake of Carry Dodd, who is my ideal of a pure, bright, charming Irish girl.”

Further on:

“You are the same reckless, rollicking, warm-hearted, improvident people as when I left you, and the lower orders entertain the same hatred of Saxon supremacy. I was 417walking down College Green yesterday, and as I stood opposite the old Parliament House, a troop of dragoons, in all their panoply of glancing helmets, blood-red coats, and prancing steeds, trotted past. A ragged, tatterdemalion carman was feeding a horse only fit for the knacker’s yard, attached to an outside car, with a wisp of hay.

“‘What regiment is that?’ I asked, partly from curiosity, partly for the sake of a conversation.

“‘Sorra a know I know,’ was the gruff response.

“‘Where are they going to?’

“Without raising his head, and giving a vicious chuck to the hay:

“‘To h—l, I hope.’

“I will give you another illustration,” continued Mr. Lever, “of how determinedly the lower order of my countrymen disparage anything and everything English. I was invited to spend some days with the late Lord Carlisle, twice your Lord Lieutenant, at Castle Howard, in Yorkshire. I had at that time an Irish servant, a son of Corny Delany, to whom grumbling was chronic. As we drove through the magnificent avenue beneath the extending branches of giant oaks and lordly elms, I observed to my follower: ‘What do you think of those trees?’

“‘I see thim.’

“‘Are they not splendid?’

“‘Och! threes is threes anywhere.’

“‘But the Howards are proud of these trees; they are the finest in England. Lord Carlisle sets great store by them.’

“‘Arrah, thin, why wudn’t he have the hoighth av fine threes? Shure hadn’t he the pick av the Phaynix Park?’

“I was dining with Judge —— on Sunday, who, as you know, is a very diminutive, shrivelled-up-looking 418little man,” continued Mr. Lever, “and he told me an amusing story. When attorney-general, he purchased an estate in Tipperary near Clonmel. Shortly after the purchase he resolved upon paying the place a visit to take a look at his recent acquisition. As he was proceeding with his agent through a boreen which led to mearings of his property, he overheard the following conversation between two old women:

“‘Wisha, thin, d’ye tell me that’s the new landlord, Missis Mulligan?’

“‘Sorra a lie in it, ma’am.’

“‘That dawny little bit av a crayture?’

“‘A leprechaun, no less.’

“‘Why, begorra, the boys might as well be shootin’ at a jacksnipe.’”

Mr. Lever’s conversational powers were simply marvellous; his anecdotes fell like ripe fruit from an overladen tree. In London his great delight was a night at the Cosmopolitan Club, Berkeley Square. This club is only open upon Wednesday and Sunday nights during the Parliamentary session. The members stroll in from eleven o’clock at night to about three o’clock A.M. Cabinet ministers, ambassadors of all nations, members of the legislature, eminent littérateurs, Royal Academicians, repair thither for a gossip; and here, amidst the best talkers in the world, Charles Lever stood pre-eminent. As the wits and raconteurs at Will’s Coffee House were silent whilst Joseph Addison talked Spectator, so the members of the Cosmopolitan maintained a breathless attention when Charles Lever talked Cornelius O’Dowd; and many a man has “dined out considerably” upon a mot, and has, perhaps, established a reputation, by the retailing of an anecdote recounted within the salons of the club by 419the inimitable and fascinating “Harry Lorrequer.” When the writer parted with Lever upon that evening, he felt justifiably elated at being enabled to amuse, if not astonish, the most brilliant man of the day, but, upon a rigid self-examination, was somewhat disappointed upon discovering that, instead of his having been engaged in entertaining Lever, Lever had been entertaining him, and that he had not uttered a single sentence out of the veriest commonplace. Such was the charm of Lever’s manner that he took you, as it were, from out yourself, and for the time infused his own groove of thought, causing your ideas to mingle with his and float joyously onward upon the glittering current of his conversation. Lever was a devoted worshipper of the “sad solemnities of whist,” playing rubber after rubber up to any and all hours. It is related that an eminent wearer of the ermine, a fellow of Trinity College, a gallant field officer, and Lever met, dined early, and played whist until the hour at which the train departed for Kingston by which “Harry Lorrequer” was to leave en route for London. “Come on to Kingston,” said Lever, “sleep at the Anglesea Arms Hotel, and I will not go until the morning boat.” They played all night and until one o’clock next day. Si non e vero e ben trovato, but the writer has the story from unimpeachable authority.

Charles Lever’s last novel, concluded shortly before his death, is Lord Kilgobbin. Let its unutterably sad preface speak for itself:

“To the memory of one whose companionship made the happiness of a long life, and whose loss has made me helpless, I dedicate this book, written in breaking health and broken spirits. The task that once was my joy and my pride I have 420lived to find associated with my sorrow. It is not, then, without a cause I say, I hope this effort may be my last.—Trieste, January 20, 1872.”

It is with a pang of regret that we peruse the Cornelius O’Dowd papers. They are tinged with that abominable spirit which is sending Italy at the present hour to perdition, and we greatly fear that Mr. Lever wrote them for the London market. He was no bigot, however; on the contrary, his life was passed amongst Catholics, and his dearest and best friends were of the true church; consequently, the pain is intensified when we come to stand face to face with the fact that these papers were, if not the outcome of a pecuniary necessity, at least the result of a craving for money, and the hollow effusions of a hirelingpen. His Italian sojourn led him gradually away from the more kindly tone towards Catholics which pervaded his earlier Irish novels.

Lever and Griffin have been compared as writers of Irish fiction. We would rather have been the author of The Collegians than of any work of Mr. Lever’s. There is a virgin simplicity in Gerald Griffin’s style that “Harry Lorrequer” could not touch; an atmosphere which he could not breathe; a purity which, while the morale of Lever’s writings is unimpeachable, is of that order that is so rarely attained by the most chaste and most elevated amongst our writers of fiction. Griffin’s Irish is not stagy—it is real; so, too, is Lever’s. But while the former paints the portrait, leaving the imagination of the reader to put in the finishing touches, the latter rubs in a laugh here or a keen thrust there, so as to dramatize the picture; and, while it is more vivid during perusal, the mind falls back upon the other for less exciting pabulum.

422

Situated in the wildest portion of the county of Mayo, Monamullin, at the date upon which this story opens, mustered about forty mud-cabins erected here and there, and in such positions as were deemed most suitable, having regard to the cruel winds from the ocean, and the “bit o’ ground” for the cultivation of the potatoes.

A cottage covered with a crisp amber thatch, and whitewashed to the color of the driven snow, held the post of honor in the village. It boasted a flower-garden in front and a vegetable patch in the rear. Moreover, it was guarded by a neatly-cropped privet hedge, while a little green gate admitted to a red-bricked pathway leading to a rustic porch adorned with roses that seemingly bloomed the whole year round, and a Virginia creeper whose leaves were now the hue of blood.

In the front garden, his head bared, the rays of the setting sun surrounding it as with an aureole, stalked a man attired in the black flowing soutane of a Catholic clergyman.

Father Maurice O’Donnell, the parish priest, was engaged in reading his office from a tattered and dog’s-eared breviary. Tall and thin almost to emaciation, there was yet a wiry swing in his gaunt frame that spoke of unfaded vigor, whilst the glowing fire in the dark blue eye told its own tale.

“Father Maurice” was loved and cherished by his little flock. His every want—and his wants were few enough—was anxiously anticipated. His patch of oats was tilled, weeded, 423cut, and stacked, his cottage thatched and whitewashed, his potatoes planted, his pony treated as common property in so far as fodder was concerned, while upon fast-days the “finest lump av a salmin” or the “illigantest” turbot, ever found its way to the back door of “The House,” as his humble abode was somewhat grandiloquently styled.

Maurice O’Donnell was wrapped up in his flock. In good sooth he was their shepherd. Night, noon, and morning found him ever watchful at “the gate in the vineyard wall.” He was the depositary of all their griefs, the sharer in all their joys—their guide, philosopher, and friend. In worldly matters he was simple as a child. Living, as he did, out of the world, he was perfectly contented to learn what was whirling round within it from the pages of the Nation, from the columns of which it was his practice to read aloud on Sunday afternoon to a very large muster, if not to the entire adult population, of Monamullin—in summer time seated in a coign of vantage by the sad sea-wave, in winter opposite a rousing turf fire laid on especially for the important occasion, and with a great display of ceremony by his housekeeper, “an ould widdy wumman” rejoicing in the name of Clancy, whose husband had been lost at sea in the night of “the great storm.”

Father Maurice never asked for money—he had no occasion for it. His solitary extravagance was snuff, and the most sedulous care was taken by the “boys” returning from 424Castlebar or Westport to fetch back a supply of “high toast,” in order that his “riverince’s box” might stand constantly replenished.

Upon this particular August evening Father Maurice was hurrying through his office with as much rapidity as the solemn nature of the duty would permit, as a drive of no less than seven honest Irish miles lay between him and his dinner.

The even tenor of his life had been broken in upon by an invitation to dine and sleep at the palatial residence of Mr. Jocelyn Jyvecote, a Yorkshire squire, who had purchased the old acres of the Blakes of Ballinacor, and who had recently expended a fabulous sum in erecting a castle upon the edge of a gloomy lake in the desolate valley of Glendhanarrahsheen. In his letter of invitation Mr. Jyvecote had said: “I am extremely desirous of introducing my youngest daughter to you, as she has taken it into her head to go over to your church; and, since you are so devoted to her interests, I beg of you to accept this invitation as you would undertake a little extra duty.”

To decline would be worse than ungracious, especially under the peculiar circumstances of the case, and it was with a heavy heart, and not without a keen debate with Mr. Lawrence Muldoon, the “warm” man of the village, in which the pros and cons were duly and gravely weighed, that the worthy priest replied in the affirmative. While Father Maurice was engaged in pacing his little garden, Mrs. Clancy, his housekeeper, was calmly preparing for a steady but copious enjoyment of her evening meal in the kitchen, which from floor to ceiling, from fireplace to dresser—shining again with crockery of the 425willow pattern—was, to use her own expression, “as nate as a new-biled egg.” A large brown earthenware teapot had just been promoted from the hob to a table “convaynient” to the window. A huge platter of stirabout, with a lump of butter oiling itself in the middle, stood within easy reach of her right hand, while a square of griddle-bread occupied a like position upon her left, and a wooden bowl full of jacket-bursted potatoes formed the near background.

Mrs. Clancy was strong upon tea, and in the village her opinion upon this as upon most other subjects was unwritten law. She was particularly fond of a dash of green through a full-flavored Pekoe, preparing the mixture with her own fair hands with a solemn gravity befitting so serious an undertaking. She was now about to try a sample of Souchong which had just arrived from Westport, and her condition of mind was akin to that of an analytical chemist upon the eve of some exceedingly important result.

Mrs. Clancy had seated herself in that cosy attitude peculiar to elderly females about to enjoy, to them, that most inviting of all meals, and had already ascertained, upon anxious reference to the teapot, that its contents had been sufficiently drawn, when the door was thrust somewhat violently open, and Murty Mulligan, the “priest’s boy,” unceremoniously entered the sanctum.

Murty was handy-man and factotum. He “swep out” the chapel, rang the bell, attended Mass, groomed the pony, dug the potatoes, landed the cabbage, and made himself generally useful.

Although designated a “boy,” he had allowed—not that he could claim any particular option in the 426matter—some forty-five summers to roll over his head, every one of which, in addition to their attendant winters, had been passed in the peaceful little village of Monamullin. His travels had never extended further than Westport, which he regarded as a vast commercial seaport—a Liverpool, in fact—and it was his habit to place it in comparison with any city of note that might come upon the tapis, extolling its dimensions and dilating upon its unlimited importance.

Murty’s appearance savored much of the stage Irishman’s. His eyes sparkled comically, his nose was tip-tilted—Mr. Tennyson will excuse the application of the simile—while his mouth was large and always open. His forehead was rather low, and his ears stood out upon either side of his head like the orifices of air-shafts. He was now arrayed in his bravest attire, as he had been told off to drive his reverence to Moynalty Castle. His brogues were as highly greased as his hair, and his Sunday—last Mass—clothes, consisting of a gray frieze body-coat with brass buttons, a flowered silk waistcoat, corduroy knee-breeches, and blue worsted stockings, looked as fresh as if they had been donned for the first time.

Not a little vain of the importance of his office, combined with the general effect of his appearance, he swaggered into the kitchen in a manner totally at variance with his usual custom, as Mrs. Clancy was every inch queen of this realm, and a potentate who exercised her prerogative with right royal despotism.

The “consait” was considerably taken out of Murty by being met with an angry, contemptuous stare and “What ails ye, Murty Mulligan?”

427“It’s time for to bring round the yoke, ma’am,” replied Murty in an abashed and respectful tone, eyeing the teapot with a wistful glance, as he was particularly partial to a cup of the beverage it distilled, especially when brewed by Mrs. Clancy.

“Well, av it is, bring it round,” was the tart rejoinder.

“I dunna how far he’s upon his office,” said Murty.

“Ye’d betther ax, Murty Mulligan.”

“I dar’n’t disturb him, Mrs. Clancy, an’ ye know that as well as I do meself, ma’am.”

“Well, don’t bother me, anyhow,” observed the lady, proceeding to pour out a cup of tea.

“Is that the tay I brought ye from Westport, ma’am?” demanded Murty, upon whom the sight of the rich brown fluid and its pungent aroma were producing longing effects.

Mrs. Clancy took a preliminary sip with the sound of a person endeavoring to suck a coy oyster from a clinging shell.

“Sorra worse tay I ever wetted,” she retorted. “There’s no more substance in it nor in chopped sthraw. I’ll never take a grain o’ tay out o’ Westport agin—sorra a wan.”

“I done me best for ye, anyhow, ma’am. I axed Misther Foley himself for the shupariorest tay in the town, an’ he gim me what’s in that pot; an’, faix, it smells rosy an’ well.” And Murty sniffed, as if he would drive the aroma up through his nostrils out to the top of his head.

Mrs. Clancy turned to Murty with a frowning and ominous aspect, the glare of an intense irritation blazing in her face.

“Do ye know what I think ye done, Murty Mulligan? It’s me 428belief ye done it, an’ if ye tuk the buke to the conthrairy I wudn’t credit ye,” placing her arms akimbo and fixing him with her eye.

“What is it I done, Mrs. Clancy?” demanded Murty boldly, flinging his caubeen upon the floor and assuming a defiant attitude. “What is it I done, ma’am?”

The housekeeper regarded him steadily, while she said in a slow and solemn tone of impeachment:

“Ye got me infayrior tay, an’ ye tuk a pint out av the change.”

It was Murty’s turn to become indignant now.

“I’d scorn for to do the likes of so mane an action, Mrs. Clancy. There’s them that wud do the like, but I’d have ye know, ma’am, that me father’s son wud rather be as dhry as a cuckoo, ma’am, nor demane himself in that way. Yer sentiments, ma’am, is very hurtful to me feelin’s, an’ I’d as lieve ye’d call me a thief at wanst, ma’am, as for to run down me karakter in that a-way.”

“I don’t want for to call ye nothin’, but I repate that—”

“Don’t repate nothin’, ma’am. Av ye wur a man I’d give ye a crack in the gob for daarin’ to asperge me karakter, more betokin all for the sake av the filthy lucre av a pint of porther. Porther, indeed!” added Murty. “I’m goin’ to-day, ma’am, where I’ll get me fill av port wine, an’ sherry wine, and Madayrial wine, ma’am; an’ dickins resave the word I’ll tell ye av the goin’s-on at the castle beyant for yer thratemint av me this blessed evenin’, Mrs. Clancy.”

This threat upon the part of Murty threw the housekeeper into the uttermost consternation. The proceedings at Moynalty Castle were fraught with the deepest interest to 429her; for in addition to her personal curiosity, which was rampant, it was necessary that she should become acquainted with everything that took place, in order to retail her special knowledge to her cronies in the village, who awaited the housekeeper’s report in eager and hopeful expectation.

Had she burnt her boats? Had she cut down the bridge behind her?

Murty Mulligan’s tone was resolute.

“Murty, Murty avic! shure it’s only jokin’ I was—sorra a more,” she said in a coaxing way.

Murty grunted.

“Shure yer welkim to yer pint av—”

Murty confronted her:

“I tell ye, Missis Clancy, that I tuk nothin’, nayther bit, bite, nor sup, from the time I et me brekquest till I met Misther Fogarty’s own boy, and he thrated me. Av I tuk a pint out av yer lucre, ma’am, I’d say it at wanst, wudout batin’ about the bush.”

“That’s enough, Murty; say no more about the tay. They gev ye a bad matarial, Murty, an’ shure that’s none o’ you’re fault. Here,” she added, pouring out a saucerful—the saucer being about the dimensions of a large soup-plate—and presenting it to him; “put that to yer mouth an’ say is it worth three hapence an ounce?”

“Sorra a care I care,” growled Murty, but in a much softer tone.

“Thry it, anyhow,” urged the housekeeper.

“I don’t care a thraneen for tay, Mrs. Clancy,” said Murty, throwing a glance full of profound meaning towards a small press in which Mrs. Clancy kept a supply of cordials.

“Ah!” exclaimed that lady, “I 430see be the twist in yer eye that ye want somethin’ to put betune yer shammy an’ the cowld. Ye have a long road to thravel, Murty, so a little sup o’ ginger cordial will warm it for ye, avic.” And while the now thoroughly pacified Murty gently remonstrated, Mrs. Clancy proceeded to the cupboard, and, pouring a golliogue of the grateful compound into a tea-cup, handed it to Murty, who tossed it off with a smack that would have started a coach and four.

“So ye’ll stop the night at the castle?” observed the housekeeper in a careless tone.

“Yis, ma’am.”

“It’s a fine billet, Murty.”

“Sorra a finer. Shure it bates Lord Sligo’s an’ Mitchell Hinry’s beyant at Kylemore; an’ as for atin’ an’ dhrinkin’, be me song they say that lamb-chops is as plentiful as cabbages is here, an’ that there’s as much sperrits in it as wud float ould Mickey Killeher’s lugger.”

“It’s a quare thing for Misther Jyvecote for to be axin’ Father Maurice to a forrin’ cunthry like that, Murty.”

“Troth, thin, it is quare, ma’am; but, shure, mebbe he wants for to be convarted.”

“That must be it; an’ he’d be bet intirely, av Father Maurice wasn’t there for to back his tack. His sermon last Sunda’ was fit for the Pope o’ Room.”

“I never heerd the like av it. It flogged Europe. Whisht!” suddenly cried Murty, “who’s this comin’ up the shore?”

“It’s a forriner,” exclaimed the housekeeper, after a prolonged scrutiny—meaning by the term foreigner that the person who was now approaching the cottage was not an inhabitant of the village. “A fine, souple boy,” she added admiringly.

431“It’s a gintleman, an’ he has a lump av a stick in his hand,” said Murty.

“Arrah! what wud bring a gintleman here, ye omadhawn?” observed Mrs. Clancy with some asperity.

“A thraveller, thin,” suggested her companion. “He’s a bag on his back.”

“Troth, it’s badly off he’d be for thravellin’, if he come here for to do the like.”

“He’s makin’ for the gate.”

“He’s riz the latch.”

“I’ll run out, Mrs. Clancy, and bring ye the hard word, while ye’d be axin’ for the lind av a sack.”

“Ay, do, Murty avic; an’ I’ll have a cup av Dimpsy’s tay wet be the time yer back.”

Father Maurice had just finished the perusal of his office, and was in the act of returning to the house, when the stranger approached him.

“Father Morris?” said the new-comer, lifting his hat.

“Maurice O’Donnell, at your service, sir,” replied the priest.

“I should apologize for addressing you so familiarly, reverend sir, but three or four persons of whom I asked my way told me that Father Morris was Monamullin, and that Monamullin was Father Morris.”

“My people invariably address me by my Christian name, and I beg, sir, as you are now within my bailiwick, that you will continue to do so.”

“As I am within your bailiwick, I must needs do your bidding, Father Maurice.”

Such a genial, happy voice! Such frank, kind blue eyes! Such a well knit, strong-built figure!

The priest gazed at a young man of about five-and-twenty, six feet high, with crisp brown curly hair, 432beard en Henri Quatre, broad forehead, and manly, sunburnt neck and face, attired in a suit of light homespun tweed, a blue flannel shirt very open at the throat, a scarlet silk tie knotted sailor fashion, and heavy shoes, broad-toed and thick-soled.

“My name is Brown,” he said. “I am an artist. I have walked over from Castlebar. I am doing picturesque bits of this lovely country—not your confounded beaten tracks, but the nooks which must be sought like the violet. I have very little money, and needs must rough it. This stick and knapsack constitute my impedimenta, and, like Cæsar, I have carried my Commentaries before now in my teeth while bridging a river by swimming it. I asked for the inn, and I was referred to Father Maurice.”

“I can answer for it, Mr. Brown, that you will find every house in Monamullin willing to shelter you; and, further, that you will find this to be possibly the best. I am unfortunately compelled to travel seven miles along the coast to-night, but will be back, please God, to-morrow; in the meantime my housekeeper will try what some broiled fish and a dish of ham and eggs can do towards appeasing what ought to be a giant’s appetite. And I can answer for the sheets being well aired, having pulled the lavender myself in which they are periodically enshrined.”

Father Maurice ushered his guest into the cottage with a welcome so genuine that Mr. Brown felt at his ease almost ere the greeting had died upon the priest’s lips, and proceeded to hang up his hat and knapsack with the air of a man who was completely at home.

The neat little parlor was cosily furnished. A genuine bit of Domingo 433mahogany stood in the centre of the room, and round it half a dozen plump horse-haired, brass-nailed chairs, with a “Come and sit on us, we are not for show” air about them peculiarly inviting. A venerable bureau, black as ebony from age, and brass-mounted, ornamented one corner, and opposite to it a plaster-of-paris bust of Pius IX. upon a fluted pedestal, while the recesses at either side of the fireplace were furnished with antique book-cases containing a well-thumbed library of ecclesiastical literature, the works of St. Augustine being prominently conspicuous. Over the mantel-piece hung a portrait of Daniel O’Connell, with the autograph of the Liberator in a small frame beneath, and at his right and left engravings, and of no mean order either, of Henry Grattan and John Philpot Curran. The walls were adorned with copies of the cartoons of Raphael, a view of Croagh Patrick from Clew Bay, a bird’s-eye glance at St. Peter’s, and an illuminated address from the inhabitants of Monamullin to their beloved pastor upon the completion of his thirtieth year on the mission—an address the composition of which conferred undying renown upon Tim Rafferty, the schoolmaster, and begat for the boy who wrote it a fame only second to that of the erudite pedagogue.

“You are delightfully snug here, Father Maurice,” observed his guest, seating himself and glancing admiringly round the apartment. “What a treasure of an antique bureau! Why, the brokers in London are giving any amount of money for such articles; we are all running mad over them. If you could get it whispered that Dean Swift or Joe Addison worked at 434that desk, it would be worth its weight in gold. It’s Queen Anne now or nothing.”

“You are an Englishman?”

“A base, bloody, and brutal Saxon!”

“We have one of your countrymen residing in this part of the country—a Mr. Jyvecote.”

The stranger started. “Any of the Jyvecotes of Marston Moor, in Yorkshire?”

“The Jyvecote, I believe. He came over here about ten years ago to shoot, taking poor Mr. Bodkin Blake’s Lodge in the valley of Glendhanarrahsheen, and—”

“Oh! do say that word again, it is so delightfully soft—a cross between Italian and Japanese,” burst in the artist.

“Glendhanarrahsheen,” repeated Father Maurice. “We have some softer than that. What think you of Tharramacornigaun? But, as I was saying, Mr. Jyvecote liked the valley so much that he brought his family over in the following year. Mr. Jyvecote was delighted with the place, and he bought the Lodge, extended it, and at length determined upon building a castle. This castle—Moynalty Castle he calls it—was completed about three years ago, the bare walls alone costing seventy thousand pounds. Except the Viceregal Lodge in Dublin,” added the priest, “there is nothing so grand in all Ireland.”

“I must walk over there some day. Which way does it lie?”

“It’s between us and Westport, along the coast, almost out upon a rock.”

“What a strange idea to put such a lot of money into such a corner!”

“Is it not? It’s completely out of the world. The nearest railway station is fifty miles.”

435“Then I forgive Mr. Jyvecote. I take off my hat to him. I congratulate him. O my dear Father Maurice!” exclaimed the artist enthusiastically, “you who live in such tender tranquillity, with the moan of the sea for a lullaby, can know nothing of the ecstatic feeling attendant upon leaving steam fifty miles behind one. It is simply a new, a beatific existence! And so Jocelyn Jyvecote is within ten miles,” he added, more in the tone of a person engaged in thinking aloud than by way of observation.

“Are you acquainted with him?” asked the priest.

“Oh! yes—that is, very slightly.” There was a decided shade of embarrassment in his manner that would have struck an ordinary observer, but the simple-minded clergyman failed to notice it.

“The yoke’s at the doore, yer riverince, an’ if we don’t start at wanst we’ll be bet be the hill beyant Thronig na Coppagh,” shouted Murty Mulligan, thrusting his shock head into the apartment.

“How unfortunately this happens!” exclaimed the priest. “I have not slept out of this cottage for nearly thirty years, and the very night I could have wished to be here I am compelled to go elsewhere. However, Mr. Brown, I shall leave you in good hands, and before I start I must make you acquainted with my housekeeper.”

Murty had returned to the kitchen considerably baffled.

“He’s goin’ for to stop the night, Mrs. Clancy,” he reported to the expectant housekeeper.

“Who’s goin’ for to stop the night?”

“The strange gintleman above.”

“Where is he goin’ for to stop, I’d like for to know? Mrs. Dooly’s childre is down wud maysles. 436The gauger is billeted at Mooney’s—”

“He’s goin’ to stop here in this house. I heerd his riverince axin’ him.”

“Arrah, baithershin!” exclaimed Mrs. Clancy incredulously.

“It’s truth I’m tellin’ ye, ma’am.”

“Well, may—”

At this moment the voice of Father Maurice was heard calling, “Mrs. Clancy.”

“Yer wanted, ma’am,” cried Murty.

“I’m not fit for to be seen. Slip up an’ discoorse him, Murty avic, till I put on a clane cap an’ apron.”

“Mrs. Clancy, you will take good care of this gentleman, Mr. Brown, till I come back. Show your skill in frying eggs and bacon, and in turning out a platter of stirabout. Don’t let the hens cheat him of his fresh egg in the morning, and see that his bed is as comfortable as my own.” And seating himself upon one side of the low-backed jaunting-car, with Murty Mulligan upon the other, and with a courteous farewell to his guest, Father Maurice rapidly disappeared in the direction of the valley of Glendhanarrahsheen.

Mr. Brown stood in the middle of the road gazing after the car, his hands plunged into his breeches pockets, and a sweet little bit of meerschaum stuck in his handsome mouth.

“What a turn of the wheel is this?” he said to himself. “I wander here into the most out-of-the-way place in out-of-the-way Ireland, and I find myself treading on the kibes of the very man whom of all others I would least care to meet. I always thought that Jyvecote was in Kerry, near Valentia, where the wire dives for America. However, seven miles mean utter 437isolation here, and, by Jove! I’m too much charmed with this genial old clergyman and his genuine hospitality to think of shifting my quarters; besides I’ll paint him a holy picture, perhaps a Virgin and Child, which will in some small measure repay him. Nowhere in the world would one meet with such a reception, save in Ireland. Here I am taken upon trust, and believed to be an honest fellow until I am found out, completely reversing the social code. He places his house, his all, at my disposal, believing me to be a poor devil of an artist on tramp and ready to paint anything for bread and butter. Hang it all! it makes me feel low and mean to sail under the false colors of an assumed name, and yet it is better as it is—much better. Suppose I meet Mr. Jyvecote? He’d scarcely recognize me. I’ve not seen him since our stormy interview at Marseilles. Had I my beard then? No; it was on my way out to Egypt, and that’s exactly three years ago this very month. He had a lot of womankind with him. Per Bacco! I suppose he was making for this place.”

Mr. Brown strolled over to the beach, and, seating himself upon a granite boulder, smoked on and on, buried in thought. The sea was as still as a sea in a dream, and gray, and mystic, and silent. The hush that Eve whispers as Night lets fall her mantle was coming upon the earth, and the twinkling stars began to throb in the blue-black sky; not a speck was visible on the billowy plain save a solitary fishing-boat, which now loomed out of the darkness like a weird and spectral bark.

In such scenes, and in the awful quiet of such hours, images and thoughts that dare not die are 438deposited upon the silent shore of memory. The man who sat gazing out to sea with his hands clasping his knees was Sir Everard Noel, the fourth baronet of a good old Yorkshire family, and owner of a fine estate between Otley and Ilkley, in the North Riding of that noble county. He was five-and-twenty, and had been his own master ever since he attained his majority, until which momentous event he had been the victim of a peripatetic guardian and the Court of Chancery, his father having died while he was yet an infant, and his mother when he had reached the age of nineteen. Freed from the yoke of his guardian, who led him a tour of the world, and placed in possession of ninety thousand pounds, the accumulation of his minority, and with an income of ten thousand a year, he plunged into the giddy whirl of London fast life, and for a brief season became the centre of a set composed of the crème de la crème, the aurati juvenes of that modern Babylon. He was liberal to lavishness, was fascinated with Clubland and écarté, losing his money with a superb tranquillity, and addicted to turning night into day. He flattered the fair sex with the “homage of a devotee,” and broke hearts as he would nutshells. Intriguing dowagers fished for him for their “penniless lasses wi’ long pedigrees,” but somehow or other, after four seasons, during which he had had several hairbreadth escapes, he still was single, still healthy and heart-whole, but minus his ninety thousand pounds.

During his minority he had wooed Art, wisely and well, and even while the daze of deviltry was upon him he never totally neglected her. He painted with more than the skill of a mere amateur, and had 439even the best of it in a tussle with the art critic of the Times upon the genuineness of a Rembrandt which had burst upon the market, to the intense excitement of the cognoscenti. There was a good deal of the artist in his nature, and he was an immense favorite with the bearded Bohemians, knights of the brush, who voted him a good fellow, with the solitary drawback of being unavoidably a “howling swell.”

Four years of wasted life brought on satiety, and he turned from the past with a shudder, from the present with loathing. He wanted to do something, to be interested in something, and to shake off the sickening aimlessness of his every-day life that clung to him like a winding-sheet.

There came a day when the men in the smoking-room of the club asked each other, “Where the doose is Noel?” when wily matrons found their gushing notes of invitation unanswered; when toadies, hangers-on, and sycophants found his apartments in Half-Moon Street, Piccadilly, closed. There came a day when club and matron and toady thought of him no more. The wave of oblivion had passed over him and he was forgotten. Sic itur ad astra. Away from the fatal influences that had, maelstrom-like, sucked him into their whirl, new thoughts, new impulses, new aspirations burst into blossom, and his old love—Art—turned to him with the radiant smile of the bygone time.

There is red red blood in the veins at twenty-five, and white-winged Hope ever beckons onwards with soul-seductive gesture. He determined to seek change of scene and of thought. As Sir Everard Noel, the president of the Four-in-Hand Club; the owner of Katinka, 440the winner of the Chester Cup; the skipper of the Griselda, that won the queen’s prize at Cowes; the best rider with the Pytchley hounds, every hotel on the Continent, every village in Merrie England, would recognize him, and the old toadying recommence; but as plain Mr. Brown, an obscure artist, with a knapsack on his back, he would be free, free as a bird, and the summer morning this idea flashed across his mind found him once again a bright, happy, and joyous man.

Sir Everard Noel was a gentleman of warm temper and great energy, prone to sudden impulses and unconsidered actions. No sooner had he made up his mind to go upon the tramp than he started; and, considering that he would be less liable to recognition in Connemara than in Wales, made Galway the base of his supplies, and, knapsack on back, containing sketching materials and a change of flannel, a few days’ walking brought him to Monamullin in glorious health, splendid spirits, and prepared to enjoy everybody and everything.

“How much more delightful all this is,” he thought, “than the horrors I have passed through—horrors labelled pleasures! Faugh! I shudder when I think of them. Let me see, it’s ten o’clock; at this hour I would be about half-way through a miserably unwholesome dinner, spiced up in order to meet the requirements of a demoralized appetite, or yawning in an opera-box, with six or seven long, dreary hours before me to kill at any price, especially with brandy and soda. How delicious all this is! How fresh, how pure! What a dinner I ate of those rashers and eggs! And such tea! By Jove! that old lady must have a chest entirely 441for her own consumption. If my bed is as comfortable as it looks, I shall not awaken till the padre returns from Jyvecote’s. How disagreeable to meet Jyvecote or any of the lot! I never knew any of them but Jasper and the father. What a glorious old gentleman is Father Maurice—simple as a child, with the dignity of a saint. I had better get to bed now, as I shall begin on a Virgin and Child for him to-morrow; or, if his Stations are daubs, I can do him a set, though it will take me a deuce of a time. I must visit the chapel to-morrow; I suppose it’s very dingy.” And with a good stout yawn Mr. Brown—for we shall continue to call him by this name until the proper time comes—turned towards the cottage.

Mrs. Clancy met him at the door.

“I was afraid ye wor lost, sir,” she said as he entered the hall.

“Not lost, my good lady, but found. I suppose you lock the doors here earlier than this.”

“Lock!” she exclaimed almost indignantly—“lock indeed! There’s not a bowlt nor a bar nor a lock on the whole house. Arrah! who wud rob Father Maurice but th’ ould boy?—an’ he’d be afeard. He daren’t lay a hand on anything here, an’ well he knows it, God be good to us!”

“I suppose you’ve been a long time with Father Maurice, Mrs. Clancy.”

“Only sence me man—the Lord rest his sowl, amin!—was lost in the night av the great storm, nigh fifteen year ago—fifteen year come the fourteenth av next month, on a Frida’ night. He was a good man, an’ a fine provider, an’ wud have left me warm an’ comfortable but for the hard times that cum on the cunthry be raison av the famine. 442Ye might have heard tell of it, sir.”

“Oh! indeed I did.”

“Och! wirra, wirra! but it was an awful time, glory be to God! whin the poor craythurs was dyin’ by the roadsides and aitin’ grass to keep the sowles in their bodies, like bastes.”

“I was far away then, in China,” said Brown.

“That’s where the tay cums from; an’ very infayrior tay we’re gettin’ now, sir, compared wud what we used to get. I can’t rise more nor a cup out av two spoonfuls, an’ well I remimber whin wan wud give me layves enough for to fill a noggin. Are ye thinkin’ av Maynewth, sir?” asked Mrs. Clancy, exceedingly desirous of some clue as to the identity, habits, and occupation of her guest, as it would not do to face Monamullin with her finger in her mouth.

“Maynewth?” he replied. “What is Maynewth?”

“The collidge.”

“What college?”

“The collidge where the young priests is med.”

“Oh! dear, no, Mrs. Clancy,” he replied, laughing heartily. “I am a painter.”

“A painther!” she said in considerable astonishment.

“Yes, a poor painter.”

“Musha, now, but that flogs. An’ what are ye goin’ for to paint?”

“Anything that turns up.”

She thought for a moment, hesitated a little, scrutinized his apparel, hesitated again, and at length, “Wud ye be afther doin’ his riverince a good turn?”

“I should be only too delighted.”

“Thin ye might give the back doore a cupple o’ coats o’ paint afore ye go.”

The artist burst into an uncontrollable 443fit of laughter, long, loud, joyous, and rippling as that of a schoolboy’s, again and again renewed as the irritated puzzle written in the housekeeper’s face met his glance. At length he burst out after a tremendous guffaw:

“I am not exactly that sort of a painter, Mrs. Clancy, but I dare say I could do it if I tried; and I will try. I am more in that line,” pointing to the picture of Daniel O’Connell suspended over the mantel-piece.

The cloud of anger rapidly disappeared from Mrs. Clancy’s brow upon this explanation, and in a voice of considerable blandishment she half-whispered:

“Arrah, thin, mebbe ye’d do me a little wan o’ Dan for the kitchen, honey.”

After another hearty peal of laughter Mr. Brown most cordially assented, and, taking his chamber candle—a flaring dip—retired to his bedroom.

“Ma foi,” he gaily laughed, “this is homely. Do I miss my valet? Do I miss my brandy and soda? Do I miss my Aubusson carpet, my theatrical pictures, my Venetian mirror, or my villanous French novel? Not a bit of it. This is glorious; and what a tub I shall have in the morning in the wild Atlantic!”

Father Maurice’s guest was up, if not with the lark, at least not far behind that early-rising bird, and out in the gently-gliding wavelets, buffeting them with the vigorous stroke of a skilful swimmer. The ocean on this still, clear morning was beautiful enough to attract wistful glances from eyes the most blasé. The cloudless sky was intensely dark in its blue, as though the unseen sun was overhead 444and shining vertically down. The light did not seem of sea or land, but it shone dazzlingly on the low line of verdure-clad hills, on the cornfields in stubble, causing every blade to glisten like a golden spear, on the whitewashed cottages, on the bright green hedges, on the line of dark rock, and enveloping the mountains of Carrig na Copple in the dim distance in blue and silver glory. The colors of the sea were magical, in luminous green, purple, and blue; and out across the billowy plain great bands of purple stretched away to the sky line, as a passing cloud flung its shadows in its onward fleecy progress. The artist felt all this beauty, drinking it in like life-wine, till it tingled and throbbed in every vein.

After partaking of a breakfast the consumption of which would have considerably astonished some of his quondam London set, and having lighted his meerschaum, Mr. Brown set out for a stroll through the village, accompanied by half a dozen cabin curs, who, having scented the stranger, most courteously made up their minds to act as his escort. The inhabitants of the cabins en route turned out to look respectfully at him. Children timorously approached, curtsied, and, when spoken to, retreated in laughing terror. Matrons gazed and gossiped. A cripple or two touched their caps to him, and on every side he was wished “good-luck.” He was Father Maurice’s guest, and, as a consequence, the guest of Monamullin. Whitewash abounded everywhere; amber thatch covered the roofs; scarlet geraniums bloomed vigorously, their crimson blossoms resembling gouts of blood spurted against marble slabs. A shebeen or public-house was not to be seen; 445order and peace and happiness reigned triumphant.

“A few trees planted down this street—if I may call it so—would make this an Arcadian village. I must ask Father Maurice to let me have them planted. A fountain, too, would look well just opposite that unpretending shop. I wonder where the church can be?”

A man with a reaping-hook bound in a hay rope happened to be passing, to whom he addressed himself.

“Can you tell me where the church is?”

“Yis, yer honor; troth, thin, I can.”

“Where is it, please?”

“Av it’s Mass ye want, Father Maurice is beyant at Moynalty Castle.”

“I merely want to see it.”

“An’ shure ye can, sir; it’s open day an’ night.”

“But where is it, my man?”

“Where is it? Right foreninst ye, thin. Don’t ye see the holy and blessed crass over the doore?”

The chapel was a small, low, cruciform building, very dingy despite its whitewash, and very tumble-down-looking. It was surrounded by a small grass-plat and a few stunted pines. A rude cross with a real crown of thorns stood in one corner, at the foot of which knelt an old man, bare-headed, engaged in repeating the rosary aloud, and two women, who were rocking themselves to and fro in a fervor of prayer. Within the church the fittings were of the most primitive description. The floor was unboarded, save close to the altar-rails; a few forms were scattered here and there, and one row of backed seats occupied a space to the right. The altar, approached by a single step, was of wood, a 446golden cross ornamenting the front panel, and a series of gilded Gothic arches forming its background, while the tabernacle consisted of a rudely-cut imitation of a dome-covered mosque. A picture of the Crucifixion hung over the altar suspended from the ceiling, and, as this was regarded as a masterpiece of art by the inhabitants of Monamullin from time immemorial, we will not discuss their æstheticism here. The Stations of the Cross were represented by small colored engravings in mahogany frames, and the holy-water font consisted of a huge boulder of granite which had a large hole scooped out of it.

“This will never do,” said Mr. Brown, gazing ruefully at the several works of art. “What a splendid chance for me! I shall paint, as the old masters did, under direct inspiration. What a sublime sensation, when my picture shall have been completed, to witness the reverential admiration of the poor devout people here! I shall be regarded as a benefactor. Fancy my being a benefactor to anybody or anything! Heigh-ho!” he sighed, “what a glorious little Gothic church, a prayer in stone, a portion of the money I so murderously squandered would have built here!—that four thousand I flung last March into the mire in Paris. Faugh!” And, dragged back over the waves of Time, he sat down upon one of the wooden benches, overwhelmed by the rush of his own thoughts.

Of the length of time he remained thus absorbed he made no count. The dead leaves of the misspent past rustled drearily round his heart, weighing him down with a load of inexpressible sadness—a sadness almost amounting to anguish—and two hours had come and gone ere his reverie was broken.

447Happening to raise his eyes towards the altar, he was startled by perceiving a female form kneeling at the railings, lithe, svelte, and attired in costly and fashionable raiment. As he gazed, the young girl finished her prayers, and, with a deep, reverential inclination in front of the altar, swept past him with that graceful, undulatory motion which would seem to be the birthright of the daughters of sunny Spain. She was tall, elegantly formed, and possessed that air of high breeding which makes itself felt like a perfume. Her bright chestnut hair was brushed tightly back from an oval face, and hung in massive plaits at the back of her head. Her eyes were soft brown, her complexion milk-white.

“What a vision, and in this place, too! That is the best of the Catholic religion. The churches are always open, inviting one to come in and pray. I wonder who she can be? Some tourist. Pshaw! your tourist doesn’t trouble this quarter of the globe. To see, to be seen, to dress, and wrangle over the bills at palatial hotels, means touring nowadays. Some county lady, over to do a little shopping; but there are no shops, except that miserable little box opposite, and they apparently sell nothing there but marbles, tobacco-pipes, kites, and corduroy. Ah! I have it: some inlander coming for a plunge in the Atlantic. I suppose I shall meet her pony phaeton as I pass up through the village. I seriously hope I shall. There is something very fetching about her, and it purifies a fellow to see a girl like that at prayer.”

Such were the cogitations of Mr. Brown as he emerged from the dingy little chapel. Brown was not a Catholic. He had been educated 448at Eton, and, although intended for Cambridge, his guardian took him to Japan when he should have been cramming for his degree. Of the religion as by law established in England, he paid but little attention to the forms and merely went to church during the season to hear some “swell” preacher, or because Lady Clara Vere de Vere gave him a rendezvous. But, with all his faults and follies, he was never irreverent, and his respect for the things that belong unto God was ever honest, open, and sincere.

He was doomed to be disappointed. No pony phaeton disturbed the stillness of the village street. The curs, which had patiently waited for him whilst he remained in the church, received him with noiseless but cheery tail-wagging as he came out, and marched at his heels as though he had been their lord and master. The children rushed from cabins and dropped their quaint little curtsies. The cripples doffed their caps, the matrons gazed at him and gossiped; and, although he lingered to say a few words to a passing fisherman, and somewhat 449eagerly scanned the surrounding country, no sign could he obtain of the fair young girl who had flashed upon him like a “vision of the night.”

“I shall never see her again,” he thought; “and yet I could draw that face. Such a mouth! such contour! I must ask the padre if he knows her, though that is scarcely probable; and yet she is one of his flock—at least, she is a Catholic, so there is some hope.”

He returned to the cottage, and encountered Father Maurice in the garden.

“I did not like to disturb you at your devotions, Mr. Brown,” he said, “but I was only going to give you five minutes longer, as the salmon grill will be ready by that time.”

“How did you ascertain I was in the church?” asked Brown, entering the hall and hanging up his hat.

“A beautiful young lady told me.”

“I saw her; who is she?” exclaimed the artist eagerly.

“I shall present you to her. Here she is. Mr. Brown, Miss Julia Jyvecote.”

[TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.]

Mr. T. B. H. Stenhouse, one of the Scottish converts to Mormonism, was for a quarter of a century an elder and missionary of the church of the Latter-Day Saints. He is the author of the most complete and careful history of the Mormons in the English language. Although he has “outgrown” the faith of Brigham Young and Joseph Smith, and disbelieves the doctrines which he once preached, he writes of his former associates in a tone of moderation and good sense, and gives them more credit for sincerity than the rest of the world will be likely to concede them. In the introduction to his Rocky Mountain Saints he says:

“Whatever judgment may be passed upon the faith and personal lives of the Mormon Prophet and his successor, there will be a general recognition of a divine purpose in their history. Under their leadership the Mormon people have aided to conquer the western desert, and to transform a barren and desolate region of a hitherto ‘unknown country’ into a land that seems destined at no distant day to teem with millions of human beings, and which promises to stand pre-eminent among the conquests of the republic. It is doubtful whether any collective body of other citizens, unmoved by religious impulses, would ever have traversed the sandy desert and sage-plains, and have lived an age of martyrdom in reclaiming them, as the Mormons have in Utah. But this has been accomplished, and it was accomplished by faith. That was the Providence of the saints, and it must be conceded that, as a means subservient to an end, the Mormon element has been used in the Rocky Mountain region by the Almighty Ruler for developing the best interests of the nation, and for the benefit of the world at large.”

The fallacies hidden in these reflections will not escape the notice 451of any thoughtful Catholic reader. Mr. Stenhouse has got a feeble hold of a great truth, but, embarrassed by the materialistic ideas which form so important a part of the Mormon philosophy, he does not know how to apply it. We quote the passage as a striking illustration of the spirit in which too many of our countrymen are inclined to judge the history and character of the saints of the Great Salt Lake. Americans have a profound veneration for material prosperity, and hardly find it in their hearts to condemn a community which has built cities in the remote wilderness, planted gardens in the midst of the desert, taught brooks to run across the arid plains, and “developed the resources” of one of the least promising territories in our national domain. Any man, according to the popular theories of the emancipation of conscience, has a right to make a religion to suit himself; and whatever he may profess—unless, indeed, he should chance to concur with about 160,000,000 other persons in professing the doctrines of the holy Catholic Church, in which case there would be a fair presumption that he was dangerous to society—his fellow-citizens are bound to treat his creed respectfully and admit the purity of his motives.^[42] Hence the world honors the founder of a new state, even though he may be also the founder of a false religion. There are 80,000 Mormons in Utah, and 452as a community they are rich and thrifty. It is not surprising that we have heard of late so much admiring comment upon the genius of Brigham Young, so many predictions that he will be reckoned hereafter among the great men in American history.

It may be worth while to clear our minds by a brief sketch of the rise and development of Mormonism. It is a phenomenon too important to be passed over, and it has a closer connection with the moral and intellectual tendencies of the time than most of us suspect. The general direction of Protestant theology has always been towards rationalism and materialism. Founded upon the denial of everything that man cannot perceive by his unaided natural powers, it leads irresistibly to the rejection of divine interposition in worldly affairs and of all manner of heavenly revelation. But the human mind can no more rest without belief in the supernatural than the human body can rest upon air. Superstition is consequently the offspring of infidelity. The extremes of negation produce a reaction of credulity; the worship of Baal alternates with the worship of God; we see Protestantism swaying perpetually to and fro between a cold philosophical scepticism and the wildest extravagances of fanaticism and imposture. A time of general negation and intellectual pride is followed by an epidemic of rhapsodies and convulsions. Prophets arise; spirits are seen in clouds of light; conventicles resound with the ravings of frenzied sinners and the shouting of excited saints; Swedenborg makes excursions in the body into heaven and into hell; the Shakers place Mother Ann on 453the throne of the Almighty; the Peculiar People look for the direct interference of God in the pettiest affairs of life, and demand a miracle every hour of the day. Mormonism was the product of such a season of spiritual riot. Fifty years ago animal magnetism and clairvoyance were at their height. The pride which refused to worship God stooped to amuse itself with ghosts and witches. The soul, emancipated from religion, became the slave of magic; and superstition, rejecting the revelations of a loving Creator, was almost ripe for the instructions of dancing tables and flying tambourines. Mesmer had excited the learned world with his mystic tubs; throngs of prophetic somnambulists had prepared the way for the oracles of Andrew Jackson Davis. In England there was even a more chaotic disturbance of minds than here. Multitudes on the one hand, disbelieving in a personal deity altogether, took refuge in pure scepticism. Multitudes on the other looked for the advent of the Lord in power and glory, to establish on earth in visible form the kingdom foretold by the inspired writers. The study of the prophecies became an absorbing passion of sectaries and enthusiasts. They muddled their brains with much reading of Isaias and the Apocalypse. They made it their mission to explain dark sayings; and having placed their own interpretation upon the divine predictions, they watched the sky for signs of their immediate fulfilment, and found in contemporary events a thousand confirmations of their crazy fancies, a thousand portents of the speedy coming of the Lord. There was no conceivable theological vagary for which they did not seek authority among the 454prophets. There was a wide-spread revival of the ancient belief in a terrestrial millennium, with a faith that it was close at hand. Edward Irving was setting England and Scotland aflame with fiery announcements of the Second Advent; fashionable society left its bed at five o’clock in the morning to hear him preach, for three hours at a stretch, on the impending accomplishment of what had been foretold; and although it was not until a few years later that William Miller organized in this country the first regular congregations of those who expected the speedy end of the world, and who sat in white robes listening for the judgment trump, there is no doubt that the general religious ferment which preceded this particular hallucination was felt simultaneously on both sides of the ocean, and presented on both sides the same essential characteristics.

Naturally this exciting period was also a season of powerful Methodistic revivals. These sensational experiences belong, like spiritualism and the other delusions which we have mentioned, to what has been called “inspirational” as distinguished from rationalistic Protestantism, and they are apt to run their course together. Between 1825 and 1830 the revival movement was carried to great lengths, and its excesses seem to have been most marked in Central and Western New York just at the time when Mormonism arose there. We speak of the revivals as Methodistic only by way of defining their character; they were by no means restricted to the Methodist denomination. The most famous revival preacher of the day was the Rev. Charles G. Finney, a Presbyterian; and any one who is curious about 455the spiritual uproar which he carried through the State with him is referred to the chapter on “Fanaticism in Revivals” in the Personal Reminiscences of Dr. Gardiner Spring, of the Brick (Presbyterian) Church in New York City.^[43]

It was in such a time, equally favorable to delusions and impostures, that Joseph Smith, the inventor of Mormonism, made his appearance. The accounts of his early life are not satisfactory. His origin was obscure. His neighbors were ignorant. Little is on record except his Autobiography and a sketch by his mother, neither of which productions is entitled to much credit. It is evident, however, that he was caught up by the religious excitement which raged all around him. We are assured that on at least two special occasions during his boyhood he was “powerfully awakened” by Methodist revivalists. His writings abound with revival phraseology; his pretended revelations are full of the cant-terms of the camp-meeting; his code of doctrines bears traces of the denominational controversies which were most active in Western New York when he emerged upon the stage of history. In 1827 he was an illiterate and idle rustic of twenty-two years, living at Palmyra, in Wayne County, New York. His parents were shiftless 456and visionary people, who got drunk, and used the divining-rod, and dug for hidden treasures, and, according to their neighbors, stole sheep. Joseph was no better than the rest of the family. By natural disposition he was a dreamer and an adventurer. According to his own account, he began to see miraculous appearances in the air and to hear the voices of spiritual messengers as early as his fifteenth year. It was in one of his seasons of “awakening,” when, perplexed by the contradictions of rival sects, he went into a grove and asked the Lord which he should follow, in the firm persuasion that his question would be answered by some physical manifestation. We give the Mormon account of the result of his experiment:

“At first he was severely tempted by the powers of darkness, which endeavored to overcome him; but he continued to seek for deliverance, until darkness gave way from his mind. He at length saw a very bright and glorious light in the heavens above, which at first seemed to be at a considerable distance. He continued praying, while the light appeared to be gradually descending towards him; and as it drew nearer it increased in brightness and magnitude, so that by the time that it reached the tops of the trees the whole wilderness for some distance around was illuminated in the most glorious and brilliant manner. He expected to have seen the leaves and boughs of the trees consumed as soon as the light came in contact with them; but perceiving that it did not produce that effect, he was encouraged with the hopes of being able to endure its presence. It continued descending slowly, until it rested upon the earth and he was enveloped in the midst of it. When it first came upon him it produced a peculiar sensation throughout his whole system; and immediately his mind was caught away from the natural objects with which he was surrounded, and he was enwrapped in a heavenly vision, and saw two glorious personages, who exactly resembled each other in their 457features or likeness. He was informed that his sins were forgiven. He was also informed upon the subjects which had for some time previously agitated his mind—namely, that all the religious denominations were believing in incorrect doctrines, and consequently that none of them was acknowledged of God as his church and kingdom. And he was expressly commanded to go not after them; and he received a promise that the true doctrine, the fulness of the gospel, should at some future time be made known to him; after which the vision withdrew.”^[44]

Joseph, upon whose word alone this narrative rests, relates that when he came to himself he was lying on his back looking up into the clouds. He seems to have accepted cheerfully the condemnation of all existing religions, but the vision had no other practical effect upon him; as Orson Pratt confesses, his life continued to be unedifying, and his story of the celestial apparition was received with stubborn incredulity by those who knew his character and habits. It was three years before he professed to be favored with a second visit. Then, he says, a white and lustrous angel came into his room while he was at prayer, and told him that Heaven designed him for a great work. There was hidden in a certain place, to be revealed hereafter, a book written upon gold plates, which contained “the fulness of the everlasting gospel as delivered by the Saviour to the ancient inhabitants” of the American continent. This was the Mormon Bible, commonly known now as the Book of Mormon from the title of one of its divisions. In his Autobiography Joseph Smith states that the angel was Nephi, author of the First and Second Books of Nephi, which 458stand at the head of the Mormon scriptures; but in his Doctrine and Covenants he speaks of his visitant as Moroni, who wrote the last book in the collection and placed the gold plates where they were afterwards to be found. We do not know what explanation the Mormons offer of this singular discrepancy. The vision was repeated during the night, and Joseph was directed to search for the buried treasure in a hill near Manchester, a village about four miles from Palmyra, in the adjoining county of Ontario. He saw, as if in a dream, the exact spot in which he was to dig. He went to Manchester and found the plates, enclosed in a sort of box formed of stones set in cement. With them “there were two stones in silver bows (and these stones, fastened to a breastplate, constituted what is called the Urim and Thummim), and the possession and use of these stones was what constituted seers in ancient or former times, and God had prepared them for the purpose of translating the book”—an idea which Joseph borrowed, of course, from the Jewish high-priest’s “rational of judgment,” described in Exodus, chap. xxviii. Moroni (or was it Nephi?) would not allow the plates to be removed yet; but he gave Joseph a great many interesting and comfortable, though rather vague, instructions. He opened the heavens and caused him to see the glory of the Lord. He made the devil and his hosts pass by in procession, so that Smith might know them when he met them. Once a year Joseph was to return to the same spot and receive a new revelation. On the fourth anniversary of the discovery—that is, in September, 1827—the angel placed the plates and the Urim and 459Thummim in his hands, with a caution that he should let nobody see them. But he seems to have talked freely about his experiences; for, according to his own story, the whole country-side was up in arms to get the plates away from him. He was waylaid and chased by ruffians with clubs. He was shot at. His house was repeatedly mobbed; and when at last he removed to Pennsylvania in search of peace, carrying the plates in a barrel of beans, he was twice overtaken by a constable armed with a search-warrant, who failed, however, to find what he was looking for. Possibly the plates and the constable were equally fictions of Joseph Smith’s imagination.

Incredulous historians of Mormonism offer various explanations of the story which we have thus far recounted. They detect in Joseph Smith’s alleged visions a close resemblance to the trance state sometimes brought on by spiritual excitement among the Methodists and other sects who make strong appeals to the emotional nature; or they refer his supernatural exaltation to mesmeric clairvoyance; or they see in him merely a “spiritual medium,” a precursor of the rappers and table-tippers who became so common a few years later. Others, again, account for the whole case upon the theory of demoniac possession; while still others suppose that, having really discovered some sort of metallic tablets, the dreams of a disordered mind supplied him with the interpretation and the dramatis personæ.^[45] It seems to us hardly 460necessary to discuss these various explanations, for there is no proof of the alleged facts. The whole narrative rests upon nothing but Joseph Smith’s word. It is the story told by him in after-years to account for the new gospel. There is none who shared with him the privilege of angelic visitations. There is none who saw the great light, who heard the mysterious voices, who even beheld Joseph himself at the moment of the alleged revelations. No one knows what became of the golden plates. The angel, said Joseph, came and took them away again. While they remained in the prophet’s hands they were kept from curious eyes. Prefixed to the Book of Mormon in the current editions is the “Testimony of Three Witnesses”—Oliver Cowdery, David Whitmer, and Martin Harris—that they were permitted to see the plates, and that a heavenly voice assured them of the faithfulness of Smith’s translation; but all these three witnesses afterwards confessed that their testimony was a lie. To their certificate is appended the testimony of eight other witnesses—namely, Joseph’s father and two brothers, four of the Whitmer family, and a disciple named Page—who also profess to have seen the plates; but their connection with the beginnings of the Mormon Church makes it impossible to put confidence in their statement. We do not know the circumstances under which the sight may have been vouchsafed to them, and we certainly have no sufficient reason to believe their word.^[46]

461Thus far, then, Mormonism is a mere legend. In 1828 it becomes historical fact; and whatever may be thought of the prophet’s good faith in the matter of his early dreams and visions, we find it impossible to resist the conviction that henceforth he was only a conscious and daring impostor. From this time to the day of his death, in his acts and his writings, in his shrewdness, his ambition, and his reckless courage—planning new settlements, fabricating new Bibles, uttering forged revelations, nominating himself for President of the United States, assuming to command armies, running a wild-cat bank, debauching women—we can see nothing but a career of vulgar fraud. There was wild fanaticism in the foundation of the Mormon Church; but it was not on the part of Joseph Smith.

There is proof that about fifteen years before this pretended revelation an ex-preacher, named Solomon Spalding, a graduate of Dartmouth College, and a resident of Crawford County, Pennsylvania, offered for publication at a Pittsburgh printing-office a book called the Manuscript Found, in which he attempted to account for the peopling of America by deriving the Indians from the lost tribes of Israel. It was a sort of Scriptural romance, written in clumsy imitation of the historical books of the Old Testament, and it contained, among its other divisions, a Book of Mormon. Although announced for publication, it never appeared. 462The manuscript remained in the printing-office for a number of years. Spalding died in 1816. The bookseller died in 1826. Sidney Rigdon, one of the first disciples of Mormonism, was a compositor in the printing-office, and it seems to be pretty well established that he made a copy of the book and afterwards gave it to Smith. At any rate the Book of Mormon, when it came from the press in 1830, was immediately recognized as an adaptation of Solomon Spalding’s romance. A great many people had read parts of it during Spalding’s lifetime, and remembered not only the principal incidents which it narrated, but the names of the leading characters—Nephi, Lehi, Moroni, Mormon, and the rest—which Smith boldly appropriated. Spalding’s only object was literary amusement, with perhaps a little harmless mystification. The theological teachings incorporated with his pretended history were the additions of Smith and Rigdon. As it now stands the Mormon Bible purports to relate the wanderings of a Hebrew named Lehi, who went out from Jerusalem six hundred years before Christ, and, after travelling eastward eight years “through a wilderness,” came to the sea-coast, built a ship, got a mariner’s compass somewhere, set sail with his wife Sariah, his sons Laman, Lemuel, Sam, Nephi, Joseph, and Jacob, the wives of the four elder sons, and six other persons, and in due time reached America. After the death of Lehi the Lord appointed Nephi to rule over the settlers, but Laman and Lemuel, heading a revolt, were cursed, and became the ancestors of the Indians. We shall not waste much time over this absurd and wearisome farrago, a mixture of 463Scriptural parodies, stupid inventions, and bold thefts from Shakspeare and King James’ Bible. It is intolerably verbose, dragging through fifteen books, stuffed with gross faults of grammar, anachronisms, and solecisms of every kind, and comprising as much matter as four hundred and fifty of these pages, or more than three entire numbers of The Catholic World. There are wonderful miracles and tremendous battles. Vast cities are created in North and South America. Nations wander to and fro across the continents. Priests, prophets, judges, and Antichrists, with names curiously constructed out of those in the Jewish Scriptures, appear and disappear like travesties of the persons in sacred history. The Nephites and the Lamanites hack and slay each other. A republican form of government is instituted, and is assailed by monarchical conspiracies. Nephi, Jarom, Omni, Mosaiah, Mormon, Moroni, Alma, Ether, and other leaders of the Nephites write the records of the people upon golden plates, and save them for Joseph Smith to find in due season. Seers give long-winded explanations of the divine purposes, and predict the incidents of the beginning of Mormonism, which had already taken place when Joseph Smith brought these predictions to light. The history of the Nephites is supposed to be contemporaneous with the history of the Jews, but entirely independent of it; their Scriptures are intended to supplement, not contradict, the holy Bible. The crucifixion of our Lord was announced to these American Jews by portents and prophecies, and afterwards the Saviour came to the chief city of the Nephites, showed his wounded hands 464and feet, healed the sick, blessed little children, and remained here forty days teaching Christianity. Gradually the Lamanites, or Indians, overcame the Nephites. In the year 384 a final battle was fought on the hill Cumorah (Ontario County, New York), where 320,000 Nephites were slain. This was the end of the pre-Columbian civilization of America, little or nothing being left of the Nephites except Mormon and his son Moroni, who completed the records on the gold plates and “hid them up” in the hill. Such, in brief outline, is the Mormon Bible. With the narrative of the descendants of Lehi, however, it contains an account of two other emigrations from Asia to America—namely, that of the Jaredites, who came here direct from the tower of Babel, and perished after they had stripped the continent of timber, and that of a party of Jews who followed Lehi at the period of the Babylonian captivity. The Jaredites came in eight small air-tight barges, shaped like a covered dish, loaded with all manner of beasts, birds, and fishes, and driven by a furious wind. The voyage lasted three hundred and forty-four days, so that, in spite of the miraculous gale astern, it was probably the slowest on record.

It would be an endless task to point out even a tithe of the huge blunders in this fraudulent volume. We read of Christians a century before Christ, of the Gospel and the churches six centuries before Christ, of three oceans lying between Asia and America, of pious Hebrews eating pork, of Jews long before the name of Jew was invented, of horses, asses, swine, etc., running wild all over the face of this continent in the time of the Jaredites, although it is certain that 465they were first introduced by the Spaniards. Nephi, in giving an account of the emigration of his father Lehi, says: “And it came to pass that the Lord spake unto me, saying, Thou shalt construct a ship after the manner which I shall show thee, that I may carry thy people across these waters. And I said, Lord, whither shall I go that I may find ore to molten, that I may make tools?... And it came to pass that I did make tools of the ore which I did molten out of the rock.” Nephi, like St. John, was unable to write down all the things that Jesus taught: “Behold, I were about to write them all, but the Lord forbid it.” Alma declares: “And it came to pass that whosoever did mingle his seed with that of the Lamanites did bring the same curse upon his seed; therefore whomsoever suffered himself to be led away by the Lamanites were called that head, and there was a mark set upon him.” Mormon is one of the most eccentric in syntax of all the scribes: “And Ammaron said unto me, I perceive that thou art a sober child, and art quick to observe; therefore when ye are about twenty-and-four years old I would that ye should remember,” etc. Nephi “saw wars and rumors of wars.” Alma writes: “And when Moroni had said these words, he went forth among the people, waving the rent of his garment in the air, that all might see the writing which he had wrote upon the rent”! The language of the precious records is described as “reformed Egyptian,” and Nephi explains that it “consists of the learning of the Jews and the language of the Egyptians,” though upon what principle they are combined we are left to imagine. Pressed to exhibit a specimen of the mysterious 466characters, Joseph Smith gave what purported to be a fac-simile of a few lines to one of his disciples, who came to New York and submitted it to Prof. Anthon. “It consisted,” says Prof. Anthon, “of all kinds of crooked characters disposed in columns, and had evidently been prepared by some person who had before him at the time a book containing various alphabets, Greek and Hebrew letters, crosses and flourishes; Roman letters inverted or placed sideways were arranged and placed in perpendicular columns; and the whole ended in a rude delineation of a circle, divided into various compartments, decked with various strange marks, and evidently copied after the Mexican calendar given by Humboldt, but copied in such a way as not to betray the source whence it was derived.” Mormon says he would have written in Hebrew, if the plates had been large enough.

In giving the translation of the mysterious books to the world Joseph Smith, whose education had been sadly neglected, made use of an amanuensis. This at first was a farmer named Martin Harris. The prophet sat behind a blanket stretched across the room, and, thus screened from profane eyes, read aloud from the gold plates, by the miraculous aid of the Urim and Thummim, the sacred text, which the confiding Harris reduced to writing. The sceptical, of course, believe that what Smith held before him was no pile of metallic tablets, but merely the manuscript of Solomon Spalding, into which he emptied from time to time a great deal of rubbish of his own make. No one, however, succeeded in penetrating behind the blanket. The work had gone on 467for a year and a half, when Harris, tempted by his wife, embezzled the manuscript. This was a serious loss. Joseph could not reproduce it in the same words, and it would not do to risk discrepancies. “Revelation” came to his aid in this dilemma, and informed him that Harris had “altered the words” of the manuscript “in order to catch him” in the translation. The stolen pages were from the Book of Mormon; he must not attempt to replace them; he should let them go, for a narrative of the same events would be found in the Book of Nephi:

“And now verily I say unto you that an account of those things that you have written, which have gone out of your hands, are engraven upon the plates of Nephi; yea, and you remember it was said in those writings that a more particular account was given of these things upon the plates of Nephi. Behold they have only got a part or an abridgment of the account of Nephi. Behold, there are many things engraven on the plates of Nephi which do throw greater views upon my gospel; therefore it is wisdom in me that you should translate this first part of the engravings of Nephi, and send forth in this work.”^[47]

Oliver Cowdery now became scribe, and the task was finished without further accidents, the Books of Nephi standing at the head of the volume, and the remnant of the Book of Mormon, which gives its title to the whole collection, coming near the end of the table of contents. Still, the wretched Harris was not altogether cut off for his sin. He owned a farm. When the translation was finished Heaven uttered, by the mouth of Smith, “a commandment of God, and not of man, to Martin Harris”: “I command 468thee that thou shalt not covet thine own property, but impart it freely to the printing of the Book of Mormon. And misery thou shalt receive if thou wilt slight these counsels—yea, even the destruction of thyself and property.” So Harris mortgaged his farm to pay the printer, and in 1830 appeared at Palmyra, New York, The Book of Mormon: an Account Written by the Hand of Mormon upon Plates taken from the Plates of Nephi. By Joseph Smith, Jr., author and proprietor.^[48]

Instructed by John the Baptist, Smith and Cowdery now went into the river and baptized each other by immersion. Joseph then ordained Oliver to the Aaronic priesthood, and Oliver ordained Joseph. In April, 1830, the “Church of Christ” was organized at the house of Peter Whitmer in Fayette, Seneca County, New York, the company of the faithful consisting only of the prophet, his two brothers, his scribe, and two Whitmers; but in the course of the summer several other converts appeared, and Joseph became associated with three men of some ability and education, who gave the Mormon creed a doctrinal development which the founder himself was quite incapable of devising. These three were Sidney Rigdon, Orson Pratt, and Parley P. Pratt. They were devotees of the sensational and inspirational school, ready for any new form of spiritual extravagance, believers in visions, crack-brained students of the prophecies. Rigdon had been a preacher among the Campbellites—a sect whose fundamental doctrine it is that no precise doctrines 469are necessary. Read your Bible, say they, select your opinions from it, don’t allow infant baptism, but get yourselves baptized by immersion as often as you commit sin. Upon this broad foundation they can erect as many different systems of theology as they have congregations. Rigdon had outgrown the latitudinarianism and bibliolatry of the Campbellites, and at the time of Joseph Smith’s appearance he was preaching a religion of his own, rousing his little Ohio congregation with apocalyptic dreams and interpretations, and bidding them look for the instant coming of the Lord. Although his name does not appear in the roll of the first converts and apostles, it is certain that he was intimately associated with Smith from the beginning; it is certain that he embodied his peculiar views in the Mormon creed; it is suspected that he had more than a half-share in arranging the original machinery of imposture. Parley P. Pratt was likewise a Campbellite preacher, a man of ardent and passionate temperament, restless, eloquent, a brilliant albeit somewhat rude orator. Orson Pratt, inclining rather towards metaphysical speculations than prophecy and spiritual excitement, became the Mormon philosopher and controversialist, and to him are attributable the extraordinary materialistic doctrines which form so important a part of the new system.^[49] When Smith and his companions began to preach it does not appear that 470they had any scheme of theology ready at hand. Moroni and the golden plates made up the sum of their first teachings. There was comparatively little doctrine of any kind in the Book of Mormon; but, as Joseph’s prophetic pretensions found acceptance, it became necessary for the prophet to announce some positive creed. In setting it forth, point after point, he appealed neither to history nor to reason; “revelation” taught him from day to day all that he wished to know; and so, little by little, he built up a mass of dogma in which it is impossible to discover any regular plan. The authoritative handbook of Mormon theology as it existed in Smith’s time is a small volume first published in 1835, entitled The Doctrine and Covenants of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, carefully selected from the revelations of God, by Joseph Smith, President of said Church. It comprises two parts. The first consists of seven Lectures on Faith,^[50] which need not detain us; the second and more important contains about one hundred “revelations,” addressed sometimes to Smith, sometimes to one or another of the disciples, sometimes to the church, and occasionally to sceptical Mormons who showed signs of becoming troublesome. They embrace counsels and instructions of all kinds, for the organization of the hierarchy, the preaching of the new gospel, the regulation of private business affairs, and the management of congregations. Here is a sample of a “revelation given in Kirtland, August, 1831”: “Let my servant Newel K. Whitney retain his store—or, in other words, the 471store yet for a little season. Nevertheless, let him impart all the money which he can impart, to be sent up unto the land of Sion.” A few days later the voice of heaven spoke through Joseph Smith again:

“And now verily I say that it is expedient in me that my servant Sidney Gilbert, after a few weeks, should return upon his business, and to his agency in the land of Sion; and that which he hath seen and heard may be made known unto my disciples, that they perish not. And for this cause have I spoken these things. And again, I say unto you, that my servant Isaac Morley may not be tempted above that which he is able to bear, and counsel wrongfully to your hurt, I gave commandment that his farm should be sold. I willeth not that my servant Frederick G. Williams should sell his farm, for I the Lord willeth to retain a stronghold in the land of Kirtland for the space of five years, in the which I will not overthrow the wicked, that thereby I may save some.”

There was a special revelation to the prophet’s wife, Emma, who never quite relished Joseph’s proceedings:

“Hearken unto the voice of the Lord your God while I speak unto you, Emma Smith, my daughter; for verily I say unto you all those who receive my gospel are sons and daughters in my kingdom. A revelation I give unto you concerning my will, and if thou art faithful and walk in the paths of virtue before me, I will preserve thy life and thou shalt receive an inheritance in Sion. Behold, thy sins are forgiven thee, and thou art an elect lady whom I have called. Murmur not because of the things which thou hast not seen, for they are withheld from thee and from the world, which is wisdom in me in a time to come. And the office of thy calling shall be for a comfort unto my servant, Joseph Smith, Jr., thy husband, in his afflictions, with consoling words in the spirit of meekness.”

She was afterwards styled by the saints the Elect Lady, or “Cyria Electa,” and was “ordained” by 472Joseph as his scribe in the place of Oliver Cowdery. The dogmas to be found in this book are few and simple. The saints were taught to believe in “God the Eternal Father, and in his Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost”; to believe that men will not be punished for original sin; that the four saving ordinances of the Gospel are faith, repentance, baptism, and the laying-on of hands for the Holy Ghost; that the church enjoys still, as it did in primitive times, “the gift of tongues, prophecy, revelation, visions, healing, interpretation of tongues, etc.”; that the Bible, “as far as it is translated correctly,” and the Book of Mormon are both the word of God; that “the organization of the primitive church—viz., apostles, prophets, pastors, teachers, evangelists, etc.”—ought to be revived; and that Israel will be literally gathered and the ten tribes restored, Sion built on this continent, the personal reign of Christ established on earth, and the earth renewed in paradisaic glory. Finally, the book contains elaborate instructions for the establishment of a double priesthood; that of Melchisedech is the higher, and embraces the offices of apostle, Seventy, patriarch, high-priest, and elder; the other is that of Aaron, and includes bishop, priest, teacher, and deacon; it can only be held by the lineal descendants of Aaron, who are designated by revelation.

It will be seen how artfully this plan of a church was adapted to the purposes of Smith and Rigdon, supposing them to have been, as we have no doubt they were, arrant and conscious cheats. There was novelty and mystery enough in it to attract the fanatical, and there was not so very much after all to shock their common sense; while 473the doctrine of continuous revelation and the prophetic office left a door wide open for the introduction of other inventions as fast as they were found desirable. We shall see, further on, what monstrous blasphemies and absurdities were in reality adopted as the saints became strong enough to bear them.

Noyes, in his History of American Socialisms, speaks of Western New York as “the volcanic region” of spiritual and intellectual disturbance. Here sprang up Mormonism; here were first heard the ghostly rappers; here raged Millerism and Second-Adventism; here John Collins founded the Skaneateles community on the basis of “no God, no government, no marriage, no money, no meat”; here arose the “inspired” Ebenezer colony, since removed to Iowa; here flourished all manner of Fourierite phalanxes, wild social experiments, and extravagant beliefs; here at the present day are found the Brocton community, with their doctrine of “divine respiration,” and the Perfectionists of Oneida, perhaps the worst of all the professors of free-love. In this region of satanic activity the Mormon preachers made disciples so fast that Smith was soon encouraged to undertake the “gathering of the tribes.” He had visited Sidney Rigdon at Kirtland, Ohio, early in 1831, and had a revelation commanding the saints in New York to follow him. But in June the town of Independence, in Jackson County, Missouri, was revealed as the site of the American Sion, and there some hundreds of the faithful, selling all that they had in the East, assembled and laid the foundation of a temple. With this event begins a phase of Mormonism—the 474political separation of the Latter-Day Saints from the Gentiles—which at once illustrates most forcibly its fanaticism and accounts for its temporal success. Henceforth the leaders had only to give the word of command, and the people went wherever the finger of the prophet pointed, sacrificed their lands and houses, broke off domestic ties, and marched through pain, starvation, and death into the parched wilderness. The settlement at Kirtland, however, was retained; a revelation even commanded the saints to build there a house for Joseph Smith “to live and translate in,” and another great temple for the Lord. This was fortunate, because the Mormons were soon expelled from Independence by a mob; and when Joseph, in obedience to revelation, raised an army of two hundred men, and, with the title of “commander-in-chief of the armies of Israel,” marched twelve hundred miles on foot to reinstate them, his expedition was dispersed by cholera and thunder-storms as soon as it reached the scene of action. The saints were never restored to the homes from which they had been driven out; yet to this day they look for a restoration. They refused all offers to sell their estates; they hold the Missouri title-deeds as the most precious of their inheritances; the city of the Great Salt Lake is only the temporary home of their exile; and Brigham Young, in his will, which was published the other day, after giving instructions for his funeral, says: “But if I should live to get back to the church in Jackson County, Missouri, I wish to be buried there.”

It is not our purpose to follow the persecuted fanatics in all their early migrations. Driven from 475place to place, they came, in 1840, to Hancock County, Illinois, where the owner of a large tract of wild land gave Smith a portion of it, in order to create a market for the rest. The prophet sold it in lots to his followers, at high prices, and there, on the bank of the Mississippi, the Mormons built the city of Nauvoo. It was revealed to them that they should build a goodly and holy “boarding-house,” and give Joseph Smith and his posterity a place in it for ever, and those who had money were commanded by name to put it into the enterprise (“Revelation given to Joseph Smith, Jan. 19, 1841”). They were to build a magnificent temple also; they were to organize a military force, known as the Nauvoo Legion; they were to create, in short, within the limits of Illinois, a theocratic state, with Joseph Smith at its head as mayor, general, prophet, church president, and inspired mouthpiece of the divine will. The city grew as if by magic. The legislature of Illinois granted it a charter of such extraordinary liberality that its officers became practically independent of all other authority. The apostles, sent all over America and England, preached with such zeal that in the course of six years no fewer than fifteen thousand believers were numbered in the Nauvoo community. Arrested several times for treason, for instigating an attempt at murder, and for other crimes, Joseph Smith was released by Mormon courts and set all “Gentile” laws at defiance. He was absolute in everything, organizing the government upon the most despotic principles, yet copying in some things the system and the phraseology of the Hebrew nation. His aides and counsellors received names and titles 476imitated from the Bible. Brigham Young was “the Lion of the Lord,” Parley P. Pratt was “the Archer of Paradise,” Orson Pratt was “the Gauge of Philosophy,” John Taylor was “the Champion of Right,” Lyman Wight was “the Wild Ram of the Mountains.” No one could deal in land or liquor except Joseph Smith. No one could aspire to political office or to church preferment without his permission. No one could travel abroad or remain quiet at home except by his consent. In Kirtland, with the assistance of Rigdon, he had started a bank and flooded the country with notes that were never redeemed. In Nauvoo he amassed what was, for that time and that region, the great fortune of $1,000,000. From the first gathering of the saints into communities he had made it a practice to use them in politics. He had given their votes to one party or another as interest dictated, and in 1844 he went so far as to offer himself for the Presidency of the United States, and sent two or three thousand elders through the States to electioneer for him.

As he grew in pride and prosperity the revelations multiplied, the faith became more and more extravagant, the ceremonies and ordinances of the church more cumbrous and more mystical. Moroni and Raphael, Peter and John, visited and conversed with him. He healed the possessed; he wrestled with the devil. The brethren began to prophesy in the temple; mysterious impulses stirred the congregations; “a mighty rushing wind filled the place”; “many began to speak in tongues; others saw glorious visions, and Joseph beheld that the temple was filled with angels, and told the congregation 477so. The people of the neighborhood, hearing an unusual sound within the temple, and seeing a bright light like a pillar of fire resting upon it, came running together and were astonished at what was transpiring.”^[51] This diabolic manifestation, or alleged manifestation, reminds us of the scenes in the Irvingite congregations in London six years previously, when those brethren likewise prophesied in an unknown language. But the specimens of the Mormon “gift of tongues” which have been preserved for us are not calculated to inspire awe. “Eli, ele, elo, ela—come, coma, como—reli, rele, rela, relo—sela, selo, sele, selum—vavo, vava, vavum—sero, sera, seri, serum”—such was the style of the rhapsodies which inflamed the zeal of the Mormon saints.^[52]

It was discovered that there was no salvation in the next world without Mormon baptism, and, to provide for the generations which preceded Joseph Smith, every saint was told to be immersed vicariously for his dead ancestors. There was incessant dipping and sputtering; the whole church for a season was in a chronic state of cold and dampness; and the recorders worked their hardest, laying up in the temple the lists of the regenerated for the information of the angels. The double hierarchy became so complicated that long study was needed to comprehend it. The church offices were multiplied. The authority of the president and the apostles grew more and more despotic. A travelling showman visited the West with some Egyptian mummies. Joseph Smith bought them, and, finding in the 478wrappings a roll of papyrus, he produced a miraculous translation of the hieroglyphics as the “Book of Abraham.” A fac-simile of the papyrus was taken to Paris in 1855 by M. Rémy and submitted to the Egyptologist Devéria, who found it to consist of a representation of the resurrection of Osiris, together with a funerary manuscript of comparatively recent date.

All who have studied the manufacture of American religions and social philosophies are aware how characteristic of these moral and intellectual rebellions is an attack upon the Christian law of marriage.^[53] The inventions of Joseph Smith soon took the usual course, although it was probably not until near the end of his career that he became bold enough to contemplate the general establishment of polygamy. It appears that as early as 1838 he had a number of “spiritual wives” who cohabited with him, and Mr. Stenhouse asserts that “many women” have boasted to him that they sustained such relations with the prophet. This sort of license, however, was an esoteric doctrine, for the advanced believers only, not for the common people. Indeed, in 1842, although a practical plurality had been for some time enjoined by the illuminated, the doctrine was formally repudiated by a number of elders, apostles, and women, who declared that they knew of no other marriage than that of one wife to one husband. In 1845 an appendix on “Marriage” was added to the book of Doctrine and Covenants, in which occurs 479the following passage: “Inasmuch as this church of Christ has been reproached with the crime of fornication and polygamy, we declare that we believe that one man should have one wife, and one woman but one husband, except in case of death, when either is at liberty to marry again.” Yet it is beyond all question that Joseph long before this had been involved in serious domestic difficulties on account of the jealousy of his true wife, Emma, and he was obliged to resort to “revelation” to pacify her. The “Revelation on Celestial Marriage,” which enjoins a plurality of wives as a service especially acceptable to God, purports to have been given at Nauvoo in 1843. It contains these sentences:

“And let mine handmaid Emma Smith receive all those that have been given unto my servant Joseph, and who are virtuous and pure before me. And I command mine handmaid Emma Smith to abide and cleave unto my servant Joseph and to none else. And again verily I say, let mine handmaid forgive my servant Joseph his trespasses, and then shall she be forgiven her trespasses.”

The revelation, however, was kept secret until long after Joseph’s death. Emma, if not satisfied, was quieted. The spiritual marriages went on, and even the initiated continued to deny them. John Taylor, the present head of the church, held a public discussion of Mormonism in the English colony at Boulogne in 1850, and stoutly denied the doctrine of polygamy, although he had at the time five wives in Utah.

It was polygamy that brought Joseph to his violent end. He had attempted to take the wife of a disciple named Law. The husband rebelled, and with one or two other malcontents established a 480paper called the Nauvoo Expositor, for the purpose of exposing the secret corruptions of the prophet and his chief associates. Only one number was printed. Joseph ordered the press to be destroyed and the type scattered. Law and his party appealed to the authorities of the county for redress. Writs of arrest were issued, and set aside by the Mormon courts. The government called out the militia to enforce the process. An armed conflict appeared inevitable, when the Mormon leaders surrendered, and Joseph Smith, Hyrum Smith, John Taylor, and Willard Richards were lodged in the county jail at Carthage. There, on the 27th of June, 1844, they were attacked by an armed mob. Hyrum was shot down at the first volley and almost instantly expired. Joseph, after defending himself with a revolver, attempted to escape by the window, and was killed by a discharge of musketry from the yard below.

In his lifetime the prophet was often denounced and resisted by his own followers; “revelation” repeatedly put down revolts; apostates in great numbers, including the very founders of the church, were cut off and given over to Satan for questioning the truth of Joseph’s inspired utterances. But his death healed all such quarrels. He became in the eyes of his fanatical followers the first of saints, the most glorious of martyrs. To this day even those who do not believe in Mormonism argue that Joseph must have believed in it, because for its sake he lived a life of persecution and submitted to a cruel death. The narrative which we have briefly sketched is enough to show the fallacy of this reasoning. Mormonism gave Joseph 481Smith wealth, power, flattery, and sensual delights. It found him a miserable, penniless country boy; it made him the ruler of a state, the autocrat of a thriving community, the head of a harem. There never was a time when the choice was offered him between worldly advantage on the one hand and fidelity to his creed on the other. To renounce his pretensions would have been the ruin of his fortunes. Having once entered upon the career of imposture, he had every temptation to persevere to the end. He was mobbed and exiled and imprisoned, not because he believed in the Book of Mormon, but because he warred upon existing social and political institutions; and there was nothing to make his death more sacred than that of any other cheat and libertine who is murdered by masked ruffians in a frontier settlement. After his death the twelve apostles ruled the church, waiting for the will of Heaven to designate by inspiration a new leader.^[54] Sidney Rigdon claimed the prophetic office, but was rejected and driven forth. The prime mover in his excommunication was the senior apostle, to whom the accident of rank gave a practical precedence in all the affairs of the church. He taught the saints to be patient and expectant, to reverence Joseph as their chief for all eternity, to be governed by 482Joseph’s voice, to cease vexing themselves about Joseph’s successor. This was Brigham Young.

At length the time was ripe and the minds of the people were prepared. On the 24th of December, 1847, Brigham ascended the pulpit to preach. The Gentiles assert that he arranged his face and dress, modulated his voice, regulated his gestures, to imitate the departed prophet. The effect was electrical. The people believed that Joseph stood before them. Women screamed and fainted; men wept; cries resounded through the temple. Here was the successor of Joseph at last, and Brigham Young was made president of the church, and recognized as “prophet, seer, and revelator.” He was a man greatly inferior in education to some of the other leaders, and he had done little as yet to justify the preference now shown him. He was a native of Vermont, and one of the early converts. Before joining the church he had been a painter and glazier. In the church he was noted as a stanch, shrewd, hard-working, useful brother, not much troubled with visions or theological theories, rarely caught up by those tempests of spiritual madness which used to sweep through the congregations. He could not have devised the imposture which Joseph and Rigdon created. He could not have built up the elaborate system which they constructed out of Old-World religions and modern politics. He was fierce, and perhaps fanatical, but he had little imagination and little inventiveness. In the case of other early Mormons it was sometimes doubtful whether they were not occasionally deceived by their own impostures, hurried along by a spirit which they had raised and 483knew not how to control; but Brigham offered no cause for such suspicion. He left Mormonism a very different thing from what it was in 1840, yet he added nothing to it. A change had been going on insensibly ever since the saints gathered at Nauvoo; a further change had been begun by the preaching of Orson Pratt; and Joseph Smith had originated two great movements—the introduction of polygamy and the removal into the heart of the wilderness—which Brigham was to bring to their term. He is the developer, therefore, of other men’s ideas.

The notion that the Mormons were a chosen and inspired people, blessed with revelations not given to the rest of the world, and governed by the direct and special commands of Heaven, necessarily implied the establishment of an independent political community, and it was their disloyalty to the state rather than their immoralities which roused against them so often in the early times the anger of mobs and the animosity of the civil authorities. The experiment of creating a state within a state had failed, and Joseph Smith before his death had taken the first steps towards beginning a new settlement in the far West, and removing the whole body of his disciples to some remote and solitary region where neither the United States nor any other government would be likely to interfere with them. It was Brigham’s part to lead this extraordinary exodus. It began more than a year before his formal appointment as head of the church; it was hastened by the fact that warrants had been issued in Illinois for the arrest of a large number of prominent saints on a charge of manufacturing 484counterfeit money, and that, partly on this account, partly by reason of the prevalence of murders, thefts, arsons, and various other outrages in which the Mormons and their opponents were about equally implicated, Nauvoo appeared likely soon to be the theatre of a civil war. An exploring party had been sent to the Pacific coast in 1844. Early in February, 1846, the general migration began. Rarely has the world witnessed such a scene. The great temple at Nauvoo had just been completed with extravagant splendor. The city contained 17,000 inhabitants, and only a small fraction of their valuable property could be disposed of at any price. They abandoned all that they could not carry, sacrificed their lands and houses, collected about twelve hundred wagons, and, under the command of captains of fifties and captains of hundreds, crossed the Mississippi on the ice and moved into the wintry wilderness. We shrink from repeating the narrative of that horrible march. For more than two years they toiled westward, strewing the path with their dead. In winter they camped near Council Bluffs, and thence Brigham and a body of pioneers made their way across the Rocky Mountains. The first detachment reached the Great Salt Lake in July, 1847; the rest followed in the summer of 1848. It was a parched, desolate, rainless valley, but the wanderers hailed it as a haven of rest; they encamped on the bank of a small stream, rested their weary animals, and without loss of an hour began to plough the ground, sow the autumn crops, and build a dam and a system of irrigating canals. They had escaped from the United States, as they 485fondly believed, and were on the soil of Mexico, where they had no doubt they could maintain themselves against the feeble Mexican government. But “manifest destiny” was pursuing them. The boundaries of the United States were soon extended beyond this region by the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo; the discovery of gold in California destroyed the isolation of the new Sion; it was no longer a city hid in the desert, but a resting-place on a great route of travel; and the irrepressible conflict between the federal republic and the absolute theocracy has been steadily growing sharper and sharper ever since. Of the great multitude which set out from Nauvoo barely four thousand ever reached the Great Salt Lake, the rest having deserted or dropped by the way; but thousands of converts soon arrived from England, and in a very short time the community was again strong and prosperous. In 1849, just a year after the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the Mormons formally declared themselves “free and independent,” and decreed the erection of the “State of Deseret,” whose imaginary boundaries enclosed the whole of Nevada and Utah, and large parts of New Mexico, Arizona, California, Oregon, Idaho, Colorado, and Wyoming. To this political fiction they have resolutely adhered; and even while recognizing, as a matter of prudence, the de facto organization of the United States Territory of Utah, they have always maintained the de jure existence of their free and independent state.^[55] Brigham, of course, was chosen governor of Deseret, and he held that title to 486the day of his death, although, with his usual worldly shrewdness, he also accepted from Presidents Fillmore and Pierce the title of governor of Utah.

To understand, however, the opposition which soon developed into such alarming hostility between Deseret and the United States, we must look at the changes which had been taking place in Mormonism itself. Possibly the early disciples of Joseph Smith were in the main ignorant, peaceable, and well-meaning fanatics, but in twenty years their character had undergone a transformation. They first became quarrelsome, then dishonest, next licentious, and afterwards unspeakably cruel and bloodthirsty. Joseph Smith lived long enough to see the beginning even of this last stage of corruption, but it was Brigham Young who brought the budding immoralities into full flower. The “Revelation on Celestial Marriage” was brought forth at a public meeting in Salt Lake City on the 29th of August, 1852, and Brigham Young gave a history and explanation of it. The original manuscript was burned up by Joseph’s real wife, Emma; but Brigham had a copy.

“This revelation,” said he, “has been in my possession many years, and who has known it? None but those who should know it. I keep a patent lock on my desk, and there does not anything leak out that should not.... The principle spoken of by Brother Pratt this morning we believe in. Many others are of the same mind. They are not ignorant of what we are doing in our social capacity. They have cried out, Proclaim it; but it would not do a few years ago; everything must come in its time, as there is a time to all things. I am now ready to proclaim it.”

We do not read that any particular sensation was created by the 487announcement. Indeed, the practice had already become so common that a federal judge, a year before this date, had denounced it in a Mormon assembly, and made a somewhat remarkable appeal to the women to put a stop to the horrible practice:

“The women were excited; the most of them were in tears before he had spoken many minutes. The men were astonished and enraged, and one word of encouragement from their leader would have brought on a collision. Brigham saw this, and was equal to the occasion. When the judge sat down, he rose, and, by one of those strong, nervous appeals for which he is so famous among the brethren, restored the equilibrium of the audience. Those who but a moment before were bathed in tears now responded to his broad sarcasm and keen wit in screams of laughter; and having fully restored the spirits of the audience he turned to the judge and administered the following rebuke: ‘I will kick you,’ he said, ‘or any other Gentile judge from this stand, if you or they again attempt to interfere with the affairs of our Sion.’”^[56]

Judge Brocchus, finding his life in danger, resigned his office and left the Territory. Once avowed, a belief in the doctrine was pronounced essential to salvation, and the practice of it was carried to a depth of bestiality which would horrify a Turk. All degrees of relationship were practically ignored. Incest and vicarious marriage became every-day affairs. The saints were taught that “when our father Adam came into the Garden of Eden he came into it with a celestial body and brought Eve, one of his wives, with him”;^[57] and such blasphemies were coupled with the holiest of all 488names that the Christian shudders to think of them.

The formal adoption of the doctrine of polygamy, no longer as the personal peculiarity of a few leaders, but as the corner-stone of Mormon society, had a result which Brigham doubtless anticipated when he established it. The separation of the saints from the rest of Christendom was made complete and final. Gentile civilization had forced itself upon their mountain retreat, and in the daily contact with Christianity and common sense the Mormon imposture was not likely long to survive. But the institution of plural marriage placed between the Gentile and the Latter-Day Saint a barrier more formidable than snow-crowned sierras and alkali deserts. Social intercourse became impossible between the followers of the two rival systems. Contempt and horror on the one side bred hatred on the other. For the polygamous saint, moreover, judging after the manner of men, there was no repentance. He was tied for ever to the church, an outlaw from all Christendom, liable to a long imprisonment if he re-entered the pale of society, safe even in Utah only so long as he enabled the “Governor of Deseret” to defy the authority of the United States. The polygamist learned to place in the prophet all his hopes for this world and the next, and to accept all his utterances with the docility of a child. So Brigham became not only a more powerful man than Joseph Smith, but beyond doubt the most absolute ruler in the entire world.

It was now that the Mormon theology began to assume its most repulsive shape. Cut off from its early connection with a form of Christianity which, however corrupt, 489contained at least a remnant of the ancient faith, it sank with startling rapidity into the most dismal abysses of polytheism. To the materialistic doctrines which constituted the foundation and chief characteristic of the philosophy of Orson Pratt and other primitive expounders of Mormonism, was added an immense mass of crude and incongruous beliefs, not developed by any process of logic, but simply heaped on by agglomeration. Daily “revelations” brought forth daily inconsistencies and absurdities, under the weight of which the truths once professed by Smith were gradually buried and forgotten. Hence it is impossible to construct for Mormonism anything like a theological system. We can only state the isolated and often contradictory principles which are held by the saints at the present day, premising that although many of them can be traced more or less distinctly in the early literature of the sect, the most shocking of them were little, if at all, known until under Brigham Young the separation of the saints was completed. The most startling of Mormon dogmas, relieved of extraneous complications, is that God is only a good man, and that men advance by evolution until they become gods. There is no Creator, there is no creature, there is no immaterial spirit. What we call God, says one authority, is nothing but the truth abiding in man. What we call God, says Orson Pratt, is “a material intelligent personage, possessing both body and parts,” like an ordinary man. He has legs, which he uses in walking, though he can move up and down in the air without them. He cannot be in more than one place at a time. He dwells in a planet called Kolob. 490He was formed by the union of certain elementary particles of matter, self-moving, intelligent, and existing from all eternity. All matter is eternal. All substances are material. The souls of men were not created; they are from eternity, like God himself. God eats, drinks, loves, hates; his relations with mankind are purely human; he begets existences in the natural way.^[58] Before he became God he was an ordinary man. He differs from other men now only in power. He is not omnipotent; he still increases and may continue to increase infinitely. As God is only an improved man, so man may come by gradual progress to know as much as God. Indeed, there are already innumerable gods. The first verse of Genesis, “In the beginning God created heaven and earth,” ought to read: “The Head God brought forth the gods, with the heavens and the earth.”^[59] Each god rules over a world which he has peopled by generation, and the god of our world is Adam, who is only another form of the archangel Michael; “he is our father and our God, and the only God with whom we have to do.” The Mormons believe in a vague way in the Trinity—nay, in two Trinities, one composed of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; the other, and older, of “Elohim, Jehovah, and Adam.” The Father and Son have bodies of flesh and blood; they occupy space; they require time to move from place to place; but the Holy Spirit (which is the mind of the Father and the Son), 491although his substance is material, has no flesh and blood and permeates everything. After death the souls of the wicked will be imprisoned in the brutes. The saints will inhabit the planets, where they will have houses, farms, gardens, plantations of manna, and plenty of wives, and they will go on marrying and multiplying for all eternity. When this planetary system is filled up, new worlds will be called into existence, and in them the faithful, gradually developing into gods, will revel in the sensual delights of a Moslem paradise.

Surely no such mixture of pantheism, polytheism, and rank atheism was ever devised before; but we have not yet reached the worst. It was in 1852 that Brigham proclaimed the doctrine that Adam is God, and to be honored and revered as such. To this soon followed the announcement that Joseph Smith was God. In a year or two more the doctrine was taught, at first cautiously, but after 1856 publicly and officially, that the only God to whom this generation is amenable is Brigham Young!

The declaration of this appalling impiety was made in the midst of a tempestuous “Reformation” which historians will probably regard as the culminating point of Mormon fanaticism. In the autumn of 1856 one Jedediah Grant, who stood high in the Mormon priesthood, began to preach a revival in which the most remarkable practices were public “accusations of the brethren” and public “confessions of sin.” An uncontrollable madness seized upon the whole community. Preachers and penitents vied with one another in disgusting disclosures. The meetings resounded with wails and curses and slanderous charges. 492Men, women, and children, not satisfied with laying bare their hidden sins, accused themselves of crimes they had never committed, and called upon the church to punish and disgrace them. “Go to President Young,” was the cry of the preachers. “Give up all that you have to President Young—your money, your lands, your wives, your children, your blood.” “Brigham Young,” exclaimed Heber Kimball, “is my God, is your God, is the only God we shall ever see, if we do not obey him. Joseph Smith was our God when he was amongst us; Brigham Young is our God now.” The church authorities fanned the flame of excitement. They sent preachers into every ward and every settlement. Thousands of the saints placed all their property in Brigham’s hands.^[60] Then they became inflamed with persecuting zeal. They sacked the houses of offenders, whipped and mutilated those who spoke evil of the church. From such outrages it was but a step to murder. At Brigham’s instigation the step was taken. In a discourse in the Tabernacle in February, 1857, he laid down a new law of love. We must love our neighbors as ourselves. But if we love ourselves, we must consent to the shedding of our own blood in order to atone for our sins and exalt us among the gods; so also it is true love to shed our neighbor’s blood for his eternal salvation. “I could refer you to a plenty of instances where men have been righteously slain in order to atone for their sins. The wickedness and ignorance of the nations 493forbid this principle being in full force, and the time will come when the law of God will be in full force. This is loving our neighbor as ourselves; if he needs help, help him; if he wants salvation, and it is necessary to spill his blood on the earth in order that he may be saved, spill it!” “There are sins,” said he on another occasion while the “Reformation” was at its height, “that must be atoned for by the blood of the man. That is the reason why men talk to you as they do from this stand; they understand the doctrine and throw out a few words about it. You have been taught that doctrine, but you do not understand it.” Alas! understanding came soon enough. The Springville murders in March, 1857, were followed that summer by the appalling massacre at the Mountain Meadows of one hundred and twenty peaceable emigrants, men, women, and children, on their way to California. The midnight assassin went his rounds. The church executioners were despatched upon their awful missions. Sinners were sent on errands from which they never returned. Apostasy was punished by the knife or the bullet. A Welshman named Morris set up as a rival prophet, and was shot down in cold blood with a number of his deluded followers. Gentiles were put to death for presuming to dispute with Mormons over the title to property. A husband took his wife upon his knee and calmly cut her throat to atone for her sins.

“Men are murdered here,” said a federal judge to the grand jury—“coolly, deliberately, premeditatedly murdered. Their murder is deliberated and determined upon by church-council meetings, and that, too, for no other reason than that they had apostatized from your 494church and were striving to leave the Territory. You are the tools, the dupes, the instruments of a tyrannical church despotism. The heads of your church order and direct you. You are taught to obey their orders and commit these horrid murders. Deprived of your liberty, you have lost your manhood and become the willing instruments of bad men.”

Close upon the reign of terror established by the “Reformation” came the great Mormon rebellion, and the march of an army to Utah to install the territorial officers appointed by President Buchanan. Brigham thundered defiance from the pulpit; but on the approach of the troops he ordered the whole community to leave their homes and once more move out into the wilderness to build a new Sion. It is a wonderful illustration of the fanaticism and abject submission to which he had brought the people that this order was promptly obeyed. Before the “war” was settled by negotiation no fewer than 30,000 poor creatures took flight, and many of them, being utterly destitute, were never able to return. The frenzy of the Reformation era died out; the rebellion was quelled; but the doctrine of blood-atonement has not been abandoned, and to this day the soil of Utah is red with human sacrifices.

With such a savage and brutal paganism as the Mormon religion thus became under Brigham Young’s influence it is impossible that Christian civilization should ever be at peace. The steady resistance which it has offered to the authority of the United States needs no further explanation than we find in 495the constitution of the Mormon Church and the fundamental doctrines of the Mormon creed. There are chapters in the history of the Latter-Day Saints upon which we have not thought it necessary to linger. The organization of the Danites, and the long list of murders and other outrages preceding the open inculcation of human sacrifices, are among the most important of the events which we have thus passed over. They might be considered excrescences which time would perhaps remove. We have confined ourselves to the natural and logical consequences of the preaching of the two prophets; to the circumstances which throw light upon their personal characters; to the facts which may enable people to place a juster valuation than now seems to be current upon the elements which they have introduced into American society and the work which they have accomplished in the Rocky Mountain desert. Accepting even the most extravagant estimates of the material prosperity of the Mormon settlements, we think it must be admitted that their thrift is a curse to the world. And as for Brigham himself, cold, calculating, avaricious, sensual, violent, cruel, rolling in luxury, stretching out his hands on every side to grasp the property of his dupes, and pushing them on from crime to crime, from horror to horror, that he might the better amass money, he will take his place in history not only as a worse man than Joseph Smith, but as one of the most dangerous monsters ever let loose upon the world.

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“The fool hath said in his heart: There is no God.” None but fools attempt to blind themselves to the irrefragable evidence which compels the admission of a Supreme Being; and not even these can entirely succeed in such an endeavor. For it is only in the frowardness of their heart, not in the light of their reason, that they pronounce the blasphemous phrase; their heart, not their intellect, is corrupted; so that, notwithstanding the great number of avowed atheists who at different times have disgraced the human family, one might be justified in saying that a real atheist, a man positively convinced of the non-existence of God, has never existed.

What has led us to begin with this remark is an article in the Popular Science Monthly (July, 1877) entitled “The Accusation of Atheism,” in which the able but unphilosophical editor undertakes to show that although modern “advanced” science may not profess to recognize the God of the Bible, yet we have no right to infer that this “advanced” science is atheistical. The God of the Bible is to be suppressed altogether; but “advanced” scientists, who have already invented so many wonderful things, are confident that they have sufficient ability to invent even a new God. Our good readers may find it a little strange; but we are not trifling. The invention of a new God is just now the great postulatum of the infidel pseudo-philosophers. The less they believe in the living God who made them, the more would they be delighted to worship a mock-god made by themselves, that they might not be accused of belonging to that class 499of fools who have said in their heart: There is no God.

Prof. Youmans starts with the bright idea that if Dr. Draper had entitled his book “a history of the conflict between ecclesiasticism and science” instead of “between religion and science,” he would have disarmed criticism and saved himself from a great deal of philosophical abuse. We cannot see, however, how criticism could have been disarmed by the mere adoption of such a change. The whole of Dr. Draper’s work breathes infidelity; it falsifies the history of Christianity; it denounces religion as the enemy of science; and from the first page to the last it teems with slander and blasphemy; it is, therefore, a real attack upon religion. On the other hand, we must assume that Dr. Draper knew what he was about when he opposed “religion” to science; he said just what he meant; and this is, perhaps, the only merit of his production. If the title of the book were to be altered so as to “disarm criticism,” we would suggest that it should be made to read: A malicious fabrication concerning a fabulous conflict between religion and science.

Then Prof. Youmans proceeds to say that religious people “are alarmed at the advancement of science, and denounce it as subversive of faith.” This is not the case. Religious people are not in the least alarmed at the advancement of science, nor do they feel the least apprehension that science may prove subversive of faith; quite the contrary. They love science, do their best to promote it, accept thankfully its discoveries, and expect that it will contribute to strengthen, not to subvert, the revealed truths which form the object 500of theological faith. We admit, at the same time, that there is a so-called “science” for which we have no sympathy. Such a pretended “science” originated, if we do not mistake, in the Masonic lodges of Germany, whence it gradually spread through England and America by the efforts of the same secret organization. The promoters of this neoteric science boast that their cosmogony, their biology, their sociology, their physiology, etc., are “subversive” of our faith; which would be true enough, if their theories were not at the same time “subversive” of logic and common sense. But when we show that their vaunted theories cannot bear examination, when we point out the manifold absurdities and contradictions they fall into, when we lay open the sophisms by which their objectionable assertions are supported, and challenge them to make a reply, they invariably quail and dare not open their mouths, or, if they venture to speak, they ignore criticism with a convenient unconcern which is the best palliation of their defeat. As an example of this we may remind Prof. Youmans that we ourselves have given a refutation of Prof. Huxley’s lectures on evolution, and that we have yet to see the first attempt at a reply. We have also refuted a defence of Prof. Huxley written by Prof. Youmans himself in answer to Rev. Dr. W. M. Taylor, and we have shown how his own “scientific” reasoning was at fault in every point; but of course his scientific acuteness did not allow him to utter a word of reply. No, we are not afraid of a “science” which can be silenced with so little effort. Were it not that there is a prevailing ignorance so easily imposed upon by the charlatanism of false 501science, there would be no need whatever for denouncing it: it denounces itself sufficiently to a logical mind.

Prof. Youmans pretends that the difficulty of religious people with regard to advanced science is simply that of “narrowness or ignorance inspired by a fanatical earnestness.” We are greatly obliged by the compliment! Prof. Youmans is, indeed, a model of politeness, according to the standard of modern progress; but it did not occur to him that, before speaking of the “narrowness and ignorance” of his critics, he should have endeavored to atone for his own blunders which we pointed out in our number for April. To our mind, a man whose ignorance of logic and of many other things has been demonstrated has no right to talk of the ignorance of religious people. And as to “fanatical earnestness,” we need hardly say that it is in the Popular Science Monthly and in other similar productions of “scientific” unbelievers that we find the best instances of its convulsive exertions. But let us proceed.

“Atheism,” continues the professor, “has now come to be a familiar and stereotyped charge against men of science, both on the part of the pulpit and the religious press. Not that they accuse all scientific men of atheism, but they allege this to be the tendency of scientific thought and the outcome of scientific philosophy. It matters nothing that this imputation is denied; it matters nothing that scientific men claim that their studies lead them to higher and more worthy conceptions of the divine power, manifested through the order of nature, than the conceptions offered by theology. It is enough that they disagree with current notions upon this subject, and any difference of view is here held as atheism. In this, as we have said, the theologians may be honest, but they are narrow and bigoted.”

502Mr. Youmans does not perceive the tendency of “scientific” thought to foster atheism. Not he! Darwin’s theory of development has for its principal object to destroy, if possible, the history of creation and to get rid of the Creator. This Mr. Youmans does not perceive. Tyndall, in his Belfast lecture, professes atheism as the outcome of scientific philosophy, and, though he has offered some explanations to screen himself from the imputation, he stands convicted by his own words. Of this Mr. Youmans takes no notice. Büchner ridicules the idea that there is a God, and teaches that such an idea is obsolete, contrary to modern science, and condemned by philosophy as a manifest impossibility. Mr. Youmans seems to hold that this is not genuine atheism. Huxley, to avoid creation, gives up all investigation of the origin of things as useless and unscientific, and the advanced thinkers in general are everywhere at work propagating the same view in their scientific lectures, books, journals, and magazines. Yet Prof. Youmans wishes the world to believe that the tendency of advanced scientific thought is not towards atheism! Is he blind? The man who writes Nature with a capital letter, who denies creation, who contributes to the best of his power to the diffusion of infidel thought, can hardly be ignorant of the fact that what is now called advanced science is, in the hands of its apostles and leaders, an engine of war against God. But he knows also that to profess atheism is bad policy, for the present at least. Science, as he laments in many of his articles, has not yet advanced enough in the popular mind; people are still “narrow” and “ignorant,” and even “fanatic”—that is, 503their religious feelings and conscientious convictions do not yet permit a direct and outspoken confession of the atheistic tendency of modern “scientific” thought. Hence he is obliged to be cautious and to put on a mask. Such are, and ever have been, the tactics of God’s enemies. Thus Prof. Huxley, in his lectures on evolution, while attacking the Biblical history of creation, pretends that he is only refuting the “Miltonian hypothesis.” The same Prof. Huxley, with Herbert Spencer and many others of less celebrity, endeavors to conceal his atheism, or at any rate to make it appear less repulsive, by the convenient but absurd admission of the Great Unknown or Unknowable, to which surely neither he nor any other scientist will offer adoration, as it would be an utterly superfluous, unscientific, and unphilosophical thing to worship what they cannot know. And Prof. Youmans himself follows the same tactics, as we shall see in the sequel. Hence we do not wonder that he considers Mr. Draper’s words “a conflict between religion and science” as unfortunate, and only calculated to provoke criticism and theological abuse. It would have been so easy and so much better to say “between ecclesiasticism and science.” This would have saved appearances, and might have furnished a plausible ground for repelling the accusation of atheism.

But, says Prof. Youmans, “this imputation is denied.” We answer that the imputation cannot be evaded by any such denial. If there were question of the intimate convictions of private individuals, their denial might have some weight in favor of their secret belief. Men very frequently do 504not see clearly the ultimate consequences of their own principles; and it is for this reason that an atheistic science does not always lead to personal atheism. As there are honest Protestants who believe on authority, though their Protestant principle sacrifices authority to private judgment, so also there are many honest scientists who, notwithstanding their admission of atheistic theories, believe in God. This is mere inconsistency after all; and it can only furnish a ground for judging of the views of individual scientists.

But our question regards the tendency of “advanced scientific thought” irrespective of the inconsistency of sundry individuals. This question is to be solved from the nature of the principles and of the conclusions of “advanced” science; and if such principles and such conclusions are shown to lead logically to atheism, it matters very little indeed that “the imputation is denied.” This the editor of the Popular Science Monthly must admit. Now, that atheism is the logical outcome of “advanced” science may be proved very easily. Dr. Büchner, in his Force and Matter, gives a long scientific argumentation against the existence of God. The science which led him to this profession of atheism is the “advanced” science of which Prof. Youmans speaks. Has any among the advanced scientists protested against Dr. Büchner’s conclusion? Have any of them endeavored to show that this conclusion was not logically deduced from the principles of their pretended science? Some of them may have been pained at the imprudent sincerity of the German doctor; but what he affirms with a coarse impudence they too insinuate every day in a gentler 505tone and in a more guarded phraseology. Their doctrine is that “whereas mankind formerly believed the phenomena of nature to be expressions of the will of a personal God, modern science, by reducing everything to laws, has given a sufficient explanation of these phenomena, and made it quite unnecessary for man to seek any further account of them.” Dr. Carpenter, from whom we have borrowed this statement, adds: “This is precisely Dr. Büchner’s position; and it seems to me a legitimate inference from the very prevalent assumption (which is sanctioned by the language of some of our ablest writers) that the so-called laws of nature ‘govern’ the phenomena of which they are only generalized expressions. I have been protesting against this language for the last quarter of a century.”^[61]

Mr. Youmans himself implicitly admits that “advanced” science has given up the old notion of God; and he only contends that scientists, while disregarding the God of theology, fill up his place with something better. “Scientific men claim that their studies lead them to higher and more worthy conceptions of the divine power manifested through the order of nature than the conceptions offered by theology.” Our readers need hardly be told that this claim on the part of our advanced scientists is preposterous and ridiculous. For if the order of nature could lead to a conception of divine power higher or worthier than the conception offered by theology, it would lead to a conception of divine power greater and higher than omnipotence; for omnipotence is one of the attributes of the God of theology. But 506can we believe that Mr. Youmans entertains the hope of conceiving a power higher than omnipotence? How, then, can he make good his assertion? On the other hand, the God of theology is immense, eternal, and unchangeable, infinitely intelligent, infinitely wise, infinitely good, infinitely perfect, as not only all theologians but also all philosophers unquestionably admit. Must we believe that our scientists will be able to conceive a higher intellect, wisdom, or goodness than infinite intellect, infinite wisdom, or infinite goodness? Will they imagine anything greater than immensity, or than eternity? The editor of the Popular Science Monthly has a very poor opinion indeed of the intellectual power of his habitual readers, if he thinks that they will not detect the absurdity of his claim.

But there is more than this. “Advanced” science has repeatedly confessed its inability to form a conception of God. The ultimate conclusion of “advanced” science is that the contemplation and study of nature afford no indication of what a God may be; so much so that the leaders of this “advanced” science, after suppressing the God of theology, could find nothing to substitute in his place but what they call “the Great Unknown” and “the Great Unknowable.” Now, surely, the unknowable cannot be known. How, then, can these scientists claim that their studies lead them “to higher and more worthy conceptions of the divine power”? Can they conceive that which is unknown and unknowable? Have they any means of ascertaining that a thing unknowable has power, or that its power is divine?

Let them understand that if their 507“Unknowable” is not eternal, it is no God; if it is not omniscient, it is no God; if it is not omnipotent, it is no God. And, in like manner, if it is not self-existent, immutable, immense, infinitely wise, infinitely good, infinitely perfect, it is no God. And, again, if it is not our Creator, our Master, and our Judge, it is no God, and we have no reason for worshipping it, or even for respecting it. How can we know that these and similar attributes can and must be predicated of the Unknowable, since the unknowable is not and cannot be known? If, on the contrary, we know that such a being is omnipotent, omniscient, eternal, immense, and infinitely perfect in all manner of perfections, then it is obvious (even to Prof. Youmans, we assume) that such a being is neither unknown nor unknowable. Thus the unknowable can lay no claim to “divine power” or other divine attributes; and therefore the pretended worshippers of the Unknowable vainly attempt to palliate their atheism by claiming that their studies have led them “to a higher and more worthy conception of the divine power than the conception offered by theology.”

As to Prof. Youmans himself, he tells us that the divine nature is “unspeakable and unthinkable.” This evidently amounts to saying that the divine nature is unknowable, just as Herbert Spencer, Huxley, and others of the same sect have maintained. The professor will not deny, we trust, that what is unthinkable is also unknowable, unless he is ready to show that he knows the square circle. Hence the remarks we have passed on the doctrine of his leaders apply to him as well as to them. It is singular, however, that neither he nor 508any of his sect has thought of examining the question whether the “Unknowable” has any existence at all. For if it has no existence, they must confess that they have not even an unknown God, and therefore are absolute atheists; and if they assume that it has a real existence, they are supremely illogical; for no one has a right to proclaim the existence of a thing unknown and unknowable. The existence of the unknowable cannot be affirmed unless it be known; but it cannot be known unless the unknowable be known; and this implies a manifest contradiction. To affirm existence is to affirm a fact; and Mr. Youmans would certainly be embarrassed to show that science, however “advanced,” can affirm a fact of which it has no knowledge whatever. Hence atheism is the legitimate result of the doctrine which substitutes the “Unknowable” in the place of the God of theology; and “it matters nothing” that this consequence is provisionally denied by Prof. Youmans. Were it not that the horror inspired by the impious pretensions of his fallacious science obliges him to keep within the measures of prudence, it is very likely that Prof. Youmans would not only not deny his “scientific” atheism, but even glory in its open profession. So long as this cannot be safely done he must remain satisfied with writing Nature with a capital N.

From these remarks we can further infer that Mr. Youmans’ complaint about the narrowness and bigotry of theologians is utterly unfounded. There is no narrowness in rejecting foolish conceptions, and no bigotry in maintaining the rights of truth. Theology condemns your doctrines, not because they “disagree with current notions,” but because 509they are manifestly impious and absurd. The views you encourage are atheistical. You admit only the Unknowable; and the Unknowable, as we have just proved, is not God. Hence the theologians are not “narrow” nor “bigoted,” but strictly logical and reasonable, when they condemn your doctrines as atheistical.

And now Prof. Youmans makes the following curious argument:

“It is surprising that they (the theologians) cannot see that in arraigning scientific thinkers for atheism they are simply doing what stupid fanatics the world over are always doing when ideas of the Deity different from their own are maintained. And it is the more surprising that Christian teachers should indulge in this intolerant practice when it is remembered that their own faith was blackened with this opprobrium at its first promulgation.”

Here a long passage is quoted from The Contest of Heathenism with Christianity, by Prof. Zeller, of Berlin, in which we are reminded that the primitive Christians were reproached with atheism because they “did not agree with the prevailing conceptions of the Deity,” and that “Down with the atheists” was the war-cry of the heathen mob against the Christians. This suggests to Mr. Youmans the following remarks:

“It would be well if our theologians would remember these things when tempted to deal out their maledictions upon scientific men as propagators of atheism. For the history of their own faith attests that religious ideas are a growth, and that they pass from lower states to higher unfoldings through processes of inevitable suffering. It was undoubtedly a great step of progress from polytheism to monotheism, ... but this was neither the final step in the advancement of the human mind toward the highest conception of the Deity, nor the last experience of disquiet and grief 510at sundering the ties of old religious associations. But if this be a great normal process in the development of the religious feeling and aspiration of humanity, why should the Christians of to-day adopt the bigoted tactics of heathenism, first applied to themselves, to use against those who would still further ennoble and purify the ideal of the Divinity?”

Thus, according to the professor, as the pagans were wrong and stupid in denouncing the Christians as atheists, so are the Christians both wrong and stupid in denouncing the atheistic tendency of “advanced” science; and the reason alleged is that as the pagans did not recognize the superiority of monotheism to polytheism, so the Christian theologians fail to see the superiority of the “scientific” Unknowable to the God of Christianity. Need we answer this? Why, if anything were wanting to prove that Prof. Youmans is laboring for the cause of atheism, his very manner of arguing may be regarded as a convincing proof of the fact. For, if his reasoning has any meaning, it means that as the Christians rejected the gods of the pagans, so Prof. Youmans rejects the God of the Christians; and this is quite enough to show his atheism, as he neither recognizes our God, nor has he found, nor will he ever find, another God worthy of his recognition; for, surely, the “Unthinkable” of which he speaks is not an object of recognition.

On the other hand, is it true that the history of Christianity “attests that religious ideas are a growth, and that they pass from lower states to higher unfoldings”? Does the history of Christianity attest, for instance, that our conception of God has passed from a lower to a higher state? But, waiving this, it requires great audacity 511to contend that the theory of the “Unknowable” and of the “Unthinkable” is an unfolding of the conception of God. We appeal to Prof. Youmans himself. A theory of natural science which would lay down as the ultimate result of human progress that what we call chemistry, geology, astronomy, mechanics, electricity, optics, magnetism, is something “unknowable” and “unthinkable,” would scarcely be considered by him an “unfolding” of science. For how could he “unfold” his thoughts in the Popular Science Monthly, if the subject of his thought were “unthinkable”? But, then, how can he assume that his theory of the “unthinkable” is an “unfolding” of the conception of God? God cannot be conceived, if he is unthinkable. We conceive God as an eternal, immense, omnipotent, personal Being. These and other attributes of Divinity, as conceived by us, constitute our notion of God; and this notion is as unfolded as is consistent with the limits of the human mind. But to “unfold” the conception of Divinity by suppressing omnipotence, wisdom, eternity, goodness, and all other perfections of the divine nature, so as to leave nothing “thinkable” in it, is not to unfold our conception, but to suppress it altogether.

As to the flippant assertion that the Christian conception of Divinity is not “the final step in the advancement of the human mind toward the highest conception of the Deity,” we might say much. But what is the use of refuting what every Christian child knows to be false? We conceive God as the supreme truth, the supreme good, and the supreme Lord of whatever exists; and he who pretends that there is or can be a “higher conception 512of the Deity” has himself to thank if men call him a fool.

We shall say nothing of “intolerant practices,” “stupid fanaticism,” or “bigoted tactics.” These are mere words. As to “the aspiration of humanity,” it may be noticed that there is a secret society that considers its aspirations as the aspirations of “humanity,” and, when it speaks of “humanity,” it usually means nothing more and nothing better than its “free and accepted” members. This “humanity” has doubtless some curious aspirations; but mankind does not aspire to dethrone God or to pervert the notion of Divinity.

Prof. Youmans accounts for “the aspiration of humanity” in the following manner:

“It cannot be rationally questioned that the world has come to another important stage in this line of its progression. The knowledge of the universe, its action, its harmony, its unity, its boundlessness and grandeur, is comparatively a recent thing; and is it to be for a moment supposed that so vast a revolution as this is to be without effect upon our conception of its divine control?”

This manner of arguing is hardly creditable to a professor of science; for, even admitting for the sake of argument that the knowledge of the universe is comparatively “a recent thing,” it would not follow that such a knowledge must alter the Christian conception of the divine nature. Let the professor make the universe as great, as boundless, and as harmonious as possible; what then? Will such a universe proclaim a new God? By no means. It will still proclaim the same God, though in a louder voice. For the harmony, beauty, and grandeur of the universe reveal to us the infinite greatness, beauty, 513and wisdom of its Creator; and the greater our knowledge of such a universe, the more forcible the demonstration of the infinite perfection of its Creator. Now, this Creator is our old God, the God of the Bible, the God to whom Mr. Youmans owes his existence, and to whom he must one day give an account of how he used or abused his intellectual powers. This is, however, the God whom the professor would fain banish from the universe. Is there anything more unphilosophic or more unscientific?

But the knowledge of the universe, from which we rise to the conception of God, is not “a recent thing.” Infidels are apt to imagine that the world owes to them the knowledge of natural science. We must remind them that science has been built up by men who believed in God. “Advanced” science is of course “a recent thing,” but it does not “constitute an important stage” in the line of real progress; for it consists of nothing but reckless assumptions, deceitful phraseology, and illogical conclusions. Three thousand years ago King David averred that “the heavens show forth the glory of God, and the firmament declareth the work of his hands.” Has advanced science made any recent discovery in the heavens or on earth which gives the lie to this highly philosophical statement? Quite the contrary. It is, therefore, supremely ridiculous to talk of a “vast revolution” whose effect must be “to purify the ideal of Divinity.” This vast revolution is a dream of the professor.

But he says:

“Is it rational to expect that the man of developed intellect whose life is spent in the all-absorbing study of that mighty and ever-expanding system of truth that 514is embodied in the method of Nature will form the same idea of God as the ignorant blockhead who knows and cares nothing for these things, who is incapable of reflection or insight, and who passively accepts the narrow notions upon this subject that other people put into his head? As regards the divine government of the world, two such contrasted minds can hardly have anything in common.”

This is a fair sample of the logical processes of certain thinkers “of developed intellect.” Our professor assumes, first, that Catholic theologians are “ignorant blockheads,” that they “know and care nothing” for natural truths, that they are “incapable of reflection or insight,” and that they “passively accept” what others may put into their heads. Would it not be more reasonable to assume that a “blockhead” is a man who asserts what cannot be proved, as a certain professor is wont to do? And would it be unfair to assume that the man who “knows and cares nothing” for truth is one who beguiles his readers into error, and, when convicted, makes no amends? We would not say that the professor is “incapable of reflection or insight,” for we think that no human being can be so degraded as to deserve this stigma; but we cannot help thinking that Mr. Youmans “passively accepts” many absurd notions, for which he cannot account, except by saying that they “have been put into his head” by such “developed intellects” as Huxley’s, Darwin’s, Spencer’s, and other notorious falsifiers of truth.

Professor Youmans assumes also that our intellects cannot be “developed” enough to form a true conception of God, unless we apply to “the all-absorbing study of the method of Nature,” by which he means the conservation of energy, 515the indestructibility of matter, the evolution of species, and other cognate theories. This assumption has no foundation. To form a true conception of God it suffices to know that the universe is subject to continual changes, and therefore contingent, and consequently created. This leads us directly to the conception of a Creator, or of a First Cause which is self-existent, independent, and eternal. Modern science and “developed intellects” have nothing to say against this. It is therefore a gross absurdity to assume that the study of the method of nature interferes with the old conception of God.

A third assumption of the professor is that our notion of divine nature is “narrow.” It is astonishing that Mr. Youmans could have allowed himself to make so manifestly foolish a statement. Is there anything “narrow” in immensity? in omnipotence? in eternity? in infinite wisdom? or in any other attribute of the true God? And if our notion of God, which involves all such attributes, is still “narrow,” what shall we say of the professor’s notion which involves nothing but the “unthinkable”—that is, nothing at all?

The professor proceeds to say that if a man is ignorant and stupid his contemplation of divine things will reflect his own limitation. This is a great truth; but he should have been loath to proclaim it in a place where we find so many proofs of his own “limitation.” On the other hand, it is not from the ignorant and the stupid that our philosophers and theologians have derived their notion of God; and to confound the latter with the former is, on the part of a “developed intellect,” a miserable show of logic. The ignorant and the stupid, continues 516Mr. Youmans, “will cling to a grovelling anthropomorphism,” and conceive of the Deity “as a man like himself, only greater and more powerful, and as chiefly interested in the things that he is interested in.” To which we answer that the stupid and the ignorant of divine things are those who do not know God, and who maintain against the universal verdict of reason that God is “unknowable.” We defy Mr. Youmans to point out a stupidity and an ignorance of divine things which equals that of him who pretends to think of the “unthinkable.” This is even worse than “to cling to a grovelling anthropomorphism.” Of course our anthropomorphism is a poetic invention of the “developed intellect,” and therefore we may dismiss it without further comment.

“The profound student of science,” he adds, “will rise to a more spiritualized and abstract ideal of the divine nature, or will be so oppressed with a consciousness of the Infinity as to reverently refrain from all attempts to grasp, and formulate, and limit the nature of that which is past finding out, which is unspeakable and unthinkable.”

To understand the real meaning of this sentence we must remember that he who wrote it does not accept the God of theologians. Scientific men, as he has told us, claim that their studies lead them “to higher and more worthy conceptions” of the divine power than the conceptions offered by theology. It is obvious, therefore, that the “spiritualized and abstract ideal of the divine nature” to which the profound student of science is expected to rise is not the ideal recognized by theology. This is very strange; for if theology does not furnish the true ideal of divine nature, much less can such an ideal 517be furnished by the science of matter. Every science is best acquainted with its own specific object; and since God is the object of theology, the ideal of the divine nature is to be found in theology, not in natural science. Hence “the profound student of science” may indeed determine the laws of physical and chemical phenomena, speak of masses and densities, of solids and fluids, and of other experimental subjects without much danger of error, but he has no qualification for inventing a new ideal of divine nature. The ideal of a thing exhibits the essence of the thing; and the study of essences does not belong to the scientist, whose field is confined within the phenomena and their laws. The best scientists confess that they do not even know the essence of matter, though matter is the proper and most familiar object of their study. Yet these are the men who, according to Mr. Youmans, should know best the essence of God.

But we should like further to know how the “profound student” of advanced science will be able to rise to a “spiritualized” ideal of Divinity. The general drift of modern infidel science is towards materialism. It teaches that thought is secreted by the brain as water is by the kidneys, or, at least, that thought consists of molecular movements, and that the admission of a spiritual substance in the organism of man is quite unwarranted. How, then, can a science which rejects spiritual substances lead its “profound student” to a spiritualized ideal of Divinity? It is manifest, we think, that all this talk is mere jugglery, and the professor himself seems to have felt that it was; for he admits that the profound student of science may 518be “so oppressed with a consciousness of the Infinite as to refrain from all attempts to grasp and formulate and limit the nature of what is past finding out.” This last expression shows that Mr. Youmans has no ground for expecting that his profound student will rise to the ideal of the divine nature, as what is “past finding out” will never be found, and is not only “unspeakable,” as he declares, but also “unthinkable.” The profound student of science is therefore doomed, so far as Mr. Youmans may be relied on, to remain without any ideal of God. What is this but genuine atheism?

Mr. Youmans will reply that his profound student will not be an atheist, because he will feel “so oppressed with the consciousness of the Infinite.” But we should like to know how the profound student can have consciousness of what he cannot think of. And, in like manner, if the Infinite is unthinkable, how can the profound student know that it is infinite? These contradictions go far to prove that “ignorance” and “stupidity,” far from being the characteristics of Christianity, find a more congenial abode in the “developed intellects of the profound students of advanced science.”

As all errors are misrepresentations of truth, we cannot dismiss this point without saying a word about the truth here misrepresented. God is incomprehensible; such is the truth. God is unthinkable; this is the error. To argue that what is incomprehensible is also unthinkable, is a manifest fallacy. There are a very great number even of finite things which we know but cannot comprehend. For instance, we know gravitation, electricity, and magnetism, but our 519knowledge of them is quite inadequate. We know ancient history, though numberless facts have remained inaccessible to our research. We know the operations of our own faculties, but we are far from comprehending them. Comprehension is the perfect and adequate knowledge of the object comprehended. If the cognoscibility of the object is not exhausted, there is knowledge, but not comprehension; and as our finite intellect has no power of exhausting the cognoscibility of things, human knowledge is not comprehension, though no one will deny that it is true and real knowledge. In like manner, though we do not comprehend the infinite, yet we conceive it, and we know how to distinguish it from the finite. We know what we say when we affirm that the branches of the hyperbola extend to infinity, that the decimal division of ten by three leads to an infinite series of figures, that every line is infinitely divisible, that every genus extends infinitely more than any of its subordinate species, and the species infinitely more than the individual, etc. Thus the notion of the infinite is a familiar one among men; and when Mr. Youmans contends that the infinite is unthinkable, he commits a blunder, and every one of his readers has the right to tell him that such a blunder in inductive science is inexcusable.

Perhaps it may not be superfluous to point out, before we conclude, another fallacy of the “developed intellect” of the professor. He assumes that to form a conception of God is to limit the divine nature; for he declares that the profound student of science oppressed with the consciousness of Infinity ought reverently to refrain “from all attempts to grasp, and 520formulate, and limit the nature of that which is past finding out.” We would inform Mr. Youmans that the notion of a thing does not limit the thing, but simply expresses that the thing is what it is, whether it be limited or unlimited. In all essential definitions some notion is included, which expresses either perfection or imperfection. When we say that a being is irrational, we point out an imperfection, or a defect of further perfection; whereas when we say that a being is rational, we express a perfection of the being. Now, since all imperfection is a real limit, it follows that all denial of imperfection is a denial of some limit, and therefore the affirmation of every possible perfection is a total exclusion of limit. Thus omnipotence excludes all limit of power, eternity all limit of duration, omniscience all limit of knowledge, immensity all limit of space. We need not add that all the other attributes of God exclude limitation, as they are all infinite. It is evident, therefore, that we can “formulate” our notion of God without “limiting” the divine nature; and that those “profound students” of nature whose “developed intellect” is “oppressed with the consciousness of Infinity” strive in vain to palliate their atheism by “reverently (?) refraining from all attempts to grasp and formulate” the nature of the Supreme Cause.

We may be told that Prof. Youmans, though he rejects the “God of theology,” admits something equivalent—viz., Infinity, the consciousness of which he feels so oppressive. He also admits that “religious feelings may be awakened” in a mind so oppressed by the thought of Infinity, and insists that “religious teachers ought in these 521days to have liberality enough to recognize this serious fact, remembering that human nature is religiously progressive as well as progressive in its other capacities.” Would not this show that we cannot without injustice hold him up as a professor of atheism? We reply that the accusation of atheism preferred against the tendency of advanced science has been met by the professor in such a manner as to give it only more weight, according to the old proverb which says that

He does not believe in the God of theology. In what does he believe? In the “unthinkable”! This is sheer mockery. But the unthinkable is said to be infinite. This is sheer nonsense, as we have shown. Again, the unthinkable is said to awaken religious feelings. This is written for unthinkable persons. The professor, as we have already noticed, admires the grandeur of nature, and holds it to be “boundless,” and therefore infinite. This may lead one to suspect that the material universe—the sun, the planets, the stars, heat, light, electricity, gravity, and their laws—constitute the “Infinity” with the consciousness of which the professor is oppressed. If this could be surmised, we might regard him as a pantheist. This, of course, would not better his position, as pantheism 522is, after all, only another form of atheism. But if nature (or rather Nature, as he writes it) is his Deity, how can he affirm that such a nature is “unspeakable” and “unthinkable”? If nature is “unthinkable,” the science of nature is a dream; and if it is “unspeakable,” all the talk of the Popular Science Monthly is a fraud.

If Prof. Youmans wishes us to believe that “advanced” science does not tend to foster atheism, and that its foremost champions are not atheists, let him come forward like a man, and show that, after rejecting the God of theology and of philosophy, another God has been found, to whom “developed intellects” offer religious worship, and in whom their religious feelings are rationally satisfied. Let him give us, above all, his “scientific” reasons for abandoning the God of the Bible, in whom we “ignorant blockheads” have not ceased to believe; and let him state his “philosophic” reasons also, if he has any, that we may judge of the case according to its full merit. We need not be instructed about the “religious progressiveness” of mankind, or any other convenient invention of unbelievers; we want only to know the new God of “advanced” science, his nature and his claims. When Prof. Youmans shall have honestly complied with this suggestion, we shall see what answer can best meet his appeal to the “liberality” of religious teachers.

A gloomy three days’ storm has prevailed all along the French coast. Dull gray clouds hide the blue vault of heaven and frown upon the tossing waters beneath. The fresh, invigorating air, remembered with delight by all who have ever been in Normandy, has given place to a damp, chilly heaviness, broken occasionally by fierce gusts of wind and rain. The fisher-boats are all in port, the small ones drawn up high on the beach, the larger securely anchored. But this is not due only to the storm. Even if it were the fairest of weather, no Dieppe fisherman would set sail to-day. It is All-Souls’ day—the feast of the dead, the commemoration of the loved and lost; and who is there that has not loved and lost? But among these simple Catholic souls one feels that the loved are never lost. The dead live still in the tender remembrance of those left behind. Tears shed in prayer for the departed have no bitterness.

But the heartless and ungrateful man who fishes to-day will be everywhere followed by his double—a phantom fisher in a phantom boat. All signs fail him, all fish escape his net. Again and again he draws it in empty. If he persist, at length he thinks himself rewarded. His net is so heavy he nearly swamps his boat in the endeavor to draw it in; and horrible to say, his catch is only grinning skulls and disjointed human bones.

At night, tossing on his sleepless pillow, he hears the ghostly “white car” rolling through the silent street. He hears his name called in the voice of the latest dead of his acquaintance, and dies himself before the next All-Souls’ day.

524Spite of the bleak and rainy weather, all the good people of Dieppe, or rather of its fisher suburb, Le Pollet, are gathered together in church. Rude as it is, weather-beaten, discolored, gray-green, like the unquiet ocean it overlooks, Notre Dame du Pollet is still grand and picturesque. It has suffered both from time and desecration, as is seen by its broken carvings, empty niches, and ruined tombs. The altars are plain, the ornaments few and simple. On the wall of the Lady chapel hang two rusty chains—the votive offering, it is said, of a sailor of Le Pollet, once a slave to pirates. Miraculously rescued by Our Lady, he returned to his native place only to sing a Te Deum in her chapel and hang up his broken fetters therein; then, retiring to a neighboring monastery, he took upon himself a voluntary bondage which love made sweet and light.

It is the solemn Mass of requiem, and almost noon, though the sombre day, subdued yet more by stained-glass windows, seems like a winter twilight. The church is all in deep shadow, except the sanctuary with its softly-burning lamp, and its altar decked with starry wax-lights. Black draperies hang about the altar, black robes are upon the officiating priests. The slow, mournful chant of the Dies Iræ, sung by a choir invisible in the darkness, resounds through the dim, lofty aisles.

Motionless upon the uneven stone pavement kneel the people, a dark and silent mass, only relieved here and there by the gleam of a snowy cap or bright-colored kerchief; for the fisher-folk, and, indeed, all the peasantry of thrifty 525Normandy, dress in serviceable garb, of sober colors. There is one little group apart from the rest of the congregation; not all one family, for they are too unlike. They seem to be drawn together by some common calamity or dread. First is an old woman perhaps seventy years of age, and looking, as these Norman peasants usually do, even older than her years. The full glow of light from the altar falls upon her white cap, with the bright blue kerchief tied over it. A string of large beads hangs from her bony fingers. Her eyes, singularly bright for one so aged, are raised to the black-veiled crucifix, and tears glisten upon her brown and withered cheeks. Her arm is drawn through that of a slender young woman, and near them is a little girl, round and rosy. All three are dressed nearly alike, and all say their beads, though not with the same tearful devotion. Anxiety and weariness are in the young girl’s pale but pretty face; and the child looks subdued, almost frightened, by the gloom around her.

Behind them kneels a comely matron, a little child clinging to her gown; near her two fishermen, one old and gray-haired. The other, who is young, has an arm in a sling; he kneels upon one knee, his elbow on the other, and his face hidden in his hand.

They are two households over whom hangs the shadow of a calamity, perhaps all the greater because of its uncertainty. Two months ago Jacques Payen and his son sailed for the fishery. Jacques Suchet and his cousin, Charles Rivaud, completed the crew; for Jean Suchet, disabled by a broken arm, remained at home with his grandmother and sister. The season proved unusually stormy. 526Two fishing-boats of Le Pollet narrowly escaped the terrible rocks of the Norman coast; and one of these reported seeing a vessel, resembling that of the Payens, drifting past them in a fog, with broken mast and cordage dragging over the side. They hailed the wreck, but heard no reply, and concluded that the crew had been swept overboard, or possibly had escaped in their boat.

Weeks had passed since this vague but terrible intelligence had reached the stricken families. Old Mère Suchet had at once received it as conclusive. She wept and prayed for the bold young fishers, the hope and comfort of her old age. Not so Manon Payen. No one dared condole with her, not even her old father, Toutain. Life hitherto had gone so well with her! Her husband loved her; her son was her pride and delight; her rosy Marie and little toddling Pierre filled her cottage with laughter and sunshine. Grief was so new and strange and frightful. What! her husband and son taken from her at one blow? No, it could not be! It was too dreadful! God could not be so cruel! Besides, there were no better sailors than the Payens, father and son; none who knew the coast so well, with all its perils, its hidden rocks, and dangerous currents. Their vessel was new and strong; why should they be lost; they alone? Jean Pinsard was not positive it was their vessel he had seen; how could he tell in a fog? No; she was sure they were safe. They had put in to one of the islands. They would not risk a dangerous journey in stormy weather just to tell her, what she knew already, that they were safe.

To Mère Suchet’s Mathilde, the betrothed of Jacques Payen, how 527much better and clearer was this reasoning than the submissive grief of her pious old grandmother! Young people cannot easily believe the worst when it concerns themselves. Mathilde could not pray for the repose of the souls of lover, brother, and cousin. With the passionate, impatient yearning of a heart new to affliction, she besought the Blessed Mother for their safe return. Her brother Jean did not try to destroy her hopes, though he would not say he shared them.

As time passed on and brought no news of the absent, the hearts of these two poor women grew faint and sore; but they refused to acknowledge it to one another, or even to themselves. Their days passed in feverish, and often vain, endeavors to be cheerful and busy; their nights in anguish all the more bitter because silent and unconfessed. On All-Souls’ day old Toutain and Mère Suchet had wished to have a Requiem Mass offered for the lost sailors, but Mathilde wept aloud at the suggestion, and Manon forbade it instantly, positively, almost angrily.

Manon had borne up well through the sad funereal services of the church. She smiled upon her little ones, and returned a serene and cheerful greeting to the curious or pitying friends who accosted her. All day she had carried the burden of domestic cares and duties, while her heart ached within her bosom and cried out for solitude. Now, at night, alone with her sleeping babes, the agony of fear and pain, so long repressed, takes full possession of her sinking heart. Mingled with the roar of the treacherous sea she hears the voices of husband and son, now calling loudly for help, now borne away on the fitful wind. She sees their pale faces, with unclosed eyes, floating below the cruel 528green water, their strong limbs entangled in the twisted cordage. Now great, gleaming fish swim around them. Oh! it is too fearful. From her knees she falls forward upon her face and groans aloud. But on a sudden she hears a stir without—a sound of repressed voices and many hurrying feet. Hope is not dead within her yet; for she springs to the window with the wild thought that it is her absent returned. No, ’tis but a group of fishermen on their way to the pier; but Pinsard stops to tell her, with a strange thrill in his rough voice, that there is a fishing-boat coming into port!

Manon screams to her father to watch the little ones—she must go to the pier—then flies out into the night. It is not raining, and she returns to snatch her wakened and sobbing babe, and wrap him in his father’s woollen blouse. She does not know when Mathilde joins her; she is scarcely conscious of the warm, exultant clasp of her hand. Jean is there, too, agitated but grave.

As they turn the angle of the village street, before them lies the open bay. It is past midnight, but the pier is crowded. There, truly, coming on with outspread canvas, white in the struggling rays of a watery moon, is the missing ship! They know it well. Upon the broken, pebbly shore the two women kneel to thank God; but they can only lift up their voices and weep.

“They are not safe yet,” says Jean shortly. “The wind takes them straight upon the pier. They will need all our help.”

The crowd make way instantly for the breathless women. The light-house keeper stands ready with a coil of rope. The fishermen range themselves in line, tighten their belts, and wait to draw the 529friendly hawser. Great waves thunder against the long pier, sending showers of spray high above the pale crucifix at the end against which the women lean. Now the moon, emerging from a light cloud, sends a flood of pale radiance upon the vessel’s deck. It is they! Jacques Payen is at the helm; young Jacques stands upon the gunwale.

The light-house keeper throws his rope; the fishermen raise their musical, long-drawn cry. Jacques catches the rope, but in silence; and silently the crew make fast.

“It is their vow!” cries Manon, darting forward among the wondering men. “They will not speak until they sing Te Deum at Notre Dame for their safe return.”

Reassured, the men pull in vigorously, but to no effect. Again, and yet again, but the ship does not move. A moment since it came on swift as the wind; now it seems anchored for ever not fifty yards away. They can see plainly every object upon the deck, where the silent crew stand gazing towards the pier. Even Manon and Mathilde have seized the rope, and draw with the strength of terror. Breathless, unsteady, large drops of sweat standing upon their faces, they pause irresolute. Stretching her arms towards her husband, Manon holds out her babe.

A white mist rises out of the sea and hangs like a veil between them. Sad, reproachful voices rise out of the waves, some near at hand, others far out. An icy wind lifts the mist and carries it slowly away, clinging for a moment like a shroud around the crucifix. The cable falls slack in the strong hands that grasp it. The ship is gone—vanished without a sound; but far away echoes a solemn chorus, “Have pity on me, have pity on me, at least you, my friends, for the hand of the Lord hath touched me.”

The bold and energetic exploration by the Canadian Louis Jolliet and the French Jesuit James Marquette, in which, embarking in a frail canoe, they penetrated to the Mississippi by the Wisconsin, and followed the course of the great river to the Arkansas, gives them and their important achievement a place in American history. It was an expedition carried out by two skilled hydrographers familiar with the extent and limit of American exploration, trained by education and long observation to map and describe the countries through which they passed. Their great object was to determine the extent of the river, its chief affluents, and the nature of the tribes upon it, as well as to decide whether it emptied into the Gulf of Mexico or the Pacific.

In New Mexico, the advanced outpost of the Spanish colonies, some definite knowledge of the interior structure of the continent prevailed; but to the rest of the world the great watershed of the Rocky Mountains, with the valley of the Mississippi and Missouri to the east and a series of rivers on 531the west, was utterly unknown. Marquette and Jolliet lifted the veil and gave the civilized world clear and definite ideas. The two learned explorers floated alone down the mighty river, whose path had not been traced for any distance since the shattered remnant of De Soto’s army stole down its lower valley to the gulf.

Father Marquette was not a mere scholar or man of science. If he sought new avenues for civilized man to thread the very heart of the continent, it was with him a work of Christian love. It was to open the way for the Gospel, that the cross might enlighten new and remote nations.

No missionary of that glorious band of Jesuits who in the seventeenth century announced the faith from the Hudson Bay to the Lower Mississippi, who hallowed by their labors and life-blood so many a wild spot now occupied by the busy hives of men—none of them impresses us more, in his whole life and career, with his piety, sanctity, and absolute devotion to God, than Father Marquette. In life he seems to have been looked up to with reverence by the wildest savage, by the rude frontiersman, and by the polished officers of government. When he had passed away his name and his fame remained in the great West, treasured above that of his fellow-laborers, Ménard, Allouez, Nouvel, or Druillettes. The tradition of his life and labors in a few generations, while it lost none of its respect for his memory, gathered the moss of incorrectness.

Father Charlevoix, travelling through the West in 1721, stopped on Lake Michigan at the mouth of a stream which already bore the name of “River of Father Marquette.” 532From Canadian voyagers and some missionary in the West he learned the tradition which he thus embodies in his journal:

“Two years after the discovery (of the Mississippi), as he was going from Chicagou, which is at the extremity of Lake Michigan, to Michilimackinac, he entered the river in question on the 18th of May, 1675, its mouth being then at the extremity of the lowlands, which I have noticed it leaves to the right as you enter. There he erected his altar and said Mass. Then he withdrew a little distance to offer his thanksgiving, and asked the two men who paddled his canoe to leave him alone for half an hour. At the expiration of that time they returned for him, and were greatly surprised to find him dead. They remembered, nevertheless, that on entering the river he had inadvertently remarked that he would end his journey there.

“As it was too far from the spot to Michilimackinac to convey his body to that place, they buried him near the bank of the river, which since that time has gradually withdrawn, as if through respect, to the bluff, whose foot it now washes and where it has opened a new passage. The next year one of the two men who had rendered the last tribute to the servant of God returned to the spot where they had buried him, took up his remains, and conveyed them to Michilimackinac. I could not learn, or have forgotten, the name this river bore previously, but the Indians now give it no name but ‘River of the Black-gown’; the French call it by the name of Father Marquette, and never fail to invoke him when they are in any peril on Lake Michigan. Many have declared that they believed themselves indebted to his 533intercession for having escaped very great dangers.”

Father Charlevoix’s fame as a historian gave this account the stamp of authority and it was generally adopted. Bancroft drew from it the poetical and touching account which he introduced into the first editions of his History of the United States.

Yet this was but romance. The real, detailed account of the missionary’s labors, the details which let us enter the sanctuary of his pious heart, were all the time lying unused in Canada. They were in the college of Quebec when Charlevoix was teaching in that institution as a young scholastic; but if he then already projected his history of the colony, no one of the old fathers seems to have opened to him the writings of the early founders of the mission. It was the same when he returned to make the tour through the country under the auspices of the government and with a view to its development.

The papers lay unnoticed, and when Louis XV.’s neglect of his American empire neutralized all the genius of Montcalm and the gallantry of his French and Canadian soldiery, the mission of the Jesuit Fathers was broken up. The precious archives were plundered; but some documents reached pious hands, who laid them up with their own convent archives, till the Society of Jesus returned to the land where it could boast of so glorious a career.

Among these papers were accounts of the last labors and death of Father Marquette and of the removal of his remains, prepared for publication by Father Dablon; Marquette’s journal of his great expedition; the very map he drew; and a letter left unfinished when the 534angel of death sheathed his sword by the banks of the Michigan River.

Father Felix Martin, one of the earliest to revive the old Canadian mission, received these treasures with joy, and has since gleaned far and wide to add to our material for the wonderful mission labors of the Jesuit pioneers. He has published many works, and aided in far more. With a kindness not easy to repay he permitted the writer to use the documents relating to Marquette in preparing a work on “The Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley.”

From these authentic contemporary documents we learn the real story of Father Marquette’s last labors. As he was returning from his voyage down the Mississippi, he promised the Kaskaskia Indians, who then occupied towns in the upper valley of the Illinois, that he would return to teach them the faith which he announced. His health, broken by exposure and mission labor on the St. Lawrence and the Upper Lakes, was very frail, but he had no idea of rest. Devoted in an especial manner to the great privilege of Mary—her Immaculate Conception—he named the great artery of our continent The River of the Immaculate Conception, and in his heart bestowed the same name on the mission which he hoped to found among the Kaskaskias.

To enter upon that work, so dear to his piety, he needed permission from his distant superior. When the permission came he took leave of the Mackinac mission which he had founded, and pushed off his bark canoe into Lake Michigan. The autumn was well advanced—for it was the 25th of October, 1674—and the reddening forests swayed in the chill lake winds as 535he glided along the western shore. Before he reached the southern extremity winter was upon him with its cold and snows, and the disease which had been checked, but not conquered, again claimed the frail frame. It could not quench his courage, for he kept on in his open canoe on the wintry lake till the 4th of December, when he reached Chicago. There he had hoped to ascend the river and by a portage reach the Illinois. It was too late. The ice had closed the stream, and a winter march was beyond his strength. His two men, simple, faithful companions, erected a log hut, home and chapel, the first dwelling and first church of Chicago. Praying to Our Lady to enable him to reach his destination, offering the Holy Sacrifice whenever his illness permitted, receiving delegations from his flock, the Kaskaskias, the winter waned away in the pious foundation of the white settlement at Chicago.

With the opening of spring Marquette set out, and his last letter notes his progress till the 6th of April, 1675. Two days after he was among the Kaskaskias, and, rearing his altar on the prairie which lies between the present town of Utica and the Illinois river, he offered up the Mass on Maundy Thursday, and began the instruction of the willing Indians who gathered around him. A few days only were allotted to him, when, after Easter, he was again stricken down. If he would die in the arms of his brethren at Mackinac, he saw that he must depart at once; for he felt that the days of his sojourning were rapidly closing. Escorted by the Kaskaskias, who were deeply impressed by the zeal that could so battle with death, the missionary reached Lake Michigan, on the eastern side. 536Although that shore was as yet unknown, his faithful men launched his canoe. “His strength, however, failed so much,” says Father Dablon, whose words we shall now quote, “that his men despaired of being able to convey him alive to their journey’s end; for, in fact, he became so weak and so exhausted that he could no longer help himself, nor even stir, and had to be handled and carried like a child. He nevertheless maintained in this state an admirable resignation, joy, and gentleness, consoling his beloved companions, and encouraging them to suffer courageously all the hardships of this voyage, assuring them that our Lord would not forsake them when he was gone. It was during this navigation that he began to prepare more particularly for death, passing his time in colloquies with our Lord, with his holy Mother, with his angel guardian, or with all heaven. He was often heard pronouncing these words: ‘I believe that my Redeemer liveth,’ or ‘Mary, Mother of grace, Mother of God, remember me.’ Besides a spiritual reading made for him every day, he toward the close asked them to read him his meditation on the preparation for death, which he carried about him; he recited his breviary every day; and although he was so low that both sight and strength had greatly failed, he did not omit it till the last day of his life, when his companions excited his scruples. A week before his death he had the precaution to bless some holy-water to serve him during the rest of his illness, in his agony, and at his burial, and he instructed his companions how to use it.

“On the eve of his death, which was a Friday, he told them, all radiant with joy, that it would take 537place on the morrow. During the whole day he conversed with them about the manner of his burial, the way in which he should be laid out, the place to be selected for his interment; how they should arrange his hands, feet, and face, and how they should raise a cross over his grave. He even went so far as to enjoin them, only three hours before he expired, to take his chapel-bell, as soon as he was dead, and ring it while they carried him to the grave. Of all this he spoke so calmly and collectedly that you would have thought he spoke of the death and burial of another, and not of his own.

“Thus did he speak to them as he sailed along the lake, till, perceiving the mouth of a river, with an eminence on the bank which he thought suited for his burial, he told them that it was the place of his last repose. They wished, however, to pass on, as the weather permitted it and the day was not far advanced; but God raised a contrary wind, which obliged them to return and enter the river which the father had designated.

“They then carried him ashore, kindled a little fire, and raised a wretched bark cabin for his use, laying him in it with as little discomfort as they could; but they were so depressed by sadness that, as they afterwards said, they did not know what they were doing.

“The father being thus stretched on the shore like St. Francis Xavier, as he had always so ardently desired, and left alone amid those forests—for his companions were engaged in unloading—he had leisure to repeat all the acts in which he had employed himself during the preceding days.

“When his dear companions afterwards came up, all dejected, 538he consoled them, and gave them hopes that God would take care of them after his death in those new and unknown countries; he gave them his last instructions, thanked them for all the charity they had shown him during the voyage, begged their pardon for the trouble he had given them, directed them also to ask pardon in his name of all our fathers and brothers in the Ottawa country, and then disposed them to receive the sacrament of penance, which he administered to them for the last time. He also gave them a paper on which he had written all his faults since his last confession, to be given to his superior, to oblige him to pray to God more earnestly for him. In fine, he promised not to forget them in heaven, and as he was very kind-hearted, and knew them to be worn out with the toil of the preceding days, he bade them go and take a little rest, assuring them that his hour was not yet so near, but that he would wake them when it was time—as, in fact, he did two or three hours after, calling them when about to enter into his agony.

“When they came near he embraced them again for the last time, while they melted in tears at his feet. He then asked for the holy water and his reliquary, and, taking off his crucifix, which he always wore hanging from his neck, he placed it in the hands of one of his companions, asking him to hold it constantly opposite him, raised before his eyes. Feeling that he had but a little while to live, he made a last effort, clasped his hands, and, with his eyes fixed sweetly on his crucifix, he pronounced aloud his profession of faith, and thanked the divine Majesty for the immense favor he bestowed upon him in allowing him to die in the Society of Jesus, to 539die in it as a missionary of Jesus Christ, and above all to die in it, as he had always asked, in a wretched cabin, amid the forests, destitute of all human aid.

“On this he became silent, conversing inwardly with God; yet from time to time words escaped him: ‘Sistinuit anima mea in verbo ejus,’ or ‘Mater Dei, memento mei,’ which were the last words he uttered before entering into his agony, which was very calm and gentle.

“He had prayed his companions to remind him, when they saw him about to expire, to pronounce frequently the names of Jesus and Mary, if he did not do so himself; they did not neglect this; and when they thought him about to pass away one cried aloud, ‘Jesus! Mary!’ which he several times repeated distinctly, and then, as if at those sacred names something had appeared to him, he suddenly raised his eyes above his crucifix, fixing them apparently upon some object, which he seemed to regard with pleasure; and thus, with a countenance all radiant with smiles, he expired without a struggle, and so gently that it might be called a quiet sleep.

“His two poor companions, after shedding many tears over his body, and having laid it out as he had directed, carried it devoutly to the grave, ringing the bell according to his injunction, and raised a large cross near it to serve as a mark for all who passed....

“God did not permit so precious a deposit to remain unhonored and forgotten amid the forests. The Indians, called Kiskakons, who have for nearly ten years publicly professed Christianity, in which they were first instructed by Father Marquette when stationed at La Pointe du St. Esprit, at the extremity of 540Lake Superior, were hunting last winter not far from Lake Illinois (Michigan), and, as they were returning early in the spring, they resolved to pass by the tomb of their good father, whom they tenderly loved; and God even gave them the thought of taking his bones and conveying them to our church at the mission of St. Ignatius, at Missilimakinac, where they reside.

“They accordingly repaired to the spot and deliberated together, resolving to act with their father as they usually do with those whom they respect. They accordingly opened the grave, unrolled the body, and, though the flesh and intestines were all dried up, they found it entire, without the skin being in any way injured. This did not prevent their dissecting it according to custom. They washed the bones and dried them in the sun; then, putting them neatly in a box of birch bark, they set out to bear them to our house of St. Ignatius.

“The convoy consisted of nearly thirty canoes in excellent order, including even a good number of Iroquois, who had joined our Algonquins to honor the ceremony. As they approached our house, Father Nouvel, who is superior, went to meet them with Father Pierson, accompanied by all the French and Indians of the place, and, having caused the convoy to stop, he made the ordinary interrogations to verify the fact that the body which they bore was really Father Marquette’s. Then, before they landed, he intoned the De Profundis in sight of the thirty canoes still on the water, and of all the people on the shore. After this the body was carried to the church, observing all that the ritual prescribes for such ceremonies. 541It remained exposed under his catafalque all that day, which was Whitsun Monday, the 8th of June; and the next day, when all the funeral honors had been paid it, it was deposited in a little vault in the middle of the church, where he reposes as the Guardian-Angel of our Ottawa missions. The Indians often come to pray on his tomb.”

We are not writing his life, and will not enter upon the supernatural favors ascribed to his intercession by French and Indians. His grave was revered as a holy spot, and many a pilgrimage was made to it to invoke his intercession.

The remains of the pious missionary lay in the chapel undoubtedly as long as it subsisted. This, however, was not for many years. A new French post was begun at Detroit in 1701 by La Motte Cadillac. The Hurons and Ottawas at Michilimackinac immediately emigrated and planted new villages near the rising town. Michilimackinac became deserted, except by scattered bands of Indians or white bush-lopers, as savage as the red men among whom they lived. The missionaries were in constant peril and unable to produce any fruit. They could not follow their old flocks to Detroit, as the commandant was strongly opposed to them and had a Recollect father as chaplain of the post. There was no alternative except to abandon Michilimackinac. The missionaries, not wishing the church to be profaned or become a resort of the lawless, set fire to their house and chapel in 1706 and returned to Quebec. The mission ground became once more a wilderness.

In this disheartening departure what became of the remains of Father Marquette? If the missionaries 542bore them to Quebec as a precious deposit, some entry of their reinterment would appear on the Canadian registers, which are extremely full and well preserved. Father Nouvel and Father Pierson, who received and interred them at the mission, were both dead, and their successors might not recall the facts. The silence as to any removal, in Charlevoix and other writers, leads us to believe that the bones remained interred beneath the ruined church. Charlevoix, who notes, as we have seen, their removal to Mackinac, and is correct on this point, was at Quebec College in 1706 when the missionaries came down, and could scarcely have forgotten the ceremony of reinterring the remains of Father Marquette, had it taken place at Quebec.

Taking this as a fact, that the bones of the venerable missionary, buried in their bark box, were left there, the next question is: Where did the church stand?

A doubt at once arises. Three spots have borne the name of Michilimackinac: the island in the strait, Point St. Ignace on the shore to the north, and the extremity of the peninsula at the south. The Jesuit Relations as printed at the time, and those which remained in manuscript till they were printed in our time, Marquette’s journal and letter, do not speak in such positive terms that we can decide whether it was on the island or the northern shore. Arguments have been deduced from them on either side of the question. On the map annexed to the Relations of 1671 the words Mission de St. Ignace are on the mainland above, not on the island, and there is no cross or mark at the island to make the name refer to it. On Marquette’s 543own map the “St. Ignace” appears to refer to the northern shore, so that their testimony is in favor of that position.

The next work that treats of Michilimackinac is the Recollect Father Hennepin’s first volume, Description de la Louisiane, published in 1688. In this (p. 59) he distinctly says: “Missilimackinac is a point of land at the entrance and north of the strait by which Lake Dauphin [Michigan] empties into that of Orleans” (Huron). He mentions the Huron village with its palisade on a great point of land opposite Michilimackinac island, the Ottawas, and a chapel where he said Mass August 26, 1678. The map in Le Clercq’s Gaspesie, dated 1691, shows the Jesuit mission on the point north of the strait, and Father Membré, in Le Clercq’s Etablissement, mentions it as in that position. In Hennepin’s later work, the Nouvel Découverte, Utrecht, 1697, he says (p. 134): “There are Indian villages in these two places. Those who are established at the point of land of Missilimackinac are Hurons, and the others, who are at five or six arpens beyond, are named the Outtaouatz.” He then, as before, mentions saying Mass in the chapel at the Ottawas.

The Jesuit Relation of 1673–9 (pp. 58, 59) mentions the “house where we make our abode ordinarily, and where is the church of St. Ignatius, which serves for the Hurons,” and mentions a small bark chapel three-quarters of a league distant and near the Ottawas. This latter chapel was evidently the one where Father Hennepin officiated in 1678 or, as he says elsewhere, 1679.

The relative positions of the Indian villages and the church thus indicated in Hennepin’s account 544are fortunately laid down still more clearly on a small map of Michilimackinac found in the Nouveaux Voyages de M. le Baron de La Hontan, published at the Hague in 1703. Many of the statements in this work are preposterously false, and his map of his pretended Long River a pure invention, exciting caution as to any of his unsupported statements. But the map of the country around Michilimackinac agrees with the Jesuit Relation and with Father Hennepin’s account, and has all the appearance of having been copied from the work of some professed hydrographer, either one of the Jesuit Fathers like Raffeix, whose maps are known, or Jolliet, who was royal hydrographer of the colony. The whole map has a look of accuracy, the various soundings from the point to the island being carefully given. On this the French village, the house of the Jesuits, the Huron village, that of the Ottawas, and the cultivated fields of the Indians are all laid down on the northern shore. In the text, dated in 1688, he says: “The Hurons and the Ottawas have each a village, separated from one another by a simple palisade.... The Jesuits have a small house, besides a kind of church, in an enclosure of palisades which separates them from the Huron village.”

The publication a quarter of a century ago of the contemporaneous account of the death and burial of Father Marquette, the humble discoverer of a world, excited new interest as to his final resting-place. The West owed him a monument, and, though America gave his name to a city, and the Pope ennobled it by making it a bishop’s see, this was not enough to satisfy the yearnings of pious hearts, who grieved that his remains should lie forgotten 545and unknown. To some the lack of maps laying down the famous spots in the early Catholic missions has seemed strange: but the difficulty was very great. Every place required special study, and the random guesses of some writers have only created confusion, where truth is to be attained by close study of every ancient record and personal exploration of the ground. Michilimackinac is not the only one that has led to long discussion and investigation.^[62]

Where was the chapel on the point? A structure of wood consumed by fire a hundred and seventy years ago could scarcely be traced or identified. A forest had grown up around the spots which in Marquette’s time were cleared and busy with human life. Twenty years ago this forest was in part cleared away, but nothing appeared to justify any hope of discovering the burial-place of him who bore the standard of Mary conceived without sin down the Mississippi valley. One pioneer kept up his hope, renewed his prayers, and pushed his inquiries. The Rev. Edward Jacker, continuing in the nineteenth century the labors of Marquette—missionary to the Catholic Indians and the pagan, a loving gatherer of all that related to the early heralds of the faith, tracing their footsteps, explaining much that was obscure, leading us to the very spot where Ménard labored and died—was to be rewarded at last.

A local tradition pointed to one spot as the site of an old church and the grave of a great priest, but nothing in the appearance of the ground seemed to justify it. 546Yet, hidden in a growth of low trees and bushes were preserved proofs that Indian tradition coincided with La Hontan’s map and the Jesuit records.

On the 5th day of May, 1877, the clearing of a piece of rising ground at a short distance from the beach, at the head of the little bay on the farm of Mr. David Murray, near the main road running through the town, laid bare the foundations of a church, in size about thirty-two by forty feet, and of two adjacent buildings. The Rev. Mr. Jacker was summoned to the spot. The limestone foundation walls of the building were evidently those of a church, there being no chimney, and it had been destroyed by fire, evidences of which existed on every side. The missionary’s heart bounded with pious joy. Here was the spot where Father Marquette had so often offered the Holy Sacrifice; here he offered to Mary Immaculate his voyage to explore the river he named in her honor; here his remains were received and, after a solemn requiem, interred.

But Father Jacker was a cautious antiquarian as well as a devoted priest. He compared the site with La Hontan’s map. If these buildings were the Jesuit church and house, the French village was at the right; and there, in fact, could be traced the old cellars and small log-house foundations. On the other side was the Huron village; the palisades can even now be traced. Farther back the map shows Indian fields. Strike into the fields and small timber, and you can even now see signs of rude Indian cultivation years ago, and many a relic tells of their occupancy.

The report of the discovery 547spread and was noticed in the papers. Many went to visit the spot, and ideas of great treasures began to prevail. The owner positively refused to allow any excavation to be made; so there for a time the matter rested. All this gave time for study, and the conviction of scholars became positive that the old chapel site was actually found.

The next step towards the discovery of the remains of the venerable Father Marquette cannot be better told than by the Rev. Mr. Jacker himself:

“Mr. David Murray, the owner of the ground in question, had for some time relented so far as to declare that if the chief pastor of the diocese, upon his arrival here, should wish to have a search made, he would object no longer. Last Monday, then (September 3, 1877), Bishop Mrak, upon our request, dug out the first spadeful of ground. On account of some apparent depression near the centre of the ancient building, and mindful of Father Dablon’s words, ‘Il fut mis dans un petit caveau au milieu de l’église,’ we there began our search; but being soon convinced that no digging had ever been done there before, we advanced towards the nearest corner of the large, cellar-like hollow to the left, throwing out, all along, two to three feet of ground. On that whole line no trace of any former excavation could be discovered, the alternate layers of sand and gravel which generally underlie the soil in this neighborhood appearing undisturbed. Close to the ancient cellar-like excavation a decayed piece of a post, planted deeply in the ground, came to light. The bottom of that hollow itself furnished just the things that you would expect to meet 548with in the cellar of a building destroyed by fire, such as powdered charcoal mixed with the subsoil,^[63] spikes, nails, an iron hinge (perhaps of a trap-door), pieces of timber—apparently of hewed planks and joists—partly burned and very much decayed. Nothing, however, was found that would indicate the former existence of a tomb, vaulted or otherwise. Our hopes began to sink (the good bishop had already stolen away), when, at the foot of the western slope of the ancient excavation fragments of mortar bearing the impress of wood and partly blackened, and a small piece of birch-bark, came to light. This was followed by numerous other, similar or larger, fragments of the latter substance, most of them more or less scorched or crisped by the heat, not by the immediate action of the fire; a few only were just blackened, and on one side superficially burned. A case or box of birch-bark (une quaisse d’escorce de bouleau), according to the Relation, once enclosed the remains of the great missionary. No wonder our hopes revived at the sight of that material. Next appeared a small leaf of white paper, which, being quite moist, almost dissolved in my hands. We continued the search, more with our hands than with the spade. The sand in which those objects were embedded was considerably blackened—more so, in fact, than what should be expected, unless some digging was done here after the fire, and the hollow thus produced filled up with the blackened ground from above. Here and there we found small particles, 549generally globular, of a moist, friable substance, resembling pure lime or plaster-of-paris. None of the details of our search being unimportant, I should remark that the first pieces of birch-bark were met with at a depth of about three and a half feet from the present surface, and nearly on a level, I should judge, with the floor of the ancient excavation. For about a foot deeper down more of it was found, the pieces being scattered at different heights over an area of about two feet square or more. Finally a larger and well-preserved piece appeared, which once evidently formed part of the bottom of an Indian ‘mawkawk’ (wigwass-makak—birch-bark box), and rested on clean white gravel and sand. Some of our people, who are experts in this matter, declared that the bark was of unusual thickness, and that the box, or at least parts of it, had been double, such as the Indians sometimes, for the sake of greater durability, use for interments. A further examination disclosed the fact that it had been placed on three or four wooden sills, decayed parts of which were extracted. All around the space once occupied by the box the ground seemed to be little disturbed, and the bottom piece lay considerably deeper than the other objects (nails, fragments of timber, a piece of a glass jar or large bottle, a chisel, screws, etc.) discovered on what I conceived to have been the ancient bottom of the cellar. From these two circumstances it seemed evident that the birch-bark box had not (as would have been the case with an ordinary vessel containing corn, sugar, or the like) been placed on the floor, but sunk into the ground, and perhaps covered with a layer 550of mortar, many blackened fragments of which were turned out all around the space once occupied by it. But it was equally evident that this humble tomb—for such we took it to have been—had been disturbed, and the box broken into and parts of it torn out, after the material had been made brittle by the action of the fire. This would explain the absence of its former contents, which—what else could we think?—were nothing less than Father Marquette’s bones. We, indeed, found between the pieces of bark two small fragments, one black and hard, the other white and brittle, but of such a form that none of us could determine whether they were of the human frame.^[64]

“The evening being far advanced, we concluded that day’s search, pondering over what may have become of the precious remains which, we fondly believe, were once deposited in that modest tomb just in front of what, according to custom, should have been the Blessed Virgin’s altar. Had I been in Father Nouvel’s place, it is there I would have buried the devout champion of Mary Immaculate. It is the same part of the church we chose nine years ago for Bishop Baraga’s interment in the cathedral of Marquette. The suggestion of one of our half-breeds that it would be a matter of wonder if some pagan Indian had not, after the departure of the missionaries, opened the grave and carried off the remains pour en faire de la medicine—that is, to use the great black-gown’s bones for superstitious purposes^[65]—this suggestion appeared 551to me very probable. Hence, giving up the hope of finding anything more valuable, and awaiting the examination by an expert of the two doubtful fragments of bone, I carried them home (together with numerous fragments of the bark box) with a mixed feeling of joy and sadness. Shall this, then, be all that is left us of the saintly missionary’s mortal part?

“I must not forget to mention a touching little incident. It so happened that while we people of St. Ignace were at work, and just before the first piece of bark was brought to light, two young American travellers—apparently Protestants, and pilgrims, like hundreds of others all through the summer, to this memorable spot—came on shore, and, having learned the object of the gathering with joyful surprise, congratulated themselves on having arrived at such a propitious moment. They took the liveliest interest in the progress of the search, lending their help, and being, in fact, to outward appearances, the most reverential of all present. ‘Do you realize,’ would one address the other with an air of religious awe, ‘where we are standing? This is hallowed ground!’ Their bearing struck us all and greatly edified our simple people. They begged for, and joyfully carried off, some little memorials. Isn’t it a natural thing, that veneration of relics we used to be so much blamed for?

“Some hundred and fifty or two hundred of our people witnessed the search, surrounding us in picturesque groups—many of them, 552though nearly white, being lineal descendants of the very Ottawas among whom Father Marquette labored in La Pointe du St. Esprit, and who witnessed his interment in this place two hundred years ago. The pure Indian element was represented only by one individual of the Ojibwa tribe.

“On Tuesday our children were confirmed, and in the afternoon I had to escort the bishop over to Mackinac Island. Upon my return, yesterday evening, a young man of this place entered my room, with some black dust and other matters tied up in a handkerchief. He had taken the liberty to search our excavation for some little keepsake, taking out a few handfuls of ground at a little distance from where the box had lain, in the direction of what I presume to have been the Blessed Virgin’s altar, and at about the height of the ancient cellar-floor. The result of his search was of such a character that he considered himself obliged to put me in possession of it. What was my astonishment when he displayed on my table a number of small fragments of bones, in size from an inch in length down to a mere scale, being in all thirty-six, and, to all appearances, human. Being alone, after nightfall, I washed the bones. The scene of two hundred years ago, when the Kiskakons, at the mouth of that distant river, were employed in the same work, rose up before my imagination; and though the mists of doubt were not entirely dispelled, I felt very much humbled that no more worthy hands should have to perform this office. So long had I wished—and, I candidly confess it, even prayed—for the discovery of Father Marquette’s grave; and now that so many evidences concurred 553to establish the fact of its having been on the spot where we hoped to find it, I felt reluctant to believe it. The longer, however, I pondered over every circumstance connected with our search, the more I became convinced that we have found what we, and so many with us, were desirous to discover. Let me briefly resume the train of evidence.

“The local tradition as to the site of the grave, near the head of our little bay; the size and relative position of the ancient buildings, both in the ‘French Village’ and the Jesuits’ establishment, plainly traceable by little elevated ridges, stone foundations, cellars, chimneys, and the traces of a stockade; all this exactly tallying with La Hontan’s plan and description of 1688—so many concurring circumstances could hardly leave any doubt as to the site of the chapel in which Marquette’s remains were deposited.

“The unwillingness of the proprietor to have the grave of a saintly priest disturbed proved very opportune, not to say providential. Within the three or four months that elapsed since the first discovery many hundreds of persons from all parts of the country had the opportunity to examine the grounds, as yet untouched by the spade. We had time to weigh every argument pro and con. Among those visitors there were men of intelligence and historical learning. I will only mention Judge Walker, of Detroit, who has made the early history of our Northwest the subject of his particular study, and who went over the grounds with the English edition of La Hontan in his hand. He, as well as every one else whose judgment was worth anything, pronounced in favor of 554our opinion. The balance stood so that the smallest additional weight of evidence would make it incline on the side of certainty as absolute as can be expected in a case like this.

“The text of the Relation, it is true, would make us look for a vault, or small cellar (un petit caveau), in the middle (au milieu) of the church. But if anything indicating the existence of a tomb in the hollow towards the left side and the rear part of the chapel were discovered, could we not construe those words as meaning ‘within the church’? Besides, it must be remembered that Father Dablon, who left us the account, was not an eye-witness at the interment; nor did he visit the mission after that event, at least up to the time of his writing.

“We know, then, that Marquette’s remains were brought to this place in a birch-bark box; and there is nothing to indicate that, previously to being interred, they were transferred into any other kind of receptacle. In that box they remained under the catafalco (sous sa representation) from Monday, June 8, to Tuesday, 9 (1677), and in it, undoubtedly, they were deposited in a vault, or little cellar, which may have previously been dug out for other purposes. The box was sunk into the ground on that side of the excavation which was nearest to the altar, or, at least, the statue of the Blessed Virgin, the most appropriate spot for the interment of the champion of Mary Immaculate. An inscription, on paper, indicating whose bones were contained in the box, might have been placed within it; of this the piece of white paper we found among the bark may be a fragment. The poor casket rested, after the 555Indian fashion, on wooden supports. It may have been covered with mortar or white lime, or else a little vault constructed of wood and mortar may have been erected over it. When the building was fired, twenty-nine years after the interment, the burning floor, together with pieces of timber from above, fell on the tomb, broke the frail vault or mortar cover of the box, burned its top, and crisped its sides. Some of the pagan or apostate Indians remaining in that neighborhood after the transmigration of the Hurons and Ottawas to Detroit, though filled with veneration for the departed missionary (as their descendants remained through four or five generations), or rather for the very reason of their high regard for his priestly character and personal virtues, and of his reputation as a thaumaturgus, coveted his bones as a powerful ‘medicine,’ and carried them off. In taking them out of the tomb they tore the brittle bark and scattered its fragments. The bones being first placed on the bottom of the cellar, behind the tomb, some small fragments became mixed up with the sand, mortar, and lime, and were left behind.

“Such seems to me the most natural explanation of the circumstances of the discovery. Had the missionaries themselves, before setting fire to the church, removed the remains of their saintly brother, they would have been careful about the least fragment; none of them, at least, would have been found scattered outside of the box. That robbing of the grave by the Indians must have taken place within a few years after the departure of the missionaries; for had those precious remains been there when the mission was renewed (about 1708?), 556they would most certainly have been transferred to the new church in ‘Old Mackinac’; and had this been the case, Charlevoix, at his sojourn there in 1721, could hardly have failed to be taken to see the tomb and to mention the fact of the transfer in his journal or history.

“Our next object, if we were to be disappointed in finding the entire remains of the great missionary traveller, was to ascertain the fact of his having been interred on that particular spot; and in this, I think, we have fully succeeded. Considering the high probability—à priori, so to say—of the Indians’ taking possession of the bones, the finding of those few fragments under the circumstances described seems to me, if not as satisfactory to our wishes, at least as good evidence for the fact in question as if we had found every bone that is in the human body. Somebody—an adult person—was buried under the church; buried before the building was destroyed by fire; and buried under exceptional circumstances—the remains being placed in a birch-bark box of much smaller size than an ordinary coffin—who else could it have been but the one whose burial, with all its details of time, place, and manner, as recorded in most trustworthy records, answers all the circumstances of our discovery?

“Sept. 7th.—Went again to the grave to-day, and, after searching a little while near the spot where that young man had found the bones, I was rewarded with another small fragment, apparently of the skull, like two or three of those already found. Two Indian visitors who have called in since declared others to be of the ribs, of the hand, and of the thigh-bone. They 557also consider the robbing of the grave by their pagan ancestors as extremely probable. To prevent profanation and the carrying off of the loose ground in the empty grave, we covered the excavation with a temporary floor, awaiting contributions from outside—we are too poor ourselves—for the purpose of erecting some kind of a tomb or mortuary chapel in which to preserve what remains of the perishable part of the ‘Guardian-Angel of the Ottawa missions.’

“I shall not send you this letter before having shown some of the bones to a physician, for which purpose I have to go outside.

“Sheboygan, Mich., Sept. 11.—M. Pommier, a good French surgeon, declared the fragments of bones to be undoubtedly human and bearing the marks of fire.”

The result is consoling, though not unmixed with pain. It is sad to think that the remains of so saintly a priest, so devoted a missionary, so zealous an explorer should have been so heathenishly profaned by Indian medicine-men; but the explanation has every appearance of probability. Had the Jesuit missionaries removed the remains, they would have taken up the birch box carefully, enclosing it, if necessary, in a case of wood. They would never have torn the birch-bark box rudely open, or taken the remains so carelessly as to leave fragments. All the circumstances show the haste of profane robbery. The box was torn asunder in haste, part of its contents secured, and the excavation hastily filled up.

The detailed account of the final interment of Father Marquette, the peculiarity of the bones being in a bark box, evidently of small size for convenient transportation, the fact that no other priest died at the mission who could have been similarly interred, leads irresistibly to the conclusion that Father Jacker is justified in regarding the remains found as portion of those committed to the earth two centuries ago.

It is now for the Catholics of the United States to rear a monument there to enclose what time has spared us of the “Angel Guardian of the Ottawa Missions.”

558NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Miscellanies. By Henry Edward, Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster. First American Edition. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co., 9 Barclay Street. 1877.

The various papers contained in this assortment of miscellaneous articles from the pen of Cardinal Manning consist of addresses before several Academias or other societies, contributions to the Dublin Review, and short essays, most of which, we believe, have been before published in English magazines or newspapers, or in the form of pamphlets. They are on current topics of immediate interest, well adapted to the times, and written in a plain, popular style. One general tone of defence and explanation of the Catholic cause in respect to matters now of conflict and controversy between the Catholic Church and her opposers runs through them all, giving a real unity of purpose and objective aim to the collection, various and miscellaneous as are its topics. The most important and interesting papers, in which the force of the whole volume, of all the cardinal’s principal works, of the efforts of his entire career as a prelate in the church, is concentrated and brought to bear upon the central point of anti-Catholic revolution, are the first and last. The first 559one is entitled “Roma Æterna: a Discourse before the Academia of the Quiriti in Rome on the 2615th anniversary of this city, April 21, 1863.” The last one is entitled “The Independence of the Holy See,” and we do not know whether or not it was published before it appeared in the present collection. It has always been characteristic of the cardinal’s mind, and of the doctrinal or polemic expositions of Catholic truth put forth by him, to perceive and seize the principle of unity. While he was still an Anglican archdeacon he embraced and advocated general principles of Catholic unity, so far as he then apprehended them, with remarkable clearness and precision. These principles led him into the bosom of Catholic unity, and their complete and consequent development in all their conclusions and harmonious relations has been the one great aim and effort of his luminous and vigorous mind since he became a Catholic ecclesiastic, both as an orator and as a writer. This clear, direct view of the logical order and sequence of constitutive, Catholic principles made him one of the most thorough and firm advocates of the spiritual supremacy of the Holy See, before and during the sessions of the Vatican Council. The Papacy, as the very centre and foundation of Christianity, and therefore the principal point of attack and defence in the war between the Christian kingdom and the anti-Christian revolution, has been the dominant idea in the mind of Cardinal Manning. The indissoluble union of the papal supremacy with the Roman episcopate, and therefore the dependence of Christendom on the Roman Church as its centre, its head, the great source of its life, is the topic to which at present his attention is more specially directed. The Roman Church, and, by reason of its near and close connection, the Italian Church, as the permanent, immovable seat of the sovereign pontificate, is identified with the prosperity of Christendom. The head and heart of the Catholic Church are there, whereas other members of the great, universal society of Christians are only limbs, however great and powerful they may be. The logical and juridical mind of Cardinal Manning grasps in its full import the whole Roman and Italian question of present conflict as the vital one for all Christendom. And, as we have said, the first and last papers in his volume 560of Miscellanies are of permanent value and importance, on account of his clear and masterly exposition of this great controversy. We will quote a few salient paragraphs in illustration and confirmation of our opinion on this head:

“It is no wonder to me that Italians should believe in the primacy of Italy. Italy has indeed a primacy, but not that of which some have dreamed. The primacy of Italy is the presence of Rome; and the primacy of Rome is in its apostleship to the whole human race, in the science of God with which it has illuminated mankind, in its supreme and world-wide jurisdiction over souls, in its high tribunal of appeal from all the authorities on earth, in its inflexible exposition of the moral law, in its sacred diplomacy, by which it binds the nations of Christendom into a confederacy of order and of justice—these are its true, supreme, and, because God has so willed, its inalienable and incommunicable primacy among the nations of the earth.... The eternity of Rome, then, if it be not an exact truth, is nevertheless no mere rhetorical exaggeration. It denotes the fact that Rome has been chosen of God as the centre of his kingdom, which is eternal, as the depository of his eternal truths, as the fountain of his graces which lead men to a higher life, as the witness and guardian of law and principles of which the sanctions and the fruit are eternal.... I shall say little if I say that on you, under God, we depend for the immutability not only of the faith in all the radiance of its exposition and illustration, and of the divine love in all its breadth and purity and perfection; you are also charged with the custody of other truths which descend from this great sphere of supernatural light, and with the application of these truths to the turbulent and unstable elements of human society.... You are the heirs of those who renewed the face of the world and created the Christian civilization of Europe. You are the depositories of truths and principles which are indestructible in their vitality. Though buried like the ear of corn in the Pyramids of Egypt, they strike root and spring into fruit when their hour is come. Truths and principles are divine; they govern the world; to suffer for them is the greatest glory of man. “Not death, but the cause of death, makes the martyr.” So long as 561Rome is grafted upon the Incarnation it is the head of the world. If it were possible to cut it out from its divine root, it would fall from its primacy among mankind. But this cannot be. He who chose it for his own has kept it to this hour. He who has kept it until now will keep it unto the end. Be worthy of your high destiny for His sake who has called you to it; for our sakes, who look up to you as, under God, our light and our strength” (“Rom. Ætern.,” pp. 3–23). These words were spoken fourteen years ago, but they are reaffirmed now by their new republication, and the similar language of the closing paper of the volume.

In this last paper, on “The Independence of the Holy See,” the cardinal speaks more particularly and definitely of the temporal sovereignty of the Holy See. As the spiritual supremacy of the Pope, in his office as Vicar of Christ and successor of St. Peter, is closely bound to his Roman episcopate, and the unity of the church depends on the Roman Church, the “mother and mistress of churches,” so the peaceful and uncontrolled exercise of the supremacy depends on the freedom of the Pope in Rome. This freedom is secured only by complete independence, which requires the possession of both personal and political sovereignty as its condition. This citadel of all Catholic and Christian interests being now the very object of the most resolute and uncompromising attack and defence—the Plevna of the war between the Catholic religion and the anti-Christian revolution—the cardinal, as a wise leader and strategist, directs his principal efforts to sustain and advocate the right and necessity of the Pope’s temporal sovereignty. The spoliation of this temporal sovereignty has for its necessary effect, says the cardinal, “the disintegration and the downfall of the Christian world” (p. 860). Consequently, as the cardinal continually affirms, the redintegration and reconstruction of the Christian world require the restitution of that same sovereignty. “There is one hope for Italy. It is this: that Italy should reconcile itself to the old traditions of the faith of its fathers, and should return once more to the only principle of unity and authority which created it” (p. 848). “If the Christian world is still to continue, what is happening now is but 562one more of those manifold transient perturbations which have come through these thousand years, driving into exile or imprisoning the pontiffs, or even worse, and usurping the rightful sovereignty of Rome. And as they have passed, so will this, unless the political order of the Christian world itself has passed away” (p. 804).

In these last words is presented an alternative of the utmost consequence and interest. Is the perturbation and disintegration final or transient? If final, the church goes back to the state of persecution, the reign of Antichrist is at hand, and the end of the world draws near. When Rome falls, the world. If the Roman and Italian people, as such, have apostatized, or are about to apostatize, then the Roman Church, the foundation, sinking in the undermined and caving soil beneath it, will bring down the whole crumbling fabric of Christendom and of the universal world. If, therefore, there is any ground to hope that this evil day is not yet, but that there is a triumphant epoch for the church to be awaited, it is of the utmost consequence not to exaggerate the present revolution in Italy and Europe into a national and international apostasy, but to show that it is a revolution of a faction whose power is but apparent and temporary. This is the cardinal’s conviction, and a large part of his argumentation is directed to its proof and support. “Why, then, is this gagging law necessary in Italy? Because a minority is in power who are conscious that they are opposed by a great majority who disapprove their acts. They know, and are afraid, that if men speak openly with their neighbors the public opinion of Catholic Italy would become so strong and spread so wide as to endanger their power. And this is called disturbing the public conscience. The public conscience of Italy is not revolutionary, but Catholic; the true disturbers of the public conscience of Italy are the authors of these Italian Falck laws.... I know of nothing which has imposed upon the simplicity and the good-will of the English people more than to suppose that the present state of Italy is the expression of the will of the Italian people” (pp. 842–47).

We cannot exceed the limits of a notice by adding more extracts or giving the cardinal’s proofs and reasons. We trust our readers will seek for them in 563the book itself. As there is no one more intelligently and consistently Catholic and Roman in all his ideas than the cardinal, so there is no one who can so well explain and interpret the same to the English-speaking world. He is not only a prince of the Roman Church by his purple, but an intellectual and moral legate of the Holy See, by his wisdom, eloquence, and gentleness of manner, to all men speaking the English language, a sure teacher and guide to all Catholics, whose words they will do well to read and ponder attentively.

Before closing we cannot omit indicating one paper quite different from anything we have before seen from the cardinal’s pen. It is the one on Kirkman’s Philosophy without Assumptions, in which the eminent writer shows how much he has studied and how acutely he is able to discuss metaphysical questions. We may remark that this volume has been republished in a very handsome style and form, and we cannot too emphatically recommend it to an extensive circulation. The appendix, containing in Latin and English the late splendid allocution of Pius IX, whose thunder has shaken Europe, adds much to its value. This great document is one of the most sublime utterances which has ever proceeded from the Holy See. St. Peter never had a more worthy successor than Pius IX. He watches by the tomb of the Prince of the Apostles, by God’s command, as the angels watched by the sepulchre of Christ. What better guarantee could we desire that the sovereignty and splendor of the Papacy will come forth in glory from the tomb of St. Peter when the long watch is ended?

Bibliotheca Symbolica Ecclesiæ Universalis. The Creeds of Christendom. With a History and Critical Notes. By Philip Schaff, D.D., LL.D., Professor of Biblical Literature in the Union Theological Seminary, New York. In three volumes. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1877.

In respect to the literary and typographical style of execution, this is a work worthy of commendation. Its intrinsic value for students of theology is chiefly to be found in the contents of the second and third volumes, where the author has collected the principal symbolical documents of the Catholic Church, both ancient and modern, of 564the Orthodox Orientals, and of the Protestant denominations classed under the generic term “Evangelical.” The original text is given, with English translations of documents from other languages. Among these documents, those appertaining to the Eastern Christians have a special interest and importance, because more rare and not so easily obtained as the others. As a book of reference, therefore, the Bibliotheca Symbolica deserves a place in every Catholic theological library. The author is a scholar of extensive erudition, and a very painstaking, accurate compiler, after the manner of the Germans, and he has fulfilled a laborious and serviceable task in gathering together and editing with so much thoroughness and accuracy the collection of authentic documents contained in these two bulky volumes, so well arranged and clearly printed as to make them most convenient and easy for reading or reference.

The first volume is not without some value as a historical account of the origin and formation of the symbolical documents contained in the other parts of the work, especially so far as relates to those emanating from Orientals and Protestants. One important service his scholarly accuracy has rendered to the cause of truth deserves to be particularly noted—the distinct light in which he has placed the agreement of the orthodox confessions of the East with the doctrine of the Catholic Church, exceptis excipiendis, and their diversity from the specific doctrines of Protestantism.

In his treatment of topics relating to the Catholic Church the partisan polemic appears, as we might expect. The author professes to follow the maxim that “honest and earnest controversy, conducted in a Christian and catholic spirit, promotes true and lasting union. Polemics looks to irenics—the aim of war is peace.” He expresses the wish to promote by his work “a better understanding among the churches of Christ.” He declares his opinion that “the divisions of Christendom bring to light the various aspects and phases of revealed truth, and will be overruled at last for a deeper and richer harmony of which Christ is the key-note” (preface). This sounds very well in general terms; yet when the author descends to particulars and practical questions, it is evident that whatever meaning his terms have is 565only equivalent to the truism that increase of knowledge is favorable to the cause of truth alone, and that the prevalence of truth over error through genuine science, sincere conviction, and conscientious obedience to known truth produces peace, harmony, and charity by uniting the minds of men in one faith. “Irenics,” in any proper sense, can refer only to parties who agree in substantials, but, through mutual or one-sided misunderstanding, are not aware of it, or to those who are in controversy about matters which do not really break unity of essential doctrine between the contending sides, but are carried on with too little moderation and candor by vehement disputants. There is no “irenics” in matters essential and obligatory between the right side and the wrong side, except the irenics of combat, and no peace except that which follows the victory of the one over the other. That an advocate of the truth of Christ should be honest and candid in his argumentation against error, and charitable toward the persons whose errors he attacks, is of course indisputable. Practically, when Dr. Schaff finds himself in face of the Roman Church, he is obliged to recognize that this view of the case is the only one possible. If the Catholic hierarchy, and all the heads or representatives of the different bodies of the so-called orthodox Christians, would consent to meet together and adopt a confession in which all should agree as embracing the essentials of Christianity, with a law and order which all should likewise consent to establish, a visionary believer in progress and the church of the future might with some plausibility argue that the evolution of a higher form of Christianity would be the result. But Dr. Schaff’s historical mind is too much accustomed to look at facts to be deluded by such a chimera. “The exclusiveness and anti-Christian pretensions of the Papacy, especially since it claims infallibility for its visible head, make it impossible for any church to live with it on terms of equality and sincere friendship.” We suppose that the view of these pretensions which claims for them a divine origin and sanction, and that which considers them “anti-Christian,” can hardly be called “various aspects and phases of revealed truth.” The “exclusiveness” of the claims is a point in which we both take the same 566view. The ecclesiastical friendship to which the doctor alludes he justly regards and proclaims an impossibility. While the Roman Church, and any other church not in her obedience, co-exist, there must be polemics. Irenics can succeed only when the Roman Church abdicates her supremacy, or any other church or churches, refusing submission to it, yield to her claims. The practical issue, therefore, is reduced to this: the old and long-standing controversy between Rome and Protestantism. Dr. Schaff comes forward as a champion of Protestantism and an assailant of what he is too wary to call by its legitimate name of Catholicism, and therefore nicknames after the manner of his predecessors in past ages, calling it “Romanism” and “Vatican Romanism.”

We agree, then, on both sides, that the polemics and controversy must be carried on. Yet, on the part of Dr. Schaff and those who fight with him, it appears that a considerable part of the ground we have been heretofore contending for is evacuated and given up to our possession. “And yet we should never forget the difference between Popery and Catholicism.” The issues, it appears, are a good deal narrowed, and that will facilitate our coming to close quarters and to decisive, polemical discussion, which we desire above all things. Dr. Schaff continues: “nor between the system and its followers. It becomes Protestantism, as the higher form of Christianity, to be liberal and tolerant even toward intolerant Romanism” (p. 209). Probably the collective terms in this clause are used distributively, as required to make it agree with the preceding sentence. This is graceful and dignified in Dr. Schaff. Our exclusiveness is indeed something hard to bear; we freely admit it. Our apology for it is that we are acting under orders from above and have no discretionary powers. Our own personal and human feelings would incline us to open the doors of heaven to all mankind indiscriminately, and give all those who die in the state of sin a purgatory of infallible efficacy to make them holy and fit for everlasting beatitude. Yet as we have not the keys of heaven, which were given to St. Peter with strict orders to shut as well as to open its gates, we can do nothing for the salvation of our dear friends and fellow-men, except to persuade 567them to take the king’s highway to the gate of the celestial city, and not follow the example of green-headed Ignorance in the Pilgrim’s Progress, who came by a by-road to the gate, and, on being asked by the Shining Ones for his certificate, “fumbled in his bosom and found none.”

We consider that we have not only the higher but the only genuine form of Christianity. Dr. Schaff thinks Protestantism is the higher form simply, and, therefore, that Protestants ought to be tolerant of our intolerance. This is the most dignified attitude he could assume. On our part, we agree with Ozanam that, in a certain sense, we ought to be tolerant of error—i.e., in the concrete, subjective sense, equivalent to tolerant of those who are in error, charitable, and, to those especially who are themselves honorable and courteous in their warfare, respectful.

Dr. Schaff himself evidently intends to act upon his own principles. Toward individuals whom he mentions he is careful to observe the rules of courtesy. In respect to his historical and polemical statements and arguments on Catholic matters in his first volume, we presume he speaks according to his opinion and belief; and if that were correct, his strong expressions would be justifiable, even though they might sometimes, on the score of rhetoric and good taste, lie open to criticism. To call the Papacy “a colossal lie” is not very elegant or even forcible, and is irreconcilable with the author’s own statements regarding mediæval Catholicism, as well as with the views of history presented by such men as Leo and other enlightened Protestants. All the efforts of the Jesuits to bring back schismatics to their former obedience to the Holy See are called “intrigues.” The author relies a great deal on strong language, vehement assertion, and a vague style of depreciation of the mental and moral attitude of Catholics, which is not sustained by reasoning, and, in our view, indicates the presence of much prejudice, as well as a want of adequate knowledge and consideration. Men who have a great aptitude for history and what may be called book-knowledge, among whom Dr. Döllinger is a notable instance, frequently fail signally in treating of matters where logic, philosophy, and accurate theology are required. Dr. Schaff seems out of his 568proper line when he leaves his purely literary work and begins to reason. His polemical argument against infallibility and the Immaculate Conception is a pretty good résumé of what has been said by others on that side, and of what can be said. It is all to be found in Catholic theologies, under the head of objections, and has all been answered many times over. The author adds nothing to his own cause by his own reasoning, and requires no special confutation. On the contrary, he weakens his cause and detracts from its plausibility by the futility of his assertions. We will cite one instance of this as an example. Speaking of the Immaculate Conception, he says: “This extraordinary dogma lifts the Virgin Mary out of the fallen and redeemed race of Adam, and places her on a par with the Saviour. For, if she is really free from all hereditary as well as actual sin and guilt, she is above the need of redemption. Repentance, forgiveness, regeneration, conversion, sanctification are as inapplicable to her as to Christ himself” (p. 111). This is one of the most illogical sentences we have ever met with. Let it be given, though not conceded as true, that the dogma places the Virgin Mary above the need of redemption. The illusion that she is therefore placed on a par with the Saviour is illogical and false. Adam, before the fall, was above the need of redemption, and the angels are above it. Are they on a par with the Saviour? He is God, they are creatures. Whatever he possesses, even in his humanity, he has by intrinsic, personal right; they possess nothing except by a free gift. Moreover, it would not follow that regeneration would be as inapplicable to her as to Christ himself. By the hypostatic union the human nature of Christ shares with the divine nature the relation of strict and proper filiation toward the Father, for he is the natural and only-begotten Son of God. But angels and men are only made sons by adoption, and by a supernatural grace which in men is properly called regeneration, because the human generation precedes, which merely gives them human nature. The Virgin Mary received only her human nature by her natural generation, and therefore needed to be born of God by spiritual grace to make her a child of God, and a partaker with Christ in that special relation to the Father which belonged to him as man by 569virtue of his divine personality. Moreover, sanctification is not inapplicable even to Christ, whose soul and body were made holy by the indwelling Spirit, and therefore, à fortiori, not to Mary, on the hypothesis that she needed no redemption. Repentance, forgiveness, conversion, are indeed inapplicable to her. They are, likewise, inapplicable to the angels, were so to Adam and Eve before the fall, and would have been so to their posterity, if the state of original justice had continued, unless they sinned personally and were capable of restoration to grace.

The freedom from original sin does not, however, imply that the Virgin Mary was above the need of redemption. The covenant of the first Adam was abolished, and therefore no right to grace could be transmitted from him to his descendant, the Virgin Mary. The attainder by which he and all his descendants were excluded from the privileges of children and the inheritance of the kingdom of heaven was reversed only by the redemption. If Christ had not redeemed mankind from the fall, the kingdom of heaven could not have been open to Mary. She owes, therefore, all her privileges as a child of God and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven to the redemption. Some of these are special and peculiar to herself, and one of these special privileges is that she was prevented from incurring the guilt of original sin by receiving sanctifying grace simultaneously with her conception and the creation of her soul. She was, therefore, redeemed in a more sublime mode than others, and is more indebted to the cross and Passion of Christ and the free grace of God than any other human being, and not at all on a par with Christ, who is indebted to no one but himself. Let this suffice in respect to the polemics of Dr. Schaff’s work. The reunion of all who profess Christianity on a new basis is as far off as ever—as remote as the discovery of a way of transit to the fixed stars. The learned doctor has prepared a valuable collection of documents useful to the student, but he has not proposed any substitute for the faith and law of the Catholic Church which is likely to supplant them, or even to prove acceptable to any large number of Christians under any name. Nevertheless, we regard amicably both himself and his work, and we 570are confident that it will have the good effect of promoting a wider and more catholic range of investigation among Protestant students of theology.

The Standard Arithmetic, for Schools of all Grades and for Business Purposes. No. 1. By James E. Ryan. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co.

Important changes have been made in arithmetical text-books within the last twenty years. Each new series of books presented a special claim for patronage. One contained several chapters previously omitted; another divided the subject into mental and written arithmetic; others followed the inductive to the exclusion of the analytic method. Each series may have been an improvement in some respects; but the gain has been theoretic and artistic rather than practical. The result has been to separate oral from written arithmetic; to increase the average number of books in a series to five; and to load the elementary works with intricate detail and useless puzzles.

As a rule, a child spends an hour a day of school-life in the study of arithmetic. This amount of time should suffice to teach the arithmetical processes necessary in ordinary business. Yet the majority of pupils never advance beyond the ground rules. This results from making the text-book the guide. So general is this custom that few teachers desire to run the risk of changing it, and the pupil is compelled to leave school before fractions have been reached. He carries with him the belief that there are two kinds of arithmetic, one mental, the other written; and while he may be able to explain an oral example, he can simply tell how the written example is done. The small number of pupils who reach the higher branches suffer from an overdose of commercial economy which can only be mastered when they come face to face with business affairs.

The text-books prepared by Mr. James E. Ryan afford a remedy for most of these defects. The elementary course contains all that can be taught to the mass of pupils. It includes the fundamental rules, fractions, decimals, denominate numbers, and percentage. Each division contains oral and written work, the same analysis being used in both cases. The mode of treatment is excellent. The book includes no more practice 571work than is absolutely necessary to secure facility and accuracy in calculation, while the analysis of each step is so clear that any pupil can easily comprehend it.

The chapters treating of fractions are cleared of obscure subdivisions, thereby dispensing with a mass of unnecessary rules for special cases. In addition to this improvement the rules for common and decimal fractions are made to correspond. Denominate numbers are treated with marked ability. Obsolete weights and measures are excluded. The various tables of the metric system are introduced in connection with the English standards.

A close examination of Mr. Ryan’s treatise will convince the most exacting teacher that it is an excellent arithmetic.

The Standard Arithmetic, for Schools of all Grades and for Business Purposes. No. 2. By James E. Ryan. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co., 9 Barclay St.

This volume begins with simple numbers and carries the pupil through the commercial rules. The amount of arithmetical knowledge requisite for business purposes has grown with the enormous growth of insurance, annuities, etc., so that it has become necessary to define the limits of school instruction. The author includes percentage, interest, discount, partial payments, exchange, profit and loss, commission or brokerage, insurance, duties, taxes, equation of payments, proportion, involution, evolution, mensuration, and progression in the regular course. The discussion of the equation, mechanics, specific gravity, builders’ measurements, gauging, alligation, life insurance, annuities, stocks and bonds, freights and storage, etc., is reserved for the appendix.

In the advanced portions of the work analysis and synthesis, or induction, as it is now called, are combined. The treatment of each subdivision is so unique that it is hardly fair to single out one for special praise. Equation of payments, however, is made somewhat conspicuous by the amount of condensation it has undergone. In six pages we obtain the information which is usually spread over 572twenty. It is safe to say that the best scholars leave school without a clear comprehension of this subject, partly because of the senseless rules laid down, but chiefly because of the number of them. The chapter on mensuration is remarkable. By it the author proves that a student may obtain all the knowledge of mensuration requisite for surveying without studying geometry.

Oral and written exercises are given under every rule, and the examples are so shaped as to test the pupil’s knowledge of principles. The appendix contains a mass of important work of the highest value to students qualifying themselves for active business. For this reason the volume is well adapted to the wants of high-schools and academies.

Recueil de Lectures, a l’Usage des Ecoles. Par une Sœur de St. Joseph. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1877.

This is a very useful addition to the Catholic Publication Society’s excellent series of school literature. There is probably no living language from which so much pleasure and profit can be derived as the French. Even if a person does not speak it with ease and fluency, it requires no vast amount of study to be able to read it as readily as one’s native tongue. The first requisite towards a knowledge of French is a good text-book and grammar. The little volume before us answers admirably the first of these requirements. It is interesting, clear, and constructed on an intelligent plan. The instructions for pronunciation at the beginning are short but excellent, and likely to rest in the memory. The exercises begin in a very simple manner. They are always sensible, and do not confuse words and phrases, and jumble them together after the Ollendorff plan, although they effect the same end, so far as the interchange of words, phrases, and ideas goes. As the lessons proceed, they gradually increase in difficulty, as they do in interest, the simpler exercises giving place to extracts from the best French authors.

We think the book in every way well adapted for youthful students of French who have a teacher.

MR. FROUDE ON THE “REVIVAL OF ROMANISM.”^[66]

“Why is Protestantism standing still while Rome is advancing? Why does Rome count her converts from among the evangelicals by tens, while she loses to them, but here and there, an exceptional and unimportant unit?” (“Revival of Romanism,” sect. i. p. 95).

These questions, asked by Mr. Froude in his latest-published volume, are not new. They have been asked by many any time within the last quarter of a century. They are being asked with more urgency, if not more alarm, every day. They are questions worthy of an answer, if an answer can be given to them; worthy, certainly, of all consideration from serious-minded men. For, if founded in fact, they point towards a reversal of the three centuries of Protestant history; to the failure of Protestantism as a satisfactory system of belief; and, if not to a general return of Protestant nations to the Catholic Church, at least to the speedy and final approach to what keen writers and observers have long seen coming—to wit, the general 574recognition that between Catholicity and infidelity there stands no debatable ground for Christian men.

The suspicion has been gradually growing up in the Protestant thinking world—a suspicion that is fast hardening into a certainty—that Catholicity is advancing with giant strides, while Protestantism is surely, if sullenly, receding; worse still, that in spite of all Protestantism can do, in the pulpit, in the press, in the government, in the world at large, Catholicity is bound to advance, and the process of damming it up and shutting it off seems hopeless. “How to compete with the aggressions of Romanism” was, in various forms, one of the chief subjects of debate before the Evangelical Alliance assembled a few years back in this city. A similar subject excited the recent Pan-Presbyterian assembly at Glasgow. Indeed, it is safe to say that, wherever a Protestant assembly of any kind meets for amicable consultation and discussion, that everlasting skeleton in the closet, “Romanism,” will be exposed 575to view to remind the pleasant gentlemen assembled that they are doomed to die.

This is only a sign of the times. The times were, half a century ago, when such a sign was not visible; when Catholicity, as a real, living, active power, was, so far as Protestant countries were concerned, dead and damned beyond hope of redemption. There was a horror at the very mention of the name of Rome; a universal Protestant shudder at the thought of the pope; but Rome and the pope were things exploded with the Gunpowder Plot and other dark horrors of a by-gone day. In England the chief vestige of Catholicity and Catholic memories left showed itself in the annual celebration of Guy Fawkes’ day and the loyal burning of the pope in effigy.

To-day how changed is the position of Catholicity, not in England only, but in all English-speaking peoples; not in all English-speaking peoples only, but throughout the civilized world! Catholicity has experienced a vast “revival,” to use Mr. Froude’s expression; and to any one who has read Mr. Froude it will be easy to imagine how that writer would handle such a theme. Mr. Froude dislikes many things in this world, but of all things he dislikes Catholicity. It is hard for him to write calmly on any subject; on this particular subject he raves, even if he raves eloquently. His admirers, among whom for many things—particularly for the good service his peculiarly violent temper has done the Catholic cause—we beg to be numbered, will scarcely accuse him of that passionless tone that is supposed to belong to blindfolded and even-balanced justice. It is not passing beyond the bounds of fair 576criticism, but simply stating what ought now to be a sufficiently-established fact, to say that whenever Catholicity or anything belonging to it crosses Mr. Froude’s vision that vision is seared; the man is at once attacked by a species of literary insanity—a Popomania, so to say—that renders him incapable of cool judgment, and leads him to play havoc with all the instincts of good sense, the laws of logic, the impulses of good nature, and, we are sorry to add, the rules of honesty. Indeed, no man better than he affords an example of the remark of a keen French writer that “it is the happiness and the glory of Catholicity to be always served by its adversaries; by those who do not believe in it; ay, by those who pursue it with the bitterest animosity.”^[67]

These, however, are only so many assertions on our part. Mr. Froude will afford us ample opportunity of justifying them.

We have no desire to be unjust to Mr. Froude. Indeed, he is so unjust to himself that an avowed enemy could wish for no better weapons of attack than those supplied by Mr. Froude against himself. It is singularly true that Mr. Froude is generally the best refutation of Mr. Froude. Still, to a man of his way of thinking, the questions set at the head of this article, which he so boldly puts and honestly attempts to face, must be in the last degree not only exasperating but seriously alarming. To a man who can see nothing more fatal in this world than Catholicity, the confessed advance of Catholicity, in face of, in spite of, and over all obstacles, must seem like the 577spread of a pestilence of the deadliest kind—a mental and moral pestilence: a darkness of the understanding, a deadening of the heart, a numbing of all man’s fine, free, and ennobling qualities, a wilful renouncing of

Of course we laugh at so preposterous an idea; but Mr. Froude has persuaded himself that Catholicity is all this, and we are trying our best to regard him honestly and as being honest. Nor does he stand alone in his persuasion. There are many who go with him in his estimate of Catholicity, and we have them in view quite as much as he in whatever we may have to say. And the first thing we have to say is this: Is there really a “revival of Romanism”? In what and where is it reviving? Of course we reject the term Romanism, as applied to Catholicity. Still, a wilful man may as well have his way, especially where his wilfulness costs nothing. We have a more important controversy with Mr. Froude than a quarrel over names and a haggling over words. If Romanists we must be from his point of view, why Romanists, in the name of peace, let us be, to the extent at least of an article. Some statisticians estimate us at 200,000,000. We can afford to be called names once in a while.

Surely Mr. Froude is mistaken. If it be true, as a very high authority^[68] assured us a few years ago, that “in the kingdom of this world the state has dominion and precedence,” Catholicity, as a whole, fares very badly in the kingdom of this world, however high it may rank in the next. And strange as it may appear to Mr. Froude 578and to Prince Bismarck, Catholics have a singular liking for their own place in this world; they lay claim to at least as lawful a share of the things of this world as do Protestants; and they utterly and stubbornly refuse to live on sufferance. The attempt to make Catholics exist on sufferance, go a-begging for their lives, so to say, and eat and drink, and work and sleep, and play and pray by the gracious favor of certain princes of this world, occasions all the trouble between Catholics and the states governed by such princes. So when a “revival of Romanism” is talked about we naturally look to see how Catholics stand in the world; and the look is not encouraging.

The “kingdoms of this world” are all, or mostly all, dead-set against Catholicity. The Catholic Church is proscribed in Germany; proscribed in Russia; tied down in Austria and Italy; hounded in Switzerland; vexed and tormented in Spain and the states of South America. Looked at with the eyes of ordinary common sense, and from a merely worldly standipoint, the Catholic Church, under these governments, which are so strong and powerful, and play so large and important a part in the world, is in about as bad a condition as its worst wisher could desire. By the governments mentioned, with some inequality in the degree of severity, Catholicity is regarded and treated as at once a secret and an open foe, whom it requires every device and strain of the law and the resources of government to put down. What Emerson, in one of his latest and best utterances, has said of the assertion of “moral sentiment” is here exactly true of Catholicity: “Cities 579go against it; the college goes against it; the courts snatch at any precedent, at any vicious forms of law to rule it out; legislatures listen with appetite to declamations against it, and vote it down. Every new assertion of the right surprises us, like a man joining the church, and we hardly dare believe he is in earnest.”^[69]

The press is not only against it of its own accord, but is suborned to be against it. Its supreme Pastor has literally scarcely a roof to cover him in the states that through almost all the centuries of the Christian era belonged to the church, and such a roof as he has hangs on the word of a royal^[70] robber, who, in turn, holds what he has and what he has so ill-gotten by the slenderest of tenures—the breath of a mob. The city that witnessed the divinization of paganism, its awful and just overthrow, the long agony of the Catacombs, the building up of Christendom on the pagan ruins, the glories of the “ages of faith,” is to-day one of the chief centres of the new paganism, which has for its deity nihilism. In all the world to-day no royal crusader is to be found to draw his sword for Christ and Christ’s cross. The race of Charles Martel, of Pepin, of Charlemagne, of Pelayo, of Godfrey de Bouillon, of St. Louis of France, of Scanderbeg, of Sobieski, of Don Juan of Austria, the race of heroes whose swords wrought miracles at Poitiers, at Jerusalem, at Acre, at Rhodes, at Malta, at Vienna, at Lepanto, seems to have died out, though a foe as terrible to Christianity as was ever 580the old pagan North and the Moslem South and East besieges and threatens now the citadel of the city of God. It is, perhaps, characteristic of the age that the only one to assume the title of royal champion of the cross should be the present Russian emperor. It is, perhaps, equally characteristic of the wicked assumption that it should have met with so fearful and unexpected a response at the hands of the wretched remnant of a power that true Christianity had crippled, and would have smote to the dust had not the division of Christendom lent allies from within the camp to the ancient foe. Does it not look like a just retribution?

The Catholic Church stands between two revolutions—the revolution from above and the revolution from below. Both alike have decreed its death. The Herods, the Pilates, and the rabble, foes in all else, are friends in this. Delenda est Roma Catholica!

This is no fancy picture. We are not speaking now of the church in herself—that consideration will come later—but of the church as she stands towards governments, or rather as they stand towards her. Even where some comparative freedom is allowed her it is doled out gingerly and grudgingly, or given under silent or open protest. The erection of a free Catholic university in France—that is, a university independent of the government: a government accused, too, of “clericalism”—is the signal for the French “republicans,” as writers on this side of the water insist on calling them, to be up in arms. Men laugh to-day at the English Ecclesiastical Titles Act and the turmoil created by it. Yet it moved liberal England in 1850 till the country rocked with the tumult of it. Its author was a 581liberal leader. He is still living, we believe, though it is hard to think of Earl Russell living and not using his well-remembered voice. At all events he was living a few years ago, and we heard him then—liberal as ever. He had promised to preside at a meeting at Exeter Hall, London, to express sympathy with Prince Bismarck and the German government in their contest with the Catholic Church—a contest that we shall have occasion to refer to in another place. At the last moment Earl Russell “caught a bad cold” and could not appear, but his place as chief speaker was nobly taken—by whom? By a free American citizen, the Rev. Joseph P. Thompson, D.D., formerly of the Church of the Tabernacle in this city; and his closing advice to Prince Bismarck—an advice thrice repeated—was to “stamp out” Catholicity.

These individual instances are only straws, but straws that betoken a great deal of wind somewhere. Such liberty as the Catholic Church has is only conceded to it when and where the very character and stability of the governments necessitate its concession. Under such circumstances, then, does it not sound strange and startling to be alarmed at a “revival of Romanism”?

So much for the dark side of the picture; and there is no denying that it is dark indeed. There is light, however, and the light is very strong and lovely. If the race of royal men and heroes whose swords were ever ready to be drawn in the cause of Christ seems to have quite died out, the race of true Catholics has not died with them. Royalty, at its best even, was generally and almost necessarily a treacherous ally to the church. 582The kings have gone from the church, but the people remain. In face of this universal, protracted, bitter, and resolute opposition to Catholicity on the part of so many great states, we find the church, as in the days of the apostles, adding daily to her number “those that should be saved.” Here, too, we find, as in all Christian history, the greatest and sharpest contrasts—those contrasts that it baffles human ingenuity to explain. The Catholic Church is to-day strongest where, according to human calculation, she ought to be weakest, and weakest where she ought to be strongest. She flourishes best in what three centuries of almost total estrangement have made to her foreign soil. This it is that so puzzles Mr. Froude.

“The proverb which says that nothing is certain but the unforeseen was never better verified than in the resurrection, as it were out of the grave, during the last forty years of the Roman Catholic religion. In my own boyhood it hung about some few ancient English families like a ghost of the past. They preserved their creed as an heirloom which tradition rather than conviction made sacred to them. A convert from Protestantism to Popery would have been as great a monster as a convert to Buddhism or Odin worship. ‘Believe in the Pope!’ said Dr. Arnold. ‘I should as soon believe in Jupiter’” (p. 93).

This is undoubtedly, in the main, a true picture of the result of three centuries of apostasy in England. As for Dr. Arnold, that learned gentleman probably understated his belief. He would, if anything, much sooner have believed in Jupiter than in the Pope. It would be interesting to know what he thought of, say, George IV., as the supreme head of the church of which Dr. Arnold was so distinguished an ornament, or of Queen Victoria. He 583is as good an example as any of modern refined and intellectual paganism, and his distinguished son is but the natural outcome of the influence of such a man’s character and teachings, as in another way was John Stuart Mill of his father.

“The singular change which we have witnessed and are still witnessing,” pursues Mr. Froude, “is not due to freshly-discovered evidence of the truth of what had been abandoned as superstition” (p. 93). In this, of course, we quite agree with Mr. Froude, though, perhaps, not exactly in the manner he would wish. The truth is the same to-day as it ever was. Superstition is the same to-day as it ever was. Without going into the matter very deeply just here, we merely hint that Mr. Froude’s “singular change” may not be quite so singular as he imagines. The change to which he alludes is the return of a great body of the English-speaking people to or towards what for three centuries England and England’s colonies had been educated to consider superstition, darkness, idolatry even. Certainly Rome has not changed within this period, as it will be seen Mr. Froude, with passionate vehemence, insists. We only throw out the hint, then, that possibly what was abandoned as superstition turns out on closer inspection not to have been superstition at all. Truth may be slow in coming, but once come it is very hard to close one’s eyes to it. For men who have eyes there is no exercise so healthy and manful as honestly to face a great difficulty. The modern keen spirit of investigation we are far from considering an unmixed evil, if, indeed, it be an evil at all. The closest inquiry is compatible with the firmest and 584most whole-hearted faith. The objections of sceptics to the doctrines of the church are, when not borrowed from the objections of the doctors of the church, puny in comparison with them. On men, however, who do not believe at all, the spirit of inquiry, when united to earnestness of purpose, is working good. Many nowadays, who have every whit as profound a distrust of Catholicity as Mr. Froude, are not content with taking for granted all that they have been taught to believe of Catholics and Catholicity. They go to Rome; walk about in it, read it, study it, much as they would enter upon the investigation of a disputed question in science; and, having examined to their hearts’ content, many of them stay in Rome, while most come back with at least respect for what they formerly detested and abhorred.

It is impossible even to mention a few of the names of distinguished Catholics within the century, many of them converts, and not be struck by their mental and moral eminence. The world cannot afford to sneer at men like Görres, Count von Stolberg, Frederic Schlegel, Hürter, Ozanam, Lacordaire, Montalembert, Louis Veuillot, Balmez, O’Connell, Brownson, Ives, Anderson, Bayley, Wiseman, Newman, Manning, Faber, Ward, Marshall, Allies, Mivart, and a host of others almost equally eminent, who were born leaders of men or of thought, who came from many lands, who filled every kind of position, and who, led by many different lights, traversing many stormy and dark and difficult ways, came at last to Rome, to rest there to the end as loyal and faithful children of the church. It is men like these who ennoble the human race and who 585leave a rich legacy of thought and act to all peoples and to all time. To say that such men, most of whom came from without, went deliberately over to the old “superstition” because it was superstition will not do. They found what they had esteemed darkness to be light.

This modern spirit of investigation has done and is doing another great service to the Catholic cause: it is helping to unravel the tangled skein of history, to explore dark places and drag buried truth to light. Lingard’s History of England, for instance, really worked, or more properly began, a revolution in English thought—a revolution which, unconsciously, Scott’s novels and poems helped greatly to popularize. The work set on foot by Lingard and the method adopted have been well followed up by others, and by non-Catholics. Men came to try and look at things dispassionately and fairly. The result was that certain rooted English opinions and prejudices began slowly to give way. The “glorious Reformation,” for instance, and the “great Reformers” in England appeared on closer inspection to be neither quite so “glorious” nor quite so “great” as before. It requires very exceptional mental, not to say moral, courage nowadays to present Henry VIII. as a reformer of religion, or “good Queen Bess” as really good, or as one whose “lordly nature was the pride of all true-hearted Englishmen.”^[71] And like in character to the leaders were those who went with them in their measures of reform. The Reformation itself has come to be regarded by all intelligent minds, whatever be their estimate of Catholicity, 586as at least not an unmixed good. “The religious reform,” says Guizot,^[72] “which was the revolution of the sixteenth century has already been submitted to the test of time, and of great social and intellectual perils. It brought with it much suffering to the human race, it gave rise to great errors and great crimes, and was developed amidst cruel wars and the most deplorable troubles and disturbances. These facts, which we learn both from its partisans and opponents, cannot be contested, and they form the account which history lays to the charge of the event.” The constant revelations coming to light through the publication of secret papers and such like make it perfectly plain that reform, to have been at all effectual, should have begun with the “Reformers” themselves. As an evidence of how thoroughly the sham and rottenness of the Reformation have been exposed, we find Sanders’ much-derided Rise and Growth of the Anglican Schism now accepted on all sides as only too true.

Certain it is that a great idol of English Protestantism, if not quite overthrown, has been very much battered and bruised of late by iconoclasts who in other days would have knelt and worshipped before it. Protestant England is built on the Protestant Reformation; but if that turns out to have been on its religious side so very bad an affair, what becomes of those who pinned their faith to it? That is a thought that is working in men’s minds, and working good. That reform was needed in the church and kingdom of England prior to the Reformation no man will dispute. But real reformation 587should not be a sweeping out of one devil to introduce seven more unclean.

While the truth of history was thus slowly forcing its way out, there came a sudden shock to the mind of the English people—a shock so severe and stunning in its first effects as almost to lead to a reaction and a turning again into the old ruts. This was the deliberate desertion of all pretensions to alliance with the early church by some of the leaders—“the ablest” Mr. Froude styles them—of the Tractarian movement. These became converts to the Catholic faith, and, in the slang of the day, “went over to Rome.”

The falling away of these men from the Anglican Church can only be likened to a revolution, a yielding of some buttress of the British Constitution, which was thought to be as impregnable, as solid, as lasting as England itself. And yet “the intellect which saw the falsehood of the papal pretensions in the sixteenth century sees it only more clearly in the nineteenth,” says Mr. Froude. Possibly enough; a distinction, however, is to be drawn at “intellect.”

“More than ever the assumptions of the Holy See are perceived to rest on error or on fraud. The doctrines of the Catholic Church have gained only increased improbability from the advance of knowledge. Her history, in the light of critical science, is a tissue of legend woven by the devout imagination.”

We have thus far only quoted from the first of fifty-four pages, and already we pause to take breath. Mr. Froude has a peculiar manner of putting things. Such wholesale and sweeping assertions are only to be answered in a 588volume or by a simple denial. Of course, if the Catholic Church is all that Mr. Froude unhesitatingly sets her down to be, there is an end of the whole question. In that case the “revival of Romanism” is really a grave danger to the world; nay, the very existence of “Romanism”—i.e., of Catholicity—is a menace to human society. If the “papal pretensions” are “falsehood”; if “the assumptions of the Holy See” “rest on error and fraud”; if “the doctrines of the Catholic Church have gained only increased improbability from the advance of knowledge”; and if “her history is a tissue of legend,” men who commit themselves to the defence of such a monstrosity set themselves at once beyond the pale of civilization. Were Mr. Froude writing of the Turks or of the Mormons he could scarcely use language more strongly condemnatory. It is probable that, with his generous impulses, he would find “extenuating circumstances,” did he think any needed, for Mormon or Turk, which he could not concede to a Catholic.

When Mr. Froude visited this country recently on his ill-judged and, to him, disastrous mission—for a mission he called it—a critic (in the New York World, we believe) described his style, very happily it seemed to us, as feminine. Women are not supposed to sit down to serious questions of wide and general import as calmly and judiciously as men. They argue from the heart rather than the head. They like or they dislike, and woe betide the person or the cause that they dislike! Argument is thrown away on them. They make the most astounding statements with the easiest confidence; they have a happy faculty 589of inventing facts; they contradict themselves with placid unconsciousness, and everybody else with scornful rigor; for logic they have not so much a disregard as a profound contempt, and take refuge from its assaults in thin-edged satire. This, of course, is only true of them when they are out of their sphere and dealing with matters for which they have a constitutional incapacity.

Mr. Froude, however, is just this. Take any one sentence of those last quoted; look at it calmly; weigh it in the balance, and what do we find? Take this one: “The doctrines of the Catholic Church have gained only increased improbability from the advance of knowledge.” With this confident statement he leaves the matter. There is no doubt, no hesitation, no reservation at all on his part. A reasonable man will ask himself, however: “Is this stupendous statement true?” “The doctrines of the Catholic Church! What! all of them?” Apparently so; Mr. Froude, at least, makes no exception. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth,” is the primary article of the Catholic Creed. Has that only “gained increased improbability from the advance of knowledge”? Mr. Froude would hardly say so; indeed, in more places than one he takes occasion to sneer at the modern scientific gospel. Even if Mr. Froude himself said so, his Protestant readers who make any pretensions to Christian faith would scarcely agree with him. Belief in the Trinity of God is another doctrine of the Catholic Church; in Jesus Christ the God-Man, the Redeemer of the world; in the Holy Ghost; in the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. 590All these are doctrines of the Catholic Church. Does Mr. Froude pretend to say that they have all been swept away by “the advance of knowledge”? If he did not mean to say this—as, indeed, we believe he did not—why did he say it? What are we to think of him? Is this sober writing and a right manner of approaching a serious question? In p. 93 he tells us that “the doctrines of the Catholic Church have gained only increased improbability from the advance of knowledge.” In p. 95 he has already forgotten himself, and tells us that “the Protestant churches are no less witnesses to the immortal nature of the soul, and the awful future which lies before it, than the Catholic Church,” which is the strongest kind of concession of what he had just before denied; and forgetting himself again, he tells us in a third place (p. 141) that the Protestant ministers “are at present the sole surviving representatives of true religion in the world.” This is only one of a multitude of instances in which Mr. Froude allows himself to run away with himself. Passion and prejudice narrow his mental vision, until at times it becomes so diseased as to result in moral as well as mental obliquity.

The same thing is observable in the sentence immediately following the passage last quoted: “Liberty, spiritual and political, has thriven in spite of her [the Catholic Church’s] most desperate opposition, till it has invaded every government in the world, and has penetrated at last even the territories of the popes themselves” (p. 94).

Even Mr. Froude cannot absolutely blind himself to facts; at least, he cannot alter them. He 591may hate the Catholic Church as much as he pleases—and it pleases him to hate her very much—but the fact of his hatred cannot convert the persecution of her children into “liberty, spiritual and political.” Nor are we at all begging the question in giving the name of persecution to the treatment that Catholics are receiving at the hands, if not of “every government of the world,” at least of those previously enumerated. It is the word, as we shall show, applied to the anti-Catholic legislation in Germany by candid Protestants, countrymen of Mr. Froude, too, who hate the church and the Pope just as resolutely as he, but with more apparent show of reason. It is too late in the day to argue about this matter. There is no longer question to an honest mind as to whether the Catholics in Germany are or are not persecuted. There may still be question as to whether or not the persecution be necessary, but there is no dispute as to the fact. To talk of the “spiritual liberty” of Catholics in Germany to-day is simply to talk nonsense. But, lest there should be any possible doubt regarding the matter, it may be as well to freshen men’s memories a little on a point that is intimately connected with our whole subject; for what covers Germany covers every land where the struggle between the Catholic Church and the state is being waged.

The organs of English opinion have been very faithful in their allegiance to Prince Bismarck, who is such an experienced cultivator of public opinion. They are the bitter foes of the Papacy and the Catholic Church. Nevertheless, they have some pretensions to principle, and, when there is no escape out of the difficulty, call white 592white, and black black. At all events they do not always call black white. In Germany, then, according to Mr. Froude, “liberty, spiritual and political, has thriven in spite of the Catholic Church’s most desperate opposition.” While the struggle of the German government with the Catholics had as yet not much more than half begun the English Pall Mall Gazette discovered that

“There is no parallel in history to the experiment which the German statesmen are resolutely bent on trying, except the memorable achievement of Englishmen under the guidance of Henry VIII.... Like all these measures, the new law concerning the education of ecclesiastical functionaries, which is the most striking of the number, will apply to all sects indifferently, but, in its application to the Roman Catholic priesthood, it almost takes one’s breath away.”

It may be only natural to find the apologist of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth describing the revival in modern times of “the memorable achievement of Englishmen” under Henry VIII. as “liberty, spiritual and political.” Yet the same “experiment” takes away the breath, not only of so cool a journal as the Pall Mall Gazette, but of a much cooler and more influential journal still.

“The measures now in the German Parliament, and likely to become law,” says the London Times, “amount to a secular organization so complete as not to leave the Pope a soul, a place, an hour, that he can call entirely his own. Germany asserts for the civil power the control of all education, the imposition of its own conditions on entrance to either civil or ecclesiastical office, the administration of all discipline, and at every point the right to confine religious teachers and preachers to purely doctrinal and moral topics. Henceforth there is to be neither priest, nor bishop, nor cardinal, nor teacher, nor preacher, nor proclamation, nor public act, nor 593penalty, nor anything that man can hear, do, or say for the soul’s good of man in Germany, without the proper authorization, mark, and livery of the emperor.”

Mr. Froude is perfectly correct in saying that such measures have been carried “in spite of the church’s most desperate opposition,” but whether he is equally correct in styling the same thing “liberty,” spiritual or political, we leave to the judgment of honest readers. The London Spectator, writing at the same period, was in sore trouble as to the event.

“Is an age of the world,” it asks, “in which few men know what is truth or whether there be truth, one in which you would ask statesmen to determine its limits? We suspect that a race of statesmen armed with such powers as Prussia is now giving to her officials would soon cease to show their present temperance and sobriety, and grow into a caste of civilian ecclesiastics of harder, drier, and lower mould than any of the ecclesiastics they had to put down.... To our minds the absolutism of the Vatican Council is a trifling danger compared with the growing absolutism of the democratic temper which is now being pushed into almost every department of human conduct.”

We shall have occasion to show the results of the work of these “civilian ecclesiastics” on the Protestant Church in Germany, particularly in Prussia. Even at this early stage of the struggle the London Times confessed:

“We do not anticipate any retrogression in the development of Prussia, but it seems inevitable that there should be some check in the progress of change, some slackening in the audacity of legislation, some disposition to rest and be thankful.”

Of the same measure the Prussian correspondent of the London Times wrote:

“The Catholic dignitaries are not the only ecclesiastics opposed to the bill. 594The new measures applying not only to the Catholic Church, but to all religious communities recognized by the state, the Ober-Kirchenrath, or Supreme Consistory of the Protestant Church in the old provinces, has also thought fit to caution the crown against the enactment of these sweeping innovations.”

“The official papers openly accuse the Protestant clergy of becoming the allies of the Ultramontanes,” says the Pall Mall Gazette (April 12, 1873). “Herr Von Gerlach no longer stands alone as a Protestant opponent of the chancellor’s policy.”

“This rough-and-ready method of expelling Ultramontane influences ‘by a fork’ can hardly fail to suggest to a looker-on the probability that, like similar methods of expelling nature, it may lead to a reaction. Downright persecution of this sort (we are speaking now simply of the Jesuit law), unless it is very thorough indeed—more thorough than is well possible in the nineteenth century—usually defeats itself,” says the Saturday Review.

But why multiply quotations? Surely those given are enough to show that the leading organs of English opinion, representing every stripe of thought, are quite agreed as to what name should be given to what Mr. Froude calls the “liberty, spiritual and political,” in Germany. We leave the case confidently in their hands; and Mr. Froude apparently thinks the verdict has gone against him. He deplores the fact that “free England and free America ... affect to think that the Jesuits are an injured body, and clamor against Prince Bismarck’s tyranny. Truly, we are an enlightened generation” (p. 136).

What is here true of Germany is true also of Russia, Austria (in great measure), Italy, Switzerland, and other lands. So that if Catholicity is really reviving, as Mr. Froude alleges, it is reviving under the very shadow of death, and in face of the combined opposition of the most powerful governments. 595A revival under such circumstances ought to extort the admiration of Mr. Froude, who is as true a hero-worshipper as Carlyle, even if he be about equally happy in his selection of heroes. In the “Preliminary” to The English in Ireland Mr. Froude propounds his theories of might and right:

“A natural right to liberty, irrespective of the ability to defend it, exists in nations as much as, and no more than, it exists in individuals.... In a world in which we are made to depend so largely for our well-being on the conduct of our neighbors, and yet are created infinitely unequal in ability and worthiness of character, the superior part has a natural right to govern; the inferior part has a natural right to be governed; and a rude but adequate test of superiority and inferiority is provided in the relative strength of the different orders of human beings. Among wild beasts and savages might constitutes right. Among reasonable beings right is for ever tending to create might” (vol. i. pp. 1, 2).

As we are not now examining Mr. Froude’s theories on government, we only call attention to the very hazy nature of the views here expressed on a subject which of all things should be clear and definite. He uses the word right without telling us what he means by it, whether or not it has an absolute meaning and force. He speaks of “the superior part” and “the inferior part” without informing us in what sense the terms are used. Superior in what? Inferior in what? To any rational mind it is plain that, just because of the inequality of human beings “in ability and worthiness of character,” there must, under a divine dispensation, which Mr. Froude does not deny, be absolute rules of right and wrong for all alike, a moral code which shall extend to and determine all rights, natural or acquired. If not this, right and 596wrong become convertible terms, and right and might of course follow suit, which is really the outcome of Mr. Froude’s theory—a doctrine that impregnates and inspires all his writings.

“There neither is nor can be an inherent privilege in any person or set of persons to live unworthily at their own wills, when they can be led or driven into more honorable courses; and the rights of man—if such rights there be—are not to liberty, but to wise direction and control” (p. 2).

A very plausible-looking doctrine, but a very dangerous one as here laid down. An example will serve to show the mischievous and vicious nature of it. According to Mr. Froude, to be a Catholic is “to live unworthily.” The comment suggests itself.

“Individuals cannot be independent, or society cannot exist.... The individual has to sacrifice his independence to his family, the family to the tribe,” etc. Why so? Would it not be truer as well as nobler to say that the individual uses his independence for his family?

“Necessity and common danger drive families into alliance for self-defence; the smaller circles of independence lose themselves in ampler areas; and those who refuse to conform to the new authority are either required to take themselves elsewhere, or, if they remain and persist in disobedience, may be treated as criminals” (p. 4).

Quite independent of the nature and claims of the “new authority,” so far as Mr. Froude enlightens us.

“On the whole, and as a rule, superior strength is the equivalent of superior merit.... As a broad principle it may be said that, as nature has so constituted us that we must be ruled in some way, and as at any given time the rule inevitably will be in the hands of those who are then the strongest, so nature also has allotted 597superiority of strength to superiority of intellect and character; and in deciding that the weaker shall obey the more powerful, she is in reality saving them from themselves, and then most confers true liberty when she seems most to be taking it away” (pp. 4, 5).

We hold that “superiority of strength” belongs to “superiority of intellect and character,” but not in Mr. Froude’s sense. This sense is obviously that expounded by the third Napoleon in the preface to his Julius Cæsar—viz., that once Cæsar is established, it is a crime to go against him under any circumstances; which is equivalent to saying that whatever is, is right. It is forgotten by, or not known to, these writers that man is prone to evil from childhood; that the good has always a hard battle to fight; that it does conquer by force of “superiority of intellect and character,” but that it is often, and for a long time, borne down by the physical superiority of brute strength. The history of Christianity is the strongest instance we can offer of the truth of our position. Christianity has been struggling upwards for nineteen centuries; to human eyes it was often at the point of death; on those whom it subdued it conferred superiority of intellect and of character—a superiority which they sometimes turned against itself—and to-day it is struggling as fiercely as ever.

However, let us gauge Mr. Froude by his own standard: that superiority of strength goes with superiority of intellect and of character. It is a very convenient theory as so stated; but it is apt to work two ways. So long as it works for Mr. Froude it is very natural and explicable. As soon, however, as it turns to the opposite side it is to Mr. Froude a “phenomenon.” 598We are as little inclined to underrate as to overrate success, though very far from accepting it as the standard of right. One thing, however, will be conceded by all men: what succeeds in face of the most strenuous, long-sustained, and powerful opposition; in face of wealth, position, possession, numbers, resources, education, tradition—in a word, of all that goes to form and mould and fix peoples and their character, their history, their mode of thought, their national bent—what, we say, succeeds in face of all this must have something in it very much resembling Mr. Froude’s “superiority of intellect and of character.” It must have an immense vital force and strength and reality within it. It is hard for any man not to acknowledge that under such circumstances success approves itself; that it came because it deserved to come.

But this is just Mr. Froude’s “revival” of Catholicity—a fact which for him has no adequate explanation.

“The tide of knowledge and the tide of outward events,” he says, “have set with equal force in the direction opposite to Romanism; yet in spite of it, perhaps by means of it, as a kite rises against the wind, the Roman Church has once more shot up into visible and practical consequence. While she loses ground in Spain and Italy, which had been so long exclusively her own, she is gaining in the modern energetic races, which had been the stronghold of Protestantism. Her numbers increase, her organization gathers vigor. Her clergy are energetic, bold, and aggressive. Sees long prostrate are re-established; cathedrals rise, and churches, with schools, and colleges, and convents, and monasteries. She has taken into her service her old enemy, the press, and has established a popular literature. Her hierarchy in England and America have already compelled the state to consult 599their opinions and respect their pleasure; while each step that is gained is used as a vantage-ground from which to present fresh demands. Hildebrand, in the plenitude of his power, was not more arrogant in his claim of universal sovereignty than the present wearer of the tiara.”

This glowing passage suggests a variety of comments. In the first place, taking it as a statement of facts, it is, coming from Mr. Froude, a most marvellous testimony to the power and growth of the Catholic Church within the present century. Let us venture to paraphrase his outburst, and see how it runs:

Here are you whom we thought dead and buried under your weight of superstition, idolatry, absurdity, and fraud, an old fossil of mediæval times, deserted, neglected, despised, and contemned by the intelligence, wealth, and worth of the age, suddenly leaping into new life, and by a single miraculous stride coming right abreast of, if not ahead of, your foes. What have we that you have not? Energy is ours, yet you surpass us. Numbers are ours; you are stealing them from us. Knowledge and learning are ours; your teachers put ours to shame. We stole your sees, your cathedrals, your monasteries, your convents, your schools, your universities—all that you had of beautiful, and holy, and intellectual. You ask them not back, but set to work to build them anew. Ours is stolen property; yours is built on the free offerings of the poor. We invaded the domain of English literature; it was all ours; we poisoned its wells to you; we invented the newspaper to perpetuate the falsehoods that we wove about you. You have found an antidote to the poison; you win over our brightest intellects; you make a literature 600of your own which we are compelled to admire and read. You face us at every turn, and we may as well confess that you beat us at many.

This is really Mr. Froude’s picture, not ours. His words mean this or nothing. Will it not occur to anybody that for a church built on “superstition,” “falsehood,” “fraud,” “error,” “a tissue of legend,” etc., etc., Mr. Froude’s is indeed a strange showing—so strange that if the church were the direct opposite of all that he asserts it to be, it could hardly hope for more signal or deserved success? Does it ever occur to Mr. Froude that he may by some remote possibility be mistaken in his estimate of the Catholic Church? that it, if not right altogether, may at least be righter than he thinks?

To some minds, to many and to greater and broader minds than Mr. Froude’s, the doubt has suggested itself. Some, like Macaulay, face it, acknowledge the wonder of it, make no attempt to explain the wonder, and stand without for ever, still wondering. Others draw nearer and examine more closely, and finally enter in. Here is how Mr. Froude views it:

“What is the meaning of so strange a phenomenon? Is the progress of which we hear so much less real than we thought? Does knowledge grow more shallow as the surface widens? Is it that science is creeping like the snake upon the ground, eating dust and bringing forth materialism? that the Catholic Church, in spite of her errors, keeps alive the consciousness of our spiritual being and the hope and expectation of immortality? The Protestant churches are no less witnesses to the immortal nature of the soul, and the awful future which lies before it, than the Catholic Church. Why is Protestantism standing still while Rome is advancing? Why does Rome count her converts from 601among the evangelicals by tens, while she loses to them, but here and there, an exceptional and unimportant unit?” (p. 95).

Mr. Froude has put questions here each of which would take a volume to answer. We leave them to be pondered over by those for whom they are chiefly intended, and of whose conscientious consideration they are well worthy. For ourselves, we can have no doubt as to the answer to be given to each, but we are more concerned at present with Mr. Froude’s reply.

First among the causes which he assigns as having “united to bring about such a state of things” is the Tractarian movement in the Anglican Church, resulting from the “latitudinarianism of the then (1832) popular Whig philosophy.”

“The Whigs believed that Catholics had changed their nature and had grown liberal, and had insisted on emancipating them. The Tractarians looked on emancipation as the fruit of a spirit which was destroying Christianity, and would terminate at last in atheism. They imagined that, by reasserting the authority of the Anglican Church, they could at once stem the encroachments of popery and arrest the progress of infidelity. Both Whigs and Tractarians were deceiving themselves. The Catholic Church is unchanging as the Ethiopian’s skin, and remains, for good and evil, the same to-day as yesterday.”

Yes; “the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever” is the church of God. It cannot be the church of God and be otherwise. If there was any deception Mr. Froude lays it at the right door. These men were “deceiving themselves.” The church gave no intimation of change, made no promises, held out no concessions, thought of no compromise in matter of teaching. She cannot do so; it is not in her power to do so.

602It was the liberal philosophy that was chiefly instrumental in bringing the change about. Men had to choose between the fixed doctrines of the Catholic Church and the shifting doctrines and intolerable pretensions of the Anglican Church. They rejected both; they rejected revelation; they looked at man himself, and attached to him certain natural rights which are as well expressed in our Declaration of Independence as anywhere. They would, if they could, strike out the Catholics, as was attempted here. But it was impossible. They could not do it and be true to themselves and their principles. If liberty of thought, freedom of conscience, and the right to worship or not to worship God in your own way be natural rights of man, they necessarily attach to all, whether a man call himself Catholic, Protestant, Jew, or Nihilist. It is a political and practical impossibility in these days of divided and clashing beliefs to profess liberty, yet seal the door to any special form of worship; and Catholicity of all beliefs is dreaded, because, when free and untrammelled, it has the tendency and the force to assimilate and receive all into its bosom. The result of this partial concession of freedom to Catholicity in England is thus pictured by Mr. Froude:

“The Tractarians’ principles led the ablest of them into that very fold against which they had imagined themselves the most efficient of barriers. From the day in which they established their party in the Anglican communion a steady stream of converts has passed through it into the Catholic ranks; while the Whigs, in carrying emancipation, gave the Catholics political power, and with power the respect and weight in the outer world which in free countries always attends it.”

It is the attainment of this power 603by Catholics that Mr. Froude so bitterly resents. It would be more satisfactory if he told us plainly what he would have done to Catholics. Would he deny them votes? To deny them votes is to deny them political life. And would he deny votes to Catholics only? Or would he grant votes, but compel them to use them in one way, and, if in one way, in which way? In a word, would he allow Catholics to exist at all as Catholics, would he force them into the old state of political slavery, or would he openly force them into Protestantism under the persuasion that Protestantism, no matter of what stripe, was better for them? Though he shrinks from saying so himself, the latter seems to be the only fair practical conclusion to be drawn from his words, and in passages already quoted he has given us the grounds on which he would act, and feel justified in acting: “The superior part has a natural right to govern the inferior part.” It is plain as between Protestantism and Catholicity which Mr. Froude considers “the superior part.” “The inferior part has a natural right to be governed.” “There neither is nor can be an inherent privilege in any person or set of persons to live unworthily at their own wills, when they can be led or driven into more honorable courses.”

We must interpret Mr. Froude by himself, and, judging him by his own words, we are led irresistibly to the conclusion that had he the power he would do all that has been done in the past, and even go beyond it—for all measures have thus far proved ineffectual—to destroy Catholicity from the face of the earth.

And here we come to our final consideration in the present article. 604Mr. Froude’s observations amount practically to this: Set Catholicity and Protestantism side by side; give them each perfect freedom; Catholicity will infallibly gain, Protestantism will as infallibly lose. “The phenomenon,” he says plaintively, “is not confined to England.... In America, in Holland, in Switzerland, in France, wherever there is most political freedom, the power of Catholics is increasing.”

Well, what of it? The fault, still following Mr. Froude, if fault there be, must rest either with Catholicity, or with Protestantism, or with political freedom. If with Catholicity, it is its fault that “wherever there is most political freedom” its “power is increasing.”

If with Protestantism, it is its fault that, where Catholicity is placed on an equal political footing with it, its power decreases, while the power of Catholicity proportionately increases; and it is to be borne in mind that the power of numbers in the distinctively Protestant countries is altogether against the Catholics.

If the fault lie with political freedom itself, that with it the power of Catholics increases, what are we to say or do? That political freedom and Catholicity go hand in hand is the obvious comment, and that it is impossible to check the advance of Catholicity without at the same time contracting political freedom. We submit that this is the plain and logical deduction to be drawn from Mr. Froude’s words. It is no trick of verbiage. The fact is to himself a “phenomenon.” We are giving now no opinion of our own, but simply translating Mr. Froude, when we say that by his concession—Protestantism cannot stand by the side of Catholicity in a free air. It must go to the wall. 605This we have to reconcile with his other statement that “liberty, spiritual and political, has thriven in spite of her [the Catholic Church’s] most desperate opposition, till it has invaded every government in the world.” Where it has really invaded governments, by his own confession, “the power of Catholics is increasing.” Where it is cut off, there is Catholicity strangled, so far as human power can strangle it. But we shall show that even there it is the only religion with any vitality in it, and that all forms of religion which claim the name of Christian suffer with the Catholic Church and lose by her losses. We have thus far only treated the “revival” in a general way. In a future article we shall, in company with Mr. Froude, examine the specific causes which he assigns for the “revival.” sp 2

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

“Traduire Horace, et surtout le traduire en vers, est même devenu, depuis soixante ou quatre-vingts ans, et chez nous et en d’autres pays, une sorte de légère infirmité morale, et de douce maladie qui prend régulièrement un certain nombre d’hommes instruits au retour d’âge; c’est une envie de redevenir enfant, adolescent, de se reporter au temps des études qui nous étaient chères.” To translate Horace, says Sainte-Beuve, above all to translate him in verse, has become within the last sixty or eighty years, both in France and abroad, a kind of venial moral infirmity, a sort of mild fever, which periodically seizes a certain number of educated men as they find themselves growing old; and it has its source in the longing to renew our youth, to live over again the time of studies we were fond of.

Like all the sayings of that most delicate and spirituel of critics, this is so far true that most translations of Horace will be found, we think, to be the work of men advancing in life, and, in the majority of cases, to have grown up insensibly through a number of years. One does not sit down to a version of the Odes as to a version of the Æneid, beginning at the first line and going religiously through in order to the end. No; but we pick out an ode here and there, as the mood takes us and that fits the mood—some gay Ad Amphoram or Ad Asterien when we are young and sprightly, calidus juventâ; a nobler Ad Augustum or Ad Calliopen when we are older and graver, in the 611time of whitening locks—riding in the cars, it may be, walking in the street, smoking the after-dinner cigar; everywhere, in fact, that solitude gives us a chance to entertain the best of all good company. We turn it into such English as we can muster, and print it perhaps, or, better still, put it away in our portfolio; Horace must have had a prophetic eye on his coming translator when he gave that soundest of poetic counsels—unless Punch’s “Don’t” be sounder still:

we put it away to be taken up again and again, lingered over fondly, touched up and polished, until the exact word is found for every elusive epithet, the precise equivalent for every tantalizing phrase, and the entire ode lies before us, its foreign garb bagging, indeed, a little here and there, but fitting as snugly as our art can make it, and we are content. That is a moment of such supreme satisfaction, of such tranquil triumph, as life but rarely yields. Less than any other that dabbles in ink has your true Horatian the fever of the type. His virtue is really—what virtue, alas! so seldom is in this perverse world—its own reward. Like Joubert, il s’inquiète de perfection bien plus que de gloire; to have hit upon what he feels to be a happy rendering is glory enough; enough that he and Horace should share his exultation; a felicitous adjective will put him 612in good-humor for a week. And so, before he well knows it, his portfolio is nearly full, and the notion first dawns upon him—the duty it almost seems—of sharing his good fortune with his fellows. “Rather would I have written the Quem tu Melpomene semel or the Donec gratus eram tibi,” cried Scaliger, “than to be king of Aragon.” Rather would I make a perfect translation of these or any other of the Odes, cries our Horatian, than to be king of all Spain, with all Cuba libre to boot—

Somewhat in this wise, we fancy, have most versions of Horace come to be and to be printed; certainly, we incline to think, all the best versions. Thus, too, partly for the reason M. Sainte-Beuve gives, partly from the poet’s universality and the charm which lies in the very difficulty of the task—an impossibility Johnson called it, but it is one of those “sweet impossibilities” which ennoble failure—do we count so many renderings of single odes by famous men. There are few names eminent in English letters or statesmanship that are not thus allied to the genial Venusian—names, too, of the most diverse order. Not only poets like Cowper and Montgomery, 613Chatterton and Byron,^[75] essayists like Addison, or dramatists like Congreve, Rowe, and Otway, but grave historians such as Mitford and Merivale, judges like Lord Thurlow and Sir Jeffrey Gilbert, philosophers like Atterbury and Sir William Temple, bitter satirists like Swift, tender sentimentalists like “Namby Pamby” Phillips, professors and prime ministers, doctors and divines, lords and lawyers, archdeacons and archtraitors, have joined in paying court to the freedman’s son. In his ante-room, or atrium, prim John Evelyn is jostled by tipsy Porson humming somewhat huskily one of the bacchanalian lyrics to a tune of his own (perhaps the Ad Sodales, i. 27, which that learned Theban has rendered with true Porsonian zest—a little too much so to quote); Warren Hastings there meets Edmund Burke in friendlier contest than at the bar of the House of Commons; Dr. Bentley takes issue with Archdeacon Wrangham over a doubtful reading; Mr. Gladstone leads a poetic opposition to Lord Derby in Englishing the Carmen Amabœum. In that modest cœnaculum we can greet these great men all on a familiar and equal footing, made one of them for the nonce by the fellowship of a common taste—nay, may even flatter ourselves that here, at least, we are at their level; that our poet’s door may even be opened to us sooner than to the tallest and wisest among them. It is true greatness has no prerogative in Horace; the meanest may win to his intimacy, be admitted to his 614penetralia, sooner than the mightiest. Of all the distinguished names we have quoted, few would have had much distinction as translators alone, though Bishop Atterbury’s versions, especially that of the Ad Melpomenen, iv. 2, are deservedly famous. Hastings’ translation of the Ad Grosphum, written during his passage from Bengal to England in 1785 (he was going home to the famous trial), merits notice for its curious adaptation to his Indian experiences:

Another verse had perhaps a still more personal application; there is but a trace of it in the Latin:

The fashion of fitting Horace to contemporary persons and events was much in vogue in Hastings’ time and earlier. Creech tells us in his preface that he was advised “to turn the Satyrs to his own times.” It was carried out to the fullest extent in the well-known Horace in London of Horace and James Smith.

Within the past twenty-five or thirty years many complete versions of the Odes have been put forth, including those of H. G. Robinson, the Rev. W. Sewell (printed in Bohn’s Library), Lord Ravensworth, Mr. Whyte Melville, Mr. Theodore Martin, the late Prof. Conington, and the late Lord Lytton. Of these, Mr. Martin’s, which we should 615feel inclined to pronounce upon the whole the best, and the most notable Lord Lytton’s, have alone been reprinted here. In giving this pre-eminence to Mr. Martin’s work we are perhaps influenced by a strong individual liking, amounting even to a prepossession, in its favor, dating from that very potent time Sainte-Beuve speaks of—“le temps des études qui nous étaient chères.” When it first fell into our hands it was the only version we had yet seen which at all reproduced, even to a limited degree, for us its original’s charm. By many Prof. Conington’s translation, easy, fluent, and in the main faithful—just what, from his Æneid, one might expect it to be—will be preferred to Mr. Martin’s, which it certainly surpasses in single odes. As to the worst there need be no such doubt. The Rev. Mr. Sewell’s is not, perhaps, the worst possible version of the Odes, as one is half tempted to believe who remembers how it was recommended to the readers of the Dublin University Magazine long ago—how we relished that literary execution with all boyhood’s artless delight in slaughter! Time, alas! soon sobers that youthful vivacity of temper, and, better than Æsop, teaches us to respect the frogs whom it loves to revenge in kind. No; the possibilities and varieties of badness in this direction are unhappily too great for that; but it is as bad as need be—as need be, let us say, for admission to Bohn’s Library.^[76] Great indulgence is certainly to be extended to translators of Horace; much is to be forgiven them; but one must finally draw 616the line, and probably most Horatians would feel like drawing the line at the Rev. Mr. Sewell.

It was in the process of pointing out this fact to that gentleman, in a review of his book in the magazine mentioned, that Mr. Martin some twenty years ago put forth, we believe, the first specimens of his own translation, which was completed and published some years later. Its success was immediate and deserved; for its positive no less than its comparative merits were great. Mr. Martin was one of the first to discern, or at least to put in acceptable practice, the true theory of translating the lighter odes—“a point of great difficulty,” as he truly says. “They are,” he adds, “mere vers de société invested by the language, for us, with a certain stateliness, but which were probably regarded with a very different feeling by the small contemporary circle to whom they were addressed. To catch the tone of these, to be light without being flippant, to be playful without being vulgar, demands a delicacy of touch which it is given to few to acquire, even in original composition, and which in translation is all but unattainable.” The graver odes have their own difficulties; but the skilful translator handles them more easily, we fancy, than the gay fluttering swarm of laughing Lydias and Neæras that flash athwart their statelier pomp like golden butterflies through the Gothic glooms of summer woods—butterflies whose glossy wings, alas! lose something of their down and brilliance at every, even the lightest and most loving, touch. The thought of a poem is always easier to transplant into other speech than its form. Ideas are essentially the same, whatever tongue interprets them—Homer’s 617Greek or Shakspeare’s English; but the infinite delicate shades of beauty or significance added to them by the subtle differences of words, by that beauty of their own and intrinsic value which, as Théophile Gautier puts it—himself a master of language—words have in the poet’s eyes apart from their meaning, like uncut and unset jewels, the deftest, most patient art of the translator toils in vain to catch. They vanish in his grasp like the bubble whose frail glories dazzle the eyes and mock the longing, chubby fingers of babyhood; to render them is like trying to paint the perfume of a flower.

Now, it is true enough, whatever iconoclasts like Stendhal may pretend, that in poetry thought cannot be divorced from form; it is the indissoluble union of both that makes the poem. Try to fancy any really great passage of verse expressed in other words, even of the same speech, and you see at once how important form is. Take once more Shakspeare’s

and try to change or misplace a single word. One feels instantly that any change would be fatal; it almost seems, with such passages, as though noble thought and perfect word had been waiting for each other from all time until the high-priest of Apollo should come to wed them. To quote Sainte-Beuve again—the critic who wishes to instruct his readers can scarcely quote him too often: “Je conçois qu’on ne mette pas toute la poesie dans le métier, mais je ne conçois pas du tout que quand il s’agit d’un art on ne tienne nui compte de l’art lui-même et qu’on déprécie les parfaits ouvriers qui y excellent.”^[77] 618Yet it is none the less true that a poem in which the idea is paramount is more susceptible of translation than one whose form is the chief element of its charm. One can imagine Wordsworth’s fine sonnet on Milton, “Milton, thou shouldst be with us at this hour,” being turned into Latin with comparatively little loss; indeed it has been so turned by one of the most accomplished of English scholars—Dr. Kennedy—into Alcaics of which the purity and finish make a fitting casket for that gem of poetry; though even here one feels the wide difference between the original of that immortal line,

and the Latin

missing, as we do, the “lovely marriage of pure words,” that in the English is itself a poem. But take such a bit of verbal daintiness as George Darley’s “Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,” with its peculiar and saisissant rhythm, the perfection of verbal music; or Tennyson’s “Break, break, break,” where the poetry—and undeniable poetry it is—lies in a certain faint aroma of suggestion that seems to breathe from the very words, and try to reproduce the effect of them in other speech. As well try with earthly tools to rebuild Titania’s palace of leaf shadows and the gossamer, to weave her mantle on any mortal loom out of moonbeams and the mist.

Much the same is it to attempt to transfer to an English translation 619aught of the peculiar grace which invests Horace’s lightest lyrics with a charm we feel but cannot analyze, which resides in the choice of epithets, the arrangement of words, the cadence of the rhythm, the metrical form, and which yet is something more than any or all of these. The noble thought which lies embodied in the Justum et tenacem propositi virum we may not despair of rehabilitating, with somewhat of its proper majesty, in our own vernacular; but the shy, fugitive loveliness of that wildwood picnic to which the poet bids us, to forget the cares of life,

—what art can coax away from its native soil? Do we find it in Francis?—

or in Creech—though Creech is here luckier than usual?—

or in Prout?—

or in Lord Lytton?—

Even Mr. Martin gives it up, and presents us, instead of a translation, with a couplet which is very pretty English verse, but about as far from Horace as can be:

It is passages such as this especially 620which have caused Horace to be called the untranslatable.

To come from theory to practice, it is in the lighter odes, and in those parts of all the odes the beauty of which in the original lies chiefly in expression, that all Horace’s translators have most conspicuously failed. Take Milton’s Ad Pyrrham, for example (Ode v.). The Ad Pyrrham is not only one of the most charming but also one of the most difficult of the minor odes, and for that reason among the oftenest translated. It is one of the many mitten-pieces wherein the inconstant bard seems to have taken a somewhat ostentatious delight in celebrating the numerous snubbings he had to put up with from the no less inconstant fair who were the objects of his brief and fitful homage. In it, as in the Ad Neæram (Epod. xv.) and the Ad Barinen (Carm. ii. 8), reproaches to the lady for her perfidy are mingled with self-gratulations on the poet’s own lucky escape and sinister warnings to his rival—the time-old strategy and solace of the discarded lover the world over. He has been shipwrecked, he says, on that treacherous sea of love; but having, the gods be praised! made shift to scramble ashore in safety, and got on some dry duds, sits in gleeful expectation of seeing his successor get a like ducking. The poem is simply a piece of mock heroics, for the counterpart of which we must look to such minglings of cynicism and sentiment as we find in the poetry of Praed and Thackeray and Locker, or, to a less degree, in many of Béranger’s lighter songs. The difference between the modern poets and the ancient is that in the former the sentiment is real, veiled under an affectation of cynicism: in the latter it is precisely the reverse. 621But, bearing that difference in mind, the translator may find in the methods of the poets named some hints for the handling of such odes as the Ad Pyrrham.

But how do the translators treat it? Take Milton’s famous version, which everybody knows:

—’tis as solemn as a Quaker conventicle. Nor, with reverence be it said en passant, is it altogether free from graver faults; undeniably elegant as it is, this translation has had quite as much praise as it deserved. It is full of those Latin constructions Milton loved—“on faith and changed gods complain” for fidem mutatosque deos flebit, “always vacant” for semper vacuam, “unwonted shall admire” for emirabitur insolens, etc.—which are nowhere more out of place than in a translation from the Latin. Some, indeed, claim that they carry with them and impart a certain flavor of the original to those unacquainted with it; but this seems to us a view at once fallacious and superficial. The office of translation into any language is surely to reproduce the original in the idiom of that language as nearly as may be; and though the theory, like all theories, may be pressed to an excess—as we think Mr. Morris has pressed it, for example, in his translation of the Æneid—better that than such deformities as

It is the suggestion not of Horace but of Milton here that is pleasant; it is because Milton’s natural English style is a highly Latinized 622and involved style that these oddities of his translation strike us less than in another. Sometimes, too, oddly enough for so good a scholar, he falls short of the full sense of his original. Potenti maris deo, the commentators tell us, means, not “the stern god of sea,” but “the god potent over the sea”; and “plain in thy neatness” for simplex munditiis misses the entire significance of the latter word, which implies something of grace and beauty. “Plain in thy neatness” suggests rather “Priscilla the Puritan maiden” than Pyrrha of the dull-gold hair. Ben Jonson’s

hits Horace’s meaning exactly, and certainly far more poetically. Indeed, we often find in original English poetry much apter renderings than the translators give us. Prof. Conington knew this when he went to Shakspeare for “fancy free” as an equivalent for this very word vacuam we have been talking of—a perfect equivalent of its association did not make it a little un-Horatian—and to Matthew Arnold’s “salt, unplumbed, estranging sea” for the very best version we have seen of that most puzzling phrase (i. 3), “oceano dissociabili.”

This is, perhaps, a digression; but as we set out for a ramble, we have no apologies to make. Conington’s version, in the same metre as Milton’s, only rhyming the alternate lines, is not all so good as “fancy free,” though it gains from its rhyme a certain lightness lacking in that of Milton’s:

So true, so simple! We are not much nearer to simplex munditiis than before. Martin is not here at his best, and Francis is unusually successful: “dress’d with careless art” and “consecrate the pictured storm” are felicities he does not always attain. Prout is chiefly noticeable for yielding to the almost irresistible temptation of a false beacon in intentata nites:

and Leigh Hunt’s, though but a paraphrase, is surely a very happy one:

and

admirably elude, if they do not meet, the difficulties of the Latin. But in none of these, nor in any other rendering we have seen, is there any trace of that nuance of sarcasm or polite banter we seem to taste in the original. The only American version we remember to have met with is not in this respect more successful:

It may be said that this sly spirit of badinage which lurks, or to us, at least, seems to lurk, in the shadows of the lighter odes, like some tricksy Faun peering and disappearing through the thickets of Lucretilis, it is impossible to seize; that when we try it “the stateliness of the language” interposes itself like a wall, and we find ourselves becoming vulgar where Horace is playful, flippant where Horace is light. Doubtless this is so; what then? Because it is an impossibility, shall any loyal Horatian balk at it? It is just because of these impossibilities that translations are always in order, and will, to a certain extent, always be in demand. Translations of other poets pall; it is conceivable that a version of Virgil might be produced which human skill could not better. But no such thing being conceivable of Horace, every fresh version is a whet to curiosity and emulation; each separate ode hides its own agreeable secret, every epithet has its own individual surprise. Let there be no talk, then, of impossibilities; for our own part, to paraphrase what Hallam says of Lycidas, we look upon the ability to translate such odes as the Ad Pyrrham, so as to demonstrate their impossibility, a good test of a man’s capacity to translate Horace at all.

Another nice consideration for the translator of Horace is in respect of metre. Undoubtedly the translator who can retain the metrical movement of his original has gained so much towards reproducing his general effect. But with Horace this attempt may as well 625be abandoned at once. The Alcaic and the Sapphic stanza, much less the Asclepiad or the Archilochian, have never yet been, and for obvious reasons never will be, naturalized in our English verse, though poor Percival thought differently, and added one more to a life of failures. Tennyson, in his ode to Milton,

gives us, perhaps, as good Alcaics as we have any right to look for in English (though “gōrgĕoŭs” is not a very gorgeous dactyl); yet how different from the Horatian cadence:

As for Sapphics, whether we take Canning’s Knife Grinder for our model or Mr. Swinburne’s

we are not much nearer to Horace’s melody:

But, at least, following that rule of compensation with which all good translators are familiar, some attempt may be made to suggest the metrical variety and richness of 626the Odes by a corresponding variety and grace in the English measures of the translation. It is here that the modern translators excel; indeed, it may be said that only within the last hundred years have translators had this adjunct at their command, for it is only during that period that English poets have begun to comprehend and master fully the resources and possibilities of English metre. Not that the earlier poets were at all deficient in the metrical sense; that their ears were not quick to catch the finest delicacies of verbal harmony. Not to mention a host of minor bards who knew how to marry “perfect music unto noble words,” Milton’s lyrics are melody itself. There is scarcely a more tunable couplet in the language than his

The open vowels and liquid consonants fairly sing themselves. Nor was it for lack of experiment that they failed of

in words, as Shelley and Tennyson and Swinburne learned to do later. The attempt to naturalize the classical metres, for example, began at a very early period of our literary history, and many learned treatises were written to prove them your only proper vehicle for English poetry. Perhaps it was the ill-success of these efforts that made our poets so long shy of wandering in their metres away from the beaten track and the simplest forms. Up to the time of Campbell we may say that the iambus and the trochee reigned supreme in English verse; the anapest and the dactyl, of which such effective use has been made by the later poets, were either unknown or contemned. 627Suckling’s Session of the Poets, the metrical intention of which appears to be anapestic, shows what desperate work even the best lyrists could make when they strayed after strange metrical gods.^[80]

It may be said, then, that until within a comparatively recent period Horace could not be properly translated into English verse at all. English verse was not yet ready to receive so noble a guest. Compare Martin’s or Conington’s versions with one of the earlier translations, and the truth of this, we think, will be apparent at once. Creech, indeed, seems to have had a dim notion of the truth, and his version shows a perceptible striving for metrical effect, at least in the arrangement of his stanza; but Creech had too little of the poetical faculty to make the effort with taste or success. Francis for the most part is content with the orthodox measures, and Father Prout was perhaps first to bring to the work this essential accomplishment of the Horatian translator. Prout’s metrical inventions are bold, and often elegant; and his versions, though free, are always spirited, and often singularly felicitous. Among the most striking of his metres is the one he employs for the Solvitur acris hiems (Carm. i. iv.):

628A paraphrase that, not a translation; but not even Horace could find it in his heart to gainsay so graceful a paraphrase. Another effective metrical arrangement which shows off well Prout’s astonishing copiousness of rhyme is that of the Quum tu Lydia (i. 13):

Mr. Martin is here somewhat closer and not less skilful in handling his metre:

Compare with these Francis, who is scarcely more literal than Prout, and not so literal as Martin:

Is not the advantage in point of poetry altogether on the side of the moderns, and is it not largely due to their superior mastery of rhythm? The passage, it may be said, has been paraphrased by Moore in the lines,

Both Mr. Martin and Prof. Conington have given close and successful attention to this part of their task. But it was left for Lord Lytton to attempt something like a systematic imitation of the Horatian metres. His plan, as set forth in his preface, “was in the first instance to attempt a close imitation of the ancient measure—the scansion being, of course (as in English 629or German hexameters and pentameters), by accent, not quantity—and then to make such modifications of flow and cadence as seemed to me best to harmonize the rhythm to the English ear, while preserving as much as possible that which has been called the type of the original.” Something of this kind, no doubt, Milton had in view in the measure he took for his Ad Pyrrham, and which the Wartons and Professor Conington adapted to the same purpose after him, the latter, however, adding the embellishment or, as Milton himself had called it, the “barbarous jingle” of rhyme. Milton’s measure (well known as that of Collins’ “Ode to Evening”), which consists of two unrhymed iambic pentameters, followed by two unrhymed iambic trimeters—or, to be “more English and less nice,” of two ordinary blank-verses followed by two three-foot verses—resembles Horace’s metre, which the grammarians would tell us is the third Asclepiadian strophe, “rather,” says Prof. Conington, “in the length of the respective lines than in any similarity of the cadences.” Lord Lytton attempted something more, and with only partial success, though the task, it must be owned, was not an easy one. Horace, in the Odes and Epodes, uses eighteen different varieties of metre, ranging from the grave sadness of what is called the first Archilochian strophe, the lovely measure in which one of the loveliest of all the Odes is written (iv. 7)—

to the quick sharpness of the first iambic strophe in which the poet mauls the unsavory Mævius. And 630not only this, but each of these metres is used by Horace to express widely differing moods of feeling. Thus, the same measure which in the beautiful lament for Quinctilius breathes the tenderest spirit of grief and resignation, serves equally well to guy Tibullus on his luckless loves, to sound “stern alarums” to the absent Cæsar, or to bid Virgil or Varius to “delightful meetings.” The Sapphic rises to the lofty height of the Carmen Seculare or stoops to chide a serving-boy for his super-serviceable zeal; is equally at home with an invocation to the gods or an invitation to dinner; while the Alcaic—what subject is there that in Horace’s hands the Alcaic cannot be made to sing?

This flexibility of the Latin metres Lord Lytton has recognized, and sought to meet by a corresponding variation of his own, “according as the prevalent spirit of the ode demanded lively and sportive or serious and dignified expression.” Thus, for the Alcaic stanza he employs “two different forms of rhythm”; one as in i. 9:

the other as in i. 34:

or, with a slight modification, as in i. 35:

For the Sapphic, likewise, he has two varieties; for the statelier odes three lines of blank-verse and what may be called an English Adonic; 631for “the lighter odes a more sportive and tripping measure.” Thus, for iv. 2 he gives us:

for iii. 14 a nearer approach to the Knife Grinder jingle:

Lord Lytton’s experiment is full of interest to Horatians—as, indeed, what translation is not?—even the worst, even the Rev. Mr. Sewell’s, may be of use in teaching the translator how not to do it—and his failures, which are many, are scarcely less instructive than his successes, which seem to us fewer than for so bold an essay could be wished; but both alike are suggestive of many possibilities. It is in the lighter odes that he is least satisfactory, and we doubt if these can be done full justice to without the aid of rhyme. Horace’s grace of form in these is so delicate and exquisite that it taxes all the resources and embellishments of our English verse to give any adequate idea of it. Take, as an illustration of Lord Lytton’s method, and as giving, perhaps, the measure of his success, his version of that delicious little landscape, Ad Fontem Blandusiæ (iii. 13):

This is better because more literal than Joseph Warton’s unrhymed version in the Miltonian stanza, with which it may be compared:

It would almost seem as if the author of this version had taken pains to rub out every Horatian characteristic. The pretty touch of the loquaces lymphæ is thus omitted, unless the first line be meant to do duty for it, while by such padding as “chosen victim” and “endless honors” Horace’s sixteen lines are diluted into twenty—a danger to which the unrhymed translator, constantly seeking by inversions and paraphrases to cover the baldness of his medium, is peculiarly liable. Whatever may be said to the contrary, rhyme compels conciseness, and helps to point quite as often as it entices to expansion. Prof. Conington’s version, in the same metre as Warton’s, but rhymed in alternate lines, will be found greatly superior to it, and is perhaps, on the whole, the best we have seen—better even than Mr. Martin’s, who cannot get his Latin into less than twenty-four octosyllabic lines. Instead of giving either, let us see if all that is 633essential in Horace cannot be given in the same number of lines of what is known as the Tennysonian stanza, which is somewhat less capacious than the Alcaics of the original, though, by a certain pensive grace, peculiarly fitted to render the sentiment of this delightful ode:

Though terseness and fidelity are two of the chief merits claimed by the advocates of the unrhymed measures, it is just here that they oftenest fail; and Lord Lytton is no exception. Space permits us to give but few instances. “Trodden by all, and only trodden once,” is Lord Lytton’s version of calcanda semel, i. 28—seven English words for two Latin, and the sense then but vaguely given at best. Feriuntque summos Fulgura montes is in like manner diluted into

Awkwardness of style, too, is a much more frequent characteristic of Lord Lytton’s renderings than we should look for either from his own command of style or the freedom which disuse of rhyme is claimed to ensure. For instance, in ii. 2:

might surely have been bettered; and in the same ode a line in the 634stanza already quoted above, Latius regnes avidum domando Spiritum, is translated, “Wider thy realm a greedy soul subjected,” which would be scarcely intelligible without the Latin. “Bosom more seen through than glass” is by no means the neatest possible equivalent for per lucidior vitro, and such expressions as “closed gates of Janus vacant of a war,” “lest thou owe a mock,” “but me more have stricken with rapture,” are scarcely English.

Nevertheless, with all its faults and shortcomings, Lord Lytton’s essay is in some respects the most interesting translation of Horace that has yet appeared, and may pioneer the way to more fortunate results in the same direction. It has, at least, the raison d’être which Mr. Matthew Arnold denies to such translations as Wright’s and Sotheby’s Homer; it has a distinct and novel method of its own, and does not simply repeat the method and renew the faults and virtues of any predecessor. The American edition, it is worthy of remark, is printed in the old-fashioned way, with the Latin text to face the English—an innovation, or, more properly, a renovation, which will no doubt be welcome to lovers of the Venusian, whose love has outlived their memory, and who, though loyal to the spirit of our poet, are no longer so familiar with his letter as in the days, the far-off sunny days, when Horace was the heaviest task that life had yet laid upon us.

635We have dwelt upon this subject at somewhat greater length than we intended; for to us it is full of a fascination we should be glad to hope we had made our readers in some sort share. But it has also a practical side which the most fanatical opponent of the classics, the most zealous upholder of utilitarian education, must recognize and admit. As a means of training in English composition, as an aid to discover the resources of our own tongue, there is no better practice than translating Horace into English verse, with due attention to his epithets. That, perhaps, may serve in some degree to reconcile the practical mind to his retention in the modern curriculum, even though Homer be kicked out of doors and Virgil sent flying through the window; for a practical man is none the worse equipped for business in being able to say what he means in “good set phrase.” To be sure it does not ask the pen of an Addison to write an order for a “hnd. trces. lard,” but we dare say if Mr. Richard Grant White were called upon to make out a bill of lading, he would do it none the worse for knowing all about the English language that is worth knowing, if not more than is worth telling. There are mysteries in our English speech that the Complete Letter-Writer, or even the “editorials” of the daily newspaper, do not quite explore, and some of these our old friend Horace may help us to find out. Fas est ab hoste doceri.

Father Maurice sped upon his journey to Moynalty Castle. The dinner hour was eight o’clock, but he had delayed so long with his guest that it took the little pony her “level best” to do the seven miles within the necessary time.

“Av we wor wanst beyant the Mouladharb berrin’ groun’ I wudn’t care a thraneen; but sorra a step the little pony’ll pass it afther dark,” observed Murty Mulligan, bestowing a liberal supply of whip upon the astonished nag, whose habit it was to proceed upon her travels at her own sweet will, innocent of lash, spur, or admonition.

“Tut, tut! Nonsense, Murty! Push on.”

“It’s thruth I’m tellin’ yer riverince. We’re at it. See that, now—curse of Crummell on her! she won’t put wan foot afore the other,” adding, in a whisper full of consternation: “Mebbe she sees ould Casey, that was berried a Munda. He was a terrible naygur—”

“Jump down and take her head,” said the priest.

“Be the powers! I’ll have for to carry her, av we want to raich the castle to-night.”

Father Maurice dismounted, as did Murty, and, by coaxing and blandishment of every description, endeavored to induce the pony to proceed; but the animal, with its ears cocked, and trembling in every limb, refused to budge an inch.

“Och, wirra, wirra! we’re bet intirely. It’s Missis Delaney he sees, that died av the horrors this day month,” growled Mulligan.

637“Silence, you jackass!” cried Father Maurice, “and help me to blindfold the pony.”

This ruse eventually succeeded, and they spun merrily along the road, the terrified animal clattering onwards at racing speed.

“This pace is dangerous, Murty,” said the priest.

“Sorra a lie in it, yer riverince.”

“Pull in.”

“I can’t hould her. She’s me hands cut aff, bad cess to her!”

“Is the road straight?”

“Barrin’ a few turns, it’s straight enough, sir.”

The words had hardly escaped his lips when the wheel attached to the side of the car upon which the priest was sitting came into contact with a pile of stones, the car was tilted upwards and over, Father Maurice shot into a thorn hedge, and Murty Mulligan landed up to his neck in a ditch full of foul and muddy water, while the pony, suddenly freed from its load, and after biting the dust, quietly turned round to gaze at the havoc it had made.

“Are ye kilt, yer riverince? For I’m murdhered intirely, an’ me illigant Sunda’ shuit ruined complately. Och, wirra, wirra! how can I face the castle wud me duds consaled in mud? How can I uphould Monamullin, an’ me worse nor a scarecrow? Glory be to God! we’re safe anyhow, an’ no bones bruck. O ye varmint!” shaking his fist at the unconscious cause of this disaster, “its meself that’ll sarve ye out for this. Won’t I wallop ye, 638ye murdherin’ thief, whin I catch a hould of ye!”

“Hold your nonsense, Murty. How near are we to the castle?”

“Sorra a know I know, yer riverince; the knowledgeableness is shuk out o’ me intirely.”

“The shafts are broken.”

“Av course th’ are.”

“Here, help me to shove the car over to the ditch and pile the cushions under this hedge. God be praised! neither of us is even scratched.”

A carriage with blazing lamps came along.

“Hi! hi! hi!” roared Murty, “we’re wracked here. Lind us a hand! We’re desthroyed be a villain av a pony that seen a ghost, an’ we goin’ to dine at Moynalty Castle.”

The carriage belonged to Mr. Bodkin, the senior member for the county, who was only too delighted to act the Good Samaritan; and as he, with his wife and daughter, was bound for the castle, which still lay two miles distant, the meeting proved in every respect a fortunate one.

The worthy priest was received by his host and hostess with the most flattering courtesy, and by Miss Julia Jyvecote as though he formed part and parcel of her personal property. He took Mrs. Jyvecote into dinner, and said grace both before and after.

Father Maurice was positively startled with the splendor and exquisite taste of the surroundings. The room in which they dined—not the dinner-room, but a delightful little snuggery, where the anecdote was the property of the table, and the mot did not require to be handed from plate to plate like an entrée—was richly decorated in the Pompeiian style, with walls 639of a pale gray, while the hangings were of a soft amber relieved by red brown. The dinner was simply perfect, the entourages in the shape of cut glass, flowers, and fruit—veritable poems—while the quiet simplicity and easy elegance lent an indescribable charm which fell upon the simple priest like a potent spell.

Every effort that good breeding combined with generous hospitality could make was called into requisition in order to render the timid, blushing clergyman perfectly at home; and so happily did this action on the part of his entertainers succeed that before the lapse of a few moments he felt as though he had lived amongst them for years.

Mrs. Jyvecote promised to send him flowers for the altar, and Julia to work an altar-cloth for him.

“I must go over and pay you a visit, father,” she said. “I am one of your parishioners, although I go to Mass at Thonelagheera.”

“I wish you would, my dear child; but I have no inducements to offer you, although at present perhaps I have.” And he narrated the arrival of the guest to whom Mrs. Clancy was playing the rôle of châtelaine during his absence.

“Why, this is quite a romance, Father Maurice. I must see your artist coûte que coûte, and shall drive over next week.”

But fate determined that she should drive over the next day.

When, upon the following morning, Father Maurice came to examine the condition of his pony, he found both the knees barked and the luckless animal unfit to travel.

“We couldn’t walk her home, Murty, could we?” he asked of his factotum.

“Och, the poor crayture couldn’t 640stir a step wudout tears comin’ to her eyes. Me heart is bleedin’ for her this minnit,” replied the wily Mulligan, sagaciously perceiving that so long as the pony remained at the castle he should abide with her; and as his reception in the servants’ hall had been of the same flattering description as that of his master up-stairs, he resolved to continue in such delightful quarters as long as he possibly could.

“Poor Rosy!” he cried, affectionately scratching the pony’s forehead, “shure it’s yerself that wud dance on yer head for his riverince, av ye wor able; but yer bet up, poor little wumman, an’ it’s rest ye want for a cupple o’ days, anyhow.”

When Father Maurice mentioned the predicament he found himself in, Mrs. Jyvecote instantly proposed sending him home in the carriage, since he could not be induced to prolong his stay; but Julia insisted upon driving him herself to Monamullin in her basket phaeton; and so, laden with flowers, hot-house pines, grapes, a hamper of grouse and a brace of hares, and under solemn promise to make another visit at no distant date, Father Maurice turned homewards under the “whip” of his newly-found and exceedingly charming parishioner.

As they jogged along by the sad sea-wave she told him the entrancing history of her conversion—of her meeting with Cardinal Manning at a garden party at Holland House, and of a casual conversation which led to so much.

Father Maurice felt as if he had a white-robed angel by his side, and revelled in the absorbing narrative until the phaeton stopped at the cottage gate. The pony was duly stabled, and, while the priest 641set forth to attend to a sick-call, Miss Jyvecote proceeded to the chapel, where she encountered his artist guest.

Brown started, despite himself, when Father Maurice mentioned her name.

“A parishioner of mine, Mr. Brown.”

“I—I saw you in the church just now,” muttered the artist. “It’s an awfully seedy—I mean it’s a very quiet little place.”

“I could pray more fervently in a church like that than in the Madeleine,” she replied in a soft, silvery voice.

“The Madeleine is too rowy, too many chairs creaking, too many swells, and all that sort of thing, you know.”

Insensibly the drawl of society had come upon him, and the slanginess of expression which passes current in Mayfair and Belgravia.

“Miss Jyvecote is going to brighten me up, Mr. Brown; she is going to work me an altar-cloth,” exclaimed the delighted priest.

“And I am going to paint you an altar-picture, a copy of Raphael’s Virgin and Child—that is, if you will kindly accept it,” he added, blushing to the roots of his hair.

“Oh! how charming, how generous,” cried Miss Jyvecote.

“My dear Mr. Brown,” said Father Maurice, crossing the room and taking his guest by the hand, “I am deeply, deeply sensible of the kindly, the noble spirit which actuates you to make this offer; but you are a young man, with a grand future before you, with God’s help, and by and by, when you have leisure, perhaps you will get a stiff letter from me calling on you to fulfil your promise. You’ll find me a very tough customer to deal with, I assure you.”

642“He thinks I cannot afford it,” said Brown to himself; “and how delicately he has refused me!”

The entrance of Mrs. Clancy with a smoking dish of salmon cutlets turned the tide of the conversation, and in a few moments the artist found himself with Miss Jyvecote discussing the Royal Academy pictures of the last season, glorifying Millais, extolling Holman Hunt, raving over Leslie and Herbert, and ringing the changes over the pearly grays, changeful opals, amaranths, and primrose of Leighton. From London to the salon is easy transition, and from thence to the galleries of Dresden, Munich, and Florence. She had visited all, and to a purpose. He had lingered within their enchanting walls until every canvas became more or less a friend. There was a wonderful charm in this meeting. To Brown Miss Jyvecote was a listener freshly intelligent, naïvely sensible. To her the clever critiques of this high-bred yet humble artist savored of a romance written but unreal. It is scarcely necessary to say that when people drop thus upon a subject so charming, so inexhaustible, so refreshing the old Scytheman is utterly disregarded, and the sun was already sinking towards the west when Miss Jyvecote’s phaeton came to the gate.

“Have you any of your sketches here, Mr. Brown?” she asked, as she drew on her yellow dogskin driving-gloves.

“Only a few that I dashed off on my walk hither from Castlebar.”

They were glorious little bits of weather-worn granite, brilliant with gray, green, and orange lichens; luminous green seas and black rocks basking in the sunlight; fern-crowned inlets and cliffs glittering with 643bright wild flowers. She gushed over them. What girl does not gush over the sketches of a tall, handsome, earnest artist?

“Oh! if I might dare to ask you for one of them, Mr. Brown.”

“Take all,” he said.

She would not hear of this.

“They are your working-drawings, Mr. Brown?” selecting one, possibly the least valuable.

“Will you not require an escort, Miss Jyvecote, on your lonely drive?”

“Escort! No. In the first place, I shall probably not meet a human being; and, in the next, I should only meet a friend were I to encounter any one. I fear my prolonged visit has spoiled your work for to-day, Mr. Brown.”

“My work! You will hardly guess what I am pledged to do and the work I am about to commence. It is nothing less than a copy of the picture of Daniel O’Connell which hangs over the mantel-piece. It is for Mrs. Clancy, who is to adorn her kitchen wall with it.”

“Surely you are not in earnest?”

“Hélas! I am always in earnest, and so is Mrs. Clancy,” he added, laughingly narrating that worthy lady’s anxiety with reference to the artistic adornment of the back door.

“May we not hope to have the pleasure of seeing you at Moynalty? Father Maurice has promised us a visit. I’m sure my father will call and—”

“Pray do not trouble him. I never visit, and, as my stay here is only one of sufferance, I know not the moment I may be evicted by my ruthless landlord.”

“You should make an exception in our favor, Mr. Brown. We can show you a Claude, a doubtful Murillo, and a charming Meissonier. 644Our flowers, too, are worth coming to see—that is, they are wonderful for Connemara. Father Maurice, you must ask Mr. Brown to come over with you on Monday.”

“Of course, my dear child, of course. He’ll be enchanted with the castle. You’ll come, of course, Mr. Brown?” turning to our hero, who, however, remained silent, although brimming over with words he dared not speak.

“Then it’s au revoir, messieurs!” gaily exclaimed Miss Jyvecote, as she whirled rapidly away.

It would have surprised some of the artist’s London friends could they have peeped behind the scenes of his thoughts and gazed at them as naturalists do at working bees. It would have astonished them to hear him mutter as he watched the receding vehicle: “This is just the one fresh, fair, unspotted, and perfect girl it has been my lot to meet. Such a girl as this would cause the worst of us to turn virtuous and eschew cakes and ale.”

Mr. Brown had confided in one man ere dropping out of Vanity Fair. To this individual he now addressed himself, requesting of him to “drop down to O’Connor’s, the swell ecclesiastical stained-glass man in Berners Street, Oxford Street, and order a set of Stations of the Cross. You don’t know what they mean, old fellow, but the O’Connors will understand you. Let them be first class and glowing in the reds, yellows, blues, and greens of the new French school of colors. I don’t mind the price. Above all things let them have especially handsome frames of the Via Dolorosa pattern.” The letter went on to tell Mr. Dudley Poynter of his doings and the calm throb of the heart of his daily life. “There 645is not much champagne in it, Dudley, but there is a body that ne’er was dreamed of in your philosophy, or in that of the wild, mad wags of the smoking-room clique.”

Mr. Brown completed his copy of the Liberator, to the intense admiration of Father Maurice and the ecstasy of Mrs. Clancy. The worthy priest would not permit its being hung in the kitchen, though, but gave it the place of honor in the snug little sitting-room. It is needless to say that the entire population of Monamullin, including the cabin curs—who were now on terms of the closest intimacy with the artist—turned in after last Mass to have a look at the “picther o’ Dan.”

“Be me conscience! but it’s Dan himself—sorra a wan else,” cried one.

“I was at Tara, an’ it’s just as if he was givin’ Drizzlyeye [Disraeli] that welt about his notorious ancesthor, the impinitent thief on the crass,” observed another.

“Faix, it’s alive, it is. Look at the mouth, reddy for to say ‘Repale.’”

“There’s an eye!”

“Thrue for ye; there’s more fire in it than in ould Finnegan’s chimbly this minit.”

“Troth, it’s as dhroll as a pet pup’s.”

“Stan’ out o’ that, Mr. O’Leary, or ye’ll get a crack av his fist.”

“Three cheers for the painther, boys!”

These and kindred comments flung a radiated pleasure into the inner heart of the artist—that sanctum which as yet was green and fresh and limpid—while the eulogies, however quaintly and coarsely served up, bore the delicious fragrance which praise ever carries with it like a subtle perfume.

646Mr. Brown was enamored of his new existence—possibly with the child passion for toyland; but the passion endured, nevertheless, strengthening with each successive sunrise and maturing with every gloaming. An invitation, accompanied by a card, had arrived by special messenger for the artist, requesting the favor of his company, et cætera, et cætera, to which that gentleman responded in a polite negative, assigning no particular reason, but indulging in vague generalities. He had thought a good deal of Miss Jyvecote, and sat dreaming about her by the sea, his hands clasped around his knees and his beloved meerschaum stuck in his mouth—sat dreaming, and fighting against his dreams—fights in which fancy ever got the uppermost of the rude and real. A longing crept up out of the depths of his heart to see her once again, and to travel in the sunlighted path of her thoughts. One thing he was firmly resolved upon—not to leave Monamullin without another interview; though how this was to be brought about he did not very well see. Yes, he would see her just once more, and then stamp the whole thing out of his mind. He had been hit before, and had come smilingly out of the valley of desolation, and so he should again, although this was so utterly unlike his former experiences.

Father Maurice was charmed with his guest. He had never encountered anything like him—so bright, so genial, so cultured, so humble and submissive, and so anxious to oblige.

“Imagine,” said he in cataloguing his virtues to Larry Muldoon—“imagine his asking me to let him ring the bell for five o’clock Mass, and he a Protestant!”

647The priest and his guest had long talks together, the latter drawing out his host—digging for the golden ore of a charming erudition, which lay so deep, but which “was all there.” Night after night did Father Maurice unfold from germ to bud, from bud to flower, from flower to fruit the grand truths of the unerring faith in which he was a day-laborer, the young artist drinking in the sublime teachings with that supreme attention which descends like an aureole. Father Maurice was, as it were, but engaged in thinking aloud, yet his thoughts fell like rain-drops, refreshing, grateful, and abiding.

The good priest, although burning with curiosity with regard to the antecedents of his guest, was too thorough a gentleman, had too great respect for the laws of broken bread and tasted salt, to ask so much as a single question. A waif from the great ocean of humanity had drifted into this little haven, and it should be protected until the ruthless current would again seize it to whirl it outwards and onwards. Miss Jyvecote betrayed her disappointment in various artless ways when Father Maurice arrived at the castle without the artist. “I’m sorry you didn’t fetch him along bon gré mal gré, father,” said Mrs. Jyvecote, “as papa goes to Yorkshire next week, and Juey can talk of no person but Mr. Brown.”

Miss Jyvecote blushed rosy red as she exclaimed: “What nonsense, mamma! You have been speaking a good deal more about him than I have. You rave over his sketch.”

“I think it immense.” Mrs. Jyvecote affected art, and talked from the pages of the Art Journal 648by the yard. “His aerial perspective is full of filmy tone, and his near foreground is admirably run in, while his sense of color would appear to me to be supreme.”

“Come, until I show you where I have hung it,” exclaimed Miss Juey, leading the priest up a winding stair into a turret chamber fitted up with that exquisite taste which a refined girl evolves like an atmosphere.

“You have really hung my guest most artistically. And such a frame! Where on earth did you get it?”

“I—I sent to Dublin for it—to Lesage’s, in Sackville Street.”

“I have no patience with the fellow for not coming over to see this joyous place,” said the priest, “and I really can’t understand his refusal.”

Miss Juey couldn’t understand it either, but held her peace.

According to Murty Mulligan’s veterinary opinion, the pony was still unfit to travel.

“It’s meself that’s watchin’ her like a magpie forninst a marrabone; but she is dawny still, the crayture! an’ it wud be a sin for to ax her to thravel for a cupple o’ days more, anyhow, your riverince.”

“Why, her knees are quite well, Murty.”

“But she’s wake, sir—as wake as Mrs. Clancy’s tay on the third wettin’—an’ I’m afeard for to thrust her; more betoken, yer riverince”—in a low, confidential tone—“she’s gettin’ a bellyful av the finest oats in the barony, that will stand to her bravely while she’s raisin’ her winther coat.”

Mr. Brown asked Father Maurice a considerable number of questions anent his visit, and was particularly anxious in reference to the departure of Mr. Jyvecote.

649“He told me himself that he would leave Westport to-morrow by the night train for Dublin, in order to catch the early boat that leaves Kingston for Holyhead.”

Upon the following morning the artist, slinging his knapsack across his back, started in the direction of the Glendhanarrahsheen valley.

“I want to make a few sketches of the coast scenery about May Point,” he observed.

“There is better scenery in the Foil Dhuv, about two miles farther on; and, bless my heart! you’ll be quite close to Moynalty Castle, and why not go in and see their pictures, your own especially, in such a grand gilt Dublin frame?”

Simple priest! Artful artist!

It was a delightful morning that was shining over Monamullin as the artist quitted it en route to—May Point, of course. The sea, like a great sleeping monster, lay winking at the sun, and but one solitary ship was visible away in the waste—a brown speck in a flood of golden haze. If young gentlemen would only put the single “why?” to themselves in starting upon such expeditions, it might save them many a heartache; but they will not. Any other query but this one. What a talisman that small word in every effort of our lives!

Brown felt unaccountably joyous and brave, charmed with the present, and metaphorically snapping his fingers at the future. A morning walk by the deep and dark blue ocean summons forth this sensation. You bound upon air; champagne fills your veins; all the ills the flesh is heir to are forgotten, all the phantoms of care and sorrow are laid “a full fifty fathom by the lead.”

It is a glorious seed-time, when every thought bears luscious fruit.

650He travels merrily onward, now humming a barcarolle, now whistling a fragment of a bouffe, until he reaches the gloomy defile known as the Valley of Glendhanarrahsheen. A turn of the sylvan sanded road brings him in sight of the lordly turrets of Moynalty; another turn, and lo! he comes upon no less a personage than Miss Jyvecote, who, with her married sister, a Mrs. Travers, are driving in the direction whence he had come. Juey was Jehu, and almost pulled the ponies upon their haunches on perceiving our hero.

“This is a condescension, Mr. Brown,” she said, presenting him to her sister. “Will you take a seat?”

“Thanks, no; I am about to ascend that mountain yonder,” pointing vaguely in the direction of the range known as the Twelve Pins.

“Then we shall expect you to luncheon at two o’clock.”

“I’m afraid not. I purpose returning by the other road.”

“What road? There is no other road.”

“Across country.”

“Then you do not intend honoring us with a visit?” Her tone was vexed, if not haughty.

Now, he had quitted Monamullin with no other intention than that of proceeding straight to the castle, and yet he replies in the negative. Let those better versed in the mysteries of the human heart than I am analyze his motives. I shall not endeavor to do so.

“Don’t you think you are acting rather shabbily?” she said, preparing to resume her drive.

He laughed.

“Au plaisir, then!” And with a stately salutation, courteous enough but nothing more, she swept onwards.

He watched the phaeton go 651whirling along the white road and disappear round a huge fern-covered boulder, and his vexation with himself grew intolerable.

“What an ass, what a brute I have been! What could I have been thinking about? Was I asleep or mad? Invited to the house, I actually refuse to pay the stereotyped visit. Why a counter-jumper would know better. How charming she looked! And that delicious blush when she met me! She seemed really pleased, too. What can she think of me? My chance is gone.”

He seated himself on the stump of a felled tree in his favorite attitude, having lighted his pipe.

“Might I thrubble yer honner for a thrifle o’ light or a bit of a match?” asked a passing peasant.

“With pleasure; take a dozen!”

The man looked puzzled; he had never seen wax vestas till now.

“They look mighty dawny, yer honner.”

“Do you belong to the castle?” asked our hero. Somehow or other the castle and its inmates were ever uppermost in his thoughts now.

“Yis, sir.”

“Is Mr. Jyvecote at home?”

“No, yer honner. I met him this mornin’ at Billy’s Bridge, makin’ hard for Westport.”

The cards all in his favor, and he wouldn’t play his hand! What did it mean? Would he go up to the castle, and, announcing himself to the châtelaine, pay that visit which conventionality demanded? No; he had swung into another current, and he would not alter his course. It was better as it was—ay, far better. And there came a sort of desolate feeling upon him, smiting him drearily like a dull ache. Had he seen the last of her? Was his life henceforth to be unlighted 652by the radiance of her presence? Here, in the mystic silence of Glendhanarrahsheen, came the revelation. Here did his own secret surprise him. He had allowed the image of this fair young girl to twine itself around his heart, till he now felt as if he could fling aside pride, reserve, past and future, just to hear her voice once more, to feel the tender pressure of her tiny hand.

And so he sat there dreaming, and fighting with his dreams, until his tobacco “gave out,” and until, shaking himself together, he summoned a supreme effort to help him on his road.

“It won’t do to be caught skulking here,” he thought.

The soft white shingle drawn from the brown-black waters of the lake muffle the sound of approaching wheels, and, ere he can return to a coign of vantage, the phaeton flashes past.

I have already stated that my hero was a young gentleman of warm temper, great energy, and prone to sudden impulses and unconsidered actions, and on this occasion he was true to his nature, for he shouted “Stop!” with the authoritative tone of a post-captain on a quarter-deck.

Miss Jyvecote pulled up.

The artist, glowing with a fierce excitement, plunged down the road and came up to the vehicle.

“Miss Jyvecote,” he pants, his handsome face flushed, his eyes flashing, “I don’t want you to think me a brute. I do not know why I acted so rudely this morning. I left Monamullin on purpose to come and visit you. Father Maurice says that open confession is good for the soul. You have it now. Do, please do forgive me.”

“Hand and glove,” she exclaims, 653holding out her coquettishly-gloved hand.

He jumped into the back seat, and, in a flutter of joyous commotion, was whirled to the grand entrance of the castle.

“You must first come and see my picture, Mr. Brown,” exclaimed Miss Jyvecote, leading the way to the turret chamber.

There was a courteous flattery in this that caused the heart of the artist to swell in admiring gratitude.

Later on they visited the gardens and the conservatories, tasting green figs and toying with luscious bunches of bursting grapes; and by and by came the presentation to Mrs. Jyvecote, who complimented him in pre-Raphaelite terms upon his greens, grays, opals, and blues.

“We want some one to continue the fascinating pages of Hook,” she said, “and I feel assured, Mr. Brown, that next year’s Academy will see you ‘on the line.’”

After luncheon they repaired to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Travers indulged in chromatic fireworks upon a superb Erard piano; and when she had risen the artist seated himself unasked, and sang a little love-song of Shelley’s in a baritone that would have pushed Mr. Santley a l’outrance. Song was one of Mr. Brown’s gifts, and his voice was cultivated to perfection. A deep, rich voice, sweet, sad words, with perfect enunciation of every syllable—ma foi, there are moments, and there are moments, and this was one of the latter in the life of Julia Jyvecote.

He sang Gounod’s Ave Maria as that sublime hymn has been rarely sung in a drawing-room—sang it with a religious fervor, and with a simple intensity of feeling that 654wrought its own magic. He felt his success, and smiled gravely to himself as he bent over the instrument, playing the closing chords ever so softly, until note after note fainted in sheer melody.

He was asked for Annabel Lee—for “that love that was more than love”—but refused. He possessed Tom Moore’s secret, and, having produced the desired effect, faded out like his own last notes. Mrs. Jyvecote tackled him upon art, Mrs. Travers upon music, and Miss Jyvecote was silent. Somehow or other in talking to her he was stupid and confused, while in conversing with the others he was at his best.

Pressed on all sides to stop for dinner and remain the night, he could scarcely refuse, although pleading dress and the probable anxiety of his host. The first point was settled by a declaration upon the part of his entertainers that it would be a treat to sit down in morning toilettes; the second by the despatching of a boy to Monamullin. Mr. Brown resigned himself to his fate and went with the stream.

How beautiful Miss Jyvecote looked in the mild radiance of the wax-lights which lit up the rooms at night—wax-lights everywhere—in the hands of Ninive dancing-girls, Dresden shepherdesses, oxidized silver sconces, and girandoles of quaint and cunning design. What rapture in being seated beside her, engaged in turning over the pages of a superb photographic album too heavy for her dainty lap, and resting upon his knees!

Why does he start and turn pale?

Why does Miss Jyvecote gaze at him, and with a merry laugh exclaim:

“Why, Mr. Brown, this photo is the very image of you.”

655Beneath the photograph were the words:

“To Jasper Jyvecote from Ernest Noel.”

“Three days away from me! Why, it appeared three weeks,” exclaimed Father Maurice, as the artist returned to the cosy cottage of the amber thatch and snow-white walls. “I knew you would appreciate the Jyvecotes, and I felt that they would appreciate you. Have you taken any sketches?”

“One, the lake of Glendhanarrahsheen, which I mean to finish; and then, padre, I must say adios to Monamullin for many a long day.”

“Tut, tut, tut, man! we can’t do without you,” said the priest; “and mind you, Mr. Brown, I’m sure the ladies at Moynalty would have their likenesses done, and give you a good deal of money for them, too—probably as much as five pounds apiece.”

“Five pounds apiece,” thought the artist, “and Millais getting two thousand guineas for a single portrait!”

“And I’m delighted to tell you, my dear friend, that your O’Connell has already got you a job. Mr. Muldoon—you might have noticed his shop nearly opposite the chapel, a most flourishing concern—is anxious to have his likeness done, and will have his wife and mother painted also, as well as his five children and his collie; and if his maiden aunt comes over from Castlebar he’ll throw her in, provided you can draw her chaise. So I think,” added Father Maurice triumphantly, “I have been doing good business for you in your absence.”

“Splendid, my valued host! But before I can touch these commissions I must finish the lake.”

“Of course, of course; there’s no 656hurry. But, mind you, Muldoon is ready money, and all you young fellows in the world require a little of that—not that you want it here,” he cried hastily, lest his guest might suppose that anything was required of him; “but when you take a day in Westport, or perhaps as far as Sligo, you’ll want many little things that couldn’t be had here for all the gold in the Bank of Ireland.”

The three days Mr. Brown had spent at Moynalty completely riveted the fetters which might have been easily burst ere the iron had grown cold. He endeavored to persuade himself that this visit was a mere romantic episode in the career of an artist—a thing to be talked of in the sweet by-and-by, and to be remembered as a delightful halting-place in the onward journey. He tried to fling dust in his mind’s eye, and but succeeded in closing the eye to everything save the glorious inviting present. He floated on from day to day in a sort of temporary elysium—why call it a fool’s paradise?—so tranquil that it was impossible pain or sorrow could be its outcome. An intimacy sprang up in this wild, strange, isolated place that a decade of London seasons could never have brought to ripeness, and he felt in the entourages of the palatial dwelling as though he was in his own old home. He rode, walked, boated, drew, and sang with Julia Jyvecote. She, too, would seem to live in the present, in the subtle, delicious consciousness of being appreciated—ay, and liked. The small chance of ever enjoying a repetition of his visit lent a peculiar charm to every circumstance, and forbade those questionings as to who’s who with which the favored ones of fortune probe the antecedents of the standers at 657the gates which enclose the upper ten thousand.

From the accident of the photograph he was playfully christened Sir Everard, and it became a matter of amused astonishment how readily he accepted the title and how unvaryingly he responded to a call upon the name.

He quitted Moynalty in a strange whirl of conflicting thought.

“May we not hope to see you in London, Mr. Brown?” said Mrs. Jyvecote, graciously coming upon the terrace to bid him adieu. “We go over in April, and our address is 91 Bruton Street, Mayfair. I know how sorry Mr. Jyvecote will be to have missed you, especially as he arrives here to-morrow; and I am also confident that he would be anxious to serve you—although,” she added, with a caressing courtesy, “a gentleman of Mr. Brown’s gifts requires no poor service such as we could render him.”

“How long do you remain in Monamullin, Mr. Brown?” asked Mrs. Travers.

“Until I finish a sketch of the lake here which Miss Jyvecote intends to honor me by accepting.”

“Oh! then we shall see much more of you.”

“I am compelled to raise the drawbridge and drop the portcullis upon the hope, Mrs. Travers. My working-drawing is here, and—”

“Then if Mohammed will not come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed. I’ll drive my sister over to service next Sunday, and see how the priest, the painter, and the picture are getting on.”

It was a great wrench to the artist to tear himself away, and the sans adieux that fluttered after him on the evening breeze seemed sad and mournful. Was the barrier between 658Mr. Jyvecote and himself utterly impassable? Could it not be bridged over? He could not assume the initiative. He would see Jyvecote and his whole race in—Yokohama first; and yet what would he not do to gain the love of the youngest daughter of the house! Anything, everything. Pshaw! any chance of wooing and winning such a girl should be through the medium of his title, his position, and by passing beneath the yoke of society. What sheer folly to think of her from the stand-point upon which he had been admitted to her father’s house! As the artist he was patronized, as the baronet he could be placed; and yet to win her as the artist would just be one of those triumphs which lay within the chances occasionally vouchsafed by the rosy archer. She had been silent, reserved, and had seemed shy of him. She spoke much of a man in the Guards, a chum of her brother Jasper; possibly this Guardsman was the man.

In musings such as these did Mr. Brown pursue his work, and the picture came to life beneath his glowing hands. The canvas, with all the necessary et cæteras, had arrived from Dublin, the good priest marvelling considerably at the pecuniary resources of his guest. “His little all,” he thought, “and he’s going to make it a present to my sweet parishioner.”

But a great surprise was in store for Father Maurice.

Mr. Brown had issued instructions to his London friend to forward the Stations of the Cross, free of all carriage, to the Rev. Maurice O’Donnell, P.P., Monamullin, Ballynaveogin, County Mayo.

This order was promptly complied with, and a lovely autumnal evening beheld the whole village, 659curs and all, turn out to speculate upon the nature of the contents of four gigantic wooden cases which were deposited in the little garden attached to the priest’s cottage. It were utterly useless to endeavor to describe the furore occasioned by the opening the boxes; the excitement rose to a pitch never realized in Monamullin since the occasion of the visit of the Archbishop of Tuam—the Lion of the Fold of Juda. Father Maurice fairly wept for joy; Mrs. Clancy insisted upon doing the Stations there and then; and as each picture was brought to light, from the folds of wrappers as numerous as those surrounding the body of an Egyptian mummy, a hum of admiration was raised by the assembled and reverential multitude. The good priest, never guessing the source from whence the splendid gift had emanated, endeavored to trace it to Miss Jyvecote—a belief which Mr. Brown sedulously sustained—and Father Morris, full of the idea, chanted whole litanies in her praises, scarcely ever ceasing mention of her.

“I’ll drive over to-morrow and tender her my most devoted gratitude. I’ll offer up Masses for her. I’ll—”

“She will be here to-morrow, father. Mrs. Travers is to drive her over. Don’t you think we ought to see about hanging the Stations? It will please her immensely to see them in their places in the church.”

A hanging committee was appointed and the work of suspending the pictures carried into instant execution. The mouldy little edifice was soon ablaze with gilding and glorious coloring, which, alas! but seemed to display its general dinginess more glaringly.

“My poor little altar may hide its diminished head,” said Father 660Maurice mournfully, brightening up, however, as he added: “But, sure, I’ll soon have Miss Jyvecote’s beautiful altar-cloth.”

The “castle people” arrived upon the following morning and were escorted by the artist to the church.

“You have come over upon an interesting occasion, Miss Jyvecote,” he said; “Father Maurice has received an anonymous gift of a set of Stations of the Cross, and he thinks that you can tell him something about them.”

Great was the astonishment of the simple priest when Miss Jyvecote disclaimed all knowledge of the presentation.

“Why, father, you must think me as rich as Miss Burdett-Coutts,” she cried. “These beautiful works of art have cost hundreds of pounds. Mr. Brown here will tell you how much they cost,” turning to that gentleman. How often a stray shot hits home! Mr. Brown had the receipted bill in his pocket at that particular moment.

“They are French,” he said, evading the question.

“Consequently more expensive, n’est ce pas?”

“They are not badly done.”

“They are on the borderland of high art, Mr. Brown. Why do you pooh-pooh them?”

Poor Father Maurice was fairly nonplussed. All his guesses anent the donor fell short, while his surmises died from sheer inanition. It could not be the cardinal. Might it be little Micky O’Brien, that ran away to sea and was now coming home a rich man? or Paudheen Rafferty, who was a thriving grocer in Dublin? For the first time in his life the parish priest of Monamullin felt uneasy, if not unhappy. What did it portend? Who could possibly take so serious an 661interest in the affairs of his little parish? Mr. Malachi Bodkin might have done so in the olden time, but the famine of ‘48 left him barely able to keep up Corriebawn. Sir Marmaduke Blake was a scamp who racked his tenants and spent his money in debauchery.

“I suppose I shall learn some day,” sighed the priest. “I must be patient, but I wish it was to-day.”

After luncheon—Father Maurice’s breakfast—the artist and Miss Jyvecote strolled along the shore. The sun seemed to shine with a certain sadness, the gray ocean to moan as if in pain, and the shadow of the “we shall not meet again” to hang over Julia and her companion as they seated themselves in a secluded nook surrounded by huge rocks—a spot in which the world seemed to cease suddenly.

“And so you think of leaving?” she said after a long silence, during which she drew eccentric circles in the sand with the tip of her parasol.

“My kismet says ‘yes,’ Miss Jyvecote.”

“Does your kismet say whither?”

“It points to that little village on the Thames called London.”

“We go to London next month, en route to Egypt. My sister Gussie—you never met her—who has been in Italy with my uncle, is recommended Egypt for her chest. Papa received letters yesterday.”

“How long do you think you will remain in London?”

“Only a day or two.”

“Might I hope to see you?”

“Why not? Our address is 91 Bruton Street, Mayfair.”

“Is—is Mr. Delmege, of the Guards, going to Egypt?”

She looked gravely at him, full 662into his eyes, as she replied, somewhat coldly:

“Not that I am aware of.”

His heart gave one great bound, as though a dull, dead weight had been suddenly removed.

“I hope to see your handicraft on the walls of the Academy when we return.”

“Sabe Dios!” he said, clasping his knees with his hands, and gazing out across the moaning sea.

“If you try you will succeed.”

“I have a very poor opinion of my own power of success in anything. I am colorless, purposeless.”

“Neither one nor the other. You have a noble profession, a glorious talent, and Father Maurice says you have a good heart. With three such friends as companions life is a garden of flowers.”

“And yet till within the last few days I have found it but a desert.”

Then silence fell upon both.

“Father Maurice will miss you dreadfully,” she murmured. She was very pale, and her dark eyes turned upon him with mournful earnestness. “He has become so much attached to you; and the poor little altar will miss your artistic grouping of the flowers. Do you know,” she added, “I shall say an Ave Maria when I visit the little church, and for your conversion?”

“Is that a promise, Miss Jyvecote?”

“It is.”

“Will you also”—he stopped suddenly short, and dug his heel into the sand.

“The shay is waitin’ for ye, Miss Jewel, and Missis Thravers is roarin’ murdher,” cried Murty Mulligan, thrusting his shock head between a cleft in the rocks.

Brown sprang to his feet and offered Miss Jyvecote his arm. 663Neither spoke during the walk to the cottage. “If you should hear of me through your brother, do not think ill of me,” he whispered, as he handed her into the phaeton.

“What do you mean?” she asked in as low a tone.

“Promise me that you will not forget Brown, the poor artist.”

“It is scarcely necessary,” she murmured, as she gave him her hand.

There was a blank at the priest’s home when the artist left. Father Maurice missed him sadly—missed his hit at backgammon, his gay gossip, and his cheery company.

“He was a rale gintleman,” said Mrs. Clancy; “he wanted for to give me a goolden soverin—mebbe th’ only wan he had—but I tuk a crukked ha’penny for luck, an’ it’s luck I wish him wherever he goes.”

“He was the nicest man, an’ the nicest-mannered man, I ever seen,” chimed in Murty; “an’ I’m in dhread that I spoke too rough whin he offered me menumeration.”

“He promised to come here next summer, and he will keep his promise,” said the priest.

Mr. Jocelyn Jyvecote was seated in the study at 91 Bruton Street, engaged in perusing the columns of the Times. He had slept well, breakfasted well, and was thoroughly refreshed after his journey, as he had arrived in town from the East upon the previous day.

A servant entered with a card upon a silver salver.

Mr. Jyvecote adjusted his eyeglass and leisurely lifted the tiny bit of pasteboard. “What does this mean?” he cried, letting it fall again. “Is the gentleman waiting?”

“In the ‘all, sir.”

“Show him in.”

664A tall, high-bred-looking young man entered. His face was pale and he somewhat nervously stroked a Henri Quatre beard.

“May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit from Sir Everard Noel?” demanded Mr. Jyvecote haughtily.

“I shall explain the purport of my visit in a few words.”

“Pray be seated.”

“Thanks! Mr. Jyvecote, there was bad blood and bitter feud between you and my poor father about the Ottley Farm.”

“You need scarcely remind me of that, Sir Everard.”

“There is bad blood between us, Mr. Jyvecote. You claimed it in right of an old lease that could not be discovered when the case came before the court, and I retain possession of it by law. The last time that we met we met in hot anger, and—and I used expressions for which I am very seriously sorry. So long as that farm is in possession of either of us it will lead to bad feeling, and I came here to-day to tell you what I mean to do about it.”

A somewhat less stern frown appeared upon Mr. Jyvecote’s features as he listened.

“Last autumn accident threw me into the wildest portion of the west of Ireland, a place not unknown to you—Monamullin.”

“It is within seven miles of Moynalty Castle.”

“I am aware of that. I was the guest of one of the purest men that God Almighty ever made—Father Maurice O’Donnell.”

“Your estimate is just, Sir Everard.”

“His soul is in his work, and his simple heart is fragmentarily divided amongst his little flock. I found his church dingy, dilapidated, falling. He is worthy of a better 665building; he is worthy of anything,” cried the young man enthusiastically.

Mr. Jyvecote bowed assent.

“Well, sir, I purpose selling Ottley Farm, and devoting the proceeds towards building a new church for Father Maurice O’Donnell. I have an offer of three thousand pounds for the farm, and here are the plans, prepared by Mr. Pugin—pure Gothic,” extracting a roll of papers from his pocket and eagerly thrusting them into the hands of the other.

Mr. Jyvecote leisurely surveyed them, while the young man regarded him with the most eager scrutiny. Suddenly flinging them upon the table, Mr. Jyvecote rose, and, taking Sir Everard Noel’s hand, shook it warmly.

“Noel, you are a fine-hearted fellow, and a chivalrous one. There are not ten—pshaw! there are not two men in London who would patch up a feud as you are doing to-day. I am better pleased to see you in this fine form than the acquisition of ten farms. Give the dear old priest his church, and for my daughter’s sake—I am as stanch a Protestant as yourself—I’ll put up an altar. Come up-stairs now, and I’ll present you to her.”

At this particular moment Miss Jyvecote entered the study. Upon perceiving our hero she grew deadly pale and then flushed up to the roots of her hair.

“Mr. Brown,” she said holding out her hand.

“You are mistaken, Juey; this is an old enemy and a new friend—Sir Everard Noel.”

The church was erected at Monamullin and is a perfect gem in its way, the talent of “all the Pugins” being thrown into the design. At 666its altar Everard Noel received his First Communion, and at its altar he was united to Julia Jyvecote by the proud, happy, and affectionate Father Maurice O’Donnell.

“An’ only for to think o’ me axin’ a rale live baronet for to paint the back doore,” is the constant exclamation of the worthy Mrs. Clancy.

RECENT POLEMICS AND IRENICS IN SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY.

667It is not always easy to draw the line, either in theology or philosophy, that divides the part which has been dogmatically or scientifically defined from that which remains open ground of discussion in the Catholic schools. Occasionally we are aided and favored by a new definition, made with supreme and final authority by the Holy See, which adds something, not to the immutability of truth itself, which is eternally incapable of the slightest alteration, but to the quantity of science as fixed and immutable in the conceptions of the understanding intellect. The authority of reason may also suffice to add to the quantity of certain science by inductions from facts made evident by experience, which have the force of demonstration. But the dogmatic definitions are not so numerous and frequent as some minds, impatient of discussion and difference of opinion, may desire. Rational demonstration, though fully sufficient to define scientific truth and terminate doubt in the understanding of those who clearly and distinctly apprehend it, is not always understood sufficiently for this purpose even by all intelligent, educated minds, at least for a considerable period. Discussion on important points is not, therefore, terminated between different Catholic 668schools, and agreement in doctrine established, as completely and speedily as might be desired by those who have a strong sense of the importance of unity in theological and philosophical doctrine. Some, who are animated by a polemical spirit, are disposed to claim for the doctrines of their own particular school a greater amount of dogmatic or scientific authority than that which is generally conceded to them. They are disposed to amplify the import of decisions or declarations made by the authority of the church, to magnify the authority of great doctors and masters in Catholic science, and to extend as far as possible the claim of metaphysical or moral certitude for the doctrines which they advocate. Others are animated by a more irenical spirit. They desire to moderate polemical ardor; to control the zeal for the triumph of particular systems, and the exaltation of individual masters in wisdom, within reasonable bounds; to harmonize all branches of science with each other; to observe the just limitations of dogmatic or scientific certainty; to extend the range of rational science by calm discussion which has only the attainment of truth in view; and, without compromising orthodox doctrine, to leave open and free to argument 669all that domain which has not been closed in by any final definition of competent authority. The polemical and irenical tendencies are not in real opposition. They are elements capable of combination with each other. We do not believe that differences of opinion among Catholic schools will ever be entirely terminated or controversy cease. Yet there is always an increasing approximation toward unity, and the irenical spirit aids this movement by diminishing misunderstandings and moderating controversial ardor. The Holy See not only at times decides and terminates controversies by a judgment, but also, at other times, refuses to pronounce judgment, and admonishes those who seek to stretch too far the import of her decisions to respect the liberty of opinion and discussion which she allows.

We have an instance of this in the subjoined documents respecting the philosophy of the venerable and holy Father Rosmini—a system which has at present a considerable following and is in very decided opposition to the ideological doctrine of the Thomist school, as well as to other parts of the common, scholastic teaching.

ROSMINI’S WORKS, AND THE JUDGMENT OF ROME UPON THEM.

(The following is a translation of the official communication which appeared in the Osservatore Romano of June 20, 1876.)

Most Illustrious Marquis:

In No. 136 of your esteemed journal, June 14, 1876, I have read with pain an article on a little work entitled “Antonio Rosmini and the Civiltà Cattolica before the Sacred Congregation of the Index, by Giuseppe Buroni, Priest of the Mission.”

You are well aware that the works of the distinguished philosopher Antonio 670Rosmini were made the subject of a most rigorous examination by the Sacred Congregation of the Index from 1851 to 1854, and that at the close of this examination our Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., still happily reigning, in the assembly of the most reverend consultors and the most eminent cardinals, whose votes he had heard, and over whom he deigned, with a condescension seldom shown, to preside in person, after invoking with fervent prayers the light and help of Heaven, pronounced the following decree: “All the works of Antonio Rosmini-Serbati, concerning which investigation has been made of late, must be dismissed; nor has this same investigation resulted in anything whatever derogatory to the name of the author, or to the praiseworthiness of life and the singular merits towards the church of the religious society founded by him.”

The author of the article referred to undertakes to discuss the meaning of the words Dimittantur opera, but, while professing to admit their force, he reduces it well-nigh to nothing. For he says: “We do not deny that Dimittantur is in a certain respect equivalent to Permittatur; but to permit that a work may be published and read without incurring ecclesiastical penalty has nothing whatever to do with declaring the work itself uncensurable.” Now, by these words one is led to suppose that the Sacred Congregation, or rather the Holy Father, by pronouncing that judgment, did nothing more than permit that the works of Rosmini may be published and read without incurring a penalty.

But I ask: What penalty did the editors and readers of Rosmini’s works incur before those works were subjected to so lengthened and accurate a scrutiny? None whatever. What, then, would the Sacred Congregation of the Index have done by such grave study and labors so protracted? Nothing whatever. And to what purpose would the judgment of the Holy Father have been given? To no purpose whatever. If, then, we do not wish to fall into these absurdities, we must say that the accusations brought against the works of Rosmini were false; that in these works nothing was found contrary to faith and morals; that their publication and perusal are not dangerous to the faithful. Who can ever suppose that the Holy Father has set free for publication works containing erroneous 671doctrines, and liberated the readers of them from penalty? To liberate from penalty the readers of books infected with error would be an act productive of greater injury than if a penalty were imposed or (assuming its previous existence) were maintained in full vigor.

I might touch on other points of the article in question, and show that its author has presumed to dive further than he ought into a matter which does not belong to him. But what I have said suffices to make it imperative on me to address this letter to you. As it may not be known to every one that the Master of the Sacred Palace does not, under existing circumstances, revise the journals, and as the character and fame of the Osservatore Romano might lead to a belief that he (the Master of the Sacred Palace) has approved of the article in question, I think it necessary to declare to you that I should never have given my consent to the publication of the same. Nay, I have to request that you will not, in future, receive any articles either on the sense of the judgment Dimittatur, or against the learned and pious Rosmini, or against his works, examined and dismissed.

I take this opportunity to remind all concerned that the Holy Father, from the time of the issuing of the Dimittantur opera, enjoined silence, and this in order that no new accusations should be put forward, nor, under any pretext, a way made for discord among Catholics: “That no new accusations and discords should arise and be disseminated in future, silence is now for the third time enjoined, on either party, by command of His Holiness.”

Who does not see that the seeds of discord are sown by traducing the works of Rosmini either as not being yet sufficiently examined, or as suspected of errors which were not seen either before or after so extraordinary an examination, or as dangerous; or by using expressions which take away all the value or diminish excessively the force and authority of a judgment pronounced with so much maturity and so much solemnity by the supreme Pastor of the church?

By this it is not meant to affirm that it would be unlawful to dissent from the philosophical system of Rosmini, or from the manner in which he tries to explain some truths, and even to offer a confutation of them in the schools; but 672if one does not agree with Rosmini in the manner of explaining certain truths, it is not on that account lawful to conclude that Rosmini has denied these truths; nor is it lawful to inflict any theological censure on the doctrines maintained by him in the works which the Sacred Congregation has examined and dismissed, and which the Holy Father has intended to protect from further accusations in the future.

Believe me, etc., etc.,

June 16, 1876.

The following appeared in the Osservatore Cattolico of Milan, July 1, 1876:

The Sacred Roman Congregation of the Index, by a letter addressed to His Grace the Archbishop of Milan under date of June 20, 1876, and signed by His Eminence Cardinal Antonio de Luca, Prefect of the Congregation, and the Very Reverend Father Girolamo Pio Saccheri, of the Friars Preachers, Secretary, and delivered by his grace in person to one of the responsible editors of this journal in the afternoon of Wednesday, July 28, has enjoined us:

“1. To maintain in future the most rigorous silence on the question of the works of Antonio Rosmini; because, in consequence of the authoritative decree of the Holy Father (That no new accusations and discords should arise and be disseminated in future, silence is for the third time enjoined on either party by command of His Holiness), it is not lawful—in matters pertaining to religion and relating to faith and sound morals—to inflict any censure on the works of Rosmini or on his person; the only thing upon which freedom is allowed being to discuss in the schools and in books, and within proper limits, his philosophical opinions and the merits of his manner of explaining certain truths, even theological. 2. To declare in an early issue of this journal that we have not rightly interpreted the sentence Dimittantur, which the Sacred Congregation of the Index thinks fit sometimes, after mature and diligent examination, to pronounce upon works submitted to its authoritative judgment.”

673Full of reverence for the supreme authority of the Holy See, and wishing to be faithful to our duty as well as to the programme of this journal, we, the undersigned, responsible editors of the Osservatore Cattolico, in our own behalf and of all who have written in our columns on the question aforesaid, intend to declare and do hereby declare in the most docile and submissive manner possible, that

1. As to the silence now imposed we repeat and confirm what we said on occasion of reproducing in this journal the letter of the Master of the Sacred Palace to the editor of the Osservatore Romano—viz., that it shall be observed.

2. The sentence Dimittantur, as used by the Sacred Congregation of the Index was not rightly interpreted by us.

Milan, June 30, 1876.

Another and more recent instance is that of the controversy concerning the constitution of bodies. A letter of the Pope to Dr. Travaligni, president of a scientific society in Italy, commending the effort to bring physical and medical science into harmony with the scholastic philosophy, was interpreted as giving authoritative sanction to a certain doctrine of the Thomist school. A professor in the University of Lille wrote a letter to the Pope on the subject, setting forth the differences of opinion and the continued controversies respecting the constitution of bodies, and praying for a positive decision. In reply to this the professor and all others interested in these questions were instructed, in a letter written and published by order of the Holy Father, that the Holy See had defined nothing in the premises, and that a solution of difficulties should be sought for by scientific investigation and discussion. We have not space for the publication of this letter, but 674it may be found in one of the back numbers of the Catholic Review of Brooklyn (Sept. 22, 1877).

As for the Rosminian philosophy, we agree personally with Liberatore and the Thomist school in rejecting it as scientifically untenable. Nevertheless, we have heretofore distinctly avowed that in a dogmatic aspect it is free from censure, and we are glad to see the matter placed beyond question, and the controversy relegated to its proper sphere as one debatable only on purely rational grounds. The other question is one which has been extensively discussed in our pages, and which we regard as extremely interesting and important.

The doctrine proposed and elaborately discussed in the articles formerly published under the title “Principles of Real Being” has been attacked by a very learned and able writer in a German periodical published at St. Louis, on dogmatic as well as philosophical grounds. This is a convenient opportunity to state that we have in manuscript a very long and minute defence and vindication of the doctrine advocated in these articles, written by their distinguished author, who is well versed not only in scholastic theology and metaphysics, but also in mathematical and physical science. We refrained from publishing his reply to the attack of his antagonist, partly because the discussion was too subtle and abstruse for our readers, and still more from unwillingness to engage in dogmatic controversy when there is a risk of perplexing pious minds. In matters really dogmatic and pertaining to Catholic doctrine we want no compromise or attenuation. We desire only the restriction of the argument from authority within its actual limits, that the discussion of matters 675purely philosophical may be carried on by rational arguments alone, without accusations of heterodoxy on either side. In respect to the essence and integrity of the scholastic philosophy according to the system of the two great doctors, Aristotle and St. Thomas, we are in hearty concurrence with the great intellectual movement of the revival and restoration of this philosophy as the only true and scientific metaphysics to its ancient dominating position. We do not, however, consider that a blind submission to the authority even of St. Thomas is reasonable. An author who, like Liberatore, professedly aims at nothing more than an exact exposition of the doctrine of St. Thomas undoubtedly renders a service to metaphysical science and its students. The writer of this article esteems very highly all the philosophical works of this distinguished Jesuit, and has used by preference, for several years, his Institutiones Philosophicæ ad triennium Accommodatæ as a text-book of instruction. Yet we cannot approve of such a complete abdication of original and independent investigation and reasoning as a rule to be followed in philosophical teaching. We do not find that the system of the strict Thomists is proved in a manner entirely satisfactory and conclusive, in some of its details, particularly in that part which relates to the harmony of physical with metaphysical science. There is such a thing as progress and development in theology and philosophy. The opinions of private doctors are not final. Neither St. Augustine in dogmatic theology, St. Alphonsus in moral theology, nor St. Thomas in both these sciences and metaphysics, though declared by the Holy See doctors of the universal church, were competent to pronounce final 676judgments; since they were not rendered infallible by the superiority of their genius and wisdom, from which alone their authority is derived. Their private doctrine, inasmuch as it passes beyond the line of the Catholic doctrine contained in their works and having its own intrinsic authority, has only a claim to a respectful consideration, with a presumption in its favor. In the last analysis all its weight consists in the rational evidence or proof sustaining it, which is lessened or destroyed by probable or demonstrative proof to the contrary. The Jesuit school has always insisted on these principles. While recognizing St. Thomas as master, it has diverged from the teaching of the Dominican commentators on St. Thomas, both in theology and metaphysics. Whether Suarez and others diverged or not from the genuine doctrine of St. Thomas, in their controversy with writers of the Thomist school, is a matter of dispute. The question as to what is the real sense and import of the doctrine of St. Thomas or of Aristotle is distinct from the question of the material truth and evidence of any controverted proposition. The latter is much the more important of the two, and reason alone must decide it, so far as it can be decided, in the absence of any authoritative definition. If philosophy, therefore, is to make any progress, and if there is to be any real approximation to unity in philosophical doctrine among Catholics, the authority of reason and evidence must prevail over all human authority, and exclusive devotion to systems or great names must be abandoned, that truth may be investigated and brought to light.

The great motive urged by those who write in a specially irenical 677spirit is to strengthen the combination of forces in the Catholic intellectual army for the polemical contest against error and doubt. That the sophists of heresy and infidelity may be confuted and vanquished, that those who are erring and out of the way may be reclaimed, that honest seekers after truth may be guided to a successful discovery of this hidden treasure, is the great object of Catholic polemics. The great field of contest is the philosophical domain. It springs to view at once that agreement in philosophical doctrine is of the utmost importance for the success of the Catholic cause in this holy warfare. Among those who have labored most zealously and successfully toward this end, the distinguished Jesuit Father Ramière stands pre-eminent. In his most recent publication, L’Accord de la Philosophie de St. Thomas et de la Science moderne au sujet de la composition des corps, prepared with the aid of another Jesuit specially versed in the physical sciences, he has made a deeply-studied and masterly effort at harmonizing the peripatetic system with the results of experiment and induction in modern chemical science. It is the most subtile and acute piece of argumentation which has ever proceeded from his pen. The doctrine of Aristotle and St. Thomas has hitherto been generally supposed to be in a diametrical contradiction to that of modern chemistry in respect to the combination of elements in the compound substances. The peripatetic theory has been, on this account, abandoned by most of our modern authors and professors in philosophy. A few, however, among whom Liberatore and the editor of the Scienza Italiana are conspicuous, have exerted all their power of subtile analysis to defend 678the Thomist opinion. Another recent writer, Dr. Scheid of Eichstädt, has endeavored to maintain the same thesis in the most exclusive sense, and attempts to prove that the Thomist theory alone is either compatible with the dogmatic definitions of the church or adequate to give a satisfactory explanation of the facts established by chemical and physical experiments. On the contrary, Dr. Frédault, who is a French physician and an advocate of the general doctrine of the Thomist school on form and matter, maintains that it is inadmissible in respect to the constituent elements of compound substances. In order to facilitate the understanding of the subject of controversy, we will cite from Father Ramière’s appendix a part of the Exposé parallèle des deux systèmes prepared by a distinguished professor in a Catholic college of France at Father Ramière’s request.

680The theory here presented under the name of the peripatetic, and claiming to be the genuine doctrine of Aristotle and St. Thomas, is frequently called the theory of substantial generations. Under that name it has been examined and opposed in the series of metaphysical articles in this magazine already referred to. It is necessary to explain, before proceeding further, that the term matter in scholastic philosophy denotes, not the complete material being or body, whether simple or compound, such as oxygen, water, iron, etc., but merely one element or component of the material substance—viz., the common, indeterminate element, which is the same in all, having a potency or receptivity for every possible determination, but no fixed and necessary union with any. It is the principle of extension, but not extended; the source of inertia and all that is passive, yet not a solid atom; the subject of qualities and active forces, but itself possessing no quiddity or quality, and not having existence, or the possibility of existence, except as joined with its compart, the active and determining element, joined with it in order to make any single material substance. This active element is called the substantial form, which is equally incapable of subsisting alone, and therefore has no separate being, yet is capable of giving its first being to matter, and thus constituting with it material substance. According to the peripatetic theory, as stated above, in chemical combinations which produce a new, compound substance, such as water, nothing remains of the components except the material substratum or first matter. The determining form which gave this matter its specific being as oxygen and hydrogen 681are destroyed, and a new form, the aqueous, springs forth to give the matter a new first being and constitute the substance water. There is, consequently, in this and every similar case, the generation of a new substance, in which the matter is pre-existent, but the substantial form is educed from the passive potency of the matter, [ex nihilo sui], or from utter previous non-existence.

Father Ramière maintains that this theory is the creation of the commentators on Aristotle and St. Thomas, but does not properly belong to the system of either, and can be refuted by arguments drawn from the works of both these great doctors. This is rather startling and contrary to the prevalent supposition. The Thomist writers, many of whom are men of the most remarkably acute power of analysis and thoroughly conversant with the works of these great masters, honest also and candid withal, have certainly not imputed a theory to Aristotle and St. Thomas which is a pure invention, or without plausible grounds and apparent reasons. Father Ramière gives an explanation which is at least ingenious and merits consideration. In the first place, he argues that the two doctors of peripatetic philosophy did not reason from à priori principles respecting the composition of bodies. They both taught that celestial bodies are composed of what they called materia quinta, which is incorruptible by reason of the inseparability of its form from the matter. The separability of matter and form in earthly bodies, therefore, belongs to them as a peculiar kind of bodies, composed from what were supposed to be the four simple elements of earth, air, fire, and water. 682The fact that these elements are transformed one into the other in the transmutation of substances led to the conclusion that there was a common substratum underlying all, which remained under different substantial forms. But since chemistry has discovered the really simple bodies which are not susceptible of mutual transmutation, and cannot be resolved into other substances by mechanical or chemical agents, Father Ramière argues that the very principles enunciated by Aristotle and St. Thomas respecting materia quinta require that oxygen, hydrogen, etc., should be placed with it under the same category. Moreover, he maintains that the permanence of what we now know to be simple substances and irresolvable in combination, was really taught under another concept and with different terms by Aristotle and St. Thomas; that is, that certain virtualities were recognized as remaining and exercising an active force in the compound or transformed substance, which is incompatible with the supposition that only nude matter remains, acted upon by a wholly different and entirely new active force. In regard to the human body, in particular, he shows an incompatibility between the explanation of the cause of death which St. Thomas gives and the peripatetic theory. The reason of death given by St. Thomas is that contrary forces are combined in the human body which are dominated by the vital force of the soul only to a limited extent and with a limited duration. When, by the laws of nature, these contrary forces begin to free themselves from the dominating vital force, decay commences, and is continued until they have freed themselves to such an 683extent that they destroy the aptitude of the body for receiving the mode of being from the soul which is called sensitive life. The soul then necessarily ceases to inform the body, and the two comparts of the human substance or essence are separated. The soul, being a self-subsisting, incorruptible form, an immortal spirit, departs to the sphere of spirits, and the body is dissolved by the force of natural decomposition. Now, according to the peripatetic theory, the soul, being the only substantial form or active force in the body, giving to the nude first matter of the body its first being or physical, corporeal existence, must be itself the active cause of decay and death. This is contrary to the teaching of St. Thomas that the soul gives only life to the body, and, so far from ceasing of itself the vital influx, would continue to exert it for all eternity, and thus make the body immortal, if other and contrary forces did not work within the body to make it incapable of receiving this influx, and thus force the soul to abandon it to itself and to the power of death.

Father Ramière acknowledges that it is difficult to make all the texts of Aristotle and of St. Thomas harmonize with each other, and to bring out a completely distinct and finished theory from their writings. He advances a conjecture, with some plausible appearance of probability, that some texts found in the works of St. Thomas have been interpolated by disciples who were more zealous than honest in their efforts to maintain their own system. The same conjecture has been made heretofore in regard to passages relating to the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception. Be this as it may, we think it is quite 684sufficient to explain obscurities of any kind which are found in the dogmatic or philosophical system of the Angelic Doctor, that he either had not time or any pressing motive for a thorough investigation and elucidation of the matters in question, or had not the requisite data before him for the deductions and conclusions pertaining to the case. It is more to the purpose to discuss the doctrine of the composition of bodies on its own merits, using all the facts discovered by experiment, and rational argumentation, aided by the light of all previous investigations, both physical and metaphysical. Left to its own intrinsic probability, the peripatetic theory is sustained by a kind of argumentation which seems to be more ingenious than conclusive. Several of its ablest advocates have acknowledged that it is incapable of demonstration. It rests its claim to acceptance chiefly on aliunde considerations. And on the other side there are certain arguments which have not yet, so far as we know, received a satisfactory answer.

Father Ramière advances some of these with his usual subtlety and force, and at the same time with the most courteous moderation and respect toward his opponents.

It is admitted—as it indeed must be, for there is no escape from evident facts—that a chemical re-agent applied to a composite substance like water brings back the component elements in their former proportions. Water gives up its eighty-eight parts of oxygen and its eleven parts of hydrogen. What is the producing cause of these so-called new substantial forms which invariably make their appearance ex nihilo sui? When the soul, which is said to be the only substantial 685form of the body, leaves it in its nudity as first matter, without first being, quiddity, or quality, and, as it would seem, doomed to annihilation, what is the cause which produces the cadaverous form, that suddenly appears to actuate the matter and give it being as a corpse? Here Father Ramière has made one of his most dexterous logical passes—one which it will require great dialectical skill to parry. The editor of the Scienza Italiana replies thus to the question as to where these forms come from:

“Certain forms do not come to the subject from an extrinsic cause, but spring up within the subject, by educing them (traendole) from the potentiality of the same subject.” Father Ramière desires to be informed “what is the object to which the active verb traendole is referred; what is that which educes these forms from the potentiality of the subject?” If no sufficient cause can be assigned by which substantial forms are educed, the theory becomes untenable.

Father Ramière devotes a considerable part of his treatise to a consideration of the important question, What is the true sense of the proposition that the rational soul is the form of the human body? This proposition, maintained by Aristotle and received by sound scholastic philosophy, has been defined as Catholic doctrine by the Council of Vienne and by Pius IX. Father Ramière refers to Father Palmieri, S.J., the author of a recent philosophical text-book of high repute, who “proves that the Council of Vienne by no means intended to condemn a doctrine maintained at that time and since by perfectly orthodox theologians. The error proscribed by the council is that which ascribes to the human body another 686vital principle besides the rational soul.” The Catholic doctrine is that the soul is forma corporis, in the sense that it is the life-giving principle of the composite, corporeal, organic structure which constitutes the human body in its physical though incomplete nature, as one compart of the total human composite, or complete human nature. Father Palmieri calls the bodily part a complete substance but an incomplete nature, as likewise the spiritual part, which is the soul. Father Ramière adheres to the common terminology which denominates each part an incomplete substance. As considered in distinction from the soul, it lacks its due complement, the vital principle which makes it a living body and sentient. The soul also, as distinct from the body, lacks the complement of its inferior vital force, which is an eminent kind of sensitive and vegetative principle contained in the same subject to which the attribute of rationality belongs, and giving to the subject—that is, to the soul—an exigency for a body as its essential compart. The soul and body complete each other in the human essence or nature. The body is passive and inert in respect to every vital force and function, without the soul. The soul remains in a merely potential state in respect to its inferior faculties, when separate from the body. In the composite essence, the human nature composed of soul and body, the body stands in the relation of materia to the soul, the soul in the relation of forma to the body. Thus is constituted the human, rational suppositum or persona, and the specific essence and unity of the human being, of man, according to his logical definition as animal rationale. We will let Father Ramière 687speak for himself, and explain at length in his own language what his own view is on this important topic:

“Between spiritual substance and body there is a complete opposition, and it is consequently absurd to suppose that a body can borrow from a spirit that by which it becomes body. Since the substantial form of a being is that which makes it formally to exist as such, the soul cannot be the substantial form by which a body exists as body, unless it is itself corporeal. It is the same with all forms essentially material, and consequently with all those which belong to the essence of the elementary substances. These forces, not being in the soul, cannot be destroyed when the elements pass into the body;^[82] yet they no longer exist in their former state of independence. They are seized upon and controlled by the superior force of the soul, elevated in a certain sort above their natural condition, and employed as instruments of the vivification of the matter of the body. Heretofore these elements formed so many independent unities; henceforth they become fractions of a whole to which the soul must give the specific determination. Their entire force continues to subsist; their being is not destroyed; but, under the domination of a new form, it acquires a new formal existence. It is thus that the soul is the principle of the substantial unity of man. It does not destroy the variety of the elements, but it unites them; it does not suppress completely their mutual opposition, but tempers it so far as to establish a condition of harmony. There is really but one substantial form in man—the reasonable soul, because this soul alone gives to the entire totality of the human being its substantial determination; it alone reduces the diversity of elements to unity. It confers upon the body, by its union with the same, 688something which is not a mere accident but a new being, the being of humanity, which raises it above all purely corporeal beings, and constitutes it within the generic class of rational substances.

“The modern theory, understood in this sense, is in perfect agreement as to its substance with the peripatetic doctrine, and safe from all the dangerous tendencies imputed to it. There is no just cause for repeating any longer the accusation heretofore made against this theory that it suppresses the substantial unity of bodies, since, as we have shown, so far from destroying this unity it presents it as it subsists in various grades, proportioned to the relative degrees of perfection in substances, much better than the other systems. There is even less foundation for the pretext that the theory in question is in opposition to the definitions of the church regarding the union of soul and body in man. What, in fact, do these definitions affirm? That the soul is the true form of the human body, which it informs and vivifies, not accidentally or mediately, but immediately and essentially. Now, all this is perfectly verified in our theory, which supposes that the body receives its life, its specific nature, its existence as human body, without any interposing medium, from the soul. Moreover, its union with the soul, so far from being regarded as accidental, is shown to be, on the contrary, substantial, in whatever aspect it is considered, whether on the side of the soul or on the side of the body: on the side of the soul, which without this union would be unable to exercise several faculties proceeding from its essence; on the side of the body, which receives from this union the substantial complement of its elements. When, therefore, we examine closely that argument which is the strongest, if not the only, one sustaining the contrary theory,^[83] we perceive that it resolves itself into a mere equivocation. The partisans of this theory, who sometimes reproach their adversaries with equivocating in respect to the words ‘substantial and accidental,’ do not perceive that they themselves commit this fault. They confound that which is indispensable to a being that it may exist, with that which is indispensable to it that it may possess the integrity of its nature. Union with the body 689is not essential to the soul in the former sense, as all acknowledge, but it is certainly not allowable to conclude from this that it is purely accidental to it. We may very justly call substantial, and even essential, all that which is exacted by the nature of anything. Now, union with the body is certainly exacted by the nature of the soul, which differs mainly from pure spirits by this exigency. Nothing could be more contrary to the principles of scholastic philosophy than to regard that property pertaining to the soul which adapts it to be the form of the body as a simple accident; but if this is an essential property, union with the body cannot be considered as purely accidental, even admitting that the body is composed of elements endowed with their proper forms. Let us apply the same reasoning to the elements, which are themselves made in order to unite themselves with other elements, as the soul is made in order to unite itself with the body; and by this simple distinction of the two senses of the word substantial we shall eliminate the doctrinal misunderstanding which makes a division between us.

“How, then, could it happen that this division has been so long continued? It is because the distrust of the defenders of traditional philosophy has been provoked by the presentation of the theory at the present day generally adopted by scientists, as an innovation. This distrust will have no longer any object, and harmony cannot fail to be re-established, from the moment when it shall be recognized that the modern experimental science is in perfect harmony with the principles laid down by Aristotle and accepted by St. Thomas.”

The professor of physics who prepared the Exposé given in Father Ramière’s appendix presents very distinctly and strongly what is the common sentiment, especially of those who are devoted to the study of physical science, in our modern Catholic schools:

“The peripatetic system on the composition of bodies is rejected by the greater number of Catholic philosophers, because this system, considered metaphysically, sustains itself solely on equivocations and the begging of questions (Card. Tolomei), and has no demonstrative 690force (P. Zigliara); considered psychologically, it gives a handle to materialism; considered in the aspect of the chemical sciences, it is in evident contradiction to their experimental facts; considered historically, it has been, so far as its psychological part is concerned, always combated by the school of Alexander de Halès, St. Bonaventure, Scotus, and the Franciscans; was condemned in the thirteenth century by all the doctors of the English universities, together with a majority of those of the Sorbonne; and in the eighteenth century was commonly repudiated by all the schools, with the exception of the most rigid Thomists.”

There is certainly no chance whatever that this theory will ever regain any considerable sway from the mere weight of authority which belongs to it from the traditions of the past. As Father Ramière justly remarks:

“We must not forget that the present discussion appertains to the purely scientific order, and must consequently be definitively decided not by authority but by reason. So long as the rational arguments which overturn the theory contrary to our own have not been refuted, nothing will be gained by the effort to prove from a literal interpretation of some texts that this theory belongs to St. Thomas. The only interpretation admissible in this case is the rational interpretation, which clears up obscure texts by the perfectly clear principles which the holy doctor loudly proclaimed. It is thus that we explain many difficult passages in the works of the eagle of Hippo; and those who act otherwise, far from proving in this way their respect for him, really inflict an outrage on his memory by putting him in opposition to himself and to the truth. Let us not do a similar wrong to St. Thomas. As he was always attentive to correct himself even to the end of his short career, we can be sure that, if his mortal existence had been prolonged to our day, he would not have failed to clear up that which remained in obscurity in his writings, and to complete, by the aid of new discoveries in science, what was necessarily incomplete in his theories. Let us act in the same manner, and not fear to show ourselves more faithful to 691the spirit of the doctrine of St. Thomas than to the letter of a certain number of texts found in his writings.”

Father Ramière could not have expected to put an end to the controversy by his short essay, and, in fact, the only immediate result of Dr. Frédault’s larger work and his own briefer piece of argument has been to call forth rejoinders from the Scienza Italiana and the Civiltà Cattolica. Some of the advocates of the peripatetic theory are unquestionably as well versed in the physical sciences as their opponents. Their studies in chemistry and other branches of science have made them dissatisfied with the prevalent modern theories on the constitution of bodies, and they have for this very reason sought for a more philosophical doctrine in the ancient metaphysics. It is not to be supposed that they will yield to anything short of cogent reasoning, or that any agreement in unity of doctrine can be produced, unless some really solid, satisfactory, and conclusive theory is presented with such convincing proof and evidence that it must command general assent. Until this is done there is no choice except to continue the discussion. If it is interminable, then all sides must agree to differ, and in such a case it is quite natural to fall back on the authority of great men who are supposed to have been gifted with extraordinary perspicacity of intellect, and to have seen into things more clearly and deeply than modern men are able to do, perhaps by the aid of supernatural light. If the constitution of bodies is an impenetrable mystery, we must be content to remain in our ignorance, and accept whatever formulas of metaphysical or physical statement seem to us the best expression of 692the vague and confused notions we possess. We are not quite prepared to accept this situation as inevitable, and it is certain that not only on the European continent, but in England and America also, the reviving interest in metaphysical studies and the necessity of combating materialism will stimulate an effort toward a more perfect evolution of the truth contained in the ancient philosophy by the help of mathematical and experimental science. It may be asked what metaphysics and theology have to do with these matters, which seem to belong to the domain of physics. We reply to this question in the words of Father Ramière:

“The question what is in general the nature of material beings, and what is in particular the nature of man as appertaining by his corporeal part to the material world, does not belong, at least exclusively, to physics; it is also within the domain of philosophy and theology. The special object of physics is the study of the sensible properties of bodies, the observation of the phenomena by which the different forces with which they are endowed manifest themselves, and the determination of the laws which regulate the exercise of these forces. The investigation of the essential properties which enter into the very idea of body and distinguish it from spiritual being belongs to metaphysics. And since, in man, the body, united with the spirit, participates in its destiny; since, in Jesus Christ, the corporeal world has been associated to the divine dignity, theology cannot give us a perfect knowledge of our destiny and our deification by the divine Person who assumed humanity, without availing itself of the aid which is furnished by an exact notion of the nature of bodies.”

It seems to us that the real point of difficulty and of controversy respecting the “nature of bodies” lies deeper than any of the questions proposed by Father Ramière, 693and that the whole discussion must start from this point in order to be thorough and decisive. It is no solution at all of the question, What is the nature of corporeal being? to tell us that bodies are material substances endowed with determinate forces, or composites of such substances. The drop of water, mechanically divided, gives us only minuter and minuter molecules of water. But since, chemically divided, it gives oxygen and hydrogen in composition with each other to form these minutest molecules, there must be in each of these molecules others of such minute quantity as to elude experiment, which are composed of still smaller distinct molecules of oxygen and hydrogen. One of these molecules of oxygen, considered apart from all other corporeal beings, must be itself constituted by smaller molecules or of some more simple elements. We must come at last to these simple elements, and ask the question, What constitutes the entity and first actuality of these elements? Boscovich and Leibnitz, two of the most original thinkers of modern times, both of them well versed in mathematics as well as eminent in metaphysics, have presented the theory of simple monads, which are dynamic centres radiating in space upon each other the active forces which produce extension, quality, motion, and every kind of material substance with all their specific differences. Father Bayma, in his remarkable work Molecular Mechanics, has presented the hypothesis that these simple elements are each separately endowed with only one force—that is, either the attractive or repulsive. The laws of molecular mechanics have been exposed in this treatise with rigid and complicated 694mathematical demonstrations. The metaphysical part of this hypothesis has been fully developed, so far as its primary and essential principles are concerned, in the pages of this magazine. The arguments by which this hypothesis is sustained and the contrary ones overturned we have never seen fairly and distinctly answered. Certain objections are made, such as these: that a force is not a being in itself, but needs a substance to support it; that dynamism takes away the reality of matter, that it makes material substance like spiritual substance, that it gives no basis for extension and continuous quantity, etc. We think there is some misunderstanding of terms and concepts in the minds of those who make these objections. We understand in this theory such terms as “active force” to denote not an attribute or product without subject or cause, but a principle from which force proceeds, which is also a passive principle upon which active force terminates. It is a real being, simple, unextended, not a body or a spirit, having position but not quantity, marking by its existence a point in space, the first element of the primary composite body or molecule, distinguishable in respect to its matter and form, but not separable, any more than the centre and circumference of a circle are separable. It is a substance, standing in se et per se, in respect to existence, but expressly created for entering into composition with similar entities, in order to make bodies with the various attributes and accidents, active powers and passive potencies, which experience shows them to possess. It is not a spirit, because it has no capability of consciousness, intelligence, or volition, but is simply determined 695by its grade of being to act in space by means of motion. It is ens mobile, and the beginning of physical quantity, as the point is the beginning of abstract quantity in geometrical science. As to the difficulty of conceiving how extension arises without a first material continuum to begin with, we think this objection is counteracted by the arguments proving that such a continuum is an absurdity and an impossibility.

The great desideratum in the question of matter is to find the invariable and indestructible element, which remains, and will forever remain, the same amid all transmutations of bodies, the ultimate substance endowed with a perpetual existence in se, and competent from its potency and active power to be the principle of every possible combination and mode of being within the limits of the purely corporeal essence. Such a principle seems to be furnished by the theory of Boscovich and Leibnitz, as corrected and developed by Father Bayma. The simple beings endowed with attractive or repulsive force proceeding from a centre which marks a point in space, and having both a form and a material principle which are naturally inseparable, are capable of existing, each one alone by itself, and absolutely indestructible, except by annihilation. Though utterly useless and inoperative, except as existing in multitude and mutually acting on each other in their chemical and mechanical combinations they furnish the substratum of every kind of matter and form which can be predicated of corporeal being as ens mobile. The primary molecules of the simple bodies formed by the first combinations of simple elements are so firmly bound together 696that no power of which man can avail himself suffices to separate them, and we may suppose there is no power in nature which can break up their unity. Nor is there any difficulty in supposing that God can make bodies of any magnitude or composite perfection which are likewise incorruptible, in accordance with the ancient conception of materia quinta, or celestial, incorruptible bodies. The reasoning by which this dynamic hypothesis is sustained and contrary theories refuted seems to be extremely probable, and even, in certain parts, demonstrative, from its premises and data. If these include all which must be included, and nothing pertaining to the essence and integrity of the matter of demonstration is left out, the hypothesis is sufficient to account for all which must be accounted for, and by its simplicity recommends itself to the mind as proposing enough, and no more than enough, for a distinct notion of the nature of body and its specific difference from soul and spirit. Just here, it seems to us, comes in the need for more full explanation and evolution of the theory, and a more minute discussion between its advocates and those who advocate the theories of the rigid peripatetic system or the system favored by Father Ramière. We would like to see a more complete proof given that all which can be predicated of material substance, as such, can be referred to its nature as ens mobile, and accounted for by the two primitive forces of attraction and repulsion.

Especially when we consider the phenomena of organized, living bodies, vegetable and animal, the most important questions arise, demanding from each one of the different 697philosophical schools the answers which they are able to furnish, and an exposition of the way in which they seek to harmonize this particular portion of their respective systems with the first principles of philosophy, of physics, and of theology. The notions of potential matter and substantial form assume here a new import and present difficulties of the first magnitude, the solution of which in one way or another introduces most considerable modifications into the metaphysics and the theology of each different party in the controversy.

What is the principle of vegetable life and reproduction? If all the facts and phenomena of vegetable life can be explained by the laws of molecular mechanics and chemistry, the need for a distinct, simple form, vital principle, or vegetable soul, is removed; otherwise the hypothesis fails to meet the exigency of the case, and the reasoning of the peripatetic philosophers remains, in this respect, unanswered.

The question of the animal soul stands by itself, and is more important. Molecular mechanics and chemical combinations cannot produce a sentient subject or account for the sensible cognition which animals possess. There is certainly in the animal a distinct form giving to animal nature a potency and a power not reducible to attraction and repulsion between molecules, not a modification of mobility and motion. The ingenious scholastic theory gives us a formula which answers very well as a verbal statement of the difference between the irrational and the rational soul, between the brute and man. According to this theory, the animal soul is not a substance, is not capable of existing in se, depends on the 698body and is destroyed by its death, is not immediately created, but is educed, ex nihilo sui, from the potentiality of matter by the physical agencies and laws of generation. What is startling and puzzling about this theory is that it makes an organized, material body exercise sensible cognition. The soul is a mere substantial form, higher than the aqueous or igneous or cadaverous form, but of the same genus. It is educed from the potentiality of matter, and therefore matter is in potency to the sentient faculty, as it is in potency to have quantity, figure, color, and weight. Second causes suffice to evolve from its potency this new form of being in which it can see, hear, feel, imagine and remember, simulate many of the processes and actions of rational beings, enjoy and suffer, recognize friends and enemies, invent stratagems, play tricks, exercise courage, fidelity, fortitude, and constancy in affection, and show forth all those remarkable phenomena which make the animal, in one point of view, the greatest marvel of creation. If the animal soul is not a distinct substance, immediately created and having existence in se, the peripatetic theory, pure and simple, with all its mysteriousness, is preferable to any other, and its failure to give demonstration and satisfy the ingenium curiosum of many searchers into the secrets of nature is a necessary consequence of the impenetrable mystery which shrouds the essence of material being.

If the animal soul is a substance, we must admit a grade of being between the corporeal and the rational natures, an inferior kind of spirit, similar to the human soul in respect to that which makes it fit to be the animating principle of an organic 699body, destitute of intelligence and incapable of activity independent of its bodily organs, yet, as a substance in itself and a simple being, not destructible by corruption. It is a maxim in philosophy that there is no destruction of anything once created by annihilation. It continues to exist, therefore, after the death of its bodily compart. If the anima belluina is imperishable, what becomes of it when the animal dies? Even the human spirit, though capable by its intellectual faculties of living a separate life, has an intrinsic exigency for a body which it can animate; much more, then, the anima belluina, which is a principle of animal life and activity, and nothing more. There is nothing superfluous or useless in nature, yet this kind of soul, continuing to exist without a body, is a useless thing. Moreover, although the more perfect animals manifest qualities which can easily be taken to indicate the presence of a vital principle which is a distinct substance, what shall we say of those which can be divided into sections, each of which continues to live; and of those which approach so near to the line of demarcation between animal and vegetable life that the difference between the two seems to reach a vanishing-point, and they shade into each other by nearly imperceptible gradations?

This is enough to show how serious is the task of reconciling philosophical parties, and settling the disputes about the constitution of bodies, matter and form, and all their cognate topics, and making a perfect synthesis of physics and metaphysics. Mathematics come in also, with the consideration of quantity, space, infinites and infinitesimals, demanding a place in a really complete synthetical exposition 700of fundamental and universal philosophy. There is room enough for a great genius who shall be a continuator of the work of St. Thomas. If such a man should arise, he would need to have all the intellectual gifts and all the knowledge of a great metaphysician, a great mathematician, and a great physicist, combined under one form. There has been but one Aristotle and one St. Thomas, and we cannot tell whether or no any other man like them, or even equal to Suarez, will be granted to the science of philosophy. It seems that we need some man of that kind to deal with the obscurities and ambiguities, the new aspects and new relations of scholastic metaphysics, and with the peculiar mental attitude and habits of thought and expression belonging to our own time. The English-speaking part of the educated world certainly needs the service of some really original thinker, as well as learned and acute expositor, to make all that is certain or highly probable in the Thomistic philosophy thoroughly intelligible, and to accomplish whatever is requisite and possible in advancing this philosophy toward a desirable completion. Able and learned expositors of the ancient philosophy are not lacking in Italy and Germany, but it seems to us that some higher degree of original power of thought and expression than is found even in the most eminent of these authors is desirable for the masterly handling of certain questions of present controversy.

Father Ramière considers that the time has come to hope for and attempt the construction of “the majestic temple of Catholic science, whose base is laid in the infallible dogmas of faith and the immovable principles of reason, whose stories 701are erected by the co-operating labor of observation and reasoning, whose circuit embraces the entire expanse of human knowledge, in which facts and laws, experimental and abstract sciences, the truths of the natural and those of the supernatural order, complete, strengthen, and embellish each other by their mutual agreement.” That “complete synthesis, to which all the particular sciences are attached as branches of a tree to the trunk,” he considers to have been fifty years ago apparently impossible, though the conception of it may have been latent in some minds, but at present to be really within the power of combined and rightly-directed intellectual effort to achieve.

So far as essentials are concerned, we are convinced that the learned and pious Jesuit is not without a solid ground for his enthusiastic prognostication of the advancement of Catholic science. In respect to the special topics of which we have been writing in the present article, we are not very sanguine of a speedy adjustment of the controversies which divide Catholic philosophers and others, whether physicists or metaphysicians, who investigate and argue upon the nature of material substance. There is yet a good deal of discussion and controversy to be gone through, and we confess we are in doubt how far it will ever terminate in a conclusive and final result. There are limitations to human knowledge which are not precisely determined. The space of the unknowable lies around our restricted sphere of the known and the knowable. Happily, it is not necessary for the substantial solidity and practical utility of rational metaphysics and ethics, much less for theological certainty in the 702matters of real moment, that all the interesting and abstruse questions of controversy between different schools should be decided. Apparent “antinomies of reason” may furnish a pretext to the sceptical and captious, but they prove only the limitation of intellect and reason, our imperfect and inadequate conceptions of the terms and premises which we reason about and from which we draw conclusions, and the defectiveness of language as the medium of thought. The certainties of reason, of history and experience, of the judgments of the human conscience, of divine revelation, of Catholic authority, of the common sense of mankind, are amply sufficient for refuting every kind of infidel or heretical error which cloaks itself under a scientific pretext, and for proving and defending all that belongs to sacred dogma in faith or morals, or is in proximate connection with it. Unity and harmony in these things need not be disturbed by differences and discussions respecting all manner of scientific questions. We understand that this is what Father Ramière principally aims at, and he himself gives a good example of free and earnest controversial discussion conducted in the irenical spirit. We have always found his writings luminous, interesting, and profitable. We trust that he and his confrères will continue their labors in the same direction. We shall look also with great interest for the arguments by which the learned writers for the Civiltà Cattolica and Scienza Italiana and other advocates of strict Thomism maintain their own opinions. The Sovereign Pontiff, in his recent letter to the rector of the University of Lille, has declared that he desires all learned Catholics 703“should with one accord, although they follow different systems, turn all their energies to put down materialism and the other errors of our age.” This shows that, in the judgment of the Holy Father, agreement in these matters of actual difference is not a necessary condition precedent to combined and successful polemics against materialism and the other dangerous errors of our time. The Holy Father also exhorts “all whom it may concern” not to “scatter their forces by disputing with one another on questions which are matters of free opinion.” We understand this to mean that discussions should not degenerate into disputes of that kind which is hostile to the spirit of unity and charity, and not that discussion should be altogether abandoned. For, in another paragraph, he exhorts learned Catholics to “keep within the bounds of moderation and observe the laws of Christian charity while they discuss or attack systems in nowise condemned by the Apostolic See.” This may suffice for the present, and we trust that our readers who hold metaphysical articles in aversion will tolerate this one, in consideration of the long time they have been spared a similar trial of their patience.

In one of the least-visited churches of Ghent stands the most curious and characteristic thing in it—its organ: a contrast to the defaced wood-work and mouldering Renaissance plaster, to the unused and deserted chests in the vestry and the few benches in the choir. The paintings, the removable carvings, even some of the monuments, the choir-stalls and the stained-glass windows, disappeared long ago; the very name by which the church goes in the popular speech is ill-omened and mysterious. Old women cross themselves and shake their heads as they whisper the name of the Apostate’s church, and tradition tells the rare inquirer that this was a private chapel, the property of a once renowned family, noble and brave, but fierce and fanatical, well known in the town annals for centuries, and only struck from the roll of citizens and householders at the end of the great Flemish struggle of the sixteenth century, when the Protestants left Spanish ground for ever and found a new country in Holland. The disappearance of all valuable objects in the deserted church is ascribed—and perhaps truly—to many combining causes. Some were destroyed during the occasional image-breaking raids that distinguished the wars of the Reformation; some were sold or carried off by the family whose property they were, some confiscated or stolen by the triumphant Spanish government, or by no less indignant relations of the family, who, remaining behind, were anxious to prove by deeds their freedom from 706complicity with the apostate and fugitive Stromwaels. Such were the fragments of information to be picked up by any one in whom the simple people of the neighborhood had confidence; but whether every fragment was historical is another question. The church was in a lonely quarter of the town, the least altered by progress, where stood only small shops supplying the local wants, which in such populations and such places vary very little from those of five or six generations ago. A few spacious, comfortable houses showed among more cramped and less ornamented ones, but the aspect of all, if rather dead-alive, was very picturesque. The church stands in a narrow street and far from the house of its patrons, now used as a storehouse by the few wholesale dealers of this quarter, who each have one floor. In the attics live a few workmen and one or two nondescript, eccentric, and inoffensive persons, supposed to be pensioners of one of the dealers. One of these is a bookworm and supposed to know much of local legends and history. Being very poor, he frequents only the public library and such private ones as are accessible gratis to students; and when he wants to preserve information which he cannot purchase in the shape of printed books, he copies it assiduously on miscellaneous paper, recruited from old ledgers, bank and register books, large parcels, etc., besides the little he buys or has been given to him. His notes thus present a very curious appearance, which he sometimes complacently connects 707with the possible researches and comments of scholars of two hundred years hence. One of his many little sheaves of manuscript came into my hands not long ago while I was poking about the neighborhood, looking for anything out of the way, and I was induced to go and see him. He was very shabby and commonplace, and a good deal smeared with snuff; neither his appearance nor his home was in keeping with the outward look of the houses, and there were no artistically-dilapidated surroundings to fill out the romantic sketch which my imagination had made before I was introduced to him. Travellers seldom mention their disappointments, and always make the most of their agreeable surprises, so that stay-at-home people are often deluded into a belief that every one on the European continent is more or less like a Dresden figure or an actor in a mediæval play. My friend, however substantial the entertainment might be which his manuscript and his narrative gave me, was decidedly a failure personally, but none the less was he to me a very important and, in a degree, even an interesting vehicle of information. A free translation of his manuscript is all that I can give; as to his absorbed manner in speaking, his evident interest in the past, and his self-forgetfulness when he got upon the subject of the stories he had dug out or pieced together from ancient papers, and his own impressions concerning whatever was uncertain—these it is impossible to convey to others. He asked me first whether I had examined the organ in the chapel. I had done so, and found its case a very beautiful piece of carving; the keys were kept speckless, and the front contained a 708remarkable group of figures, carved in wood and painted, representing our Lord and the twelve apostles. The instrument stood in a high tribune looking into the choir, and reached by a separate staircase, narrow and winding. A carved railing gave this tribune something of the look of a balcony, but it scarcely projected forward into the chapel; the carved front of the organ and the gilt pipes were visible from below, and a tapestry curtain hung from an iron rod on each side of the instrument, concealing the back entrance into the tribune. The peculiarity about this organ was that it was all but dumb, and had never given a satisfactory sound since its maker had bid it be silent. It emitted some doleful sounds, if struck, but for all musical purposes it was useless. The situation it was in, and the defects in its interior, besides a third reason still unforgotten by the popular mind, accounted for its having been left when the rest of the church treasures were carried off. As a relic of antiquity it was valuable, exhibiting as it does the state of mechanical art at the beginning of the sixteenth century; but it was still more interesting as the tangible proof of a story connected with its maker, the organist of the church in 1505. This my old friend of the attic had written out in the queer-looking manuscript I have mentioned.

Nicholas Verkloep was born a servant of the Stromwaels, and brought up in their household in the very house where I read the story. His parents kept the outer gate, and the boy passed through the usual stages of service common to lads of his position, now a favorite, now a butt, according to the 709humor of his master and each member of the family, but all the spare time at his command was devoted to music. He haunted the churches, and begged his way into choirs and libraries, learnt all the church music he could pick up by his ear, the hints of choristers, and the few explanations in the manuscript chant-books of the time, and at last begged to be allowed to blow the organ-bellows at the family chapel. Meanwhile, he joined in the services, and drew on himself the notice of the old organist, who grew so fond and proud of him that he taught him all he knew, taught him to play the organ, and asked the Count Stromwael to allow him to bring the boy up as his successor. Nicholas was fifteen when this request was granted, and henceforth he nearly lived in the chapel. Not only the music of the organ fascinated him; he grew absorbed in studying its mechanism, and would crouch for hours within the instrument, getting his eyes used to the darkness, and learning by heart the “feel” of each piece. This developed all sorts of oddities in him: he grew absent-minded, and often unconsciously moved his fingers as if at work. Soon after he began to make models of various parts of an organ, indifferently the inside and the outside; for carving seemed as natural to him as mechanical dissection. He had not the same conservative feeling about things as is common among our present musicians, and the fact that the Stromwael instrument was a hundred and fifty years old, and had gone through many repairs as time went on and new improvements succeeded each other, did not prevent him from feeling certain that he could make a much better organ in a very short time. 710His plans were manifold; the subject grew and grew in his mind; the additional stops which he added in imagination disgusted him with the music he could draw from the instrument at present; and while every one in the town was excited about the wonderful young player who bade fair to be a prodigy, he himself was impatiently bewailing his drawbacks.

He told no one but his old master of his hopes and his expectations, and this confidant was certainly the safest he could have; for the old musician was a contented and patient man, used to his old ways, firm in his old traditions, not caring to travel out of his old grooves, and rather resentful of the idea that what had been good music and perfect mechanism in his time should not be good enough to satisfy the fastidious taste of a young beginner. Yet he was fond of his pupil, who used to soothe him by the saying that each generation had a new door to open and a new room to explore in the house of knowledge, and that he ought not to grudge him his appointed advance, any more than Moses grudged Josue his succession to the leadership. In truth, the old man was secretly proud of his clever scholar, and, perhaps unconsciously to himself, expected even more of him than the youth did of himself. The two lived together in the house of their patron, but had little intercourse with the rest of the mixed household, more gay and more ignorant than themselves, and my snuffy old friend nursed the belief that he had discovered the room which was home to these two. It was a small attic chamber looking towards the church, and in a chest in it had been found remnants of wood, wire, and leather, as 711well as some strange-looking models and bits of carving, with rough sketches on strips of parchment, all of which I had seen in their case in the museum at the Town-hall. On the walls were some doggerel Latin verses and some rather indistinct marks, which, nevertheless, the most learned musician in the town had pronounced to be, most likely, a sort of musical short-hand, understood only by its author. All this I also saw, and, having no opposite theory to uphold, was glad to believe remains of Nicholas.

Now, says the manuscript, there were found notes and jottings besides plans and sketches, and it seems plain from these that the young organist wished eagerly to make a new organ, on which no one but himself should work; indeed, this idea grew to be a monomania, and he devoted to it all the energy and interest which a man generally spends on wife, children, friends, home, profession, and advancement. But the count was an obstinate conservative, and scouted the idea of replacing his time-honored family organ by a new one, the work of a crazy youth, even though he were the best player and composer that ever breathed. The old organist and his pupil had many anxious talks on the subject. In those days it was not easy to transfer your domicile and allegiance to a patron better suited to you; family bondage still held good in practical matters; the Stromwaels had given him all the home and education he had, and, in fact, he belonged to them. Besides, the count was as proud of his human possession as he was of his ancient organ, and set as much store by the reputation of the marvellous young musician whom he 712owned as he did by that of his best-bred falcon, dog, or horse. He would not have given up any of these; they were all ornaments to his name, and it was fitting that he should not be beneath or behind any of his townsmen. He was not old enough to give room to hope for a change of circumstances through his death, and Nicholas became every day more discontented at his prospects. He was more reserved, morose, and morbid than ever, and as he grew odder the more was his music admired. Strangers from neighboring towns came to hear him play; the towns-people begged him to teach their sons; women looked up at the gallery where he sat with his back to them, with eyes that told of as ready an inclination to love the player as to admire the music; wealthy foreigners sent him presents of money or jewels, after the fashion of the times; but nothing seemed to elate, or even interest, him.

One day, while he was sitting at the old organ, poring over his plans for a new one, and contrasting the existing instrument with the possible one, a man lifted the curtain which then, as now, covered the entrance to the tribune. He was a stranger to Nicholas, and seemed elderly; he was very quietly dressed in black, and wore a sword. The young man looked up in bewilderment, but rose and welcomed the unknown, who sat down with great composure by his side on the wide carved bench in front of the organ. He spoke Flemish, but Nicholas thought with a foreign accent, which, however, he could not localize.

“You will forgive my curiosity,” he said, “in coming here. I have often heard you play from below, 713and to-day, passing by the open door, I came into the chapel in hopes of hearing something, but met your little blower lying asleep on the altar steps, woke him up, made inquiries, and decided to come up.”

“You are very welcome,” said Nicholas in a low voice, politely but not cordially, and speaking with that resignation which well-bred but much tried misanthropes have but too much occasion to practise in all times and companies.

“I want to speak of something else than mere conventionalities,” said the stranger abruptly, “and I will begin by telling you that I quite understand and appreciate your distaste to general fellowship with your kind; I see no reason why I should be an exception, so you need not resort to courteous commonplaces. I have heard what is your aim, and only seek you because I think I may be of some use to you.”

Nicholas looked up, at first eagerly, then a shadow came over his face. Any allusion to future success fired him even against his will, but experience had always hitherto gone the opposite way. Taking the stranger’s permission literally, he said nothing, but looked at him inquiringly. The other went on after a pause:

“I think I can promise you the certainty, within ten years, of accomplishing your wish and seeing your organ, if not in this place, at least in some other quite as advantageous. I have oddities and fixed ideas myself, and understand them in others. In short, it rests mainly with you whether you like to accept my proposal or not.”

“There are conditions, then?” asked Nicholas, whom the belief of his time with regard to compacts 714with the devil imbued quite as strongly as if he had not been a genius, and who, in consequence, immediately jumped to the conclusion that this visit was not wholly natural.

“Yes,” said the stranger in his metallic voice, unimpassioned but compelling attention by some quality indefinable to Nicholas’ mind, yet surely present to his perception, “I always hedge in business with conditions; otherwise I should be a mere Haroun-al-Raschid, an experimenter in benevolence, which, though an amiable character, is a weak one. I hate weakness and I hate foolishness. I judged you to be neither fool nor weakling, and so sought you out. The conditions are very simple: I want you to bind yourself to my secret service for ten years, and in return I promise you the fulfilment of your wish at the end of that time. In the meanwhile your fame will increase, your powers as a musician will be unrivalled; you will play and compose so as to rouse the jealousy of all your profession; you will be in danger, but will never be struck down; you will have full time for work and study, yet you must always be ready to leave everything instantly when I call upon you; you will be my right hand, but no one will suspect it; but if you once fail in your allegiance to me during these ten years, your object will be frustrated at the end of that time.”

“But,” said Nicholas, who had listened, growing more fascinated as the stranger spoke, and by his eagerness and play of features guiding unconsciously the latter’s fast-increasing promises—“but what power have you to bring such things about? Count Stromwael is a great man, besides being obstinate 715and perverse; how can you dispose of his property, and even his will?”

“And how,” quickly retorted the stranger with a cold smile, “can you be so imprudent as to speak thus unguardedly of your master’s defects to one whom you saw to-day for the first time, and whose name, position, and motives are unknown to you? Do you know that you put yourself in my power by these words? But I will partly answer your question. I know something of Count Stromwael, and what I know gives me the right to offer you what I do; and as I happen to want your services—they will never conflict with your outward allegiance to your patron—I make you the only proposal, as an equivalent, for which you care. If you cared for the common things—women, money, position—you would not be the person I want; such vassals can be bought by the cart-load, in every station in life, from the Countess of Flanders or the first lord of her household down to the ragged beggars or the sleek hypocrites who crowd the city. I want you, my fancy has chosen you, and I ask you will you buy success at the price of ten years of your life?”

“But why,” persisted the eager but uneasy Nicholas, “only ten years? Why not ask for my whole life?”

The stranger laughed oddly. “And your future life too?” he said. “Yes, I see what you are thinking of: that I want your soul. I will not deny your imputation; you flatter me by identifying me with one whose power is as dread as you have been taught to believe the devil’s to be, but I am quite truthful in saying that I do not crave more than a promise of ten years’ faithful and blind service. 716You may, if you can, redeem the sacrifice by a long after-life—I only ask ten years; at your age it is not much to give.”

“And if I should die before the ten years are over?”

The stranger raised his eyebrows, but without opening his eyes perceptibly wider.

“You insist on continuing the parallel?” he asked. “I only said ten years of life; if you die you escape me, but you lose your own chance. What should I want with a dead man? The loss would be as much mine as yours.”

“If you can guarantee, as you said, that I should be in danger but should not be struck down, perhaps you can promise me that I shall not die till our contract is fulfilled on both sides?”

“My dear friend, one would need to be deathless one’s self to make such a promise. Even a doctor could only promise life provided such and such circumstances were certain.”

“If you can dispose of Count Stromwael’s will and property,” said Nicholas doggedly, “you can ensure me ten years’ life.”

“Is your life dearer to you than your success, then?”

“No; but the latter depends on the former, and if you must hedge in business by conditions, I must be sure that I do not give you in advance all you want without being sure of my reward at the end.”

“I should not have expected so much foresight in you; I respect you for it. I will see that you have this assurance, but how do I know whether you will believe in it? You see you are so much shrewder than ordinary enthusiasts that I may be taking a spy or a critic into my service.”

“I have never thought about 717business or guarantees before, because I care for nothing but the success of my organ, and only that would have made me eager to bind you to your promise,” said Nicholas, still uneasily; “but since you only ask ten years’ service, I think I may safely say yes.”

The stranger smiled again, as oddly as before, and drew out a roll of parchment from a little bag. “According to tradition, you should sign this with your blood,” he said, “but I shall be quite content if you sign it with common ink. Here is a horn and a pen; only write your name. But first read the bond.”

Nicholas looked suspiciously at the stranger, who calmly handed him the paper; the latter’s face showed neither interest nor triumph. The deed was very simply worded: “I, Nicholas Verkloep, promise to owe unfailing and unquestioning obedience in all things to Marcus Lemoinne for the space of ten years from this day and hour, in return for the success of my organ at the end of that time, and for all the help he may give me in the interval.” The date was already filled in, being the day on which the above conversation took place, and the hour was marked two hours after noon. Nicholas glanced at the clock behind him in the chapel; the hands pointed to ten minutes to that hour. The stranger followed his glance, quietly rose from the bench, and turning his back upon him, knelt down on the narrow board fixed for this purpose to the front of the tribune.

Nicholas quickly turned things over in his mind: as to his silence about it when the promise was signed he had decided; as to his fulfilment of his obligations to the letter he was as loyally certain; 718as to the individual whom this man either was or represented he had very little doubt. Very few in his time would have thought otherwise; perhaps few would have hesitated so much after having made up their minds not to ask the advice of any one either before or after the contract was made. Nicholas was only an average Christian, and had no strong feelings except on the subject of his art; everything was in favor of his giving ten years’ life for the success of his scheme. As the clock struck the hour the stranger rose, touched his shoulder, and said, “Well?”

Nicholas, with something like a start, took the pen and signed his name as quickly as he could, whereupon the other also wrote in a fair and scholarly hand these words: “I, Marcus Lemoinne, promise to ensure the success of Nicholas Verkloep’s organ at the end of ten years, in return for his obedience to me during that time.”

No commonplaces passed at parting, and Nicholas went home soon after. His old master noticed that he was a little more excited than usual, and began to make plans and preparations with more energy, but he was used to these phases of mind. The young man (he was now twenty-three) procured beautiful and costly wood for carving, besides ivory, paints, and other materials, and set to work on a complete model. Now began the oddest experiences of his life: his mind seemed doubled, for he was conscious of a never-ceasing expectation, an alertness, and a watchfulness hitherto unknown to him. In the streets, in church, in bed at night, he was always looking for Lemoinne or ready to obey his summons, yet his attention, when he bestowed it on his work, was not 719disturbed or lessened by this parallel current of thought. His mind grew stronger, brighter, quicker, more ingenious; his fanatical devotion to his art increased daily, and with it his powers, until his fame grew to be just such as the stranger had foretold. This stimulated him further, and he made unheard-of progress, so that his old friend and teacher was half-crazy with joy and pride. The count sent for him to play in the hall before his guests on a small organ of no great power or value, and Nicholas drew from it such sounds as the great men of the profession could not draw from the most magnificent church instruments. That they were jealous of him he knew, but he feared no jealousy, as he courted no admiration. He refused repeatedly to take advantage of his reputation and increase his fortune by travelling to the various art-loving cities of the Netherlands and of Italy, or even by performing in public on great occasions, so that the crowds of his persistent admirers had to content themselves with hearing him at his own old organ in the Stromwael chapel. Even the popular preachers of the day were envious of him. Meanwhile, he worked first at the model, then at the separate pieces of his future organ. The count had given no permission, nor hinted at any, and Lemoinne had made no call on his time, but his belief in the efficacy of the bond never flagged for a moment. It did not occur to him to wonder why he never heard the man’s name mentioned as among those who, whether merchants, artists, or statesmen, had public or secret power; his unspoken suspicion of his identity prevented all such ideas, but it did strike him as odd that for ten 720months after the signing of the contract nothing was required of him. He felt morbidly that he did not belong to himself, and knew that, do what he would, a secret influence sat within, master of his heart and will, master even of his dreams, and, he feared, of his art also. Was it himself that he put forth in his compositions? When the ten years were ended he would be able to tell, but it was a long time to look forward to. Yet during that time his fame would have been made, and if his power then suddenly deserted him and his suspicions came to be confirmed, he could easily retire on his former laurels and compose no more. Retire at thirty-three? Well, there was the monastery; many men had made a second career, more creditable even than the first, by devoting their worldly gifts, their wealth, and their fame to religious purposes when circumstances made the world distasteful to them at an earlier period than usual. If his suspicions should be true, an after-life of atonement would be fitting, and it would give him time for studies which he longed to undertake, but had no leisure or opportunity for at present. The spiritual element counted for nothing in his calculations; there were many doors still closed in his nature. As he wandered in fancy, his fingers worked and produced beautiful or weird things. The face of Lemoinne, so constantly present to his mind, often came out in wood under his touch, and always, when finished, gave him a start of surprise; for, surely, that was not the expression he remembered? And yet, in carving the likeness, he must have had the recollection before him? A year after the interview in the chapel his old teacher 721the organist died, and the first strange thing that he had ever said to his pupil he said on his death-bed.

“My son,” he began, as he lay with his hand in that of Nicholas, “there is one thing I feel I must say to you before I go; it is my duty, and young men sometimes forget it. With you it is more dangerous than with most. Be your own master; do not lose the ownership of yourself. Men who do generally commit crime, and, if the slavery be to a woman, they often do base, mean things. I have sometimes feared that you were losing the mastery of yourself, and yet at other times I saw you absorbed in what has been your only idol for twelve years or more.”

“There is no woman that shares that idolatry,” answered Nicholas evasively, starting at the old man’s anxious looks and awakened insight.

“Well,” said the dying man, “I do not grudge you a wife, but I fear any one, man or woman, whose influence over you is not entirely supported and controlled by reason. In God’s name, Nicholas, and as a dying man, I beseech you, if you are in any toils, break through them as quickly as you can.”

“My dear master,” said his pupil, “when you are in heaven pray that I may be guided aright, for I shall have lost the only guide on earth whose help or advice was of use to me.”

“That is no answer, Nicholas,” said the old man reproachfully and wearily; “but remember what I said.”

“Yes, I will remember it,” said the other in an altered tone, “and, if I can, I will heed it.”

After the old man’s death Nicholas led a very lonely life, but his 722increasing labors at his organ cheered him and occupied his time. His fame kept at its high pitch, and the jealousy of his brother artists was well known.

Fourteen months after his first interview with Lemoinne the latter came again, this time to his home (possibly the attic before described). Nicholas told him how surprised he had been at hearing nothing from him for so long.

“One does not use one’s best and rarest tools often,” said the other with his indescribable smile, “though the highest price paid for them is none the more begrudged on that account; and, again, the finest instruments are used to do what seems the least important work. You know how a glass-cutter uses a diamond? Now, all I want you to do is to ride to a certain place and deliver this letter; you will find the horse ready saddled at St. Martin’s Gate; you have twelve hours to do it in, and by daybreak you will find the same man ready to take the horse at the same place from which you start. The fleetest government messenger would take sixteen hours; but I know the horse and his powers; of his rider I know enough to make me trust him equally.”

The implied trust flattered Nicholas, who took the letter, and, seeing the direction, started a little, but said: “If you say it can be done, it can, but the distance would take a common rider nearer twenty hours than sixteen. Shall I go at once?”

“Yes, and remember your trust goes no further than the delivery of this package to whoever opens the door of that house to you.”

It would take too long to describe the night ride, or even the state of mind in which Nicholas 723found himself while careering along at a headlong speed towards his goal. This was the first service he had performed for his strange master—an easy and safe one apparently, though secret; the man’s fascination of manner or voice—which was it?—had evidently not lessened since his last appearance. Nothing special occurred; he gave the letter to a commonplace looking person at the door of an ordinary, rather shabby house, and returned by dawn. As to curiosity concerning his errand, it struck him as odd that he should feel none; yet he had never been of a gossipy turn of mind, and these things were, after all, only details in the scheme. This business of Lemoinne’s was probably connected with politics, about which he cared nothing. He did not see his patron again for months, and his work progressed wonderfully.

The next figure which bore the man’s likeness was that of a physician, pouring a liquid from one vial into another, and the expression was that of absorbed attention. The organ-case was to be ornamented with figures representing various saints, the patrons of music, of the Stromwaels, of the chapel, and of the city; then figures typifying the various city guilds; then nine figures emblematic of the traditional nine choirs of angels; but a space was left in the centre, just over the key-board, for the crowning masterpiece. A rose-tree hedge was to run round the instrument, and the pedals were each to be carved so as to represent the seven deadly sins, which, by being trodden under foot, contribute to make the music of the soul before God. Fantastic ideas and odd devices were constantly springing up in his brain and being realized beneath 724his touch, and in these he encouraged himself to indulge. In one corner of the case, however, was to stand a beautiful, dignified, venerable figure, the glorified likeness of his old master, with no corresponding figure opposite, and robed like a prophet, holding a tablet on which in letters of gold were to be carved in Latin these words: “Be master of thyself.”

His life as a solitary artist and mechanic was a monotonous one to record; even his few tests of obedience to Lemoinne were neither romantic nor terrible. Once he was sent in the disguise of a page to a court entertainment, with orders to follow and observe a high official of the state (who afterwards was proved a traitor and put to death accordingly); another time he was instructed to detain for half an hour a professor of one of the great universities, by which delay the man lost an appointment he much coveted; and another time he was sent to a young man of great position and wealth, but an orphan, to recommend a servant to him. From this, however, sprang some other circumstances worth recording. The young man, Count Brederode, took a violent fancy to him, visited him at his home, entered into his hopes and plans, and begged him to be a friend and brother to him. Nicholas felt drawn to the count, but reminded him of the difference between their stations, and only agreed so far as circumstances would allow. This young man was his very opposite—bright, garrulous, sociable. He always had a love affair on hand, and always confided it to Nicholas, whose words on the subject were never, however, very encouraging. He wasted his money in a way that distressed his prudent friend, and 725his time in a thousand pursuits for which he had no better excuse than that “gentlemen generally did so and so.” The best-employed part of his day was that which he sometimes spent watching Nicholas at work. At last one day he said suddenly:

“Do you know I am to marry Count Stromwael’s favorite niece, whom he brought up as a sister with his own only daughter? And upon this occasion I am going to ask him a favor, which I am sure he cannot refuse: to let you put up your organ in place of his, which I will take for my chapel in the country.”

Nicholas stared at him in silence. Was this a roundabout fulfilment of Lemoinne’s promise, or a wild, boyish freak, likely to result in nothing?

“Your organ is sufficiently far advanced to put up and play on, is it not?”

“It will be in six months.”

“Then six months hence you shall transfer your workshop to the chapel tribune,” said Brederode confidently.

Nicholas said nothing, but the other was used to that. The famous musician grew more silent every day; things got complicated in his mind, and he was always puzzling himself. His brain was clear only for his work; at all other times he walked in a dream of expectation, conjecture, and dread. Each day the seemingly light burden weighed more upon him; the horror of being entangled in conspiracies of which he was ignorant, and concerned in wrongs which he could neither prevent nor reconcile to himself, haunted him; and yet in actual facts there was nothing to complain of, nothing even to describe. It seemed incomprehensible 726to him that Lemoinne should have made so solemn an appeal and promise for so little reward, and should have used his power so sparingly. The very blandness of the passing years made him fear some awful test towards the last. Meanwhile, Brederode’s generous, boyish friendship cheered and soothed him. But a year after he first knew him, and two months after Count Stromwael had yielded to his nephew-in-law’s vehement pleading for the Verkloep organ, Nicholas, at work in the chapel, saw him enter with an unusually serious face. The young man began to make dark confidences on political subjects, which Nicholas instinctively repelled, and, without knowing why, he said:

“I entreat you, Count Brederode, do not make me the repository of plans and intentions that may end dangerously for you. I wish to know nothing of anything which is likely to make the state rake up all your habits and intimacies, and use them as the Philistines did Delilah.”

“I would sooner trust you than my own wife,” laughed the young man, “and no one will suspect such a maniac as you are, you know!”

“If you insist upon it,” said Nicholas sadly, “let me at least solemnly swear to you, by my hope of salvation, that nothing shall make me betray you in the slightest thing.”

“I would trust you without an oath,” cried Brederode.

“Then you are not of the stuff of which conspirators are made,” said Nicholas, “and I wish you would retire from a position unsuited to you. You have no interest even in it.”

“None but the fun of secrecy and excitement—except this,” he 727added more seriously: “that having once promised to give others the shield of my name and the support of my money, I am bound in honor not to run away.”

“True, but break with them honorably and frankly.”

“I cannot.”

“You will not?”

“No, it is not that; there are other games almost as exciting, but my wife’s brother is involved, and I must stand by him. Let us treat it only as an escapade; I want to tell you about it.”

“I repeat my oath, then, and pray Heaven to strike me deaf, dumb, and palsied before I have anything to do in this to your disadvantage.”

“You make it so serious that it loses its fun. But....” And Brederode went on to explain a scheme which the spirit of the times and its prejudices alone made dangerous, but which, if frustrated and discovered, surely entailed capital punishment. Nicholas listened moodily, striving to abstract his mind, endeavoring not to take in his friend’s talk, and all the while feeling a miserable consciousness that, however it might come about, he was nearing one of the tests of his hateful bondage. The day passed, and he still felt uneasy; each step on the stairs frightened him; he could hardly work. At night Lemoinne came to see him. Few words passed; Lemoinne bade him in the same cool, metallic voice, indifferent yet compelling attention, denounce Brederode and his fellow conspirators. He pleaded his oath.

“No oath that conflicts with your promise is worth anything.”

“But he is my friend, and his wife the niece of my patron.”

“No harm shall come to you 728through denouncing him; your name will be unknown. You shall appear only as an agent—my agent—and not even Brederode himself shall have the chance of upbraiding you.”

“But, since you know the whole affair, why not act yourself?”

“I do not know the whole, but you do, and I mean you to tell me and write it down; I will sign it alone. I am known and have power in many places, but it is useful to have instruments; I have bought mine, and only wish to use what I purchased. Sit down and write.” Nicholas stood sullen and silent. “Do you fancy, because your organ is partly built and placed, that no accident may happen to it? I can do more than you think; you weigh an act with which no one but I shall be acquainted against the possible destruction of your favorite, the fall of your ambition, the collapse of your whole life.”

“No one can put it to me more forcibly than I have done to myself,” said Nicholas moodily; “but, unluckily for me, I have a conscience left.”

“Forget it for twenty-four hours.”

“You do not ask me to forget it, but to disregard it, to gag it. I know what I lose in breaking my bond, and I believe in your power sufficiently to be sure that even my friend would not have opportunity to rebuke me in life.”

“Why do you talk about it?” interrupted Lemoinne with the cold smile peculiar to him. “To discuss a thing, and weigh pros and cons, is to yield; you do not reason against what you have made up your mind to refuse.”

Nicholas gazed at the man in horror. Who was he to go thus mercilessly to the heart of the question, to see his hidden thoughts, 729to interpret the secret of all the uneasiness he had felt ever since his friend had spoken those light but fatal words? Who? A master stronger than himself; one whom it was little use to resist now, no doubt, since he had not had the fortitude to resist him at first. It ended in his yielding, but not without the most terrible self-contempt; self-reproach was nothing to it. He wrote what he knew; as he wrote it all came back to him, much as he had honestly tried not to hear or understand the details. Lemoinne alone signed the paper, and bade him take it to a certain address before morning.

“If you change your mind or try to deceive me, I shall know it,” he said coldly as he left, “and all the difference will be that you will lose your hopes, as well as Brederode his life.”

Nicholas did as he was bidden, and from that day the little peace he had had before fled. The day of the execution came, and he could not resist going to see his friend pay the penalty of his treachery. His tongue was parched and his eyes bloodshot; he skulked behind people in the crowd, and wore his cap as low as he could over his forehead; but nothing availed him, and when the axe fell he felt as if his own soul had been under it instead of the head of his friend. Feverishly and recklessly, all but despairingly, he returned to his work, but though his brain and hands had not lost their cunning, the impressions of that day clouded everything else in his mind, and he had no heart for anything. Two years sped on, and Nicholas Verkloep, with his glowing reputation, was more of an enigma than ever; but it would be impossible to describe the many phases of his mental delirium 730tremens during that time. The organ was near completion, and Count Stromwael was now as proud of it as the maker. Lemoinne visited Nicholas once more before the end, and this time at the place where the contract was first made. It was the same hour, too. He began by congratulating him on his success so far, then examined the carvings, and smiled as he noticed his own face repeated many times.

“And here is Brederode’s,” he said, as he pointed to the figure personifying the Choir of Thrones. “What made you put him in?”

“Because, as you well know, his face is always with me,” said Nicholas, emboldened by his very complicity with his terrible master. “It was a relief to me to make the image a sort of reality, to give tangible expression to my remorse.”

“Yes; I see you have made the carvings a sort of history of your mind: I see the venerable prophet and the device he bears; the rose-hedge with the prominent and unnaturally-multiplied thorns; the haunting imps of dreams, your own face and mine, and so on. It is only a year and a few months now to the time when our contract ends, and hitherto we have kept it well. I think it likely we shall not meet again till the day is over. Nothing but silence now will be your burden. If you speak of or hint at anything of our transactions, remember the bond is cancelled; but, of course, after the expiration of the ten years you are free to publish the whole.”

He smiled scornfully, and, with another expression of admiration as to the work, left the tribune. It was now that Nicholas put in just over the key-board the groups of our Saviour and the twelve apostles (Judas, with the bag of money, 731bore Lemoinne’s likeness), but, instead of being, as they are at present, immovable, the figures went in and out by a spring hidden among the stops, so that at the Consecration they could be brought forward, and after the Communion return to the interior of the organ, in the same way as some of the famous figures of the clock in Strassburg Cathedral. The day of the public opening of the completed organ came, the tenth anniversary of the day of the contract, and the reader may imagine all the paraphernalia of a great mediæval fête, half-religious and half-secular.

Lemoinne sat among the guests at Count Stromwael’s banquet; it was the first time Nicholas had met him in public. The strange man seemed utterly unconscious that they had ever met before, and his eyes met the organist’s fully as he complimented him in set phrases and handed him a golden gift with a small roll of parchment attached. Stromwael laughed as he remarked:

“Is that the title-deed to a mortgaged estate, or a share in one of your ships?” Nicholas clutched it in silence and tried to smile; the talk around him seemed to point to his strange master being a banker, but he held to his first suspicions. As soon as he was alone he looked hastily at the hateful bond and thrust it into the fire. It seemed odd to him that he did not yet feel free; he had expected the release to be instantaneous. Weeks passed, and still the same old watchfulness and uneasiness went on. Brederode’s face came to him more constantly; all his faculties were centred in horrible recollections and vague and still more horrible expectations. All Flanders raved about the wonderful organ, and requests for similar 732ones made under his directions and supervision poured in from distant parts. He vowed to himself never to touch such a thing again, or even give directions for it; it was to his fancy an accursed thing, associated with all the horror and despair of his life. He refused all offers; and this grew to be even more of a mania with him than the making of the instrument had been before. Now that his dream had been fulfilled, he only longed to die; his servitude was still unbroken, though the letter of the bond was now a dead letter; he felt himself miserably fettered, haunted, paralyzed. To the rather imperious demand of Count Stromwael’s cousin, himself a powerful personage, for an organ with the same group of the twelve apostles, he returned a flat denial, and neither threats nor promises could shake him. At last the power of the two nobles combined threw him into prison; they made sure of reducing him to obedience by violence and temporary ill-treatment. The prison was what all mediæval dungeons were—damp, filthy, unhealthy, dark. His food was bread and water, and a very scanty measure of both. For a month he was treated as a criminal, but nothing made any impression on the moody, prematurely-aged man. He had made up his mind that only death would make him free, only death would make him able to explain and excuse himself to his dead friend. He cared for no bodily tortures; for ten years he had suffered a mental hell. His friends and his patrons came alternately to coax and tempt or to threaten and abuse him; he would not yield.

Neither wealth, marriage, nor a patent of nobility tempted him; neither the wheel, the rack, nor the 733block frightened him. He grew weaker and weaker. His eyes saw Lemoinne and Brederode all over the narrow cell; the one seemed like a fiend, and the other always like a corpse, with the head half-severed, yet still conscious with a kind of ghastly life. Physicians examined him and confidently pronounced him sane, and priests visited him and pronounced him certainly not possessed, but both agreed that something unusually terrible must be preying on his mind. He never told what he saw or felt, and answered all questions evasively. At last Stromwael, furious at his vassal’s obstinacy, threatened to put his eyes out and prevent him from ever taking pleasure in work again. He only said:

“You cannot take away my sight, even if you put out my eyes; would to God you could!”

Before this last measure was resorted to he received a visit from Lemoinne, who, in the calm tone of a cynic and a man of the world, begged him to reconsider his decision.

“Nothing could tempt me!” said Nicholas. “Not even you could compel me; it is not in the bond, and I am free.”

“Of course,” said the other, smiling. “I only ask you to yield for your own good. Why should you object?”

“Because the thing is accursed; it has wrecked my life, and I will have no more to do with it,” said Nicholas violently.

“But you are free now?”

“Am I?” said Nicholas, with savage meaning.

“You do me too much honor,” said Lemoinne sarcastically, “in believing my power to be supernatural. Shall I tell you who I am, 734and what was both my object and the secret of my influence?”

“You can tell what lies you like.”

“I dare say your superstition is greater than my falsehood,” said the man with a smile; “and if I told you, you would be convinced against your will and still remain of the same opinion. Well, you are free now, and show your freedom by throwing away the very gift you sold yourself to obtain.”

“If I could undo the past ten years,” said Nicholas, “I would give up not my organ only, but my art. But as it is, I shall never be free while I live, and I will do nothing that may save or lengthen my horrible life—a mockery, indeed, of freedom!”

“If that is your last decision, I will say no more,” said Lemoinne; “but remember, though our pact is over, I am still your friend, and, should you wish anything between this and death which your jailers would deny you, send me word.”

Nicholas looked at him in surprise and suspicion.

“Yes, they know me here by the same name as you do, and I can generally find means to do what I wish. It is not the first time I have been here or made a like offer to a condemned man.”

“I believe you,” said Nicholas shortly, and his visitor left him. Two days elapsed before the threat was carried into execution, but the prisoner, full of his own trouble, hardly dwelt upon the coming trial. He prayed wildly that the red-hot iron which was to take away his bodily sight would blot out his phantom companions from his mental vision; the horrors of his disturbed brain appalled him more than any earthly punishment, and his half-description or hints of it to 735one person who visited him constantly was such that the latter compassionately got leave for one of his jailers to sleep with him in his dungeon. The day of the horribly unskilful torture came, and with common iron rods, heated red-hot, the famous artist’s eyes were put out. He writhed and moaned, but the bodily pain was only a faint image of the agony of his mind. Was it madness? Was it possession? Were all the learned men wrong, and he alone right, in thinking that he carried hell within his brain? There was no peace from the gnawing remorse of his betrayal of friendship; no assurance that his repentance was of avail comforted him; no obstinate affirmations could make him feel that the unholy fetters of his bond were in truth broken. It was not his blindness that was killing him; it was his mania. He felt life ebbing, and was fiercely glad, yet at times furious that, with such gifts as his, he should go prematurely to the grave. A chaos of schemes floated through his brain and maddened him yet more: he saw a long array of the works he might have accomplished before he died—Masses, antiphons, fugues; the improvements in the organ-stops and the internal machinery of the instrument; a school he might have founded—if he had been content to rely upon his own industry and the slow path of trust in Providence. He had sold his birthright, and what was the farce of a ten years’ contract, when he knew that at this present moment even the wreck that was left of him was not his own? “If I am still his, at least he shall help me once more,” he thought suddenly, as Lemoinne’s offer occurred to his mind. “I will end this suspense at once.” He asked the man who 736brought him his meals to tell Lemoinne that he wanted him; and as he began the message he watched with fear and curiosity to see how it would affect the bearer of it. Strange! nothing but a common assent; evidently the request was not a novel one. Lemoinne came that very evening, and Nicholas asked him for a sharp knife. He produced his own, which Nicholas felt all over and took, saying:

“When you hear of my playing on my organ for the last time, come to the tribune and claim your knife. I shall make the request, and feel sure they will grant it.”

“What do you mean to do with the knife?”

“Nothing which you would disapprove; but since you say I am free, let me prove it by not answering this question.”

“I do not press you,” said Lemoinne with his usual icy smile. Nicholas felt the look he could not see, and his very heart seemed to tighten and writhe within him. He had guessed truly; when he asked Count Stromwael to allow him to play once more on the organ before he died—for he felt that he should not live long, he said—the request was quickly granted. His persecutors fancied that he would be less on his guard now, and that somehow, while he played, they could surprise the secret which they wanted to discover. He was taken to the chapel and seated before his instrument. Stromwael, his cousin, and Lemoinne were there, besides other less important persons. All watched eagerly. After half an hour’s playing, as divine as the player’s mind was storm-driven and despairing, Nicholas asked:

“Are the apostles out or in?”

“In,” was the answer.

737He pressed a spring and the group came slowly out—our Lord’s figure from the centre, and those of six apostles from each side. Then, with a quick and deft touch, he cut something, and a snapping sound was heard within; his fingers moved again, the knife gleamed, and a wailing sound came from the notes on which his left arm now leaned; then, turning round with a smile of triumph that looked ghastly on the blank face and mutilated eye-sockets, he said:

“I am free now. I am ready to die.”

Lemoinne quickly took up the knife that Nicholas dropped, and smiled as if another character-play had come to an end and he had solved another riddle; Stromwael burst out into wild and furious threats of purposeless revenge. Nicholas sat unmoved and said:

“This organ will be my only monument, and, if a man’s curse can follow another, may mine follow whoever shall attempt to remove or to repair my organ.”

To this day the instrument stands a witness to the tradition of its maker’s fate; the group is immovable, and the few sounds the notes produce are worse than dumbness. Nicholas died two months after, in prison, his mind more and more delirious each day. It is said that, when Lemoinne heard of his death, he remarked to one of his associates:

“That man was the most perfect tool I ever knew. If I had sworn to him that I was a banker, a merchant, a usurer, a spy—an unscrupulous eccentric, whose one mania was the possession of secret power, and whose conscience was dead to any obstacle—he would still have believed in his own theory. But I own I overshot the mark and drove him too far.”

The social, moral, and political influence of the German-born and German-descended population of the United States upon their fellow-citizens has already been perceptible; that this influence will vastly increase in the future is highly probable. We may state here one of the many reasons for this belief. The intellectual and political leaders of the Germans in America have hitherto mainly confined their public utterances, in the press or on the platform, to the German language. The German newspapers are very numerous; their circulation is large; they are written for the most part with much ability; their treatment of social and political questions is often marked by a breadth of view and a soundness of logic too frequently wanting in many of their English contemporaries. Their influence upon the minds of their readers is also greater than that wielded by the majority of our newspapers printed in the English language. We have heard this fact attributed to the superior honesty with which the German press is conducted; but upon this delicate ground we shall not enter. Our point at present is that German thought and opinion, as expressed through the German periodical press, influence 739for the most part only the German population. Few of us who are not Germans read a German journal; what the German leaders in politics, morality, and literature are saying, day after day, is for the most part wholly unknown to the rest of us. Occasionally an American editor translates a leading article from a German journal and gives it to his readers; still more frequently he avails himself of the ideas and the arguments of his German contemporaries and reproduces them as his own.

In the next generation this state of things will be modified; more Americans will read German literature, and more Germans, or German-Americans, will write in English journals, speak in English at public conventions, and sit in our legislative assemblies. The barrier of language, which has hitherto tended to separate Germans from the rest of us to so great an extent, will gradually yield and disappear. The German language will be learned by increasing numbers of our non-German citizens; the common use of the German language by the German-Americans will be dropped, and the English tongue adopted in its stead, not only in business affairs, but in politics, literature, religion, and social intercourse. The English language has made many conquests, but in America it has only to hold its own. It is the language of the country, of the legislature, of the courts, of the markets and exchanges, and of society. Our German citizens must acquire it, or enter handicapped into all the relations of life.

The ability with which the German journals here are conducted does not prevent nearly the whole of them which are not avowedly Catholic from being inspired by an 740antagonism to religion. The genius of the German mind has little sympathy with socialism or communism, and the theories of socialism and communism find expression among our German citizens only through the writings or speeches of a few insignificant and uninfluential men in New York and some of our other large cities. But the German who is not a Catholic is most often an atheist; and he differs from the French atheist in wishing his wife and children to be atheists also. The non-Catholic German press faithfully represents this phase of the German mind; and it sneers at religion with the same pertinacity and often with more skill than is shown in a like direction by too many of our English-written newspapers.

The total immigration into the United States from the close of the War of Independence to the end of 1876 was 9,726,455 souls. The records of the government do not furnish an ethnological classification of all these; it is only since 1847 that this classification has been made. But every one knows that the bulk of our immigrants have come from Ireland and Germany. At the port of New York alone the total number of Irish immigrants from 1847 up to September 1 of the present year was 2,009,447; of German immigrants 2,345,486; of all others 1,265,240. An estimated classification of those arriving before 1847, added to the above figures, gives 2,463,598 Irish, 2,622,556 German, and 1,542,311 of other nationalities. The present Secretary of the Interior is the only American citizen of German birth who has ever held a cabinet appointment; we believe that he is the only citizen of German birth who has ever sat in the Senate. 741But among the senators at the last session of the Forty-fourth Congress there were seven who were either of foreign birth or the sons of foreigners; and in the lower House of the same assembly there appears to have been but one German to twelve naturalized citizens of other nationalities. The Secretary of the Interior owes the prominent political position which he fills less to his statesmanlike and philosophical acquirements than to his command of the English language and to his grace and power as a public speaker. No doubt there are among our German citizens many who are his equals in learning and political wisdom, but who are almost wholly unknown outside the German-speaking community, for the reason that they confine themselves, on the platform or in the press, to the use of the German language. The coming generation of Americans of German descent will not subject themselves to this disadvantage; and thus the influence of German thought will be widened and deepened.

Upon this portion of our subject we may as well reproduce in substance, although not with literal exactness, the observations made to us by a German ecclesiastic, a member of one of the German religious orders which are working here with so much zeal and success. In his opinion the German element now in the United States will ere long be greatly increased by a revival of immigration. Immigration from Germany may not again attain the vast proportions which it reached in 1852–53–54, nor during the seven memorable years 1866–1872, but it will still be very large. All other things being equal, the proportion of Catholics immigrating from Germany will be 742greater in the future than in the past. In looking at the future of the country we should reckon that the German element here will for many years to come steadily and rapidly increase. But it is not probable that, after the passing away of the present generation, our German population will so tenaciously retain its distinctive national or ethnological features. It will become absorbed in, amalgamated with, the rest of the community, but through this very absorption and amalgamation it will leaven the whole mass for good or for evil; and most probably the good will preponderate.

In our present German population, especially the younger portion of it, there is a very perceptible disposition to be a little ashamed of their German origin. This feeling, which has long existed, received a check during and immediately after the triumph of Germany over France in 1870 and the erection of the German Empire. But it has now revived and prevails with more force than before. Our German citizens feel that the golden apples of victory have turned to ashes in the grasp of the conquerors. The milliards wrung from France have sunk into the ground or vanished in the air, and Germany is poorer than before the war—much poorer than France, which Prince Bismarck imagined had been crushed into nothingness. All the glory that Germany won by her conquest of France in the field has been eclipsed by the peaceful victory of France—a victory the effects of which were made manifest at our International Exhibition last year. More serious still than this, in the opinion of the learned and acute ecclesiastic whom we are quoting, is the dislike and contempt 743with which the iniquitous, unnecessary, and tyrannical policy of the German government toward the church is regarded not only by Catholic Germans in America, but by those of their non-Catholic compatriots here who are not swayed by sectarian hatred of the church. This policy is justly regarded as at once an evidence of weakness and a prolific source of future trouble, and among the non-Catholic German-Americans the remark is common that “between the Red-coats and the Black-coats—the Communists and the Catholics—the empire is in great danger of destruction.” For these reasons, and other slighter ones, our German fellow-citizens are becoming less and less disposed to boast of their nationality, and more and more inclined to Americanize themselves and their children. The “Watch on the Rhine” gives place to “Yankee Doodle”; the suggestive inquiry as to the precise locality and boundaries of the Faderland is not so popular as “Hail Columbia.” Certain considerations of a utilitarian nature aid powerfully in leading our German citizens in the same direction. Their common sense enables them to see that their own advancement in life, and the prosperity and happiness of their children, materially depend upon their thorough Americanization—their complete identification with the rest of the community in which they live. The first step towards this end is the acquirement and use of the English language, and in this the children often outstrip the wishes of their parents. In the German-American schools, secular as well as religious, the study of the English language is compulsory, and necessarily so. The children appear to have a natural affinity 744for the English tongue; they acquire its use rapidly and soon begin to speak it in preference to their native language. It is not uncommon to meet with families where the parents address the children in German and the children reply in English. The truth is that the English language as now spoken, largely Teutonic in its composition and structure, but enriched and softened by Celtic, Latin, and Greek accretions, more easily adapts itself to the expression of the necessities, the emotions, and the ideas of the age. An amusing illustration of this self-asserting power of the English language was afforded by the experience of a village in Indiana, on the Ohio River, which was settled a few years ago by an exclusively German colony consisting of about three hundred families. Nothing but German was at first spoken in the houses, but in a very brief space of time the language in the streets was found to be English, and ere long that became the prevailing dialect of the place, appearing, as one of the residents said, to have sprung up and taken root there just as the weeds in the fields.

We should not omit to mention, however, a fact which to a very large degree tends to show that the Americanization of our German citizens is not so rapid as it might be. Intermarriages between Germans, or descendants of Germans, and Americans of other descent are not regarded with favor by the older Germans of the present generation, and such marriages are of rare occurrence. This is to be deplored, especially for the sake of the non-German party. In all the domestic virtues the Germans are richly endowed. The influence of 745the mother in the family is supreme within certain limits, and this influence is almost always exerted for good. The German husband does not regard his wife as a pretty plaything, a fragile and expensive doll to be dressed in gay raiment and paraded for the gratification of her own and his vanity. On the contrary, the German husband, if at fault at all in this respect, looks upon his wife too much in the light not merely of a helpmeet, but of a servant in whose zeal, industry, and faithfulness he can repose the utmost confidence. Americans too often make useless idols of their wives; the German husband may seem to regard his spouse from too utilitarian a point of view. In the German household, here as in the Fatherland, there is not, as there is too often in American homes, one bread-winner and one or more spenders. The wife, whenever it is needful or expedient, not only manages the domestic affairs of the family with economy, prudence, and good sense, but takes a full share of the burden of providing its income. If one journeys through those portions of the West where the Germans are largely engaged in agricultural pursuits, he will see the wife and daughters working in the fields alongside of the husband and the brothers; in the towns, while the husband is pursuing his trade or laboring in the streets, the wife is keeping a shop or a beer-saloon, or otherwise earning her full share of the family income, and aiding her husband to lay up the nest-eggs of their future fortune. The will of the wife is most frequently supreme in all domestic affairs, and even in matters of business; and this, too, without the husband feeling himself at all “hen-pecked.” His wife is his equal; 746he shares with her his amusements as well as his toils. Nothing is more pleasant than the spectacle of German families, on fête days or on summer evenings, taking their pleasure together in the beer-gardens. The presence of the women and children does not lessen the gayety of the men; but it prevents them from excess and compels propriety of conversation and deportment. With these habits, and with the gift of living well and wholesomely, on plain but abundant food, without wastefulness, the Germans prosper, and they acquire competences sooner and more generally than other classes. When wealth comes, their frugal and sensible habits of life are not laid aside for extravagant display, nor is the influence and sway of the mother weakened or lessened. The daughters, even of the wealthiest and most cultured German families, are taught how to become good and useful wives to poor men, and are thus prepared for reverses of fortune. By some of our American women these virtues of their German sisters may be regarded with contempt and dislike; but many American men, we are inclined to think, would lead happier lives and escape much pecuniary trouble, if they won for themselves wives from among the daughters of their German neighbors. There are but few such marriages now. The German parents dislike them; and there is, moreover, a little ignorant prejudice on the American side. The next generation or two, we trust, will be wiser.

The limits of our space and the scope of our article forbid us to do more than merely glance at a branch of our subject which is in itself worthy of a separate essay—the influence exerted by our German 747fellow-citizens upon the rest of us by their works in music and in the fine arts. Here the barrier of language does not exist; the genius of music and of art is universal. A certain degree of cultivation of the ear and eye is necessary, of course; but, this being attained, the music of a German composer, the painting, the sculpture, the architecture, or the decoration of a German artist, is appreciated, admired, and imitated as well by those ignorant of his language as by those of his own nationality. There is reason to believe that American taste in music and in art owes vastly more to German influence than is generally supposed or conceded. Perhaps the strongest evidences of this would result from a critical examination of the extent to which German ideas have modified, enlarged, beautified, and spiritualized our architecture, our dramatic, domestic, and ecclesiastical music, and all those phases of our daily life wherein the fine arts play a part.

Among German-American architects may be mentioned G. F. Himpler, a student at Berlin and Paris, and a thoroughly-educated master of his art—the builder of fine churches in St. Louis, Detroit, Sandusky, Elizabeth, Rome (New York), Atchison, and other places; among historical painters, Leutz—now dead, but whose works at Washington and elsewhere have given him a national fame—Lamprecht and Duvenech (the latter a native of this country), Biermann and Lange; among decorative painters, Thien, Ertle, and Muer; among sculptors and designers, Schroeder, Allard, and Kloster—the latter a very distinguished young artist; among German singers, as well known here as in Germany, 748Wachtel, Hainamns, Lichtmay, and Tuska; among actors. Seebach, Janauschek, Taneruscheck, Lina Meyer, and Witt.

But we can only hint at these things, and hasten on to remark, in passing, that our German citizens, even more generally and zealously here than in Germany, seek to provide for and to secure the education of their children. “The first thing that a colony of German emigrants settling in America seeks to establish is the school,” said to us a high authority. “If they are Catholics, or even zealous Lutherans, the church is built simultaneously with the school; but in every case the school must be set up, and the children must attend it at whatever cost to the parents.”

Thus far we have written of our German population as a whole. We now turn our attention to that portion of it which belongs to ourselves—i.e., the German Catholics of the United States. United with us by the bond of faith, their welfare is especially dear to us, and in their spiritual and material progress, prosperity, and happiness we have a deep and abiding interest.

Prior to 1845 the German emigration to the United States had been numerically insignificant, and consisted chiefly of the peasant class. The revolution of 1848 had the effect not only of greatly increasing this emigration but of materially changing its character. An official report recently made by Dr. Engel, Director of the Bureau of Statistics at Berlin, states that the number of Germans who emigrated to the United States from 1845 to 1876, both years inclusive, was 2,685,430. Dr. Engel remarks that a very large proportion of these emigrants (considerably more than 1,000,000 of them) were 749“strong men”; there were few old or infirm people among them; those of them who were not adult males in the vigor of their manhood were chiefly young and middle-aged women and children. A goodly proportion of these emigrants must now be living among us; we know by the census of 1870 that our German-born population even then numbered 1,690,410. The German race is hardy and prolific; its women are good mothers; their thrift, industry, and economical habits enable them to live in comfort upon modest resources; without being teetotalers, they are seldom intemperate. The German-born and German-descended population of the United States at present—including in the latter class only those whose parents on both sides or on one side or the other were natives of Germany, but who were themselves born here—is believed to be about 5,500,000 souls. The great bulk of this population is in the Central, Western, and Northwestern States; the six States of New York, Illinois, Ohio, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, and Missouri contain nearly two-thirds of the whole number.^[86]

The German Empire as at present constituted contained at the latest census (1875) 42,723,242 people. Of these not quite one-third are Catholics. Had the immigration from the states which now form the German Empire borne this proportion, we should have in the United States a German Catholic population of about 1,800,000 souls. But the immigration was largely from the Protestant states, or from those in which the Protestants were in the majority. We should be satisfied, and more than 750satisfied, when we learn that the German Catholics in the United States, according to the latest and most accurate computation, numbered 1,237,563 souls. It is a very large number—large enough to establish the fact that the Catholic Germans arriving here have not lost their faith, but have preserved and guarded it for themselves and their children. These 1,237,563 German Catholics in America are not mythical or hypothetical persons; in making up the numeration care was taken to include only those who were known as practical Catholics, frequenters of the sacraments, careful observers of their duties as Catholic parents or Catholic children. In this connection we may add some figures for which we are indebted to the courtesy of a German priest and statistician, and on the accuracy of which our readers may depend. First, however, let us state, upon the best authority, that the church in America loses very few of her German children. We were extremely gratified with the unanimous testimony which rewarded our inquiries on this matter. It very rarely occurs that a young German Catholic of either sex strays or is stolen from the fold. Neither the false philosophy of the infidel or Protestant German schools, nor the seductions and ridicule of their infidel or Protestant American neighbors, lure them from the faith. We have observed in our own visits to the German churches in New York, especially at the early Masses, the large proportion of male adult worshippers. “Our old people, of course, never leave us,” said a learned German priest, “and our young people rarely, very rarely, stray away. They are faithful in their duties, 751and they appear to love their religion with all their hearts. When they marry and have children, they look after them as Catholic parents should do. Our parochial schools are well attended; our higher schools and academies are prosperous. Our teaching orders, of men and women, have their hands full of work, and they are almost without exception well supported. One of the bishops in a Western diocese, the greater part of whose flock are Germans, has the happiness of knowing that all the children of his people are in attendance either in his parochial schools or in other schools of which the teachers are Catholics.”

Our 1,237,563 German Catholics in America are ministered to in spiritual things by 1,373 German priests. They have 930 church edifices, while there are 173 other congregations of them regularly visited by priests, but as yet without church buildings. The whole number of Catholic priests in the United States, according to the Catholic Directory for this year, is 5,297, of churches 5,292, and of chapels and stations 2,768. Thus it will be seen that the German priests number a little more than one-fourth of our American ecclesiastical army. There is a German priest for every 900 German Catholics. How faithfully they discharge their duties, and how zealously the people, on their part, assist their pastors, may be estimated by the fact that the baptisms by these German priests last year numbered 71,077—an average of more than one each week for each priest; and that the number of children in the German parochial schools was 137,322—an average of almost exactly 100 children for each priest. The following table 752will show with approximate exactness the number of German Catholic priests and German Catholic laymen in the various States or dioceses:

The education of the juvenile portion of this large army of German-American Catholics is partly in the hands of the teaching orders of the church, male and female; partly in the hands of the parish priests; and partly confided to private instructors. The “German Sisters of Notre Dame,” for example, 923 in number, in 79 congregations, have charge of the parochial schools and instruct 25,557 children. They have also 15 academies, in which 1,375 pupils are receiving higher education; and 11 orphan asylums with 1,400 children. Another branch of the same sisters have their houses in 17 congregations, and in these 63 teaching sisters are instructing 9,000 children; they have also 3 academies with 700 pupils. The German Franciscan Sisters, in 19 congregations, have 53 teaching sisters educating 5,700 children; and one academy. The Sisters of the Precious Blood, in 11 congregations, employ 17 of their number in teaching 900 children. The German Dominican Sisters, whose houses are in New York, Williamsburg, and Racine, Wisconsin; and the Sisters of 753Christian Charity, at Melrose and elsewhere, are among the many religious orders chiefly engaged in educational work among the German Catholics. Prince Bismarck has done us a very good turn without wishing it. The expulsion of the religious orders of men and women caused by the persecution of the church in Germany compelled these servants of God to seek new homes. Many of these orders already had houses in this country; driven from Germany, they found not merely a refuge but a warm welcome and abundant work with their brothers and sisters here. Others of them, not previously established in this country, and being robbed by the paternal government of Prussia of all their property, arrived here in poverty; but they were joyfully received and speedily supplied with means for commencing their work in these new and inviting fields. The German branch of the Christian Brothers—“Christliche Schulbrüder”—has experienced a marvellous growth, and is accomplishing splendid results in the primary and higher education of the German Catholic youth.^[87]

754A visit to a German Catholic church can scarcely fail to be interesting and profitable to an American Catholic. He will see much that is edifying and highly pleasing. The congregations at the early Masses on week-days—we speak now only of what we have ourselves observed in New York—are generally large and are composed of a fair share of men; at all the Masses on Sundays the attendance is still more numerous. On days of obligation, other than Sundays, these churches are thronged to their utmost capacity; at the nine o’clock Mass on last Corpus Christi we saw the great Church of the Redemptorists, on Third Street, packed from the altar rails to the doors, and even the spacious vestibule filled with kneeling worshippers. On this occasion, as on many others, nearly or quite one-half of the congregation were men—a fact which we emphasize, as it contradicts the mistaken idea that the faith is losing its hold upon our men and is mainly cherished only by women. There are thirteen German Catholic churches in this city. The good sense, thrift, and wise management of the Germans have borne their natural fruit in their churches and religious houses as well as elsewhere. For example, attached to each of the two Capuchin churches is a large, handsome, and substantial convent for the use of the fathers and for their schools. We were astonished at the extent, the good arrangement, and the solidity of these edifices, and our astonishment was not lessened when we learned that they had both been erected within the last ten years.

755It would be well, we think, if the relations between our German Catholics and the rest of us were made more close and intimate. The bond of faith, we know, unites us in all essential things; but it would be well for us to come nearer together in every way. Our German co-religionists are worthy of all esteem. They are already strong in numbers. They will constantly became stronger. The Pall Mall Gazette recently contained a most interesting summary of a report made by Vice-Consul Kruge upon the subject of German emigration. We quote the following portion of this summary:

“Emigration from Germany, particularly to the United States, increased steadily after the memorable year 1848, and assumed very large proportions immediately after the chances of a war between Austria and Prussia in 1852 and 1853. The largest number of emigrants of any year left in summer, 1854, or after the declaration of the Crimean war—the United States alone receiving 215,009 German immigrants in that year. There appears a considerable falling off from 1858 to 1864, but already in 1865, when a probability of a war between Austria and Prussia became more and more visible, the number of emigrants began to increase very much. The years from 1866 to 1870, most likely in consequence of the suspicious relations between France and the North German Confederation, which ultimately brought on the war in 1870, give very large figures. Even the year 1870 has the large number of 91,779 emigrants. ‘Strange to witness,’ says Consul Kruge, ‘after the close of the Franco-German war, when the German Empire had been created, and a prosperity seemed to have come over Germany beyond any expectation, when wages had been almost doubled, and when, in fact, everything looked in the brightest colors, a complete emigration fever was raging in all parts of Germany’; and the years 1871, 1872, 1873 show an almost alarming tendency to quit the Fatherland. This movement would no doubt have continued but for the natural check it received through the financial and 756commercial crisis in the United States. There are however, at present again unquestionable signs that a very large emigrating element is smoldering in Germany, stimulated by political and economical embroilments which will break forth as soon as sufficient hope and inducements offer themselves in transatlantic countries in the eyes of the discontented and desponding Germans. The general political aspect and the decline of German commerce and industry at the present period are, observes Consul Kruge, such that an emigration on a large scale must be the natural consequence of the ruling state of affairs. Among other illustrations of the causes of a desire on the part of the Germans to leave their native land, Consul Kruge mentions the religious ‘Kulturkampf,’ which, he says, in its practical results may, at least up till now, be rightly termed an unsuccessful move on the political chessboard, and has been brought home by degrees to the Roman Catholic population in an irritating, harassing form. Between the priests on the one hand and the Government on the other the lives of the Roman Catholic peasantry are made one of ‘perfect torment’; and these people naturally desire to leave that country where, rightly or wrongly, they believe their religion attacked or endangered. The relations between France and Germany also act powerfully to promote emigration, and the huge expenses of maintaining the army, besides a navy of considerable size, contribute to swell the emigration tendency of the country. Consul Kruge thinks that if the Australian colonies care to have the largest portion of the coming German emigration, at no time have they had a better chance of creating an extensive movement to their shores than at present.”

These remarks strongly confirm the opinions expressed by ourselves when writing on the same subject four months ago.^[88] But when the wave of German emigration again rises to its former height, it will turn toward this country, as before, and not to Australia. Here the German population is already so large and so well-to-do that the 757new-comers will find themselves at home upon their arrival. Especially will the United States be attractive to the German Catholics; for here they will find their exiled priests and nuns, already settled in their new homes, with churches and schools prepared for them. The return of moderate prosperity to the United States will probably give the signal for the commencement of the new German exodus; and we are scarcely too sanguine in believing that this return to prosperity will not be delayed much longer.

AT THE CHURCH-DOOR.

At this moment the door-handle was touched on the outside, and M. Rouvière sprang hastily from his chair and stationed himself with his back to the fire, looking very straight and stiff and aggressive. The door slowly opened and Mme. Dupuis entered, pushing out, at the same time, the unfortunate cat which was trying to slip in with her.

“No, no, pussy,” said the lady, “you got yourself turned out, and you must stay out. O the naughty men!” she exclaimed, laughingly, as she closed the door, “they have been smoking.”

“Have we been smoking?” said Rouvière, sniffing. “Bless me! I really believe we have; it shows how absent-minded one can be. I hadn’t perceived it, so absorbed were George and I in our great project.”

“What project?” asked madame as she took off her hood and cloak. “Are you going to stay with us, M. Rouvière?”

“Not exactly,” replied the guest, “but for George and me the result is the same. Are you good at guessing riddles, madame?”

“You are not going to take George away with you, are you?” asked the wife, her brown eyes resting firmly on his.

“With your permission, dear lady,” answered Rouvière, bowing with ironical politeness.

“No, no, it cannot be!” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis, with a forced, flickering smile, looking at him inquiringly and speaking low and hurriedly. “You will think me very silly to take a joke so seriously, but I cannot help it. You are playing with my life-spring. Tell me—I pray you tell me, dear M. Rouvière, that you are not going to take my husband away.”

761“I shall certainly leave his heart with you, my dear lady,” answered the triumphant friend, “but it is a fact that I am going to carry off his body for a while. The long and the short of it is this: for some time past George has been meditating a return to the land of the living, and he is glad to seize this opportunity to start at once, thus obviating all minor hindrances.”

Mme. Dupuis listened silently, her eyes cast down; she had not taken a seat since her entrance into the room, and she continued standing, leaning against an arm-chair in front of her guest.

“It is true, then,” she murmured when Rouvière ceased speaking.

“Do you hear him?” cried her tormentor, laughing, as a heavy thump was heard on the floor of the room above them. “The madcap! what a row he is making up there with his trunk. He’s dragging it about as if it were a triumphal car. Come, now, madame, you really ought not to feel surprised that, after living thirty consecutive years in Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, a man like George....”

“Do not trouble yourself to enter into any explanations—I understand,” interrupted Mme. Dupuis dryly. “Where are you taking him?”

“Why, to tell the truth, my dear lady, everywhere; first....”

“For how long a time?” again interrupted the victim.

“How long? Well, a year, perhaps, or two years ... at most. Ah! my dear Mme. Dupuis, what pleasant hours he is preparing for you,” continued M. Rouvière, who waxed each minute more and more vainglorious and jubilant. “How vastly will your remarkable collection of curiosities be enriched by his few months of 762travel! He will bring you back a dozen authentic reliquaries, and as many rosaries, blessed by the Holy Father himself ... propria manu! What say you to that?”

But Mme. Dupuis had ceased to listen; she had thrown herself into the arm-chair before her and was weeping bitterly. “O my God! my God!” were the only words she spoke between her sobs.

“Good!” growled Rouvière, scowling at the unhappy woman—“the elegiac style. Come, now,” he continued, making a step towards her and forcing himself to speak gently—“come, now, my dear lady, you are not reasonable. What is all this crying about? A journey. A journey don’t kill a man; am not I a proof of that? And, good God! sailors’ wives—what do they do? Really, this is too bad; you are placing me in a most annoying position, madame,” suddenly changing his gentle tone to one of vexation. “You are rendering my mission excessively painful.”

“Excuse me, sir,” sobbed the stricken wife, raising her wet face for a moment. “You see I ... I can’t....” She could not go on.

M. Rouvière began to pace the room angrily; his tactics were at a loss, and he found his task more difficult than he had anticipated; the little “provinciale” did not resemble the old Indian vixen as much as he had imagined. Presently he stopped in front of the weeping lady. “You are doing, madame,” said he sternly, “precisely what I was instructed to tell you George wishes to avoid.”

“Shall I not see him before he goes?” asked Madame Dupuis with a frightened look, half-rising from her seat as she spoke.

“You shall see him, if you can recover your equanimity,” replied 763Rouvière; “if you cannot, it will be better for you and for him not to meet. His resolution is not to be changed.”

“Oh! I will be calm, I promise you,” exclaimed the wife, great drops flowing fast down her pale cheeks; “in a few minutes ... give me a few minutes more.... I cannot ... all at once.... O God! merciful God!” Again she wept despairingly.

“I am compelled to make the remark, madame,” observed Rouvière harshly, “that all this despair is quite out of proportion with the cause. The deuce take it! I’m not carrying your husband off to the war.”

“No, no; I believe that he will come back again,” sobbed Mme. Dupuis, trying to wipe away her tears.

“You are a pious woman, madame, and now’s the hour to show your piety. Religion does not consist in only going to church. You are not to think of yourself solely in this world.”

“But you see, M. Rouvière,” replied the good little woman, making a great effort to control her emotion, “he’s not accustomed, like you, to a life of continual fatigue; his health is more delicate than you suspect. You will take care of him,” she added, suddenly seizing her enemy’s right hand with both of hers—“you will take care of him, will you not?”

“Why, certainly, madame, certainly,” answered Rouvière a trifle more gently; “you may rely on me for that. I promise to bring him back to you as fresh and rosy as any lad in Cotentin. I give you my word of honor. You understand me, do you not? But now, I beg you, let us have no more tears, especially no scene at parting.”

764“I will do all you wish me to do.” And Mme. Dupuis forthwith smiled tearfully on the hard, cold man who had so wantonly upset her happiness.

“Look,” she cried presently, as she wiped away the last hot drops, “it can’t be perceived that I have been crying.”

“That’s right, madame; that’s the way! I’ve great esteem for strong, single-hearted women; for wives who are truly Christian and self-sacrificing. And now that you’ve recovered your calmness, allow me to repeat to you that there really never was any reason for such great grief. What is a year? Gracious heavens! it is nothing. You will probably spend six months of it with your daughter, and the remaining six months you will pass here in the midst of your remembrances. George will not be more than half absent, for everything around you will bring him constantly before you; you will meet him at every step!”

“Take care, sir, take care!” said Mme. Dupuis, shaking her head at him with a faint smile, “lest, while you seek to comfort me, you increase the pain, ... which you cannot understand!”

“I beg your pardon, madame; I understand it perfectly,” replied Rouvière, an angry gleam lighting up his eyes for an instant, “and I thought that I was proving to you that I do.”

“O sir! believe me, I wish to cast no reflection either on your intelligence or your kindness; be quite sure of that!”

“Madame!” exclaimed the gentleman.

“But there are things,” continued Mme. Dupuis, giving at last free utterance to her feelings—“there are things which are not to be 765guessed. Have you thought how different your life has been to ours? You have been very wise; you have never allowed your heart to be bound by any of those ties whose number and strength are only recognized when they come to be broken. Yes, you may well say that everything here, the very hearthstone itself, forms a part of our united lives, of our remembrances, making our very thoughts the same. Everything around us loves us, everything is dear to us.... So, at least, I believed until now! A few minutes ago how dearly I prized the simple objects this room contains—all so familiar to us both during so many years, all bearing traces of our habits; each one reminding us of the projects, the pleasures, the sorrows we have shared together! And now they are nothing to me—they can be nothing to me but the ruins of a false happiness, the wrecks of a dream!”

“Really, madame, you exaggerate strangely,” replied Rouvière coldly; “admitting that this journey throws a shade over the present, the past, at least, remains intact.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” returned Mme. Dupuis. “This journey is doubtless not much in itself, but it answers cruelly a question which I have been accustomed to ask myself in secret nearly all my life: Is George happy? No, he was not happy; I alone was happy. I know the truth at last! He was resigned”—she struggled a moment to contain her emotion—“but he was not happy. And yet my heart—I feel it, I am sure of it—was worthy of his; in every other respect I was inferior to him, and I felt it bitterly. What companionship could a mind like his find in 766the conversation of a poor, provincial girl, ignorant of everything, knowing nothing but how to love him?”

“You undervalue yourself,” remarked her attentive listener; “as for me, I declare that the more I know you, the better I appreciate George’s choice of a wife.”

“You flatter me, M. Rouvière,” replied Mme. Dupuis, smiling; “you see me unhappy, and you are generous. I will be so too, and forgive you all the pain you have occasioned me.... I have hated you for years.”

“Me? Impossible! What had I done to deserve it? But first tell me”—and his voice was quite kind and gentle—“you feel better now, do you not? I don’t know how it is, but really you look ten years younger!”

“Possibly,” said Mme. Dupuis, with a quiet smile; “I think that I am a little feverish—so much the better!”

“Come, come, cheer up! And tell me, now, what painful part have I played in your existence?”

“Well, M. Rouvière,” she began calmly, but became more and more excited as she went on, “I need scarcely tell you that every woman, from the very morrow of her wedding-day, finds herself in presence of a formidable rival—her husband’s unmarried life. Nor need I explain how difficult is the task to make him forget all that he has given up for his wife; how almost impossible it is to allay his regret for the golden age that is gone—regret which grows stronger as those past days recede farther and farther into the distance and youth fades away. I, sir, soon perceived that your name, incessantly on his lips, was George’s favorite symbol of lost pleasures—the incarnation 767of all the illusions of by-gone years. In his dear thoughts you represented liberty, adventure, and the days of fleeting sorrows and of infinite hopes; while I—I was positive life, paltry domestic economy, and daily anxiety. I was prose and you were poetry. It was with you then that I had to struggle, and I did so with all my strength and with all my soul. Alas! it was in vain; you were stronger than I. Each day George grew more thoughtful, and it seemed to me as if every one of those moments of sadness was a triumph for you. How often have I wept secret tears over my defects, here, seated by this hearthstone, or under the willow-trees in our little garden! But I was young then, and God took pity on me and gave me my daughter, and you were overcome. Now”—her voice fell and she paused a moment—“now the angel of our home is gone, and victory is once more yours.”

“Who knows?” replied Rouvière, his voice strangely hoarse and trembling. “The last word is not yet spoken. You are going to see George. Speak to him. You can still prevent his journey.”

“I have promised you that I will not try to do so,” she answered gently.

“But I give you back your promise!” cried her guest vehemently. “I will not be your evil genius. I am abrupt, madame, selfish too, sometimes—that’s a bachelor’s profession, you know; but I am not bad—pray, believe it.”

“I do believe it,” she replied, looking him frankly and smilingly in the eyes, “but I know George. All my efforts would be useless; they would irritate him, and nothing more. Besides, even if, by dint of tears, I could keep him at home, 768I would not do it now. I should only be adding another new and bitter regret to those which have already poisoned his life. And my heart would seem to reproach me with my victory every time that I saw him silent or sad. No; he must go!”

“All you say is true—too true,” said Rouvière after a short pause. “There is nothing to reply; you are right. But depend on me, madame, to shorten his absence.”

“I will depend on you; thank you.” She rose from her seat as she spoke and offered her hand to him. The repentant guest clasped it in both of his and kissed it, bowing low as he did so. At the same moment a loud noise as of something falling down the stairs, followed by a great confusion of tongues, was heard outside.

“My God! what is the matter?” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis, pale as death. “It is he; I hear his voice!”

She rushed towards the door, but before she could reach it her husband entered, boiling over with passion, and followed by Marianne.

“You’re an awkward dunce! Be silent, I command you!” he shouted, as the maid tried to excuse herself. “You can’t make me believe that you find this trunk, which has nothing but a few shirts in it, too heavy for you to carry. The stupid creature,” he continued, turning to his wife, “actually let my trunk roll from the top to the bottom of the staircase!”

“Well, the fact is,” cried Marianne, “ever since you told me that you were going to Rome I’ve lost all strength in my arms and legs. I’ve no strength at all. Going to Rome, indeed! What next?”

“The woman is crazy,” said Dupuis, red with indignation. “What 769business is it of yours, I should like to know?”

“I don’t say that it’s my business,” replied the maid, who was as red and angry as her master, “but, all the same, it’s a queer idea to leave mistress here all alone, at her age too, while you go to Rome. You’ll be lucky if you find her again when you come back. I won’t answer for it.”

“Marianne, take care!” cried Dupuis, who had listened, speechless with amazement, to his old servant’s impertinence. “You must see that I am far from pleased.”

“I’m not surprised at that,” returned she; “you’re not pleased with others, because you’re not pleased with yourself. That’s always the way.”

“I dismiss you from my service,” cried her master, in a fury.

“Go down stairs directly, Marianne,” said her mistress sternly.

“I dismiss you,” repeated Dupuis; “though they should be the last words I have to speak in my own house, they shall be obeyed. I dismiss you from my service! It is your fault also, my dear Reine,” he added when the maid had gone from the room; “you allow your servants to be too familiar with you. You see the consequence. I hope you understand that I have dismissed that woman?”

“Yes, George,” answered the lady gently; “I will settle her wages to-morrow morning, if you do not change your mind.”

“Change my mind!” exclaimed her husband. “Am I accustomed to change my mind every five minutes? Am I a weathercock, or do you deem me so weakened by age that I can submit to be lectured by my own servants?”

“I beg you, dear, not to say another word on the subject. She 770shall go away to-morrow. But I want to know, George, if you have all you need. Let me look into your trunk, will you? Men don’t know much about wearing-apparel, and when one is travelling the merest trifle that is missing suffices to put one out of sorts for the whole day. I know that you can buy whatever you want, but where’s the use when you can avoid it? And then, too, I wish to make you think of me all the time, you gadabout!”

“Do as you like, love,” said George; “here are the keys.”

“Well, Tom,” he continued, when the lady had closed the door behind her, “it seems to me that she received the news very well indeed.”

“Perfectly; do you know, George, your wife possesses some great qualities?”

“I know she does,” returned Dupuis, looking inquisitively at his friend’s serious, almost downcast countenance.

“She is shy and excessively timid, and that does her wrong,” went on Rouvière.

“I told you so, my dear friend,” cried Dupuis eagerly. “She was afraid of you at dinner. Now, I would bet any sum that, the ice once broken, you hardly recognized her.”

“It is true. Under the influence of deep emotion—for I will not conceal that she was at first very much affected—she found expressions, directly from her heart, which astonished me.”

“She has plenty of heart, that’s certain!” exclaimed the gratified husband.

“And you may add,” said his friend, “that she possesses a most refined and elevated mind.”

“I know it, Tom—I know it 771well!” cried Dupuis with delight. “I’m not a blockhead, hey? Do you suppose that I should have married her, if I had not known all that? And if it had to be done again, I should do it again. I am not only happy in the woman I have chosen, Tom, but I am proud of her! She has some slight defects—I see them as well as any one—but, bless me! of what consequence is a little awkwardness, or perhaps a few parish prejudices, when you find in the same woman the most self-sacrificing tenderness, the most exquisite good sense and uprightness, the most fervent and unassuming piety—in short, all the virtues that can captivate an honest man?”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rouvière, slapping him caressingly on the shoulder. “An honest man—there you are! Well, well! all right.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dupuis, astonished.

“I mean,” replied Rouvière, “that the conclusion of your little speech is perfectly clear: thinking better about our journey, and estimating more coolly the value of the treasure that remains in the house, you have lost the courage to leave it. In short, you are about to let me go away alone.... I can understand perfectly that it should be so.”

“But I swear ...” cried Dupuis.

“Say no more, say no more,” interrupted his friend. “I understand it all perfectly, I tell you.”

“You misunderstand, you mean,” said Dupuis angrily. “I have never, for one moment, forgotten my wife’s good qualities, but, were she ten times the saint she is, it is not less true that I have been living the life of a snail. Good heavens! I shall be better able to appreciate 772her many virtues when no consciousness of intellectual degradation is present to spoil my enjoyment.”

“You are too absurd, George! You make me laugh with your ‘intellectual degradation.’”

“You did not laugh half an hour ago,” retorted Dupuis, “when you depicted it in colors ... well, in colors which not even your friendship for me could soften.”

“Is it possible that you did not perceive that I was jesting? How singular it is that there’s not an intelligent man in France who, if he is condemned to live in the provinces, far from Paris, does not fancy that he is becoming idiotic! I had a presentiment that you suffered from this monomania, and I amused myself by exciting it. I had been drinking, you know; let that be my excuse.”

“However that may be,” answered Dupuis, a cold, stubborn expression stealing over his face and fixing itself there, “I am more than ever resolved to travel; if I hesitated before, I do so no longer. I confess that I was afraid of the effect my intention would produce on my wife, but her calmness removes all my scruples.”

“Listen to me, George, I beg you,” replied his friend earnestly: “don’t trust too much to appearances; your wife affects a firmness she is far from feeling. I know....”

“You know!” interrupted Dupuis. “You know that you begin to think that I shall be in your way, and so you want to cast me over.”

“No, George, no—nothing of the kind. You don’t understand me. I sincerely believed, from what you said, that you had changed your mind. I thought that I was anticipating your wishes in giving back your promise to go with me. 773But if you really persist in your intentions, all right ... I am delighted.”

“Here are the horses,” bawled Marianne, opening the door suddenly and then shutting it with a bang.

“That old woman would take my life, if she could,” said Rouvière, laughing. “Now, then,” he continued, taking up his cloak, “let’s gird up our loins. By the bye, I think I remember that you never can sleep in a coach.”

“I beg your pardon, I can sleep perfectly well.”

“So much the better. Allons! Bravo! Are the horses put to, I wonder? Does this window look out upon the street?” Rouvière opened the sash as he spoke, but closed it quickly. “What a wind! It’s terrible—cold enough to split a rock! Now I think of it, one of the glasses of the post-chaise is broken. I’m afraid you’ll be frozen to death, George.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about me,” replied Dupuis, putting on his overcoat. “I can bear cold like a Laplander.”

“All right!”

The clock at this moment struck nine, and Madame Dupuis entered the room, carrying a soft India shawl suspended from her arm. The poor lady was very pale.

“Everything is ready,” she said with a trembling voice, “and here are your keys, dear. You will see that I have added some few little things that you had forgotten. And here is a comforter for you. I’ve cut my old cashmere shawl in two, and half of it will be very nice to wrap round your throat; it is very warm.”

“How foolish of you to cut up your shawl!” cried Dupuis. “However, since ’tis done, I accept; 774but it really was very foolish of you.”

“Here is the other half for you, M. Rouvière,” said madame, presenting it with a kind smile.

“For me!” cried Rouvière, taking it from her with respectful eagerness. “Thank you, thank you most sincerely!”

“You will remember your promises, will you not?” asked the lady gently, fixing her eyes on his.

Rouvière bowed and turned away abruptly.

“You will write to our daughter, George? You will not fail?”

“I will write to her—to both of you—often, often,” answered George in a husky voice, and pulling his travelling-cap over his eyes.

“The 12th of January!” suddenly exclaimed Rouvière, who was warming his feet at the fire, while he examined an almanac placed on the chimney-piece. “Is it really the 12th of January to-day?”

“It really is,” replied Mme. Dupuis. “Why do you ask? Is there any particular remembrance attached to that date?”

“It is a date which interests me only,” replied Rouvière in a tone of infinite sadness. “Five years ago this very evening, almost at this same hour, I was passing through an ordeal I shall never forget. Now, George, are you ready?” he added with abrupt impatience.

“What kind of an ordeal? What had happened to you? An accident?” asked George, with intense interest.

“No, not an accident, but I was very ill, which is always a misfortune—and ill in an inn, which is horrible.”

“People are ill everywhere,” remarked Dupuis sententiously.

“True; but the impressions made 775on you by sickness and death vary according to the circumstances in which they surprise you; you can scarcely conceive how much, unless you have had the experience.”

“Pshaw! death is death under all circumstances; it is always equally unpleasant!” cried Dupuis.

“Ah! you think that.... I should like to have seen you.... Well, I’ll tell you my story. It happened at Peschiera, on the Lago di Guardia—a lovely country; we’ll pass through it, and I’ll show you the house. I was detained there by a fever of a somewhat pernicious character. All went on well, however, during eight days—for I was delirious the whole time, and knew nothing of what was passing—till one fine evening, the evening of the 12th of January, when I suddenly came to myself, so weak in body, so anxious in spirit, and at the same time with such an extraordinary lucidity of mind that I felt convinced I was at the point of death. I have passed through many bitter moments in the course of my life—cruel moments—which nevertheless I can think of now with a kind of pleasure; but when I recall to mind my awakening in that inn-chamber, a cold shiver runs through me; I shudder!”

Rouvière paused as Marianne entered the room; Mme. Dupuis signed to her imperatively not to interrupt, and the maid remained standing near the door.

“What did you see that could make such a fearful impression on you?” asked George, moving a little nearer to his friend.

“Nothing very horrible; only some people who were waiting for me to die, an old woman and a young doctor who were conversing together in a corner, and a priest who was kneeling at the foot of my bed.

776“They formed to my eye a picture whose accessories were the dirty, faded curtains of the couch on which I was stretched and the tarnished, heterogeneous furniture of a lodging-house. But the ignoble surroundings, the preparations for death even, caused me no emotion; what revolted me—stirred up my very soul to protest—was the neglect, the brutal lack of charity—saving the presence of the priest—the desolate isolation, the void of all human sympathy in which I realized that I was at that moment dying. How distinctly I can recollect the pitiful, suppliant look with which I gazed around me, as if trying to interlink the life that was escaping me with any, the slightest, earthly object; as if seeking to discover some sign of interest, of pity even, in the impassible faces which looked so calmly on me! My agonized heart longed for any trifle—a picture, a vase, a chair—which had known me, and to which I could say farewell. But all was strange.”

“Death never can be agreeable,” remarked Dupuis crabbedly. “When the last hour is upon us it is dismal to be alone, I don’t say the contrary; but I can’t see that it is more cheerful to be surrounded by a weeping family.”

“I think that you would have felt as I felt then,” replied Rouvière with melancholy gravity; “the death which God has ordained for men—the death which most men die, which finds consolation and resignation in the tears of tender regret shed by loving friends—that death appeared to me, in my solitary agony, like a sweet, untroubled feast.... I made many a singular reflection that night! But come, George, are you ready?”

“When you will; ... but, first, what were your reflections?”

777“Well, to tell you the truth, I lost somewhat of my self-sufficiency. And then I congratulated myself a little less on the path I had chosen for my life’s journey. Why not say it? The book of life seemed suddenly to be opened before me, and I read on every page, traced by God’s own hand, the words ‘duty and sacrifice.’ I had rejected that law. Hitherto I had only seen its hardships; now I recognized its benefits. I had avoided its bonds that I might live independently, and exile and isolation had been my lot. I had fancied that, by escaping the usual dull routine of humble duties, I should win for myself a happiness unknown—pleasures inconceivable to the vulgar crowd. Alas! I found that I had experienced nothing save a loveless youth, a solitary old age, and an unlamented death. Then, George—then I understood what an erroneous price we pay for the indulgence of our selfishness.”

“Were you long in this agitated state?” asked Dupuis.

“Long enough for it to be indelibly impressed on my memory,” replied his friend. “When the young physician perceived that I was looking at him, he arose and approached me, and I felt the touch of his hand, cold and indifferent as his heart. I pushed it away and closed my eyes. And then a vision of my father’s death-bed flashed before me, distinct and clear. I saw again, grouped around it, the faithful friends of his youth—our ancient servants, the old doctor, the white-haired priest, and, dearest of all, my mother, my good mother. They leaned over him, they wiped his damp brow, they smiled at him through their tears; they had gladdened his life, 778and they were beside him now, to cheer and sustain him as he passed away! My dried-up heart melted within me as I gazed on this vision of a scene I had long since ceased to recall, and I burst into tears; they saved me!”

Rouvière stopped, overpowered by his emotion, and, covering his eyes with his hand, leant forward against the mantle-shelf.

“These recollections are too painful,” said Dupuis gently.

“They are painful,” replied Rouvière, his voice hoarse and trembling, “and everything I see around me here awakens them. Oh! how alike these old houses are,” he continued, speaking to himself and looking around the room. “All this is familiar to me. There stood my mother’s little work-table near the window, just as that is—I always found her seated at it when I came home for a holiday—and there, in the chimney-corner, was the great arm-chair in which my father always sat. And the family portraits looked down from the walls just as these do. There, as here, the trace of two lives closely entwined, never to be separated, was visible everywhere. Why did I not learn by their example? Why was I compelled to drag my weary, vagrant life, my unceasing remorse, all over the wide world, ere I could comprehend that they were happy? Did they know that they were happy? I doubt it. How often I have heard my father speak with envy of the very pleasures I have found so hollow! How often they confided to me their mutual grievances! And yet when one went the other could not stay. Dear old father! dearest mother!”

“My dear friend!” whispered George.

“And I,” continued Rouvière, 779with increasing emotion—“I sold their home as soon as it was empty—I had the heart to do that! I sold the room where I was born; I sold all our family traditions; I sold the ancient, faithful friendships which seemed to adhere to the house and soil. I alienated my patrimony.... I riveted the chain of egotism I was so eagerly forging. I did my work well; no kind care, no friendly companionship will ever be the solace of my old age. I have nothing to offer in return—not even the bribe of a legacy. I cannot even buy back that humble home; my last days may not be sheltered by those walls whose very shadows I have learned to love. I may not even die there. Come! let us go,” he added with vehemence, dashing away the tears which suddenly inundated his face.

“Yes, Tom, we will go”—and George seized his friend’s hand—“we will go, if you refuse to accept a brother’s place by my fireside. And you, Reine,” he said, turning to his wife, “dry your tears and forget this hour’s ingratitude. It was the first; it shall be the last!”

“O George, my husband!” sobbed the sweet little woman as she gave him the kiss of pardon; then, approaching Rouvière with gentle grace, she said softly and beseechingly:

“Will not the happiness you have restored to us tempt you to remain with us? We should be so glad to share it with you!”

“Madame, dear, good friends,” stammered the guest.... “O 780George! you have caught me in the very snare I spread for you.”

He sank into a chair, overcome by his emotion, while George and Reine stood by him, clasping his hands in theirs. “Oh!” sighed he at last, “it is too sweet a dream for such a forlorn wretch as I am.”

“He will stay with us!” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis joyfully.

“And I will go and make his bed in the best blue chamber,” cried Marianne, wiping her eyes with her apron. The poor girl had been standing quietly near the door, an involuntary listener, during almost the whole of Rouvière’s confession.

“What! the deuce! Marianne!” growled Rouvière, rising hastily from his seat.

“I’m going to make your bed, sir!” cried Marianne, in great good-humor.

“Very well, then; but don’t let the head be lower than the heels, my good creature, as you house-maids generally manage it. Slope it down gently from head to foot, mind you, and....” He stopped a moment, then smilingly resumed: “Make it as you will, Marianne; I’m sure it will be first-rate. You see,” he added, turning toward his hosts when Marianne had left the room, “how this disgusting egotism crops up incessantly; ... you must try to cure me of it. Oh! what a rest I’m going to have now,” he exclaimed as he threw himself on the sofa.... “Madame, dear madame, will you do me a favor? I know what the pains of exile are by sad experience—pray, let the cat come in!”

This convention, which met in Boston on the 3d of October and continued in session for twenty days, was the triennial “Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America.” The bishops sat in a house by themselves and conducted their proceedings in secret, following in this the precedent of the Anglican Church as well as the custom of the Roman Catholic Church in its provincial and plenary councils. The House of Deputies consisted of one hundred and eighty clergymen and one hundred and eighty laymen, representing forty-five dioceses, and eight clergymen and eight laymen representing eight “missionary jurisdictions.” These sat in public, and a verbatim report of their proceedings is before us. Among the lay delegates were several gentlemen of national fame—the Hons. John W. Maynard, of Pennsylvania; Thomas A. Hendricks, of Indiana, the Democratic candidate for the Vice-Presidency at the recent election; John W. Stevenson, of Kentucky; John W. Hunter and L. Bradford Prince, of Long Island; Gen. C. C. Augur, U. S. Army; Daniel R. Magruder and Montgomery Blair, of Maryland; Robert C. Winthrop, of Massachusetts; General J. H. Simpson, U. S. Army; Hamilton Fish, Cambridge Livingston, and W. A. Davies, of New York; Morrison R. Waite, of Ohio; and Geo. W. Thompson and Richard Parker, of Virginia. It is not probable that any of the other sects could marshal laymen like these to 782sit in its councils. We mention their names because the list affords some explanation of the fact that the social and political influence of the Protestant Episcopalians is vastly out of proportion to their numerical strength. At a preliminary session, the bishops and deputies being together, Dr. Williams, the Bishop of Connecticut, preached a sermon in which he introduced a subject that subsequently occupied much of the attention of the convention—“the most threatening social evil of our time, the growing lack of sympathy between different classes and individuals of such classes.” “To-day,” he said, “we see great chasms opening everywhere because of this, which threatens church and state alike with sad disaster.” And he added:

“I think those chasms are more entirely unrelieved and ghastly in this country than in almost any other. I know that we have not been wont so to think or speak, and I know that to say this involves some chance of incurring severe displeasure; but I fully believe it to be true. In most lands there are things—I speak of things outside of Christian sympathies and labors—that somewhat bridge over these threatening severances. There are ancient memories; ancestral offices and ministries that in their long continuance have almost become binding laws; relations, long enduring, of patronage and clientship; and many other things besides. With us—we may as well face the fact—those things have, for the most part, no existence. The one only helping thing we have—still apart from what was just alluded to—is political equality. And how much virtue has that shown itself to have in pressing exigencies and 783emergencies? When, all at once, in the late summer months, that yawning chasm opened at our feet which appeared to threaten nearly everything in ordinary life, how little there seemed to be to turn to! There stood on either side contending forces in apparently irreconcilable opposition, and everywhere we heard the cry about rights! rights! rights! till nothing else was heard. If some few voices dared to speak of duties they were lost in the angry clamor. And yet those voices must be heard. Those words about duty on the one side and the other must be listened to, if ever we are to have more than an armed truce between these parties—a truce which may at any time burst out into desolating strife.”

Dr. Williams’ remedy was, of course, that the Protestant Episcopalians should teach the people their duties. To do this, however, they must first get the hearing of the people. But this is just what they have failed to get, and will always fail in getting—certainly so long as they provide fine churches with eloquent preachers for the rich, and a very different order of preachers and churches for the poor. The Catholic Church, before whose altars all distinctions of earthly rank and position disappear, can and does teach the people what their duties are, and she does it with effect, since her priests speak with authority and by virtue of an incontestably divine commission—two things quite unknown among the sects. This is what Rev. Hugh Thompson felt and acknowledged when, in the Episcopal Church Congress held in this city, he said:

“What is the worth of a church in this world except as a moral teacher—except this: to get the Ten Commandments kept on earth? The church canons are usually busy with questions affecting garments, gestures, postures, and the orthodoxy of the Prayer-Book, but rarely do we find any moral 784legislation. There are plenty of instructions to the clergy and bishops, and we are led to think what a wicked lot of people these clergy and bishops must be to need all these laws, and what a good and pious laity we must have when they have no need of such legislation! The church gives no real expression of opinion on the complicated questions of marriage, so that one minister may bless a union while another would not do so under any circumstances. Is it right that the church should evade such responsibilities as these? The church must place itself plainly on record. The church must be to a millionaire and beggar the same, must demand equal justice for all—for the railway president and the railway brakeman, for the worshipper in the gilded temple and in the ordinary meeting-house. Such a church, with the courage and fearlessness and ability to tell and enforce the eternal truth, without fear or favor, is what this country is waiting for, and would have an influence here unequalled since the days of Athanasius.”

The first two days of the convention were spent chiefly in rather unseemly discussions upon a proposition to print fifteen hundred copies of Dr. Williams’ sermon, to appoint a committee “to consider the importance of the practical principles enunciated in it,” and in attempts to begin a debate upon three amendments to the constitution proposed three years ago by the last convention. Much interest was excited by some remarks by the Rev. Dr. Harwood, of Connecticut, who thought that one of the most pressing duties of the convention would be the invention of a method whereby clergymen who had grown tired of their work might be retired without incurring disgrace. It is curious to observe how the Catholic doctrine, “once a priest always a priest,” still lingers among the laity of this Protestant body, while its clergymen, or some of them, seem anxious to destroy it. Dr. Harwood complained that although 785at present the regulations of his church permitted any clergyman to “withdraw from the ministry for causes not affecting his moral character,” nevertheless “somewhat of a stigma rests upon the man, and people may even point to his children and say, ‘There go the children of a disgraced clergyman.’” This state of things was found to be “a grievous burden”; for there were numbers of good fellows who feel that “they are out of place in the ministry of the Protestant Episcopal Church,” and who still continue in that service because they fear to incur disgrace by leaving it. Dr. Harwood drew a pitiful picture of the condition of these unhappy persons: “They may have changed their minds about some doctrine; they may believe too much or too little; they may be drifting towards a blank unbelief or towards a wretched superstition; they may feel that they have mistaken their calling and cannot do their work, for neither their hearts nor their minds are in it.” We agree with Dr. Harwood that his church would be better off without such parsons; and it is sad to record that his proposition, looking towards the adoption of a cheap and easy, although “honorable,” method of getting rid of them, was not finally successful.

On the third day of the convention the Rev. Dr. De Koven, of Wisconsin, brought forward the question of changing the name of the Protestant Episcopal Church. This proposition was made in the interest of that section of it which follows the Anglican ritualists. This section has a real or affected horror of the word “Protestant”; its members wish to persuade themselves that they are Catholics—and 786the wish is very natural and most praiseworthy—but they are resolved never to seek the reality and yield to the living authority of the Catholic Church. In order to avoid this submission, they set up the claim that they are themselves the Catholic Church, or rather “a branch” of it. To make this claim a little less absurd the elimination of the word “Protestant” would be advisable; and for some time past, it appears, an industrious propaganda for this purpose has been carried on. Certain of the bishops, many of the clergymen, and a number of the journals of the Protestant Episcopalians have been enlisted in the proposed “reform,” and its advocates mustered all their forces in the convention. Dr. De Koven introduced the matter by reading a paper adopted in the diocese of Wisconsin last June, and moving a resolution. The paper was as follows:

“Whereas, The American branch of the Catholic Church universal [sic] includes in its membership all baptized persons in this land; and

“Whereas, The various bodies of professing Christians, owing to her first legal title, do not realize that the church known in law as the ‘Protestant Episcopal Church’ is, in very deed and truth, the American branch of the one Catholic Church of God; therefore, be it

“Resolved, That the deputies to the General Convention from this diocese be requested to ask of the General Convention the appointment of a constitutional commission, to which the question of a change of the legal title of the church, as well as similar questions, may be referred.”

Dr. De Koven accordingly presented a motion for the appointment of this commission and moved its reference to the Committee on Constitutional Amendments. The absurd side of the assumptions made in the preamble is apparent; 787but the ridicule and scorn which they excite should not blind one to the arrogant claim therein set up. It is laughable to assert that a sect with less than 270,000 communicants, and with a history of less than a century, claims as its members all the baptized persons in the United States, including seven or eight millions of Roman Catholics; it is still more ludicrous to be told that the reason why we and all the other “baptized persons” do not recognize this sect as our mother the church is that up to this time she has chosen to call herself by a false name. The name—the name’s the thing wherewith to catch the conscience of the people! Let us only call ourselves something else, and then “all the baptized persons in this land”—Papists, Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists, Mormons, and all the rest—will hasten to exclaim, “Our long-lost mother! Behold your children!” This is the ludicrous side of the business, and it is funny enough. The serious side of it is the fact that a claim so arrogant should be seriously presented in a convention composed of respectable, and in some cases eminent, American gentlemen. Let us see what became of it.

Dr. De Koven’s motion immediately caused an animated debate. An attempt to get rid of it by laying it on the table was lost; and after a disorderly and heated discussion, in which the president seemed occasionally to lose his head, the motion for reference to the committee was carried. On the eighth day of the session the committee, through Mr. Hamilton Fish, reported that it was “inexpedient to institute any commission to revise and amend the constitution of the church,” for the reason, 788among others, that such a commission would be unlimited in its powers and might upset everything. On the tenth day another committee, to whom had been “referred certain memorials and papers looking to a change in the legal title of the church,” reported that such a change might impair the legal right of property in the several dioceses, and that it would be better to make no change. The two reports came up for decision on the twelfth day of the session, and the ball was opened by Dr. De Koven in a long and clever speech. He proposed the adoption of a new resolution providing for the appointment of a commission to consider and report upon the best method of “removing apparent ambiguities,” and “the setting forth our true relations to the Anglican communion as well as to the whole Catholic Church.” He drew a very curious and not at all a pleasant picture of his church as at present constituted. So far as the laity are concerned, anybody may be a lay member, if he “merely goes to church a few times a year” and pays money for the support of the minister. “He need not be baptized; he need not be confirmed; he need not be a communicant. He may even be Jew, Turk, or infidel, if you please, provided he has the money qualification which makes up the franchise of the church.” Here, indeed, is a pitiable state of things; a society composed of unbaptized persons can scarcely be called a Christian association. “Underneath it all,” Dr. De Koven went on to say, “lies this money qualification. The parish elects its vestry, and its vestry need not be communicants. The vestry and parish elect the lay delegates to the diocesan convention, and they 789need not be communicants. The diocesan convention elects the lay members of the standing committees, and they need not be communicants.” The truth is that the ruling laymen of the sect need not be, and probably are not, Christians at all, and that they “run the machine” for social and political purposes, just as they would manage a club or a political party. If the laymen are of this stripe, what can be said of the priests? “Like people, like priest,” said Dr. De Koven; “As you go through the land and witness the sorrow, the trials, the degradation of the parochial clergy, you are quite well aware that underneath all lies this simoniacal taint.” The bishops are almost in as sad a state. Their councils of advice are the standing committees; these may be composed of unbaptized men, and the bishops have no voice in their nomination; and “thus you have the marvellous spectacle of a bishop sitting at the head of his diocesan synod, but bound by laws which that synod (possibly composed of non-Christians) makes, and in the making of which he has had no voice whatever, either of assent or dissent.” It could scarcely be supposed, however, that evils so great as these would be removed simply by a change of name, and Dr. De Koven found himself at last willing to admit as much. He was willing, he said, to go on for a while longer with the old name, although as long as it was retained such evil consequences would follow. But he insisted that “the day will come when this church shall demand, not that an accident of its condition, not that a part of its organization, should represent it to the world, but that its immortal lineage shall represent it.”

790The church may demand what it pleases, and may call itself by whatever name it chooses to invent; but its history is written and cannot be changed. Men will always know that it is the daughter of that creature whose father was Henry VIII. and whose nursing mother was Queen Elizabeth. A delegate from Illinois pleaded for the change of name, for the reason that he was tired of saying on Sundays, “I believe in the Holy Catholic Church,” and all the rest of the week, “I believe in the Protestant Episcopal Church.” Mr. Hamilton Fish declared that it was “too late to change the name of Protestant Episcopal,” and that if the sect was not Protestant it was nothing. His great objection, however, was that if the change were made the church would be in danger of losing its property. Finally, on the thirteenth day of the session, the resolution for the appointment of the constitutional committee to consider this and other changes was voted down by a vote of 16 to 51; and a separate resolution, that no change should be made in the name of the church at present, was carried by an almost unanimous vote.

The convention also touched upon marriage and divorce, but rather gingerly. The House of Bishops passed a resolution repealing the present canon on this subject, and adopting the following in its place:

“Section 1. If any persons be joined together otherwise than as God’s Word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful.

“Sec. 2. No minister of this church shall solemnize matrimony in any case where there is a divorced wife or husband of either party still living, and where the divorce was obtained for some cause arising after marriage; but this canon shall not be held to apply to the innocent party in a divorce for the cause 791of adultery, or to parties once divorced seeking to be united again.

“Sec. 3. If any minister of this church shall have reasonable cause to doubt whether a person desirous of being admitted to holy baptism, or to confirmation, or to the holy communion, has been married otherwise than as the word of God and discipline of this church allow, such minister, before receiving such person to these ordinances, shall refer the case to the bishop for his godly judgment thereupon; provided, however, that no minister in any case refuse the sacrament to a penitent person in extremis.

“Sec. 4. No minister of this church shall present for confirmation or administer the holy sacraments to any person divorced, for any cause arising after marriage, or married again to another in violation of this canon, or during the lifetime of such divorced wife or husband; but this prohibition shall not extend to the innocent party where the divorce has been for the cause of adultery, nor to any truly penitent person.

“Sec. 5. Questions touching the facts of any case arising under this canon shall be referred to the bishop of the diocese, or, if there be a vacancy in the episcopate, then to some bishop designated by the Standing Committee, who shall thereupon make enquiry by a commissionary or otherwise, and deliver his godly judgment in the premises.

“Sec. 6. This canon, so far as it affixes penalties, does not apply to cases occurring before its taking effect, according to canon iv., title iv.”

From the Roman Catholic point of view there are at least two objections to this canon. There is no authority pointed out whereby it may be decided what it is that “God’s word doth allow” respecting marriage; and the permission for the re-marriage of one of the parties in a divorce is repugnant to the rule of the church, and could not for a moment be assented to by any one who holds the Catholic and Christian doctrine of marriage. In the debate upon the canon it was urged that the second section could not be enforced among the 792Indians nor among the negroes; and some of the clergymen objected to the section which provides for the reference of doubtful cases to the bishop. Especial ridicule was cast upon the sixth section, which, as one delegate expressed it, asserts that “the longer a man has continued in sin the less sin he has.” More than one clerical delegate, on the other hand, lifted up his voice in favor of “greater freedom in the matter,” and they drew pathetic pictures of the sad condition of a woman divorced from her husband for incompatibility of temper, for example, and, under this canon, unable to marry again. But at length the canon was passed.

Our readers can scarcely be expected to take much interest in the other proceedings of the convention. There was a debate, lasting through several days, upon a proposed canon for the creation and development of orders of deaconesses, or “sisterhoods,” in imitation of our own societies of holy women. The bishops wished to retain strict control over these possible organizations; the lower house desired them to be left quite free, or subject only to the supervision of the parish clergyman. The two houses could not agree, and the matter was dropped. A still more tedious debate arose from propositions for the adoption of a “shortened service,” lay preaching, and the permissible use of the English Lectionary. There was very little talk about dogma; and it is noticeable that the quarrels between the Ritualists and the Evangelicals were kept entirely suppressed during the convention. The only doctrinal breeze which animated the gathering was caused by the introduction of a paper by Mr. Judd, of Illinois, which, on the 793whole, is so queer that we reproduce it here:

“Whereas, A majority of the bishops of the Anglican communion at the Lambeth Conference, held in the year of our Lord 1867, while solemnly ‘professing the faith delivered to us in Holy Scripture, maintained in the primitive church and by the fathers of the English Reformation,’ did also ‘express the deep sorrow with which we view the divided condition of the flock of Christ throughout the world, ardently longing for the fulfilment of the prayer of our Lord, “that all may be one,”’ and did furthermore ‘solemnly record’ and set forth the means by which ‘that unity will be more effectually promoted’; and

“Whereas, The Lambeth declaration was not only signed by all the nineteen American bishops then and there present, but the whole House of Bishops, at the General Convention of 1868, also formally resolved that they ‘cordially united in the language and spirit’ of the same; and

“Whereas, Our fervent prayer, daily offered, ‘that all who profess and call themselves Christians may hold the faith in unity of spirit,’ cannot receive fulfilment unless there be a clear and steadfast clinging to ‘the faith once for all delivered to the Saints’; and

“Whereas, The restoration of this ‘unity of spirit’ in the apostolic ‘bond of peace’ among all the Christian people, for which we thus daily pray, ought also to be the object of our most earnest efforts; and

“Whereas, This unity manifestly cannot be restored by the submission of all other parts to any one part of the divided body of Christ, but must be reached by the glad reunion of all in that faith which was held by all before the separation of corrupt times began; and

“Whereas, The venerable documents in which the undisputed councils summed up the Catholic faith are not easily accessible to many of the clergy, and have never been fully set forth to our laity in a language ‘understanded of the people’; therefore

“Resolved, by the House of Deputies of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America, That a memorial be presented to the Lambeth Conference at its second session, expressing 794our cordial thanks for the action of its first session in 1867, in which it enjoined upon us all the promotion of unity ‘by maintaining the faith in its purity and integrity, as taught by the Holy Scriptures, held by the primitive church, summed up in the creeds, and affirmed by the undisputed general councils’; and, in furtherance of the good work thus recommended and enjoined, we humbly request the said Lambeth Conference, by a joint commission of learned divines, or otherwise, to provide for the setting forth of an accurate and authentic version, in the English language, of the creeds and the other acts of the said undisputed general councils concerning the faith thus proclaimed by them, as the standards of orthodox belief for the whole church.

“Resolved, also, That the House of Bishops be respectfully requested to take order that this memorial shall be duly laid before the next session of the Lambeth Conference by the hand of such of its members as may be present thereat.”

The debate on this paper was somewhat amusing. It was pointed out that rather serious consequences might follow the general dissemination of “an accurate and authentic version, in the English language, of the creeds and the other acts of the said undisputed general councils concerning the faith”; and the awful question was asked, “Who is to decide how many undisputed councils there have been?” But at last the preamble and resolution were adopted, and we congratulate our Protestant Episcopalian brethren upon that decision. Many of them—clergymen as well as laymen—said they did not know what even the first six œcumenical councils had decided. If they now acquire this knowledge, they will learn enough to convince them that they are living in heresy, and that their first duty is to seek for admission into the church.

“The Church Congress,” which commenced its sessions in New York on the 30th of October and 795continued to sit for four days, was in some degree a supplement to the “convention.” At the congress, however, nothing was to be done; affairs were simply to be talked about. In four days much can be said: the papers read and the speeches made before the Congress will make a large volume when collected. A Catholic would arise from their perusal with a feeling of profound melancholy. He would see the blind leading the blind and tumbling into the ditch. In Protestantism the opinion of one man is as good as that of another; views the most discordant may be expressed on the same platform, and there is no arbiter to pronounce with infallible voice what is truth. In the congress, for instance, several of its clerical members took occasion to lavish praises upon the Roman Catholic Church—one of them declared that the true spirit of the Roman Catholic Church had always been “tender, true, and noble”; another, a bishop, extolled the work of our missionaries among the Indians, saying that they “had done the best work,” and that their conduct was in glorious contrast with that of the missionaries of the sects, who acted too often like “carpet-baggers.” These declarations did not prevent other members when speaking from indulging in bitter denunciations of “Romanism.” Bishop Potter, at the opening of the congress, warned the members that they must not expect to settle anything; the only good to be expected from their discussions was such as might follow the interchange of opinion. A discussion on church architecture was ended by a minister who said that churches should be built wholly with respect to acoustics, and that the ideal church would be a plain 796hall where the voice of the preacher could be distinctly heard. The question of the relation of the church to the state and to society was discussed at much length—some of the speakers arguing for a union of church and state, and others advocating strict abstinence on the part of the church from all political affairs. Bishop Littlejohn, of Long Island, declared that

“The most urgent duty of the church to the nation was first to vindicate its moral fitness to sway all in and around it. It should show that its charter was divine. It should be able to say to the grosser personality of the nation, ‘Come up higher; this is the way, walk ye in it.’ The first duty of the church to the national life was to put its own house in order. Again, the church having elevated itself to the level whence it had a right to teach and authority to guide, its habitual attention should not be diverted from its great duties to society and to the nation. The church’s best work was at the root and upon the sap of the social tree of life, not with the withered and dead branches. It was here that the church was to exercise its highest functions upon society and upon the nation. Let it keep before it that one of its highest duties was to show, both to society and the individual, that they did not derive their personality from each other, but from God. There was a warrant for such teaching, for it rested upon a theological principle. Humanity, in the genuine whole and in the individual man, had its foundation in Christ, and, therefore, for each there was infinite sacredness, even in Christ himself. But the church had instructions for society, and especially for American society. It had some teaching for those who in dreams and in revolutions cried out for liberty, equality, and fraternity. By how many was this cry raised, even to those who would have no sloping sides, no top, but all bottom to the social pyramid! It seemed that that was a cry which the church might answer. Liberty, equality, fraternity! The land was full of false idols under those names. The perversion was of man; the movement itself was of God. The perversion could be brought about by forgetting the movement 797itself. God in Christ not only willed that all men should be free and equal, but he told them in what sense and how they were to become so. It was by the ministry of the word, not by the sword, not by the law, not by abstract speculation, that man was to learn what these things were for which he so thirsted. Modern society and the Gospel must be reconciled, and to do this there was no competent authority except the church.”

Bishop Littlejohn, when speaking of “the church,” has in his mind his own body. That society can never accomplish the work he points out; men know that it has no authority to teach them, and those who speak in its name speak with divided and inconsistent voices. The church of God, however, can do this work and is doing it. She has no need “to vindicate her moral fitness” or to “elevate herself to the level whence she has a right to teach and authority to guide.” She had all this done for her eighteen hundred years ago, when her divine charter was given her. And that charter never has been and never will be revoked.

There is no European periodical which treats of the great political movements of the day with more complete knowledge and consummate ability and sagacity than the Civiltà Cattolica, especially in respect to all that has a bearing on the Roman question. In the number of October 6 an article of great interest takes up the topic of the fortifications around Rome and Civita Vecchia which have been ordered by the Italian government, and casts some light on the motives which have induced the persons at the head of Victor Emanuel’s administration to adopt this extraordinary measure.

The pretext put forth, that it is necessary to protect Rome against armed invasion by the reactionary party of the clericals, is so ridiculous that it has deceived no one, but has excited the ridicule even of the Italian liberals. But one probable and credible reason can be given for an undertaking involving such a great expenditure at a time when the finances of the state are in such a wretched condition. This reason is that the measure has been undertaken by the dictation of Bismarck, in virtue of a secret treaty between Prussia and Italy, and in view of a proposed war of the two combined powers against France. The Italian kingdom was set up, as is well known to all, by Napoleon III. for the sake of using its alliance and employing its military power to the advantage of the French Empire. The control of this convenient instrument was, however, wrested from the unfortunate emperor by his conqueror and destroyer, Bismarck, who has continued to govern not only William and his empire, but Victor Emanuel and his kingdom, to the great and increasing disgust of the majority of Italians, including a large portion even of the liberals. The intention of Bismarck to seize upon the speediest convenient opportunity of making a new invasion of France has 799been too openly manifested to admit of any doubt. The execution of this purpose has been delayed at the instance of Russia, in order to leave that power more free and unembarrassed for its great enterprise of destroying the Ottoman Empire and taking possession of Constantinople. In the Bismarckian scheme the war against the Papacy and the Catholic Church, against France and Austria, is all one thing, with one motive and end—the exaltation of the infidel Teutonic empire on the ruins of Latin Christianity and civilization; and the possession of Constantinople by the Russians as the capital of another great schismatical empire, dividing with Prussia the hegemony of the world, harmonizes with this scheme, as planned long ago by the two astute and powerful chancellors, Gortchakoff and Bismarck.

The papers have been saying of late that Bismarck, whose ambitious mind triumphs over the shattered nerves and dropsical body which seem soon about to become the prey of dissolution, has been lately threatening Europe with a general war for the coming vernal equinox. This means, of course, that he is preparing an equinoctial storm of “blood and iron” to mark for ever in history the close of his own career as the beginning of a new European epoch. The sagacious writer in the Civiltà considers the order for fortifying Rome and Civita Vecchia as a strong confirmation of the fact of a military alliance between the anti-Christian government of Italy and the Bismarckian empire, and of the probability of an approaching war by the two allied powers against France. He prudently abstains from carrying his prognostics any further, wittily observing that it would be proof of a scanty amount of brains if he were 800to attempt anything of the kind. We can easily understand that, for men writing and publishing in Florence, a certain caution and reserve are necessary in the open, explicit expression of the hopes and expectations which they know how to awaken in other minds by a significant silence. Nevertheless, as we happily enjoy more liberty of speech than is conceded to Italians when they happen to be clericals, we will run the risk of passing for a man of “scarso cervello,” and give utterance to a few of the conjectures which sprang up in our own mind upon reading the remarks of our able contemporary.

Both the Bismarckian and the Cavourian political fabrics are in a precarious condition. It is perhaps less desperate to undertake a hazardous enterprise on the chance of success than to remain quiet with the certainty of being swept away by the current of coming events. Nevertheless, the ruin may be hastened, and even directly brought about, by the very means which are used to avert the crisis, if the undertaking is really desperate. Perhaps the bête noir which harasses the sleepless nights of the Prussian, which the servile Italian minister threatens upon the people grumbling at their excessive taxation, which the political apes of French radicalism pretend to dread, may be the nightmare of a prophetic dream. As the unhappy victims of a divine fate in the Greek tragedies accomplish the direful woes foretold at their birth by the very means used to avert them, the accomplices in the anti-Christian conspiracy may bring upon themselves the catastrophe they seem to fear—a reactionary movement in which they will be submerged. If Italy consents to incur the unknown risks of an alliance with 801Prussia, and play the part of a subservient tool to the insane ambition of Bismarck, one of the consequences may be that her speedily and falsely constructed unity will be shattered. Russia is at present too deeply engaged in her deadly struggle with Turkey to be either a formidable ally or enemy to any other great power for some time to come, even if she comes off victorious in the end. In respect to Russia, Austria has now her favorable, perhaps her last, opportunity to secure her own stability and equality by a repression of her other antagonist, Prussia. An invasion of France makes Austria, with her army of one million, the natural ally of France. There are urgent motives which might draw England into the same coalition. And what is there improbable in the conjecture that one of the great events in such a war would be the occupation of the Pontifical States by the allied troops, and the restoration of the pontifical sovereignty? If the Pope recovers his royal capital well fortified, 802the advantage of the fortifications will be his, and make him more secure in future against lawless invasion of banditti.

We are not at all certain that a prospective triumph of Russia bodes so much good to the party of anti-Christian revolution as many suppose. The interest, the safety even, of that empire requires of her that she should exert all her power, and co-operate with every other legitimate power exerted in Europe, to put down Freemasonry and restore the Christian political order in the civilized world. It is very probable that when the European congress meets, after the present cycle of wars, to pacificate Europe and readjust the equilibrium of nations, neither Gortchakoff nor Bismarck will be numbered among living statesmen; and that the catalogue of disasters by which the enemies of the Holy See are punished will be so far completed for the present century, as to serve a salutary purpose in warning and instructing the rising and coming statesmen and sovereigns of Christendom.

The music of the ancient Irish has been preserved because no interpreter was needed to translate its beauties into another tongue. The poetry which accompanied the music has well-nigh perished, and what remains attracts but little attention. For this there are two reasons: the students of Celtic literature have been few, and of those who have endeavored to translate its poetry into English there are but one or two who have succeeded in any fortunate degree in retaining the spirit and beauty of the original. The best as well as earliest collection of Irish poetry is Hardiman’s Minstrelsy of Ireland, but it is accompanied by feeble and conventional translations. A literal translation of the poetry would make this a most valuable collection for the general reader; as it stands, it is only of worth to those who can read the original Irish. Several other collections, smaller and of less value, are in existence, but a real and full collection of Irish poetry has yet to be made. We are aided in the present article by two small volumes entitled Munster Poetry, collected by John O’Daly, a well-known Dublin bookseller and antiquarian, and translated, the first series by the unfortunate James Clarence Mangan, and the second by Dr. George Sigurson. They do not attempt to deal with the general subject, but only profess to be a collection of popular poetry current in Munster from eighty to one hundred years ago, and composed by the last of the Irish bards who sang in their native tongue, and were called “hedge-poets.”

The race of bards or hedge-poets—whichever 805title may be preferred—who sang in their native language virtually became extinct at the beginning of the present century. The history of their lives, as well as most of their poetry, exists only in tradition, and, but for a few incomplete collections, would soon vanish for ever. It is not too late, however, to form some picture of them, and the value of their poetry is such as to make us deeply regret that no more has been preserved. And, even without intrinsic merit, the national poetry of a people is always worth preserving.

During the eighteenth century, as is well known, the Celtic Irish were at a very low stage of political fortune. The entire subjugation of Ireland, for the time, occurred at the battle of Limerick. The flower of the army of Sarsfield followed its gallant leader to the plains of Minden, and made the reputation of their race as soldiers under the French banners. Those who remained in Ireland were crushed into outward subjection. The tyranny of the conquerors, exasperated by the doubtful and desperate struggle, placed no bounds to the humiliation which it endeavored to inflict. The penal laws were cruel and barbarous beyond those of any nation on record. All intellectual as well as religious education was denied the Irish people, and it was only by stealth that they could gratify their thirst for either.

The spirit of the Celtic population was crushed, but not degraded. They were conquered, and were aware that another struggle was hopeless for the present. None 806the less they preserved all their national feelings. The language of the common people in their daily intercourse was Irish; their only pride was in Irish tradition, and their only poetry was in the same melodious tongue. This continued long after English was the language used for business. It must not be supposed that, although the Celtic Irish were poor and deprived of all religious and political rights, they were entirely ignorant or uncultivated. The average Irish peasant of the last century was likely to have more learning than his English compeer. The hedge-schoolmaster was abroad in the land, and the eagerness with which Irish peasant lads sought for knowledge under difficulties was only second to the fervency of their religious faith under persecution. The education was not of the most valuable or practical cast in all particulars, but that it was cultivated so earnestly is the highest proof of the undegraded character of the people. The hedge-schoolmasters were more learned in Latin than in science, and taught their pupils to scan more assiduously than to add. The traditionary Irish history, the exploits of Con of the Hundred Battles, and the prophecies of Columbkille were expounded more particularly than the battles of Wolfe or Marlborough or the speeches of Chatham. This was but natural. The Irish then felt no share in English victories or interest in English literature. Poetry was especially a branch of learning in those days as it has never been since. The hedge-schoolmasters were often poets as well as pedagogues, and the amount of verse produced of one sort or another was enormous. Much 807of it was naturally worthless, but among the crowd of poetasters was here and there a poet who had the heart to feel and the tongue to express the woes of his country and the passions of his own heart in the language of nature. The hearts of the people answered them, and their memories treasured their songs. They were no longer bards entertained in the halls of the great. They were the wandering minstrels of the poor, but some of them were genuine poets whose power and grace were visible under every disadvantage.

In considering the fragments of this poetry three things must be kept in mind: first, that it has been preserved mostly by oral tradition; secondly, that it is translated from a language whose idiom is especially hard to be rendered into English; and, thirdly, that the lyrical form imposes additional difficulties in adequate rendering. By far the larger number of the productions of the hedge-poets are of an allegorical cast. The poet in a vision sees a queenly maiden, of exquisite beauty and grace, sitting lonely and weeping on some fairy rath by moonlight, by the side of some softly-flowing stream, or by the wall of some ruined castle of ancient splendor. He is at first confounded by her beauty. Then he takes courage at her distress, and asks whether she is Helen of old who caused Troy town to burn, or she that was the love of Fion, or Deirdre, for whom the sons of Usnach died. These are the three types of beauty almost invariably used. The lady replies, in a voice that “pierces the heart of the listener like a spear,” that she is neither of these three; she is Kathleen ni Ullachan, or Grauine Maol, Roisin Dubh, the Little Black 808Rose, or Sheela na Guira, these being the figurative names for the female personification of Ireland. She laments to the poet’s ear that her heroes brave, her Patrick Sarsfield, her John O’Dwyer of the Glens, are driven across the seas, and that she is the desolate slave of the Saxon churls. Then she rises into a strain, half-despairing, half-exulting, that the heroes will soon return with help from the hosts of France and Spain; that the fires of the Saxon houses shall light every glen, and the “sullen tribe of the dreary tongue” be driven into the sea; that God shall soon be worshipped once more on her desolate altars, and the kingly hero, her noble spouse, her prince of war, shall once more clasp her to his arms and place three crowns upon her head. This is the outline of almost every one of these patriotic visions, and it will be seen at once how beautiful was the conception and how capable of exhibiting the highest pathos. The Irish minstrels had to sing of their country in secret, for the ear of the conquering race must not hear of their hopes and fears. In this disguise they would give voice to their patriotic passion as to an earthly mistress, and their country’s woes and hopes could be imparted with a double intensity. This personifying the country in the form of a beautiful and desolate woman is not peculiar to Irish poets, but seems the form of expression for the passionate patriotism of all oppressed countries. It is common to the Italian, the Polish, and the Servian poets.

In the description of the beauty of the forlorn maiden one poem bears a great resemblance to another, and those beauties which are peculiar to Irish girls are her 809distinguishing features; thus, the long, flowing tresses, the coolun, or head of fair locks, is often most beautifully painted.

From these specimens it may be guessed that either blonde beauty was more common among Irish maidens than now, or that its rarity made it doubly prized. It appears to have been as much in demand as in these days, which have witnessed the grand rage for fair locks at the expense of bleaching-irons and Pactolian dye. It is only occasionally that some poet dares to express his preference for cean dubh dheelish—the dear black head.

The pure brow of wax in fairness and radiance is not forgotten:

Narrow eyebrows finely arched were a peculiar mark of distinction. For the eyes there is almost a whole new nomenclature of comparison and compliment. The peculiar and most often repeated color is “green,” which is the uncompromising English translation of the delicate Irish epithet which means

—that shade of the most beautiful and brilliant eyes well known to Spanish as well as Irish poets, and which Longfellow and Swinburne have not hesitated to describe by the naked and imperfect English adjective. This is the way in which one of these ignorant minstrels expresses what he means, and renders it with a new grace:

A beautiful and apt comparison for the sweet, rosy bloom, nowhere found in such perfect charm as in Ireland, was the apple blossom and the berry.

Among the finest and most delicate comparisons, however, is this:

The fair one’s bosom is declared to be like to the breast of the sailing swan, to the thorn blossoms, to the snow, to the summer cloud, in a variety of beautiful expressions:

Her hands are pure and white as the snow, and never without being accomplished in the art of embroidery. There is scarcely a poem in 811the whole collection in which the skill of the heroine in this particular is not mentioned. She does not play upon the harp. That was a manly profession. Embroidery was the fashionable accomplishment for Irish ladies, and the maiden who typified Ireland must be pre-eminent in it.

The voice was that of the thrush singing farewell to the setting sun, the cuckoo in the glen, or the lark high in air. Bird-voiced was the universal epithet. The branch of bloom, the bough of apple-blossoms, was the whole lovely creature.

Such were the beauties and accomplishments of the heroines of the hedge-poets, largely, doubtless, derived from the earlier bards, but often exclusively their own. They were chiefly applied to the ideal figure who represented in her beauty and her sorrow their forlorn country, but sometimes to the earthly mistress of flesh and blood whose smiles they sought. Seldom anything so natural and so delicate is to be found in any national poetry. The false and artificial compliments of English amatory poetry, equally with the overstrained comparisons of Oriental verse, seem tasteless and tawdry beside these simple blossoms of nature. They give out health and perfume, while the English love-songs are like wax, and the gorgeous verse of the East is, like its vegetation, magnificent but often odorless.

Those poems which we have described form much the larger portion of the remains of the hedge-poets; 812but there are others, devoted purely to love, to satire, and to lamentation. There are some which are a sort of dialogue and courtship in rhyme. The minstrel “soothers” the damsel with all the arts of his flattering tongue. He calls her by every sweet name he can think of; tells how deep is his passion and how renowned he will make her by his verse. The rustic coquette replies with a recapitulation of all his faults and failings, his poverty, his fondness for drink, his disgrace with all his relations, and his general unfitness for the yoke of matrimony, and then very often yields to his flattery and goes away with him; or else she listens to his string of endearments without a word, and then dismisses him with stinging contempt. Sometimes the bard sits down in sorrow, generally in a tap-room over an empty glass, and details the charms of the fair one who has wrought his woe; or sometimes, though rarely, it is one of the opposite sex, who has been driven from home by the curses of her kindred, and, sitting by the roadside, tells her tale of woe or despair. Such cases, however, are infrequent, and the general purity of both theme and verse is worthy of all praise. The number of lamentations is much less than would naturally be expected among a people whose vehemence of grief is noted, and where the keener’s extemporaneous mourning reached such a height of impassioned eloquence. From whatever reason, but few appear to have been preserved. Those that are, however, are characterized by profound strength and pathos. The keen of Felix MacCarthy for his children is one of the saddest lamentations ever put into verse. It is entirely too long 813for quotation, but these two verses, describing the mother’s appearance and grief, will show something of its genuineness and power:

A lament for Kilcash, or rather for its patroness, is also very powerful.

The romantic love-tales are few in comparison with the number among the Irish street-ballads of to-day. The rich young nobleman who falls in love with the pretty girl milking her cow, and the fair lady of great estate who picks out her lover from the tall young men in her own service, make but few appearances. The only ballad of this kind in the collection is not after the usual pattern. The heir to “land and long towers white” certainly falls in love with a rustic maiden, but, instead of flying with him on his roan steed and becoming mistress of his castle, she tells him with great prudence that he will find other maidens better suited to his degree:

And, in spite of his fervent and eloquent protestations, she refuses to go with him.

Such are the themes and characteristics of the last age of Celtic poetry in Ireland. If we have failed to show that the minstrels who sang in such poverty and oppression had natural genius of a high order, we have not accomplished our purpose. We think that true poetry is visible in almost all that remains of their productions. 814Like all sectional and class poets, they resembled each other very much. The same species of imagery, the same terms of thought and peculiar epithets, were common to them as to the Troubadours, the Scandinavian minstrels, and to all other classes of poets singing to a confined audience and having little or no acquaintance with other forms of poetry. It is through them alone that the voice of the Irish people of their day can be heard. All other forms of the expression of the oppressed race have perished. In the music and poetry of Ireland is made manifest, so that the dullest ear cannot mistake it, the sorrow of a nation in bondage, tinging all mirth, all hope, and all love with an indefinable cadence of melancholy as plainly as in the real outbursts of lamentation and despairing cries of woe.

The marvellous success of the indomitable Stanley has attracted the attention of all to Africa, that region of mystery, marvel, and malaria. The Catholic would naturally learn something of the work of the church in that continent, and of the religious condition of its population. But the subject is too vast for anything less than a large volume, and it will be more profitable to confine our attention to the dominions of the Sultan of Zanzibar. This region has a double interest. Zanzibar is the starting-point of almost every Central African expedition. Thence Livingstone, Speke and Grant, Cameron, and Stanley on two occasions, have struck into the interior and made valuable discoveries. It is also the old centre of the East African slave-trade, which, though it has received a severe check, is not yet abolished. Moreover, Zanzibar is a microcosm—a little world in itself. There one meets with the Arab, the Hindoo, the Persian, the Malagashi, the Banian, the Goa Portuguese, the negro, and the European.

The most important portion of the Sultan of Zanzibar’s territory is the islands of which Zanzibar is the chief. The name was once applied to the whole coast, and it is probable that that must have been the meaning of Marco Polo when he says (on hearsay evidence) that the island of Zanzibar is two thousand miles round. The term is supposed to signify the “Land of the Blacks.” The island is in about 6° south latitude, 48 miles long by 18 broad. It is separated from the mainland by a strait only 20 miles in breadth. As one approaches Zanzibar from the north the coast appears bare, rocky, and surrounded by low cliffs. Here dwell some wild people, almost completely cut off from the more civilized portion of the inhabitants, and following debasing and degrading superstitions. But as we sail southwards, between the island and the main, the shore becomes low and flat, the beach covered with sand of silvery whiteness, and the whole backed by rising ground not more than 300 feet high, on which grow in rich abundance cocoanut and other feathery-leaved palms. Soft breezes, laden 816with sweet odors from the groves of spice-trees, blow from the shore. The island is rich in fruits; mangos, oranges, limes, pummalos or shaddock, pineapples, jack-fruit, guavas, bananas, and cashew abound. But about four years ago a hurricane visited Zanzibar for the first time; almost all the dhows in the harbor were wrecked, many lives were lost, and the greater part of the trees were destroyed. On one estate known to the writer only four per cent. of the trees remained standing, and the ground, strewn with palms, was a lamentable sight.

At the entrance of Zanzibar harbor are several beautiful islands of emerald green. One of these, called French Island, is used as a burial-place for Europeans, and many wooden crosses and boards mark the last resting-place of seamen of the British navy, cut down by the fever which is so fatal on this coast. The heat is not excessive, seldom rising to 90°, but there is a feeling of depression in the atmosphere, and a short residence in this climate serves to take the energy out of most people.

Now we arrive at the city of Zanzibar, the most important place in East Africa. Its name, in the native language, is Unguja. For miles before reaching the city we have seen large white, square buildings close to the shore—the country residences of wealthy Arabs. The appearance is very pleasing, and so is that of the city from the sea, as similar houses stand near it. These are the English, French, American, and German consulates, over which wave the flags of their respective nations; also the sultan’s palace, the custom-house, and residences of rich Arabs and Hindoos. They are built of coral covered with the whitest plaster, only relieved by regular 817rows of windows, the brightness reflected from these houses being almost blinding. But on entering the town you cease to wonder at the bad name it has earned. With scarcely an exception Zanzibar is a heap of rubbish; the narrow lanes, or paths which do duty for streets, are surrounded by low hovels formed of earth plastered over wooden frames, roofed with palm-leaves, and possessing no means of ventilation but the doorway, the interior being consequently dark, stifling, and filthy. Many buildings have been allowed to go to utter ruin, and the very mosques are hardly presentable. But the bazaars form the sight of the city. They are, perhaps, a little wider than the other thoroughfares, and the fronts of the houses are occupied by small stalls, on which are piled articles the most incongruous—soap, fish, plantains, cotton goods, medicine, oil, etc. In the midst is seated, cross-legged, a fat old Banian, stripped to the waist, with his naked foot in a basket of grain, or a pretty dark-eyed girl with a ring in her nose. The market produce of all kinds is heaped on the ground without any attempt at order, and, as every one present is screaming at the top of his voice in his own language, the Babel of tongues is complete.

The government is in the hands of the Arabs. This people have from time immemorial had trading-stations on the coast, but Vasco da Gama doubled the Cape of Good Hope in 1499, and the Portuguese soon superseded the Arabs and held the coast for a couple of hundred years, when the Arabs succeeded in dislodging them, and they are now confined to Mozambique and Quilimane, at the mouth of the Zambesi.

818Remains of Portuguese forts are scattered up and down the shores of the mainland, and the writer assisted once in whitewashing Vasco da Gama’s column at Melinda, which makes an excellent harbor mark. Near the fort at Zanzibar numerous Portuguese cannon, cast in a European arsenal in the present century, lie on the ground, a proud trophy for the Arabs and a humiliating spectacle for Europeans. Fifty years ago Sayid Said, the Imaum of Muscat, visited Zanzibar and fixed his residence there. At his death one of his sons succeeded to his African and another to his Arabian possessions, the former paying an annual tax of forty thousand dollars to the Imaum. Sayid Barghash, the present sultan, succeeded his brother Sayid Majid seven years ago. He had previously been exiled to Bombay at the instance of the English, whose protégé Majid was. His policy has been one of economy and retrenchment. Though the government may be called an absolute monarchy, yet it answers rather to the old feudal constitutions of Europe in the middle ages, the sultan being checked by members of his own and other powerful families.

The Arab statute-book is the Koran interpreted by what may be called the priesthood. But witchcraft is a great power, not only with the heathen but also with Mahometans, in Africa, and, after consulting his sheiks and sherifs, the sultan often has recourse to the heathen Mganga. One is reminded of the Witch of Endor, Pharao’s magicians, and many of the old superstitions which we find recorded in the ancient Hebrew Scriptures.

The population of the city may be one hundred thousand, and that 819of the remainder of the island rather more; but one cannot decide this with any accuracy, as it is against Moslem principles to take a census. Who are they to count the favors of God? Of the mongrel population of Zanzibar the Arab is the dominant race, though there are few, if any, pure Arabs—sometimes that name being applied to a man as black as a negro. But the better class of them are fine, handsome men, splendidly dressed, and very dignified and self-possessed. They are ignorant, however, bigoted, supercilious, and licentious. They are also very indolent and have few redeeming features. Lower classes of Arabs there are, who are soldiers, sailors, traders, and so on, and from them are drawn the villains who carry on the iniquitous slave-traffic.

There are about seven thousand British subjects—Banians and other Indian peoples. The commerce of the East African coast is chiefly in their hands, and they are the bankers and represent the moneyed interest. Those owning slaves are in danger of losing them, if the British consul discover the fact; but it is hardly possible for them not to trade in slaves, as they are always sold with landed properties, and without them labor could hardly be obtained.

Most of the army, which numbers nine hundred, is composed of Belooches, who are a motley set of rascals, brutal, lazy, and cowardly. But somehow they contrive to live, and arm themselves too, on three dollars a month, and seem to be pretty prosperous. The artillerymen are Persians—tall, handsome men with black moustaches, high black sheepskin caps, green tunics, and loose trowsers. But their battery, which is full of small brass 820and iron guns overlooking the sea, is a poor affair, ridiculous from a military point of view, and better adapted for firing salutes than for purposes of warfare.

There are about two thousand men from the Comoro Islands, but no one seems to have anything good to say of them.

The mass of the population is composed of blacks from the east coast. These are almost entirely slaves, and are made to work for the support of the lazy Arabs. A person acquainted with the country easily distinguishes members of the different tribes from each other; they may be known by the tribe marks—mostly punctures in the forehead—and by their general appearance. The slaves are capable of much endurance; the writer once paid thirty or forty slave women eight cents each for a day’s work, which consisted of walking thirty miles, carrying weights on their heads half the way. They did not seem at all exhausted after this arduous task. Great cruelties are perpetrated in the capture of the slaves and in conveying them to Zanzibar, but, as a rule, they are treated fairly enough when once they are received into a family, being allowed one day a week to work for themselves, besides other extra time.

There are only sixty or seventy white people—American, English, Scotch, French, and German—but without them the commerce of the place would collapse. The chief exports are spices, ivory, ebony, cocoanuts, and gum-copal. The imports are cotton fabrics, pocket-handkerchiefs of bright colors, crockery, etc.

The climate of Zanzibar is healthier than that of the mainland, though it is quite bad enough; the wonder 821is that any one can live there. The city lies very low, almost surrounded by a shallow lagoon, over which the water flows at every tide, leaving a deposit of reeking filth. No attempt at drainage has been made; sanitary reform is totally unknown; and the smell of the beach caused Livingstone to suggest that the name should be changed to Stinkibar. The year before the great hurricane there was a cholera epidemic which is supposed to have killed ten thousand people. Strangely enough, the Europeans, who mostly suffer much from fevers, were totally exempt, and the natives got the notion that the devil, who gave them the cholera, was afraid to attack the redoubtable Myungoo; so they sometimes whitewashed a man who showed symptoms of the disease, to cheat the devil, but the devil refused to be cheated so easily. The physical is far superior, however, to the moral condition of Zanzibar; in fact, the place is a Sodom where morality is unknown.

To arrive at an idea of the religious condition of the peoples it is necessary to consider each race separately, and try to understand their habits and modes of thought. First let us take the negro—the most numerous class. Even so we shall be generalizing for the different tribes and nations of the interior, as distinct from each other and the races of Europe.

The writer has had considerable opportunities of judging of the black man, having served in a British man-of-war engaged in the suppression of the slave-trade, and having for some time been in charge of an establishment of liberated slaves—mostly boys. The negro character is a strange series of contradictions, and it takes some time 822to understand him. He is profoundly conscious of his inferiority. An English officer adopted a little slave boy taken from a dhow, and we taught him a few elements of religion, which he eagerly grasped. Amongst others he was much struck by the idea of a future state. One day he was being chaffed: “Ah! you nigger—thick lips—flat nose,” when he replied: “If I’m a good nigger, after I die I shall get up again, not black then, but white as you are.” It was a long time, though, before he could believe that a negro could rise again, though it did not seem unreasonable to him for an Arab or white man to rise.

Passing with this same boy, Mumbo, through a graveyard at Zanzibar, he pointed to a grave. “Who’s there?” he said. “Arab man,” I answered, recognizing it to be so from the concrete with which the grave was covered. “He get up again?” “Yes,” I replied, after which the boy was thoughtful and silent for a while. “Who’s buried there?” he repeated, pointing to a grave marked by a wooden cross. “A Msungu” (white man), I answered. “He get up again?” “Yes.” Another pause. “And who’s there?” the boy again asked, pointing to a mean grave unmarked by cross or stone. “A nigger man,” said I. “He get up again?” But on replying in the affirmative he would not believe it, and continued obstinately sceptical for some time.

Selfishness seems to be the most prominent feature of the negro character. Civilized people mask the repulsive feeling, but not so the black. Everything is for himself and his own present sensual gratification. They have not a particle of gratitude, and if you show them 823kindness or give them a present it is considered a sign of weakness, and their contempt for their benefactor is apparent. There is no word expressive of thanks in the Swahili language, though the “Santa” of the Arab, accompanied by a bow, the right hand placed on the heart, is most graceful and pleasing. On taking charge of the boys’ house, in the benevolence of my heart I invested in numbers of stalks of bananas—a large one can be obtained for eight cents—and distributed them. But no word of thanks was heard, and the boys began to consider fruit as a right, and to grumble if it were not forthcoming; so I grew rather disgusted and discontinued scattering largesse amidst such a graceless set. Neither do they show much affection. This, perhaps, is hardly to be wondered at, as the slave-traffic, which has existed from time immemorial, must, by constantly separating families, have weakened and almost destroyed all ties of kindred. A gentleman well acquainted with the people told me that the only known affection amongst them was that between a son and his mother. Several slave boys whom we had liberated and kept on board the ship, on our leaving the coast were wisely sent on shore to the mission, only the one of whom I have previously spoken remaining. He wept piteously and sobbed himself to sleep. We were touched, and fancied that, after all, we had formed too low an estimate of the negro, till on waking he appeared to have completely forgotten his friends, and never spoke of them again. It then appeared that his grief had been purely selfish; for, as he phrased it, he would have no one “to skylark with.” “What will you give me?” is the view a negro takes of his 824neighbor, and in this the Ki-Swahili, and even the Arab, very much resemble him. One’s ear soon grows familiar with the cry of “Lata paca”—“Bring pice”—pice being little Indian copper coins which form the currency at Zanzibar. This question is asked you in the streets or country roads, not merely by the poor, but even by well-to-do people. I was one day walking home from a feast to which I had been invited by the proprietor of a sugar plantation—a Swahili man. These people are mulattoes, partly Arab, but mostly negro. They are Mahometans and call themselves Arabs. We had been hospitably fêted, and I was accompanied by a brother of my host, a nice-looking young fellow, upright as a dart—as they all are—and dressed in the graceful long white linen robe which they always wear. He was proceeding to his home, a well-built stone house, but before leaving me I was astonished at his asking in Swahili for a few pice! Doubting my ears, I asked a boy who understood English what he had said, and he told me that I had not mistaken his meaning; so I gave him two or three coppers, and he went away well pleased.

Negroes are very improvident, like most savage races. They take no thought for the morrow—not from faith, but from utter recklessness. They are also fond of desertion for the mere sake of change. Slaves sometimes leave their masters and hire themselves out for a year or two to some one else, returning afterwards as if nothing had happened, and receiving no punishment, the master fearing that he might revenge himself on him or desert again, and also arguing that it is his nature and that no better can be expected of him. I was 825once on a shooting party in the Kingani River, and placing one of the boats in charge of a quartermaster, left with him a Seedee boy, or black seaman, to clean the jaws of a hippopotamus that I had shot on the previous day. I went up the river in the other boat with the remaining seamen for a day’s shooting, and on my return in the evening was informed that the black had decamped, and we never saw any more of him. In the ship he was receiving about four times as much pay as he could possibly earn elsewhere, and, in addition to this, he left clothes and money behind. Yet we afterwards learnt that before leaving the vessel he had told his friends of his intention to run.

The negro is, in Africa as elsewhere, exceedingly indolent, and, nature having provided him with abundance of the necessaries of life, he indulges his laziness to the full when he possibly can—that is, in his native country or at Zanzibar, if he can manage to possess a few slaves to work for him.

He is also obstinate and headstrong. Going on shore on the beautiful island of Pemba, north of Zanzibar, to trade for provisions, they were uniformly refused us, whatever price we offered. Yet next day the natives brought the things to the ship, some miles from the shore, and offered them for sale. A little bit of a boy was so obstinate that he would not obey orders unless he chose, even if thrashed with a rhinoceros-hide whip; neither did he flinch nor utter a cry under punishment. But when he left the ship, where he had been petted by the sailors, being sent to the French Mission, he was so disgusted that the first thing he did was to roll on the beach and completely destroy his new clothes, and the missionaries 826were compelled to restore him his old sailor costume. Still he sulked, and when I left they had not managed to get him to speak.

Negroes are subject to sudden fits of fury almost amounting to madness, and then they cry, shout, vociferate, and argue in the most ridiculous manner. They love to eat and are very greedy, but are still more fond of drinking, and in their own country begin the day by copious potations of beer. However, at Zanzibar drunkenness would be punished by imprisonment; and that is no trifle, the prisoners being placed in a yard enclosed by four walls, and receiving no food, unless they have a friend to bring them some. They are also exceedingly depraved, and, when brought into contact with the semi-civilization of the coast, they become, if anything, worse than before. A stranger is astonished at the cool manner in which they enter a strange house, if they see the door open. They place their spear in a corner, set themselves in the best place, and talk till they are tired (they are especially fond of hearing themselves talk), when they rise and leave. It is no good trying to exclude them; their curiosity must be satisfied, and they insist on seeing and learning about everything—examining and handling your clothes and asking the value of each article.

Negroes have the redeeming feature of being mostly good-tempered and pleased by a very little. They delight in a joke, yet their wit is of the most elementary character. They are exceedingly fond of music; neither does its unvaried monotony pall on them. I once passed an old man amusing himself by drumming with two sticks on a plank; returning after some 827hours, I found him continuing the performance, which he had evidently kept up all the time. You will see them on a moonlight night, or even in the daytime, dancing and flinging their limbs about in the most ridiculous and ungraceful manner to the tune of tomtoms and fifes; yet they keep perfect time. A circle is formed, and a performer waltzes rapidly around the inner space, looking up to the sky, till she becomes giddy and falls into the arms of her friends. Whatever work they are engaged in, these people always sing, and in the streets you constantly hear the chant of porters, who carry tusks of ivory or bales of goods slung between two of them on a pole which rests on their shoulders.

The East African negro has been completely debased by centuries of oppression and slavery. “All the good qualities appear crushed out of the African race,” said an experienced missionary at Zanzibar to me. Their religion is the same as that of the natives of the west coast—fetichism. I believe this word is derived from the Portuguese feitiço, a doing—that is, of magic. Nature has colored the black man’s thoughts, but not with the sublime and beautiful. He sees nothing in nature but the terrible, vast, threatening, and hostile. The dense jungle with huge trees, concealing poisonous snakes, fierce lions, and spotted leopards; the fever-breeding swamp; the devastating cyclone—these have produced a feeling of dread, helplessness, and terror on his debased mind. He has but a very vague, unformed idea of a Supreme Being, and does not at all conceive of the spiritual and eternal side of man. To him death is destruction. Yet he believes that the ghost of the 828departed person remains, and he always imagines it to be harmful and hostile. In fact, he is for ever in terror of ghosts and witchcraft, and his religion consists in the propitiation of natural objects. The African’s creed may be reduced to two articles: the first demonology, or the existence of spectres of the dead; the second witchcraft, or black magic. Their native superstitions the slaves carry with them to Zanzibar or wherever they are taken, and so deeply rooted are these beliefs in their minds that I have often been surprised to hear negroes who have been Protestant Christians for years, and daily attending public Christian worship, speak of witchcraft in ordinary conversation as much as a matter of course as they would of any every-day occurrence. For instance, missing some pice from my drawers, I asked my servant to find out who had taken them. He replied that he could not do so, but that a man had been there years ago who “made plenty witchcraft”; he would have told me, but now he was gone. Some very good Christian boys, as I was walking with them one day, suddenly dropped their voices and told me that it was a “plenty bad place.” I imagined that fever or ague was intended, as it was low, marshy ground; but no such thing. They had once witnessed some “witchcraft” or other there.

There are Mganga—wizards and witches—who are partly impostors and partly dupes of their own imagination. To these people the negroes have recourse in any calamity or sickness. Their office is to transfer the evil from which they suffer to some one else. Of course payment is the preliminary—no pay, no work. And an African 829must have present payment; he attaches no value to promises of future reward, though ever so near. These Mganga endeavor to entice ghosts from possessed persons and transfer them to some inanimate object, striving to effect it by music, dancing, and drinking. Thus, they nail pieces of cloth to trees to coax the devils into them. Epileptic fits are very common, and it is not astonishing that they should regard them as the effect of seizure by some external agent. On the mainland they attempt to discover the workers of magic by most cruel ordeals.

There are also rain-makers. It does not require an exceptionally weatherwise person to infer what the weather will be in a country of regular monsoons and seasons; still, they sometimes make a mistake, and then the false prophets have to escape as best they can.

The Arabs have the utmost contempt for the negroes, and, so far from trying to convert them, purposely leave them to perdition; if they made them Mahometans they would be their equals, and this they do not at all desire.

Such is the character and religious belief of these unhappy people. We will see later on what the church can do for them, but in this inquiry one important subject must be considered—that is, the slave-trade. Slavery on the White Nile is admirably described by Sir Samuel Baker in his Nile Basin, and it is much the same on the east coast. The petty native chieftains are constantly at war with each other, the object being plunder. They try to surprise a neighboring village at night, fire it, and surround it with armed men. As the luckless inhabitants rush out to escape from the flames, 830their enemies shoot down the men and seize the women and children for slaves, carrying off the cattle. Sometimes a thieving Arab slaving party joins one chief who has a grudge against a neighboring village, assisting him to destroy it in the manner just described and sharing the plunder. The Arabs then manage to quarrel with their allies, and so obtain their goods also.

As long as this state of things exists mission work in the interior will be impossible. The Protestant English mission, under Bishop Mackenzie, some years ago established itself in the interior near the Zambesi, and gathered together some hundreds of natives whose improvement they hoped gradually to effect. But a powerful tribe attacking the one amongst which they dwelt, they had to perform the uncongenial task of driving off the invaders with their rifles. Their friends were saved for the time, but many of the missionaries had died from fever, and the small remainder was obliged to retire. Shortly after this the tribe with which they had been was swept away and destroyed. The slave-trade naturally prevents all progress and the increase of population. It also weakens all family ties, parents killing their offspring if they are in want. Great cruelties are practised, not only in the capture of slaves, but in their transit to the place of destination. The Arabs are very improvident, and sometimes, having failed to provide sufficient food for their caravan, they leave some of the slaves in the desert to starve, not even removing the yokes by which they are fastened together. I was told of a woman who was carrying a bale of cloth, and on the journey 831gave birth to a child. She could not carry both the baby and the goods; the latter were the more valuable, so the infant was brained against the nearest tree and left on the ground.

About four years ago a treaty was signed between the Sultan of Zanzibar and the British government, by which the importation of slaves was prohibited, but the Arabs were permitted to retain the slaves they already possessed. Strong pressure had to be brought to bear on the Arabs to compel them to sign this treaty; but even now a considerable traffic is carried on by the east coast with Arabia, Pemba, and Madagascar. The negroes are crowded into the slave-dhows, and their sufferings from hunger and filth must be extreme on a voyage. Many die and are thrown overboard, and the remainder land in a miserably reduced condition. But the household slaves are treated kindly and well fed; this the owner finds politic, or the slave might desert. They are addressed as “Ndugu-yango”—“My brother”—and considered part of the family.

There are two sorts of slaves in the islands—the Muwallid, or domestic, born in slavery, and the wild imported slave. The former class are much better treated than the others. Even young captured slaves are not so tractable as they, but the older ones are very obstinate and contrary and given to thieving and disorder. Sometimes in revenge they attempt the life of their master or try to get him into serious trouble, yet they are seldom punished for it, any more than with us a vicious animal would be. They are slaves, and it is their nature, and they themselves give this as their excuse when convicted of 832the most abominable crimes. But slaves often rise to a very important position; and as Abraham sent his servant to Mesopotamia to negotiate his son’s marriage, so slaves are entrusted by their masters with the command of trading caravans to the interior, they preferring to remain comfortably at home. Free negroes have been known to sell themselves for slaves, and, when asked about it, to reply: “What can a dog do without a master?” Also, slaves often own slaves of their own. The pilot of Zanzibar, an official of some importance called Buckett, was a slave, and, when seen habited in a naval officer’s old coat and a handsome turban on his head, he appeared a person of much distinction.

It is difficult to see how slavery can be kept up at Zanzibar, now that importation is forbidden; for the annual loss from death and desertion is thirty per cent., and the average annual importation a few years ago was estimated at thirteen thousand. Slavery, as it has been there, is an abominable institution and a complete bar to improvement.

Though the negro is so ignorant, superstitious, and debased, yet it has been abundantly shown that he is capable of improvement. I once visited the well-ordered estate of Kokotoni, in the north of Zanzibar Island, the property of Capt. Fraser. I found it in charge of an intelligent Scotchman, who said that they had about five hundred laborers resident on the plantation—half men and half women. They required them all to marry, gave them cottages, provision, grounds, and two dollars and a half each per month, and they were an orderly and well-conducted people. The overseer had taught them different 833trades—as that of wheelwright, necessary for the work of the estate—and, though they sometimes deserted in true negro fashion, yet the truants were sure to return again.

At Zanzibar and Bagomoyo, twenty-five miles off on the mainland, at the mouth of the Kingani River, the Société du Saint-Esprit, the parent house of which is in Paris, have most flourishing establishments. The town house is in the centre of Zanzibar, its corrugated iron roof, towering above the neighboring buildings, being a conspicuous object. On entering you will be greeted in good French by very civil negro boys dressed in blue blouse and trowsers and wearing a black glazed hat. They will conduct you to a spacious sitting-room decorated with pictures of religious subjects, and before long the superior, Père Etienne, appears. He is a tall, slight man, and has not lost the cavalry swagger which he acquired as captain in a Lancers regiment, and which forms a strange contrast to his black soutane. He is a most affable and agreeable priest, and conducts one round the interesting establishment. There is a beautiful little chapel on the first floor, and when I was last in it the walls were being stencilled. In the workshops trades are taught to the boys by the lay brethren, such as working in metals, carpentering, and boat-building. The pupils belong to the mission, they having been either handed over to it by the British consul from captured slave-dhows, or purchased by the mission in the slave-market in the old times before slavery was abolished. At Bagomoyo there is a still larger establishment under the care of Père Horner, where about ten clergy and the same number of sisters have charge of an agricultural 834colony on which are several hundred Christian negroes. At first the mission did not mean to Christianize the natives, thinking that they were so degraded that it would take several generations to raise them to that point; but they found them capable of more than was originally expected. The mission establishment is half a mile from the town of Bagomoyo, which contains about five thousand people, but it has the appearance of a small town itself. The grounds are laid out in a most orderly manner; it is a pleasure to walk along the straight, well-kept paths between fields of maize, millet, and sweet potatoes.

The captain of the ship in which I served was one day up the Kingani River in his boat, accompanied by a young Alsatian lay brother from the mission. Shooting a hippopotamus cow, the calf, only a week or two old, would not leave the mother’s carcase, and the captain, who had to return to his ship, giving money to the brother, advised him to obtain assistance and catch the little animal, which he presented to the mission. A few months after, as we were visiting the good fathers, the lay brother took us to a large tank surrounded with a fence, which they had formed for the accommodation of the hippopotamus. Standing at the gate, the brother called the animal by name, and it came snorting out of the water, ran up to its master, looking up into his face, and followed us about the garden and into the house like a dog. Here he was fed from a bottle with flour and milk. He was taken to the Zoölogical Gardens at Berlin shortly afterwards, and must have sold for at least six thousand dollars. Hippopotami are inimical to the crops 835of rice which grow near the rivers, as they come on shore in the night and devour enormous quantities of the young tender shoots, so that the fields have to be carefully watched. But more dangerous animals are found on the coast, and Père Horner told us a story of a huge lion which had carried off several of their cattle. They constructed a trap of a deserted hut, into which they enticed the animal, which, finding himself imprisoned, aroused all the establishment from their midnight slumbers by his roarings. He was shot by one of the brethren.

The fathers give their guests a good dinner of many courses in true French style, but one should not conclude, as does Stanley in his How I Found Livingstone, that champagne is their ordinary beverage. On the contrary, when I was there they could offer us nothing but a little white rum which had been sent them from our ship, and the champagne with which they welcomed Mr. Stanley was some of a small present which they had received.

Their mode of work is undoubtedly the true one: to get a certain number of negroes, isolate them as much as possible from the licentious society of their heathen brethren, and hope of them to form the nucleus of a future Christian population.

The Church of England has a mission at Zanzibar, and has also some settlements on the mainland; and as I had several friends there, I know something about it from personal observation, and regret that its members are not Catholics, for a more devoted set of workers it would be hard to find. They have a house on a shamba, or estate, two miles from the town, in 836which there are a number of liberated slave boys, who are instructed in reading, writing, and arithmetic, and are taught such trades as carpentering and field labor. Dr. Steere, the third bishop of this mission, which was set on foot by the English universities of Oxford and Cambridge at the instance of Livingstone, is a linguist, being the authority on Swahili, the language commonly spoken at Zanzibar and on the coast. He has written a Swahili grammar, and translated into the language great parts of the Bible, prayers, hymns, and school-books, and these are excellently printed in the mission press by some of the pupils, a few of whom he took to England to perfect themselves in the trade at a large London printing establishment. All the printing done in Zanzibar is their work. They have a beautiful chapel, where there are daily morning and evening services, and these are attended by all the establishment; and I am told that many of the boys show great devotion, kneeling for a quarter of an hour together in the chapel. I am inclined to fear, though, that the African Anglican’s notion of religion is something which will propitiate an angry, hostile power—in fact, a relic of demonology. “Our Father” has no meaning to one who had perhaps been sold to an Arab by his parent for a bowl of rice. Two miles beyond the English mission’s boys’ house is a similar establishment for girls under the charge of women. The girls look fatter and healthier than the boys, a large proportion of whom are affected by the terrible skin diseases so prevalent amongst the blacks.

The mission had a devoted young clergyman there some years ago, who, being possessed of large means 837and wealthy friends, purchased the old slave market in Zanzibar, on which a handsome stone church with groined roof, and different school buildings, were erected. But he sacrificed his life, as most of the workers of this mission have done, by his zeal, and fell a victim to fever; his funeral was attended by parties from the English men-of-war in the harbor, and by some of the Catholic missionaries, and many of the European residents who wished to pay a last tribute of respect to the memory of a brave and devoted, if mistaken, man. He once told me that some of his pupils asked him a very pertinent question: Why, if the Christian religion was one, the French and English missions were not united? He evaded it by replying that they taught in English, but the others in French! When his death was announced in England a young clergyman, who had formerly worked in the same mission, was preaching for it in an English church and exhorting his hearers to give money and, if possible, their personal services to the cause. He was astonished afterwards at a young woman presenting herself and offering herself for the work. Neither pictures of fever, discomfort, nor death could deter her from going to Zanzibar, as I believe she afterwards did.

Bishop Steere used to give a weekly address in the native language in the city of Zanzibar to any who chose to attend, and I have heard that the rich Arabs used to flock to it in crowds, coming to the bishop’s house afterwards to discuss the different Christian doctrines of which they had heard. But if any Arab became a Christian he would probably be assassinated by his comrades, so great is their 838bigotry. Singularly, the part of the Bible which has most interest for an Arab is the genealogies; for, as is well known, they are most careful in preserving such records, even of their very horses.

The Mahometan residents at Zanzibar and on the coast, both Arab and Ki-Swahili, go to school at seven years of age, and in two or three years learn to write, and read the Koran. They are also taught a few prayers and hymns and some Arab proverbs, and this completes their education. In two points a good Moslem puts ordinary Christians to shame—in prayer and temperance. In the East one often sees even the poorest people prostrating themselves towards Mecca on their praying-mat, and repeating the accustomed prayers at the stated hours, which occur five times a day. I have seen a naked black laborer praying in a coal-lighter during an interval of work. One is reminded of the quaint old Belgian cities, where it is common to see female figures, in their long black cloaks, kneeling before a crucifix in some open space. Temperance the Arab rigidly observes; and how can one expect them to become Christians when they daily witness the drunkenness of white seamen? In fact, this objection has been urged upon me by natives, and the answer which one makes, that our religion does not permit drunkenness, is not satisfactory to them. “If we got drunk,” they say, “our sultan would put us in prison.”

Strict Mahometans are very Pharisaical. We once had great trouble with a Mahometan priest or schoolmaster who visited our ship. He refused the coffee which we offered him because it was made by a Christian, and would only 839condescend to drink some lime-juice out of a glass which we assured him had never been used, and even this beverage had to be prepared by his own servant. Some Arab gentlemen who accompanied him and dined with us, being prevented from eating anything that we had cooked, could get nothing but oranges.

The Hindis are a sect of Mahometans who are not recognized by the Arabs, but the exact nature of their differences I have not been able to learn. Neither could I arrive at the religion of the Banians. Their mortality at Zanzibar is very great, and you may daily see processions of Banian men going to the beach beyond the town, where they raise a funeral pyre of wood, on which their deceased friend is consumed, the remains being washed away by the rising tide.

On the coast the people are much the same as those who inhabit the island of Zanzibar. There are the lazy, cowardly Belooch soldiers and their families, and these swashbucklers are thoroughly despised and hated. The towns are ruled by headmen, who are subject to the Sultan of Zanzibar, but who enrich themselves by extortion. The Washenzi are day-laborers, and are barbarians from the interior. Banians are always found prospering in trade. The Ki-Swahili—which means people of the coast, degenerate Arabs—are ignorant and vicious. They have a great fear and hatred of the white man, particularly of the English, whom they called Beni Nar—Sons of Fire. They think that, if once the white man’s foot has been placed on the land, he is sure to obtain possession of it in the end; and in this they are not far mistaken. 840The Wamrina are a coast clan even more debased and vicious than the latter people, and they appear to have little reason. They are cowardly and cautious, but very cunning, and, as most of the inhabitants in those parts, lie habitually, even when there is no object to be gained thereby.

There are a number of small towns on the coast from Magadoxo, a little north of the equator, to Kilwa, the great slave-mart in the south. The chief ones are Brava, Lamu, Marka, Melinda, and Mombas. At both of the latter are Portuguese remains, and at Mombas is a Protestant mission which at the time of my visit had been established thirty years, and had cost a large amount of money, but had apparently done very little good. The celebrated Dr. Krapf, who had been four years in Abyssinia, was the first to go there, starting from Zanzibar. This was in 1844. He was the first to draw up a Ki-Swahili grammar, in which he was assisted by Dr. Rebmann, who arrived two years afterwards. Their journeys from Mombas, which is situated in 4° south latitude, are well known. They discovered Kilima Njaro, a snow-clad mountain 22,814 feet high, only 3° south of the equator, and what they heard from the natives of vast lakes in the interior, where nothing but sandy deserts had hitherto been supposed to exist, led to the famous travels which have exposed a new world to the wondering eyes of men and opened up new fields for the glorious labors of the missionary.

841Dr. Rebmann was living near Mombas at the time of my visit, though old and blind, and, I hear, has since died. I did not see him, though I started to do so with one of the missionaries. I was so disgusted by this man’s narrow sectarianism in the midst of heathendom—he commencing to abuse the mission of his own church at Zanzibar—that I preferred to spend the night on the river in a boat with our seamen rather than, with my friends, accompany him to the Rabai Mission. We came across a pamphlet written by them for their English supporters, containing a lot of pious texts: “Come over and help us”; “The fields are white to the harvest”; “A wide door and effectual is open,” and so on; but it struck us as being great nonsense. However, I am told that they have since that started a large establishment of liberated slaves. The Wesleyans have a mission in the neighborhood, but of them I know nothing, as we did not visit them.

The Sultan of Zanzibar visited England two years ago, offered to place his dominions under British protection, and has exerted himself to put a stop to the slave-trade, though he fought hard against its abolition at first, as from it he derived the principal part of his revenue. If a stop could be put to this evil and peace established in the interior, a splendid field for mission-work would be the result, the black having such respect for the superior knowledge and intellect of the white man that many tribes would receive the missionary with a hearty welcome.

The Beginnings of Christianity, with a View of the State of the Roman World at the Birth of Christ. By George P. Fisher, D.D., Professor of Ecclesiastical History in Yale College. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1877.

Dr. Fisher has taken up a line of argument of great interest and importance, which has employed the minds and pens of a number of able writers before him, but which cannot be too frequently or copiously treated. The author informs us in his preface that he has prepared the work as now published from a course of lectures before the Lowell Institute of Boston. The principal portion of his argument presents precisely what is needed by a large number of educated persons in New England, especially in Boston, where a reckless, extravagant rationalism and neologism, borrowed from Germany, are rapidly undermining all belief in the genuineness, historical truth, and doctrinal authenticity of our earliest Christian documents, together with those of Judaism. This modern infidelity saps the historical basis of Christianity, that it may be free to criticise it as a theory, a mere natural phenomenon, a phase of human evolution. Any one who turns their own historical and critical methods against these sceptics does good service to truth. We are pleased to recognize the many merits, both in respect to matter and diction, in the essay of the learned professor. The five chapters on the Roman policy, and Greco-Roman religion, literature, philosophy, and morals, are admirable. The geographical accuracy and distinctness with which, as on a map, the Roman Empire is graphically delineated, makes a characteristic and noteworthy feature of this part of the work, which is enriched with a great number of happy classical quotations. The succinct review of historical Judaism during the important but much-neglected period of five centuries immediately preceding the birth of Christ is interesting and valuable. A very able critical defence of the genuineness of the New Testament history, of the truth of the miracles and resurrection of our Lord, his superhuman character and 843divine mission, completes a solid and unanswerable argument for the historical basis of Christianity as a divine and supernatural religion.

The author has shown the convergence of all the lines of movement drawn in the past history of the world towards the moment of Christ’s appearance. This is one of the strongest proofs of his divine mission, inasmuch as it shows that the Author and Ruler of the world is also the Author of the Christian religion. The complement to the argument should point out the divergence of the lines from the same point through the post-Christian times, and the work of human regeneration historically fulfilled—the second and even greater proof of the divine legation of Christ. The author shows very conclusively that those destructive critics and sceptics who deny the true historical idea of Christ as presented in the New Testament take away all sufficient cause for the effect produced in Christianity.

The foundation for a complete argument from cause to effect and effect to cause, in the relation between the historical idea of Christ and the historical idea of his regenerating work, is laid by establishing his supernatural character, mission, and works. Thus far Dr. Fisher gives us complete satisfaction. When he proceeds to develop his own conception of the true Christian idea—the plan, namely, of human regeneration, and the means for executing the plan—we do not find it complete and adequate. As compared with the view heretofore prevalent among evangelical Protestants, it is, nevertheless, a marked approximation to the Catholic idea. We consider that Dr. Fisher’s argument requires a complement, in order to make the historical circle embracing all ages and centred in Christ perfect in its circumference. To explain our statement and adduce reasons for it would require many pages, and we must for the present refrain from anything beyond a mere expression of our judgment.

There is only one passage which we have thus far noticed in a perusal of nearly the whole of Dr. Fisher’s volume 844which has jarred upon our feelings as out of tune with his prevalent mode of philosophical candor and historical justice. On page 238 it is written: “Pharisaism, like Jesuitism, is a word of evil sound, not because these parties had no good men among them, but because prevailing tendencies stamped upon each ineffaceable traits of ignominy.”

We are persuaded that in the great number and variety of studies which have absorbed his time and attention the writer of the foregoing passage has never found leisure to read the books which would give him the true notion of the institute and history of the Jesuits. We give him credit for great sincerity and love of truth, and yet we cannot help thinking that there is still a remnant of prejudice left in his mind, which in this case causes, to use his own words, “groundless, gratuitous suspicion, such as, in the ordinary concerns of life, is habitually repelled by a healthy moral nature.”

As a production of learning, philosophical thought, and literary taste, the Beginnings of Christianity deserves, in our opinion, a place among the best works of New England scholars. We will close this notice by an extract which shows the philosophical and religious tone and quality of the great argument presented in the volume:

“When we look back upon the ancient philosophy in its entire course, we find in it nothing nearer to Christianity than the saying of Plato that man is to resemble God. But, on the path of speculation, how defective and discordant are the conceptions of God! And if God were adequately known, how shall the fetters of evil be broken and the soul attain to its ideal? It is just these questions that Christianity meets through the revelation of God in Jesus Christ. God, the head of that universal society on which Cicero delighted to dwell, is brought near, in all his purity and love, to the apprehension, not of a coterie of philosophers merely, but of the humble and ignorant. There is a real deliverance from the burden of evil, achieved through Christ, actually for himself and potentially for mankind. How altered in their whole character are the ethical maxims which, in form, may not be without a parallel in heathen sages! Forgiveness, forbearance, pity for the poor, universal compassion, are no longer 845abstractions derived from speculation on the attributes of Deity. They are a part of the example of God. He has so dealt with us in the mission and death of his Son. The cross of Christ was the practical power that annihilated artificial distinctions among mankind and made human brotherhood a reality. In this new setting, ethical precepts gain a depth of earnestness and a force of impression which heathen philosophy could never impart. We might as well claim for starlight the brightness and warmth of a noon-day sun” (p. 189). This fine passage is supplemented by two condensed statements in another place, that the end in view of the plan of Jesus was “the introduction of a new life in humanity,” and the plan itself “the establishment of a society of which he is the living head” (p. 467). This really comprehends the whole Christian Idea in germ. Its true and perfect evolution, and an accurate commentary upon it, would present a complete philosophy of Christianity.

De Deo Creante: Prælectiones Scholastico-Dogmaticæ quas in Collegio S.S. Cordis Jesu ad Woodstock, Maxima Studiorum Domo Soc. Jesu in Fœd. Americæ Sept. Statibus, habebat A.D. MDCCCLXXVI.-VII., Camillus Mazzella, S.J., in eod. Coll. Stud. Præfectus et Theol. Dogm. Professor. Woodstock, Marylandiæ: Ex Officina Typographica Collegii. 1877. 8vo, pp. xxxv.-935.

This treatise is a complete exposition and defence of the Catholic doctrine on creation and its kindred topics as handed down in the church by tradition from the earliest ages to the present day. As the title of the book indicates, the subject is considered not merely from a dogmatic point of view; all the errors of the ancients as well as of their modern imitators being taken up in turn and refuted. A glance at the general divisions of the work will show the wide range of topics treated: I. “De Creatione Generatim”; II. “De Angelica Substantia”; III. “De Hominis Origine et Natura”; IV. “De Hominis Elevatione ad Statum Supernaturalem”; V. “De Humanæ Naturæ Lapsu”; VI. “De Hominis Novissimis.”

Each of these subjects is developed with the greatest detail. Take, for example, 846the seventeenth proposition in the third disputation, on the origin of the human race. In the introductory remarks to this proposition the author first explains our descent from Adam, the first man, according to revelation, and then devotes some ten pages to a concise but thorough exposition of Darwinism and its companion errors. After this he lays down the following thesis: “Primi parentes, prout ex divina revelatione constat, non modo quoad animam, sed etiam quoad corpus, immediate a Deo conditi sunt. Quam certissimam veritatem frustra evertere aut infirmare nituntur qui nunc audiunt Transformistæ: principium enim quod assumunt arbitrarium est, atque experientiæ repugnans; media, quæ assignant, ad transformationem efficiendam sunt insufficientia; probationes, demum, quas adducunt, nihil omnino evincunt.” This he proves directly by a large array of arguments from the Holy Scriptures, the fathers and the doctors of the church. He then proceeds to show the untenableness of the opposite theories, demonstrating that animals can only be propagated by others of the same species; that the ablest practical scientists of the day have acknowledged the arbitrariness of the transformation theory, and that many have proved it contrary to known facts; that the means suggested by the evolutionists are insufficient to explain the origin of man, etc., etc. He introduces a large and well-marshalled army of quotations from American, British, and Continental scientists to back up his position.

The divisions of the work and the order in which they are treated lay no claims to originality, which the author has very sensibly considered as worse than out of place in a theological text-book, since it tends only to perplex the student and to introduce confusion into the schools of divinity. The fate of writers who have, even in our own day, adopted a different course proves clearly the correctness of this view. Nevertheless, the method pursued in the treatment of particular questions is at once novel and useful, and, as far as we know, peculiar to Father Mazzella. As a general rule, theological writers, after having briefly explained the meaning of the proposition and touched on the errors of their adversaries, enter at once on the demonstration. This done, they devote 847a great deal of space to the solution of difficulties and the refutation of objections; and it is on this last point especially that they rely for making the sense of their thesis clear. Father Mazzella has adopted a different mode of proceeding. The development of each of his propositions contains two distinct parts: in the first he presents a complete exposition of the subject-matter in all its bearings; in the second he proves the point at issue. He starts out by giving a summary of the decisions of the church regarding the question under discussion. Then, if there be any diversity of opinion amongst Catholic doctors, he explains each system and notes the degree of probability contained in it. Finally, he proceeds to the exposition of contrary errors or heresies, and of the various senses, false and true, in which the doctrine may be interpreted. All this opens the way to the second part, in which the thesis is proved from Scripture, the fathers, and reason, and the few difficulties that perhaps remain are answered.

This manner of developing a subject seems to us to confer a twofold benefit on the student: it gives him a clear and comprehensive conception of the positive doctrine, and at the same time supplies him with general principles by means of which he may readily solve any new objections that may chance to arise in discussion. It is not sufficient for the young theologian to have learned by heart a number of proofs, and the answers to the long string of difficulties given in his text-book. He must be imbued with the whole spirit of Catholic doctrine, and thus he will form within himself a new theological sense, if we may use the expression, by which he can easily discern what is consonant with, and what is repugnant to, the truths contained in the deposit of faith. Such is the result aimed at in Father Mazzella’s method. Hence he devotes but little space to the answering of objections; for he has already disposed of them in the exposition of his thesis. Most difficulties, in fact, arise from a misunderstanding of Catholic doctrine; hence it is plain that they must readily disappear, if the dogmas of the church be clearly explained.

As is proper for a theologian, the author makes abundant use of Scripture and tradition. Whilst avoiding all 848needless excursions into the fields of philology and hermeneutics, he does not refuse to handle the difficulties brought from these sciences. An instance of this is his vindication of the true sense of the famous [Greek: eph ô]—in quo—in the fifth chapter of the Epistle to the Romans. Whenever the question under discussion has been defined by the church, the decrees are carefully given and explained. We frequently find a series of definitions on the same subject, taken from councils held at various periods, proving the wonderful unity of the church’s teaching in various ages. Father Mazzella makes frequent use of the fathers and great scholastic writers. He generally quotes them word for word, thus ensuring conviction as to their real opinion, and familiarizing the reader with their peculiar modes of thought and expression, taking care, however, to explain all obscurities in the text.

Every student of theology is aware of the importance of mental philosophy in our days, when the repugnance of the supernatural to reason is so loudly and boldly asserted. Hence the author constantly appeals to it, but is careful to admit only such opinions as are approved by the authority of the schools, taking as his guides only St. Thomas and the ablest commentators of the Angelic Doctor, especially Suarez.

In the third disputation the author has made the natural sciences come to the aid of theology, especially when treating of the Mosaic cosmogony, of the origin and antiquity of the human race, etc. Certain devotees of modern experimental science, whose principles are built on mere hypotheses, and who insist on our taking mere possibilities as established facts, have declared a deadly war against revelation. It is difficult to convince such men of their errors by appealing to pure reason; for they are in a remarkable degree wanting in the logical faculty. You can overcome them only by opposing facts to facts, and by proving that their own pet studies contradict their theories. This Father Mazzella has aimed at doing; and he supports his position by bringing forward a mass of facts and disclaimers from the latest writings of the ablest scientists. The style is clear, simple, and straightforward—a most necessary quality in a book of the kind. Difficult terms are always explained, and neither order nor precision 849is ever sacrificed to a show of learning or rhetorical skill.

Modern Philosophy, from Descartes to Schopenhauer and Hartmann. By Francis Bowen, A.M., Alford Professor of Natural Religion and Moral Philosophy in Harvard College. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1877.

The preface of Prof. Bowen prepossesses us at once in his favor. “No one,” says he, “can be an earnest student of philosophy without arriving at definite convictions respecting the fundamental truths of theology. In my own case, nearly forty years of diligent inquiry and reflection concerning these truths have served only to enlarge and confirm the convictions with which I began, and which are inculcated in this book. Earnestly desiring to avoid prejudice on either side, and to welcome evidence and argument from whatever source they might come, without professional bias, and free from any external inducement to teach one set of opinions rather than another, I have faithfully studied most of what the philosophy of these modern times and the science of our own day assume to teach. And the result is that I am now more firmly convinced than ever that what has been justly called^[89] ‘the dirt-philosophy’ of materialism and fatalism is baseless and false. I accept with unhesitating conviction and belief the doctrine of the being of one personal God, the creator and governor of the world, and of one Lord Jesus Christ in whom ‘dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily’; and I have found nothing whatever in the literature of modern infidelity which, to my mind, casts even the slightest doubt upon that belief.... Let me be permitted also to repeat the opinion, which I ventured to express as far back as 1849, that the time seems to have arrived for a more practical and immediate verification than the world has ever yet witnessed of the great truth that the civilization which is not based upon Christianity is big with the elements of its own destruction” (pp. vi., vii.).

These are sound and wise words, which we welcome with peculiar pleasure as emanating from a chair in Harvard University. The scope of Modern 850Philosophy is more restricted, as the author distinctly premises, than the general title indicates. The authors whose systems are discussed ex professo are Descartes, Spinoza, Malebranche, Pascal, Leibnitz, Berkeley, Kant, Schelling, Hegel, Schopenhauer, and Hartmann. There is also a general discussion of those great topics of metaphysics, the origin of ideas and the nature of the universals, of the freedom of the will and of the system of positivism, with an exposition of the relation of physical to metaphysical science. It is quite proper for the learned professor to select a particular range in modern philosophy for his lectures, but we respectfully submit that a less general title would have been more accurately definitive of his real object, and that he identifies too much the course of European thought with the direction of certain classes of thinkers. The revival of the philosophy of Aristotle and St. Thomas in modern times is certainly worthy of notice, and is exercising a strong and decisive influence on modern European thought. The questions of ideology and the universals can hardly be adequately presented without consideration of their treatment by the able modern expositors of scholastic philosophy. We do not agree with Mr. Bowen in his estimate of Descartes, or in his general views of the superiority of modern to ancient and mediæval philosophy. Neither are we in accordance with his special views of ideology. Nevertheless, we recognize a current of very sound and discriminating thought throughout his whole course of argumentation, which tends always toward the most rational and Christian direction, taking up the good and positive elements which it meets with on the way, and rejecting their contraries. The author seems to have a subtle intellectual and moral affinity for the highest, most spiritual and ennobling ideas of the great men of genius, both heathen and Christian. Plato, Malebranche, and Leibnitz seem to be those with whom he is most in sympathy. His most marked antipathy is shown for the degrading pessimism of Schopenhauer. We feel sure, from the tone of his reasoning and the quality of his sentiments, that he would find the greatest pleasure in the perusal of the writings of such Catholic philosophers as Kleutgen, San Severino, Liberatore, Stöckl, and perhaps more than 851all of Laforet, on account of his Platonizing tendencies.

Mr. Bowen’s style is remarkably and elegantly classic. He throws a literary charm and glow over his discussions and expositions of abstruse ethical and metaphysical topics which we do not often find, except in the works of Italian authors, although some who write in English are beginning to cultivate this style, in which logical severity is combined with rhetorical grace. No one could write with more modesty and suavity of manner, or in a more calm and amiable temper. We hope this truly excellent volume, in such contrast with the common run of jejune and debasing trash which passes for science and philosophy, will be very much read, especially in the neighborhood of Boston, where it is sadly needed.

History of the Suppression of the Society of Jesus in the Portuguese Dominions. By the Rev. Alfred Weld, S.J. London: Burns & Oates. 1877. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society Co.)

This able work of Father Weld throws a flood of light on a very sad and gloomy page of history. Never was the Society of Jesus so fearfully tried and persecuted, and never did its virtues shine more conspicuously, than in the period referred to by the author—that is, during the twenty years preceding the entire suppression of the order by Clement XIV. in 1773.

We behold its holy and self-sacrificing members spreading themselves over the New as well as the Old World, making countless conquests for Christ, bearing every hardship and danger in order to teach the truths of faith to the most barbarous tribes and peoples, planting the standard of the cross in the most distant regions, and watering the seed of the Gospel by their blood. Wherever they went they gave evidence, in their own persons, of the highest apostolic virtues.

God could not but bless the efforts of such disinterested and self-sacrificing followers of his divine Son, and their labors were crowned with astonishing success. Take, for example, the history of their missions in Paraguay. No brighter or more cheering picture was ever displayed to the world than the fatherly government of the Jesuits over 852these poor children of the forest. Here civilization and religion went hand in hand, and peace and prosperity reigned. But the very success of the missionaries raised up against them powerful and bitter enemies. The more saintly they were, the more envy they excited; the more learned and influential, the more jealousy arose, until at last their enemies vowed their destruction.

Chief among those enemies, and most powerful in his opposition, was Carvalho, Marquis of Pombal, the chief minister of state under Joseph I., King of Portugal. Having, by sycophancy, flattery, and deception, made himself master of this weak sovereign, and always finding means to prevent his evil designs from becoming known, he labored to destroy the authority of the Holy See throughout the kingdom of Portugal, and to establish, as nearly as possible, a national church. He saw that the faithful Society of Jesus would be an insuperable obstacle in his way. He accordingly determined on its destruction, or, if he could not effect this, at least its expulsion from the Portuguese dominions. Knowing the high esteem in which the learned body was held throughout Europe by kings, princes, nobles, and people, and, above all, by each succeeding Sovereign Pontiff, he made use of every means, and means always the most malicious, in order to destroy the character and influence of the Jesuits. There was no insinuation too low, no instrument too vile, no slander too base, of which he did not make use to effect their injury and ruin. He spread throughout Europe, especially in the principal courts, the grossest libels (many of them written by himself) against the society, and all under the hypocritical plea of serving religion, law, and order. Every species of tyranny that human malice, aided by a deeper malice, could invent or call into being to injure the glorious institute founded by that great soldier of Christ, St. Ignatius, Pombal exercised.

During his ministry nine thousand innocent persons, many of whom were of the noblest families in the kingdom or ecclesiastics of the highest character, were condemned either to prison or to death, without any trial, and often without even knowing the cause for which they were deprived of their life or liberty.

The sufferings of the poor Jesuits, many of whom had spent the chief portion 853of their lives as apostles in South America and had been brought back in chains to the dungeons of Portugal, were of the most harrowing description. Not a few died in their wretched prisons, and the few that survived at the end of eighteen years, when they were released by order of the Queen, were but miserable wrecks of their former selves.

On the day of the queen’s coronation, May 13, 1777, Francis da Silva, Judge of the Supreme Court, pronounced his memorable address, in which he thus denounces, in the name of the whole nation, the tyranny from which they were just freed: “The blood is still flowing from the wounds with which the heart of Portugal has been pierced by the unlimited and blind despotism from which we have just ceased to suffer. He (Pombal) was the systematic enemy of humanity, of religion, of liberty, of merit, and of virtue. He filled the prisons and the fortresses with the flower of the kingdom. He harassed the public with vexations and reduced it to misery. He destroyed all respect for the pontifical and episcopal authority; he debased the nobility, corrupted morals, perverted legislation, and governed the state with a sceptre of iron, in the vilest and most brutal manner that has ever been seen in the world.”

All the machinations of this politician are laid bare, and his miserable agents in this fearful persecution exposed to view, in this work of Father Weld. He does not ask us to take for granted his simple declarations, but fortifies every position which he takes by the clearest and most undeniable proofs. He has had access to authentic documents, which he has put to the best use. His style is clear and forcible, and in the arguments which he uses and the proofs with which he sustains them he gives us a noble, just, and triumphant vindication of the great society of which he is a member.

In reading this work we could not but call to mind the prophecy of St. Ignatius that “the heritage of the Passion should never fail the society”—“A prophecy,” says the Protestant writer Stewart Rose, “fulfilled up to this time; for they (the Jesuits) are still, as for three hundred years past, indefatigable in the saving of souls, perversely misrepresented and stupidly misunderstood.”

854Antar and Zara, and Other Poems, Meditative and Lyrical. By Aubrey De Vere.

The Fall of Rora, and Other Poems, Meditative and Lyrical. By the same. London: Henry S. King & Co. 1877. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society Co.)

These two volumes “comprise the author’s secular poetry previous to the ‘Legends of St. Patrick’ (1872), together with many poems composed before that date, though not published.” “His religious poems will be collected later in a separate volume.”

Antar and Zara, with many shorter pieces, first appeared in the pages of The Catholic World. It was in those pages that the writer made Mr. De Vere’s acquaintance; and not a few of our readers, probably, are indebted to the same source for their introduction to the great Catholic poet of the day. To such it will be a welcome surprise, as it is to us, to find his cultured muse so prolific. The variety of themes, too, within these volumes affords a frequent ramble “to fresh fields and pastures new.” The poet himself has travelled. With Byron, he has “stood on the Alps,” and pondered in the “City of the Soul,” and basked in the “eternal summer” that “yet gilds the Isles of Greece.” At home, again, he has sung Erin’s glories and woes as though he had taken down the old Bardic harp from “Tara’s walls.”

As a poet, however, he shows the influence of two other great masters than Byron and Moore—though some of his Irish ballads remind us of the latter. He is chiefly a disciple of Wordsworth, while he has studied to good purpose the scholarly verse of Tennyson. With most imitators of Tennyson the classic perfections of the Laureate are turned to mere affectations. Not so with Mr. De Vere, who is equally a scholar himself. This scholarly taste, indeed, would have prevented him, we are sure, from adopting Wordsworth’s theory of poetic diction, even had Tennyson never arisen to recall English poetry from the loose, inaccurate style into which his great predecessors, with the exception of Coleridge, had thrown so much splendid thought.

This conviction of ours regarding the combined influence of Tennyson and Wordsworth on our author’s poetry is 855confirmed by the discovery that Antar and Zara is dedicated to the former by “his friend”; and, again, of the sonnet “Composed at Rydal, September, 1860,” with the two following sonnets “To Wordsworth, on Visiting the Duddon.” Antar and Zara, particularly in the shorter metre of Zara’s “song,” is eminently Tennysonian. For example:

And again:

Here are the sonnets:

Wordsworth was a giant at the sonnet. His sonnets are, in our judgment, by far his best productions, and those in which his theory of diction jars one least. We congratulate Mr. De Vere on following in the master’s footsteps by cultivating the sonnet, and without the defects of the leader. We are also proud to see him disregard the Petrarchian sonnet as the only correct type—a form in which the English language would be sadly monotonous, were it never allowed to vary the order of rhymes, particularly in the minor system. Surely our language has every right to a sonnet of its own—and that flexible.

We will only add that the objections commonly made to Mr. De Vere’s poetry—to wit, that it is elaborate and requires much thought—are of no weight 857against his mission as a poet. He aims, we presume, at interesting the cultured few rather than the uncultured many. A poet’s highest function is, we say, to teach. And a true Catholic poet, like our author, can reach intelligences, both within and without the church, through doors at which “divine philosophy” in dull, prosaic garb must knock in vain.

Sadlier’s Elementary History of the United States. By a Teacher of History. New York: William H. Sadlier. 1877.

This is a very pleasing and useful little manual for children. It presents the chief events of the history of this country in the form of question and answer, giving a prominence much needed to the great part which Catholics have played in the struggles of the Republic, and its material and social development. The plan was well conceived, and has been well executed. It is the last work of the enterprising and much-lamented young Catholic publisher who was so suddenly carried off at the opening of what promised to be a most useful and honorable career.

Ancient History. From the French of Rev. Father Gazeau, S.J. Revised and corrected, with questions at the end of each chapter. By a pupil of the Sisters of Notre Dame. First American edition. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1877.

This is another and useful addition to the Catholic Publication Society’s educational series. It is a very interesting, clear, and comprehensive history, embracing the chief powers and peoples of ancient times, and ending with the death of Alexander the Great and the division of his empire. The questions at the end of each chapter form an improved feature on the original, and the translation runs as smoothly as could be desired.

The doctrine of natural development or evolution may be apprehended and presented in theoretical form under two diverse phases or aspects. One of these resembles the old scholastic theory of the eduction of forms from the potentiality of matter. The indeterminate something which is almost nothing takes on all kinds of specific determinations, which chase away and supplant one another, each one vanishing into nothingness like a melody when the harp-strings cease to vibrate. The animal soul, the highest of these determining principles, is only one of the evanescent forms, depending for existence on the body it animates, becoming extinct, like a sound or the trace of a bird in the air, as soon as death takes place. So, in the theory of pure natural evolution, history, polity, ethics, theology, science, educe themselves from the potential, determinable substratum of humanity, without efficient or final causes, in evanescent forms; and their animating spirit is no more than an anima belluina.

The other theory may be likewise illustrated from the same philosophy, comparing it with the doctrine of the rational soul, immediately created, self-subsisting, entering into composition with body 861but not immersed in it; like a swimmer in water, with head and shoulders above the surface; animating matter, but dominating over it and subordinating it to serve by its development and life the higher end of the spirit, which reaches beyond the temporal and sensible toward infinity and eternity. Thus all human development—though it is nature which is developed, though natural processes subserve its evolution, and its history is the history of human events, acts, thoughts, polities, religions—is informed and dominated by a superhuman, a divine spirit, power, action, for a supra-mundane end.

The true philosophy of history is constructed on this theory—meaning by theory what Aristotle and the Greeks meant, not a visionary conjecture, but an intellectual speculation by which the mind has true vision of intelligible realities, as it has of sensible objects by ocular vision. This true philosophy of history is partly identified with theology, or the science of God and all that which is divine; not only in so far as theology is the highest part of rational philosophy, but also inasmuch as it transcends reason. The knowledge of God and that which is divine transcending natural intelligence and reason, is the revelation of God in and through the Word, who “enlighteneth every man coming into this world,” and consequently casts light on everything pertaining to humanity. The creation, destination, fall, redemption and glorification of humanity in and through the Word, “who was made flesh and dwelt among us,” is the object of Christian theology, to which the immediate object of history is subordinate. The Incarnate Son of God is the central figure in human 862history, its circumference is drawn around this centre, and all its diameters pass through it.

A number of great historians have perceived this truth, and made universal history render up its testimony, which is sometimes latent and sometimes patent, to Christ and to his divine work of human regeneration. Leo, for instance, having first convinced himself of the truth of divine revelation by the study of history, made his entire work on the universal history of mankind a splendid and irrefutable demonstration of Christianity. The course of time and events before Christ is a preparation for his coming. The one great event in human history is the divine Epiphany, the visible manifestation of God in the Person of the Word through his assumed human nature, in which he was conceived and born of the Virgin, lived among men, died, and rose again to an immortal and glorious life, for the fulfilment of the divine purpose in creation and the consummation of the destiny of mankind. The course of time and events after Christ is the successive fulfilment of this divine purpose, to be completed in the final consummation at the end of the present order of the world.

In the six centuries immediately preceding Christ the preparation and convergence of events become more distinct and manifest; the features of human evolution are more marked; the progress and tendency of the universal movement are apparently accelerated in the direction of the common point of convergence; all human affairs, the objects of history, seem to rise out of its dim horizon, looming up in increasing magnitude, like the great ships of a squadron hastening 863from all points of the compass over a broad sea to their rendezvous. Before this period the expanse of time is to our eye almost like the waste solitudes of ocean. Confucius collected some remnants of Chinese historical documents going back to the ninth century b.c. Some imperfect records of Hindoo antiquity have been brought to light in modern researches. Hieroglyphic and cuneiform inscriptions, like traces of a caravan on the sand, present to the curious modern eye vestiges of a remote past. Berosus wrote in the reign of Seleucus Nicator, Manetho in that of Ptolemy Philadelphus, Herodotus four centuries and a half before Christ. Varro, the most learned of the Romans, dates the beginning of authentic Roman history from the first Olympiad, B.C. 776. Authentic written history does not go back as far as Solomon, except as we find it in the sacred writings of the Old Testament. These priceless documents are the family records of the house of Nazareth, the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the history of his predecessors and precursors; of inchoate Christianity, of the prophecy and providence, the promises and laws, the typical rites and preliminary covenants, the elementary revelations and the other preludes, by which, in divers places, times, and manners, the Word of God prepared the way for his coming upon earth to fulfil all prophecy and accomplish the expectation of all nations.

About five centuries and a half before Christ the prophet Daniel made his celebrated prediction of the great period of seventy weeks—i.e., four hundred and ninety years—from the rebuilding of the temple and city of Jerusalem to the Messias. This period is marked as the 864one of immediate expectation and preparation. As the time of the great Prophet drew near the succession of the minor prophets in Judea ceased. The Jewish people became less exclusively isolated, and came into relations with other nations which were quite new and marked with a transitional tendency. The Greek Scriptures of the second canon, like the writings of St. Paul in the New Testament, are more like the classic works of other nations than those of the first canon, which are marked with the peculiar Hebrew characteristics. A diffusion of the Jews, of their books and ideas; a general dissemination of the Greek language and literature, a world-wide unification of civilized, and in part of barbarous peoples under the Roman polity; a remarkable advancement of the human mind in the great works of philosophy, poetry, literature, art, and every species of civilization; are the principal second and concurrent causes directed by divine Providence to fulfil a purpose, analogous to the mission of St. John the Baptist, among the nations predestined to a Christian vocation.

There is nothing in this view which favors rationalism. Grace supposes nature, and God is the author of both. Natural and supernatural providence are distinct but not separate. Rational science and revealed doctrine are portions of the universal truth which has its measure in the divine intelligence and its primal origin in the divine essence. It is, moreover, characteristic of the divine operation to act on the rule of parsimony in the use of means. Where second causes are sufficient the first cause does not immediately intervene and supersede their action; where natural 865forces are sufficient they are not supplanted by those which are supernatural. What a long period elapsed before the earliest of the inspired books was written! How few have been the prophets, how comparatively few and rare miracles of the first order! In the beginning, religion, the church, the whole spiritual order, was identified with the common social and civil order. The special intervention of God in the calling of Abraham, the legation of Moses, the entire Jewish system, was a renovation of the more ancient and universal dispensation, confined within the limits of one nation, protected by special legislation, sanctioned by miracles, manifested in revelations through inspired men and prophets. As the time draws near when the church and religion were to become once more and finally Catholic, the supernatural providence of God over the Jewish people becomes less extraordinary, and his natural providence over the other nations more conspicuous. The great Prophet himself, the Messias, the Son of God in human form, performs miracles and appeals to them, as it were, with reserve and reluctance, hides his wisdom and power from men, refuses to exert his dominion over men and nature in defence of his own life, discloses himself after his resurrection to a few only, and departs, so to speak, incognito from the earth to return to his heavenly abode with the Father. The gift of inspiration, by virtue of which the written documents of revelation are completed, is imparted to a small number only; their writings fill but a small compass; within fifty years from the opening of the New Testament canon by the first Gospel it is closed by the last book of 866the last of the apostles, St. John. No new David, or Isaias, or Daniel, or Paul, or John is henceforth to appear in the church. All this shows the purpose of God not to oppress the human by the divine in the deification of humanity, not to supersede the natural by the supernatural, or to supplant the activity of the human intelligence and will by an overbearing divine power. The Spirit of God brooded over the face of chaos in the beginning, gradually bringing it into form and order, and the same Spirit has been waving his wings^[91] over the waters of human history during the entire period of the explication of God’s creative act in time and space through human actions and events. Where creative power is required—i.e., where it is the will of God to give being to a term educed from non-existence and from no pre-existing subject—God acts alone and immediately as first cause with no concurrent cause. He has created and continues to create all simple substances. Where supernatural power is required to bring from created substances certain results which presuppose a new form of being in them above their intrinsic substantial actuality, or some other augmentation of their natural force by an immediate divine act, God intervenes directly as the efficient cause of the effect produced. He is the author of second causes and principles, of the first germs of evolution, of generative powers, of all origin, and of all that is called in the German language Urwesen. He preserves everything, concurs with everything, directs everything toward proximate, remote, and final 867ends, bringing the creation which proceeded from him as first cause back to himself as final cause. And therefore, whenever there is a sufficient reason, he intervenes directly to overrule the order of second causes and the natural laws he has himself established. The especial reason for this is to prevent the thwarting of the legitimate action of beings endowed with con-creative power, through the illegitimate interference of other beings endowed with the same power. All spiritual beings have this con-creative power by virtue of intelligence and free-will. They may fail to exercise it when they should; they may be hindered from exercising it by equal or superior force. The order of moral probation requires that great freedom of movement should be allowed to these forces in voluntary efforts and in conflicts. But the final cause of this probation also exacts that the predetermined plans of God shall be infallibly executed, and that he shall overrule the wills both of men and angels for the fulfilment of his own sovereign will.

The natural and the supernatural are, therefore, not separate, much less disconnected, least of all hostile, in the order of divine providence, although they are distinct and placed in logical opposition to one another. Sacred and secular history, religion and civilization, theology and science, the eternal and temporal interests of mankind, cannot be separated from each other and relegated to mutually distant or hostile kingdoms, like the kingdoms of light and darkness in the system of the Manicheans. Any view which considers mankind as separated into two divisions of the elect and the reprobate by an antecedent decree, 868is false. The doctrine that the nature of man has become totally depraved, and that his entire rational and physical activity develops only sin which tends fatally to perdition, is utterly unchristian as well as unphilosophical. It is only from this doctrine that we could deduce a theory by which the society of the elect would be considered as a separated, isolated tribe, a small invisible church, without any real relation through a spiritual bond with the mass of mankind. The Catholic doctrine is expressed by the author of the Book of Wisdom in these beautiful words: “God created all things that they might be: and he made the nations of the earth for health: and there is no poison of destruction in them, nor kingdom of hell upon the earth. For justice is perpetual and immortal.”^[92]

The true philosophy of Christianity must, therefore, take into view the providence of God over the Gentiles, their history, philosophy, polity, and civilization, in order to appreciate the period of preparation for the Messias who was the expected of the nations. The philosophy of history, also, must take into view the whole cycle of special acts of divine providence recorded in the books of the Old Testament, and fulfilled between the epochs of the calling of Abraham and the appearance of the Messias in the history of the peculiar people of God. Mr. Formby, with his peculiar originality and vigor of thought, has brought out into more striking relief than any other author we know of the idea common to several excellent modern writers respecting the position of the two cities, Jerusalem 869and Rome, in the historical order of divine Providence. They are, as it were, the two great citadels of God, the two great capitals of the universal kingdom of Christ. During the thousand years immediately before the Incarnation the city of David, the seat of the royal ancestors of Jesus Christ our Lord, was the citadel of all the highest interests of humanity. All the hopes, the whole future destiny, of mankind were in David’s royal line, the sweet psalmist, the prophet, the king of Israel. For seven centuries God was preparing Rome, first the ally, then the arbiter, and finally the conqueror of Judea, to take the place of Jerusalem, and by its world-wide polity to serve as a medium for the promulgation and extension of the divine religion throughout the whole earth.

The true philosophy of history sets aside all theories which are exclusive on the one side or on the other—those which exclude the ordinary providence of God over all mankind under the natural law, and those which exclude his extraordinary providence over the church under the supernatural law—and includes both under one synthesis. The one exclusive view proceeds from an à priori theological principle resulting in a conclusion with which a logical induction from facts cannot be reconciled, and therefore denies or misrepresents the facts. The other proceeds from an à priori metaphysical principle with a similar result. The one is a pseudo-supernaturalism, the other a pseudo-naturalism. The first pretends to be the genuine spiritual religion, or pure Christianity; the second professes to be the genuine rational philosophy, or pure science. Both are counterfeits of the truth. The best corrective 870of these theoretical tendencies is to be found in the correct knowledge and exposition of history. Lacordaire has well said: “On ne brûle pas les faits.” Facts are incombustible; they cannot be made to evaporate in the gaseous elements of transcendental metaphysics, or vanish in clouds of smoke from the pipes of German neologists. Each of these make their gas or blow their clouds from products of their own imagination adroitly substituted for facts. Facts resist with an invincible inertia every combination with false theories of supernatural religion. In all branches of science pure reasoning and the investigation of facts must go together in harmony and mutually complete each other. Even in divine revelation God is careful to present facts with their evidence in connection with doctrine, and a large portion of the Bible is made up of historical records. The divine legation of Moses and the divine mission of Jesus Christ are great historical facts, and they are in synthetical connection with all the great events and epochs of human universal history. In this concurrence and harmony we find the most evident and tangible proof and corroboration in the order of natural reason of the truth revealed by God in Jesus Christ, which is the object of divine faith, and the soul of the complete substance of Christianity.

Jesus Christ came on the earth at the very juncture of the ages, at the moment for crystallization, at the epoch of crisis in human affairs, when Judaism, Grecian culture, and Roman jurisprudence combined with Roman valor, were ready to blend in a new combination; when the three strands spun by no blind fate, but by all-seeing Providence, 871were ready to be intertwined: the pure tradition of the patriarchs, the philosophy of the heathen sages, the organic polity of the imperial legislators—an electric cable to bind the earth and transmit the new movement of divine impulse. The Jews preserved and handed down the pure doctrine of monotheism, the promise of redemption, and the moral law—the germ of revealed doctrine and ethics, which, in the state of development, is the faith and law of Christianity. The Greeks furnished the intellectual human culture in philosophy, poetry, and art, of which the Christian religion availed itself, as of a precious vase in which to detain its subtle and sublime essence—an ideal atmosphere for the communication of its influence to the minds and imaginations of men in all ages and countries. Rome opened the way for diffusion and unification. Immobility in tradition, mobility in intelligence, motive power in organization, are the characters of Jewish, Greek, and Roman civilization, which were united in Christianity under a higher and controlling vital force.

They were each and all temporary and insufficient, subject to a law of internal decay, evanescent in their nature, and about vanishing when Jesus Christ came on the earth. That he came just in time to supersede them and to begin the universal regeneration of mankind; that he really did so without any purely human and natural means which were sufficient causes of the effects produced; is a proof that the God whose providence rules the world sent him to fulfil this mission, and that his work was a divine operation. God’s hand alone could spin and twine the threads of human destiny and make Time’s 872noiseless, incessant shuttle weave the woof and web into the successive figures of historical embroidery.

The miracles and resurrection of Jesus Christ, historically proved as certain, indubitable facts, authenticate his divine mission; they stamp a divine seal on his credentials as the Messias promised from the beginning of the world. This divine legation gives divine authority to his word and precepts. Whatever he teaches in the name of God is a divine revelation, and whatever he commands is a divine law. The authentic record of these miracles, the record of what Jesus said and did; the authentic account of his teaching respecting his own person, plan, doctrine, and law—that is, of the principles and the foundation of the Christian religion—is historical; it is an authentic testimony respecting facts. The authentic record of the actual founding of Christianity on the principles and plan of the Master, by the disciples to whom he entrusted the work of carrying his design into effect, is historical. This divine design necessarily embracing all that is contained in the idea of a continuity and development of divine providence over human affairs and destinies from the beginning to the end of the world, its actual carrying out through successive ages becomes matter of history for the time present in respect to times past. Its principles of continuity and development, in connection with the order of providence anterior to Christ, and with the progress of its movement from the apostolic age through the ages following, are to be sought for in its history, not to the exclusion of reasoning from abstract principles, but in connection with 873it. The historical documents of the New Testament, considered merely as credible testimony and apart from their inspiration, are of paramount importance in respect to the inquiry into the nature of the genuine, authentic Christianity promulgated and established as a world-religion by its Founder and his apostles. After these come all other documents containing historical record or indirect evidence respecting the earliest age of the Christian religion. In this aspect the study of dogmas of faith, of laws and rites, of the spirit and the organization of Christianity, is directed toward an historical term. The object of the inquiry is to ascertain what is Christianity, what was its legitimate development, where is to be found through all ages the real continuation, uninterrupted succession, perpetual life, and progressive expansion which connote the identity of its essence and its specific unity in all its distinct moments, as it proceeds from its beginning towards its end. Although its intrinsic truth and authority are established simultaneously with the exposition of its historical character, the argument is nevertheless distinct, in respect to its conclusive force in this direction, from the pure manifestation of the real essence and nature of the religion. The question as to its essential constituents and their logical connection is logically distinct from the question as to its material truth, although they are metaphysically one by an inseparable composition. Christ, manifesting himself in history, is a revelation of the infinite wisdom, power, and goodness of God in his divine works, which transcend the reach of all created and dependent forces. It is the Eternal Word 874speaking efficiently, as when he said: “Let there be light: and there was light.” If we can only see all objects by this light, through a pure medium, we cannot fail to be enlightened by the knowledge of the truth.

The able work of Dr. Fisher, the title of which is prefixed to this article, and which was briefly noticed in our last number, is based on the idea we have set forth in these preliminary remarks, although we do not profess to have given an exposition of the learned author’s precise thesis, or ascribe to him a view identical in all particulars with the one we have presented. We will employ his own language for this purpose, of showing his own individual conception of the historical environment of Christianity, and the conclusions to which investigation and reflection on the great facts and events connected with its beginnings have led him.

“Christianity is an historical religion. It is made up of events, or, to say the least, springs out of events which, however peculiar in their origin, form a part of the history of mankind.... The Apostle Paul refers to the birth of Christ as having occurred ‘when the fulness of time was come’ (Gal. iv. 4).

“His thought evidently is not only that a certain measure of time must run out, but that a train of historical events and changes must occur which have the coming of Christ for their proper sequence. Of the nature of these antecedents in the previous course of history he speaks when he has occasion to discuss the relation of the Mosaic dispensation to the Christian, and to point out the aims of Providence in regard to the Gentile nations. It was formerly a mistake of both orthodox and rationalist to look upon Christianity too exclusively as a system of doctrine addressed to the understanding. Revelation has been thought of as a communication written on high and let down from the skies—delivered to men as the Sibylline books were said to have been conveyed to Tarquin. Or it 875has been considered, like the philosophical system of Plato, a creation of the human intellect, busying itself with the problems of human life and destiny; the tacit assumption in either case being that Christianity is merely a body of doctrine. The truth is that revelation is at the core historical. It is embraced in a series of transactions in which men act and participate, but which are referable manifestly to an extraordinary agency of God, who thus discloses or reveals himself. The supernatural element does not exclude the natural; miracle is not magic. Over and above teaching there are laws, institutions, providential guidance, deliverance, and judgment. Here is the groundwork of revelation. For the interpretation of this extraordinary and exceptional line of historical phenomena prophets and apostles are raised up—men inspired to lift the veil and explain the dealings of Heaven with men. Here is the doctrinal or theoretical side of revelation. These individuals behold with an open eye the significance of the events of which they are witnesses or participants. The facts of secular history require to be illuminated by philosophy. Analogous to this office is the authoritative exposition and comment which we find in the Scripture along with the historical record. The doctrinal element is not a thing independent, purely theoretic, disconnected from the realities of life and history. These lie at the foundation; on them everything of a didactic nature is based. This fact will be impressively obvious to one who will compare the Bible, as to plan and structure, with the Koran.

“The character of revelation is less likely to be misconceived when the design of revelation is kept in view. The end is not to satisfy the curiosity of those who ‘seek after wisdom,’ by the solution of metaphysical problems. The good offered is not science, but salvation. The final cause of revelation is the recovery of men to communion with God—that is, to true religion. Whatever knowledge is communicated is tributary to this end.

“Hence the grand aim, under the Old Dispensation and the New, was not the production of a book, but the training of a people. To raise up and train up a nation that should become a fit instrument for the moral regeneration of mankind 876was the aim of the old system.... Under the new or Christian system the object was not less the training of a people; not, however, with any limitations of race. The fount of the system was to be a community of men who should be ‘the light of the world,’ and ‘the salt of the earth....’

“The grand idea of the kingdom of God is the connecting thread that runs through the entire course of divine revelation. We behold a kingdom planted in the remote past, and carried forward to its ripe development, by a series of transactions in which the agency of God mingles in an altogether peculiar way in the current of human affairs. There is a manifestation of God in act and deed. Verbal teaching is the commentary attached to the historic fact, ensuring to the latter its true meaning.”

This is sound and Christian philosophy, admirably expressed and containing many fruitful germs of thought. What we have quoted may suffice to show that the historical nature of Christianity is the fundamental idea of Dr. Fisher’s argument in the work under review.

He recognizes also a law of historical and continuous development through all time in Christianity as resulting from its vital force, which differs from the previous historical stage in this: that “in the giving of revelation, at each successive stage, and especially at the consummation, there was an increment of its contents,” whereas “this is not true of Christianity since the apostolic age.” The touchstone and test of normal development, in the sense to which the signification of the term is restricted when it is used of the post-apostolic age, is that “it springs out of the primitive seed”—namely, the deposit of revealed truth contained in the teaching of Christ and the apostles in its state of ultimate completeness.

The historical method of determining 877the real origin and nature of Christianity is contrasted with the method which is purely à priori and exclusively metaphysical in the following passage:

“The historical basis of Christianity marks the distinction between Christian theology and metaphysical philosophy. The starting-point of the philosopher is the intuitions of the mind; on them as a foundation, with the aid of logic, he builds up his system. His only postulates are the data of consciousness. In Christian theology, on the contrary, we begin with facts recorded in history, and explore, with the aid of inspired authors, their rationale. To reverse this course, and seek to evolve the Christian religion out of consciousness, to transmute its contents into a speculative system, after the manner of the pantheistic thinkers in Germany, is not less futile than would be the pretence to construct American history with no reference to the Puritan emigration, the Revolutionary war, or the Southern Rebellion. The distinctive essence of Christianity evaporates in an effort, like that undertaken by Schelling in his earlier system, and by Hegel, to identify it with a process of thought.”^[93]

Farther on in his argument Dr. Fisher shows how this perverse employment of the à priori method has produced the sceptical theories of the Tübingen school of criticism:

“As regards the credibility of the Gospel history, it ought to be clearly understood that the modern attack by Baur, Strauss, Zeller, and others is founded upon an à priori assumption. It is taken for granted beforehand that whatever is supernatural is unhistorical. The testimony into which a miracle enters is stamped at once as incredible. Christianity, it was assumed, was an evolution of thought upon the natural plane. At a later day Strauss fell into a materialistic way of thinking, which rendered him, if possible, more deaf to all the evidence which, if admitted, implies the supernatural. From the point of view taken in the sceptical school, therefore, 878the New Testament histories, so far as they relate to the wonderful works of Christ, and his resurrection and manifestation to his disciples after his death, must be discredited. But their principle, or prejudice, carries the negative critics farther. It must affect their judgment as to the authorship of the narratives which record the miracles. It is rendered difficult to believe, if not quite improbable, that these histories emanate from apostles, eye-witnesses of the life of Jesus. The myths, or the consciously-invented stories, the product of a theological ‘tendency’ in the primitive church, cannot well be ascribed to the immediate followers of Christ. The fact that the New Testament histories contain accounts of miracles also tends to weaken and vitiate their general authority, in the estimation of the sceptical school. That is to say, the credulity of the Gospel writers, or their willingness to deceive, as evinced in the supernatural elements embraced in their books, makes them less entitled to trust in their record of ordinary events into which the miracle does not enter....

“Connected with the unscientific assumption first noticed, other assumptions were adopted by the Tübingen school which are equally unsound. It was assumed that Christianity is an evolution of thought according to the scheme of the Hegelian logic, where it is held as a law that a doctrine in an undeveloped form must divaricate into two opposites, to be recombined afterwards in a higher unity. Thus, it was assumed that Paulinism, and the sharply-defined Judaizing system attributed to Peter, were the antagonistic types of opinion which sprang out of the seed of doctrine planted by Christ, and which were reunited in the old Catholic theology, the evangelical legalism of the fathers of the second century.”^[94]

This statement is supplemented by another succinct and pregnant passage containing the elements of an argument of great comprehension and irrefragable conclusiveness. After affirming that “the mythical theory is wrecked upon a variety of difficulties which it cannot evade or surmount”—a statement 879which has much more force, taken in connection with the entire context of thorough critical reasoning, than it can show as a mere isolated quotation—the learned professor proceeds:

“What is the rationalistic theory of the origin of the Christian religion? It is that Jesus, a carpenter of Nazareth, with no prestige derived from birth or social standing, taught in Galilee for about a year—for to this period the class of whom we speak would limit his public work. From these brief labors, made up wholly of verbal instruction, came that profound impression of his superhuman dignity which was made indelibly upon his disciples, and which his crucifixion as a criminal did not weaken, and that transforming power which went forth upon them, and, in ever-increasing measure, upon all subsequent generations. The Apostolic Church, the conversion of Paul, and his Epistles, the narratives of the four Gospels, with all that they contain, and Christianity, as it appears in the history of mankind, all spring from that one year of mere teaching! The effect is utterly disproportionate to the cause assigned.”^[95]

We must take notice that the author, with a competent knowledge of the theories and arguments of the German Biblical critics, has carefully refuted them, and presented solid proofs of the genuineness and authenticity of the historical books of the New Testament, before arriving at this part of his argument. He is summing up his plea after an examination and discussion of evidence. His reasoning is not, therefore, based on mere hypothesis, but is the conclusion of a well-sustained thesis, with all the weight derived from his precedent proofs. And he is therefore logically entitled to make the demand that Christianity shall be estimated by the historical measure, according to the full 880value of its miraculous facts and supernatural qualities, to the exclusion of any hypothesis which pretends to be rational but is really only fantastic, and therefore unphilosophical as well as unchristian.

“It is much more consistent with a sound philosophy, instead of taking refuge in an unreasonable denial of facts historically established, to seek to comprehend them. At the outset the notion should be banished that miracles are repugnant to nature; that the supernatural is anti-natural. There is one system; and supernatural agency, however it may modify the course of nature, does no violence to the universal order. For there is no such unbending rigidity in the course of nature that it cannot be modified by the interposition of voluntary agency. A steamship, cutting its way through the billows in the teeth of wind and tide, moves by the force of machinery which is contrived and directed by the human will.^[96] The volitions of man produce an effect which nature, independently of this spiritual force, could never occasion. Now, of the limits of the possible control of matter by the power of spirit, any more than of the essence and origin of matter itself, we cannot speak. It is a presumptuous affirmation that there is no being in the universe who can infinitely outdo the power of man, vast as it is, in this direction.”^[97]

In this brief and sententious manner, with a few heavy and well-directed strokes of sound reason, the author effectually demolishes all the brittle ware of transcendental nonsense which calls itself rationalism. We are reminded of a sentence we once heard uttered by that singular genius, Henry Giles, in a railway carriage, respecting a matter quite different: “Such theories are shattered like rotten glass by a single thump of common sense.”

We find no reason for quoting 881anything from Dr. Fisher’s exposition of the historical preparation for Christianity in the propædeutic system of Judaism. For the present we will only refer to the notice which he takes of the dispersion of the Hebrews over the world at the epoch of the birth of Christ, adopting the language of Mommsen, which designates Judaism as “an effective leaven of cosmopolitanism” working in the same direction with the imperial Roman polity toward a blending of nationalities in the more general solidarity “the nationality of which was really nothing but humanity.” Of the providential office of Greece and Rome in connection with that of Judea he thus speaks:

“These were three nations of antiquity, each of which was entrusted with a grand providential office in reference to Christianity. The Greeks, whatever they may have learned from Babylon, Egypt, and Tyre, excelled all other races in a self-expanding power of intellect—in ‘the power of lighting their own fire.’ They are the masters in science, literature, and art. Plato, speaking of his own countrymen, made ‘the love of knowledge’ the special characteristic of ‘our part of the world,’ as the love of money was attributed with equal truth to the Phœnicians and Egyptians. The robust character of the Romans, and their sense of right, qualified them to rule, and to originate and transmit their great system of law and their method of political organization. Virgil lets Anchises define the function of the Roman people in his address to Æneas, a visitor to the abodes of the dead:

882“Greece and Rome had each its own place to fill; but true religion—the spirit in which man should live—comes from the Hebrews.”^[98]

Dr. Fisher places the relation of sympathy or affinity between the mythological religion and Christianity in three things: first, in the stimulus and scope given to subjective religious sentiments; second, in the impulse towards “a goal hidden from sight,” the object of “an unfulfilled demand in the religious nature” of men seeking after God, whom they, in the language of St. Paul on Mars’ Hill, at Athens, “ignorantly worshipped”; third, in a growing “monotheistic tendency.”^[99]

The topic of the relation of Greek philosophy to Christianity is handled by the learned author in a very judicious and discriminating manner, although we are disposed to take a considerably different view of the philosophy of Aristotle as compared with Platonism. We are pleased to observe his high estimate of the writings of Cicero. The chapter on this topic is thus introduced:

“The Greek philosophy was a preparation for Christianity in three ways: it dissipated, or tended to dissipate, the superstitions of polytheism; it awakened a sense of need which philosophy of itself failed to meet; and it so educated the intellect and conscience as to render the Gospel apprehensible and, in many cases, congenial to the mind. It did more than remove obstacles out of the way; its work was positive as well as negative: it originated ideas and habits of thought which had more or less direct affinity with the religion of the Gospel, and which found in this religion their proper counterpart. The prophetic element of the Greek philosophy lay in the glimpses of truth which it could not fully discern, and in the obscure and unconscious pursuit of a good which it could not definitely grasp.”^[100]

883In treating of “the close relation of the Roman Empire to Christianity” Prof. Fisher notices the extension of Roman citizenship, the cosmopolitan polity of Cæsar, the unifying influence of Roman jurisprudence, the assimilation of mankind in language and culture by the spread of the Romano-Hellenic civilization and the Greek and Latin languages, travel and intercourse, commerce and a general mingling of mankind from various causes, the mingling of religions, and the resuscitation of the idea of a common humanity. Without overlooking the external agency of Rome in paving the way for Christianity, the author more distinctly accentuates another kind of influence:

“The effect of the consolidation of so large a part of mankind in one political body, in breaking up local and tribal narrowness, and in awakening what may be termed a cosmopolitan feeling, is in the highest degree interesting. The Roman dominion was the means of a mental and moral preparation for the Gospel; and this incidental effect is worthy of special note. The kingdom of Christ proposed the unification of mankind through a spiritual bond. Whatever tended to melt down the prejudices of nation, and clan, and creed, and instil in the room of them more liberal sentiments, opened a path for the Gospel. Now, we find that under the political system established by Rome a variety of agencies co-operated to effect such a result. Powerful forces were at work whose effect was not limited to the creation of outward advantages for the dissemination of the religion of Christ, but tended to produce a more or less genial soil for its reception. We have, then, to embrace in one view the influence of the Roman Empire in both of these relations, in shaping outward circumstances, and in favoring a mental habit, which were propitious to the introduction of the new faith.”^[101]

What the author proposes in the last clause of this quotation he fulfils 884in a very satisfactory manner in one of the most splendid chapters of his work.

The outline of the historical basis of Christianity having been drawn, and the principles of the sound historical construction of a true and logical theory or philosophy of the Christian religion established, the outline of the actual foundations, and the first course of the great structure itself, determining its plan of architecture, next demands our consideration. In plainer language, the actual “beginnings of Christianity” in the apostolic age, the earliest history of the religion of Christ, in respect to all its constitutive principles, presents itself for examination. What is Christianity in its essence, nature, integrity of organic constitution, its proper attributes; with a due distinction of its substance from its accidents, of its genuine and normal germs of future development from everything of a parasitic nature or in any way abnormal? This is the great question to be studied in the authentic records of the antiquities of Christianity, with all the light and aid which can be obtained from every source accessible to research.

The long-continued, widely-extended preparations of divine Providence for the great event of the coming of the Messias of the Jews and Gentiles, the immensity of the ground prepared to be the theatre of the future Christian history, the vast and mighty instrumentalities made ready to serve the fulfilment of the plan of Jesus and of the apostolic mission, all point toward something proportionate in grandeur to the grandeur of the inchoate order which preceded. The anticipation of Christ in history demands a corresponding realization of his actual presence and operation 885in the “fulness of time,” the age of the completion and consummation of human destinies on the earth. Moreover, the stupendous miracles, especially the crowning one of the Resurrection, which are among the first facts and events of historical Christianity, logically and rationally require that an ideal of Christianity shall be presented which justifies such an outlay of supernatural power, and the position of causes containing such infinite potential force. The end of all previous human history being found in the beginning of Christianity, the new beginning of all human history must be likewise found there. If the normal, legitimate development in later ages is tested by its origination from the primitive seed planted in the apostolic age, the nature and qualities of that seed must be correctly ascertained. If we would recognize the true genius of Christianity in its real manifestations from the days of the apostles to our own, and discriminate it from simulated apparitions, we must know what this genius really is, or the original error will falsify all subsequent processes of judgment and reasoning, like an ambiguous middle in a syllogism.

But we have proceeded as far as our limits will permit in the present article, and must postpone the consideration of what was actual Christianity in the apostolic age, and of the learned author’s theory on the subject, to a future opportunity.

Long ago in Brittany, under the government of St. Gildas the Wise, seventh abbot of Ruiz, there lived a young tenant of the abbey who was blind in the right eye and lame in the left leg. His name was Sylvestre Ker, and his mother, Josserande Ker, was the widow of Martin Ker, in his lifetime the keeper of the great door of the Convent of Ruiz.

The mother and son lived in a tower, the ruins of which are still seen at the foot of Mont Saint-Michel de la Trinité, in the grove of chestnut-trees that belongs to Jean Maréchal, the mayor’s nephew. These ruins are now called the Wolf-Tower, and the Breton peasants shudder as they pass through the chestnut-grove; for at midnight around the Wolf-Tower, and close to the first circle of great stones erected by the Druids at Carnac, are seen the phantoms of a young man and a young girl—Pol Bihan and Matheline du Coat-Dor.

The young girl is of graceful figure, with long, floating hair, but without a face; and the young man is tall and robust, but the sleeves of his coat hang limp and empty, for he is without arms. Round and round the circle they pass in opposite directions, and, strange to tell, as the legend adds, they never meet, nor do they ever speak to each other.

Once a year, on Christmas night, instead of walking they run; and 889all the Christians who cross the heath to go to the midnight Mass hear from afar the young girl cry: “Wolf Sylvestre Ker, give me back my beauty!” and the deep voice of the young man adds: “Wolf Sylvestre Ker, give me back my strength!”

And this has lasted for thirteen hundred years; therefore you may well think there is a story connected with it.

When Martin Ker, the husband of Dame Josserande, died, their son Sylvestre was only seven years old. The widow was obliged to give up the guardianship of the great door to a man-at-arms, and retire to the tower, which was her inheritance; but little Sylvestre Ker had permission to follow the studies in the convent school. The boy showed natural ability, but he studied little, except in the class of chemistry, taught by an old monk named Thaël, who was said to have discovered the secret of making gold out of lead by adding to it a certain substance which no one but himself knew; for certainly, if the fact had been communicated, all the lead in the country would have been quickly turned into gold. As for Thaël himself, he had been careful not to profit by his secret, for Gildas the Wise had once said to him: “Thaël, Thaël, God does not wish you to change the work of his hands. Lead is lead, and gold is gold. There is enough gold, and not too much lead. 890Leave God’s works alone; if not, Satan will be your master.”

Most assuredly such precepts would not be well received by modern industry; but St. Gildas knew what he said, and Thaël died of extreme old age before he had changed the least particle of lead into gold. This, however, was not from want of will, which was proved after his death, as the rumor spread about that Thaël did not altogether desert his laboratory, but at times returned to his beloved labors. Many a time in the lonely hours of the night the fishermen, in their barks, watched the glimmer of the light in his former cell; and Gildas the Wise, having been warned of the fact, arose one night before Lauds, and with quiet steps crossed the corridors, thinking to surprise his late brother, and perhaps ask of him some details of the other side of the dreaded door which separates life from death.

When he reached the cell he listened and heard Thaël’s great bellows puffing and blowing, although no one had yet been appointed to succeed him. Gildas suddenly opened the door with his master-key, and saw before him little Sylvestre Ker actively employed in relighting Thaël’s furnaces.

St. Gildas was not a man to give way to sudden wrath; he took the child by the ear, drew him outside, and said to him gently:

“Ker, my little Ker, I know what you are attempting and what tempts you to make the effort; but God does not wish it, nor I either, my little Ker.”

“I do it,” replied the boy, “because my dear mother is so poor.”

“Your mother is what she is; she has what God gives her. Lead 891is lead, and gold is gold. If you go against the will of God, Satan will be your master.”

Little Ker returned to the tower crestfallen, and never again slipped into the cell of the dead Thaël; but when he was eighteen years old a modest inheritance was left him, and he bought materials for dissolving metals and distilling the juice of plants. He gave out that his aim was to learn the art of healing; for that great purpose he read great books which treated of medical science and many other things besides.

He was then a youth of fine appearance, with a noble, frank face, neither one-eyed nor lame, and led a retired life with his mother, who ardently loved her only son. No one visited them in the tower, except the laughing Matheline, the heiress of the tenant of Coat-Dor and god-daughter of Josserande; and Pol Bihan, son of the successor of Martin Ker as armed keeper of the great door.

Both Pol and Matheline often conversed together, and upon what subject, do you think? Always of Sylvestre Ker. Was it because they loved him? No. What Matheline loved most was her own fair self, and Pol Bihan’s best friend was named Pol Bihan. Matheline passed long hours before her little mirror of polished steel, which faithfully reflected her laughing mouth, full of pearls; and Pol was proud of his great strength, for he was the best wrestler in the Carnac country. When they spoke of Sylvestre Ker it was to say: “What if some fine morning he should find the secret of the fairy-stone that is the mother of gold!”

And each one mentally added:

“I must continue to be friendly 892with him, for if he becomes wealthy he will enrich me.”

Josserande also knew that her beloved son sought after the fairy-stone, and even had mentioned it to Gildas the Wise, who shook his venerable head and said:

“What God wills will be. Be careful that your son wears a mask over his face when he seeks the cursed thing; for what escapes from the crucible is Satan’s breath, and the breath of Satan causes blindness.”

Josserande, meditating upon these words, went to kneel before the cross of St. Cado, which is in front of the seventh stone of Cæsar’s camp—the one that a little child can move by touching it with his finger, but that twelve horses, harnessed to twelve oxen, cannot stir from its solid foundation. Thus prostrate, she prayed: “O Lord Jesus! thou who hast mercy for mothers on account of the Holy Virgin Mary, thy mother, watch well over my little Sylvestre, and take from his head this thought of making gold. Nevertheless, if it is thy will that he should be rich, thou art the master of all things, my sweet Saviour!”

And as she rose she murmured: “What a beautiful boy he would be with a cloak of fine cloth and a hood bordered with fur, if he only had means to buy them!”

It came to pass that as all these young people, Pol Bihan, Matheline, and Sylvestre Ker, gained a year each time that twelve months rolled by, they reached the age to think of marriage; and Josserande one morning proceeded to the dwelling of the farmer of Coat-Dor to ask the hand of Matheline for her son, Sylvestre Ker; at which 893proposal Matheline opened her rosy mouth so wide, to laugh the louder, that far back she showed two pearls which had never before been seen.

When her father asked her if the offer suited her she replied: “Yes, father and godmother, provided that Sylvestre Ker gives me a gown of cloth of silver embroidered with rubies, like that of the Lady of Lannelar, and that Pol Bihan may be our groomsman.”

Pol, who was there, also laughed and said: “I will assuredly be groomsman to my friend Sylvestre Ker, if he consents to give me a velvet mantle striped with gold, like that of the castellan of Gâvre, the Lord of Carnac.”

Whereupon Josserande returned to the tower and said to her son: “Ker, my darling, I advise you to choose another friend and another bride; for those two are not worthy of your love.”

But the young man began to sigh and groan, and answered: “No friendship or love will I ever know, except for Pol, my dear comrade, and Matheline, your god-daughter, my beautiful play-fellow.”

And Josserande having told him of the two new pearls that Matheline had shown in the back of her mouth, nothing would do but he must hurry to Coat-Dor to try and see them also.

On the road from the tower to the farm of Coat-Dor is the Point of Hinnic, where the grass is salt, which makes the cows and rams very fierce while they are grazing. As Sylvestre Ker walked down the path at the end of which is the Cross of St. Cado, he saw on the summit of the promontory Pol and Matheline strolling along, talking and laughing; so he thought:

894“I need not go far to see Matheline’s two pearls.”

And, in fact, the girl’s merry laughter could be heard below, for it always burst forth if Pol did but open his lips; when, lo and behold! a huge old ram which had been browsing on the salt grass tossed back his two horns, and, fuming at the nostrils, bleated as loud as the stags cry when chased, and rushed in the direction of Matheline’s voice; for, as every one knows, the rams become furious if laughter is heard in their meadow.

He ran quickly, but Sylvestre Ker ran still faster, and arrived the first by the girl, so that he received the shock of the ram’s butting while protecting her with his body. The injury was not very great, only his right eye was touched by the curved end of one of the horns when the ram raised his head, and thus Sylvestre Ker became one-eyed.

The ram, prevented from slaughtering Matheline, dashed after Pol Bihan, who fled; reached him just at the end of the cliff, and pushed him into the sea, that beat against the rocks fifty feet below.

Well content with his work, the ram walked off, and the story says he laughed behind his woolly beard. But Matheline wept bitterly and cried:

“Ker, my handsome Ker, save Bihan, your sweet friend, from death, and I pledge my faith I will be your wife without any condition.”

At the same time, amid the roaring of the waves, was heard the imploring voice of Pol Bihan crying:

“Sylvestre, O Sylvestre Ker! my only friend, I cannot swim. Come quickly and save me from 895dying without confession, and all you may ask of me you shall have, were it the dearest treasure of my heart.”

Sylvestre Ker asked:

“Will you be my groomsman?”

And Bihan replied:

“Yes, yes, and I will give you a hundred crowns. And all that your mother may ask of me she shall have. But hasten, hasten, dear friend, or the waves will carry me off.”

Sylvestre Ker’s blood was pouring from the wound in his eye, and his sight was dimmed; but he was generous of heart, and boldly leaped from the top of the promontory. As he fell his left leg was jammed against a jutting rock and broke, so there he was, lame as well as one-eyed; nevertheless, he dragged Bihan to the shore and asked:

“When shall the wedding be?”

As Matheline hesitated in her answer—for Sylvestre’s brave deeds were too recent to be forgotten—Pol Bihan came to her assistance and gaily cried:

“You must wait, Sylvestre, my saviour, until your leg and eye are healed.”

“Still longer,” added Matheline (and now Sylvestre Ker saw the two new pearls, for in her laughter she opened her mouth from ear to ear)—“still longer, as limping, one-eyed men are not to my taste—no, no!”

“But,” cried Sylvestre Ker, “it is for your sakes that I am one-eyed and lame.”

“That is true,” said Bihan.

“That is true,” also repeated Matheline; for she always spoke as he did.

“Ker, my friend Ker,” resumed Bihan, “wait until to-morrow, and we will make you happy.”

And off they went, Matheline and he, arm-in-arm, leaving Sylvestre 896to go hobbling along to the tower, alone with his sad thoughts.

Would you believe it? Trudging wearily home, he consoled himself by thinking that he had seen two new pearls behind the smile. You may, perhaps, think you have never met such a fool. Undeceive yourself: it is the same with all the men, who only look for laughing girls with teeth like pearls.

But the sorrowful one was Josserande, the widow, when she saw her son with only one eye and one sound leg.

“Where did all this happen?” she asked with tears.

And as Sylvestre Ker gently answered, “I have seen them, mother; they are very beautiful,” Josserande divined that he spoke of her god-daughter’s two pearls, and cried:

“By all that is holy, he has also lost his mind!”

Then, seizing her staff, she went to the Abbey of Ruiz, to consult St. Gildas as to what could be done in this unfortunate case; and the wise man replied:

“You should not have spoken of the two pearls; your son would have remained at home. But now that the evil is done, nothing will happen to him contrary to God’s holy will. At high tide the sea comes foaming over the sands, yet see how quietly it retires. What is Sylvestre Ker doing now?”

“He is lighting his furnaces,” replied Josserande.

The wise man paused to reflect, and after a little while said:

“In the first place, you must pray devoutly to the Lord our God, and afterward look well before you to know where to put your feet. The weak buy the strong, the unhappy the happy; did you know that, my good woman? Your son will persevere in search of the 897fairy-stone that changes lead into gold, to pay for Pol’s wicked friendship and for the pearls behind the dangerous smiles of that Matheline. Since God permits it, all is right. Yet see that your son is well protected against the smoke of his crucible, for it is the very breath of Satan; and make him promise to go to the midnight Mass.”

For it was near the glorious Feast of Christmas.

Josserande had no difficulty in making Sylvestre Ker promise to go to the midnight Mass, for he was a good Christian; and she bought for him an iron armor to put on when he worked around his crucibles, so as to preserve him from Satan’s breath.

And it happened that, late and early, Pol Bihan now came to the tower, bringing with him the laughing Matheline; for it was rumored around that at last Sylvestre Ker would soon find the fairy-stone and become a wealthy man. It was not only two new pearls that Matheline showed at the corners of her rosy mouth, but a brilliant row, that shone, and chattered, and laughed, from her lips down to her throat; for Pol Bihan had said to her:

“Laugh as much as you can; for smiles attract fools, as the turning-mirror catches larks.”

We have spoken of Matheline’s lips, of her throat, and of her smile, but not of her heart; of that we can only say the place where it should have been was nearly empty; so she replied to Bihan:

“As much as you will. I can afford to laugh to be rich; and when the fool shall have given me all the 898gold of the earth, all the pleasures of the world, I will be happy, happy.... I will have them all for myself, for myself alone, and I will enjoy them.”

Pol Bihan clasped his hands in admiration, so lovely and wise was she for her age; but he thought: “I am wiser still than you, my beauty: we will share between us what the fool will give—one half for me, and the other also; the rest for you. Let the water run under the bridge.”

The day before Christmas they came together to the tower—Matheline carrying a basket of chestnuts, Pol a large jug, full of sweet cider—to make merry with the godmother. They roasted the chestnuts in the ashes, and heated the cider before the fire, adding to it fermented honey, wine, sprigs of rosemary, and marjoram leaves; and so delicious was the perfume of the beverage that even Dame Josserande longed for a taste.

On the way Pol had advised Matheline adroitly to question Sylvestre Ker, to know when he would at last find the fairy-stone. Sylvestre Ker neither ate chestnuts nor drank wine, so absorbed was he in the contemplation of Matheline’s bewitching smiles; and she said to him:

“Tell me, my handsome, lame, and one-eyed bridegroom, will I soon be the wife of a wealthy man?”

Sylvestre Ker, whose eye shot forth a lurid flame, replied:

“You would have been as rich as you are beautiful to-morrow, without fail, if I had not promised my dear mother to accompany her to the midnight Mass to-night. The favorable hour falls just at the first stroke of Matins.”

“To-day?”

899“Between to-day and to-morrow.”

“And can it not be put off?”

“Yes, it can be put off for seven years.”

Dame Josserande heard nothing, as Pol was relating an interesting story, so as to distract her attention; but while talking he listened with all his ears.

Matheline laughed no longer, and thought:

“Seven years! Can I wait seven years?” Then she continued:

“Beautiful bridegroom, how do you know that the propitious moment falls precisely at the hour of Matins? Who told you so?”

“The stars,” replied Sylvestre Ker. “At midnight Mars and Saturn will arrive in diametrical opposition; Venus will seek Vesta; Mercury will disappear in the sun; and the planet without a name, that the deceased Thaël divined by calculation, I saw last night, steering its unknown route through space to come in conjunction with Jupiter. Ah! if I only dared disobey my dear mother.”

He was interrupted by a distant vibration of the bells of Plouharnel, which rang out the first signal of the midnight Mass. Josserande instantly left her wheel.

“It would be a sin to spin one thread more,” said she. “Come, my son Sylvestre, put on your Sunday clothes, and let us be off for the parish church, if you please.”

Sylvestre wished to rise, for never yet had he disobeyed his mother; but Matheline, seated at his side, detained him and murmured in silvery tones:

“My handsome friend, you have plenty of time.”

Pol, on his side, said to Dame Josserande:

“Get your staff, neighbor, and 900start at once, so as to take your time. Your god-daughter Matheline will accompany you; and I will follow with my friend Sylvestre, for fear some accident might happen to him with his lame leg and sightless eye.”

As he proposed, so was it done; for Josserande suspected nothing, knowing that her son had promised, and that he would not break his word. As they were leaving, Pol whispered to Matheline:

“Amuse the good woman well, for the fool must remain here.”

And the girl replied:

“Try and see the caldron in which our fortune is cooking. You will tell me how it is done.”

Off the two women started; a large, kind mother’s heart, full of tender love, and a sparrow’s little gizzard, narrow and dry, without enough room in it for one pure tear.

For a moment Sylvestre Ker stood on the threshold of the open door to watch them depart. On the gleaming white snow their two shadows fell; the one bent and already tottering, the other erect, flexible, and each step seemed a bound. The young lover sighed. Behind him Pol Bihan in a low voice said:

“Ker, my comrade, I know what you are thinking about, and you are right to think so; this must come to an end. She is as impatient as you are, for her love equals yours; for both of you it is too long to wait.”

Sylvestre Ker turned pale with joy.

“Do you speak truth?” he stammered. “Am I fortunate enough to be loved by her?”

“Yes, on my faith!” replied Pol Bihan, “she loves you too well for her own peace. When a girl 901laughs too much, it is to keep from weeping—that’s the real truth.”

Well might they call him “the fool,” poor Sylvestre Ker! Not that he had less brains than another man—on the contrary, he was now very learned—but love crazes him who places his affections on an unworthy object. Sylvestre Ker’s little finger was worth two dozen Pol Bihans and fifty Mathelines; in spite of which Matheline and Pol Bihan were perfectly just in their contempt, for he who ascends the highest falls the lowest.

When Sylvestre had re-entered the tower Pol commenced to sigh heavily and said:

“What a pity! What a great, great pity!”

“What is a pity?” asked Sylvestre Ker.

“It is a pity to miss such a rare opportunity.”

Sylvestre Ker exclaimed:

“What opportunity? So you were listening to my conversation with Matheline?”

“Why, yes,” replied Pol. “I always have an ear open to hear what concerns you, my true friend. Seven years! Shall I tell you what I think? You would only have twelve months to wait to go with your mother to another Christmas Mass.”

“I have promised,” said Sylvestre.

“That is nothing; if your mother loves you truly, she will forgive you.”

“If she loves me!” cried Sylvestre Ker. “Oh! yes, she loves me with her whole heart.”

Some chestnuts still remained, and Bihan shelled one while he said:

902“Certainly, certainly, mothers always love their children; but Matheline is not your mother. You are one-eyed, you are lame, and you have sold your little patrimony to buy your furnaces. Nothing remains of it. Where is the girl who can wait seven years? Nearly the half of her age!... If I were in your place I would not throw away my luck as you are about to do, but at the hour of Matins I would work for my happiness.”

Sylvestre Ker was standing before the fireplace. He listened, his eyes bent down, with a frown upon his brow.

“You have spoken well,” at last he said; “my dear mother will forgive me. I shall remain, and will work at the hour of Matins.”

“You have decided for the best!” cried Bihan. “Rest easy; I will be with you in case of danger. Open the door of your laboratory. We will work together; I will cling to you like your shadow!”

Sylvestre Ker did not move, but looked fixedly upon the floor, and then, as if thinking aloud, murmured:

“It will be the first time that I have ever caused my dear mother sorrow!”

He opened a door, but not that of the laboratory, pushed Pol Bihan outside, and said:

“The danger is for myself alone; the gold will be for all. Go to the Christmas Mass in my place; say to Matheline that she will be rich, and to my dear mother that she shall have a happy old age, since she will live and die with her fortunate son.”

When Sylvestre Ker was alone he listened to the noise of the 903waves dashing upon the beach, and the sighing of the wind among the great oaks—two mournful sounds. And he looked at the empty seats of Matheline, the madness of his heart; and of his dear mother, Josserande, the holy tenderness of all his life. Little by little had he seen the black hair of the widow become gray, then white, around her sunken temples. That night memory carried him back even to his cradle, over which had bent the sweet, noble face of her who had always spoken to him of God.

But whence came those golden ringlets that mingled with Josserande’s black hair, and which shone in the sunlight above his mother’s snowy locks? and that laugh, ah! that silvery laugh of youth; which prevented Sylvestre Ker from hearing in his pious recollections the calm, grave voice of his mother. Whence did it come?

Seven years! Pol had said, “Where is the girl who can wait seven years?” and these words floated in the air. Never had the son of Martin Ker heard such strange voices amid the roaring of the ocean, nor in the rushing winds of the forest of the Druids.

Suddenly the tower also commenced to speak, not only through the cracks of the old windows when the mournful wind sighed, but with a confusion of sounds that resembled the busy whispering of a crowd, that penetrated through the closed doors of the laboratory, under which a bright light streamed.

Sylvestre Ker opened the door, fearing to see all in a blaze, but there was no fire; the light that had streamed under the door came from the round, red eye of his furnace, and happened to strike the stone of the threshold. No one 904was in the laboratory; still the noises, similar to the chattering of an audience awaiting a promised spectacle, did not cease. The air was full of speaking things; the spirits could be felt swarming around, as closely packed as the wheat in the barn or the sand on the sea-shore.

And, although not seen, they spoke all kinds of phantom-words, which were heard right and left, before and behind, above and below, and which penetrated through the pores of the skin like quicksilver passing through a cloth. They said:

“The Magi have started, my friend.”

“My friend, the Star shines in the East.”

“My friend, my friend, the little King Jesus is born in the manger, upon the straw.”

“Sylvestre Ker will surely go with the shepherds.”

“Not at all; Sylvestre Ker will not go.”

“Good Christian he was.”

“Good Christian he is no longer.”

“He has forgotten the name of Joseph, the chaste spouse.”

“And the name of Mary, the ever Virgin Mother.”

“No, no, no!”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“He will go!”

“He will not go!”

“He will go, since he promised Dame Josserande.”

“He will not go, since Matheline told him to stay.”

“My friend, my friend, to-night Sylvestre Ker will find the golden secret.”

“To-night, my friend, my friend, he will win the heart of the one he loves.”

And the invisible spirits, thus 905disputing, sported through the air, mounting, descending, whirling around like atoms of dust in a sunbeam, from the flag-stones of the floor to the rafters of the roof.

Inside the furnace, in the crucible, some other thing responded, but it could not be well heard, as the crucible had been hermetically sealed.

“Go out from here, you wicked crowd,” said Sylvestre Ker, sweeping around with a broom of holly-branches. “What are you doing here? Go outside, cursed spirits, damned souls—go, go!”

From all the corners of the room came laughter; Matheline seemed everywhere.

Suddenly there was profound silence, and the wind from the sea brought the sound of the bells of Plouharnel, ringing the second peal for the midnight Mass.

“My friend, what are they saying?”

“They say Christmas, my friend—Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!”

“Not at all! They say, Gold, gold, gold!”

“You lie, my friend!”

“My friend, you lie!”

And the other voices, those that were grumbling in the interior of the furnace, swelled and puffed. The fire, that no person was blowing, kept up by itself, hot as the soul of a forge should be. The crucible became red, and the stones of the furnace were dyed a deep scarlet.

In vain did Sylvestre Ker sweep with his holly broom; between the branches, covered with sharp leaves, the spirits passed—nothing could catch them; and the heat was so great the boy was bathed in perspiration.

After the bells had finished their second peal he said: “I am stifling. 906I will open the window to let out the heat as well as this herd of evil spirits.”

But as soon as he opened the window the whole country commenced to laugh under its white mantle of snow—barren heath, ploughed land, Druid stones, even to the enormous oaks of the forest, with their glistening summits, that shook their frosty branches, saying: “Sylvestre Ker will go! Sylvestre Ker will not go!”

Not a spirit from within flew out, while all the outside spirits entered, muttering, chattering, laughing: “Yes, yes, yes, yes! No, no, no, no!” And I believe they fought.

At the same time the sound of a cavalcade advancing was heard on the flinty road that passed before the tower; and Sylvestre Ker recognized the long procession of the monks of Ruiz, led by the grand abbot, Gildas the Wise, arrayed in cope and mitre, with his crosier in his hand, going to the Mass of Plouharnel, as the convent-chapel was being rebuilt.

When the head of the cavalcade approached the tower the grand abbot cried out:

“My armed guards, sound your horns to awaken Dame Josserande’s son!”

And instantly there was a blast from the horns, which rang out until Gildas the Wise exclaimed:

“Be silent, for there is my tenant wide awake at his window.”

When all was still the grand abbot raised his crosier and said:

“My tenant, the first hour of Christmas approaches, the glorious Feast of the Nativity. Extinguish your furnaces and hasten to Mass, for you have barely time.”

And on he passed, while those in the procession, as they saluted Ker, repeated:

907“Sylvestre Ker, you have barely time; make haste!”

The voices of the air kept gibbering: “He will go! He will not go!” and the wind whistled in bitter sarcasm.

Sylvestre Ker closed his window. He sat down, his head clasped by his trembling hands. His heart was rent by two forces that dragged him, one to the right, the other to the left: his mother’s prayer and Matheline’s laughter.

He was no miser; he did not covet gold for the sake of gold, but that he might buy the row of pearls and smiles that hung from the lips of Matheline....

“Christmas!” cried a voice in the air.

“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!” repeated all the other voices.

Sylvestre Ker suddenly opened his eyes, and saw that the furnace was fiery red from top to bottom, and that the crucible was surrounded with rays so dazzling he could not even look at it. Something was boiling inside that sounded like the roaring of a tempest.

“Mother! O my dear mother!” cried the terrified man, “I am coming. I’ll run....”

But thousands of little voices stung his ears with the words:

“Too late, too late, too late! It is too late!”

Alas! alas! the wind from the sea brought the third peal of the bells of Plouharnel, and they also said to him: “Too late!”

As the sound of the bells died away the last drop of water fell from the clepsydra and marked the hour of midnight. Then the furnace opened and showed the glowing crucible, which burst with 908a terrible noise, and threw out a gigantic flame that reached the sky through the torn roof. Sylvestre Ker, enveloped by the fire, fell prostrate on the ground, suffocated in the burning smoke.

The silence of death followed. Suddenly an awful voice said to him: “Arise.” And he arose.

On the spot where had stood the furnace, of which not a vestige remained, was standing a man, or rather a colossus; and Sylvestre Ker needed but a glance to recognize in him the demon. His body appeared to be of iron, red-hot and transparent; for in his veins could be seen the liquid gold, flowing into, and then in turn retreating from, his heart, black as an extinguished coal.

The creature, who was both fearful and beautiful to behold, extended his hand toward the side of the tower nearest the sea, and in the thick wall a large breach was made.

“Look,” said Satan.

Sylvestre Ker obeyed. He saw, as though distance were annihilated, the interior of the humble church of Plouharnel where the faithful were assembled. The officiating priest had just ascended the altar, brilliant with the Christmas candles, and there was great pomp and splendor; for the many monks of Gildas the Wise were assisting the poor clergy of the parish.

In a corner, under the shadow of a column, knelt Dame Josserande in fervent prayer, but often did the dear woman turn toward the door to watch for the coming of her son.

Not far from her was Matheline du Coat-Dor, bravely attired and very beautiful, but lavishing the pearls of her smiles upon all who sought them, forgetting no one but 909God; and close to Matheline Pol Bihan squared his broad shoulders.

Then, even as Satan had given to Sylvestre Ker’s sight the power of piercing the walls, so did he permit him to look into the depth of hearts.

In his mother’s heart he saw himself as in a mirror. It was full of him. Good Josserande prayed for him; she united Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the holy family, whose feast is Christmas, in the pious prayer which fell from her lips; and ever and ever said her heart to God: “My son, my son, my son!”

In the heart of Pol Sylvestre Ker saw pride of strength and gross cupidity; in the spot where should have been the heart of Matheline he saw Matheline, and nothing but Matheline, in adoration before Matheline.

“I have seen enough,” said Sylvestre Ker.

“Then,” replied Satan, “listen!”

And immediately the sacred music resounded in the ears of the young tenant of the tower, as plainly as though he were in the church of Plouharnel. They were singing the Sanctus: “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts! The heavens and the earth are full of thy glory. Hosanna in the highest! Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest!”

Dame Josserande repeated the words with the others, but the refrain of her heart continued: “O Jesus, Infinite Goodness! may he be happy. Deliver him from all evil and from all sin. I have only him to love.... Holy, holy, holy, give me all the suffering, and keep for him all the happiness!”

Can you believe it? Even while piously inhaling the perfume of this celestial hymn the young tenant 910wished to know what Matheline was saying to God. Everything speaks to God—the wild beasts in the forest, the birds in the air, even the plants, whose roots are in the ground.

But miserable girls who sell the pearls of their smiles are lower than the animals and vegetables. Nothing is beneath them, Pol Bihan excepted. Instead of speaking to God, Pol Bihan and Matheline whispered together, and Sylvestre Ker heard them as distinctly as if he had been between them.

“How much will the fool give me?” asked Matheline.

“The idiot will give you all,” replied Pol.

“And must I really squint with that one-eyed creature, and limp with the lame wretch?”

Sylvestre Ker felt his heart die away within him.

Meanwhile, Josserande prayed: “O ever Virgin Mother! pray for my dear child. As Jesus is your adorable heart, Sylvestre Ker is my poor heart....”

“Never mind,” continued Bihan, “it is worth while limping and squinting for a time to win all the money in the world.”

“That is true; but for how long?”

Sylvestre Ker held his breath to hear the better.

“As long as you please,” answered Pol Bihan.

There was a pause, after which the gay Matheline resumed in a lower tone:

“But ... they say after a murder one can never laugh, and I wish to laugh always....”

“Will I not be there?” replied Bihan. “Some time or other the idiot will certainly seek a quarrel with me, and I will crack his bones by only squeezing him in 911my arms; you can count upon my strength.”

“I have heard enough,” said Sylvestre Ker to Satan.

“And do you still love this Bihan?”

“No, I despise him.”

“And Matheline—do you love her yet?”

“Yes, oh! yes, ... but ... I hate her!”

“I see,” said Satan, “that you are a coward and wicked like all men. Since you have heard and seen enough at a distance, listen, and look at your feet....”

The wall closed with a loud crash of the stones as they came together, and Sylvestre Ker saw that he was surrounded by an enormous heap of gold-pieces, as high as his waist, which gently floated, singing the symphony of riches. All around him was gold, and through the gap in the roof the shower of gold fell and fell and fell.

“Am I the master of all this?” asked Sylvestre Ker.

“Yes,” replied Satan; “you have compelled me, who am gold, to come forth from my caverns; you are therefore the master of gold, provided you purchase it at the price of your soul. You cannot have both God and gold. You must choose one or the other.”

“I have chosen,” said Sylvestre Ker. “I keep my soul.”

“You have firmly decided?”

“Irrevocably.”

“Once, twice, ... reflect! You have just acknowledged that you still love the laughing Matheline.”

“And that I hate her; ... yes, ... it is so, ... but in eternity I wish to be with my dear mother Josserande.”

“Were there no mothers,” growled Satan, “I could play my game much better in the world!”

912And he added:

“For the third time, ... adjudged!”

The heap of gold became as turbulent as the water of a cascade, and leaped and sang; the millions of little sonorous coins clashed against each other, then all was silent and they vanished. The room appeared as black as a place where there had been a great fire; nothing could be seen but the lurid gleam of Satan’s iron body.

Then said Sylvestre Ker:

“Since all is ended, retire!”

But the demon did not stir.

“Do you think, then,” he asked, “that you have brought me hither for nothing? There is the law. You are not altogether my slave, since you have kept your soul; but as you have freely called me, and I have come, you are my vassal. I have a half-claim over you. The little children know that; I am astonished at your ignorance.... From midnight to three o’clock in the morning you belong to me, in the form of an animal, restless, roving, complaining, without help from God. This is what you owe to your strong friend and beautiful bride. Let us settle the affair before I depart. What animal do you wish to be—roaring lion, bellowing ox, bleating sheep, crowing cock? If you become a dog you can crouch at Matheline’s feet, and Bihan can lead you by a leash to hunt in the woods....”

“I wish,” cried Sylvester Ker, whose anger burst forth at these words—“I wish to be a wolf, to devour them both!”

“So be it,” said Satan; “wolf you shall be three hours of the night during your mortal life.... Leap, wolf!”

913And the wolf Sylvestre Ker leaped, and with one dash shattered the casement of the window as he cleared it with a bound. Through the aperture in the roof Satan escaped, and, spreading a pair of immense wings, rapidly disappeared in an opposite direction from the steeple of Plouharnel, whose chimes were ringing at the Elevation.

I do not know if you have ever seen a Breton village come forth after the midnight Mass. It is a joyous sight, but a brief one, as all are in a hurry to return home, where the midnight meal awaits them—a frugal feast, but eaten with such cheerful hearts. The people, for a moment massed in the cemetery, exchange hospitable invitations, kind wishes, and friendly jokes; then divide into little caravans, which hurry along the roads, laughing, talking, singing. If it is a clear, cold night, the clicking of their wooden shoes may be heard for some time; but if it is damp weather the sound is stifled, and after a few moments the faint echo of an “adieu” or Christmas greeting is all that can be heard around the church as the beadle closes it.

In the midst of all this cheerfulness Josserande alone returned with a sad heart; for through the whole Mass she had in vain watched for her beloved son. She walked fifty paces behind the cavalcade of the monks of Ruiz, and dared not approach the Grand-Abbot Gildas, for fear of being questioned about her boy. On her right was Matheline du Coat-Dor, on her left Bihan—both eager to console her; for they thought that by that time Sylvestre Ker must have learned the wonderful 914secret which would secure him untold wealth, and to possess the son they should cling to the mother; therefore there were promises and caresses, and “will you have this, or will you have that?”

“Dear godmother, I shall always be with you,” said Matheline, “to comfort and rejoice your old age; for your son is my heart.”

Pol Bihan continued:

“I will never marry, but always remain with my friend, Sylvestre Ker, whom I love more than myself. And nothing must worry you; if he is weak I am strong, and I will work for two.”

To pretend that Dame Josserande paid much attention to all these words would be false; for her son possessed her whole soul, and she thought:

“This the first time he has ever disobeyed and deceived me. The demon of avarice has entered into him. Why does he want so much money? Can all the riches of the world pay for one of the tears that the ingratitude of a beloved son draws from his mother’s eyes?”

Suddenly her thoughts were arrested, for the sound of a trumpet was heard in the still night.

“It is the convent-horn,” said Matheline.

“And it sounds the wolf-alarm!” added Pol.

“What harm can the wolf do,” asked Josserande, “to a well-mounted troop like the cavalry of Gildas the Wise? And, besides, cannot the holy abbot with a single word put to flight a hundred wolves?”

They had arrived at the heath of Carnac, where are the two thousand seven hundred and twenty-nine Druid stones, and the monks had already passed the round point where nothing grows, neither grass nor heath, and which 915resembles an enormous caldron—a caldron wherein to make oaten porridge—or rather a race-course, to exercise horses.

On one side might be seen the town, dark and gloomy; on the other, as far as the eye could reach, rows of rugged obelisks, half-black, half-white, owing to the snow, which threw into bold relief each jagged outline. Josserande, Matheline, and Pol Bihan had just turned from the sunken road which branches toward Plouharnel; and the moon played hide-and-go-seek behind a flock of little clouds that flitted over the sky like lambs.

Then a strange thing happened. The cavalcade of monks was seen to retreat from the entrance of the avenues to the middle of the circle, while the horn sounded the signal of distress, and loud cries were heard of “Wolf! wolf! wolf!”

At the same time could be distinguished the clashing of arms, the stamping of horses, and all the noise of a ferocious struggle, above which rose the majestic tones of Gildas the Wise, as he said with calmness:

“Wolf, wicked wolf, I forbid you to touch God’s servants!”

But it seemed that the wicked wolf was in no hurry to obey, for the cavalcade plunged hither and thither, as though shaken by convulsion; and the moon having come forth from the clouds, there was seen an enormous beast struggling with the staffs of the monks, the halberds of the armed guard, the pitch-forks and spears of the peasants, who had hastened from all directions at the trumpet-call from Ruiz.

The animal received many wounds, but it was fated not to die. Again and again it charged upon the crowd, rushed up and 916down, round and round, biting, tearing with its great teeth so fearfully that a large circle was made around the grand abbot, who was finally left alone in face of the wolf.

For a wolf it was.

And the grand abbot having touched it with his crosier, the wolf crouched at his feet, panting, trembling, and bloody. Gildas the Wise bent over it, looked at it attentively, then said:

“Nothing happens contrary to God’s holy will. Where is Dame Josserande?”

“I am here,” replied a mournful voice full of tears, “and I dread a great misfortune.”

She also was alone; for Matheline and Pol Bihan, seized with terror, had rushed across the fields at the first alarm and abandoned their precious charge. The grand abbot called Josserande and said:

“Woman, do not despair. Above you is the Infinite Goodness, who holds in his hands the heavens and the whole earth. Meanwhile, protect your wolf; we must return to the monastery to gain from sleep strength to serve the Lord our God!”

And he resumed his course, followed by his escort.

The wolf did not move; his tongue lay on the snow, which was reddened by his blood. Josserande knelt beside him and prayed fervently. For whom? For her beloved son. Did she already know that the wolf was Sylvestre Ker? Certainly; such a thing could scarcely be divined, but under what form cannot a mother discover her darling child?

She defended the wolf against the peasants, who had returned to strike him with their pitch-forks and pikes, as they believed him 917dead. The two last who came were Pol Bihan and Matheline. Pol Bihan kicked him on the head and said, “Take that, you fool!” and Matheline threw stones at him and cried: “Idiot, take that, and that, and that!”

They had hoped for all the gold in the world, and this dead beast could give them nothing more.

After a while two ragged beggars passed by and assisted Josserande in carrying the wolf into the tower. Where is charity most often found? Among the poor, who are the figures of Jesus Christ.

Day dawned. A man slept in the bed of Sylvestre Ker, where widow Josserande had laid a wolf. The room still bore the marks of a fire, and snow fell through the hole in the roof. The young tenant’s face was disfigured with blows, and his hair, stiffened with blood, hung in heavy locks. In his feverish sleep he talked, and the name that escaped his lips was Matheline’s. At his bedside the mother watched and prayed.

When Sylvestre Ker awoke he wept, for the thought of his condemnation returned, but the remembrance of Pol and Matheline dried the tears in his burning eyes.

“It was for those two,” said he, “that I forgot God and my mother. I still feel my friend’s heel upon my forehead, and even to the bottom of my heart the shock of the stones thrown at me by my betrothed!”

“Dearest,” murmured Josserande, “dearer to me than ever, I know nothing; tell me all.”

Sylvestre Ker obeyed; and when he had finished Josserande kissed him, took up her staff, and proceeded 918toward the convent of Ruiz to ask, according to her custom, aid and counsel from Gildas the Wise. On her way men, women, and children looked curiously at her, for throughout the country it was already known that she was the mother of a wolf. Even behind the hedge which enclosed the abbey orchard Matheline and Pol were hidden to see her pass; and she heard Pol say: “Will you come to-night to see the wolf run round?”

“Without fail,” replied Matheline; and the sting of her laughter pierced Josserande like a poisonous thorn.

The grand abbot received her, surrounded by great books and dusty manuscripts. When she wished to explain her son’s case he stopped her and said:

“Widow of Martin Ker, poor, good woman, since the beginning of the world Satan, the demon of gold and pride, has worked many such wickednesses. Do you remember the deceased brother, Thaël, who is a saint for having resisted the desire of making gold—he who had the power to do it?”

“Yes,” answered Josserande; “and would to heaven my Sylvestre had imitated him!”

“Very well,” replied Gildas the Wise, “instead of sleeping I passed the rest of the night with St. Thaël, seeking a means to save your son, Sylvestre Ker.”

“And have you found it, father?”

The grand abbot neither answered yes nor no, but he began to turn over a very thick manuscript filled with pictures; and while turning the leaves he said: “Life springs from death, according to the divine word; death seizes the living according to the pagan law 919of Rome; and it is nearly the same thing in the order of miserable temporal ambition, whose inheritance is a strength, a life, shot forth from a coffin. This is a book of the defunct Thaël’s, which treats of the question of maladies caused by the breath of gold—a deadly poison.... Woman, would you have the courage to strike your wolf a blow on his head powerful enough to break the skull?”

At these words Josserande fell her full length upon the tiles, as if she had been stabbed to the heart; but in the very depth of her agony—for she thought herself dying—she replied:

“If you should order me to do it, I would.”

“You have this great confidence in me, poor woman?” cried Gildas, much moved.

“You are a man of God,” answered Josserande, “and I have faith in God.”

Gildas the Wise prostrated himself on the ground and struck his breast, knowing that he had felt a movement of pride. Then, standing up, he raised Josserande, and kissed the hem of her robe, saying:

“Woman, I adore in you the most holy faith. Prepare your axe, and sharpen it!”

In Brittany, when this legend is repeated, the relater here adds a current proverb of the province: “Christians, there is nothing greater than Faith, that is the mother of Hope, and thus the grandmother of Holy Love, that carries one above to the Paradise of God.”

In the days of Gildas the Wise intense silence always reigned at night through the dense oak forests of the Armorican country. 920One of the most lonely places was Cæsar’s camp, the name given to the huge masses of stone that encumbered the barren heath; and it was the common opinion that the pagan giants supposed to be buried under them rose from their graves at midnight, and roamed up and down the long avenues, watching for the late passers-by to twist their necks.

This night, however—the night after Christmas—many persons could be seen about eleven o’clock on the heath before the stones of Carnac, all around the Great Basin or circle, whose irregular outline was clearly visible by moonlight.

The enclosure was entirely empty. Outside no one was seen, it is true; but many could be heard gabbling in the shadow of the high rocks, under the shelter of the stumps of oaks, even in the tufts of thorny brambles; and all this assemblage watched for something, and that something was the wolf, Sylvestre Ker.

They had come from Plouharnel, and also from Lannelar, from Carnac, from Kercado, even from the old town of Crach, beyond La Trinité.

Who had brought together all these people, young and old, men and women? The legend does not say, but very probably Matheline had strewn around the cruel pearls of her laughter, and Pol Bihan had not been slow to relate what he had seen after the midnight Mass.

By some means or other the entire country around for five or six leagues knew that the son of Martin Ker, the tenant of the abbey, had become a man-wolf, and that he was doomed to expiate his crime in the spot haunted by the phantoms—the Great Basin of the 921Pagans, between the tower and the Druid stones.

Many of the watchers had never seen a man-wolf, and there reigned in the crowd, scattered in invisible groups, a fever of curiosity, terror, and impatience; the minutes lengthened as they passed, and it seemed as though midnight, stopped on the way, would never come.

There were at that time no clocks in the neighborhood to mark the hour, but the matin-bell of the convent of Ruiz gave notice that the wished-for moment had arrived.

While waiting there was busy conversation: they spoke of the man-wolf, of phantoms, and also of betrothals, for the rumor was spread that the bans of Matheline du Coat-Dor, the promised bride of Sylvestre Ker, with the strong Pol Bihan, who had never found a rival in the wrestling-field, would be published on the following Sunday; and I leave you to imagine how Matheline’s laughter ran in pearly cascades when congratulated on her approaching marriage.

By the road which led up to the tower a shadow slowly descended; it was not the wolf, but a poor woman in mourning, whose head was bent upon her breast, and who held in her hand an object that shone like a mirror, and the brilliant surface of which reflected the moonbeams.

“It is Josserande Ker!” was whispered around the circle, behind the rocks, in the brambles, and under the stumps of the oaks.

“’Tis the widow of the armed keeper of the great door!”

“’Tis the mother of the wolf, Sylvestre Ker!”

“She also has come to see....”

“But what has she in her hand?”

922Twenty voices asked this question. Matheline, who had good eyes, and such beautiful ones, replied:

“It looks like an axe.... Happy am I to be rid of those two, the mother and son! With them I could never laugh.”

But there were two or three good souls who said in low tones:

“Poor widow! her heart must be full of sorrow.”

“But what does she want with that axe?”

“It is to defend her wolf,” again replied Matheline, who carried a pitch-fork.

Pol Bihan held an enormous holly stick which resembled a club. Every one was armed either with threshing flails or rakes or hoes; some even bore scythes, carried upright; for they had not only come to look on, but to make an end of the man-wolf.

Again was heard the chime of the Matin-bells of the convent of Ruiz, and immediately a smothered cry ran from group to group:

“Wolf! wolf! wolf!”

Josserande heard it, for she paused in her descent and cast an anxious look around; but, seeing no one, she raised her eyes to heaven and clasped her hands over the handle of her axe.

The wolf, in the meantime, with fuming nostrils and eyes which looked like burning coals, leaped over the stones of the enclosure and began to run around the circle.

“See, see!” said Pol Bihan, “he no longer limps.”

And Matheline, dazzled by the red light from his eyes, added: “It seems he is no longer one-eyed!”

Pol brandished his club and continued:

“What are we waiting for? Why not attack him?”

923“Go you first,” said the men.

“I caught cold the other day, and my leg is stiff, which keeps me from running,” answered Pol.

“Then I will go first!” cried Matheline, raising her pitch-fork. “I will soon show how I hate the wretch!”

Dame Josserande heard her and sighed:

“Girl, whom I blessed in baptism, may God keep me from cursing you now!”

This Matheline, whose pearls were worth nothing, was no coward; for she carried out her words, and marched straight up to the wolf, while Bihan stayed behind and cried:

“Go, go, my friends; don’t be afraid! Ah! but for my stiff leg I would soon finish the wolf, for I am the strongest and bravest.”

Round and round the circle galloped the wolf as quickly as a hunted stag; his eyes darted fire, his tongue was hanging from his mouth. Josserande, seeing the danger that threatened him, wept and cried out:

“O Bretons! is there among you all not one kind soul to defend the widow’s son in the hour when he bitterly expiates his sin?”

“Let us alone, godmother,” boldly replied Matheline.

And from afar Pol Bihan added:

“Don’t listen to the old woman; go!”

But another voice was heard in answer to Dame Josserande’s appeal, and it said:

“As last night, we are here!”

Standing in front of Matheline, and barring the passage, were two ragged beggars with their wallets, leaning upon their staffs. Josserande recognized the two poor men who had so charitably aided her the night before; and one of them, 924who had snow-white hair and beard, said:

“Christians, my brethren, why do you interfere in this? God rewards and punishes. This poor man-wolf is not a damned soul, but one expiating a great crime. Leave justice to God, if you do not wish some great misfortune to happen to you.”

And Josserande, who was kneeling down, said imploringly:

“Listen, listen to the saint!”

But from behind Pol Bihan cried out:

“Since when have beggars been allowed to preach sermons? Ah! if it were not for my stiff leg.... Kill him, kill him! ... wolf! wolf! wolf!”

“Wolf! wolf!” repeated Matheline, who tried to drive off the old beggar with her pitch-fork.

But the fork broke like glass in her hands, as it touched the poor man’s tatters, and at the same time twenty voices cried:

“The wolf! the wolf! Where has the wolf gone?”

Soon was seen where the wolf had gone. A black mass dashed through the crowd, and Pol Bihan uttered a horrible cry:

“Help! help! Matheline!”

You have often heard the noise made by a dog when crunching a bone. This was the noise they heard, but louder, as though there were many dogs crunching many bones. And a strange voice, like the growling of a wolf, said:

“The strength of a man is a dainty morsel for a wolf to eat. Bihan, traitor, I eat your strength!”

The black mass again bounded through the terrified crowd, his bloody tongue hanging from his mouth, his eyes darting fire.

This time it was from Matheline that a scream still more horrible 925than that of Pol’s was heard; and again there was the noise of another terrible feast, and the voice of the wild beast, which had already spoken, growled:

“The pearls of a smile make a dainty morsel for a wolf to eat. Matheline, serpent that stung my heart, seek for your beauty. I have eaten it!”

The white-haired beggar had endeavored to protect Matheline against the wolf, but he was very old, and his limbs would not move as quickly as his heart. He only succeeded in throwing down the wolf. It fell at Josserande’s feet and licked her knees, uttering doleful moans. But the people, who had come thither for entertainment, were not well pleased with what had happened. There was now abundance of light, as men with torches had arrived from the abbey in search of their holy saint, Gildas the Wise, whose cell had been found empty at the hour of Compline.

The glare from the torches shone upon two hideous wounds made by the wolf, who had devoured Matheline’s beauty and Pol’s strength—that is to say, the face of the one and the arms of the other: flesh and bones. It was frightful to behold. The women wept while looking at the repulsive, bleeding mass which had been Matheline’s smiling face; the men sought in the double bloody gaps some traces of Pol’s arms, for the powerful muscles, the glory of the athletic games; and every heart was filled with wrath.

The legend says that the tenant of Coat-Dor, Matheline’s poor father, knelt beside his daughter and 926felt around in the blood for the scattered pearls, which were now as red as holly-berries.

“Alas!” said he, “of these dead stained things, which when living were so beautiful, which were admired and envied and loved, I was so proud and happy.”

Alas! indeed, alas! Perhaps it was not the girl’s fault that her heart was no larger than a little bird’s; and yet for this defect was not Matheline most cruelly punished?

“Death to the wolf! death to the wolf! death to the wolf!”

From all sides was this cry heard, and brandishing pitch-forks, cudgels, ploughshares, and mallets, came rushing the people toward the wolf, who still lay panting, with open jaws and pendent tongue, at the feet of Dame Josserande. Around them the torch-bearers formed a circle: not to throw light upon the wolf and Dame Josserande, but to render homage to the white-haired beggar, in whom, as though the scales had suddenly fallen from their eyes, every one recognized the Grand-Abbot of Ruiz, Gildas the Wise.

The grand abbot raised his hand, and the armed crowd’s eager advance was checked, as if their feet had been nailed to the ground. Calmly he surveyed them, blessed them, and said:

“Christians, the wolf did wrong to punish, for chastisement belongs to God alone; therefore the wolf’s fault should not be punished by you. In whom resides the power of God? In the holy authority of fathers and mothers. So here is my penitent Josserande, who will rightfully judge the wolf and punish him, since she is his mother.”

When Gildas the Wise ceased 927speaking you could have heard a mouse run across the heath. Each one thought to himself: “So the wolf is really Sylvestre Ker.” But not a word was uttered, and all looked at Dame Josserande’s axe, which glistened in the moonlight.

Josserande made the sign of the cross—ah! poor mother, very slowly, for her heart sank within her—and she murmured:

“My beloved one, my beloved one, whom I have borne in my arms and nourished with my milk—ah! me, can the Lord God inflict this cruel martyrdom upon me?”

No one replied, not even Gildas the Wise, who silently adjured the All-Powerful, and recalled to him the sacrifice of Abraham.

Josserande raised her axe, but she had the misfortune to look at the wolf, who fixed his eyes, full of tears, upon her, and the axe fell from her hands.

It was the wolf who picked it up, and when he gave it back to her he said: “I weep for you, my mother.”

“Strike!” cried the crowd, for what remained of Pol and Matheline uttered terrible groans. “Strike! strike!”

While Josserande again seized her axe the grand abbot had time to say:

“Do not complain, you two unhappy ones, for your suffering here below changes your hell into purgatory.”

Three times Josserande raised the axe, three times she let it fall without striking; but at last she said in a hoarse tone that sounded like a death-rattle: “I have great faith in the good God!” and then, says the legend, she struck boldly, for the wolf’s head split in two halves.

A sudden wind extinguished the torches, and some one prevented Dame Josserande from falling, as she sank fainting to the ground, by supporting her in his arms. By the light of the halo which shone around the blessed head of Gildas the Wise, the good people saw that this somebody was the young tenant, Sylvestre Ker, no longer lame nor one-eyed, but with two straight legs and two perfect eyes.

At the same time there were heard voices in the clouds chanting the Te Deum. Why? Because heaven and earth quivered with emotion at witnessing this supreme act of faith soaring from the depth of anguish in a mother’s heart.

This is the legend that for many centuries has been related at Christmas time on the shores of the Petite-Mer, which in the Breton tongue is called Armor bihan, the Celtic name of Brittany.

If you ask what moral these good people draw from this strange story, 929I will answer that it contains a basketful. Pol and Matheline, condemned to walk around the Basin of the Pagans until the end of time, one without arms, the other without a face, offer a severe lesson to those fellows who are too proud of their broad shoulders and brute force, and gossiping flirts of girls with smiling faces and wicked hearts; the case of Sylvestre Ker teaches young men not to listen to the demon of money; the blow of Josserande’s axe shows the miraculous power of faith; the part of Gildas the Wise proves that it is well to consult the saints.

Still further, that you may bind together these diverse morals in one, here is a proverb which is current in the province: “Never stoop to pick up the pearls of a smile.” After this ask me no more.

As to the authenticity of the story, I have already said that the chestnut-grove belongs to the mayor’s nephew, which is one guaranty; and I will add that the spot is called Sylvestreker, and that the ruins, hung with moss, have no other name than “The Wolf-Tower!”

We have seen what Mr. Froude thinks of the “Revival of Romanism.” Let us now see what he has to say on a subject nearer his heart—the decline of Protestantism.

He has much to say; and, to use an ordinary phrase, he makes no bones about saying it. At the outset we would dispose of what seems a fair objection. If, it may be urged, you make Mr. Froude so very untrustworthy a witness against Catholics and the Catholic Church, why should he not be equally untrustworthy when assailing Protestantism?

The objection is more plausible than real. Mr. Froude is a professed Protestant. In the cause of Protestantism he is earnest even to aggressiveness. He believes in and loves it with all his heart and soul, as really as he disbelieves in and detests Catholicity. He can say nothing that is too good of the early Protestant Reformers and of their “Reform.” He doubts about nothing, apologizes for nothing, attempts to palliate nothing either in the Reformers or their Reform. He sees nothing in either to apologize for or to palliate. He can only regret that, so far as Protestant belief and work and workers go, the nineteenth century is not as the sixteenth. He is altogether on his own ground here; and we submit that the testimony of such a man in such a matter is of value, the more so when it is confirmed to-day by concurrent Protestant 931testimony on all sides. The only difference between Mr. Froude and the great mass of non-Catholic writers on this subject is that he is more frank than they, and lays his finger unshrinkingly on very tender Protestant spots.

Of the actual state of Protestantism he has little that is good or hopeful to say, with one notable exception—North Germany—which will be considered later on. Protestantism to-day Mr. Froude finds weak-kneed as well as weak-headed. It has not that aggressive strength of the early teachers and preachers of Reform. The modern teachers have lost that pronounced faith in themselves and in their doctrines, that burning zeal, that fierce hatred of Catholicity, of falsehood, and of sham, that Mr. Froude is pleased to discover in the early Reformers.

“Religion speaks with command,” he says very rightly. It “lays down a set of doctrines, and says, ‘Believe these at your soul’s peril.’ A certain peremptoriness being thus of the essence of the thing, those religious teachers will always command most confidence who dare most to speak in positive tones.” All of which is, of course, most true.

Speaking “in positive tones,” however, does not necessarily imply a divine mission, or even an erroneous sense of a divine mission. It may be bluster; it may be calculated lying; it may be the mistaken enthusiasm of a weak intellect and fervid imagination. To be real it must stand the severest tests. Of a man who asserts his 932mission from heaven as a teacher of religion something more than his own word is demanded, however positive that word may be. In the preaching and the teaching of the truth there is in all ages a unity of voice, a community of feeling and of purpose, a singleness of eye, of aim, of method, a union of heart and of soul, that is unmistakable and carries conviction with it. There is no change in it; no fleck or flaw. What is new agrees with what is old; is generally a consequence flowing out of the old. It preaches only one God and one law from the beginning. It never contradicts itself; it never narrows or broadens its moral lines to suit the convenience or the whim of persons or of nationalities. It never compromises with humanity. It enlightens the intellect while appealing to the heart of man. It makes no divisions between men or nations; no special code for this or for that. It is awful in its inflexibility; majestic in its calm; eternal in its vigilance; “the same, yesterday, to-day, and for ever.” This is living Truth; this is God’s; and he who speaks the word of God is known by these signs.

Mr. Froude is at a loss to find this spirit now abroad in the world. The nearest approach to it he finds, oddly enough for him, in the Catholic Church. But, of course, that is owing to some devilish ingenuity of which the Catholic Church alone has the secret. As for Protestants, “it is no secret,” he says, “that of late years Protestant divines have spoken with less boldness, with less clearness and confidence, than their predecessors of the last generation.” “They are not to be blamed for it,” he adds, and we quite agree with him. “Their intellectual 933position has grown in many ways perplexed. Science and historical criticism have shaken positions which used to be thought unassailable” (p. 99). We pointed out one of those “positions”—the Protestant Reformation in England—but that is not in the contemplation of Mr. Froude. To him, even if to him alone, that position still stands, “unassailable.”

“Doctrines once thought to carry their own evidence with them in their inherent fitness for man’s needs have become, for some reason or other, less conclusively obvious. The state of mind to which they were addressed has been altered—altered in some way either for the worse or for the better. And where the evangelical theology retains its hold, it is rather as something which it is unbecoming to doubt than as a body of living truth which penetrates and vitalizes the heart” (p. 99).

It is to be regretted that Mr. Froude does not specify these “doctrines.” He fails to do so in any place, and in such matters, as indeed in all, there is nothing like accuracy in order to arrive at a clear understanding of what is wrong. Some of them, however, may be easily guessed at. In these days it would be hard to discover what precise “doctrines” “evangelical” or any but Catholic theologians do hold, if hard pushed and driven to make an explicit statement of what they do and what they do not believe. The expression “evangelical theology” may help to enlighten us as to Mr. Froude’s meaning. That we take to mean a theology based on the Bible as the first, final, and only guide to man’s knowledge of God and all implied in that knowledge. This view of his meaning is confirmed by another passage (p. 100), wherein, contrasting the doctrinal position 934of the Catholic and Protestant, he says:

“It” (the Catholic Church) “stands precisely on the same foundation on which the Protestant religion stands—on the truth of the Gospel history. Before we can believe the Gospel history we must appeal to the consciousness of God’s existence, which is written on the hearts of us all.”

There is a mistake here which will be obvious to any instructed reader. There is no more reason “to appeal to the consciousness of God’s existence” for the truth of “the Gospel history” than for the truth of any other history. As a history, history it is and no more, to be judged as to its accuracy on the known laws of historical criticism. It contains a written record of events, and stands or falls on the truth of what it records, just as does Mr. Froude’s own history. If it can be shown that it is false, there is an end of it; false it is, and no man is bound to believe it. The foundation of Protestantism, as Mr. Froude very rightly says, stands “on the truth of the Gospel history”—that is, on the Bible, and the Bible alone. Christ, however, did not build his church on the Bible, but on Peter, the chief of the apostles: “I say to thee, Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” Those are very plain, strong, and unmistakable words; and in their comprehension lies a fundamental difference between Catholics and Protestants.

Out of this difference comes a singular effect, more noticeable in these than in former days. Catholics reverence the Bible more really because more truly than do Protestants. Over-reverence is irreverence. They never made the 935mistake of accepting the Bible as the foundation of Christ’s church, any more than in human affairs we should take a history of a commonwealth, with the digest of its laws, the sayings of some of its wise men, their documents to their contemporaries and to posterity, as the commonwealth itself. Protestants withdrew from the body of the church, which may have had, and had, sore spots and diseased members; they took up the written record and said: Here are the laws; here are the words of Christ; here are the sayings of the fathers; here is truth; here let us build our church anew—each one judging for himself as to what the church was and ought to be. Difficulties that were essential to such a position and that are obvious at sight arose at once and continued all the way down, until at last, in these days of all others, there sprang up in the very bosom of Protestantism a school of assailants of the Bible itself. This is the school of modern scientists, which rejects revelation, rejects God, rejects the truth of the Bible history, rejects Christ—rejects, in a word, everything, save what approves itself to it by so-called positive testimony. Hence arises the perplexity of the “intellectual position” of Protestant divines, which Mr. Froude notices. The very foundation of their creed is questioned, and questioned at every inch. So, until everything is satisfactorily cleared up and the “scientists” absolutely refuted, Protestantism is in a state of dissolution. It has no foundation on which to stand, while Catholics have their living church, to which they adhered steadfastly from the very beginning, which existed, and was called into being, entirely independent of the Bible, 936and which would have been what it is had the Bible never been written at all. So that, per impossibile, even were the Bible shown to be false, it would not affect the fundamental Catholic position. Of course we do not intimate for a moment that the Bible is false, and that the scientists can prove anything against it. We only bring forward this instance of an essential difference between Catholics and Protestants, and the effect of it on their minds, as showing the reason why Catholics take the criticism of the new school of inquirers very calmly, while the result of this criticism on Protestants is disastrous.

Catholics are just as steadfast in their belief as they ever were; Protestants are daily becoming less and less so. Inquiry, or “criticism,” as it is called, while it strengthens, if possible, Catholicity, destroys Protestantism. Truth can stand all things. “Science and historical criticism have shaken positions which used to be thought unassailable” by Protestants, who find themselves in the false position of being compelled to question or reject as false what their fathers pinned their faith to—Germany always excepted, according to Mr. Froude. It is a hard thing indeed to preach and teach as divine truth a doctrine, or by our very profession to subscribe to a doctrine, which in our heart we doubt about or disbelieve. This is a moral phenomenon which Protestantism presents to us every day, and in no one of its infinite branches more conspicuously than in the Anglican.

If men are preaching what they disbelieve or are in grave doubt about, it is simply natural that “where truth” (or what was taken for truth) “was once flashed out like lightning, and attended with 937oratorical thunders, it is now uttered with comparative feebleness.”

“The most honest, perhaps, are the most uncomfortable and most hesitating, while those who speak most boldly are often affecting a confidence which in their hearts they do not feel” (p. 99). “From some cause, it seems they” (Protestant preachers) “dare not speak, they dare not think, like their fathers. Too many of them condescend to borrow the weapons of their adversaries. They are not looking for what is true; they are looking for arguments to defend positions which they know to be indefensible. Their sermons are sometimes sophistical, sometimes cold and mechanical, sometimes honestly diffident. Any way, they are without warmth and cannot give what they do not possess” (p. 100).

This is a very heavy indictment; we leave to others to judge of its truth. It is a mistake, however, to draw the line at “their fathers.” These men are what their fathers have made them. The characteristics that mark the present teachers of Protestantism run down the whole line of the Protestant tradition. Incoherency and inconsistency, not to use harsher terms, necessarily stamped Protestantism from the first.^[103] These characteristics are only more apparent to-day because the constant fire of criticism has exposed and brought them more prominently into view.

The practical results of teaching what is necessarily and inherently contradictory scarcely need to be pointed out. “The Protestant,” says Mr. Froude, “finding three centuries ago that the institution 938called the Church was teaching falsehood, refused to pin his faith upon the Church’s sleeve thenceforward. He has relied on his own judgment, and times come when he is perplexed.” The whole story is told here. It was too late in the day to find that “the Church was teaching falsehood.” The Christian Church can err or it cannot err. There is room for no via media here. If it can err, it could have erred just as easily in the first century as in the fifteenth or sixteenth. If it could err at all there is no necessary reason to suppose that it ever was right; there is no belief to be placed in the promise of Christ; there is no belief to be placed in Christ himself more than in any other man. And again, if it could err, who was right, and who was going to set it right? The church being abandoned as a teacher of falsehood, there is no hope of escape from constant perplexity to the Christian mind; for the Bible itself, being left to private judgment, is of course open to any interpretation that private judgment may be pleased to extract from it. And this in itself is destruction, quite apart from the assaults of hostile criticism. To make the church at all, or at any time, or by any possibility a teacher of falsehood is to strike the divinity from it and convert it into a human institution of the most monstrous assumptions and absurd pretensions.

This is Protestantism, which never had any spiritual life in itself. It was from the beginning, as it still is, a convenient and very powerful political agent, as was Mahometanism. Mr. Froude says very truly, what all men are coming to say, that “there is no real alternative between the Catholic 939Church and atheism” (p. 100), which leaves Mr. Froude and his fellow-Protestants in a pleasant position.

In the general perplexity of the Protestant mind “the Romanist,” as Mr. Froude graciously puts it, “has availed himself of the opportunity.”

“His church stands as a visible thing, which appears [appeals?] to the imagination as well as the reason. The vexed soul, weary of its doubts, and too impatient to wait till it pleases God to clear away the clouds, demands a certainty on which it can repose—never to ask a question more. By an effort of will which, while claiming the name of faith, is in reality a want of faith, it seizes the Catholic system as a whole. Foregoing the use of the natural reason for evermore, it accepts the word of a spiritual director as an answer to every difficulty, and finds, as it supposes, the peace for which it longed, as the body which is drugged with opium ceases to feel pain” (p. 101).

Such is Mr. Froude’s picture of conversion to the Catholic faith. A man is drugged into Catholicity, and remains drugged to the end of the chapter. Whenever a gleam of his lost reason returns he hurries to the confessional box; his “spiritual director” administers another dose, and the drowsy patient slumbers away again content. We do not pretend to Mr. Froude’s singular gift of prescience which enables him to read so readily the hearts of thousands of men and women who to all the world save Mr. Froude are intellectually and morally strong. He has traced their secret emotions and followed them up even into the confessional box. He has seen the opiate administered and satisfied himself of the process. To ordinary persons the conversion of a man to the Catholic faith is the result of a long and most painful struggle which only the strongest 940conviction of right can bring about. Leaving him there, deprived of “the use of the natural reason for evermore,” let us see what becomes of those who retain the use of their natural reason and all the noble gifts and faculties that accompany it. Protestants alone see clearly the roads to heaven and hell, according to Mr. Froude; which road do they take?

We have seen the position of their preachers. Were we not deprived of “our natural reason for evermore,” we should describe that position as most pitiable, where it is not dishonest and intellectually immoral. The God of Protestantism, if we believe its expounders, is truly a strange being. He teaches everything, or he teaches nothing, with equal facility and pleasing variety. He teaches that there are three persons in one God; he teaches no such doctrine. He teaches that Christ is truly God and truly man; he is rather doubtful about the matter. He teaches the eternity of punishment; he teaches no such monstrous doctrine. He commands that all men be baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, if they would enter the kingdom of heaven; he does not know of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. His views of baptism and its necessity are rather mixed. There is no baptism unless a man is wholly immersed. It is just as good a baptism if a man’s feet be immersed. It is equally good if water be poured on a man’s head. A man is just as fit for the kingdom of heaven, and just as good a Christian, if he be not baptized at all. God teaches that the Blessed Sacrament is really and truly the body and blood of Christ, and to be adored. He 941teaches that it is only a figure of Christ, and that to adore it is to commit the sin of idolatry. He teaches that man has free-will; he teaches that man has not free-will, and that all he can do is worthless, heaven or hell being portioned out for him from all eternity quite apart from his own endeavor. He teaches that good works as well as faith in him are necessary for salvation; he teaches that faith alone is necessary, and that provided a man believe right he may do wrong. And so on ad infinitum down to the grossest and most abhorrent tenets.

But this is Protestantism, or reliance on one’s “own judgment.” One’s own judgment is very apt to favor one’s own self. One’s own judgment makes a god of self, and right and wrong matters of whim, appetite, and inclination. Let us see its outcome as pictured by Mr. Froude.

In section iv. of his study he considers the “Causes of Weakness in Modern Protestant Churches.” The words “modern” and “churches” are themselves contradictory of unity and of a church built on Christ. He sets out by drawing a glowing picture of what the early “Reformers” did and what they were, which we may let pass as not immediately bearing on our present purpose. “After the middle of the seventeenth century,” he says (p. 111), “Protestantism ceased to be aggressive.”

... “As it became established it adapted itself to the world, laid aside its harshness, confined itself more and more to the enforcement of particular doctrines, and abandoned, at first tacitly and afterward deliberately, the pretence to interfere with private life or practical business.”

Is this true? Did Protestantism 942cease to be aggressive after the middle of the seventeenth century? We have already said that Mr. Froude was generally the best refutation of Mr. Froude. He shall be his own judge.

Did Protestantism cease to be aggressive in Ireland, for instance, after the middle of the seventeenth century? We might bring many unimpeachable witnesses on the stand to prove our point. Mr. Froude will suffice for us, and we quote him at some length because his words here set forth in the strongest contrast what Protestantism can do to degrade a people, and what Catholicity can do to lift a people out of the slough of degradation. Herein we see the spirits of both in deadly conflict, and the lesson of the struggle is a lesson for to-day, when the same spirits are locked again in strife.

Writing not of the middle of the seventeenth, but of the beginning of the eighteenth, century (1709), Mr. Froude thus describes the second Act against Popery in Ireland:

“The code of law which was designed to transfer the entire soil of Ireland to members of the Established Church, and reduce the Catholics to landless dependents, was finally completed.... By the new act every settlement, every lease on lives, every conveyance made by a Catholic owner since 1704, by which any Protestant or Protestants had been injured,^[104] was declared void, and the loop-holes were closed by which the act of that year had been evaded. To defeat Protestant heirs, Catholics had concealed the true value of their property. Children were now enabled to compel their fathers to produce their title-deeds and make a clear confession. Catholic 943gentlemen had pretended conversion to qualify themselves for being magistrates and sheriffs, for being admitted to the bar, or for holding a seat in Parliament, while their children were being bred up secretly in the old faith. The education of their families was made a test of sincerity, and those whose sons were not brought up as churchmen remained under the disabilities.