THE CARSWELL COMPANY LIMITED
CATHOLIC WORLD.
OP
GENERAL LITERATUKE AND SCIENCE.
VOL. I.
APRIL TO SEPTEMBER, 1865.
NEW YORK:
LAWRENCE KEHOE, PUBLISHER,
7 BEEKMAN STREET.
1865.
CONTENTS.
Ancient Saints of God, The, 19.
Ars, A Pilgrimage to, 24.
Alexandria, The Christian Schools of, 33, 721.
Animal Kingdom, Unity of Type in the, 71.
Art, 136, 286, 420.
Art, Christian, 246.
Authors, Royal and Imperial, 323.
All-Hallow Eve, or the Test of Futurity, 500, 657,
785.
Arks, Noah's, 513.
Babou, Monsieur, 106.
Blind Deaf Mute, History of a, 826.
Church in the United States, Progress of the, 1.
Constance Sherwood, 78, 163, 349, 482, 600, 748.
Catholicism, The Two Sides of, 96, 669, 741.
Cardinal Wiseman in Rome, lli
Catacombs, Recent DiscoveriePln the, 129.
Chastellux, The Marquis de, 181.
Church of England, Workings of the Holy
Spirit in the, 289.
Cochin China, French, 369.
Consalvi's Memoirs, 377.
Church History, A Lost Chapter Recovered, 414.
Canova, Antonio, 598.
Cathedral Library, The, 679.
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century,
685.
De Guerin, Eugenie and Maurice, 214.
Divina Commedia, Dante's, 268.
Dinner by Mistake, A, 535.
Dramatic Mysteries of the Fifteenth and Six-
teenth Centuries, 577.
Dublin May Morning, A, 825.
Extinct Species, 526.
Experience, Wisdom by, 851.
Falconry, Modern, 493.
Fifth Century, Civilization in the, 775.
Guerin, Eugenie and Maurice de, 214.
Glacier, A Night in a, 345.
Grand Chartreuse, A Visit to the, 830.
Hedwige, Queen of Poland, 145.
Heart and tho Brain, 623.
Irish Poetry, Recent, 466.
Jem McGowan's Wish, 56.
Legends and Fables, The Truth of, 433.
London, Catholic Progress in, 703.
London, 836.
Laborers Gone to their Reward, 855.
Mont Cenis Tunnel, The, 60.
Mongols, Monks among the, 158.
Mourne, The Building' of, 225.
Memoirs, Consalvi's, 377.
Maintenon, Madame de, 799.
Miscellany, 134, 280, 420, 567, 712, 858.
Nick of Time, The, 124.
Perilous Journey, A, 198.
Poucette, 260.
Prayer, What came of a, 697.
Russian Religious, A, 306.
Saints of God, The Ancient, 19.
Science, 134, 280, 712.
Streams, The Modern Genius of, 233.
Stolen Sketch, The, 314.
Swetchine, Madame, and her Salon, 456.
Shakespeare, William, 548.
St. Sophia, The Church and Mosque of, 641.
Species, The Origin and Mutability of, 845.
Three Wishes, The, 31.
Terrene Phosphorescence, 770.
Upfield, Many Years Ago at, 393.
Vanishing Race, A, 708.
Wiseman, Cardinal in Rome, 117.
Winds, The, 207.
Women, A City of, 514.
Wisdom by Experience, 851.
Young's Narcissa, 797.
A Lie, 245.
Avignon, The Bells of, 783.
Domine Quo Vadis ? 76.
Dream of Gerontius, The, 517, 630.
Dorothea, Saint, 666.
ExHumo, 33.
Gerontins, The Dream of, 517, 630.
Hans Euler, 237.
POETRY.
Limerick Bells, Legend of, 195.
Mary, Queen of Scots, Hymu by, 337.
Martin's Puzzle, 739.
Saint Dorothea, 666.
Speech, 829.
Twilight in the North, 344.
Unspiritual Civilization, 747.
iv.
Contents.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Archbishop Spalding's Pastoral, 144.
At Anchor, 287.
American Annual Cyclopaedia, US.
A Man without a Country, 720.
Banim's Boyne Water, 286.
Beatrice, Miss Kavanagh's, 574.
Cardinal Wiseman's Sermons, 139.
Cummings' Spiritual Progress, 140.
Christian Examiner, Reply to the, 144.
Correlation and Conservation of lorces, Ihe,
288, 425.
Confessors of Connaught, 574.
Cure of Ars, Life of the, 575.
Ceremonial of the Church, 720.
Darras' History of the Church, 141, 575, 860.
England, Froude's History of, 715.
Faith, the Victory, Bishop McGill's, 428.
Grace Morton, 574.
Heylen's Progress of the Age, etc., 142.
Household Poems, Longfellow's, 719.
Irvington Stories, 143.
Irish Street Ballads, 720.
John Mary Decalogne, Life of, 576.
Lamotte Fouque's Undine, etc 142.
La Mere de Dieu, 432.
Life of Cicero, 573.
Moral Subjects, Card. Wiseman's Sermons oil
287.
Mystical Rose, The, 288.
Mater Admirabilis. 429.
Month of Mary, 720.
Martyr's Monument, The, 860.
New Path, The, 288, 576.
Our Farm of Four Acres, 143.
Protestant Reformation, Abp. Spalding'a His-
tory of the, 719.
Real and Ideal, 427.
Religious Perfection, Bayma's, 431.
Russo-Greek Church, The, 576.
Retreat, Meditations and Considerations for a,
720.
Songs for all Seasons, Tennyson's, 719.
Sybfl, A Tragedy, 860.
Translation of the Iliad, Lord Derby's, 570.
Trubner's American and Oriental Literature,
576.
William Shakespre, 860.
Whittier'e Poems; 860.
Youne Catholic's Library, 432.
Year of Mary, 719.
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. L, NO. 1. APRIL, 1865.
From Le Correspondant.
THE PROGRESS OF THE CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES.
BY E. RAMEUR.
[THE following article will no doubt
be interesting to our readers, not only
for its intrinsic merit and its store of
valuable information, but also as a
record of the impressions made upon
an intelligent foreign Catholic, during
a visit to this country. As might have
been expected, the author has not es-
caped some errors in his historical and
statistical statements most of which
we have noted in their appropriate
places. It will also bs observed that
while exaggerating the importance of
the early French settlements in the
development of Catholicism in the
United States, he has not given the Irish
immigrants as much credit as they de-
serve. But despite these faults, which
are such as a Frenchman might readily
commit, the article will amply repay
reading. ED. CATHOLIC WORLD.]
AFTER the Spaniards had discovered
the New World, and while they were
fighting against the Pagan civilization
of the southern portions of the conti-
nent, the French made the first [per-
manent] European settlement on the
.shores of America. They founded
Port Royal, in Acaclia, in 1604, and
from that time their missionaries be-
gan to go forth among the savages of
the North. It was not until 1620 that
the first colony of English Puritans
landed in Massachusetts, and it then
seemed not improbable that Catholi-
cism was destined to be the dominant
religion of the New World ; but sub-
sequent Anglo-Saxon immigration and
political vicissitudes so changed mat-
ters, that by the end of the last cen-
tury one might well have believed
that Protestantism was finally and
completely established throughout
North America. God, however, pre-
pares his ways according to his own
good pleasure ; and he knows how to
bring about secret and unforeseen
changes, which set at naught all the
calculations of man. The weakness
and internal disorders of the Catholic
nations, in the eighteenth century, re-
tarded only for a moment the progress
of the Catholic Church ; and Provi-
dence, combining the despised efforts
of those who seemed weak with the
faults of those who seemed strong,
confounded the superficial judgments
of philosophers, and prepared the way
for a speedy religious transformation
of America.
This transformation is going on in.
our own times with a vigor which
seems to increase every year*. The
2
The Progress of the Church
causes which have led to it were, at
the outset, so trivial that no writer of
the last century would have dreamed
of making account of them. Yet,
already at that time, Canada, where
Catholicism is now more firmly es-
tablished than in any other part of
America, possessed that faithful and
energetic population which has in-
creased so wonderfully during the last
half century ; and even in the United
States might have been found many
an obscure, but a patient and stout-
hearted little congregation a relic of
the old English Church, which after
three centuries of oppression was to
arise and spread itself with a new life.
But no one set store by the poor
French colonists ; England and Prot-
estantism, together, it was thought,
would soon absorb them ; and as for
the Papists of the United States, the
wise heads did not even suspect their
existence. The writer who should
have spoken of their future would
only have been laughed at.
The English Catholics, like the
Puritans, early learned to look toward
America as a refuge from persecution,
and in 1634, under the direction of
Lord Baltimore, they founded the col-
ony of Maryland. Despite persecu-
tion from Protestants whom they had
freely admitted into their community,
they prospered, increased, and became
the germ of the Church of the United
States, now so large and flourishing.
In the colonial archives of the Min-
istry of the Navy we have found a
curious manuscript memoir upon Aca-
dia, by Lamothe Cadillac, in which
it is stated that in 1G86 there were
Catholic inhabitants in New York, and
especially in Maryland, where they had
seven or eight priests. Another paper
preserved in the same archives men-
tions a Catholic priest residing in New
York ; and William Penn, who had
established absolute toleration in the
colony adjoining that of Maryland,
speaks of an old Catholic priest who
exercised the ministry in Pennsyl-
vania.
The Catholics at this tune are said
to have composed a thirtieth part of
the whole population of Maryland.
This estimate seems to us too low.
At all events, the increase of our un-
fortunate brethren in the faith was
retarded by persecution and difficulties
of all kinds which surrounded them.
In the Puritan colonies of the North,
they were absolutely proscribed. In
the Southern colonies, of Virginia,
Georgia, and Carolina, their condition
was but little better ; in New York they
enjoyed a precarious toleration in the
teeth of penal laws. In Maryland and
Pennsylvania alone they were granted
freedom of worship, and a legal status ;
though even in those colonies they
were exposed to a thousand wrongs
and vexations. Maryland persecuted
them from time to time and banished
their priests ; and William Penn, in
his tolerant conduct toward them, was
bitterly opposed by his own people.
Nevertheless, despite difficulties and
violence, the Anglo-American Catho-
lics increased by little and little, wher-
ever they got a foothold ; the descen-
dants of the old settlers multiplied ;
new ones came from England and
Ireland ; and a German immigration
set in, especially in Pennsylvania,
where several congregations of Ger-
man Catholics were formed at a very
early period. In the archives of this
province we have found several valu-
able indications of the state of the
Church in 1760. There were then
two priests, one a Frenchman or an
Englishman, named Robert Harding,
the other a German of the name of
Schneider. It seems probable that they
were both Jesuits.* In a letter to
Governor Loudon, in 1757, Father
Harding estimates the number of Cath-
olics in Philadelphia and its immediate
neighborhood at two thousand Eng-
lish, Irish, and German ; but in the
absence of Father Schneider he could
not be positive as to these figures. A
letter from Gouverneur Morris in 1756
* In De Courcy and Shea's " Catholic Church in
the United States " pp. -Jl 1 , -21 -2, an account will be
found of both these missionaries. The first men-
tioned was an Englishman. Both were Jesuits.
ED. C. W.
in the United States.
3
speaks of the Catholics of Maryland
and Pennsylvania as being very nu-
merous and enjoying freedom of wor-
ship, and adds, that in Philadelphia
there is a Jesuit who is a very able
and talented man. The Abbe* Robin,
a chaplain in Rochambeau's army in
1781, informs us in his narrative that
there were several Catholic churches
at Fredericksburg, Va., and even a
Catholic congregation at Charleston,
s. c.
The toleration accorded to the Jes-
uits in the United States was preca-
rious, but it amounted in time to a
pretty complete freedom ; and as they
were not disturbed when the order was
suppressed in Europe, some of their
brethren from abroad took refuge with
them; so that in 1784, we find, ac-
cording to Mr. C. Moreau, in his ex-
cellent work on the French emigrant
priests in America,* nineteen priests
in Maryland, and five in Pennsylvania.
To these we must add the priests of
Detroit, Mich., Vincennes, Ind., and
Kaskaskia and Cahokia, 111., all four
originally French - Canadian settle-
ments which were ceded to England
along with Canada, and after the
American Revolution became parts
of the United States. Counting,
moreover, the missionaries scattered
among the Indian tribes, we may
safely say that the American Republic
contained at the period of which we
are speaking not fewer than thirty or
forty ecclesiastics. The number of
the faithful may be set down as
16,000 in Maryland, 7,000 or 8,000
in Pennsylvania, 3,000 at Detroit and
Vincennes, and about 2,500 in southern
Illinois ; in all the other states together
they hardly amounted to 1,500. In a
total population therefore of 3,000,000
they numbered about 30,000, and of
these 5 5 500 were of French origin.
Such was the condition of the Church
in the United States when it was regu-
larly established in 1789 by the erec-
tion of an episcopal see at Baltimore,
and the appointment, as bishop, of Mr.
* One vol. 12mo. Paris : Douniol.
Carroll, an American priest, born of
one of the oldest Catholic families of
Maryland. The dispersion of the
clergy of France, in 1790, soon after-
ward supplied America with numerous
evangelical laborers, who gave a new
impulse to the development which was
just becoming apparent in the infant
Church.
A few years before the French Revo-
lution, Mr. Emery, superior of Saint
Sulpice, guided by what we must term
an extraordinary inspiration, came to
the assistance of the American Church,
and with the help of his brother Sul-
pitians and at the cost of the society,
founded a theological seminary at Bal-
timore. His plans were already well
matured when Bishop Carroll, soon
after his appointment, entering heartily
into the project, promised him a house
and all the assistance he could give.
Four Sulpitians accordingly set out
from Paris in 1790, taking with them
five Seminarians. They were supplied
with 30,000 francs to defray the cost
of their establishment, and to this
modest sum the crisis which soon over-
took the parent establishment allowed
them to add but little ; but this mite,
bestowed by the Church of France
in the last days of her wealth, was
destined to become, like the widow's
mite, the price of innumerable bless-
ings.
Between 1791 and 1799 the storm
of revolution drove twenty-three
French priests to the United States.
As the first apostles, when they set out
from Rome, portioned out Germany
and Gaul among themselves, so they
divided this country, and most of them
organized new communities of Chris-
tians, or by then* zeal awakened com^
munities that slept. Six of them,
Flaget, Cheverus, Dubourg, Marechal,
Dubois, and David, became bishops.
The base of operations from which
these peaceful but victorious invaders
went forth was Baltimore, the episco-
pal see around which were gathered
the old American clergy and the
greater part of the Catholic popula-
tion. It was here that the Sulpitians
The Progress of the Church
had their seminary, and this establish-
ment became a centre of attraction
for a great many of these exiled priests
who belonged to the Society of Saint
Sulpice. Some (as MM. Ciquard,
Matignon, and Cheverus) bent their
steps from Baltimore toward the labo-
rious missions among the intolerant
and often fanatical Puritans of the
North, where the Catholics a mere
handful were found scattered far
and wide; isolated in the midst of
a Protestant population ; deprived of
priests and religious services, and in
danger of totally forgetting the faith
in which they had been baptized.
Nothing discouraged these apostolic
men. Aided by divine grace, they
awakened the indifferent, converted
heretics, gathered about them the few
Catholics who immigrated from Eu-
rope, attracted all men by their affable
and conciliating manners, their intelli-
gence and education, and the disinter-
estedness of their lives. Soon on
this apparently sterile soil Catholic
parishes grew up and flourished in
the midst of people who had never
before seen a priest. Thus were
founded the churches of Massachu-
setts, Maine, and Connecticut so
quickly that, in 1810 (that is to say,
only eighteen years after the begin-
ning of the missions), it was deemed
advisable to erect for them another
bishopric. Congregations had sprung
up on every side as if by enchant-
ment, and the venerable Abbe* Che-
verus was appointed their first bishop.
Others went westward. The Abbes
Flaget, Badin, Barriere, Fournier,
and Salmon carried the faith into
Kentucky. There they found a few
Catholic families who had emigrated
from Maryland. "With them they
organized churches, which increased
with prodigious rapidity, and were
the origin of the present dioceses of
.Louisville, Covington, Nashville, and
Alton.
The Abbe's Richard, Levadour,
Dilhiet, and several others, passed
through the forest and the wilderness,
and joined the old French colonies
which still survived around the ruins
of the French military posts in the
Northwest and in the valley of the Mis-
sissippi. They found there a few mis-
sionaries, whom the Canadian Church
still maintained in those distant coun-
tries ; but their ranks were thin, and
they were old and feeble. This pre-
cious reinforcement enabled them to
give a fresh impetus to the French
Catholic congregations over whom
they kept watch in the forest. De-
troit, Vincennes, Cahokia, Kaskaskia,
and afterward St. Genevieve and St.
Louis in Missouri, ceded to the United
States in 1803, received the visits of
these new apostles, and experienced
the benefits of their intelligence and
zeal. Nearly all the places where
they fixed themselves have since
given their names to large and flour-
ishing bishoprics.
Several of the emigrant priests re-
mained in Maryland and Virginia,
and enabled the Sulpitians to com-
plete the organization of their sem-
inary, while at the same time they
assisted Bishop Carroll in providing
more perfectly and regularly for the
wants of those central provinces
which might be called the first home
of American Catholicism. The num-
ber of the faithful everywhere in-
creased remarkably. We can hardly
estimate the extraordinary influence
which these French missionaries ex-
ercised by their exemplary lives, their
learning, their great qualities as men,
and their virtues as saints ; and the
Anglo-Saxon inhabitants (who are-
thoroughly Protestant if you will, but
for all that religious at bottom) were
struck by their character all the more
forcibly because it was so totally dif-
ferent from what their prejudices had
led them to expect of the Catholic
clergy.
There is something patriarchal and
Homeric in the lives of these men,
which read like the poetic legends in
which nations have commemorated
the histoiy of their first establishment.
We have seen the journal of one of
these missionaries the Abbe Bourg,
in the United States.
who labored further North, in New
Brunswick and Nova Scotia. His
life was one long, perpetual Odyssey.
In the spring he used to start from
the Bay of Chaleur, traverse the
northern coasts of New Brunswick,
pass down the Bay of Fundy, make
the entire circuit of the peninsula of
Nova Scotia, and after a journey of
five hundred leagues, performed in
nine or ten months, visit the islands
in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and so
come back to his point of departure.
From place to place, the news of hits
approach was sent forward by the set-
tlers, so that whenever he stopped he
found the faithful waiting for him,
and whole families came fifteen or
twenty leagues to meet him. Hardly
had he arrived before he began the
round of priestly labor, of confession
and baptism, of burial and marriage.
He was the arbiter of private quar-
rels, and often of public disputes. He
found time withal to look after the
education of the children at least to
make sure that they were well taught
at home. Thus he would stay fifteen
days perhaps in one place, a month
in another, according to the number of
the inhabitants. The first communion
of the children crowned his visit.
Then the man of God, with a last
blessing on his weeping flock, disap-
peared for a whole year ; and when
the apparition so long desired, but so
transitory, had passed, it left behind
a halo of superhuman glory, which
seemed to these pious people the glory
rather of a prophet than of an ordin-
ary man.
In such ways the marks of a messen-
ger from God seemed more and more
clearly and unmistakably stamped
upon the Catholic missionary, and
Protestants themselves began to yield
to the subtle influence of so much
real virtue and self-devotion. Con-
versions were frequent even among
the descendants of the stern Puritans.
Many of the most fervent Catholic
families in the United States date
from this period. A rich Presbyterian
minister of Boston (Mr. John Thayer)
was converted, and became a priest
and an apostle. So God scattered the
seed of grace behind the footsteps of
his poor, persecuted children, who, de-
.spite their apparent misery, bore con-
tinually with them the wealth of the
soul, the power of the Word, and the
marvellous attraction of their sacrifices
and virtues.
Providence, however, had not de-
ployed so strong a force for no purpose
beyond the capture of these converts.
A very few missionaries might have
sufficed for that ; but it was now time
to prepare the land for the great
European immigration which was to
cause the astonishing growth of the
United States. Spreading themselves
over the vast area of the Union, the
emigrants found everywhere these
veteran soldiers whom the French
Revolution had sent forth into the
New World as pioneers, tried both by
the pains of persecution and the labors
of apostleship. Before this great
human tide the old emigrant priests
were like the primitive rocks which
arrest and fix geological deposits,
The Catholic part of the tossing flood
invariably settled around them and
their disciples. All over the West
the churches founded by the old French
settlers increased, and new ones sprang
up wherever a Catholic priest estab-
lished himself. From that moment
the grand progressive movement has
never ceased. The blood of the mar-
tyrs of France, the spirit of her
banished apostles, became fruitful of
blessings, of which the American
churches are daily sensible.
The first bishop in the United
States had been appointed in 1789.
Four years afterward another see
was erected at New Orleans, La.,
which, ten years later, became a part
of the United States ; and in 1808, so
rapid had been the Catholic develop-
ment, that three new bishops were
consecrated one for Louisville, Ky.,
another for New York, and the third
for Boston, Mass. Two of these sees
were occupied by the French mission-
aries who had founded them Bishop
G
The Progress of the Church
Flaget at Louisville, and Bishop Che-
verus at Boston. That of New York
was entrusted to a venerable priest
of English [Irish] origin the Rev.
Luke Concanen. In the whole United
States there were then sixty-eight
priests and about 100,000 Catholics.
Lei us now glance at the rapid in-
crease of the American Church up to
our own day.
From the States of Maryland and
Pennsylvania the Church was not
long in spreading into Virginia, New
York, Kentucky, and Ohio. The es-
tablishment of sees at Louisville and
New York was followed by the erec-
tion of others at Philadelphia m 1809,
and Richmond and Cincinnati in 1821.
The two Carolinas, in which the
Catholics had hitherto been an obscure
and rigorously proscribed class, re-
ceived a bishop at Charleston in 1820.
New Orleans, a diocese of French
creation, was divided in 1824 by the
erection of the bishopric of Mobile.
The old French colonies in the far
West were the nucleus around which
were formed other churches. The
dioceses of St. Louis, Mo. (organized
in 1826), Detroit, Mich. (1832), and
Vincennes, Ind. (1834), all took their
names from ancient French settle-
ments, and were peopled almost ex-
clusively by descendants of the French
Canadians who were their first inhab-
itants.
Thus, in the course of twenty-six
years, we see eight new sees erected,
making the number of bishops in the
United States thirteen. The number
of the clergy amounted in 1830 to
232, and in 1834 probably exceeded
300. At the date of the next offi-
cial returns (1840) there were 482
priests and three more bishoprics
those of Natchez, Miss., and Nashville,
Tenn., both established in 1837, and
that of Monterey in California, a
country of Spanish settlement which
had recently been annexed to the
United States.*
But this increase was not compar-
able to that which followed between
1840 aiid 1850. In ten years the
number of bishops was doubled by the
erection of fifteen [seventeen} new sees.
In 1840 there were sixteen; in 1850
thirty-one [thirty-three]. The growth
during this period was most percepti-
ble in the North and West. Among
the new sees were Hartford, Conn.,
Albany and Buffalo, N. Y., Pittsburg,
Penn., Cleveland, O., Chicago, 111.,
Milwaukee, Wis., St. Paul, Minn.,
Oregon City and Nesqualy, Oregon,
and Wheeling in Northern Virginia.
The others were Little Rock, Ark.,
Savannah, Ga., Galveston, Texas, and
Santa F4, New Mexico.f The clergy
in 1850 numbered 1,800, having con-
siderably more than doubled [nearly
quadrupled] their number in ten years.
Thus we see that the Church was
pressing hard and fast upon the old
New England Puritans. They soon
began to feel uneasy, and to oppose
sometimes a violent resistance to her
progress. In some of the States, es-
pecially Connecticut and New Hamp-
shire, there were laws against the
Catholics yet unrepealed ; so that the
dominant party had more ways of
showing their hatred of the Church
than by mere petty vexations. In
Boston things went so far that a nun-
nery was pillaged and burned by a
mob. It is from this time that we
must date the origin of the Know-
Nothing movement, directed ostensi-
bly against foreigners, but undoubt-
edly animated in the main by hatred
of Catholicism and alarm at its prog-
ress. The fretting and fuming of
this political party was the last effort
of Puritan antipathy. The Church
prospered in spite of it; so the Puri-
tans resigned themselves to witness
her gradual aggressions with the best
grace they could assume.
* Monterey was not a part of the United States
until 1 H4, nor a bishop's see until 1 sj(J. In place
of it we should substitute Dubuque, made a see in
1837. ED. C. W.
t And San Francisco and Monterey ED C. W.
in the United States.
Ten new sees ^were established be-
tween 1850 and 1860, and eight of
these were in the North or West
viz., Erie, Newark, Burlington, Port-
land, Fort Wayne, Sault St. Marie,
Alton, and Brooklyn. Two were in
the South Covington and Natchito-
ches. There were thus in the United
States, in 1860, forty-three bishoprics,
with 2,235 priests. Let us now see
how many Catholics were embraced
in these dioceses, and what proportion
they bore to the total population.
The number of the faithful it is not
easy to determine accurately; for a
false delicacy prevents the Americans
from including the statistics of re-
ligious belief in their census-tables.
Estimates are very variable. A work
printed at Philadelphia in 1858 by a
Protestant author sets down the num-
ber of Catholics as 3,177,140. Dr.
Baird, a Protestant minister, pub-
lished at Paris in 1857 an essay on
religion in the United States an es-
say, be it remarked, which showed
the Catholics no favor in which he
estimated their number at 3,500,000.
But neither of these estimates rests
upon trustworthy data. They were
certainly below the truth when they
were made, and are therefore far from
large enough now, for the yearly in-
crease is very great.
Our own calculations are drawn
partly from our personal observa-
tion, and partly from official docu-
ments published by various ecclesias-
tical authorities. The best criterion is
undoubtedly the rate of increase of the
clergy.
It must be evident that in America,
more than in any other country, there
is a logical relation between the num-
ber of the faithful and the number of
the priests. As the clergy depend
entirely upon the voluntary contribu-
tions of their people, there must be a
fixed ratio between the growth of the
flocks and the multiplication of pas-
tors. If the clergy increase too fast,
they endanger their means of support.
Now, if priests cannot live in America
without a certain number of parish-
ioners to support them, we may take
this number as a basis for calculating
the minimum of the Catholic population ;
and we may safely say that the popu-
lation will be in reality much greater
than this minimum ; because, as we can
testify from experience, the churches
never lack congregations, and in most
places the number of the clergy is insuf-
ficient to supply even the most press-
ing religious wants of the people. One
never sees a priest in the United States
seeking for employment. On the con-
trary, the cry of spiritual destitution
daily goes up from parishes and com-
munities which have no pastors.
Calculations founded upon the stat-
istics of " church accommodations "
given in the United States census
that is, of the number of persons the
churches are capable of holding are
not applicable to our case; because
the Catholic churches, especially in the
large cities, are thronged two or three
times every Sunday by as many dis-
tinct congregations, while the Protest-
ant churches have only one service
for all. The capacity of the churches
therefore gives us neither the actual
number of worshippers nor the pro-
portion between our own people and
those of other denominations. We
have taken, then, as the basis of our
estimate, the ratio between the number
of priests and the number of the faith-
ful, correcting the result according to
the circumstances of particular places.
The first point is to establish this ratio,
and we are led by the concurrent re-
sults of careful estimates made in some
of the States, and special or general
calculations which we have had oppor-
tunity of making in person, to fix it at
the average of one priest for every
2,000 Catholics. But we have a very
trustworthy method of verifying this
estimate, and that is by comparison
between the United States and the con-
tiguous British Provinces, in which the
statistics of religious belief are included
in the general census. Setting aside
Lower Canada, where the Catholic
population is as compact as it is in
France, we find that in Upper Can-
8
The Progress of the Church
ada, a country which resembles the
Western United States, the ratio in
1860 was one priest for every 1,850
Catholics, and in New Brunswick, a
territory very like New England, one
for every 2,400. Our average ratio of
one for every 2,000 cannot, therefore,
be far from the truth. We have made
due account of all data by which this
ratio could be either raised or lowered
in particular times and places. We
have ourselves made investigations in
certain districts, and persons well quali-
fied to speak on the subject have given
us information about others. The re-
sult of our corrected calculation gives
us 4,400,000 as the Catholic popula-
tion of the United States in 1860, the
date of the last general census. We
shall give presently the distribution of
this total among the several states ;
but we wish first to call attention to
another fact of great importance which
appears from our figures. In 1808
the Catholics were 100,000 in a total
population of 6,500,000, or l-65th of
the whole ; in 1830 they were 450,000
in 13,000,000, or l-29th of the whole;
in 1840, 960,000 in 17,070,000, or
l-18th; in 1850,2,150,000 in 23,191,-
000, or 1-1 1th; and finally, in 1860
they were over 4,400,000 in 3 1,000,000,
or l-7th of the total population. It
thus appears that for fifty years the
Catholics have increased much faster
than the rest of the inhabitants, and
especially during the last two decades.
Between 1840 and 1850 their ratio
of increase was 125 per cent., while
that of the whole population was only
36; and from 1850 to 18 60 their ratio
of increase was 109 per cent., while
that of the whole people was 35.59.
These figures, to be sure, are not
mathematically certain, for they are
deduced partly from estimates ; but we
are confident that, considering the im-
perfect materials at our disposal, we
have come as near the exact truth as
possible, both in the ratio of increase
and in the total population. Official
returns in the British Provinces con-
firm our calculations in a most remark-
able manner ; and we believe that,
estimating the future growth on the
most moderate scale, the Catholics will
number in 1 870 one-fifth of the whole
population, and in 1900 not far from
one-third.
n.
Having traced the progress of the
Church step by step in the United
States, it will now be equally interest-
ing and instructive to see how this
progress has been made in different
places. The Catholics are by no
means uniformly dispersed over the
country, and their increase has not
been equally rapid in all the states.
It will be worth our while to see in
which quarters they are settled with
the most compactness and in which
they are widely dispersed; and thus
we may predict without great risk
which regions are destined to be the
Catholic strongholds in the New World.
We have already said that the pro-
portion of the Catholics to the whole
people in 1860 was as one to seven;
but if we divide the country into two
parts we shall find that in the South-
ern states there are only 1,200,000
Catholics in a population of 12,000,000
that is, they are l-10th of the whole ;
while in the North they number
3,200,000 in 19,000,000, or more than
l-6th. Even these figures give but a
very general idea of the distribution
of the faithful. If we take the whole
country, state by state, we shall find
the proportions still more variable.
In some places the Catholic element is
already so strong that its ultimate pre-
ponderance can hardly be doubted,
while its slow development in other
quarters promises little for the future.
The following tables will enable our
readers to comprehend at once the
distribution of the Catholics among
the various states :
in the United States.
NORTHERN STATES.
STATES.
5 -
* d
3p
Per cent,
of Catholic
Populati'n
!
Catholic
Colleges.
Convents
of
Men.
Convents
of
Women.
Maine. .
649,958 )
New Hampshire
Massachusetts
320,072 J
1,231,494
52,000
160,000
5.45
13
23
80
2
* *
1
4
460,670 )
Rhode Island . .
174,621 )
100,000
16
49
1
4
Vermont .
315,827
30,000
16
13
1
New York
New Jersey
3,851,000
676,000
800,000
120,000
21
19
361
57
8
1
9
1
26
5
Pennsylvania ... . .
2,916,018
550,000
19
258
9
10
18
Ohio
2,377,417
400,000
17
172
7
3
18
Indiana
1,350,802
140,000
10
70
2
2
10
Illinois
1,691.238
250,000
15
115
1
I
8
Michigan
754,291
120,000
1.85
59
2
6
"Wisconsin
768,485
220,000
31
105
1
3
5
682,003
80,000
12
56
2
3
Minnesota
172,772
60 000
34
27
2
3
Kansas
143 645
25,000
18
16
I
2
2
California
384,770
100,000
26
100
4
2
7
Oregon and Washington . .
52,566
18,000
34
25
2
Total
18,973,649
3,225,000
17
1 586
35
39
123
SOUTHERN STATES.
STATES.
IM
1 *
III
Per cent,
of Catholic
Populati'n
!
Catholic
Colleges.
b
Convents
of
Women.
Missouri ...
1,281,200
240 000
20
120
4
14
Kentucky
1 145 477
150 000
15
OQ
7
Maryland
681 565 )
District of Columbia
75,321 (
1,012,053 )
220,000
25.50
140
9
4
11
Virginia
1,583,199
50,000
3
28
1
North Carolina
1 008 350 )
2
South Carolina
715 367)
30,000
1.75
15
1
2
Georgia
1,091,797
25 000
2 30
15
2
Tennessee
1,141,640
25,000
2 10
13
1
2
Alabama
955 619
50 000
5
27
^
2
Mississippi . . .
886 660
30 000
3 40
16
1
Arkansas
440 775
18 000
4.50
10
1
2
Louisiana
666 431
200 000
30
107
4
g
10
Texas .
604 400
100 000
16
42
1
4
Florida
145 697
8 000
6
4
93,024
80 000
86
26
1
1
1
Total
12 548 335
1 226 000
9 75
656
29
I 9
60
10
Progress of the Church
These tables show at a glance the
disproportion between the Catholics
of the North and those of the South.
In only one Northern state (that of
Maine) is the proportion of Catholics
as small as 5.45 per cent, of the whole
population ; while there are no fewer
than five Southern states in which it
is less than three per cent. If we
leave out New Mexico, Texas, Louis-
iana, Missouri, and Maryland, where
the preponderance of the faithful is
due to special causes, we find that in
the other Southern states the average
proportion is not above four per cent.
In other words, in these regions the
Church has little better than a nominal
existence. This is partly because the
stream of European immigration has
always flowed in other directions, and
partly because the negroes generally
adhere to the Baptist or Methodist
sects in preference to the Church.
But when we examine the tables
more in detail, we see that in both
sections the ratio of Catholics varies
greatly in different states. It is easy
to account for this difference in the
South. Six states only have any con-
siderable number of Catholic inhabit-
ants. Louisiana and Missouri owe
them to the old French colonies around
which the Catholic settlers clustered.
In New Mexico, more than three-
fourths of the people are of Spanish-
Mexican origin. Texas derives a great
number of her inhabitants from Mexico,
and has received a large Catholic emi-
gration both from Europe and from the
United States. Maryland, the germ
of the American Church, owes her
religious prosperity to the first English
Catholic settlers; and the Church in
Kentucky is an offshoot of that in
Maryland. Such are the special causes
of the great differences between the
churches of the various Southern states.
In the North there is less disparity.
European immigration has produced
a much more decided effect in this sec-
tion than in the preceding. From
this source come most of the faithful
of New York, Oregon, California,
Ohio, and New Jersey. In Ohio the
Germans have done the principal part,
and they have done much also in
Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. The
effect of conversions is more percep-
tible in Connecticut, Rhode Island,
Massachusetts, and New York than
elsewhere. In many of the states,
however, and especially in Pennsylva-
nia, we find numerous descendants of
English Catholic settlers, while the
old French colonies of the West have
had their influence upon the popula-
tion of Michigan, Wisconsin, Minne-
sota, and Illinois, and also of the north-
ern part of New York, where the
French Canadians are daily spreading
their ramifications across the frontier.
If we look now at the localities in
which the proportion of Catholics is
greatest, we shall notice several inter-
esting points touching the laws which
have determined the direction of the
principal development of the Church,
and which will probably promote it in
the future. In the South there are
what we may call three groups of
states in which the Catholic element
is notably stronger than in the others.
One belongs exclusively to the South-
ern section, and consists of Louisiana,
Texas, and New Mexico, having an
aggregate Catholic population of 380,-
000 in 1,363,800, or 28 per cent. The
other groups (Missouri, that is to say,
and Maryland and Kentucky) form
parts of much larger groups belonging
to the Northern states. The first of
these latter, and that to which Mary-
land and Kentucky are attached, con-
sists of Pennsylvania, New York, New
Jersey, and Ohio. Its aggregate pop-
ulation is 11,647,477, of whom the
Catholics are 2,240,000, or nineteen
per cent. This group contains the
ancient establishments of Maryland
and Pennsylvania good old Catholic
communities, in which the zeal and
piety of the faithful possess that firm
and decided character which comes of
long practice and time-honored tradi-
tions. It contains, too, the magnifi-
cent seminary of Baltimore, founded
and still directed by the Sulpitians.
This is the largest and most complete
in the United States.
11
establishment of the kind in the United
States, and derives from its connection
with the Sulpitian house in Paris spe-
cial advantages for superintending the
education of young ecclesiastics, and
training accomplished ministers for
the sanctuary. Kentucky, likewise,
has some important and noteworthy
institutions, such as the seminary of
St. Thomas and the college of St.
Mary, both of which are in high repute
at the West, and the magnificent Abbey
of Our Lady of La Trappe at New
Haven, with sixty-four religious, eight-
een of whom are choir-monks. The
Kentucky Catholics deserve a few
words of special mention. The de-
scendants, for the most part, of the
first settlers of Maryland, who scattered,
about a century ago, in order to people
new countries, they partake in an emi-
nent degree of the peculiar character-
istics which have given to Kentuckians
a reputation as the flower of the Ameri-
can people. They are more decidedly
American than the Catholics of any
other district, and they are remarkable
for their homogeneousness, their ed-
ucation, and their attachment to the
faith and traditions of the Church.
The most important and numerous
Catholic population is found in the
state of New York, where the faithful
amount to no fewer than 800,000.
They have here religious establish-
ments of every kind. This condition
of things is the result, in great meas-
ure, of the well-known ability of Arch-
bishop Hughes, whose death has left a
void which the American clergy will
find it hard to fill. His reputation
was not confined to the Empire City.
He was as well known all over the
Union as at his own see, and was
everywhere regarded as one of the
great men of the country. Although
the progress of the faith in New York
has been owing in a very great degree
to immigration, it is in this city and in
Boston that conversions have been
most numerous ; and in effecting these,
Archbishop Hughes had a most im-
portant share. It is not surprising, then,
that his death should have caused a
profound sensation in the city, and
that all religious denominations should
have united in testifying respect for
his memory.
It is difficult to apply a statistical
table to the study of the question of
conversions. These are mental opera-
tions of infinite variety, both in their
origin and in their ways ; for the meth-
ods of Providence are as many and as
diverse as the shades of human thought
upon which they act. It may be re-
marked, however, that the different
Protestant sects furnish very unequal
contingents to the little army of souls
daily returning to the true faith ; and
it is a curious fact that the two sects
which furnish the most are the Epis-
copalians, who, in their forms and tra-
ditions, approach nearest to the Catho-
lic Church, and the Unitarians, who
go to the very opposite extreme, and
appear to push their philosophical and
rationalistic principles almost beyond
the pale of Christianity. These two
sects generally comprise the most
enlightened and intellectual people of
North America. On the other hand,
the denominations which embrace the
more ignorant portions of the popula-
tion (such as the Baptists, the Wesley-
an Methodists, etc., etc.) furnish, in
proportion to their numbers, but few
converts. The principal Catholic re-
view in the United States (J3rownson's
Review, published in New York) is
edited by a well-known convert, whose
name it bears, and who was formerly a
Unitarian minister.
Further North in New England
there is another Catholic group, of
recent origin, formed of the Puritan
states of Connecticut, Massachusetts,
and Rhode Island. The first see here
was established by Bishop Cheverus
only sixty years ago. These bishop-
rics, however, have already acquired
importance ; for in the diocese of Hart-
ford the Catholics are now sixteen
per cent, of the whole population, and
the rapidity of their increase and the
completeness of their church organiza-
tion give us ground for bright hopes
of their future progress. Immigration
12
The Progress of the Church
here does much to promote conver-
sions, and it will not be extravagant to
anticipate that in the course of a few
years the number of the faithful will
be doubled. The Pilot, the most im-
portant Catholic journal in the coun-
try, is published in Boston.
The far West, only a few years
ago, was a great wilderness, with only
a few French posts scattered here and
there in the Indian forest, like little
islands in the midst of a great ocean.
Now it is divided into several states,
and counts millions of inhabitants. In
this rapid transformation, Catholicism
has not remained behind. Many dio-
ceses have been established, and the
quickness of their growth has already
placed this group in the second rank
so far as regards numerical import-
ance, while all goes to show that Cath-
olicism is destined here to preponderate
greatly over all other denominations.
The states of Missouri, Illinois,
Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota
contained, in 1860, 4,575,000 souls, of
whom 890,000, or 19 per cent., were
Catholics. This is as large a propor-
tion as we find in the central group.
It is, moreover, rapidly rising, and
only one thing is necessary to make
these states before long the principal
seats of Catholicism in the Union
that is, an adequate supply of priests.
It is of the utmost importance that the
demand for missionaries in these dio-
ces be supplied at whatever cost.
The principal causes of this remark-
able increase are, first, the crowds of
immigrants attracted by the great ex-
tent of fertile land thrown open to set-
tlers ; and, secondly, the fact that the
Catholic immigrants on then- arrival
clustered, so to speak, around the old
French settlements, where the mission-
aries still maintained the discipline
and worship of the Church. At first,
therefore, it was easy to direct this
great influx of people, since they nat-
urally tended toward the pre-existing
centres of faith. The consequence
was that the Church lost by apostacies
fewer members than one might have
supposed, and fewer than were lost
in other places. But now the daily
augmenting crowds of immigrants are
dispersing themselves through less sol-
itary regions. They are coming un-
der more direct and various influ-
ences ; and hence the necessity for in-
creasing the number of churches and
parish priests becomes daily more and
more urgent. At the same time, the
means at the disposal of the bishops
become daily less and less adequate
for supplying this want, especially
since the people of the country, new
and unsettled as they are, and ab-
sorbed in material cares, furnish but
few candidates for the priesthood.
Here we see a glorious field for the
far-reaching benevolence of the So-
ciety for the Propagation of the Faith.
Nowhere, we believe, will the sending
forth of pious and devoted priests
produce fruits comparable to those of
which the past gives promise to the
future in this part of the United States.
We spoke just now of the old French
colonies, and our readers will perhaps
be surprised that we should have made
so much account of those poor little
villages, which numbered hardly more
than from 500 to 1,500 souls each
when the Yankees began to come into
the country. Nevertheless, we have
not exaggerated their importance. It
is not only that they served as centres
and rallying-points ; but so rapid is
the mutiplication of families in Amer-
ica that this French population which,
if brought together in one mass in
1800, would have counted at most
14,000 souls, now numbers, including
both the original settlements and the
swarms of emigrants who have gone
from them to the West, not fewer
than 80,000. Their descendants are
always easily recognized. Detroit,
and its neighborhood in Michigan,
Vincennes (Ind.), Cahokia and Kas-
kaskia (111.), St. Louis, St. Genevieve,
Carondelet, etc. (Mo.), Green Bay and
Prairie du Chien (Wte.), St. Paul
(Minn.) all these old settlements have
preserved the deep imprint of our
race. Even in the new colonies which
were afterward drawn from them, the
French population have uniformly
kept up the practice of their religion,
in the United States.
13
the use of their mother tongue, and a
lively recollection of their origin. Of
this fact we have obtained proof in
several instances from careful personal
observation. Small and poor, there-
fore, as these settlements were, they
had a powerful moral influence upon
the great immigration of the nine-
teenth century. The Catholic immi-
grants felt drawn toward them by the
attraction of a community of thought
and customs ; and God, whose Provi-
dence rules our lives, directed the
movement by his own inscrutable
methods.
in.
While the Catholic element was in-
creasing at the rate of 80, 125, and
109 per cent, every ten years, other
religious denominations showed an in-
crease of only twenty or twenty-five
per cent. Some remained stationary,
and a few even lost ground. Whence
comes this continued and increasing
disparity in the development of differ-
ent portions of the same people ? The
principal reason assigned for it is the
immense emigration from Ireland to
America. As the number of Catho-
lics in the United States when the
emigration began was very small,
every swarm of fresh settlers added
much more to their ratio of increase
than to that of other denominations.
Ten added to ten gives an increase of
100 per cent. ; but the same number
added to 100 gives only ten per cent.
At first sight, this seems a sufficient
explanation ; but we shall find, when
we come to examine it, that it does
not really account for our increase.
If the growth of the American Catho-
lic Church were the result wholly of
immigration, we should find that as
the number of Catholic inhabitants
increased, the apparent effect of this
immigration would be diminished. In
other words, the ratio of increase
would gradually fall to an equality
with that of other denominations. But,
so far from this being the case, the
difference between our ratio of in-
crease and that of the Protestant sects
is as great as ever is even growing
greater. The ratio which was ten
per cent, a year between 1830 and
1840, rose to 12.50 per cent, a year
between 1840 and 1850, and was
10.09 per cent, between 1850 and
1860. There are other causes, there-
fore, beside European emigration to
which we must look for an explana-
tion of Catholic progress in America.
If we study with a little attentiDn the
extent to which immigration has in-
fluenced the development of the whole
population of the country, and the ex-
act proportion of the Catholic part of
this immigration, we shall find con-
firmation of the conclusions to which
we have been led by the simple tes-
timony of figures. Immigration has
never furnished more than six or seven
per cent, of the decennial increase of
the population of the United States,
the growth of which has been at the
rate of thirty-five per cent, during the
same period. Immigration, therefore,
contributed to it only one-fifth. Again,
of these immigrants, including both
Irish and Germans, not more than
one-third have been Catholics. More-
over, we must take account of the con-
siderable number of members that the
Church has lost in the course of their
dispersion all over the country.
Clearly, then, the influence of immi-
gration is not enough to account for
the rapid progress of the faith. A
careful analysis of the Catholic popu-
lation at different tunes, and in different
places, enables us to specify two other
causes.
1. The Catholics are principally
distributed at the North among the
free states, where the population in-
creases much faster than it does at the
South ; and the Catholic families, it
has been observed, multiply much
faster than the others, in consequence,
no doubt, of their more active and
regular habits of life, sustained moral-
ity, respect for the marriage tie, and
regard for domestic obligations. This
difference in fecundity is quite percep-
tible wherever the Catholic element
14
The Progress of the Church
is strong as in Canada, and the
states of New York, Pennsylvania,
Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, Wisconsin,
etc., and, among the Southern states,
in Louisiana, Maryland, and Missouri.
2. Another cause of increase is the
conversion of Protestants a cause
which operates slowly, quietly, and,
at first, imperceptibly, but with that
constant and uniform power remind-
ing us of the great operations of nature
which is almost always the sign
of a Providential agency. Eloquent
theorists and brilliant writers on sta-
tistics, preferring salient facts and
striking phenomena what they call
the great principles of science too
often overlook or despise those obscure
movements which act quietly upon
the human conscience. Yet how much
more powerful is this mysterious ac-
tion like the continual dropping of
water than the showy effects which
captivate so many thinkers, whose
organs of perception seem dazzled by
the glow of their imagination ! Such
was the nature of the invisible opera-
tion which was inaugurated by the
preaching of the martyrs of the faith
whom the French Revolution cast forth
like seed all over the world. The
rules of political economy had nothing
to do with it. It acted in the secret
chambers of men's hearts and the re-
tirement of their meditative moments,
and it has gone on without interrup-
tion to the present moment, increasing
year by year. The Church seizes
upon the convictions of grown men ;
reaches the young by her admirable
systems of education; impresses all
by her living, persuasive propagand-
ism, made beautiful by the zeal and de-
votion and holiness of her missionaries.
Simple and dignified, without the af-
fectation of dignity austere, without
fanaticism their presence alone roots
up old prejudices, while their preach-
ing and example fill the soul with
new lights and with anxieties which
nothing but their instructions can set
at rest. Thus, wherever they go, the
thoughts and comparisons which they
suggest multiply conversions all around
them. You have only to question a
few Catholic families in the older
states about their early religious his-
tory, and you will see how important
an element in the prosperity of the
Church is this force of attraction so
important, that the following state-
ment may almost be taken as a gen-
eral law : Wherever a Catholic priest
establishes himself, though there be
not a Catholic family in the place, it
is almost certain that by the end of a
tune which varies from five to ten
years, he will be surrounded by a
Catholic community large enough to
form a parish and support a clergy-
man. This rule seems to us to have
no exception except in some of the
southern states. We have no hesi-
tation in stating it broadly of even
those parts of New England in which
the anti- Catholic feeling is now strong-
est,
We shall presently have occasion
to show that the only thing which pre-
vents the American Church from in-
creasing, perhaps doubling, the rapid-
ity of its progress, is the scarcity of
ecclesiastics and missionaries, from
which all the dioceses are suffering.
We have explained the important
part which converts have played in
this progress. The inquiry naturally
arises : Whence come so many conver-
sions ? What are the causes which
generally lead to them? These are
delicate and difficult questions. We
have no wish to speak ill of the Prot-
estant clergy. Most of them are cer-
tainly honorable men, estimable hus-
bands and good fathers ; but we can-
not help observing that they lack the
sacerdotal character so conspicuous
in the Catholic priest. Their minis-
try and their teaching cannot fully
satisfy the soul ; and whenever a calm
and unprejudiced comparison is drawn
between them and the Catholic clergy,
it is strange if the former do not suffer
by the contrast, and behold their
flocks, little by little, passing over to
the side of the Church. This com-
parison is one motive which often
leads Protestants, not precisely into
in the United States.
15
the bosom of the faith, but to the
study of Catholic doctrine ; and this is
a step by no means easy to persuade
them to take ; for, of every ten Prot-
estants who honestly study the faith,
seven- or eight end by becoming Cath-
olics. The Americans are a people
of a strong religious bent. Nothing
which concernh the great question of
religion is indifferent to them. They
study and reflect upon such matters
much more than we skeptical and
critical Frenchmen. The conversions
resulting from such frequent consider-
ation of religious matters ought, there-
fore, to be far more numerous in
America, and even in England, than
in other countries.
There are doubtless many other
causes which contribute to the same
result. Among them are mixed mar-
riages, which generally turn out to the
advantage of the Church, especially
in the case of educated people in the
upper ranks in society. Not only are
the children of these marriages brought
up Catholics, but almost always, as
experience has shown us, the Protest-
ant parent becomes a Catholic too.
The excellent houses of education
directed by religious orders are another
active cause of conversions. If ele-
mentary education is almost universal
in the United States, it is nevertheless
true that the higher institutions of
learning are exceedingly defective.
The colleges and boarding-schools
founded under the direction of the
Catholic clergy, though inferior to those
of France in the thoroughness of the
education they impart and the amount
of study required of their pupils, are
yet vastly superior to all other Ameri-
can establishments in their method,
their discipline, and the attainments
of their professors. The consequence
is that they are resorted to by num-
bers of Protestant youth of both sexes.
No compulsion is used to make them
Catholics ; no undue influence is ex-
erted ; the press, free as it is, rarely
finds excuse for complaint on this
score ; but facts and doctrines speak
for themselves. The good examples
and affectionate solicitude which sur-
round these young people, and the
friendships they contract, leave a deep
impression on their minds, and plant
the seed of serious thought, which
sooner or later bears fruit. Various
circumstances may lead to the final
development of this seed. Now per-
haps a first great sorrow wakens it into
life ; now it is quickened by new ideas
born of study and experience ; in one
case the determining influence may be
a marriage ; in another, intercourse
with Catholic society ; and not a few
may be moved by the falsity of the
notions of Catholicism which they find
current among Protestants, and which
their own experience enables them to
detect. This motive operates oftener
than people suppose, and generally
with those who at school or college
seemed most bitterly hostile to the
faith. In fine, those who have been
educated at Catholic institutions are
less prejudiced and better prepared
for the action of divine grace, which
Providence may send through any one
of a thousand channels.
And lastly, Catholicism acts upon
the Americans through the medium of
the habits and customs to which it
gradually attaches them, the result of
which is that in the growth of the
population the Church makes a con-
stant, an insensible, and what we might
call a spontaneous increase. It is a
well-known fact that the Catholic fami-
lies of North America, as a general
rule, are distinguished by a character
of stability, good order, and modera-
tion which is often wanting in the
Yankee race. Now this turns to the
advantage of the Church; for it is
evident that a people which fixes itself
permanently where it has once settled,
which concentrates itself, so to speak,
has a better chance of acquiring a pre-
dominance in the long run than one of
migratory habits, always in pursuit of
some better state which always eludes
it. This truth is nowhere more appar-
ent than in a county of Upper Canada
where we spent nearly three years.
The county of Glengarry was settled
16
The Progress of the Church
in 1815 by Scotchmen, some of whom
were Catholics. The colony increased
partly by the natural multiplication of
the settlers, partly by immigration,
until about 1840, when immigration
almost totally ceased, all the lands
being occupied. The population was
then left to grow by natural increase
alone. The Protestants at that time
were considerably in the majority ; but
by 1850 the proportions began to
change, and out of 17,576 inhabitants
8,870 were Catholics. In 1860 the
majority was completely reversed, and
in a population of 21,187 there were
10,919 Catholics ; in other words, the
latter, by the regular operation of natu-
ral causes, had gained every year from
one to two per cent, upon the whole.
It would not be easy to give a detailed
explanation of this fact ; we are only
conscious that some mysterious and
irresistible agency is gradually aug-
menting the proportion of the Catholic
element in American society and weak-
ening the Protestant.
American society might be compared
to a troubled expanse of water hold-
ing various substances in solution.
The solid bottom upon which the waters
rest is formed by the deposit of these
substances, and day after day, during
the moments of rest which follow
every agitation of the waves, more and
more of the Catholic element is pre-
cipitated which the waters bring with
them at each successive influx, but fail
to carry off again. It is by this hu-
man alluvium that our religion grows
and extends itself; and if this growth
is wonderful, it may be that the effect
of the infusion of so much sound doc-
trine into American society will prove
equally astonishing and precious.
Great stress has often been laid
upon the good qualities of the Ameri-
can people, but comparatively few have
spoken of their faults ; not because
they had none, but because their faults
were lost sight of in the brilliancy of
their material prosperity. But recent
events have led to more reflection
upon this point ; so it will not astonish
our readers if we point oat one or two,
such as the decay of thoughtful, sys-
tematic, methodical intelligence among
them, in comparison with Europeans ;
their narrowness of mind ; their inapti-
tude for general ideas ; and their sen-
sibly diminishing delicacy of mind.
These defects show an unsuspected but
serious and rapid degeneracy of the
Anglo-American race, and the decline
has already perhaps gone further than
one would readily believe. If Cath-
olicism, which tends eminently to de-
velop a spirit of method and order,
broadness of view and delicacy of
sentiment, should combat successfully
these failings, it would render a signal
service to the United States in return
for the liberty which they have
granted it.
But Catholics, we should add, are
indebted to the United States for some-
thing more than simple liberty. They
have there learned to appreciate their
real power. They have learned by
experience how little they have to fear
from pure universal liberty, how much
strength and influence they can acquire
in such a state of society. There is
this good and this evil in liberty
that it always proves to the advantage
of the strong ; so that when there is
question of the relations between man
and man, it must be a well-regulated
liberty, or it will result in the oppres-
sion of the weak. But the case is dif-
ferent when it comes to a question of
discordant doctrines : man has every-
thing to gain by the triumph of sound,
strong principles and the destruction
of false and specious theories. In
such a contest, let but each side appear
in its true colors, and we have nothing
to fear for the cause of truth. The
United States will at least have had
the merit of affording an opportunity
for a powerful demonstration of the
truth; and great as are the advant-
ages which the Catholic Church can
confer upon the country, she herself
will reap still greater advantages by
conferring them ; for it will turn to
her benefit in her action upon the
world at large.
In fact, the experience of the Church
in the United States.
17
in America has doubtless gone for
something in the familiarity which re-
ligious minds are gradually acquiring
with the principles of political liberty ;
and thus the growth of American
Catholicism is allied to the world-wide
reaction which is now taking place
after the religious eclipse of the last
century. This transformation of the
United States, in truth, is only one
marked incident in the intellectual
revolution which is drawing the whole
world toward the Catholic Church
England as well as America, Germany
as well as England, even Bulgaria in
the far East. The foreign press brings
us daily the signs of this progress ;
and nothing can be easier than to point
them out in France under our own
eyes. But unfortunately we have been
too much in the habit, for the last cen-
tury, of leading a life of continual
mortification, too conscious that we
were laughed at by the leaders of pub-
lic opinion. We crawled along in fear
and trembling, creeping close to the
walls, dreading at every step to give
offence, or to cause scandal, or to lose
some of our brethren. Accustomed
to see our ranks thinned and whole
files carried off in the flower of their
youth, we stood in too great fear of the
deceitful power of doctrines which
seemed to promise everything to man
and ask nothing from him in return.
And therefore many of us still find
it hard to understand the new state of
things in which we are making prog-
ress without external help. This
progress, however, inaugurated by the
energy of a few, the perseverance of
all, and the overruling hand of divine
Providence, is unquestionably going
on, and may easily be proved. We
have only to visit our churches, attend
some of the special retreats for men,
or look at the Easter communions, to
see what long steps faith and religious
practice have taken within the last
forty years. The change is most per-
ceptible among the educated classes
and in the learned professions. We
have heard old professors express their
astonishment in comparing the schools
2
of the present time with those of their
youth. It was then almost impossible
to find a young man at the Ecole Poly-
technique, at St. Cyr, or at the cole
Centrale, with enough faith and enough
courage openly to profess his religion ;
now it may be said that a fifth or per-
haps a fourth part of the students
openly and unhesitatingly perform their
Easter duty. We ourselves remem-
ber that no longer ago than 1830 it
required a degree of courage of which
few were found capable to manifest any
religious sentiment in the public ly-
ceums. Voltairianism or to speak
better, an intolerant fanaticism de-
lighted to cover these faithful few with
public ridicule ; while now, if we may
believe the best authorized accounts,
it is only a small minority who openly
profess infidelity. We can affirm that
in the School of Law the change is
quite as great, and it has begun to
operate even in that tune-honored
stronghold of materialism, the School
of Medicine.
But what must strike us most forcibly
in the examination of these questions
is the fact, already pointed out by the
Abbe Meignan, that the progress of
religion has kept even pace with the
extension of free institutions. Wher-
ever the liberal regime has been estab-
lished, the reaction in favor of religion
has become stronger, no doubt because
liberty places man face to face with
the consequences of his own acts and
the necessities of his feeble nature.
Man is never so powerfully impelled
to draw near to God as when he be-
comes conscious of his own weakness ;
never so deeply impressed with the
emptiness of false doctrines as TOhen
he has experienced their nothingness
in the practical affairs of life. The
violence of external disorder soon leads
him to, reflect upon the necessity of
solid, methodical, moral education, such
as regulates one's life, and such as the
Church alone can impart. And there-
fore the great change of sentiment of
which we have spoken is perceptible
chiefly among the educated and liberal
classes, while with the ignorant and
18
The Progress of the Church.
vulgar infidelity holds its own and is
even gaining. The educated classes,
more thoughtful, knowing the world
and having experience of men, see
further and calculate more calmly the
tendency of events ; with the common
people reason and plain sense are often
overpowered by the violence of their
temperament and the impetuosity of
their passions. Ignorance and inordin-
ate desires do the rest, and they im-
agine that man will know how to con-
duct without knowing how to govern
himself.
Whatever demagogues may say,
history proves that the head always
rules the body. The period of dis-
couragement and apprehension is past.
We shall yet, no doubt, have to go
through trials, and violent crises, and
perhaps cruel persecutions ; but we
may hope everything from the future.
And why not ? If we study the his-
tory of the Jewish people, we shall see
how God chastises his people in order
to rouse them from their moral torpor,
and raise them up from apparent ruin
by unforeseen means. Weakness, in
his hand, at once becomes strength ;
he asks of us nothing but faith
and courage. We have traced his
Providence in the methods by which
he has stimulated the growth of the
American Church -methods all the
more effectual because, unlike our own
vain enterprises, they worked for a
long time in silence and obscurity.
These Western bishoprics remained al-
most unknown up to the day when, the
light bursting forth all at once, the
world beheld a Church already organ-
ized, already strong, where it had not
suspected even her existence.
There is a magnificent and instruc-
tive scene in Athcdie, where the veil of
the temple is rent, and discloses to the
eyes of the terrified queen, Joas, whom
she had believed dead, standing in his
glory surrounded by an army. Even
so, it seems to us, was the American
Church suddenly revealed in all her
vigor to the astonished world, when her
bishops came two years ago to take
their place in the council at Rome.
And the same progress is making all
over the globe. Noiseless and un-
obtrusive, it attracts no attention from
the world ; it is overlooked by Utopian
theorists ; it goes on quietly in the do-
main of conscience ; but the day will
come when its light will break forth
and astonish mankind by its brightness.
Such are the ways of God !
NOTE. The greater part of the
materials for the preceding article
were written or collected during the
course of a journey which we made in
the United States in 1860. Since
then the progress of Catholicism has
necessarily been somewhat checked by
the events of the lamentable civil war
which is desolating the country ; but
the check has been far less serious
than might have reasonably been ap-
prehended. Religion has been kept
apart from political dissensions and
public disorders; it has only had to
suffer the common evils which war,
mortality, and general impoverishment
have inflicted upon the whole people.
If all these things are to have any
bad effect upon the progress of the
Church, it will be in future years, not
now. In fact, all the documents which
we have been able to collect show that
the numbers of both the faithful and
the clergy, instead of falling off, have
gone on increasing. In thirty-eight
dioceses there are now 275 more priests
than there were in 1860 ; from the
five other sees, namely, those of New
Orleans, Galveston, Mobile, Natchi-
toches, and Charleston, we have no
returns. This increase is confined
almost entirely to the regions in which
the Church was already strongest;
elsewhere matters have remained about
stationary.
Of this number of 275 priests added
to the Church in the course of three
years, 251 belong to the following four-
teen dioceses, namely : Baltimore,
Pittsburg, Cincinnati, Cleveland,
Brooklyn, Albany, Alton, Chicago,
Milwaukee, St. Paul, Detroit, Fort
Wayne, Vincennes, and Hartford.
The last-named belongs to the North-
The Ancient Saints of God.
19
eastern or New England group, all
the others to the Central and Western.
Thus fourteen dioceses alone show
nine-tenths of the total increase, and
the others divide the remaining tenth
among them in very minute fractions.
From some states, it is true, the re-
turns are very meagre, and from
others they are altogether wanting;
but the disproportion is so strong as
to leave no doubt that the future con-
quests of the Church in the United
States will be gained, as we have al-
ready said, principally in the Middle
and Western States.
E. R.
From The Month.
THE ANCIENT SAINTS OF GOD.
A FBENCH OFFICER'S STOEY.
BY THE LATE CARDINAL WISEMAN.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION.
WE often practically divide the
saints into three classes. The ancient
saints, those of the primitive age of
Christianity, we consider as the patrons
of the universal Church, watching
over its' well-being and progress, but,
excepting Rome, having only a gen-
eral connection with the interests of
particular countries, still less of indi-
viduals.
The great saints of the middle age,
belonging to different races and coun-
tries, have naturally become their pat-
rons, being more especially reverenced
and invoked in the places of their
births, their lives, and still more their
deaths; whence, St. Willibrord, St.
Boniface, and St. Walburga are more
honored in Germany, where they
died, than in England, where they
were born.
The third class includes the more
modern saints, who spoke our yet
living languages, printed their books r
followed the same sort of life, wore
the same dress as we do, lived in
houses yet standing, founded institu-
tions still flourishing, rode in carri-
ages, and in another generation would
have traveled by railway. Such are
St. Charles, St. Ignatius, St. Philip,
St. Teresa, St. Vincent, B. Benedict
Joseph, and many others. Toward
these we feel a personal devotion in-
dependent of country; nearness of
time compensating for distance of
place. There is indeed one class
of saints who belong to every age
and every country; devotion toward
whom, far from diminishing, in-
creases the further we recede from
their time and even their land. For
we are convinced that a Chinese con-
vert has a more sensitive and glowing
devotion toward our Blessed Lady,
than a Jewish neophyte had in the
first century. When I hear this
growth of piety denounced or re-
proached by Protestants, I own I
exult in it.
For the only question, and there is
none in a Catholic mind, is whether
such a feeling is good in itself; if so,
growth in it, age by age, is an im-
mense blessing and proof of the di-
vine presence. It is as if one told
me that there is more humility now in
the Church than there was in the first
century, more zeal than in the third,
more faith than in the eighth, more
charity than in the twelfth. And so,
if there is more devotion now than
there was 1,800 years ago toward the
Immaculate Mother of God, toward
20
The Ancient Saints of God.
her saintly spouse, toward St. John,
St. Peter, and the other Apostles, I
rejoice ; knowing that devotion toward
our divine Lord, his infancy, his pas-
sion, his sacred heart, his adorable
eucharist, has not suffered loss or
diminution, but has much increased.
It need not be, and it is not, as John
the Baptist said, " He must increase,
and I diminish." Both here increase
together; the Lord, and those who
best loved him.
But this is more than a subject of
joy : it is one of admiration and con-
solation. For it is the natural course
of things that sympathies and affec-
tions should grow less by time. We
care and feel much less about the con-
quests of William I., or the prowess
of the Black Prince, than we do about
the victories of Nelson or Welling-
ton ; even Alfred is a mythical per-
son, and Boadicea fabulous ; and so it
is with all nations. A steadily in-
creasing affection and intensifying de-
votion (as in this case we call it) for
those remote from us, in proportion as
we recede from them, is as marvellous
nay, as miraculous as would be
the flowing of a stream from its source
up a steep hill, deepening and widen-
ing as it rose. And such I consider
this growth, through succeeding ages,
of devout feeling toward those who
were the root, and seem to become
the crown, or flower, of the Church.
It is as if a beam from the sun, or a
ray from a lamp, grew brighter and
warmer in proportion as it darted
further from its source.
I cannot but see in this supernatu-
ral disposition evidence of a power
ruling from a higher sphere than that
of ordinary providence, the laws of
which, uniform elsewhere, are modi-
fied or even reversed when the dis-
pensations of the gospel require it;
or rather, these have their own proper
and ordinary providence, the laws of
which are uniform within its system.
And this is one illustration, that what
by every ordinary and natural course
should go on diminishing, goes on in-
creasing. But I read in this fact an
evidence also of the stability and per-
petuity of our faith ; for a line that is
ever growing thinner and thinner
tends, through its extenuation, to inani-
tion and total evanescence; whereas
one that widens and extends as it ad-
vances and becomes more solid, thereby
gives earnest and proof of increasing
duration.
When we are attacked about prac-
tices, devotions, or corollaries of faith
"developments," in other words
do we not sometimes labor needlessly
to prove that we go no further than
the Fathers did, and that what we do
may be justified from ancient authori-
ties ? Should we not confine ourselves
to showing, even with the help of an-
tiquity, that what is attacked is good,
is sound, and is holy ; and then thank
God that we have so much more of it
than others formerly possessed? If
'it was right to say " Ora pro nobis "
once in the day, is it not better to say
it seven times a day ; and if so, why
not seventy times seven ? The rule
of forgiveness may well be the rule
of seeking intercession for it. But
whither am I leading you, gentle
reader ? I promised you a story, and
I am giving you a lecture, and I fear
a dry one. I must retrace my steps.
I wished, therefore, merely to say that,
while the saints of the Church are
very naturally divided by us into
three classes holy patrons of the
Church, of particular portions of it,
and of its individual members there
is one raised above all others, which
passes through all, composed of pro-
tectors, patrons, and nomenclators, of
saints themselves. For how many
Marys, how many Josephs, Peters,
Johns, and Pauls, are there not in the
calendar of the saints, called by those
names without law of country or age !
But beyond this general recognition
of the claims of our greatest saints,
one cannot but sometimes feel that
the classification which I have de-
scribed is carried by us too far ; that
a certain human dross enters into the
composition of our devotion ; we per-
haps nationalize, or even individualize,
The Ancient Saints of God.
21
the sympathies of those whose love is
universal, like God's own, in which
alone they love. We seem to fancy
that St. Edward and St. Frideswida
are still English; and some persons
appear to have as strong an objection
to one of their children bearing any
but a Saxon saint's name as they
have to Italian architecture. We may
be quite sure that the power and in-
terest in the whole Church have not
been curtailed by the admission of
others like themselves, first Christians
on earth, then saints in heaven, into
their blessed society; but that the
friends of God belong to us all, and
can and will help us, if we invoke
them, with loving impartiality. The
little history which I am going to re-
late serves to illustrate this view of
saintly intercession ; it was told me by
the learned and distinguished prelate
whom I shall call Monsig. B. He
has, I have heard, since published the
narrative ; but I will give it as I heard
it from his lips.
CHAPTER n.
THE FRENCH OFFICER'S FIRST AP-
PEARANCE.
ON the 30th of last month I am
writing early in August we all com-
memorated the holy martyrs, Sts. Ab-
don and Sennen. This in itself is
worthy of notice. Why should we in
England, why should they in Amer-
ica, be singing the praises of two Per-
sians who lived more than fifteen hun-
dred years ago ? Plainly because we
are Catholics, and as such in com-
munion with the saints of Persia and
the martyrs of Decius. Yet it may
be assumed that the particular devo-
tion to these two Eastern martyrs is
owing to their having suffered in
Rome, and so found a place in the
calendar of the catacombs, the basis
of later martyrologies. Probably af-
ter having been concealed in the house
of Quirinus the deacon, their bodies
were buried hi the cemetery or cata-
comb of Pontianus, outside the present
Porta Portese, on the northern bank
of the Tiber. In that catacomb, re-
markable for containing the primitive
baptistery of the Church, there yet
remains a monument of these saints,
marking their place of sepulture.*
Painted on the wall is a " floriated "
and jewelled cross ; not a conventional
one such as mediaeval art introduced,
but a plain cross, on the surface of
which the painter imitated natural
jewels, and from the foot of which
grow flowers of natural forms and
hues ; on each side stands a figure in
Persian dress and Phrygian cap, with
the names respectively running down
in letters one below the other :
SANCTVS ABDON: SANCTVS SENNET.
The bodies are no longer there.
They were no doubt removed, as
most were, in the eighth century, to
save them from Saracenic profanation,
and translated to the basilica of St.
Mark in Rome. There they repose,
with many other martyrs no longer
distinguishable ; since the ancient usage
was literally to bury the bodies of
martyrs in a spacious crypt or cham-
ber under the altar, so as to verify the
apocalyptic description, " From under
the altar of God all the saints cry
aloud." This practice has been ad-
mirably illustrated by the prelate to
whom I have referred, in a work on
this very crypt, or, in ecclesiastical
language, Confession of St. Mark's.
One 30th of July, soon after the
siege of Rome in 1848, the chapter of
St. Mark's were singing the office and
mass of these Persian martyrs, as
saints of their church. Most people
on week-days content themselves with
hearing early a low mass, so that the
longer offices of the basilica, especially
the secondary ones, are not much fre-
quented. On this occasion, however,
a young French officer was noticed by
* See Fabiola, pp. 362, 303.
22
The Ancient Saints of God.
the canons as assisting alone with
great recollection.
At the close of the function, my
informant went up to the young man,
and entered into conversation with
him.
" What feast are you celebrating to-
day ?" asked the officer.
u That of Sts. Abdon and Sennen,"
answered Monsignor B.
" Indeed ! how singular !"
" Why ? Have you any particular
devotion to those saints ?"
"Oh, yes; they are my patron
saints. The cathedral of my native
town is dedicated to them, and pos-
sesses their bodies.'*
" You must be mistaken there :
their holy relics repose beneath our
altar ; and we have to-day kept their
feast solemnly on that account."
On this explanation of the prelate
the young officer seemed a little dis-
concerted, and remarked that at P
everybody believed that the saints'
relics were in the cathedral.
The canon, as he then was, of St.
Mark's, though now promoted to the
" patriarchal " basilica of St. John, ex-
plained to him how this might be, in-
asmuch as any church possessing con-
siderable portions of larger relics be-
longing to a saint was entitled to the
privilege of one holding the entire
body, and was familiarly spoken of as
actually having it ; and this no doubt
was the case at P .
"But, beside general grounds for
devotion to these patrons of my native
city, I have a more particular and
personal one ; for to their interposition
I believe I owe my life."
The group of listeners who had
gathered round the officer was deeply
interested hi this statement, and re-
quested him to relate the incident to
which he alluded. He readily com-
plied with their request, and with the
utmost simplicity made the following
brief recital.
CHAPTER m.
THE OFFICER'S NARRATIVE.
" DURING the late siege of Rome I
happened to be placed in an advanced
post, with a small body of soldiers,
among the hillocks between our head-
quarters hi the villa Pamphily-Doria
and the gate of St. Pancratius. The
post was one of some danger, as it
was exposed to the sudden and un-
sparing sallies made by the revolu-
tionary garrison on that side. The
broken ground helped to conceal us
from the marksmen and the artillery
on the walls. However, that day
proved to be one of particular danger.
Without warning, a sortie was made
in force, either merely hi defiance or
to gain possession of some advanta-
geous post; for you know how the
church and convent of St. Pancra-
tius was assailed by the enemy,
and taken and retaken by us several
tunes in one day. The same hap-
pened to the villas near the walls.
There was no time given us for specu-
lation or reflection. We found our-
selves at once in presence of a very
superior force, or rather in the middle
of it; for we were completely sur-
rounded. We fought our best; but
escape seemed impossible. My poor
little picket was soon cut to pieces,
and I found myself standing alone in
the midst of our assailants, defending
myself as well as I could against such
fearful odds. At length I felt I was
come to the last extremity, and that in
a few moments I should be lying with
my brave companions. Earnestly de-
siring to have the suffrages of my holy
patrons in that my last hour, I in-
stinctively exclaimed, ' Sts. Abdon and
Sennen, pray for me!' What then
happened I cannot tell. Whether a
sudden panic struck my enemies, or
something more important called off
their attention, or what else to me
inexplicable occurred, I cannot say ;
all that I know is, that somehow or
^ther I found myself alone, unwounded
The Ancient Saints of God.
23
and unhurt, with my poor fellows lying
about, and no enemy near.
" Do you not think that I have a
right to attribute this most wonderful
and otherwise unaccountable escape to
the intercession and protection of Sts.
Abdon and Sennen ?"
I need scarcely say that this simple
narrative touched and moved deeply
all its hearers. No one was disposed
to dissent from the young Christian
officer's conclusion.
CHAPTER IV.
THE EXPLANATION.
IT was natural that those good ec-
clesiastics who composed the chapter
of St. Mark's should feel an interest
in their youthful acquaintance. His
having accidentally, as it seemed, but
really providentially, strolled into their
church at such a time, with so singu-
lar a bond of sympathy with its sacred
offices that day, necessarily drew them
in kindness toward him. His ingen-
uous piety and vivid faith gained their
hearts.
In the conversation which followed,
it was discovered that all his tastes
and feelings led him to love and visit
the religious monuments of Rome;
but that he had no guide or companion
to make his wanderings among them
as useful and agreeable as they might
be made. It was good-naturedly and
kindly suggested to him to come from
time to time to the church, when some
one of the canons would take him with
him on his ventidue ore walk after
vespers, and act the cicerone to him,
if they should visit some interesting
religious object. This offer he readily
accepted, and the intelligent youth and
his reverend guides enjoyed pleasant
afternoons together. At last one
pleasanter than all occurred, when in
company with Monsignor B.
Their ramble that evening led them
out of the Porta Portuensis, among
the hills of Monte Verde, between it
and the gate of St. Pancratius per-
haps for the purpose of visiting that
interesting basilica. Be it as it
may, suddenly, while traversing a
vineyard, the young man stopped.
" Here," he exclaimed, " on this
very spot, I was standing when my
miraculous deliverance took place."
"Are you sure ?"
"Quite. If I lived a hundred
years, I could never forget it. It is
the very spot."
"Then stand still a moment," re-
joined the prelate ; " we are very 'near
the entrance to the cemetery of Pon-
tianus. I wish to measure the dis-
tance."
He did so by pacing it.
" Now," he said, " come down into
the catacomb, and observe the direc-
tion from where you stand to the
door." The key was soon procured.
They accordingly went down, pro-
ceeded as near as they could judge
toward the point marked over-head,
measured the distance paced above,
and found themselves standing before
the memorial of Sts. Abdon and
Sennen.
"There," said the canon to his
young friend ; "you did not know that,
when you were invoking your holy
patrons, you were standing immedi-
ately over their tomb."
The young officer's emotion may be
better conceived than described on
discovering this new and unexpected
coincidence in the history of his suc-
cessful application to the intercession
of ancient saints.
SANCTI ABDON ET SENNEN, ORATE
PKO NOBIS.
A Pilgrimage to Ars.
From The Lamp.
A PILGRIMAGE TO ARS.
I WENT to Lyons for the express
purpose of visiting the tomb of the
Cure* of Ars ; for I knew the village
of Ars was not very far from that
city, though I had but a vague idea
as to where it was situated or how
it was to be reached. I trusted, how-
ever, to obtaining all needful informa-
tion from the people at the hotel where
I was to pass the night ; and I was
not mistaken in my expectations ; but
I must confess, to my sorrow, that I
felt for a moment a very English sort
of shamefacedness about making the
inquiry. Put to the waiter of an
Engh'sh hotel, such a question would
simply have produced a stare of as-
tonishment or a smile of pity. A visit
to the tomb of the Duke of Wel-
lington at St. Paul's, or a descent
into kingly vaults for the wise purpose
of beholding Prince Albert's coffin,
with its wreaths of flowers laid there
by royal and loving hands these
things he would have sympathized
with and understood. But a pilgrim-
age to the last resting-place of a man
who, even admitting he were at that
moment a saint in heaven, had been
but a simple parish-priest upon earth,
would have been a proceeding utterly
beyond his capacity to comprehend,
and he would undoubtedly have pro-
nounced it either an act of insanity or
one of superstition, or something par-
taking of the nature of the two. I
forgot, for a moment, that I was in a
Catholic country, and inquired my
way to Ars with an uncomfortable ex-
pectation of a sneering answer in re-
turn. Once, however, that the ques-
tion was fairly put, there was nothing
left for me but to be ashamed of my
own misgivings.
" Madame wished to visit the tomb
of the sainted Cure* ? mais oui. It
was the easiest thing in the world.
Only an hour's railway from Lyons to
Villefranche ; and an omnibus at the
latter station, which had been estab-
lished for the express purpose of ac-
commodating the pilgrims, who still
flocked to Ars from every quarter of
the Catholic world."
I listened, and my way seemed sud-
denly to become smooth before me.
Later on in the evening, I found that
the housemaid of the hotel had been
there often ; and two or three tunes at
least during the lifetime of the Cure.
I asked her for what purpose she had
gone there; whether to be cured of
bodily ailments or to consult him on
spiritual matters ? " For neither one
nor the other/' she answered, with great
simplicity ; " but she had had a great
grief, and her mother had taken her
to him to be comforted." There was
something to me singularly lovely in
this answer, and in the insight which
it gave me into the nature of that mis-
sion, so human, and yet so divine,
which the Cure had accomplished in
his lifetime. God had placed him
there, like another John the Baptist,
to announce penance to the world.
He preached to thousands he con-
verted thousands he penetrated into
the hidden consciences of thousands,
and laid his finger, as if by intuition,
upon the hidden sore that kept the soul
from God. Men, great by wealth and
station, came to him and laid their
burden of sin and misery at his feet.
Men, greater still by intellect, and
prouder and more difficult of conver-
sion (as sins of the intellect ever make
men), left his presence simple, loving,
and believing as little children. For
these he had lightning glances and
words of fire ; these by turns he repri-
manded, exhorted, and encouraged;
but when the weak and sorrowful of
God's flock came to him, he paused in
his apostolic task to weep over them
and console them. And so it was with
A Pilgrimage to Ars.
25
Jesus. The great and wealthy of the
earth came to him for relief, and he
never refused their prayers ; but how
many instances do we find in the gos-
pel of the gift of health bestowed, un-
asked and unexpected, upon some poor
wanderer by the wayside, or the yet
greater boon of comfort given to some
poor suffering heart, for no other
reason that we know of than that it
suffered and had need of comfort!
The cripple by the pool of Bethsaida
received his cure at the very moment
when he was heartsick with hope de-
ferred at finding no man to carry him
down to the waters ; and the widow of
Nain found her son suddenly restored
to life because, as the gospel express-
ly tells us, he was " the only son of
his mother, and she was a widow."
The heart of the Cure of Ars seems
to have been only less tender than that
of his divine Master; and in the
midst of the sublime occupation of
converting souls to God, he never dis-
dained the humble task of healing the
stricken spirit, and leading it to peace
and joy.
" My husband died suddenly," the
young woman went on to say, in answer
to my further questions ; " and from
affluence I found myself at. once re-
duced to poverty. I was stunned by
the blow ; but my mother took me to
the cure ; and almost before he had
said a word, I felt not only consoled,
but satisfied with the lot which God
had assigned me." And so indeed she
must have been. When I saw her,
she was still poor, and earning her
bread by the worst of all servitude,
the daily and nightly servitude of a
crowded inn ; but gentle, placid, and
smiling, as became one who had seen
and been comforted by a saint. She
evidently felt that she had been per-
mitted to approach very near to God
in the person of God's servant, and
every word she uttered was so full of
love and confidence in the sainted cure
that it increased (if that were possible)
my desire to kneel at his tomb, since
the happiness of approaching his living
person had been denied me.
The next morning I set off for
Villefranche. It is on the direct line
to Paris, and at about an hour's rail-
road journey from Lyons. When I
reached it, I found three omnibuses
waiting at the station, and I believe
they were all there for the sole pur-
pose of conveying pilgrims to Ars.
One of the conductors tried every
mode of persuasion and there are
not a few in the vocabulary of a
Frenchman to inveigle me into his
omnibus. "I should be at Ars in
half an hour, and could return at
two, three, four o'clock in short, at
any hour of the night or day that
might please me best." It was
with some difficulty I resisted the
torrent of eloquence he poured out
upon me ; but, in the first place, I felt
that he was promising what he himself
would have called " the impossible,"
since a public conveyance must neces-
sarily regulate its movements by the
wishes of the majority of its passen-
gers ; and in the next, I had a very
strong desire to be alone in body as
well as in mind during the few hours
that I was to spend at Ars:.
At last I found an omnibus destined
solely for visitors to Villefranche itself,
and the conductor promised that he
would provide me a private carriage to
Ars if I would consent to drive first to
his hotel. Cabaret he might have
called it with perfect truth, for cabaret
it was, and nothing more a regular
French specimen of the article, with
a great public kitchen, where half the
workmen of the town assembled for
their meals, and a small cupboard sort
of closet opening into it for the accom-
modation of more aristocratic guests.
Into this, bon gre, mal gre, they wished
to thrust me, but I violently repelled
the threatened honor, and with some
difficulty carrying my point, succeeded
in being permitted to remain in the
larger and cooler space of the open
kitchen until my promised vehicle
should appear. It came at last, a sort
of half-cab, half-gig, without a hood,
but with a curiously contrived harness
of loose ropes, and looking altogether
26
A Pilgrimage to Ars.
dangerously likely to come to pieces
on the road. Luckily, I am not natu-
rally nervous in such matters, and,
consoling myself with the thought that
if we did get into grief the " bon cure"
was bound to come to my assistance,
seeing I had incurred it solely for the
sake of visiting his tomb, I was soon
settled as comfortably as circumstances
would permit, and we set off at a brisk
pace.
The country around Villefranche is
truly neither pretty nor picturesque ;
and though we were not really an hour
on the road, the drive seemed tedious.
Our Jehu also, as it turned out, had
never been at Ars before ; so that he had
not only to stop more than once to in-
quire the way, but actually contrived at
the very last to miss it. He soon dis-
covered the mistake, however, and re-
tracing his steps, a very few minutes
brought us to the spot where the saint
had lived forty years, and where he
now sleeps in death. His house stands
beside the church, but a little in the
rear, so it does not immediately catch
the eye ; and the church, where his real
life was spent, is separated from the
road by a small enclosure, railed off,
and approached by a few steps. We
looked around for some person to con-
duct us, but there was no one to be
seen ; so, after a moment's hesitation,
we ascended the steps and entered the
church. If you wish to know what
kind of church it is, I cannot tell you.
I do not know, in fact, whether it is
Greek or Gothic, or of no particular
architecture at all; I do not know
even if it is in good taste or in bad
taste. The soul was so filled with a
sense of the presence of the dead saint
that it left no room for the outer sense
to take note of the accidents amid
which he had lived. There are two or
three small chapels a Lady chapel,
one dedicated to the Sacred Heart, and
another to St. John the Baptist. There
is also the chapel of St. Philomena,
with a large lifelike image of the
" bonne petite sainte" to whom he loved
to attribute every miracle charity com-
pelled him to perform j and there is
the confessional, where for forty years
he worked far greater wonders on the
soul than any of the more obvious
ones he accomplished on the body.
All, or most of all, this I saw in a
vague sort of way, as one who saw
not ; but the whole church was filled
with such an aroma of holiness, there
was such a sense of the actual pres-
ence of the man who had converted it
into a very tabernacle in the wilder-
ness a true Holy of Holies, where,
in the midst of infidel France, God
had descended and conversed almost
visibly with his people that I had
neither the will nor the power to con-
descend to particulars, and examine it
in detail.
My one thought as I entered the
church was, to go and pray upon his
tomb ; but in the first moment of doubt
and confusion I could not remember, if
indeed I had been told, the exact spot
where he was buried. The chapel of
St. Philomena was the first to attract
my notice, and feeling that I could not
be far wrong while keeping close to hia
dear little patroness, I knelt down there
to collect my ideas.
The stillness of the church made
itself felt. There were indeed many
persons praying in it, but they prayed
in that profound silence which spoke
to the heart, and penetrated it in a way
no words could have ever done.
I was thirsting, however, to ap-
proach the tomb of the saint, and at
last ventured to whisper the question
to a person near me. She pointed to
a large black slab nearly in the centre
of the church, and told me that he lay
beneath it. Yes, he was there, in the
very midst of his people, not far from
the chapel of St. Philomena, and op-
posite to the altar whence he had so
many thousands of times distributed
the bread of life to the famishing souls
who, like the multitude of old, had
come into the desert, and needed to be
fed ere they departed to their homes.
Yes, he was there ; and with a strange
mingling of joy and sorrow in the
thought I went and knelt down beside
him,
A Pilgrimage to Ars.
27
Had I 'gone to Ars but a few years
before, I might have found him in his
living person ; might have thrown my-
self at his feet, and poured out my
whole soul before him. Now I knelt
indeed beside him, but beside his body
only, and the soul that would have
addressed itself to mine was far away
in the bosom of its God. Humanly
speaking, the difference seemed against
me, and yet, in a more spiritual point
of view, it might perhaps be said to be
in my favor.
The graces which he obtained for
mortals here he obtained by more
than mortal suffering and endurance
by tears, by fastings, and nightly
and daily impetrations ; now, with his
head resting, like another St. John,
on the bosom of his divine Lord, sure-
ly he has but to wish in order to draw
down whole fountains of love and ten-
derness on his weeping flock below.
And certainly it would seem so ; for
however numerous the miracles ac-
complished in his lifetime, they have
been multiplied beyond all power of
calculation since his death.
Later on in the day, when the pres-
ent cure showed me a room nearly
half full of crutches and other memen-
tos of cures wrought " These are
only the ones left there during his life-
time," he observed, in a tone which
told at once how much more numerous
were those which cure had made use-
less to their owners since his death.
I had not been many minutes kneel-
ing before his tomb, when the lady
who had pointed it out to me asked
if I would like to see the house
which he had inhabited hi his lifetime.
On my answering gladly in the af-
firmative, she made me follow her
through a side-door and across a sort
of court to the house inhabited by the
present curd. This house had never
been the abode of M. Vianney, but
had been allotted to the priests who
assisted him in his missions. The one
which he actually inhabited is now a
sort of sanctuary, where every relic
and recollection of him is carefully
preserved for the veneration of the
faithful. We were shown into a sort
of salle a manger, sufficiently poor to
make us feel we were in the habita-
tion of men brought up in the school
of a saint, and almost immediately
afterward the present cure* entered.
He had been for many years the zeal-
ous assistant of the late cure ; and, in
trying to give me an idea of the influx
of strangers into Ars, he told me that,
while M. Vianney spent habitually
from fifteen to seventeen hours in the
confessional, he and his brother priest
were usually occupied at least twelve
hours out of the twenty-four in a simi-
lar manner. Even this was probably
barely sufficient for the wants of the
mission, for the number of strangers
who came annually to Ars during the
latter years of the cure's life was
reckoned at about 80,000, and few, if
any, of these went away without hav-
ing made a general confession, either
to M. Vianney himself, or, if that were
not possible, to one or other of the as-
sisting clergy.
It was pleasant to talk with one
who had been living in constant com-
munication with a saint; and I felt as
if something of the spirit of M. Vian-
ney himself had taken possession of
the good and gentle man with whom I
was conversing. Among other things,
he told me that the devout wish of the
saint had of late years been the erec-
tion of a new church to St. Philomena;
and he gave me a fac-simile of his
handwriting in which he had promised
to pray especially for any one aiding
him in the work. The surest way,
therefore, I should imagine, to interest
him in our necessities now that he is
in heaven would be to aid in the
undertaking which he had in mind
and heart while yet dwelling on earth.
Even in his lifetime there had been
a lottery got up for raising funds ;
and as money is still coming in from
all quarters, his wish will doubtless
soon be accomplished. I saw a very
handsome altar which has been al-
ready presented, and which has been
put aside in one of the rooms of the
cure until the church, for which it is
28
A Pilgrimage to Ars.
intended, shall have been completed.
M. le cure* showed me one or two
small photographs, which had been
taken without his knowledge during
the lifetime of the saint; and also a
little carved image, which he said was
a wonderful likeness, and far better
than any of the portraits. Afterward
he pointed out another photograph, as
large as life, and suspended against
the wall, which had been procured
after death. It was calm and holy,
as the face of a saint in death should
be, and I liked it still better in its
placid peace than the smile of the
living photograph. Even the smile
seemed to tell of tears. You know
that he who smiles is still doing battle
cheerfully and successfully indeed,
but still doing battle with the enemies
of his soul; while the grave calmness
of the dead face tells you at once that
all is over the fight is fought, the
crown is won ; eternity has set its seal
on the good works of time, and all is
safe for ever.
I could have looked at that photo-
graph a long time, and said my pray-
ers before it it seemed to repose in
such an atmosphere of sanctity and
peace but the hours were passing
quickly, and there was still much to
see and hear concerning the dead
saint. I took leave, therefore, of the
good priest who had been my cicerone
so far, and sought the old housekeeper,
who was in readiness to show me the
house where M. Vianney had lived.
We crossed a sort of court, which led
us to a door opposite the church.
When this was opened, I found my-
self in a sort of half-garden, half-yard,
in the centre of which the old house
was standing.
It is hard to put upon paper the
feelings with which a spot the habita-
tion of a saint just dead is visited.
The spirit of love and charity and peace
which animated the living man still
seems brooding over the spot where his
life was passed, and you feel intensely
that the true beauty of the Lord's
house was here, and that this has been
the place where his glory hath de-
lighted to dwell. The first room I
entered was one in which the crutches
left there by invalids had been depos-
ited. It was a sight to see. The
crutches were piled as close as they
could be against the wall, and yet the
room was almost half full. The per-
sons who used those crutches must
have been carried hither, lame and
suffering, and helpless as young chil-
dren ; and they walked away strong
men and cured. Truly "the lame
walk and the blind see ;" and the Lord
hath visited his people in the person
of his servant.
My next visit was made to the salle
a manger, where M. Vianney had al-
ways taken the one scanty meal which
was his sole support during his twenty-
four hours of almost unbroken labor.
It was poverty in very deed pover-
ty plain, unvarnished, and unadorned
such poverty as an Irish cabin might
have rivalled, but could scarcely have
surpassed. The walls were bare and
whitewashed ; the roof was merely
raftered ; and the floor, which had once
been paved with large round stones,
such as are used for the pavement of
a street, was broken here and there
into deep holes by the removal of the
stones. During his forty years' resi-
dence at Ars, M. Vianney had proba-
bly never spent a single sou upon any
article which could contribute to his
own comfort or convenience ; and this
room bore witness to the fact. How,
indeed, should he buy anything for
himself, who gave even that which
was given to him away, until his best
friends grew well-nigh weary of be-
stowing presents, which they felt would
pass almost at the same instant out of
his own possession into the hands of
any one whom he fancied to be in
greater want of them than he was ?
I stood in that bare and desolate apart-
ment, and felt as if earth and heaven
in their widest extremes, their most
startling contrasts, were there in type
and reality before me. All that earth
has of poor and miserable and unsight-
ly was present to the eyes of the
body; all that heaven has of bright
A Pilgrimage to Ars.
and beautiful and glorious was just as
present, just as visible, to the vision of
the soul. It was the very reverse of
the fable of the fairy treasures, which
vanish into dust when tested by real-
ity. All that you saw was dust and
ashes, but dust and ashes which, tried
by the touchstone of eternity, would,
you knew, prove brighter than the
brightest gold, fairer than the fairest
silver that earth ever yielded to set in
the diadem of her kings ! My reflec-
tions were cut short by the entrance of
one of the priests, who invited us to
come up stairs and inspect the vest-
ments which had belonged to the late
cure, and which were kept, I think,
apart from those in ordinary use in
the church. There was a great quan-
tity of them, and they were all in
curious contrast with everything else
we had seen belonging to M. Vianney.
Nothing too good for God ; nothing
too mean and miserable for himself
that had been the motto of his life ;
and the worm-eaten furniture of the
dining-room, the gold and velvet of
the embroidered vestments, alike bore
witness to the fidelity with which he
had acted on it. The vestments were
more than handsome some of them
were magnificent. One set I remem-
ber in particular which was very
beautiful. It had been given, with
canopy for the blessed sacrament
and banners for processions, by the
present Marquis D'Ars, the chief of
that beloved family, who, after the
death of Mdlle. D'Ars, became M.
Vianney's most efficient aid in all his
works of charity. The priest who
showed them to us, and who had also
been one of the late cure's missiona-
ries, told us that M. Vianney was ab-
solutely enchanted with joy when the
vestments arrived, and that he instant-
ly organized an expedition to Lyons
in order to express his gratitude at
the altar of Notre Dame de Fourriere.
'- 'ic whole parish attended on this
occasion. They went down the river
in boats provided for the purpose, and
with banners flying and music play-
ing, marched in solemn procession
through the streets of Lyons, and up
the steep sides of Fourriere, until they
reached the church of Notre Dame.
There the whole multitude fell on
their knees, and M. Vianney himself
prayed, no doubt long and earnestly,
before the miraculous image of Our
Lady, seeking through her intercession
to obtain some especial favor for the
man who, out of his own abundance,
had brought gifts of gold and silver to
the altar of his God.
I asked the priest for some infor-
mation about the granary which was
said to have been miraculously filled
with corn. He told me he had been
at Ars at the time, and that there
could be no doubt that the granary
had been quite empty the night before.
It was, I think, a tune of scarcity, and
the grain had been set aside for the
use of the poor. M. Vianney went
to bed miserable at the failure of his
supplies ; but when he visited the gran-
ary again early the next morning, he
found it full. It was at the top of his
own house, I believe, and was kept,
of course, carefully locked. Nobody
knew how it had been filled, or by
whom. In fact, it seemed absolutely
impossible that any one could have
carted the quantity of grain needed for
the purpose and carried it up stairs
without being detected in the act. The
priest made no comment on the mat-
ter; indeed, he seemed anything but
inclined to enlarge upon it, though he
made no secret of his own opinion as
to the miraculous nature of the occur-
rence. As soon as he had answered
my inquiries, he led us to the room
which had been the holy cure's own
personal apartment. It was, as well
as I can remember, the one over the
dining-room. No apostle ever lived
and died in an abode more entirely
destitute of all human riches. It was
kept exactly in the same state in which
it had been during his lifetime a few
poor-looking books still on the small
book-shelf, a wooden table and a chair,
and the little bed in the corner, smoothed
and laid down, as if only waiting his
return from the confessional for the
30
A Pilgrimage to Ars.
few short hours he gave to slumber
if, indeed, he did give them; for no
one ever penetrated into the mystery
of those hours, or knew how much of
the time set apart apparently for his
own repose was dedicated to God, or
employed hi supplicating God's mer-
cies on his creatures.
The history of that room was the
history of the saint. A book-shelf
filled with works of piety and devotion ;
a stove, left doubtless because it had
been originally built into the room, but
left without use or purpose (for who
ever heard of his indulging in a fire?) ;
a table and a chair that was all ; but
it was enough, and more than enough,
to fill the mind with thought, and to
crowd all the memories of that holy
life into the few short moments that I
knelt there. How often had he come
back to that poor apartment, his body
exhausted by fasting, and cramped by
long confinement in the confessional,
and his heart steeped (nay, drowned,
as he himself most eloquently expressed
it) in bitterness and sorrow by the
long histories of sins to which he had
been compelled to listen sins com-
mitted against that God whom he
loved far more tenderly than he loved
himself! How often, in the silence
and darkness of the night, has he
poured forth his soul, now in tender
commiseration over Jesus crucified
by shiners, now over the sinners by
whom Jesus had been crucified ! How
often has he (perhaps) called on God
to remove him from a world where
God was so offended ; and yet, moved
by the charity of his tender human
heart, has besought, almost in the same
breath, for the conversion of those sin-
ners whose deeds he was deploring
the cure of their diseases and the re-
moval or consolation of their sorrows !
Like a mother who, finding her chil-
dren at discord, now praya to one to
pardon, now to another to submit and
be reconciled, so was that loving, pity-
ing heart ever as it were hi contradic-
tion with itself weeping still with
Jesus, and yet still pleading for his foes.
The mere action of such thoughts
upon the human frame would make
continued life a marvel ; but when to
this long history of mental woe we
add the hardships of his material life
the fifteen or seventeen hours passed
in the confessional, in heat and cold,
in winter as in summer; the one
scanty meal taken at mid-day ; the four
hours of sleep, robbed often and often
of half their number for the sake of
quiet prayer when we think of these
things, there is surely more of miracle
in this life of forty years' duration
than in the mere fact that it won mira-
cles at last from heaven, and that God,
seeing how faithfully this his servant
did his will here on earth, complied
in turn with his, and granted his de-
sires.
No one, I think, can visit that spot,
or hear the history of that life, as it is
told by those who knew him as it
were but yesterday, without an in-
crease of love, an accession of faith, a
more vivid sense of the presence of
God in the midst ef his creatures, and
a more real comprehension of the ex-
tent and meaning of those words, "the
communion of saints," which every
one repeats in the creed, and yet
which few take sufficiently to their
heart of hearts to make it really a por-
tion of their spiritual being- a means
of working out their own salvation by
constant and loving communication
with those who have attained to it al-
ready. Thousands will seek the liv-
ing saint for the eloquence of his
words, the sublimity, of his counsels,
the unction of his consolations ; but,
once departed out of this life, who vis-
ists him in his tomb? who turns to
him for aid? who lift their eyes to
heaven, to ask for his assistance thence,
with the same undoubting confidence
with which they would have sought it
had he been still in the flesh beside
them? In one sense of the word,
many; and yet few indeed compared
to the number of those to whom " the
communion of saints" is an article of
faith, or ought at least to be so, in
something more than the mere service
of the Up. It was amid some such
The Three Wishes.
31
thoughts as these that I left the town
of Ars, grieved indeed that I had not
seen the holy cure in his lifetime, and
yet feeling that, if I had but faith
enough, I was in reality rather a
gainer than a loser by his death. He
who would have prayed for me on
earth would now pray for me in
heaven. He who would have dived
into my conscience and brought its
hidden sins to light, would obtain wis-
dom and grace for another to put his
finger on the sore spot and give it
healing. He who would perhaps have
cured me of my bodily infirmities,
could do so (if it were for the good of
my soul) not less efficiently now that
he was resting on the heart of his
divine Lord. God had granted his
prayers while he was yet upon earth
a saint indeed, and yet liable at any
moment to fall into sin would he re-
fuse to hear him now that he had re-
ceived him into his kingdom, and so
rendered him for ever incapable of of-
fending ? I hoped not, I felt not; and
in this certainty I went on my way
rejoicing, feeling that it was well for
this sinful world that it had yet one
more advocate at the throne of its
future Judge, and well especially for
France that, in this our nineteenth
century, she had given a saint to God
who would have been the glory of the
first. For truly the arm of the Lord
is not shortened. What he has done
before, he can do again ; and, there-
fore, we need not wonder if the mira-
cles of the Apostles are still renewed
at the tomb of this simple and unlet-
tered, priest, who taught their doctrines
for forty years in the unknown and far-
off village of which Providence had
made him pastor.
From Once A Week.
THE THREE WISHES.
THE Eastern origin of this tale seems
evident ; had it been originally com-
posed in a Northern land, it is probable
that the king would have been repre-
sented as dethroned by means of bribes
obtained from his own treasury. In
an Eastern country the story-teller who
invented such a just termination of his
narrative would, most likely, have ex-
perienced the fate intended for his
hero, as a warning to others how they
suggested such treasonable ideas.
Herr Simrock, however, says it is a
German tale ; but it may have had its
origin in the East for all that. Noth-
ing is more difficult, indeed, than to
trace a popular tale to its source.
Cinderella, for example, belongs to
nearly all nations; even among the
Chinese, a people so different to all
European nations, there is a popular
story which reads almost exactly like
it. Here is the tale of the Three
Wishes.
There was once a wise emperor
who made a law that to every stran-
ger who came to his court a fried fish
should be served. The servants were
directed to take notice if, when the
stranger had eaten the fish to the bone
on one side, he turned it over and be-
gan on the other side. If he did, he
was to be immediately seized, and on
the third day thereafter he was to be
put to death. But, by a great stretch
of imperial clemency, the culprit was
permitted to utter one wish each day,
which the emperer pledged himself to
grant, provided it was not to spare hia
life. Many had already perished in
consequence of this edict, when, one
day, a count and his young son pre-
sented themselves at court. The fish
was served as usual, and when the
32
The Three Wishes.
count had removed all the fish from
one side, he turned it over, and was
about to commence on the other, when
he was suddenly seized and thrown
into prison, and was told of his ap-
proaching doom. Sorrow-stricken, the
count's young son besought the em-
peror to allow him to die in the room
of his father ; a favor which the mon-
arch was pleased to accord him. The
count was accordingly released from
prison, and his son was thrown into
his cell in his stead. As soon as this
had been done, the young man said to
his gaolers " You know I have the
right to make three demands before I
die ; go and tell the emperor to send
me his daughter, and a priest to marry
us." This first demand was not much
to the emperor's taste, nevertheless he
felt bound to keep his word, and he
therefore complied with the request,
to which the princess had no kind of
objection. This occurred in the times
when kings kept their treasures in a
cave, or in a tower set apart for the
purpose, like the Emperor of Morocco
in these days ; and on the second day
of his imprisonment the young man
demanded the king's treasures. If his
first demand was a bold one, the sec-
ond was not less so ; still, an emperor's
word is sacred, and having made the
promise, he was forced to keep it;
and the treasures of gold and silver
and jewels were placed at the pris-
oner's disposal. On getting possession
of them, he distributed them profusely
among the courtiers, and soon he had
made a host of friends by his liberality.
The emperor began now to feel ex-
ceedingly uncomfortable. Unable to
sleep, he rose early on the third morn-
ing and went, with fear in his heart,
to the prison to hear what the third
wish was to be.
"Now," said he to his prisoner,
" tell me what your third demand is,
that it may be granted at once, and
you may be hung out of hand, for I
am tired of your demands."
"Sire," answered his prisoner, "I
have but one more favor to request of
your majesty, which, when you have
granted, I shall die content. It is
merely that you will cause the eyes of
those who saw my father turn the fish
over to be put out."
" Very good," replied the emperor,
"your demand is but natural, and
springs from a good heart. Let the
chamberlain be seized," he continued,
turning to his guards.
"I, sire!" cried the chamberlain;
" I did not see anything it was the
steward."
" Let the steward be seized, then,"
said the king.
But the steward protested with tears
in his eyes that he had not witnessed
anything of what had been reported,
and said it was the butler. The but-
ler declared that he had seen nothing
of the matter, and that it must have
been one of the valets. But th'ey pro-
tested that they were utterly ignorant
of what had been charged against the
count ; in short, it turned out that no-
body could be found who had seen the
count commit the offence, upon which
the princess said :
" I appeal to you, my father, as to
another Solomon. If nobody saw the
offence committed, the count cannot be
guilty, and my husband is innocent."
The emperor frowned, and forthwith
the courtiers began to murmur ; then
he smiled, and immediately their vis-
ages became radiant.
" Let it be so," said 'his majesty ;
" let him live, though I have put many
a man to death for a lighter offence
than his. But if he is not hung, he is
married. Justice has been done."
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
33
From The Month.
EX HUMO.
BY BARRY CORNWALL.
SHOULD you dream ever of the days departed-
Of youth and morning, no more to return
Forget not me, so fond and passionate-hearted ;
Quiet at last, reposing
Under the moss and fern.
There, where the fretful lake in stormy weather
Comes circling round the reddening churchyard pines,
Rest, and call back the hours we lost together,
Talking of hope, and soaring
Beyond poor earth's confines.
If, for those heavenly dreams too dimly sighted,
You became false why, 'tis a story old :
I, overcome by pain, and unrequited,
Faded at last, and slumber
Under the autumn mould.
Farewell, farewell ! No longer plighted lovers,
Doomed for a day to sigh for sweet return :
One lives, indeed ; one heart the green earth covers-
Quiet at last, reposing
Under the moss and fern.
From The Dublin Review.
THE CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS OF ALEXANDRIA.
S. Olementis Alexandrini Opera Om-
nia. Lutetice. 1629.
Geschichte der Christlicher Philosophic,
von Dr. Hdririch Ritter. Ham-
burg: Perthes. 1841.
IF any country under the sun bears
the spell of fascination in its very
name, that country is Egypt. The
land of the Nile and the pyramids, of
the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies the
land where art and science had mys-
terious beginnings before the dawn of
history, where powerful dynasties held
sway for long generations over the the land where,
3
fertile river-valley, and built for them-
selves mighty cities Thebes, the hun-
dred-gated, Memphis, with its palaces,
Heliopolis, with its temples and left
memorials of themselves that are at-
tracting men at this very day to Luxor
and Carnak, to the avenue of sphynxes
and the pyramids Egypt, where
learning
Uttered its oracles sublime
Before the Olympiads, in the dew
And dusk of early time
34
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
Northward from its Nubian springs,
The Nile, for ever new and old,
Among the living and the dead
Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled
Egypt seems destined to be associated
with all the signal events of every
age of the world. Israel's going into
and going out of Egypt is one of the
epic pages of Holy Scripture; Sesos-
tris, King of Egypt, left his name
written over half of Asia ; Alexander,
the greatest of the Greeks, laid in
Egypt the foundation of a new em-
pire; Cleopatra, the captive and the
captor of Julius Caesar and Mark An-
tony, killed herself as the old land
passed away for ever from the race of
Ptolemy ; Clement and Origen, Por-
phyry and Plotinus, have left Egypt
the classic land of the Church's battle
against the purest form of heathen
philosophy ; St. Louis of France has
made Egypt the scene of a glorious
drama of heroism and devotion ; the
pyramids have lent their name to
swell the list of Napoleon's triumphs ;
and the Nile is linked for ever with
the deathless fame of Nelson.
In the last decade of the second
century, about the time when the pa-
gan virtues of Marcus Aurelius had
left the Roman empire to the worse
than pagan vices of his son Commo-
dus, Egypt, to the learned and weal-
thy, meant Alexandria. What Tyre
had been in the time of Solomon, what
Sidon was in the days of which Homer
wrote, that was Alexandria from the
reign of Ptolemy Soter to the days of
Mahomet. In external aspect it was
in every way worthy to bear the name
of him who drew its plans with his
own hands. Its magnificent double
harbor, of which the Great Port had
a quay-side six miles in length, was
the common rendezvous for merchant
ships from every part of Syria, Greece,
Italy, and Spain ; and its communica-
tions with the Red Sea and the Nile
brought to the warehouses that over-
looked its quay the riches of Arabia
and India, and the corn and flax of
the country of which it was the capi-
tal. The modern traveller, who finds
Alexandria a prosperous commercial
town, with an appearance half Euro-
pean, half Turkish, learns with won-
der that its 60,000 inhabitants find
room on what was little more than
the mole that divided the Great Port
from the Eunostos. But it should be
borne in mind that old Alexandria
numbered 300,000 free citizens. The
mosques, the warehouses, and the pri-
vate dwellings of the present town are
built of the fragments of the grand
city of Alexander. The great con-
queror designed to make Alexandria
the capital of the world. He chose a
situation the advantages of which a
glance at the map will show ; and if
any other proof were needed, it may
be found in the fact that, since 1801,
the population of the modern town
has increased at the rate of one thou-
sand a year. He planned his city on
such vast proportions as might be
looked for from the conqueror of
Darius. Parallel streets crossed other
streets, and divided the city into square
blocks. Right through its whole
length, from East to West that is,
parallel with the sea-front one mag-
nificent street, two hundred feet wide
and four miles in length, ran from the
Canopic gate to the Necropolis. A
similar street, shorter, but of equal
breadth, crossed this at right angles,
and came out upon the great quay di-
rectly opposite the mole that joined
the city with the island of Pharos.
This was the famous Heptastadion, or
Street of the Seven Stadia, and at its
South end was the Sun-gate; at its
North, where it opened on the harbor,
the gate of the Moon. To the right,
as you passed through the Moon-gate
on to the broad quay, was the ex-
change, where merchants from all
lands met each other, in sight of the
white Pharos and the crowded ship-
ping of the Great Port. A little back
from the gate, in the Heptastadion,
was the Caesareum, or temple of the
deified Caesars, afterward a Christian
church. Near it was the Museum,
the university of Alexandria. Long
marble colonnades connected the uni-
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
35
versity with the palace and gardens of
the Ptolemies. On the opposite side v
of the great street was the Serapeion,
the magnificent temple of Serapis,
with its four hundred columns, of
which Pompey's Pillar is, perhaps, all
that is left. And then there was the
mausoleum of Alexander, there were
the courts of justice, the theatres, the
baths, the temples, the lines of shops
and houses all on a scale of gran-
deur and completeness which has
never been surpassed by any city of
the world. Such a city necessarily
attracted men. Alexandria was fitly
called the "many-peopled," whether
the epithet referred to the actual num-
ber of citizens or to the varieties of
tongue, complexion, and costume that
thronged its streets. The Greeks,
the Egyptians, and the Jews, each
had their separate quarter ; but there
were constant streams of foreigners
from the remote India, from the lands
beyond the black rocks that bound the
Nile-valley, and from the Ethiopic
races to which St. Matthew preached,
where the Red Sea becomes the In-
dian Ocean. At the time we speak
of, these discordant elements were
held in subjection by the Roman con-
querors, whose legionaries trod the
streets of the voluptuous city with
stern and resolute step, and were not
without occasion, oftentimes, for a dis-
play of all the sternness and resolu-
tion which their bearing augured.
Alexandria, however, in addition to
the busy life of commerce and pleasure
that went on among Greeks, Egyp-
tians, Jews, and Africans, was the
home of another kind of life, still more
interesting to us. Ptolemy Soter, who
carried out Alexander's plans, was a
man of no common foresight and
strength of character. He was not
content with building a city. He per-
formed, in addition, two exploits, either
of which, from modern experience, we
should be inclined to consider a title
to immortality. He invented a new
god, and established a university. The
god was Serapis, whom he imported
from Pergamus, and who soon became
popular. The university was the
Museum, in which lived and taught
Demetrius of Phalerus, Euclid, Stilpo
of Megara, Philetas of Cos, Apelles
the painter, Callimachus, Theocritus,
Eratosthenes, Apollonius Rhodius, and
a host of others in philosophy, poetry,
geometry, astronomy, and the arts.
Here, under successive Ptolemies,
professors lectured in splendid halls,
amid honored affluence. All that we
have of the Greek classics we owe to
the learned men of the Museum.
Poetry bloomed sweetly and luxuri-
antly in the gardens of the Ptolemies ;
though, it must be confessed, not vig-
orously, not as on Ionic coast-lands,
nor as in the earnest life of Athenian
freedom save when some Theocritus
appeared, with his broad Doric, fresh
from the sheep-covered downs of
Sicily. The name of Euclid suggests
that geometry was cared for at the
Museum; Eratosthenes, with his vo-
luminous writings, all of which have
perished, and his one or two discov-
eries, which will never die, may stand
for the type of geography, the science
for which he lived ; and Hipparchus,
astronomer and inventor of trigonom-
etry, may remind us how they taught
at the Museum that the earth was the
centre of the universe, and yet, not-
withstanding, could foretell an eclipse
almost as well as the astronomer
royal. In philosophy, the university
of Alexandria has played a peculiar
part. As long as the Ptolemies
reigned in Egypt, the Museum could
boast of no philosophy save commen-
taries on Aristotle and Plato, consist-
ing, in great measure, of subtle
obscurities to which the darkest quid-
dities of the deepest scholastic would
appear to have been light reading.
But when the Roman came in, there
sprang up a school of thought that has
done more than any other thing to
hand down the fame of Ptolemy's uni-
versity to succeeding ages. Alexan-
dria was the birthplace of Neo-Pla-
tonism, and, whatever we may think
of the philosophy itself, we must allow
it has bestowed fame on its alma
Sfi
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
mater. At the dawn of the Christian
era, Philon the Jew was already ran-
sacking the great library to collect
matter that should enable him to
prove a common origin for the books
of Plato and of Moses. Two hun-
dred years afterward that is, just at
the time of which we speak Plotinus
was listening to Ammonius Saccas in
the lecture-hall of the Museum, and
thinking out the system of emanations,
abysms, and depths of which he is the
first and most famous expounder.
Porphyry, the biographer and enthusi-
astic follower of Plotinus, was proba-
bly never at Alexandria in person ;
but his voluminous writings did much
to make the Neo-Platonist system
known to Athens and to the cities of
Italy. In his youth he had listened
to the lectures of Origen, and thus
was in possession of the traditions
both of the Christian and the heathen
philosophy of Alexandria. But his
Christian studies did not prevent him
from being the author of that famous
book, " Against the Christians," which
drew upon him the denunciations of
thirty-five Christian apologists, in-
cluding such champions as St. Jerome
and St. Augustine. The Neo-Pla-
tonist school culminated and expired
in Proclus, the young prodigy of Al-
exandria, the ascetic teacher of Athens,
the " inspired dogmatizer," the " heir
of Plato." Proclus died in 485, and
his chair at Athens was filled by his
foolish biographer Marinus, after
which Neo-Platonism never lifted up
its head.
Between the time when Philon as-
tonished the orthodox money-getting
Hebrews of the Jews' quarter by his
daring adoption of Plato's Logos, and
the day when poor old Proclus his
once handsome and strong frame
wasted by fasting and Pythagorean
austerities died, a drivelling old man,
in sight of the groves of the Academe
and the tomb of Plato, not far from
whom he himself was to lie, many a
busy generation had trodden the halls
of the Museum of Alexandria. All
that time the strife of words had never
ceased, in the lecture-hall, in the gar-
dens of the departed Ptolemies, round
the banquet-table where the professors
were feasted at the state's expense.
All that time the fame of Alexandria
had gathered to her Museum the
young generations that succeeded each
other in the patrician homes and weal-
thy burghs of Syria, Greece, and Italy.
They came in crowds, with their
fathers' money in their purses, to be
made learned by those of whose ex-
ploits report had told so much. Some
came with an earnest purpose. To
the young medical student, the Alex-
andrian school of anatomy and the
Alexandrian diploma (in whatever
shape it was given) not to mention
the opportunity of perusing the works
of the immortal Hippocrates in forty
substantial rolls of papyrus were
worth all the expense of a journey
from Rome or Edessa. To the law-
yer, the splendid collections of laws.,
from those of the Pentateuch to those of
Zamolxis the Scythian, were treasures
only to be found in the library where
the zeal of Demetrius Phalerius and
the munificence of Ptolemy Philadel-
phus had placed them. But the vast
majority of the youth who flocked to
the Museum came with no other pur-
pose than the very general one of fin-
ishing their education and fitting them-
selves for the world. With these, the
agreeable arts of poetry and polite
literature were in far greater request
than law, medicine, astronomy, or
geography. If they could get a sight
of the popular poet of the hour in his
morning meditation under the plane-
trees of the gardens, or could crush
into a place in the theatre when he
recited his new " Ode to the Empress's
Hair ;" or if they attended the lecture
of the most fashionable exponent of
the myths of the Iliad, and clapped
him whenever he introduced an al-
lusion to the divine Plato, it was con-
sidered a very fair morning's work,
and might be fitly rewarded by a
boating party to Canopus in the after-
noon, or a revel far into the night in
any of those thousand palaces of vice
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
37
with which luxurious Alexandria was
so well provided. And yet there is
no doubt that the young men carried
away from their university a certain
education and a certain refinement
an education which, though it taught
them to relish the pleasures of intel-
lect, in no wise disposed them to forego
the enjoyments of sense ; and a refine-
ment which, \sjiile imparting a grace-
ful polish to the mind, was quite com-
patible with the deepest moral deprav-
ity. Pagans as they were, they were
the fairest portion of the whole world,
for intellect, for manliness, for gener-
osity, for wit, for beauty and strength
of mind and body natural gifts that,
like the sun and the rain, are bestowed
upon just and unjust. Their own in-
tercourse with each other taught them
far more than the speculations of any
of the myth-hunting professors of the
Museum. They crowded in to hear
them, they cheered them, they would
dispute and even fight for a favorite
theory that no one understood, with
the doubtful exception of its inventor.
But it was not to be supposed that
they really cared for abysms or mys-
tical mathematics, or that they were
not a great deal more zealous for sup-
pers, and drinking bouts, and boating
parties. These latter employments,
indeed, may be said to have formed
their real education. Greek intellect,
Greek taste, wit, and beauty, in the
sunniest hour of its bloom, mingled
with its like in the grandest city that,
perhaps, the earth has ever seen.
The very harbors, and temples, and
palaces were an education. The first
rounding of the Pharos when the
six-mile semicircle of granite quay
and marble emporia burst on the
view, with the Egyptian sun flashing
from white wall and blue sea, and
glancing and sparkling amidst the dense
picturesque multitude that roared and
surged on the esplanade disclosed a
sight to make the soul grow larger.
The wonderful city itself was a teach-
ing: the assemblage of all that was
best and rarest in old Egyptian art,
and all that was freshest and most
lovely in the art of Greece, left no
corner of a street without its lesson to
the eye. Indoors, there was the Mu-
seum, with its miles of corridors and
galleries, filled with paintings and
sculptures ; outside, the Serapeion, the
Caesareum, the exchange, the palace,
the university itself, each a more ef-
fective instructor than a year's course
in the schools. And after all this
came the library, with its 700,000
volumes !
In the year of our Lord 181, ships
filled the Great Port, merchants con-
gregated in the exchange, sailors and
porters thronged the quays ; crowds
of rich and poor, high and low, flocked
through the streets ; youths poured in
to listen to Ammonius Saccas, and
poured out again to riot and sin ; phi-
losophers talked, Jews made money,
fashionable men took their pleasure,
slaves toiled, citizens bought and sold
and made marriages ; all the forms of
busy life that had their existence
within the circuit of the many-peopled
city were noisily working themselves
out. In the same year, Pantaenus
became the head of the catechetical
school of the patriarchal Church of
Alexandria.
It was the time when those who had
lived and walked with the Apostles
had passed away, and when the third
generation of the Church's rulers was
already growing old. St. Irenseus was
near his glorious end ; St. Eleutherius,
of memory dear to Britain, had just
closed his pontificate by martyrdom,
and St. Victor sat in his place. The
echoes of the voice of Peter had hard-
ly died out in Rome and Antioch ;
the traditions of Paul's bodily pres-
ence were yet living in Asia, in Greece,
and the Islands ; and the sweet odor
of John's life still hung about the
places where his sojourning had been :
many a church of Greece and Egypt
and of the far East had the sepulchre
of its founder, an Apostle or an apos-
tolic man, round which to pray. It
was the age of the persecutions, and
the age of the apologies. In every
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
city that was coming about which from
the first had been inevitable. The
Church was laying hold of human
learning, and setting it to do her own
work. i fixing upon Alexandria as
the spot where, at this period, the con-
test between Christian science and
Gentile learning, Gentile ignorance
and Gentile brute force, was most in-
teresting and most developed, we must
pass by many other Churches, not in
forgetfulness, though in silence. We
must pass by Rome, the capital of the
world, not because there were not
learned men there whom Jesus Christ
had raised up to battle with heathen
philosophy ; for it was but a few years
since Justin Martyr had shed his blood
for the faith, and Apollonius from his
place in the senate had spoken his
" apology" for his fellow Christians.
But the enemies which the Gospel had
to meet at Rome were not so much
the learning and science of the heathen
as his evil passions and vicious life;
and the sword of persecution, at Rome
hardly ever sheathed, kept down all
attempts at regularity or organization
in public teaching. We must pass by
Athens, still the intellectual capital of
the world, not because there were not
at Athens also worthy doctors of the
wisdom of the cross witness, to the
contrary, Athenagoras, the Christian
philosopher, who presented his apolo-
gy to Marcus Aurelius. But Athens,
though at the end of the second cen-
tury and long afterward she was the
mother of orators, poets, and philoso-
phers, seems to have been too thor-
oughly steeped in the sensuous idola-
try of Greece to have harbored a
school of Christianity by the side of the
Porch and the Lyceum. If the same
was true of Athens then as a century
afterward, her smooth-tongued, " bab-
bling" sophists, and her pagan charms,
must have had to answer for the soul
of many a poor Christian youth that
went to seek learning and found per-
dition. We pass by Carthage, in spite
of Tertullian's great name ; Antioch,
notwithstanding Theophilus, whose
labors against the heathen still bore
fruit ; Sardis, in spite of Melito, then
just dead, but living still in men's
mouths by the fame of his learning,
eloquence, and miracles ; and Hierapo-
lis, in spite of Apollinaris, who, like so
many others, approached the emperor
himself with an apology. All over
the Church there were men raised up
by God, and fitted with learning to con-
front learning, patience to instruct ig-
norance, and unflinching fortitude to
endure persecution men in every way
worthy to be the instruments of that
great change which was being wrought
out through the wide world of the
Roman empire.
But at Alexandria, the school of
Christianity existed under interesting
and peculiar conditions . St. Mark had
landed on the granite quay of the
Great Port with Peter's commission ;
he had been martyred, and his succes-
sors had been martyred after him;
and for a long time Christianity here,
as everywhere else, had been contempt-
uously ignored. It spread, however, as
we know. In time, more than one
student, before he attended his lecture
in the splendid halls of the Museum,
had given ear to a far different lesson
in a different school. The Christian
catechetical school of Alexandria is
said to have been founded by St.
Mark himself. If so, it is only what
we might naturally expect ; for wher-
ever heathens were being converted,
there a school of teachers had to be
provided for their instruction ; and we
read of similar institutions at Jerusa-
lem, at Antioch, and at Rome. But
the catechetical school of Alexandria
soon assumed an importance that no
other school of those times ever at-
tained. Whether it was that the in-
fluence of the university gave an im-
petus to regular and methodical teach-
ing, or that the converts in Alexandria
were in great measure from a culti-
vated and intellectual class, it appears
to have been found necessary from the
earliest times to have an efficient
school, with a man of vigor and intel-
lect at its head, capable of maintain-
ing his position even when compared
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
with the professors of the university.
The first of the heads or doctors of the
school of whom history has left any
account, is Pantaenus. Panticnus is
not so well known as his place in
Church history and his influence on
his age would seem to warrant. He
was appointed to his important post
at a time when Christians all over
the world must have been rejoicing.
The fourth persecution was just dying
out. For twenty years, with the ex-
ception of the short interval immedi-
ately after the miracle of the Thun-
dering Legion, had Marcus Aurelius,
imperial philosopher of the Stoic sort,
continued to command or connive at
the butchery of his Christian subjects.
What were the motives that led this
paragon of virtuous pagans to lower
himself to the commonplace practices
of racking, scourging, and burning, is
a question that depends for its answer
upon who the answerer is. Philoso-
phers of a certain class, from Gibbon
to Mr. Mill, are disposed to take a
lenient, if not a laudatory, estimate of
his conduct in this matter, and think
that the emperor could not have
acted otherwise consistently with his
principles and convictions, as handed
down to us in his "Meditations."
Doubtless he had strong convictions on
the subject of Christianity, though it
might be questioned whether he came
honestly by them. But his convictions,
whatever they were, would probably
have ended in the harmless shape
of philosophic contempt, had it not
been for the men by whom he was
surrounded. They were Stoics, of
course, like their master, but their
stoicism was far from confining itself
to convictions and meditations. They
were practical Stoics, of the severest
type which that old-world Puritanism
admitted. As good Stoics, they were
of all philosophers the most conceited,
and took it especially ill that any sect
should presume to rival them in their
private virtues of obstinacy and en-
durance. It is extremely probable that
the fourth persecution, both in its com-
mencement and its revival, was owing
to the good offices of Marcus Aurelius's
solemn-faced favorites. But, whatever
be the blame that attaches to him, he
has answered for it at the same dread
tribunal at which he has answered for
the deification of Faustina and the
education of Commodus.
However, about the year 180, per-
secution ceased at Alexandria, and
the Christians held up their heads and
revived again, after the bitter whiter
through which they had just passed.
Their first thoughts and efforts appear
to have been directed to their school.
The name of Pantaenus was already
celebrated. He was a convert from
paganism, born probably in Sicily, but
certainly brought up in Alexandria.
Curiously enough, he had been a
zealous Stoic, and remained so, in the
Christian sense, after his conversion.
There is no doubt that he was well
known among the Gentile philosophers
of Alexandria. Perhaps he had lec-
tured in the Museum and dined in the
Hall. Probably he had spent many a
day buried in the recesses of the great
libraries, and could give a good account
of not a few of their thousands of vol-
umes. He must have known Justin
Martyr perhaps had something to
say to the conversion of that brilliant
genius, not as a teacher, but as a friend
and fellow-student. He may have come
across Galen, when that lively medical
man was pursuing his researches on
the immortal Hippocrates, or enter-
taining a select circle, in the calm of
the evening, under one of the porticos
of the Heptastadion. No sooner was
he placed at the head of the Christian
school than he inaugurated a great
change, or rather a great development.
Formerly the instruction had been in-
tended solely for converts, that is, cate-
chumens, and the matter of the teach-
ing had corresponded with this object.
Pantgenus changed all this. The ces-
sation of the persecution had, perhaps,
encouraged bolder measures ; men
would think there was no prospect of
another, as men generally think when
a long and difficult trial is over ; so
the Christian schools were to be opened
40
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
to all the world. If Aristotle and
Plato, Epicurus and Zeno, had their
lecturers, should not Jesus Christ have
schools and teachers too ? And what
matter if the Christian doctrine were
somewliat novel and hard was not
Ammonius the Porter, at that very
time, turning the heads of half the
students in the city, and filling his
lecture-room to suffocation, by ex-
pounding transcendental theories about
Plato's Logos, and actually teaching
the doctrine of a Trinity? Shame
upon the Christian name, then, if they
who bear it do not open their doors,
now that danger is past, and break the
true bread to the hungry souls that
eagerly snatch at the stones and dry
sticks that others give ! So thought
Pantsenus. Of his teachings and
writings hardly a trace or a record has
reached us. We know that he wrote
valued commentaries on Holy Scrip-
ture, but no fragment of them remains.
His teaching, however, as might have
been expected, was chiefly oral. He
met the philosophers of Alexandria
on their own ground. He showed
that the fame of learning, the earnest-
ness of character, the vivid personal
influence that were so powerful in the
cause of heathen philosophy, could
be as serviceable to the philosophy
of Christ. The plan was novel in the
Christian world at least, in its sys-
tematic thoroughness. That Pantaenus
had great influence and many worthy
disciples is evident from the fact that
St. Clement of Alexandria, his succes-
sor, was formed in his school, and that
St. Alexander of Jerusalem, the cele-
brated founder of the library which
Eusebius consulted at Jerusalem, writ-
ing half a century afterward to Alex-
andria, speaks with nothing less than
enthusiasm of the " happy memory" of
his old master. If we could pierce the
secrets of those long-past times, what
a stirring scene of reverend wisdom
and youthful enthusiasm would the for-
gotten school of the Sicilian convert
unfold to our sight ! Doubtless, from
amidst the confused jargon of all man-
ner of philosophies, the voice of the
Christian teacher arose with a clear
and distinct utterance ; and the fame
of Panteenus was carried to far coun-
tries by many a noble Roman and
many an accomplished Greek, zealous,
like all true academic sons, for the
glory of their favorite master.
After ten years of such work as this,
Pantaenus vacated his chair, and went
forth as a missionary bishop to con-
vert the Indians. Before passing on
to his successor, a few words on this
Indian mission, apparently so inoppor-
tune for such a man at such a time,
will be interesting, and not unconnect-
ed with the history of the Christian
schools.
In the "many-peopled" city there
were men from all lands and of all
shades of complexion. It was noth-
ing strange, then, that an embassy of
swarthy Indians should have one day
waited on the patriarch and begged
for an apostle to take home with them
to their countrymen. No wonder,
either, that they specified the celebrated
master of the catechisms as their dig-
nissimus. The only wonder is that he
was allowed to go. Yet he went ; he
set out with them, sailed to Canopus,
the Alexandrian Richmond, where the
canal joined the Nile; sailed up the
ancient stream to Koptos, where the
overland route began ; joined the cara-
van that travelled thence, from well
to well, to Berenice, Philadelphus's
harbor on the Red Sea ; embarked,
and, after sailing before the monsoon
for seventy days, arrived at the first
Indian port, probably that which is
now Mangalore, in the presidency of
Bombay. This, in all likelihood, was
the route and the destination of Pan-
teenus. Now those among whom his
missionary labors appear to have lain
were Brahmins, and Brahmins of great
learning and extraordinary strictness
of life. Moreover, there appears to
be no reason to doubt that the Church
founded by St. Thomas still existed,
and even flourished, in these very parts,
though its apostolic founder had been
martyred a hundred years before.
It was not so unreasonable, then, that
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
41
a bishop like Pantasnus should have
been selected for such a Church and
such a people. Let the reader turn
to the story of Robert de' Nobili. and
of John de Britto, whose field of labor
mortalized in history as Clement of
Alexandria. He had sat under Pan-
tamus, but he was no ordinary scholar.
Like his instructor, he was a convert
from paganism. He was already a
extended to within a hundred miles of master in human learning when the
the very spot where Pantaenus prob-
ably landed. St. Francis Xavier had
already found Christians in that region
who bore distinct traces of a former
connection with Alexandria, in the
very points in which they deviated
grace came. He had sought far and
wide for the. truth, and had found it in
the Catholic Church, and into the lap
of his new mother he had poured
all the treasures of Egyptian wisdom
which he had gathered in his quest.
from orthodoxy. De' Nobili's trans- Athens, Southern Italy, Assyria, and
formation of himself into a Brahmin
of the strictest and most learned caste
is well known. He dressed and lived
Palestine had each been visited by
the eager searcher ; and, last of all,
Egypt, and Alexandria, and Pantaanus
as a Brahmin, roused the curiosity of had been the term of his travels, and
his adopted brethren, opened school,
and taught philosophy, inculcating
such practical conclusions as it is un-
necessary to specify. De Britto did
the very same things. If any one
will compare the Brahmins of De
Britto and De' Nobili with those
earlier Brahmins of Pantaanus, as de-
scribed, for instance, by Cave from
Palladius, he will not fail to be struck
with the similarity of accounts ; and
if we might be permitted to fill up the
picture upon these conjectural hints,
we should say that it seems to us very
likely that Pantaenus, during the years
that he was lost to Alexandria, was
expounding and enforcing, in the flow-
ing cotton robes of a venerable Sanias-
tes, the same deep philosophy to
Indian audiences as he had taught to
admiring Greeks in the modest pallium
of a Stoic. Recent missionary experi-
ence has uniformly gone to prove that
deep learning and asceticism are, hu-
manly speaking, absolutely necessary
had given to his lofty soul the "ad-
mirable light" of Jesus Christ. When
Pantaenus went out as a missioner to
India, Clement, who had already as-
sisted his beloved master in the work
of the schools, succeeded him as their
director and head. It was to be Cle-
ment's task to carry on and to develop
the work that Pantaenus had inaugu-
rated to make Christianity not only
understood by the catechumens and
loved by the faithful, but recognized
and respected by the pagan philoso-
phers. Unless we can clearly see the
necessity, or, at least, the reality of
the philosophical side of his character,
and the influences that were at work
to make him hold fast to Aristotle and
Plato, even after he had got far be-
yond them, we shall infallibly set him
down, like his modern biographers, as
a half-converted heathen, with the shell
of Platonism still adhering to him.
It cannot be doubted that in a so-
ciety like that of Alexandria hi its palmy
in order to attempt the conversion of days there were many earnest seekers
Brahmins with any prospect of success :
and the mission of Pantaanus seems at
once to furnish an illustration of this
fact, and to afford an interesting glimpse
of " Christian Missions" in the second
century. But we must return to Alex-
andria.
The name that succeeds Pantaanus
on the rolls of the School of the Cate-
chisms is Titus Flavius Clemens, im-
of the truth, even as Clement himself
had sought it. One might even lay it
down as a normal fact, that it was the
character of an Alexandrian, as dis-
tinguished from an Athenian, to specu-
late for the sake of practising, and not
to spend his time in "either telling
or hearing some new thing." If an
Alexandrian was a Stoic, never was
Stoic more demure or more intent on
warring against his body, after Stoic
42
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
fashion ; if a geometrican, no disciple
of Bacon was ever more assiduous in
experimentalizing, measuring, compar-
ing, and deducing laws ; if a Platon-
ist, then geometry, ethics, poetry, and
everything else, were enthusiastically
pressed into the one great occupation
of life the realizing the ideal and the
getting face to face with the unseen.
That all this earnestness did not uni-
formly result in success was only too
true. Much speculation, great earn-
estness, and no grand objective truth
at the end of it this was often the lot
of the philosophic inquirer of Alexan-
dria. The consequence was that not
unfrequently, disgusted by failure, he
ended by rushing headlong into the
most vicious excesses, or, becoming a
victim to despair, perished by his own
hand. So familiar, indeed, had this
resource of disappointment become to
the philosophic mind, that Hegesias, a
professor in the Museum, a little be-
fore the Christian era, wrote a book
counselling self-murder ; and so many
people actually followed his advice as
to oblige the reigning Ptolemy to turn
Grand Inquisitor even in free-thinking
Egypt, and forbid the circulation of
the book. Yet all this, while it re-
vealed a depth of moral wretchedness
which it is frightful to contemplate,
showed also a certain desperate earn-
estness ; and doubtless there were, even
among those who took refuge in one
or other of these dreadful alternatives,
men who, in their beginnings, had
genuine aspirations after truth, min-
gled with the pride of knowledge and
a mere intellectual curiosity. Doubt-
less, too, there was many a sincere
and guileless soul among the philoso-
phic herd, to whom, humanly speak-
ing, nothing more was wanting than
the preaching of the faith. Their eyes
were open, as far as they could be
without the light of revelation : let
the light shine, and, by the help of
divine grace, they would admit its
beams into their souls.
There are many such, in every form
of error. In Clement's days, especial-
ly, there were many whom Neo-Platon-
ism, the Puseyism of paganism, cast
up from the ocean of unclean error
upon the shores of the Church. Take
the case of Justin Martyr : he was a
young Oriental of noble birth and con-
siderable wealth. In the early part
of the second century, we find him
trying first one school of philosophers
and then another, and abandoning
each in disgust. The Stoics would
talk to him of nothing but virtues and
vices, of regulating the diet and curb-
ing the passions, and keeping the in-
tellect as quiet as possible a conve-
nient way, as experience taught them,
of avoiding trouble; whereas Justin
wanted to hear something of the Ab-
solute Being, and of that Being's deal-
ings with his own soul a kind of
inquiry which the Stoics considered
altogether useless and ridiculous, if
not reprehensible. Leaving the Stoics,
he devoted himself heart and soul
to a sharp Peripatetic, but quarrelled
with him shortly and left him in dis-
gust; the cause of disagreement be-
ing, apparently, a practical theory
entertained by his preceptor on the
subject of fees. He next took to the
disciples of Pythagoras. But with
these he succeeded no better than
with the others ; for the Pythagoreans
reminded him that no one ignorant
of mathematics could be admitted into
their select society. Mathematics, hi
a Pythagorean point of view, included
geometry, astronomy, and music all
those sciences, in fact, in which there
was any scope for those extraordinary
freaks of numbers which delighted the
followers of the old vegetarian. Jus-
tin, having no inclination to undergo a
novitiate in mathematics, abandoned
the Pythagoreans and went elsewhere.
The Platonists were the next who
attracted him. He found no lack of
employment for the highest qualities
of his really noble soul in the lofty
visions of Plato and the sublimated
theories of his disciples and commen-
tators ; though it appears a little sin-
gular that, with his propensities to-
ward the ideal and abstract, he should
have tried so many masters before he
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
43
sat down under Plato. However, be
that as it may, Plato seems to have
satisfied him for a while, and he be-
gan to think he was growing a very
wise man, when these illusions were
rudely dispelled. One day he had
walked down to a lonely spot by the
sea-shore, meditating, probably, some
deep idea, and perhaps declaiming
occasionally some passage of Plato's
Olympian Greek. In his solitary
walk he met an old man, and entered
into conversation with him. The
event of this conversation was that
Justin went home with a wonderfully
reduced estimate of his own wisdom,
and a determination to get to know a
few things about which Plato, on the
old man's showing, had been wofully
in the dark. Justin became a con-
vert to Christianity. Now, Justin had
been at Alexandria, and, whether the
conversation he relates ever really took
place, or is merely an oratorical fiction,
the story is one that represents sub-
stantially what must Tiave happened
over and over again to those who
thronged the university of Alexandria,
wearing the black cloak of the phi-
losopher.
Justin lived and was martyred some
half a century before Clement sat in
the chair of the catechisms. But it
is quite plain that, in such a state of
society, there would not be wanting
many of his class and temperament
who, in Clement's tune, as well as fifty
years before, were in search of the true
philosophy. And we must not forget
that in Alexandria there were actually
thousands of well-born, intellectual
young men from every part of the
Roman empire. To the earnest among
these Clement was, indeed, no ordinary
master. In the first place, he was
their equal by birth and education,
with all the intellectual keenness of
his native Athens, and all the ripeness
and versatility of one who had " seen
many cities of men and their man-
ners." Next, he had himself been a
Gentile, and had gone through all
those phases of the soul that precede
and accompany the process of conver-
sion. If any one knew their difficul-
ties and their sore places, it was he, the
converted philosopher. If any one
was capable of satisfying a generous
mind as to which was the true philoso-
phy, it was he who had travelled the
world over in search of it. He could
tell the swarthy Syrian that it was of
no use to seek the classic regions of
Ionia, for he had tried them, and the
truth was not there ; he could assure
him it was waste of time to go to
Athens, for the Porch and the Garden
were babbling of vain questions he
had listened in them all. He could
calm the ardor of the young Athenian,
his countryman, eager to try the banks
of the Orontes, and to interrogate the
sages of Syria ; for he could tell him
beforehand what they would say. He
could shake his head when the young
Egyptian, fresh from the provincial
luxury of Antinoe, mentioned Magna
Graecia as a mysterious land where
the secret of knowledge was perhaps
in the hands of the descendants of the
Pelasgi. He had tried Tarentum, he
had tried Neapolis ; they were worse
than the Serapeion in unnameable
licentiousness less in earnest than
the votaries that crowded the pleasure-
barges of the Nile at a festival of the
Moon. He had asked, he had tried,
he had tasted. The truth, he could
tell them, was at their doors. It was
elsewhere, too. It was in Neapolis,
in Antioch, in Athens, in Rome; but
they would not find it taught in the
chairs of the schools, nor discussed by
noble frequenters of the baths and the
theatres. He knew it, and he could
tell it to them. And as he added many
a tale of his wanderings and search-
ings many an instance of genius
falling short, of good-will laboring in
the dark, of earnestness painfully at
fault many of those who heard him
would yield themselves up to the vig-
orous thinker whose brow showed both
the capacity and the unwearied ac-
tivity of the soul within. He was the
very man to be made a hero of. What-
ever there was in the circle of Gentile
philosophy he knew. St. Jerome calls
44
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
him the " most learned of the writers
of the Church," and St. Jerome must
have spoken with the sons of those
who had heard him lecture noble
Christian patricians, perchance, whose
fathers had often told them how,
in fervent boyhood, they had been
spell-bound by his words in the Chris-
tian school of Alexandria, or learned
bishops of Palestine, who had heard
of him from Origen at Caesarea or St.
Alexander at Jerusalem. From the
same St. Alexander, who had listened
to Panteenus by his side, we learn that
he was as holy as he was learned ;
and Theodoret, whose school did not
dispose him to admire what came from
the catechetical doctors of Alexandria,
is our authority for saying that his
"eloquence was unsurpassed." In the
fourth edition of Cave's " Apostolici,"
there is a portrait that we would fain
vouch to be genuine. The massive,
earnest face, of the Aristotelian type,
the narrow, perpendicular Grecian
brow, with its corrugations of thought
and care, the venerable flowing beard,
dignifying, but not concealing, the
homely and fatherly mouth, seem to
suggest a man who had made all
science his own, yet who now valued a
little one of Jesus Christ above all
human wisdom and learning. But we
have no record of those features that
were once the cynosure of many eyes
in the " many-peopled" city ; we have
no memorial of the figure that spoke
the truths of the Gospel in the words
of Plato. We know not how he looked,
nor how he sat, when he began with
his favorite master, and showed, with
inexhaustible learning, where he had
caught sight of the truth, and, again,
where his mighty but finite intellect
had failed for want of a more " admir-
able light ;" nor how he kindled when
he had led his hearers through the
vestibule of the old philosophy, and
stood ready to lift the curtain of that
which was at once its consummation
and its annihilation.
But the philosophers of Alexandria,
so-called, were by no means, without
exception, earnest, high-minded, and
well-meaning. Leaving out of the
question the mob of students who came
ostensibly for wisdom, but got only a
very doubtful substitute, and were quite
content with it, we know that the Mu-
seum was the headquarters of an
an ti- Christian philosophy which, in
Clement's time, was in the very spring
of its vigorous development. Exactly
contemporary with him was the cele-
brated Ammonius the Porter, the
teacher of Plotinus, and therefore the
parent of Neo-Platonism. Ammonius
had a very great name and a very
numerous school. That he was a
Christian by birth, there is no doubt ;
and he was probably a Christian still
when he landed at the Great Port and
found employment as a- ship-porter.
History is divided as to his behavior
after his wonderful elevation from the
warehouses to the halls of the Museum.
St. Jerome and Eusebius deny that he
apostatized, while the very question-
able authority of the unscrupulous
Porphyry is the only testimony that
can be adduced on the other side ; but,
even if he continued to be a Christian,
his orthodoxy is rather damaged when
we find him praised by such men as
Plotinus, Longinus, and Hierocles.
Some would cut the knot by asserting
the existence of two Ammoniuses, one
a pagan apostate, the other a Chris-
tian bishop a solution equally con-
tradicted by the witnesses on both
sides. But, whatever Saccas was,
there is no doubt as to what was the
effect of his teaching on, at least, half
of his hearers. If we might hazard a
conjecture, we should say that he ap-
pears to have been a man of g-eat
cleverness, and even genius, but too
much in love with his own brilliancy
and his own speculations not to come
across the ecclesiastical authority in a
more or less direct way. He supplied
many imposing premises which Origen,
representing the sound half of his au-
dience, used for Christian purposes,
whilst Plotinus employed them for re-
vivifying the dead body of paganism.
The brilliant sack-bearer seems to
have been, at the very least, a liberal
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
45
Christian, who was too gentlemanly to
mention so very vulgar a thing as the
Christian "superstition" in the classic
gardens of the palace, or at the serene
banquets of sages in the Symposium.
The question, then, is, How did
Christianity, as a philosophy, stand
in relation to the affluent professors
of Ptolemy's university? That they
had been forced to see there was such
a thing as Christianity, before the time
of which we speak (A.D. 200), it is im-
possible to doubt. It must have dawn-
ed upon the comprehension of the most
imperturbable grammarian and the most
materialist surgeon of the Museum that
a new teaching of some kind was slow-
ly but surely striking root in the many
forms of life that surrounded them.
Rumors must long before have been
heard in the common hall that execu-
tions had taken place of several mem-
bers of a new sect or society, said to
be impious in its tenets and disloyal in
its practice. No doubt the assembled
sages had expended at the time much
intricate quibble and pun, after heavy
Alexandrian fashion, on the subject of
those wretched men ; more especially
when it was s put beyond doubt that no
promises of reward or threats of pun-
ishment had availed to make them
compromise their " opinions " in the
slightest tittle. Then the matter would
die out, to be revived several times in
the same way ; until at last some one
would make inquiries, and would find
that the new sect was not only spread-
ing, but, though composed apparently
of the poor and the humble, was clear-
ly something very different from the
fantastic religions or brutal no-religions
of the Alexandrian mob. It would be
gradually found out, moreover, that
men of name and of parts were in its
ranks; nay, some day of days, that
learned company in the Hall would
miss one of its own number, after the
most reverend the curator had asked
a blessing if ever he did and it
would come out that Professor So-
and-so, learned and austere as he was,
had become a Christian ! And some
would merely wonder, but, that past,
would ask their neighbor, in the equiv-
alent Attic, if there were to be no more
cakes and ale, because he had proved
himself a fool ; others would wonder,
and feel disturbed, and think about
asking a question or two, though not
to the extent of abandoning their seats
at that comfortable board.
The majority, doubtless, at Alexan-
dria as elsewhere, set down Christian-
ity as some new superstition, freshly
imported from the home of all super-
stitions, the East. There were some
who hated it, and pursued it with a
vehemence of malignant lying that can
suggest only one source of inspiration,
that is to say, the father of all lies him-
self. Of this class were Crescens the
Cynic, the prime favorite of Marcus
Aurelius, and Celsns, called the Epi-
curean, but who, in his celebrated
book, written at this very time, appears
as veritable a Platonist as Plotinus
himself. Then, again, there were
others who found no difficulty in re-
cognizing Christianity as a sister phi-
losophy who, in fact, rather welcomed
it as affording fresh material for dia-
lectics good, easy men of routine,
blind enough to the vital questions
which the devil's advocates clearly
saw to be at stake. Galen is pre-emi-
nently a writer who has reflected the
current gossip of the day. He was a
hard student in his youth, and a learn-
ed and even high-minded man in his
maturity, but he frequently shows him-
self in his writings as the "fashionable
physician," with one or two of the
weaknesses of that well-known char-
acter. He spent a long time at Alex-
andria, just before Clement became fa-
mous, studying under Heraclian, con-
sulting the immortal Hippocrates, and
profiting by the celebrated dissecting-
rooms of the Museum, in which, unless
they are belied, the interests of science
were so paramount that they used to
dissect not live horses; but living
slaves. He could not, therefore, fail
to have known how Christianity was
regarded at the Museum. Speaking
of Christians, then, in his works, he
of course retails a good deal of non-
46
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
sense about them, such as we can
imagine him to have exchanged with
the rich gluttons and swollen philoso-
phers whom he had to attend profes-
sionally in Roman society ; but when
he speaks seriously, and of what he
had himself observed, he says, frankly
and honestly, that the Christians de-
served very great praise for sobriety
of life, and for their love of virtue, in
which they equalled or surpassed the
greatest philosophers of the age. So.
thought, in all probability, many of the
learned men of Alexandria.
The Church, on her side, was not
averse to appearing before the Gen-
tiles in the garb of philosophy, and it
was very natural that the Christian
teachers should encourage this idea,
with the aim and hope of gaining ad-
mittance for themselves and their good
tidings into the very heart of pagan
learning. And was not Christianity
a philosophy ? In the truest sense of
the word and, what is more to the
purpose, in the sense of the philoso-
phers of Alexandria it was a philoso-
phy. The narrowed meaning that in
our days is assigned to philosophy, as
distinguished from religion, had no ex-
istence in the days of Clement. Wis-
dom was the wisdom by excellence, the
highest, the ultimate wisdom. What
the Hebrew preacher meant when he
said, " Wisdom is better than all the
most precious things," the same was
intended by the Alexandrian lecturer
when he offered to show his hearers
where wisdom was to be found. It
meant the fruit of the highest specula-
tion, and at the same time the neces-
sary ground of all-important practice.
In our days the child learns at the
altar-rails that its end is to love God,
and serve him, and be happy with him ;
and after many years have passed, the
child, now a man, studies and specu-
lates on the reasons and the bearings
of that short, momentous sentence. In
the old Greek world the intellectual
search came first, and the practical
sentence was the wished-for result.
A system of philosophy was, therefore,
in Clement's time, tantamount to a re-
ligion. It was the case especially with
the learned. Serapis and Isis were all
very well for the " old women and the
sailors," but the laureate and the as-
tronomer royal of the Ptolemies, and
the professors, many and diverse, of
arts and ethics, in the Museum, scarce-
ly took pains to conceal their utter
contempt for the worship of the vul-
gar. Their idols were something more
spiritual, their incense was of a more
ethereal kind. Could they not dispute
about the Absolute Being? and had
they not glimpses of something inde-
finitely above and yet indefinably re-
lated to their own souls, in the Logos
of the divine Plato ? So the Stoic
mortified his flesh for the sake of some
ulterior perfectibility of which he could
give no clear account to himself; the
Epicurean contrived to take his fill of
pleasure, on the maxim that enjoyment
was the end of our being, " and to-
morrow we die ;" the Platonist specu-
lated and pursued his " air-travelling
and cloud-questioning," like Socrates
in the basket, in a vain but tempting
endeavor to see what God was to man
and man to God; the Peripatetic, the
Eclectic, and all the rest, disputed,
scoffed, or dogmatized about many
things, certainly, but, mainly and fin-
ally, on those questions that will uever
lie still: Who are we? and, Who
placed us here ? Philosophy included
religion, and therefore Christianity was
a philosophy.
When Clement, then, told the phi-
losophers of Alexandria that he could
teach them the true philosophy, he was
saying not only what was perfectly
true, but what was perfectly under-
stood by them. The catechetical school
was, and appeared to them, as truly a
philosophical lecture-room as the halls
of the Museum. Clement himself had
been an ardent philosopher, and he
reverently loved his masters, Socrates
and Plato and Aristotle, whilst he had
the feelings of a brother toward the
philosophers of his own day. He be-
came a Christian, and his dearest ob-
ject was to win his brethren to a par-
ticipation in his own good fortune
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
47
He did not burn his philosophical
books and anathematize his masters;
like St. Paul, he availed himself of the
good that was in them and commended
it, and then proclaimed that he had the
key of the treasure which they had
labored to find and had not found.
This explains how it is that, in Clement
of Alexandria, the philosopher's man-
tle seems almost to hide the simple
garb of the Christian. This also ex-
plains why he is called, and indeed
calls himself, an Eclectic in his sys-
tem ; and this marks out the drift and
the aim of the many allusions to phi-
losophy that we find in his extant
works, and in the traditions of his
teaching that have come down to us.
If Christianity was truly called a phi-
losophy, what should we expect in its
champion but that he should be a
philosopher ? Men in these days read
the Stromata, and find that it is, on
the outside, more like Plato than like
Jesus Christ; and thus they make
small account of it, because they can-
not understand its style, or the reason
for its adoption. The grounds of ques-
tions and the forms of thought have
shifted since the days of the catechet-
ical school. But Clement's fellow-
citizens understood him. The thrifty
young Byzantine, for instance, under-
stood him, who had been half-inclined
to join the Stoics, but had come, in his
threadbare pallium, to hear the Chris-
tian teacher, and who was told that
asceticism was very good and com-
mendable, but that the end of it all was
God and the love of God, and that
this end could only be attained by a
Christian. The languid but intellectual
man of fashion understood him, who
had grown sick of the jargon of his
Platonist professors about the perfect
man and the archetypal humanity, and
who now felt his inmost nature stirred
to its depths by the announcement and
description of the Word made flesh.
The learned stranger from Antioch or
Athens, seeking for the truth, under-
stood him, when he said that the Chris-
tian dogma alone could create and per-
fect the true Gnostic or Knower ; he
understood perfectly the importance of
the object, provided the assertion were
true, as it might turn out to be. Un-
less Clement had spoken of asceticism,
of the perfect man, and of the true
Gnostic, his teaching would not have
come home to the self-denying student,
to the thoughtful sage, to the brilliant
youth, to all that was great and gener-
ous and amiable in the huge heathen
society of the crowded city. As it was,
he gained a hearing, and, having done
so, he said to the Alexandrians, " Your
masters in philosophy are great and
noble : I honor them, I admire and
accept them ; but they did not go far
enough, as you all acknowledge. Come
to us, then, and we will show what is
wanting in them. Listen to these old
Hebrew writers whom I will quote to
you. You see that they treated of all
your problems, and had solved the
deepest of them, whilst your fore-
fathers were groping in darkness. All
their light, and much more, is our in-
heritance. The truth, which you seek,
we possess. ' What you worship, with-
out knowing it, that I preach to you/
God's Word has been made flesh has
lived on this earth, the model man, the
absolute man. Come to us, and we
will show you how you may know God
through him, and how through him God
communicates himself to you." But
here he stopped. The " discipline of
the secret" allowed him to go no fur-
ther in public. The listening Chris-
tians knew well what he meant ; his
pagan hearers only surmised that there
was more behind. And was it not
much that Christianity should thus
measure strength and challenge a con-
test with the old Greek civilization on
equal terms, and about those very mat-
ters of intellect and high ethics in which
it especially prided itself?
But the contest, never a friendly
one, save with the dullest and easiest
of the pagan philosophers, very soon
grew to be war to the knife. We have
said that the quiet lovers of literature
among the heathen men of science
were perfectly ready to admit the
Christian philosophy to a fair share
48
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
in the arena of disputation and discus-
sion, looking upon it as being, at worst,
only a foolish system of obtrusive nov-
elties, which might safely be left to
their own insignificancy. But, quite
unexpectedly and startlingly for easy-
going philosophers, Christianity was
found, not merely to claim the pos-
session of truth, but to claim it wholly
and solely. And, what was still more
intolerable, its doctors maintained that
its adoption or rejection was no open
speculative question, but a tremendous
practical matter, involving nothing less
than all morality here and all happi-
ness hereafter; and that the unfortu-
nate philosopher, who, in his lofty
serenity, approved it as right, and
yet followed the wrong, would have
to undergo certain horrors after death,
the bare suggestion of which seemed
an outrage on the dignity of the philo-
sophical character. This was quite
enough for hatred; and the philoso-
phers, as their eyes began to open,
saw that Crescens and Celsus were
right, and accorded their hatred most
freely and heartily.
But Christianity did not stop here.
With the old original schools and their
offshoots it was a recognized principle
that philosophy was only for philoso-
phers ; and this was especially true of
Clement's most influential contempor-
aries, the Neo-Platonists. The vul-
gar had no part in it, in fact could not
come within the sphere of its influence ;
how could they ? How could the sail-
ors, who, after a voyage, went to pay
their vows in the temple of Neptune
on the quay, or the porters who drag-
ged the grain sacks and the hemp
bundles from the tall warehouses to
the holds of Syrian and Greek mer-
chantmen, or the negro slaves who
fanned the brows of the foreign prince,
or the armorers of the Jews' quarter,
or the dark-skinned, bright -eyed
Egyptian women of the Rhacotis
suspected of all evil from thieving
to sorcery, or, more than all, the
drunken revellers and poor harlots
who made night hideous when the
Egyptian moon looked down on the
palaces of the Brucheion how could
any of these find access to the sublime
secrets of Plato or the profound com-
mentaries of his disciples ? Even if
they had come in crowds to the lec-
ture-halls which no one wanted them
to do, or supposed they would do
they could not have been admitted
nor entertained ; for even the honest
occupations of life, the daily labors
necessary in a city of 300,000 free-
men, were incompatible with imbibing
the divine spirit of philosophy. So
the philosophers had nothing to say
to all these. If they had been asked
what would become of such poor
workers and sinners, they would pro-
bably have avoided an answer as best
they could. There were the temples
and Serapis and Isis and the priests
they might go to them. It was certain
that philosophy was not meant for the
vulgar. In fact, philosophy would be
unworthy of a habitation like the Mu-
seum would deserve to have its pen-
sions stopped, its common hall abolish-
ed, and its lecture-rooms shut up if
ever it should condescend to step into
the streets and speak to the herd. It
was, therefore, with a disgust unspeak-
able, and a swiftly-ripening hatred,
that the philosophers saw Christianity
openly proclaiming and practising the
very opposite of all this. True, it had
learned men and respected men in its
ranks, but it loudly declared that its
mission was to the lowly, and the
mean, and the degraded, quite as
much as to the noble, and the rich,
and the virtuous. It maintained that
the true divine philosophy, the source
of joy for the present and hope for the
future, was as much in the power of
the despised bondsman, trembling un-
der the lash, as of the prince-go \ 7 ernor,
or the Cgesar himself, haughtily wield-
ing the insignia of sovereignty. We
know what its pretensions and tenets
were, but it is difficult to realize how
they must have clashed with the no-
tions of intellectual paganism in the
city of Plotinus how the hands that
would have been gladly held out in
friendship, had it come in respectable
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
49
and conventional guise, were shut and
clenched, when they saw in its train
the rough mechanic, the poor maid-
servant, the negro, and the harlot.
There could be no compromise be-
tween two systems such as these.
For a time it might have seemed as
if they could decide their quarrel in
the schools, but the old Serpent and
his chief agents knew better : and so
did Clement and the Christian doctors,
at the very time that they were taking
advantage of fair weather to occupy
every really strong position which the
enemy held. The struggle soon grew
into the deadly hand-to-hand grapple
that ended in leaving the corpse of
paganism on the ground, dead but not
buried, to be gradually trodden out of
sight by a new order of things.
It must not, however, be supposed
that the Christian school of Alexan-
dria was wholly, or even chiefly, em-
ployed in controversy with the schools
of the heathen. The first care of the
Church was, as at all times, the house-
hold of the faith : a care, however, in
the fulfilment of which there is less
that strikes as novel or interesting at
first sight than in that remarkable ag-
gressive movement of which it has
been our object to give some idea.
But even in the Church's household-
working there is much that is both
instructive and interesting, as we get
a glimpse of it in Clement of Alexan-
dria. The Church in Alexandria, as
elsewhere, was made up of men from
every lot and condition of life. There
were officials, civil and military, mer-
chants, shop-keepers, work-people
plain, hard-striving men, husbands,
and fathers of families. In the wake
of the upper thousands followed a long
and wide train the multitude who
compose the middle classes of a great
city ; and it was from their ranks that
the Church was mainly recruited.
They might not feel much interest
in the university, beyond the fact that
its numerous and wealthy students
were a welcome stimulus to trade ;
but still they had moral and intellect-
4
ual natures. They must have craved
for some kind of food for their minds
and hearts, and cannot have been satis-
fied with the dry, unnourishing scraps
that were flung to them by the super-
cilious philosophers. They must have
felt no small content those among
them who had the grace to hearken
to the teachings of Clement when he
told them that the philosophy he taught
was as much for them as for their mas-
ters and their betters. They listened
to him, weighed his words, and ac-
cepted them ; and then a great ques-
tion arose. It was a question that was
being debated and settled at Antioch,
at Rome, and at Athens, no less than
at Alexandria; but at Alexandria it
was Clement who answered it. " We
believe your good tidings," they said ;
" but tell us, must we change our lives
wholly and entirely ? Is everything
that we have been doing so far, and
our fathers have been doing before
us, miserably and radically wrong?"
They had bought and sold ; they had
married and given in marriage ; they
had filled their warehouses and freight-
ed their ships ; they had planted and
builded, and brought up their sons and
daughters. They had loved money,
and the praise of their fellow-men;
they had their fashions and their cus-
toms, old and tune-honored, and so in-
terwoven with their very life as to be
almost identified with it. Some of their
notions and practices the bare an-
nouncement of the Gospel sufficiently
condemned ; and these must go at once.
But where was the line to be drawn ?
Did the Gospel aim at regenerating
the world by forbidding marriage and
laying a ban on human labor; by
making life intolerable with asceti-
cism ; by emptying the streets and the
market-places, and driving men to
Nitria and the frightful rocks of the
Upper Nile ? And what made the
question doubly exciting was the two-
fold fact, first, that in those very days
men and women were continually flee-
ing from home and family, and hiding,
in the desert ; and secondly, that there
were in that very city congregations of
50
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
men calling themselves Christians, who
proclaimed that it was wrong to marry,
and that flesh-meat and wine were sin-
ful indulgences.
The answer that Clement gave to
these questionings is found mainly in
that work of his which is called Ptzda-
ffogus, or "The Teacher." The an-
swer needed was a sharp, a short, and
a decisive one. It needed to be like a
surgical operation rapidly performed,
completed, with nothing further to be
done but to fasten the bandages, and
leave the patient to the consequences,
whatever they might be. Society had
to be reset. We need not repeat for
the thousandth time the fact of the un-
utterable corruptness and rottenness of
the whole pagan world. It was not
that there were wanting certain true
ideas of duty toward the state, the
family, the fellow-citizen : the evil lay
far deeper. It was not good sense that
was wanting ; it was the sense of the
supernatural. " Let us eat and drink,
for to-morrow we die," was the formula
that expressed the code of popular mo-
rality ; and because men could not " eat
and drink" comfortably and luxurious-
ly without some sort of law, order, and
mutual compact, it followed as a neces-
sary consequence that there must be
law, order, and compact. It was not,
therefore, that Clement had merely to
hold up the Gospel and show them its
meaning here and its application there.
He had to shift the very groundwork
of morality, to take up the very foun-
dations of the moral acts that go to
make up life as viewed in the light of
right and wrong. He had to substi-
tute heaven for earth, hereafter for
here, God for self. And he did so
in a fashion not unknown in the Catho-
lic Church since, as indeed it had been
not unknown to St. Paul long before.
He simply held up to them the cruci-
fix. Let any one turn to the com-
mencement of the Pcedagogus, and
he will find a description of what a
teacher ought to be. At the begin-
ning of the second chapter he will
read these words : " My children, our
teacher is like the Father, whose Son
he is ; in whom there is no sin, great
or small, nor any temptation to sin ;
God in the figure of a man, stainless,
obedient to his Father's will ; the
Word, true God, who is in the Father,
who is at the Father's right hand, true
God in the form of a man ; to whom
we must strive with all our might to
make ourselves like." It sounds like
the commencement of a children's re-
treat in one of our modern cities to
hear Clement proclaim so anxiously
that the teacher and model of men is
no other than Jesus, and that we must
all become children, and go and listen
to him and study him ; yet it is a sen-
tence that must have spoken to the
very inmost hearts of all who had a
thought or care for their souls in
Alexandria ; and one can perceive,
in the terms used in the original
Greek, a conscious adaptation of epi-
thets to meet more than one Platonic
difficulty. It was the reconciliation of
the true with the beautiful. The Alex-
andrians, Greek and Egyptian, with
their Greek longings for the beautiful,
and their Egyptian tendings to the
sensible, were- not put off by Clement
with a cold abstraction. A mathema-
tical deity, formed out of lines, rela-
tions, and analogies, such as Neo-
Platonism offered, was well enough
for the lecture-room, but had small
hold upon the heart. Christianity
restored the thrilling sense of a per-
sonal God, which Neo-Platonism de-
stroyed, but for which men still sighed,
though they knew not what they were
sighing for ; and Christianity, by
Clement's mouth, taught that the liv-
ing and lovely life of Jesus was to be
the end and the measure of the life of
all. They were to follow him : " My
angel shall walk before you," is Clem-
ent's own quotation. And having
thus laid down the regenerating prin-
ciple God through Jesus Christ
he descends safely and fearlessly into
details. Minutely and carefully he
handles the problems of life, and sets
them straight by the light of the life of
Jesus.
These details and these directions,
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
51
as left to us by Clement in the Pceda-
gogus, are only what we might antici-
pate from a Christian teacher to his
flock ; and yet they are very interest-
ing, and disclose many facts that are
phers themselves really understood and
practically followed : " Let us eat and
drink !" Again, a navigable river, a
rainless sky, and a climate perhaps the
finest in the world, offered both induce-
full of suggestion to one who reads by ments and facilities for parties of pleas-
the light of the Catholic faith. Who
would not like to hear what Clement
said to the Church of Alexandria about
dress, beauty, feasting, drinking, fur-
niture, conversation, money, theatres,
sleep, labor, and housekeeping ? We
know well that there must have been
ample scope for discourse on all these
topics. The rich Alexandrians, like
the rich Romans, and the rich Corin-
thians, and the rich everywhere, were
fearfully addicted to luxury, and their
poorer neighbors followed their exam-
ple as well as they could. But there
were circumstances peculiar to Alex-
andria that enabled it to outdo the rest
of the world in this matter ; putting
Rome, of course, out of the question.
It was the market for India ; and see-
ing that almost everything in the way
of apparel came from India, Alexan-
dria had the pick of the best that the
world could afford, and seems not to
have been behindhand in taking ad-
vantage of its privilege. Nobody en-
joyed more than the Alexandrian
whether he were a descendant of the
Macedonian who came in with the
Conqueror, or a, parvenu of yesterday
grown great by his wheat-ships or his
silk-bales >to sweep the Heptastadion,
or promenade the Great Quay, or
lounge in the gardens of the Museum,
in what ancient tailors and milliners
would call a synthesis of garments, as
ample, and stiff, and brilliant as Indian
looms could make them. Then, again,
Alexandria was a university town.
Two hundred years of effeminate
Ptolemies and four hundred of wealthy
students had been more than enough
to create a tradition of high, luxurious
living. The conjunction of all that
was to be got for money, with any
amount of money to get it with, had
made Alexandria a model city for car-
rying out the only maxim which the
greater number even of the philoso-
ure and conviviality in general. It is
true the river was only a canal : one
thing was wanting to the perfection
of Alexandria as a site for an empire
city, viz., the Nile ; but that the canal
was a moderate success in the eyes of
the Alexandrians may be inferred from
the fact that Canopus, where it finished
its short course of thirteen or fourteen
miles, and joined the Nile, was a per-
fect city of river-side hotels, to which
the boats brought every day crowds of
pleasure-seekers. Very gay were the
silken and gilded boats, with their
pleasant canopies and soothing music ;
and very gay and brilliant, but not
very reputable, were the groups that
filled them, with their crowns of flow-
ers, their Grecian attitudinizing, and
their ingenious arrangements of fan-
working slaves. This was the popu-
lation which it was Clement's work to
convert to purity and moderation.
It is very common with Clement's
modern critics, when making what our
French allies would call " an appreci-
ation" of him, to set him down as a
solemn trifler. They complain that
they cannot get any "system of
theology" out of his writings ; indeed,
they doubt whether he so much as had
one. They find him use the term
" faith" first in one sense and then in
another, and they are especially of-
fended by his minute instructions on
certain matters pertaining to meat,
drink, and dress. To any one who
considers what Clement intended to do
in his writings, and especially in the
Pcedagogus, there is no difficulty in
seeing an answer to a difficulty like
this. He did not mean to construct a
" system of theology," and therefore it
is no wonder if his critics cannot find
one. He did not even mean to state
the broad, general principles of the
Gospel: his hearers knew these well
enough. What he did mean to do was,
The Clmsiian Schools of Alexandria.
to apply these general rules and prin-
ciples to a variety of cases occurring
in everyday life. And yet, as a mat-
ter of fact, it is to be observed that he
always does lay down broad principles
before entering into details. In the
matter of eating, for instance, regard-
ing which he is very severe in his de-
nunciations, and not without reason,
he takes care to state distinctly the
great Catholic canon of mortification :
"Though all things were made for
man, yet it is not good to use all, nor
at all times." Again, in the midst of
his contemptuous enumeration of an-
cient wines, he does not forget to say,
" You are not robbed of your drink :
it is given to you, and awaits your
hand ;" that which is blamed is excess.
He sums up what he has been saying
against the voluptuous entertainments
then so universal by the following
sentence a novelty, surely, to both
extremes of pagan society in Alexan-
dria " In one word, whatever is natu-
ral to man must not be taken from
him ; but, instead thereof, must be
regulated according to fitting measure
and time."
In deciding whether Clement was a
"solemn trifler," or not, there is
another consideration which must not
be omitted, and that is his sense of the
humorous. It may sound incongruous
when speaking of a Father of the
Church, and much more of a reputed
mystical Father like Clement, but we
think no one can deny that he often
supplements a serious argument by a
little stroke of pleasantry. As many
of his sentences stand, a look or a
smile would lighten them up and make
them sparkle into humor. Paper and
ink cannot carry the tone of the voice
or the glance of the eye, and Clement's
voice has been silent and his eye
dimmed for many a century ; but may
we not imagine that at times something
of archness in the teacher's manner
would impart to his weighty words a
touch of quaintness, and the habitual-
ly thoughtful eye twinkle with a gleam
of pleasantry ? He would be no true
follower of Plato if it were not so.
Who shall say he was not smiling
when he gave out that formal list of
wines, of eatables, and of scents most
affected by the fashionables of those
days ? He concludes an invective
against scandalous feats by condemn-
ing the universal crown of roses as a
" nuisance :" it was damp, it was cold ;
it hindered one from using either his
eyes or his ears properly. He advises
his audience to avoid much curious
carving and ornamenting of bed-posts;
for creeping things, he says, have a
habit of making themselves at home
in the mouldings. He asks if one's
hands cannot be as well washed in a
clay basin as in a silver one. He
wonders how one can dare to put a
plain little loaf on a grand "wing-
footed" table. He cannot see why a
lamp of earthenware will not give as
good a light as one of silver. He al-
ludes with disgust to "hissing frying-
pans," to " spoon and pestle," and even
to the " packed stomachs" of their pro-
prietors ; to Sicilian lampreys, and At-
tican eels ; shell-fish from Capo di
Faro, and Ascrean beet from the foot
of Helicon ; mullet from the Gulf of
Thermae, and pheasants from the
Crimea. We hear him contemptuous-
ly repeat the phrases of connoisseurs
about their wines, the startling variety
of which we know from other sources
besides his writings : he speaks of the
" scented Thasian," the aromatic " Les-
bian," the " sweet wine of Crete," the
"pleasant Syracusan." The articles
of plate which he enumerates to con-
demn would be more than sufficient to
furnish out a modern wedding break-
fast. To scents he gives no quarter.
We have heard a distinguished pro-
fessor of chemistry assert, in a lecture,
that wherever there is scent on the
surface there is sure to be dirt beneath ;
and, from the well-known fact that in
Capua there was one whole street oc-
cupied by perfumers, he could draw
no other inference than that Capua
must have been " a very dirty city."
It would appear that Clement of Al-
exandria was much of this opinion.
He gives a picture of a pompous per-
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
53
sonage in a procession, " going along
marvellously scented, for the purpose
of producing a sensation, and yet un-
derneath as foul as he could be." He
enumerates the absurd varieties of
ointments in fashion, and orders them
to be thrown away. He is indignant
at the saffron-colored scented robe
that the gentlemen wore. He will
have no flowing or trailing vestments ;
no " Attic buskins," no " Persian san-
dals." He complains that the ladies
go and spend the whole day at the
perfumer's, the goldsmith's, and the
milliner's, just as if he were speaking
of " shopping" in the nineteenth cen-
tury, instead of A.D. 200. He blames
the men for frequenting the barbers'
shops, the taverns, and the dicing-
houses. It is amusing in these days
to read of his denunciations of shaving.
He has no patience with " hair-haters :"
a man without the hair that God gave
him is a " base sight." " God attached
such importance to hair," he says,
" that he makes a man come to hair
and sense at the same time." But,
in reality, this vehement attack on the
" smooth men," as he calls them, points
to one of the most flagrant of heathen
immoralities, and reveals in the con-
text a state of things to which we may
not do more than allude. He con-
demns luxury in furniture, from "beds
with silver feet, made of ivory and
adorned with gold and tortoise-shell,"
down to "little table-daggers," that
ancient ladies and gentlemen used in-
differently to their food and to their
slaves. All this is not very deep, but
it is just what Clement wanted to say,
and a great deal more useful in its
place and connection than a " system
of theology." We may add that it is
a great deal more interesting to us,
who know pretty well what Clement's
" system of theology" was, but not so
well what were the faults and failings
of his Christian men and women in
those far-off Alexandrian times.
There is another epithet bestowed
upon Clement, more widely and with
better authority than that of " trifler."
He is called a mystic. He deals in
allegorical interpretations of Holy
Scripture, in fanciful analogies, and
whimsical reasonings ; he was carried
away by the spirit of Neo-Platonism,
and substituted a number of idle myths
for the stern realities of the Gospel.
It is not our business at present to
show, by references, that this accusa-
tion is untrue ; but we may admit at
once that it is not unfounded, and we
maintain that it points to an excellence,
rather than a defect, in his teaching.
From the remarks made just now, the
reader will be prepared to expect that
a teacher in Alexandria in Clement's
days must have been a mystic. It
was simply the fashion ; and a fashion,
in thought and speech, exacts a certain
amount of compliance from those who
think or speak for the good of its fol-
lowers. Neo-Platonism was not ex-
tant in his time as a definite system,
but ever since the days of Pinion its
spirit had been the spirit of the Mu-
seum. Nature, in its beauty and va-
riety, was an allegory of the soul so
said the philosophers, and the crowd
caught it up with eagerness. The
natural philosopher could not lecture
on Aristotle De Animalibus with-
out deducing morals in the style of
JEsop. The moralist, in his turn,
could hardly keep up his class-list
without embodying his Beautiful and
his Good in the eesthetical garb of a
myth the more like Plato, the better.
The mathematician discoursed of num-
bers, of lines, and of angles, but the
interesting part of his lecture was
when he drew the analogy from lines
and numbers to the soul and to God.
Alexandria liked allegory, and be-
lieved, or thought she believed, that
the Seen was always a type of the
Unseen. Such a belief was not un-
natural, and by no means hopelessly
erroneous ; nay, was it not highly use-
ful to a Christian teacher, with the
Bible in his hand, in which he would
really have to show them so many
things, per allcgoriam dicta ? Clement
took up the accustomed tone. Had
he done otherwise, he would have been
strange and old-fashioned, whereas he
54
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
wanted to get the ear of his country-
men, and therefore thought it no harm
to fall in with their humor for the
mythical ; just as good Father Faber
preached and wrote like a modern
Englishman, and not like an antique
Douai controversialist, or a well-mean-
ing translator of " Sermons from the
French." But, say the objectors,
Clement's interpretation of Scripture
is so very forced and unnatural. The
whole subject of allegorical interpreta-
tion of Sacred Scripture is too wide to
be entered upon here; but that the
Bible, especially the Old Testament,
has an allegorical sense, no one de-
nies, and the decision of what is the
true allegorical sense depends more
upon the authority of the teacher than
upon the interpretation itself. In the
time of Clement, when the Gnostics
were attributing the Old Testament to
the Evil Principle, there was a special
necessity for a warm and loving ac-
knowledgment that it was the voice
and the teaching of God to man ; and
it is no wonder, therefore, that he al-
lows himself, with the brilliant fancy
of an Athenian, even if sometimes
with the fantasticalness of an Alexan-
drian, to extract meanings out of the
sacred text which our sober eyes could
never have discovered. As it is, we
owe to his mysticism no small portion
of the eloquence and beauty of his
writings ; we may instance that charm-
ing passage in the P<sdagogus where
he alludes to the incident related in
the twenty-sixth chapter of Genesis
"Abimelech, King of the Palestines,
looking out through a window, saw
Isaac playing with Rebecca his wife."
Isaac represents, the little one of
Christ, and is interpreted to be joy ;
Rebecca is patience ; the royal Abim-
elech signifies heavenly wisdom. The
child of Jesus Christ, joyful with a joy
that none but that blessed teacher can
give, lovingly sports with his " help-
mate," patience, and the wisdom that
is from above looks 0:1 and wonderingly
admires. The beauty of conception
and perfection of form that is insepa-
rable from true Greek art, whether in
a statue or a medal, an epic or an
epigram, is by no means wanting to
the first of the Greek Fathers. A
reader who should take up the Pceda-
gogus for no other than literary reas-
ons would not be disappointed ; he
would receive, from his reading, a very
high idea of the wisdom, the eloquence,
and, above all, the saintly unction of
the great Catholic doctor and philoso-
pher who first made human science
the handmaid of Christian theology.
The witnessing to the truth before
heathen philosophers and the teaching
the children of the faith might have
fully employed both the zeal and the
eloquence of Clement. But there was
another and a sadder use for words,
in the task of resisting the heresies
that seemed to grow like foul excres-
cences from the very growth of the
Church herself. Alexandria, the city
of Neo-Platonism, was also with
nearly as good a title the city of
Gnosticism. To examine the his-
tory of Gnosticism is not a tempting
undertaking. On the one side, it is
like walking into a fog, as dense and
unpleasant as ever marked a London
November ; on the other, it is to dis-
turb a moral cess-pool, proverbially
better left alone. Of the five groups
of the Gnostic family, which seem to
agree in little beside worshipping the
devil, holding to "emanations," and
owing their origin to Simon Magus,
the particular group that made Alex-
andria its headquarters acknowledged
as its leading names Basilides, Valen-
tine, and Mark, each of whom outdid
the other in the absurdity of his ravings
about eons, generations, and the like,
and in the abominableness of his prac-
tical licentiousness. Valentine and
Mark were contemporaries of Clem-
ent, if not personally (Valentine is
said to have died A.D. 150) at least
in their immediate influence. No one
can tell satisfactorily what made these
precious followers of Simon Magus
spend their days in patching up second-
hand systems out of the rags of cast-
off Oriental mysticism. No doubt
their jargon appeared somewhat less
The Christian Schools of Alexandria.
55
unnatural in their own days than it
does in ours. They lived nearer the
times when the wrecks of primeval
revelation and history had been
wrought into a thousand fantastic
shapes on the banks of the Indus, the
Euphrates, and the Nile, and when, in
the absence of the true light, men occu-
pied themselves with the theatrical illu-
minations of Bel, Isis, and Vishnu.
But these Gnostics, in the clear dawn of
the Gospel, still stuck to the fulsome
properties of the devil's play-house.
Unsavory and dishonest, they deserve
neither respect for sincerity nor allow-
ance for originality ; they were mere
spinners of " endless genealogies," and,
with such a fig-leaf apron, they tried
to conceal for a while the rankness of
the flesh that finally made the very
pagans join in hounding them from
the earth. The infamous Mark was
holding his conventicles in Alexandria
about the very time that Panteenus
and Clement were teaching. To read
of his high-flown theories about eons
and emanations, his sham magic, his
familiarity with demons, his impo-
sitions on the weaker sex, and the
frightful licentiousness that was the
sure end of it all, is like reading the
history of the doings of the Egyptian
priests in the Serapeion rather than
of those who called themselves Chris-
tians. And yet these very men, these
deluded Marcosians, gave out to
learned and unlearned Alexandria that
they alone were the true followers of
Christ. We may conceive the heart-
breaking work it would be for Clement
to repel the taunts that their doings
brought upon his name and profession,
and to refute and keep down false
brethren, whose arguments and strength
consisted in an appeal to curiosity
and brute passion. And yet how nobly
he does it, in that picture of the true
Gnostic, or Knower, to which he so
often returns in all his extant works!
But philosophers, faithful, and here-
tics do not exhaust the story of Clem-
c-nt's doing-*. It lends a solemn light
to the memorable history we are not-
ing, to bear in mind that the Church's
intellectual war with Neo-Platonist
and Gnostic was ever and again inter-
rupted by the yells of the blood-thirsty
populace, the dragging of confessors
to prison, and all the hideous appara-
tus of persecution. Which of us would
have had heart to argue with men who
might next day deliver us to the hang-
man ? Who would have found leisure
to write books on abstract philosophy
with such stern concrete realities as
the scourge and the knife waiting
for him in the street? Clement's
master began to teach just as one per-
secution was ceasing; Clement him-
self had to flee from his schools before
the "burden and heat" of another;
these were not times, one would sup-
pose, for science and orderly teaching.
Yet our own English Catholic annals
can, in a manner, furnish parallel cases
in more than one solid book of con-
troversy and deep ascetical tract,
thought out and composed when the
pursuivants were almost at the doors.
So true it is that when the Church's
work demands scientific and written
teaching, science appears and books
are written, though the Gentiles are
raging and the peoples imagining their
vain things.
Here, for the present, we draw to a
close these desultory notes on the Chris-
tian Schools of Alexandria. They
will have served their purpose if they
have but supplied an outline of that
busy intellectual life which is associat-
ed with the names of Pantaenus and
Clement. There is another name that
ought to follow these two the name
of Origen, suggesting another chapter
on Church history that should yield
to none in interest and usefulness.
The mere fact that in old Alexandria,
in the face of hostile science, clogged
and put to shame by pestilent heresies,
ruthlessly chased out of sight ever and
again by brute force in spite of all
this, Catholic science won respect from
its enemies without for a moment neg-
lecting the interests. of its own children,
is a teaching that will never be out of
date, and least of all at a time like
ours, and in a country where learning
56
Jem M-Gowaris Wish.
sneers at revelation, where a thousand
jarring sects invoke the sacred name
of Christ, and where public opinion
the brute force of the modern world,
as the rack and the fagot were of the
ancient never howls so loudly as
when it catches sight of the one true
Church of the living and eternal God.
From The Lamp.
JEM M'GOWAN'S WISH.
" I WISH I were a lord," said Pat
M' Go wan, a lazy young fellow, as he
stretched over his grandmother's turf-
fire a pair of brawny fists that were as
red as the blaze that warmed them.
" You wish to be a lord !" answered
Granny M'Gowan ; " oh, then, a mighty
quare lord you would make ; but, as
long as you live, Pat, never wish again ;
for who knows but you might wish in
the unlucky minute, and that it would
be granted to you ?"
" Faix, then, granny, I just wish I
could have my wish this minute."
"You're a fool, Pat, and have no
more sense in your head than a cracked
egg has a chance of a chicken inside
of it. Maybe you'd never cease re-
penting of your wish if you got it."
" Maybe so, granny, but for all that
Fd like to be a lord. Tell me, granny,
when does the unlucky minute come
that a body may get their wish ?"
"Why, you see, Pat, there is one
particular little bit of a minute of time
in every twenty-four hours that, if a
mortal creature has the unlucky chance
to wish on that instant, his wish,
whether for good or for bad, for life or
death, fortune or misfortune, sickness
or health, for himself or for others, the
wish is granted to him; but seldom
does it turn out for good to the wisher,
because it shows he is not satisfied
with his lot, and it is contrary to what
God in his goodness has laid down for
us all to do and suffer for his sake.
But, Pat, you blackguard, I see you
are laughing at your old granny be-
cause you think I am going to preach
a sermon to you ; but you're mistaken.
I'll tell you what happened to an uncle
of my own, Jem M'Gowan, who got
his wish when he asked for it."
" Got his wish oh, the lucky old
fellow !" cried Pat. " Do, granny, tell
me all about him. Got his wish ! oh,
how I wish I was a lord !"
" Listen to me, Pat, and don't be
getting on with any of your foolish
nonsense. My uncle, Jem M'Gowan,
was then something like yourself, Pat
a strapping, able chap, but one that,
like you too, would sooner be scorch-
ing his shins over the fire than cutting
the turf to make it, and rather watch-
ing the potatoes boiling than digging
them out of the ridge. Instead of
working for a new coat, he would be
wishing some one gave it to him.
When he got up in the morning, he
wished for his breakfast; and when he
had swallowed it, he wished for his
dinner ; and when he had bolted down
his dinner, he began to wish for his
supper; and when he ate his supper,
he wished to be in bed ; and when he
was in bed, he wished to be asleep
in fact, he did nothing from morning to
night but wish, and even in his dreams
I am quite sure he wished to be awake.
Unluclcy for Jem, his cabin was con-
vanient to the great big house of
Squire Kavanagh ; and when Jem
went out in the morning, shivering
with cold, and wishing for a glass -of
whisky to put spirits in him, and he
saw the bedroom windows of Squire
Kavaiiagh closed, and knew that the
squire was lying warm and snug in-
side, he always wished to be Squire
Kavanagh. Then, when he saw the
Jem M'Gowan's Wish.
57
squire driving the horse and the hounds
before him, and he all the while work-
ing in the field, he wished it still more ;
and when he saw him dancing with
the beautiful young ladies and illigant
young gentlemen in the moonlight of
a summer's evening, in front of his
fine hall-door and under the shade of
the old oak-trees, he wished it more
than ever. The squire was always
coming before him ; and so happy a
man did he seem that Jem was al-
ways saying to himself, ' I wish I was
Squire Kavanagh,' from, cockcrow to
sunset, until he at last hit upon the
unfortunate minute in the twenty-four
hours when his wish was to be granted.
He was just after eating his dinner
of fine, mealy potatoes, fresh-churned
buttermilk, and plenty of salt and salt-
butter to relish them, when he stretched
out his two legs, threw up his arms,
and yawned out, 'Oh, dear, I wish I
was Squire Kavanagh !'
"The words were scarce uttered
when he found himself, still yawning,
in the grand parlor of Kavanagh
House, sitting opposite to a table laid
out with china, and a table-cloth, silver
forks, and no end of silver spoons, and
a roaring hot beefsteak before him.
Jem rubbed his eyes and then his
hands with joy, and thought to him-
self, ' By dad, my wish is granted, and
I'll lay in plenty of beefsteak first of
all.' He began cutting away ; but,
before he had finished, he was inter-
rupted by some people coming in. It
was Sir Harry M'Manus, Squire Brien,
and two or three other grand gentle-
men; and says they to him, 'Kava-
nagh, don't you know this is the day
you're to decide your bet for five hun-
dred pounds, that you will leap your
horse over the widest part of the pond
outside ?'
"'Is it me? says Jem. 'Why, I
never leaped a horse in my life !'
"'Bother!' says one; 'you're joking.
You told us yourself that you did it
twenty times, and there's the English
colonel that made the bet with you,
and he'll be saying, if you don't do it,
that the Irish are all braggers ; so, my
dear fellow, it just comes to this you
must either leap the pond or fight me ;
for, relying upon your word, I told the
colonel I saw you do it myself.'
"'I must fight you or leap the pond,
is it ?' answered Jem, trembling from
head to foot.
" ' Certainly, my dear fellow,' re-
plied Sir Harry. 'Either I must
shoot you or see you make the leap ;
so take your choice.'
"'Oh! then, bring out the horse,'
whimpered Jem, who was beginning
to wish he wasn't Squire Kavanagh.
" In a minute afterward, Jem found
himself out in the lawn, opposite a
pond that appeared to him sixty feet
wide at the least. ' Why,' said he,
'you might as well ask me to jump
over the ocean, or give a hop-step-and-
a-leap from Howth to Holyhead, as get
any horse to cross that lake of a pond.'
" ' Come, Kavauagh,' said Sir Hen-
ry, 'no nonsense with us. We know
you can do it if you like ; and now that
you're in for it, you must finish it.'
" ' Faix, you'll finish me, I'm afeerd,'
said Jem, seeing they were in earnest
with him ; ' but what will you do if I'm
drowned ?'
" ' Do ?' says Sir Henry. ' Oh, make
yourself aisy on that account. You
shall have the grandest wake that ever
was seen in the country. We'll bury
you dacently, and we'll all say that the
bouldest horseman now in Ireland is
the late Squire Kavanagh. If that
doesn't satisfy you, there's no pleasing
you ; so bring out the horse immedi-
ately.'
"'Oh! murder, murder!' says Jem
to himself ; ' isn't this a purty thing,
that I must be drowned to make a
great character for a little spalpeen
like Squire Kavanagh? Oh, then, it's
I that wish I was Jem M' Go wan
again ! Going to be drowned like
a rat, or smothered like a blind kitten !
and all for a vagabond I don't care a
straw about. I, that never was on a
horse's back before, to think of leaping
over an ocean ! Bad cess to you,
Squire Kavanagh, for your boastin'
and your wagerin' !'
58
Jem M-Gowarfs Wish.
"Well, a fine, dashing, jumping,
rearing, great big gray horse was led
up by two grooms to Jem's side. 'Oh,
the darling!' said Sir Harry; 'there
he goes ! there's the boy that will win
our bets for us! Clap him at once
upon the horse's back,' says he to the
grooms. The sight left Jem's eyes
the very instant he saw the terrible
gray horse, well known as one of the
most vicious bastes in the entire coun-
try. If he could, he'd have run away,
but fright kept him standing stock-
still; and, before he knew where he
was, he was hoisted into the saddle.
* Now, boys,' roared Sir Harry, ' give
the horse plenty whip, and my life for
it he is over the pond.'
"Jem heard two desperate slashes
made on the flanks of the horse. The
creature rose on his four legs off the
ground, and came down with a soss
that sent Jem up straight from the
saddle like a ball, and down again
with a crack fit to knock him into a
hundred thousand pieces, not one of
them bigger than the buttons of his
waistcoat. ' Murder !' he shrieked ;
' I wish I was Jem M' Go wan back
again !' But there was no use in say-
ing this, for he had already got his
wish. The horse galloped away like
lightning. He felt rising one instant
up as high as the clouds, and the next
he came with a plop into the water,
like a stone that you would make take
a ' dead man's dive.' He remembered
no more till he saw his two kind
friends, Sir Harry M'Manus and Squire
Brien, holding him by the two legs in
the air, and the water pouring from
his mouth, nose, and every stitch of
his clothes, as heavy and as constant
as if it was flowing through a sieve, or
as if he was turned into a watering-
pot.
" ' I'm a dead man/ says he, looking
up in the face of his grand friends as
well as he could, and kicking at the
same time to get loose from them. ' I'm
a dead man ; and, what's worse, I'm a
murdered man by the two of you.'
" ' Bedad, you're anything but that,'
said Sir Harry. ' You're now the
greatest man in the county, for, though
you fell into the pond, the horse leapt
it ; and I have won my bet, for which
I am extremely obliged to you.'
" After shaking the water out of him,
they laid him down on the grass, got a
bottle of whisky, and gave him as much
as he chose of it. Jem's spirits began
to rise a little, and he laughed heartily
when they told him he had won 500
from the English colonel. Jem got
on his legs, and was beginning to walk
about, when who should he see coming
into the demesne but two gentlemen
one dressed like an officer, with under
his arm a square mahogany box, the
other with a great big horsewhip. Jem
rubbed his hands with delight, for he
made sure that the gentleman who car-
ried the box was going to make Squire
Kavanagh that is, himself some
mighty fine present.
" ' Kavanagh/ said Sir Harry, ' you
will want some one to stand by you as
a friend in this business ; would you
wish me to be your friend ?'
" ' In troth, I would,' says Jem. * I
would like you to act as a friend to
me upon all occasions.'
" ' Oh, that's elegant!' said Sir Har-
ry. ( We'll now have rare sport.'
" ' I'm mighty glad to hear it,' Jem
replied, 'for I want a little sport after
all the troubles I had.'
"'Oh, you're a brave fellow/ said
Sir Harry.
" ' To be sure I am/ answered Jem.
'Didn't I leap the gray horsQ over the
big pond ?'
" The gentleman with the box and
whip here came up to Jem and his
friends ; and the whip-gentleman took
off his hat, and says he, ' Might I be
after asking you, is there any one of
the present company Squire Kava-
nagh ?'
" Jem did not like the looks of the
gentleman, and Sir Harry M'Manus
stepped before him, and said 'Yes ; he
is here to the fore. What is your busi-
ness with him ? I am acting as his
friend, and I have a right to ask the
question.'
" ' Then, I'll tell ye what it is/ said
Jem MGowan's Wish.
59
the gentleman. f He insulted my sis-
ter at the Naas races yesterday.'
" ' Faix/ says Jem, * that's a lie !
Sure, I wasn't near Naas races.'
" The word was hardly out of his
mouth when he got a crack of a horse-
whip across the face, that cut, he
thought, his head in two. He caught
hold of the gentleman, and tried to
take the whip out of his hand ; but, in-
stead of the strength of Jem M' Go wan,
he had only the weakness of Squire
Kavanagh, and he was in an instant
collared ; and, in spite of all his kick-
ing and roaring, lathered with the big
whip from the top of his head to the
sole of his foot. The gentleman got at
last a little tired of beating him, and,
flinging him away from him, said
'You and I are now quits about the
lie, but you must give me satisfaction
for insulting my sister.'
" ' Satisfaction !' roared out Jem, as
lie twisted and turned about with the
pain of the beating. ' Beclad, I'll never
be satisfied till every bone in your ugly
body is broken.'
" ' Very well,' said the gentleman.
'My friend, Captain M'Ginnis, is come
prepared for this.'
" Upon that, Jem saw the square
box opened that he thought was filled
with a beautiful present for him ; and
he saw four ugly-looking pistols lying
beside each other, and in one corner
about two dozen of shining bran-new
bullets. Jem's knees knocked together
with fright when he saw Captain
M'Ginnis and Sir Harry priming and
loading the pistols.
" ' Oh ! murder, murder ! this is
worse than the gray horse,' he said.
' Now I am quite sure of being killed
entirely.' So he caught hold of Sir
Harry by the coat, and stuttered out,
* Oh, then, what in the world are ye
going to do with me ?'
" ' Do ?' replied his friend ; * why,
you're going to stand a shot, to be
sure.'
" ' The devil a shot I'll stand,' said
Jem. ' I'll run away this minute.'
" ' Then, by my honor and veracity,
if you do/ replied Sir Harry, ' I'll stop
you with a bullet. My honor is con-
cerned in this business. You asked
me to be your friend, and I'll see you
go through it respectably. You must
either stand your ground like a gentle-
man, or be shot like a dog.'
" Jem heartily wished he was no
longer Squire Kavanagh ; and as they
dragged him up in front of the gentle-
man, and placed them about eight
yards asunder, he thought of the quiet, ,"'^ .
easy life he led before he became a'
grand gentleman. He never while a
laboring boy was ducked in a pond, or
shot like a wild duck. But now he
heard something said about 'making
ready ;' he saw the gentleman raise
his pistol on a level with his head ; he
tried to lift his arm, but it stuck as fast
by his side as if it was glued there.
He saw the wide mouth of the wicked
gentleman's pistol opened at his very
eye, and looking as if it were pasted
up to his face. He could even see the
leaden bullet that was soon to go
skelpin' through his brains ! He saw
the gentleman's finger on the trigger !
His head turned round and round, and
in an agony he cried out ' Oh, I wish
I was Jem M' Go wan back again !'
" ' Jem, you'll lose half your day's
work,' said Ned Maguire, who was
laboring in the same field with him.
' There you've been sleeping ever since
your dinner, while Squire Kavanagh,
that you are always talking about, was
shot a few minutes ago in a duel that
he fought with some strange gentleman
in his own demesne.'
" ' Oh,* said Jem, as soon as he
found that he really wasn't shot, 'I
wouldn't for the wealth of the world
be a gentleman. Better to labor all
day than spend half an hour in the
grandest of company. Faix, I've had
enough and to spare of grand company
and being a gentleman since I have
gone to sleep here in the potato-field ;
and Squire Kavanagh, if he only knew
it, had much more reason, poor man,
to wish he was Jem M'Gowan than I
had to wish I was Squire Kavanagh/
"And ever after that, Pat," con-
60
The Mont Cenis Tunnel.
eluded the old lady, " Jem M'Gowan
went about his work like a man, in-
stead of wasting his time in nonsensical
wishings."
" Thankee, granny," yawned Pat
M' Go wan, as he shuffled off to bed.
" After that long story, I don't think
I'll ever wish to be a lord again."
From Chambers's Journal.
THE MONT CENIS TUNNEL.
THE tunnel through the Alps at
present being pierced to connect the
railway system of France and Italy,
has acquired the title of the " Mont
Cenis Tunnel ;" but its real position
and direction have very little in com-
mon with that well-known Alpine pass.
On examining a chart of the district
which has been selected for this im-
portant undertaking, we shall observe
that the main chain of the Cottian
Alps extends in a direction very near-
ly East and West, and that this portion
of it is bounded on either side by two
roughly parallel valleys. On the North
we have the valley of the Arc, and on
the South the valley of the Dora Ri-
pari, or, more strictly speaking, the
valley of Rochemolles, a branch of
the Dora. The AJC, flowing from East
to West, descends from Lanslebourg to
Modane, and from thence, after joining
the Isere, empties itself into the Rhone
above Valence. The torrent Roche-
molles, on the other hand, flowing from
West to East, unites itself with the
Dora Ripari at Oulx, descends through
a narrow and winding valley to Susa,
and thence along the plain to Turin.
The postal road, leaving St. Michel,
mounts the valley of the Arc as far as
Lanslebourg, then turns suddenly to
the South, passes the heights of the
Mont Cenis, and reaches Susa by a
very steep descent. On mounting the
valley of the Arc, and stopping about
eighteen miles West of Mont Cenis,
and a mile and a half below the Al-
pine village of Modane, we arrive at a
place called Fourneaux. Here, at
about three hundred feet above the
level of the main road, is the Northern
entrance of the tunnel ; the Southern
entrance is at the picturesque village
of Bardonneche, situated at about
twenty miles West of Susa, in the val-
ley of Rochemolles.
The considerations which decided
the Italian engineers upon selecting
this position for the contemplated tun-
nel, were principally the following:
first, it was the shortest route that
could be found ; secondly, the differ-
ence of level between the two extrem-
ities was not too great ; and, thirdly,
the construction of the connecting lines
of railway on the North, from St.
Michel to Fourneaux,and on the South,
from Susa to Bardonngche were, as
mountain railways go, practicable, if
not easy. The idea of a tunnel
through the Alps had long occupied the
minds of engineers and of statesmen
both in France and Italy ; but it is to
the latter country that we must give
the credit of having worked the idea
into a practical shape, and of having
inaugurated one of the most stupend-
ous works ever undertaken by any
people. To pierce a tunnel seven and
a half English miles long, by ordinary
means, through a hard rock, in a posi-
tion where vertical shafts were impos-
sible, would be an exceedingly diffi-
cult, if not, in a practical point of
view, an impossible undertaking, not
only on account of the difficulties of
ventilation, but also on account of the
immense time and consequent expense
which it would entail. It was evident,
The Mont Cenis Tunnel
61
then, that if the project of a tunnel
through the Alps was ever to be real-
ized, some extraordinary and com-
pletely new system of mining must be
adopted, by means of which not only
a rapid and perfect system of ventila-
tion could be insured, enabling the
miners to resume, without danger, their
labors immediately after an explosion,
but which would treble, or at least
double, the amount of work usually
performed in any given time by the
system hitherto adopted in tunnelling
through hard rock. To three Pied-
montese engineers, Messrs. Grandis,
Grattoni, and Sommeiller, is due the
merit of having solved this most diffi-
cult problem ; for whether the opening
of the Alpine tunnel take place in ten
or twenty years, its ultimate success is
now completely assured.
A short review of the history of this
undertaking, and a summary of the
progress made, together with a de-
scription of the works as they are con-
ducted at the present time, derived
from personal observation, cannot fail
to be interesting to English readers.
Early in 1857, at St. Pier d' Arena,
near Genoa, a series of experiments
was undertaken before a select govern-
ment commission, to examine into the
practicability of a project for a me-
chanical perforating-engine, proposed
by Messrs. Grandis, Grattoni, and Som-
meiller, for the more rapid tunnelling
through hard rock, and with a view to
its employment in driving the proposed
shaft through the Alps. This ma-
chine was to be worked by means of
air, highly compressed by hydraulic or
other economical means ; which com-
pressed air, after performing its work
in the perforating or boring machines,
would be an available and powerful
source of ventilation in the tunnel.
These experiments placed so complete-
ly beyond any doubt the practicability
of the proposed system, that, so soon
as August of the same year, the law
permitting the construction of the tun-
nel was promulgated.
At this time, absolutely nothing had
been prepared, with the exception of a
very general project presented by the
proposers, and the model of the ma-
chinery with which the experiments
had been made before the government
commission ; we cannot, therefore, be
much surprised on finding that' $ome
considerable time elapsed before f the
new machinery came into su^Qessful*
operation, the more particularly when
we consider the entire novelty - df : the
system, and the unusual difficulties na-
turally attending the first starting of
such large works, in districts so wild
and uncongenial as those of Four-
neaux and Bardonne^he. Fourneaux
was but a collection of mountain-huts,
containing about four hundred inhabi-
tants, entirely deprived of every means
of supporting the wants of any in-
crease of population, and where out-
side-work could not be carried on for
more than six months in the year,
owing to its ungenial climaHj?" Nor
was the case very different at Bardon-
neche, a small Alpine village, situated
at more than thirteen hundred metres
(4,225 feet) above the level of the sea,
and populated by about one thousand
inhabitants, who lived upon the pro-
duce of their small patches of earth,
and the rearing of sheep and goats,
and with their only road of communi-
cation with the outer world in a most
wretched and deplorable condition.
Under these circumstances, we can
imagine that the task of bringing to-
gether large numbers of workmen,
and their competent directing staff,
must have been by no means easy ;
and that the first work of the direc-
tion, although of a nature really most
arduous and tedious (requiring, above
all, time and patience), was also of a
nature that could scarcely render its
effects very apparent to the world at
large for some considerable time.
Again, it was necessary in this time to
make the detailed studies not only of
the tunnel itself, but of the compress-
ing and perforating machinery on the
large scale proposed to be used. This
machinery had to be made and trans-
ported through a country abounding in
difficulties. Then, as might be ex-
62
The Mont Cents Tunnel.
pected, actual trials showed serious de-
fects in the new machines for the com-
pression of air ; and, in perfecting the
mechanical perforators, unexpected dif-
ficulties were encountered, which often
threatened to prove insurmountable.
The total inexperience and unskilful-
ness of the workmen, and the necessi-
ty of giving to them the most tedious
instruction; accidents of most dis-
heartening and discouraging kinds
all tended to delay the successful ap-
plication of the new system.
The first important work to be un-
dertaken was the tracing or setting out
of the centre line of the proposed tun-
nel. It was necessary first to fix on
the summit of the mountain a number
of points, in a direct line, which should
pass through the two points chosen, or
rather necessitated by the conditions
of the locality, for the two ends of the
tunnel in the respective valleys of the
Arc and of Rochemolles ; secondly,
to determine the exact distance be-
tween these two ends ; and thirdly, to
know the precise difference of level
between the same points. These op-
erations commenced toward the end
of August, 1857. Starting from the
Northern entrance at Fourneaux, a
line was set out roughly in the direc-
tion of Bardonneche, which line was
found to cut the valley of Rochemolles
at a point considerably above the pro-
posed Southern entrance of the tunnel.
On measuring this distance, however, a
second and corrected line could be
traced, which was found to be very
nearly correct. Correcting this second
line in the same manner, always de-
parting from the North end, a third line
was found to pass exactly through
the two proposed and given points.
The highest point of this line was
found to be very nearly at an equal
distance from each end of the tunnel,
and at but a short distance below the
true summit of the mountain-point,
called the Grand Vallon." The line
thus approximately determined, it was
necessary to fix definitely and exactly
three principal stations or observato-
riesone on the highest or culminat-
ing point of the mountain, perpendic-
ularly over the axis of the tunnel ;
and the other two in a line with each
entrance, in such a manner that, from
the centre observatory, both the others
could be observed. At the Southern
end, owing to the convenient conform-
ation of the mountain, the observatory
could be established at a point not
very far from the mouth of the tunnel ;
but toward the North, several project-
ing points or counterforts on the moun-
tain necessitated the carrying of the
Northern observatory to a very consid-
erable distance beyond the entrance of
the gallery not, however, so far as
not to be discerned clearly and dis-
tinctly, and without oscillation, by the
very powerful and excellent instru-
ment employed. These three points
permanently established, remain as a
check for those intervening, and serve
as the base of the operations for the
periodical testing of the accuracy of
the line of excavation.
The first rough tracing out of the
line was completed before the winter
of the year 1857, and it was consid-
ered sufficiently correct to permit the
commencement of the tunnel at each
end by the ordinary means manual
labor. In the autumn of 1858, the
corrected line was traced, and the ob-
servatories definitely fixed, and all
other necessary geodetic operations
completed. Contemporaneously was
undertaken a careful levelling be-
tween the two ends, taken along the
narrow path of the Colle di Frejus,
and bench-marks were established at
intervals along the whole line. All
the data necessary for an exact profile
of the work were now obtained. The
exact length of the future tunnel was
found to be twelve thousand two hun-
dred and twenty metres, or about seven
and a half English miles ; and Ihe dif-
ference of level between the two
mouths was ascertained to be two hun-
dred and forty metres, or seven hun-
dred and eighty feet, the Southern or
Bardonneche end being the highest.
Under these circumstances, it would
have been easy to have established a
The Mont Cenis Tunnel
63
single gradient from Bardonneche
down to Fourneaux of about two
centimetres per metre that is, of about
one in fifty. But a little reflection
will show, that in working both ends of
the gallery at once, in order to effect
the proper drainage of the tunnel, it
would be necessary to establish two
gradients, each inclining toward the
respective mouths, and meeting in some
point in the middle. This, in fact, has
been done, and the two hundred and
forty metres' difference of level has
been distributed in the following
manner : From Bardonnche, the gra-
dient mounts at the rate of 0.50 per
one thousand metres that is, one in
two thousand as far as the middle of
the gallery ; here it descends toward
Fourneaux with a gradient of 22.20
metres per one thousand, or about one
in forty-five. The highest point of the
Grand Vallon perpendicularly over
the axis of the tunnel is 1615.8 metres,
or 5251.31 feet.
The difficulties encountered in the
carrying out of these various geodetic
operations can scarcely be exagge-
rated. It is true that nothing is more
easy than to picket out a straight line
on the ground, or to measure an angle
correctly with a theodolite ; but if we
consider the aspect of the locality in
which these operations had to be con-
ducted, repeated over and over again,
and tested in every available manner
with the most minute accuracy, we
shall be quite ready to accord our
share of praise and admiration to the
perseverance which successfully car-
ried out the undertaking. In these
regions, the sun, fogs, snow, and terrific
winds succeed each other with truly
marvellous rapidity, the distant points
become obscured by clouds, perhaps
at the very moment when an important
sight is to be taken, causing most vex-
atious delays, and often necessitating a
recommencement of the whole opera-
tion. These delays may in some cases
extend for days, and even weeks. To
these inconveniences add the necessity
of mounting and descending daily with
delicate instruments from three thou-
sand to four thousand feet over
rocks and rugged mountain-paths, the
time occupied in sending from one
point to another, and the difficulty of
planting pickets on elevated positions
often almost inaccessible. All these
inconveniences considered, and we must
admit the unusual difficulties of a series
of operations which, under other cir-
cumstances, would have offered noth-
ing peculiarly remarkable.
As has already been pointed out,
the excavation of the gallery at both
ends had already been in operation,
by ordinary means, since the latter
part of the year 1857 ; this work con-
tinued without interruption until the
machinery was ready ; and the prog-
ress made in that time affords a val-
uable standard by which to measure
the effect of the new machinery. In
the interval between the end of 1857
and that to which we have now ar-
rived, namely, the end of 1858, many
important works had been pushed for-
ward. At Bardonneche, the commu-
nications had been opened, and bridges
and roads constructed for facilitating
the transport of the heavy machinery.
Houses for the accommodation of the
workmen had been rapidly springing
up, together with the vast edifices for
the various magazines and offices. The
canal, more than a mile and a half in
length, for conveying water to the air-
compressing machines, was construct-
ed, and the little Alpine village had
become the centre of life and activity.
At Fourneaux, works of a similar
character had been put in motion;
only here the transport of the water
for the compressors was more costly
and difficult, the water being at a low
level. At first, a current derived from
the Arc was used to raise water to the
required height, but afterward it was
found necessary to establish powerful
forcing-pumps, new in their details,
which are worked by huge water-
wheels driven by the Arc itself. Early
in the month of June, 1859, the first
erection of the compressing machinery
was commenced at Bardonneche. The
badness of the season, however, and
64
The Mont Oenis Tunnel
the Italian campaign of this year, de-
layed the rapid progress, and even
caused a temporary suspension of this
work. The results obtained by the
experiments which had previously
been made on a small scale at St.
Pier d' Arena, failed completely in sup-
1 lying the data necessary to insure a
practical success to the first applica-
tions of the new system ; numberless
modifications, both in the compressing-
engines and in the perforating-ma-
chines, were found necessary ; and
several months were consumed in ex-
perimenting with, modifying, and im-
proving the huge machinery ; so that
it was not before the 10th of Novem-
ber, 1860, that five compressors were
successfully and satisfactorily at work.
On the 12th, however, two of the large
conducting-pipes burst, and caused a
considerable amount of damage, with-
out causing, however, any loss of life.
This accident revealed one or two very
serious defects in the manner of work-
ing the valves of the engine ; and in
order to provide against the possibility
of future accidents of the same na-
ture, further most extensive modifica-
tions were undertaken.
By the beginning of January, 1861,
the five compressors were again at
work; and on the 12th of this month
the boring-engine was introduced for
the first time into the tunnel. Very
little useful result was, however, ob-
tained for a long and anxious period,
beyond continually exposing defects
and imperfections in the perforators.
The pipes conducting the compressed
air from the compress Ing-machines to
the gallery gave at first continued
trouble and annoyance ; soon, however,
a very perfect system of joints was
established, and this source of difficulty
was completely removed. After much
labor and patience, and little by little,
the perforating-machines became im-
proved and perfected, as is always the
case in any perfectly new mechanical
contrivance having any great assem-
blage of parts. Actual practice forced
into daylight those numberless little
defects which theory only too easily
overlooks ; but there was no lack of
perseverance and ingenuity on the
part of the directing engineers ; one
by one the obstacles were met, encoun-
tered, and eventually overcome, and
the machines at last arrived at the
state of precision and perfection at
which they may be seen to-day. About
the month of May, 1861, the work
was suspended for about a month, in
consequence of a derangement in the
canal supplying water to the compress-
ors ; and it was considered necessary
to construct a large reservoir on the
flank of the mountain, to act as a de-
posit for the impurities contained in
the water, and which often caused
serious in convenience in the compress-
ors. In the whole of the first year,
1861, the number of working days was
two hundred and nine, and the advance
made was but one hundred and seven-
ty metres (five hundred and fifty feet),
or about eighteen inches per day of
twenty-four hours, an amount less than
might have been done by manual
labor in the same time. In the year
1862, however, in the three hundred
and twenty-five days of actual work,
the advance made was raised to three
hundred and eighty metres (one thou-
sand two hundred and thirty-five feet),
giving a mean advance of 1*17 metres,
or about three feet nine inches per day.
In the year 1863, the length done
(always referring to the South or Bar-
donneahe side) was raised to above
four hundred metres; and no doubt
this year a still greater progress will
have been made.
At the Fourneaux or Northern end
of the tunnel owing to increased dif-
ficulties peculiar to the locality the
perforation of the gallery was much
delayed. A totally different system of
mechanism for the compression of air
was necessitated ; and it was not be-
fore the 25th of January, 1863, that
the boring-machine was in successful
operation on this side, or two years
later than at Bardonneslie. The ex-
perience, however, gained at this latter
place, and the transfer of a few skilful
workmen, soon raised the advance
The Mont Cenis Tunnel.
65
made per day to an amount equivalent
to that effected at the Southern en-
trance. Thus, on the South side
(omitting the first year, 1861) since
the beginning of 1862, and on the
North side since the beginning of 1863,
the new system of mechanical tunnel-
ling may be said to have been in regu-
lar and successful operation.
In the beginning of September of
this year were completed in all three
thousand five hundred and seventy
metres of gallery. From this we de-
duct sixteen hundred metres done by
manual labor, leaving, for the work
done by the machines, a length of
nineteen hundred and seventy metres.
From this we can make a further de-
duction of the one hundred and seventy
metres executed in the first year of
experiment and trial at Bardonneche,
so that we have eighteen hundred
metres in length excavated by the
machines in a time dating from the
beginning of 1862 at the South end,
and from the beginning of 1863 at the
North end of the tunnel. Thus, up to
the month of September, 1864, we
have in all four j'ears and six months ;
and eighteen hundred metres divided
by 4*5 gives us four hundred metres as
the rate of progress per year at each
side, or in total, eight hundred metres
per year. Basing our calculation,
then, on this rate, we find that the
eight thousand six hundred and fifty
metres yet to be excavated will re-
quire about ten and a half more years ;
so that we may look forward to the
opening of the Mont Cenis tunnel at
about the year 1875. The directing
engineers, who have given good proof
of competency and skill, are, however,
of opinion that this period may be
considerably reduced, unless some
totally unlooked-for obstacles are met
with in the interior of the mountain.
As has been indicated above, sixteen
hundred metres in length of the tun-
nel was completed by manual labor
before the introduction of the mechani-
cal boring-engines, in a period of five
years at the North and three years at
the South side, equal to four years at
5
each end ; and eight hundred metres
in four years gives us two hundred
metres per year, or just one-half exca-
vated by the machine in the same
period.
In using the machines, up to the
present time, a perfect ventilation of
the tunnel has been secured by the
compressed air escaping from the ex-
haust of the boring-engines ; or by
jets of air expressly impinged into the
lower end of the gallery to clear out
rapidly the smoke and vapor formed
by the explosion of the mine. It
should be remembered, moreover, that
in working a gallery of this kind,
where vertical shafts are impossible,
by manual labor, a powerful and costly
air-compressing apparatus would have
been necessary for the ventilation of
the tunnel alone, so that the economy
of the system, as applied at the Mont
Cenis over the general system of tun-
nelling in hard rock, is evident. I pro-
pose, in the second portion of this
article, to give a short description of
the machinery employed and the sys-
tem of working adopted, both at the
South and North ends of the Mont
Cenis gallery.
ii.
Travellers who are given to pedes-
trian exercises may easily visit the
works being carried on for the per-
foration of the tunnel through the
Alps, both at Bardonneche and at
Modane, passing from one mouth of
the tunnel to the other by the Colle
di Frejus ; and in fine weather, the
tourist would not repent the eight
hours spent in walking from Bar-
donneche to Susa a distance of about
twenty-five miles. The road descends
the valley of the Dora Ripari, and
abounds in beautiful scenery. The
raihvay to be constructed along this
narrow defile will be found to tax
the skill of the engineer as much
as any road yet attempted. Its
total length, from the terminus at
Susa to the mouth of the Mont
Cenis tunnel, will be forty kilome-
66
The Mont Cenis Tunnel.
tres, or about twenty-four miles ; and
the difference of level between these
two points is about two thousand five
hundred feet, the line having a maxi-
mum gradient of one in forty, and a
minimum of one in eighty -four. There
will be three tunnels of importance,
having a total length of about ten
thousand feet; three others of lesser
dimensions, having a total length of
five thousand five hundred feet; and
twelve other small tunnels, of lengths
varying from two hundred and twenty
to eight hundred and fifty feet, their
total length being five thousand four
hundred feet. Thus, the total length
of tunnel on these twenty-four miles
of railway will be nearly twenty-one
thousand feet, or about four miles
just one-sixth of the whole line. There
will also be several examples of bridges
and retaining walls of unusual dimen-
sions.
The works being carried on at Bar-
donneche are on a larger scale than
at Modane ; so we will, with our read-
ers' permission, suppose ourselves ar-
rived in company at the former place,
and the first point which we will visit
together will be the large house con-
taining the air-compressing machinery.
Before entering, however, we will throw
a glance at the exterior of the building.
We find before us, as it were, two
houses, in a direct line one with the
other one situated at the foot of a
steep ascent ; and the other at about
seventy or eighty feet above it, on the
side of the mountain. These two houses
are, however, but one, being joined by
ten rows of inclined arch-work. Along
the summit of each row of arches is a
large iron pipe, more than a foot in
diameter. These ten pipes, inclined
at an angle of about forty-five degrees,
come out of the side of the upper house,
and enter the side of the lower house,
and serve to conduct the water from
the large reservoir above to the air-
compressing machinery, which is ar-
ranged in the house below, exerting
in this machinery the pressure of a
column of water eighty-four feet six
inches in height. On entering the
compression-room, we have before us
ten compressing-machines, precisely
the same in all their parts five on
the right hand, and five on the left,
forming, as it were, two groups of five
each. In the centre of these two
groups are two machines, in every
respect like a couple of small steam-
engines, only they are worked by com-
pressed air instead of steam, and which
we will call aereomotori. Each of these
aereomotori imparts a rotary motion to
a horizontal axis extending along the
whole length of the room, and on
which are a series of cams, which
regulate the movements of the valves
of the great compressors. This axis
we will call the "main shaft." One
group of five compressors is totally in-
dependent of the other, and has its ae-
reomotore with its main shaft ; but still,
with one single aereomotore, by means
of a simple connecting apparatus, it is
possible to work one or the other
group separately, or both together;
also, any number of the ten compress-
ors can be disconnected for repairs
without affecting the action of the rest,
or may be injured without conveying
any injury to the others. In front of
each of the ten compressors are placed
cylindrical recipients, in every respect
like large steam-boilers, except that
they have no fire-grate or flues, each
having a capacity of seventeen cubic
metres, or five hundred and eighty-
three cubic feet. These recipients are
put into communication one with the
other by means of a tube similar to
a steam-pipe connecting a series of
steam-boilers ; and each connection is
furnished with a stop-valve, so that
any one recipient can be isolated from
the rest.
Let us now examine the end and
action of this machinery. As the
aereomotori which work the valves
of the machines for forcing air into
the recipients are themselves worked
by compressed air coming from the
recipients, it is evident that before we
can put the compressing-machines in
motion, we must have already some
supply of compressed air in the cylin-
The Mont Cenis Tunnel
67
drical vessels. This supply of air,
compressed to a pressure of six at-
mospheres, is obtained in the follow-
ing manner : Each group of five re-
cipients, filled with air at the ordinary
atmospheric pressure, is put in com-
munication with a large pipe which
enters into a cistern placed in the
side of the mountain at about one
hundred and sixty-two feet above the
floor of the compressing-room. The
first operation, then, is to open the
equilibrium valves placed at the bot-
tom of the two pipes (one from each
group of recipients) ; water then rushes
into the vessels, compressing the ordi-
nary air therein contained to about a
pressure of six atmospheres. A com-
munication is now opened between this
compressed air and the cylinders of
the aereomotori, which commence their
action precisely as a steam-engine
would do on the admission of steam ;
a rotary motion is given to the main
shaft ; and the equilibrium valves,
placed in chambers at the bottom of
each of the ten pipes coming from the
cistern of water placed in the house
above, are opened. We will observe
the operation in one of the ten lines
of action, as it were, consisting of the
pipe conducting the water from the cis-
tern, the compressing-machine, and the
cylindrical recipient. The equilibrium
valve at the bottom of the pipe being
opened in the manner above explained,
the water, with its head of eighty-four
feet six inches, rushes past it, along
a short length of horizontal pipe (in
which is an exhaust valve, now closed),
and begins to mount a vertical column
or tube of cast-iron about ten feet high
and two feet in diameter : the air in
this column undergoes compression
until it has reached a pressure suffi-
cient to force open a valve in a pipe
issuing from the summit of the tube,
and connecting it with the recipient.
This valve being already weighted
with the pressure of the air com-
pressed to six atmospheres by the
means previously explained, a cer-
tain quantity of air is thus forced
into the vessel; at this moment, an*
other revolution of the main shaft
causes the equilibrium valve* at the
bottom of the conducting-pipe to be
shut, and at the same time opens the
exhaust valve at the foot of the verti-
cal column. The head of water being
now cut off, and the exhaust open, the
water in the vertical column begins to
sink by its own gravity, leaving a
vacuum behind it, if it were not for
a small clack-valve opening inward
in the upper part of the compressing
column, which opens by the external
pressure of the air, so that by the time
all the water has passed out of the
exhaust valve, the compressor is again
full of atmospheric air ; the valve in
connection with the recipient being
closed by the compressed air impris-
oned in the vessel. The aereomotori
continue their motion, another revolu-
tion of the main shaft shuts the ex-
haust and opens the equilibrium or
admission valve ; the column of water
is again permitted to act, and the same
action is repeated, more air being forced
into the recipient at each round or pul-
sation of the machine. Now, supposing
no consumption of the compressed air
to take place beyond that used for
driving the aereomotori, it seems evi-
dent that the water in the vessels
would be gradually forced out, owing
to the growing pressure of the air in-
side, above the pressure of the column
of water coming from the higher cis-
tern ; but the communication with this
higher cistern is always kept open, the
column of water acting, in fact, as a
sort of moderator or governor to the
compressing-machine, rising or falling
according to the consumption of the
compressed air, and always insuring
that there shall be a pressure of six
atmospheres acting against the valve
at the summit of the vertical column.
A water-tube placed on the outside
of each group of recipients, with a
graduated scale marked on it, indicates
at a glance the consumption of air. If
the perforating-machines in the tunnel
cease working, the pressure augments
in the recipients, and the water in them
falls until an equilibrium is established,
68
The Mont Cenis Tunnel.
between the pressure of the column
of water and the force of the com-
pressors, until, in fact, these work with-
out being able to lift the valve at the
summit of the vertical compressing
column. On the other hand, if more
air than usual be used for ventilating
the tunnel, or by an accidental leakage
in the conducting-pipes, the water rises
rapidly in the recipients, and conse-
quently in the water-gauge outside,
and in thus creating an equilibrium,
indicates the state of things. By this
means a continual compensation of
pressure is kept up, which prevents any
shock on the valves, and causes the
machine to work with the regularity
and uniformity of a steam-engine pro-
vided with a governor. In every turn
of the main shaft, a complete circle of
effects take place in the compressors;
and experience has shown that three
turns a minute of the shaft that is,
three pulsations of the compressing-
machine per minute are sufficient. It
will thus be seen that a column of
water, having the great velocity due to
a head of eighty-four feet six inches,
acts upon a column of air contained
in a vertical tube ; the effect of this
velocity being to inject, as it were, a
certain quantity of air into a recipient
at each upward stroke of the column,
and at each downward stroke drawing
in after it an equivalent quantity of
atmospheric air as a fresh supply. The
ten recipients charged with air com-
pressed to six atmospheres (ninety
pounds on the square inch) in the man-
ner above explained, serve as a reser-
voir of the force required for working
the boring-engines in the tunnel, and
for ventilating and purifying the gal-
lery. The air is conducted in pipes
about eight inches in diameter, having
a thickness of metal of about three-
eighths of an inch. Much doubt had
previously been expressed as to the
possibility of conveying compressed
air to great distances without a very
great and serious loss of power. The
experience gained, however, at the
Mont Cenis has shown that, conveyed
to a distance of thirteen English miles,
the loss would be but one-tenth of the
original force ; and that the actual
measured loss of power in a distance
of six thousand five hundred feet, a
little more than a mile and a quarter,
was less than 1-1 2 7th of the original
pressure in the recipients.
The mouth of the tunnel is but a
few hundred yards from the air-com-
pressing house we will now proceed
thither. For nearly a mile in length
the gallery is completed and lined with
masonry. At the first view, we are
struck with the bold outline of its sec-
tion and its ample dimensions. Ex-
cepting, perhaps, the passage of an
occasional railway-truck, laden with
pieces of rock and rubbish, we find
nothing to remind us of the numbers
of busy workmen and of the powerful
machines which are laboring in the
tunnel. All is perfectly quiet and
solitary. Looking around us as we
traverse this first and completed por-
tion, we observe nothing very different
from an ordinary railway-tunnel, with
the exception of the great iron pipe
which conveys the compressed air, and
is attached to the side of the wall. At
the end of about a quarter of an hour
we begin to hear sounds of activity,
and little lights flickering in the dis-
tance indicate that we are approaching
the scene of operations. In a few
moments we reach the second division
of the tunnel, or that part which is
being enlarged from the comparatively
small section made by the perforating-
machine to its full dimensions, pre-
viously to being lined with masonry.
In those portions where the workmen
are engaged in the somewhat dan-
gerous operation of detaching large
blocks of stone from the roof, the tun-
nel is protected by a ceiling of mas-
sive beams, under which the visitor
passes not, however, without hur-
rying his pace and experiencing a
feeling of satisfaction when the dis-
tance is completed. Gradually leav-
ing behind us the bee-like crowd
of busy miners, with the eternal ring
of their boring-bars against the hard
rock, we find the excavated gallery
The Mont Cenis Tunnel.
69
getting smaller and smaller, and the
difficulties of picking our way in-
creasing at every step ; the sounds be-
hind us get fainter and fainter, and in
a short time we are again in the midst
of a profound solitude.
The little gallery in which we are
now stumbling our way over blocks of
stone and rubbish, only varied by long
tracts of thick slush and pools of
water, is the section excavated by the
boring-machine in dimension about
twelve feet broad by eight feet high.
The tramway which has accompanied
us all the way is still continued along
this small section. In the middle por-
tion underneath the rails is the canal,
inclined toward the mouth of the tun-
nel, for carrying off the water ; and in
this canal are now collected the pipes
for conveying the compressed air to
the machines, and the gas for illumin-
ating the gallery. At the end of a few
minutes, a rattling, jingling sound in-
dicates that we are near the end of
our excursion, and that we are ap-
proaching the perforating-machines.
On arriving, we find that nearly the
whole of the little gallery is taken up
by the engine, the frame of which,
mounted upon wheels, rests upon the
main tramway, so that the whole can
be moved backward or forward as
necessary. On examining the arrange-
ment a little closely, we find that in
reality we have before us nine or ten
perforators, completely independent of
one another, all mounted on one frame,
and each capable of movement in any
direction. Attached to every one of
them are two flexible tubes, one for
conveying the compressed air, and the
other the water which is injected at
every blow or stroke of the tool into
the hole, for the purpose of clearing
out the debris and for cooling the
point of the "jumper." In front,
directed against the rock, are nine or
ten tubes (according to the number of
perforators), very similar in appear-
ance to large gun-barrels, out of which
are discharged with great rapidity an
equal number of boring-bars or jump-
ers. Motion is given to these jumpers
by the direct admission of a blast of
compressed air behind them, the re-
turn stroke being effected by a some-
what slighter pressure of air than was
used to drive them forward. We will
suppose the machine brought up for
the commencement of an attack. The
points most convenient for the boring
of the holes having been selected, the
nine or ten perforators, as the case
may be, are carefully adjusted in front
of them. The compressed air is then
admitted, and the boring of the holes
commences. On an average, at the end
of about three-quarters of an hour, the
nine or ten holes are pierced to a depth
of two feet to two feet six inches. An-
other ten holes are then commenced,
and so on, until about eighty holes
are pierced. The greater number of
these holes are driven toward the cen-
tre of the point of attack, and the rest
round the perimeter. The driving of
these eighty holes to an average depth
of two feet three inches, is usually
completed in about seven hours, and the
second operation is then commenced.
The flexible tubes conveying the
compressed air and the water are de-
tached from the machines, and placed
in security in the covered canal. The
perforating-machine, mounted on its
frame or truck, is drawn back on the
tramway behind two massive folding-
doors of wood. Miners then advance
and charge the holes in the centre with
powder, and adjust the matches ; fire
is given, and the miners retire behind
the folding-doors, which are closed.
The explosion opens a breach in the
centre part of the front of attack.
Powerful jets of compressed air are
now injected, to clear off the smoke
formed by the powder. As soon as
the gallery is clear, the other holes
in the perimeter are charged and
fired, and more air is injected. Then
comes the third operation. Gangs of
workmen advance and clear away the
debris and blocks of stone detached
by the explosion of the mine, in little
wagons running on a pair of rails
placed by the side of the main tram-
way. This done, the main line is pro-
70
The Mont Cenis Tunnel.
longed to the requisite distance, and
the perforating engine is again brought
forward for a fresh attack. Thus, we
have three distinct operations first,
the mechanical perforation of the holes ;
secondly, the charging and explosion
of the mine ; and thirdly, the clearing
away of the debris. By careful regis-
ters kept since the commencement of
the work, it is found that the mean
duration of each successive operation
is as follows : for the perforation of
the holes, seven hours thirty-nine min-
utes ; for the charging and explosion
of the mine, three hours twenty-nine
minutes ; for the clearing away of the
debris, two hours thirty-three minutes ;
or, in all, nearly fourteen hours. Oc-
casionally, however, the three opera-
tions may be completed in ten hours,
all depending upon the hardness of the
rock. It has been found practically
more expeditious to make two series of
operations in twenty-four hours.
Whatever may be the nature of the
rock, if it is very hard, the depth of
the holes is reduced ; that is, the per-
foration is only continued for a certain
given time about six and a half hours
which, for the eighty holes with ten
perforaters, gives us about three-quar-
ters of an hour for each hole. The
rock is generally of calcareous schist,
crystallized, and exceedingly hard,
traversed by thick veins of quartz,
which often break the points of the
boring-tools after a few blows. Each
jumper gives about three blows per
second, and makes one-eighteenth of a
revolution on its axis at each blow, or
one complete revolution every six sec-
onds. Thus, in the three-quarters of
an hour necessary to drive a single
hole to the depth of twenty-seven
inches, we have four hundred and fifty
revolutions of the bar, and eighteen
hundred violent blows given by the
point against the hard rock, and that
under an impulse of about one hundred
and eighty pounds. These figures
will give us some idea of the wear and
tear of the perforating-machines. It is
calculated that on an average one per-
fo rating-machine is worn out for every
six metres of gallery, so that more than
two thousand will be consumed before
the completion of the tunnel. The
total length completed at the Bardon-
neche side at the present time is just
two thousand three hundred metres,
or nearly a mile and a half.
At the north or Modane end, the
mechanical perforators are precisely
the same as at Bardonneche, as also is
the system of working in the gallery.
The machinery for the compression of
air, however, is very different, more
simple, and in every way an improve-
ment upon that at the South end. Not
finding any convenient means of obtain-
ing a head of eighty-four feet of water
sufficient in quantity for working a
series of compressors, as at Bardon-
ne"che, there has been established at
Modane a system of direct compres-
sion, the necessary force for which
is derived from the current of the
Arc. Six large water-wheels moved
by this current give a reciprocating
motion to a piston contained in a large
horizontal cylinder of cast iron. This
piston, having a column of water on
each side of it, raises and lowers al-
ternately these two columns, in two
vertical tubes about ten feet high,
compressing the air in each tube alter-
nately, and forcing a certain quantity,
at each upward stroke of the water,
to enter into a cylindrical recipient.
There is very little loss of water in
this machine, which in its action is
very like a large double-barreled com-
mon air-pump. It is a question open
to science whether the employment of
compressed air for driving the perfor-
ating engines in a work such as is in
operation at the Mont Cenis, could not
be advantageously and economically
exchanged for the employment of a
direct hydraulic motive force, the ven-
tilation of the tunnel being provided
for by other means. The system, how-
ever, employed at Modane has many
advantages, which it is impossible to
overlook, and its complete success has
given a marked and decided impulse
to the modern science of tunnelling
through hard rock.
Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom.
71
Translated from tho Civilta Cattolica.
ON THE UNITY OF TYPE IN THE ANIMAL KINGDOM.
The generation of a human creature
takes place neither by the development
of a being which is found in the germ,
sketched as it were like a miniature,
nor by a sudden formation or an in-
stantaneous transition from potential
to actual existence. It is effected by
the true production of a new being,
which pre-exists only virtually in the
activity of the germ communicated by
the conceiver, and the successive trans-
formation of the potential subject.
This truth, an a priori postulate of
philosophy, and demonstrated by phys-
iology a posteriori, was illustrated by
us in a preceding dkrticle. Here we
must discard an error which has sprung
from this truth. For there have been
materialists who maintained that there
was but one type in the whole animal
kingdom, that is, man, as he unites in
himself in the highest possible degree
perfection of organism and delicacy of
feelings ; and that all the species of infe-
rior animals were so many stages in the
development of that most perfect type.
This opinion is thus expressed by
Milne-Edwards in his highly esteemed
lectures on the Physiology and Com-
parative Anatomy of Man and Ani-
mals :
" Every organized being undergoes
in its development deep and various
modifications. The character of the
anatomical structure, no less than its
vital faculties, changes as it passes
from the state of embryo to that of a
perfect animal in its own species. Now
all the animals which are derived from
the same type move during a certain
time in the same embryonic road, and
resemble each other in that process of
organization during a certain period
of time, the longer as their zoological
relationship is closer; afterward they
deviate from the common road and
each acquires the properties belong-
ing to it. Those that are to have a
more perfect structure proceed further
than those whose organization is com-
pleted at less cost. It results from
this that the transitory or embryonic
state of a superior animal resembles,
in a more or. less wonderful manner,
the permanent state of another animal
lower hi the same zoological series.
Some authors have thought right to
conclude from this that the diversity
of species proceeds from a series of
stages of this kind taking place at dif-
ferent degrees of the embryonic devel-
opment ; and these writers, falling into
the exaggerations to which imitators
are especially liable, have held that
every superior animal, in order to
reach its definitive form, must pass
through the series of the proper forms
of animals which are its inferiors in
the zoological hierarchy; so that man,
for instance^ before he is born, is at
first a kind of worm, then a mollusk,
then a fish, or something like it, be-
fore he can assume the characters be-
longing to his species. An eminent
professor has recently expressed these
views in a concise form, saying that
the embryology of the most perfect
being is a comparative transitory anat-
omy, and that the anatomic table of
the whole animal kingdom is a fixed
and permanent representation of the
movable aspect of human organoge-
ny."
Thus, according to this opinion, man
is the only type of animal life ; and
every inferior species is but an im-
itation, more or less perfect, of the
same; an inchoation stopped in its
course at a greater or shorter distance
from the term to which the work of
nature tends in its organization of
the human embryo. In short, an en-
72
Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom.
toma in difetto, to use the language of
Dante.
The doctrine is not new in the
scientific world. It was proclaimed
in the last century by Robinet, who
held that all inferior beings are but
so many proofs or sketches upon which
nature practises in order to learn how
to form man. In the beginning of the
present century Lamarck, in Germany,
following Kielmayer, reproduced the
same theory. According to him all
the species of animals inferior to man
are but so many lower steps at which
the human embryo stops in its gradual
development. Man, on the contrary,
is the last term reached by nature
after she has travelled all through
the zoological scale, to fit herself for
that work. About the same time the
celebrated naturalist, Stephen Geof-
froy Saint Hilaire, began to dissemi-
nate in France analogous ideas under
the name of stages of development
(arret de developpement) ; and these
ideas, exaggerated by some of his dis-
ciples, amounted in their minds to
the same doctrine of Lamarck, just
alluded to. Among them Professor
Serres holds the first rank, and it is
to him that Milne-Edwards alludes in
the passage just cited. He expresses
himself thus :
" Human organogeny is a compara-
tive transitory anatomy, as compara-
tive anatomy is the fixed and perma-
nent state of the organogeny of man ;
and, on the contrary, if we reverse the
proposition, or method of investiga-
tion, and study animal life from the
lowest to the highest, instead of con-
sidering it from the highest to the
lowest, we shall see that the organ-
isms of the series reproduce incessant-
ly those of the embryos, and fix them-
selves in that state which for animals
becomes the term of their develop-
ment. The long series of changes of
form presented by the same organ-
ism in comparative anatomy is but
the reproduction of the numerous series
of transformations to which this or-
ganism is subjected in the embryo in
the course of its development. In the
embryo the passage is rapid, in virtue
of the power of the life which ani-
mates it ; in the animal the life of the
organism is exhausted, and it stops
there, because it is not permitted to
follow the course traced for the human
embryo. Distinct stages on the one
hand, progressive advance on the
other, here is the secret of develop-
ment, the fundamental difference which
the human mind can perceive between
comparative anatomy and organogeny.
The annual series thus considered in
its organisms is but a long chain of
embryos which succeed each other
gradually and at intervals, reaching
at last man, who thus finds his physi-
cal development in comparative or-
ganogeny."
Thus speaks Serres. And in an-
other place :
"The whole animal kingdom ap-
pears only like one animal in the
course of formation in the different
organisms. It stops here sooner, there
later, and thus at the time of each in-
terruption determines, by the state in
which it then is, the distinctive and
organized characters of classes, fami-
lies, genera, and species."
ii.
THIS OPINION REFUTED BY PHILOSO-
PHICAL REASONS.
The futility of the above doctrine is
manifest, in the first place, from the
weakness of the foundation on which
it rests. That foundation is no other
than a kind of likeness which appears
at first sight between the rudimental
forms which, in the first steps of its
development, are assumed by the hu-
man embryo, and the forms of some
inferior animals. For the germ, by
the very reason that it has not, as it
was once believed, all the organism of
the human body in microscopic pro-
portions, but in order to acquire it
must pass from potential to actual
existence by that very reason, is
Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom.
73
subjected to continual metamorphoses,
that is, to successive transformations,
which give it different aspects, from
that of a little disc to the perfect hu-
mah figure. Now, it is clear that,
in this gradual transition from the
mere power to the act of perfect or-
ganization, a kind of analogy or like-
ness to some of the numberless forms
of inferior organizations of the animal
kingdom may, and must, be fonud in
its intermediate and incomplete state.
But, evidently, between analogy and
identity there is an immense difference ;
and the fact of there being an analogy
with some of those forms, gives us no
right to infer that there is one with all.
Hence this theory is justly despised by
the most celebrated naturalists as the
whim of an extravagant fancy.
" According to Lamarck," says Fre*-
dault, in speaking of this, theory, " all
the animals are but inferior grades at
which the human germ stopped in its
development, and man is but the re-
sult of the last efforts of a nature which
has passed successively through the
grades of its novitiate, and has arrived
at the last term of its perfection. Pre-
sented in this view, the doctrine of
epigenesis raised against itself the most
simple and scientific common sense, as
being manifestly erroneous. Numer-
ous works on the development of the
germ have demonstrated that appear-
ances were taken for realities, and
that imagination had created a real
romance. It has been proved that if,
at certain epochs of its development,
the human germ has a distant resem-
blance either to a worm or a reptile,
such resemblance is very remote, and
that on this point we must believe
as much as we would believe of the
assertion of a man who, looking at the
clouds, should say that he could dis-
cover the palaces and gardens of Ar-
mida, with horsemen and armies, and
all that a heated imagination might
fancy."
However, laying aside all that, the
opinion which we are now examining
originates, with those who uphold it, in
a total absence of philosophical con-
ceptions. That strange idea of the
unity of type and of its stages, in order
to establish the forms of inferior ani-
mals, would never have risen in the
mind of any one who had duly consid-
ered the immutability of essences and
the reasci of the formation of a thing.
The act of making differs from the
thing made only as the means differs
from the end. Both belong to the
same order one implies movement,
the other rest. Their difference lies
only in this : that what in the term is
unfolded and complete, in its progress
toward the term is found to be only
sketched out, and having a tendency
to formation. Hence it follows that,
whatever the point of view from which
we consider the embryo of each ani-
mal, it is nothing else but the total
organism of the same in the course of
formation ; and, therefore, it differs as
substantially from every other organ-
ism as the term itself toward which it
proceeds. And what we affirm of the
whole organism must be said of each
of its parts, which are essentially re-
lated to the whole and follow the na-
ture of the whole. The first rudi-
ments, for instance, of the hands of
man could not properly be compared
to the wings of a bird. As they are
hands after being made, so they are
hands in the process of formation ; as
their structure is different, so is their
being immutable.
Whatever may be the likeness be-
tween the first appearances of the hu-
man embryo and the forms of lower
animals, they are not the effect of a
stable existence, but of a transitory
and shifting existence, which does not
constitute a species, but is merely and
essentially a movement toward the
formation of the species. On the con-
trary, the forms presented by animals
already constituted in their being be-
long to a stable and permanent exist-
ence, which diversifies one species from
another. The difference, then, be-
tween the former and the latter is in-
terior and substantial, and cannot be
changed into exterior and accidental,
as it would be if it consisted in stop-
74
Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom.
ping or in travelling further on. The
movement or tendency which takes
place in the germ to become another
thing until the said germ assumes a
perfect organization relative to the be-
ing it must produce, is not a quality
which can be discarded, since it is in-
timately combined with the subject it-
self in which it is found. The essence
itself must be changed in it in order to
obtain stability and consistency. But
if the essence be changed, we are out
of the question, since in that case we
should have, not the human embryo
arrested at this or that stage on its
road, but a different being substituted
for it; of analogous exterior appear-
ance, perhaps, but substantially differ-
ent, which would constitute an annual
of inferior degree.
In short, each animal is circumscribed
in its own species, like every other being
in nature. If to reach to the perfec-
tion required by its independent exist-
ence it needs development, every step
in that journey is an inchoation of the
next, and cannot exist but as such.
To change its nature and to make it a
permanent being, is as impossible as
to change one essence into another.
Again : From the opinion we are re-
futing it would follow that all animals,
man excepted, are so many monsters,
since they are nothing else but de-
viations, for want of ulterior develop-
ment, from what nature really intends
to do as a term of its action. Thus
anomaly is converted into law, disor-
der into order, an accidental case into
a constant fact.
Finally, in that hypothesis we should
have to affirm not only that the infe-
rior and more imperfect species ap-
peared on earth before the nobler and
the more akin to the unique and per-
fect type, but also that on the appear-
ance of a more perfect species the pre-
ceding one had disappeared ; being in-
ferior in the scale of perfection. For
what other reason could be alleged for
nature's stopping at a bird when it in-
tends to make a man, but that the
causes are not properly disposed, or
that circumstances are not quite favor-
able to the production of that perfect
animal? Then when the causes are
ready, and the circumstances propi-
tious, it is necessary that man be fash-
ioned and that the bird disappear.
Now all that is contrary to experience.
For all the species, together with the
type, are of the same date, and we see
them born constantly in the same cir-
cumstances which are common to all,
either of temperature or atmosphere
or latitude, etc.
The theory, then, of the unity of
type in the animal kingdom and of
stages of development falls to the
ground, if we only look at it from a
philosophical point of view.
in.
IT IS EEFUTED BY PHYSIOLOGICAL
REASONS.
However, physiological arguments
have more force in this matter
than the philosophical ; since they
are more closely connected with the
subject, and have in their favor the
tangible evidence of fact.
We shall take our arguments from
three celebrated naturalists as the rep-
resentatives of an immense number,
whom want of space forbids us to
quote.
Flourens shows the error of that
opinion by referring to the diversity
of the nervous system. The nervous
system is the foundation of the ani-
mal organism ; it is the general instru-
ment of vital functions, of sensation,
and of motion. If then one archetyp-
al idea presides over the formation of
the different organisms, only one ner-
vous system ought to appear in each,
more or less developed or arrested.
But experience teaches us the contra-
ry. It shows nervous systems differ-
ing in different animals ordained to
different functions, each perfect in its
kind. " Is there a unity of type ?"
asks this celebrated naturalist. "To
say that there is but one type is
to say that there is but one form of
Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom.
75
nervous system ; because the form of
the nervous system determines the
type ; that is, it determines the general
form of the animal. Now, can we
affirm that there is but one form of
nervous system ? Can we hold that the
nervous system of the zoophyte is th.e
same as that of the mollusk, and this
latter the same as that of the articula-
ta, or this again the same as that of the
vertebrata? And if we cannot say that
there is only one nervous system, can
we affirm that there is only one type ?"
He speaks likewise of the unity of
plan. Every creature is built differ-
ently, and the difference is especially
striking between members of the sev-
eral grand divisions of the animal
kingdom. The plan then of each is
different, and so is the typical idea
which prescribes its formation. No
animal can then be considered as the
proof or outline of another.
" Is there a unity of plan ? The plan
is the relative location of the parts.
One can conceive very well the unity
of plan without the unity of number ;
for it is sufficient that all the parts,
whatever their number may be, keep
always relatively to each other the
same place. But can one say that the
vertebrate animal, whose nervous
system is placed above the digestive
canal, is fashioned after the same plan
as the mollusk, whose digestive canal
is placed above the nervous system?
Can one say that the crustacean,
whose heart is placed above the spinal
marrow, is fashioned after the same
pattern as the vertebrate, whose spinal
marrow is placed above the heart?
Is the relative location of the parts
maintained ? On the contrary, is it not
overthrown ? And if there is a change
in the location of parts, how is there a
unity of plan ?"
Miiller draws nearer to the con-
sideration of the development of the
human embryo, and forcibly illustrates
the falsehood of the pretended theory.
" It is not long since it was held with
great seriousness that the human
foetus, before reaching its perfect state,
travels successively though the differ-
ent degrees of development which
are permanent during the whole life
of animals of inferior classes. That
hypothesis has not the least foundation,
as Baer has shown. The human em-
bryo never resembles a radiate, or an
insect, or a mollusk, or a worm. The
plan of formation of those animals
is quite different from that of the
vertebrate. Man then might at most
resemble these last, since he himself
is a vertebrate, and his organization is
fashioned after the common type of
this great division of the animal king-
dom. But he does not even resemble
at one time a fish, at another a reptile,
a bird, etc. The analogy is no greater
between him and a reptile or a bird,
than it is between all vertebrate
animals. During the first stages of
their formation, all the embryos of
vertebrate animals present merely
the simplest and most general delin-
eations of the type of a vertebrate ;
hence it is that they resemble each
other so much as to render it very
difficult to distinguish them. The fish,
the reptile, the bird, the mammal, and
man are at first the simplest expression
of a type common to all; but hi pro-
portion as they grow, the general re-
semblance becomes fainter and fainter,
and their extremities, for instance, after
being alike for a certain time, assume
the characters of wings, of hands, of
feet, etc."
Mr. Milne-Edwards takes the same
view of embryonic generation:
" I agree with Geoffrey Saint Hilaire,
that often a great analogy is observed
between the final state of certain parts
of the bodies of some inferior animals,
and the embryonic state of the same
parts of other animals belonging to
the same type the organism of which
is further developed, and with the
same philosopher, I call the cause of
the state of permanent inferiority ar-
rests of development. But I am far
from thinking with some of his dis-
ciples that the embryo of man or of
mammals exhibits in its different de-
grees of formation the species of the
less perfect of animate creation. No ! a
76
Domine, Quo Vadis?
mollusk or an annelid is not the embryo
of a mammal, arrested in its organic
development, any more than the mam-
mal is a kind of fish perfected. Each
animal carries within itself, from the
very origin, the beginning of its speci-
fic individuality, and the development
of its organism, in conformity to the
general outline of the plan of struc-
ture proper to its species, is always a
condition of its existence. There is
never a complete likeness between an
adult animal and the embryo of an-
other, between one of its organs and
the transitory state of the same in the
course of formation ; and the multiplic-
ity of the products of creation could
never be explained by a similar trans-
mutation of species. We shall see
hereafter, that in every zoological
group composed of animals which
seem to be derived from a common
fundamental type, the different species
do not exhibit at first any marked dif-
ference, but soon begin to be marked
by various particularities of construc-
ture always growing and numerous.
Thus each species acquires a character
of its own, which distinguishes it from
all others in the way of development,
and each of its organs becomes differ-
ent from the analogous part of every
other embryo. But the changes which
the organs and the whole being un-
dergo after they have deviated from
the common genesiac form, are gen-
erally speaking the less considerable
in proportion as the animal is destined
to receive a less perfect organism, and
consequently they retain a kind of re-
semblance to those transitory forms."
Reason then and experience, theory
and fact, philosophy and physiology,
agree in protesting against the arbi-
trary doctrine of the unity of type in
the animal kingdom ; a doctrine which
has its origin in an absence of sound
scientific notions and a superficial ob-
servation of the phenomena of nature.
Through the former defect men failed
to consider that if the end of each
animal species is different, different
also must be its being, and therefore
a different type must preside as a rule
and supreme law over the formation
of the being. By the latter, some
very slight and partial analogies have
been mistaken for identity and univer-
sality, and mere appearances have
been assumed as realities.
From Blackwood's Magazine.
DOMINE, QUO VADIS?*
BY P. S. WORSLEY.
THERE stands in the old Appian Way,
Two miles without the Roman wall,
A little ancient church, and grey :
Long may it moulder not nor fall !
There hangs a legend on the name
One reverential thought may claim.
'Tis written of that fiery time,
When all the angered evil powers
Leagued against Christ for wrath and crime,
How Peter left the accursed towers,
* See Mrs. Jameson's "Sacred and Legendary Art," p. 180.
Domine, Quo Vadis? 77
Passing from out the guilty street,
And shook the red dust from his feet.
Sole pilgrim else in that lone road,
Suddenly he was 'ware of one
Who toiled beneath a weary load,
Bare-headed, in the heating sun,
Pale with long watches, and forespent
With harm and evil accident.
Under a cross his weak limbs bow,
Scarcely his sinking strength avails.
A crown of thorns is on his brow,
And in his hands the print of nails.
So friendless and alone in shame,
One like the Man of Sorrows came.
Read in her eyes who gave thee birth
That loving, tender, sad rebuke ;
Then learn no mother on this earth,
How dear soever, shaped a look
So sweet, so sad, so pure as now
Came from beneath that holy brow.
And deeply Peter's heart it pierced;
Once had he seen that look before ;
And even now, as at the first,
It touched, it smote him to the core.
Bowing his head, no word save three
He spoke " Quo vadis, Domine V
Then, as he looked up from the ground,
His Saviour made him answer due
" My son, to Rome I go, thorn-crowned,
There to be crucified anew ;
Since he to whom I gave my sheep
Leaves them for other men to keep."
Then the saint's eyes grew dim with tears.
He knelt, his Master's feet to kiss
" I vexed my heart with faithless fears ;
Pardon thy servant, Lord, for this."
Then rising up but none was there
No voice, no sound, in earth or air.
Straightway his footsteps he retraced,
As one who hath a work to do.
Back through the gates he passed with haste,
Silent, alone and full in view ;
And lay forsaken, save of One,
In dungeon deep ere set of sun.
Then he who once, apart from ill,
Nor taught the depth of human tears,
78
Constance Sherwood.
Girded himself and walked at will,
As one rejoicing in the years,
Girded of others, scorned and slain,
Passed heavenward through the gates of pain.
If any bear a heart within,
Well may these walls be more than stone,
And breathe of peace and pardoned sin
To him who grieveth all alone.
Return, faint heart, and strive thy strife ;
Fight, conquer, grasp the crown of life.
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
CHAPTER I.
I HAD not thought to write the story
of my life ; but the wishes of those
who have at all times more right to
command than occasion to entreat
aught at my hands, have in a man-
ner compelled me thereunto. The di-
vers trials and the unlooked-for com-
forts which have come to my lot during
the years that I have been tossed to
and fro on this uneasy sea the world
have wrought in my soul an ex-
ceeding sense of the goodness of God,
and an insight into the meaning of the
sentence in Holy Writ which saith,
" His ways are not as our ways, nor
his thoughts like unto our thoughts."
And this puts me in mind that there
are sayings which are in every one's
mouth, and therefore not to be lightly
gainsayed, which nevertheless do not
approve themselves to my conscience
as wholly just and true. Of these is
the common adage, " That misfortunes
come not alone." For my own part,
I have found that when a cross has
been laid on me, it has mostly been a
single one, and that other sorrows
were oftentimes removed, as if to
make room for it. And it has been
my wont, when one trial has been
passing away, to look out for the next,
even as on a stormy day, when the
clouds have rolled away in one direc-
tion and sunshine is breaking over-
head, we see others rising in the dis-
tance. There has been no portion of
my life free from some measure of
grief or fear sufficient to recall the
words that " Man is born to trouble as
the sparks fly upward ;" and none so
reft of consolation that, in the midst of
suffering, I did not yet cry out, " The
Lord is my shepherd; his rod and
his staff comfort me."
I was born in the year 1557, in a
very fair part of England, at Sher-
wood Hall, in the county of Stafford.
For its comely aspect, commodious
chambers, sunny gardens, and the
sweet walks in its vicinity, it was as
commendable a residence for persons
of moderate fortune and contented
minds as can well be thought of.
Within and without this my paternal
home nothing was wanting which might
please the eye, or minister to tranquil-
Constance Sherwood.
79
lity of mind and healthful recreation.
I reckon it amongst the many favors I
have received from a gracious Provi-
dence, that the earlier years of my life
were spent amidst such fair scenes,
and in the society of parents who ever
took occasion from earthly things to
lead my thoughts to such as are im-
perishable, and so to stir up in me a
love of the Creator, who has stamped
his image on this visible world in
characters of so great beauty ; whilst
in the tenderness of those dear parents
unto myself I saw, as it were, a type
and representation of his paternal
love and goodness.
My father was of an ancient family,
and allied to such as were of greater
note and more wealthy than his own.
He had not, as is the manner with
many squires of our days, left off re-
siding on his own estate in order to
seek after the shows and diversions of
London ; but had united to a great hu-
mility of mind and a singular affection
for learning a contentedness of spirit
which inclined him to dwell in the
place assigned to him by Providence.
He had married at an early age, and
had ever confonned to the habits of
his neighbors in all lawful and kindly
ways, and sought no other labors but
such as were incidental to the care of
his estates, and no recreations but
those of study, joined to a moderate
pursuit of field-sports and such social
diversions as the neighborhood afford-
ed. His outward appearance was rath-
er simple than showy, and his man-
ners grave and composed. When I
call to mind the singular modesty of
his disposition, and the retiredness of
his manners, I often marvel how the
force of circumstances and the urging
of conscience should have forced one
so little by nature inclined to an unset-
tled mode of life into one which, albeit
peaceful in its aims, proved so full of
danger and disquiet.
My mother's love I enjoyed but for
a brief season. Not that it waxed
cold toward me, as happens with some
parents, who look with fondness on the
child and less tenderly on the maiden ;
but it pleased Almighty God to take
her unto himself when I was but ten
years of age. Her face is as present
to me now as any time of my life. No
limner's hand ever drew a more faith-
ful picture than the one I have of her
even now engraved on the tablet of my
heart. She had so fair and delicate
a complexion that I can only liken it
to the leaf of a white rose with the
lightest tinge of piak in it. Her hair
was streaked with gray too early for
her years ; but this matched well with
the sweet melancholy of her eyes,
which were of a deep violet color. Her
eyelids were a trifle thick, and so were
her lips ; but there was a pleasantness
in her smile and the dimples about
her mouth such as I have not noticed
in any one else. She had a sweet
womanly and loving heart, and the
noblest spirit imaginable ; a great zeal
in the service of God, tempered with
so much sweetness and cordiality that
she gave not easily offence to any one,
of howsoever different a way of think-
ing from herself ; and either won them
over to her faith through the suavity
of her temper and the wisdom of her
discourse, or else worked in them a
personal liking which made them pa-
tient with her, albeit fierce with others.
When I was about seven years of
age I noticed that she waxed thin and
pale, and that we seldom went abroad,
and walked only in our own garden
and orchard. She seemed glad to sit
on a bench on the sunny side of the
house even in summer, and on days
when by reason of the heat I liked to
lie down in the shade. My parents
forbade me from going into the vil-
lage ; and, through the perverseness
common to too many young people, on
account of that very prohibition I
longed for liberty to do so, and wearied
oftentimes of the solitude we lived in.
At a later period I learnt how kind
had been their intent in keeping me
during the early years of childhood
from a knowledge of the woful divi-
sions which the late changes in reli-
gion had wrought in our country;
which I might easily have heard from
80
Constance Sherwood.
young companions, and maybe in such
sort as to awaken angry feelings, and
shed a drop of bitter in the crystal cup
of childhood's pure faith. If we did
walk abroad, it was to visit some sick
persons, and carry them food or cloth-
ing or medicines, which my mother
prepared with her own hands. But
as she grew weaker, we went less
often outside the gates, and the poor
came themselves to fetch away what
in her bounty she stored up for them.
I did not notice that our neighbors
looked unkindly on us when we were
seen in the village. Children would
cry out sometimes, but half in play,
" Down with the Papists !" but I wit-
nessed that their elders checked them,
especially those of the poorer sort;
and " God bless you, Mrs. Sherwood !"
and " God save you, madam !" was
often in their mouths, as she whom I
loved with so great and reverent an
affection passed alongside of them, or
stopped to take breath, leaning against
their cottage-palings.
Many childish heartaches I can
even now remember when I was not
suffered to join in the merry sports of
the 1st of May ; for then, as the poet
Chaucer sings, the youths and maidens
go '
" To fetch the flowers fresh and branch and bloom,
And these, rejoicing in their great delight,
Efee each at other throw the blossoms bright."
I watched the merry wights as they
passed our door on their way to the
groves and meadows, singing mirthful
carols, and bent on pleasant pastimes ;
and tears stood in my eyes as the
sound of their voices died away in the
distance. My father found me thus
weeping one May-day, and carried me
with him to a sweet spot in a wood,
where wild-flowers grew like living
jewels out of the green carpet of moss
on which we sat; and there, as the
birds sang from every bough, and the
insects hovered and hummed over ^ve-
ry blossom, he entertained me with such
quaint and pleasant tales, and moved
me to merry laughter by his witty de-
vices ; so that I set down that day in
my book of memory as one of the joy-
fullest in all my childhood. At Easter,
when the village children rolled pasch
eggs down the smooth sides of the
green hills, my mother would paint me
some herself, and adorned them with
such bright colors and rare sentences
that I feared to break them with rude
handling, and kept them by me
throughout the year, rather as pictures
to be gazed on than toys to be played
with in a wanton fashion.
On the morning of the Resurrec-
tion, when others went to the top of
Cannock Chase to hail the rising sun,
as is the custom of those parts, she
would sing so sweetly the psalm which
speaketh of the heavens rejoicing and
of the earth being glad, that it grieved
me not to stay at home ; albeit I some-
times marvelled that we saw so little
company, and mixed not more freely
with our neighbors.
When I had reached my ninth birth-
day, whether it was that I took better
heed of words spoken in my hearing,
or else that my parents thought it was
time that I should learn somewhat of
the conditions of the times, and so
talked more freely in my presence, it
so happened that I heard of the
je % opardy in which many who held the
Catholic faith were, and of the laws
which were being made to prohibit in
our country the practice of the ancient
religion. When Protestants came to
our house and it was sometimes hard
in those days to tell who were such at
heart, or only in outward semblance
out of conformity to the queen's pleas-
ure I was strictly charged not to
speak in their hearing of aught that
had to do with Catholic faith and wor-
ship ; and I could see at such times on
my mother's face an uneasy expres-
sion, as if she was ever fearing the
next words that any one might utter.
In the autumn of that year we had
visitors whose company was so great
an honor to my parents, and the occa-
sion of so much delight to myself, that
I can call to mind every little circum-
stance of their brief sojourn under our
roof, even as if it had taken place but
Constance Sherwood.
81
yesterday. This visit proved the first
step toward an intimacy which greatly
affected the tenor of my life, and pre-
pared the way for the direction it was
hereafter to take.
These truly honorable and well-be-
loved guests were my Lady Mount-
eagle and her son Mr. James Laboura,
who were journeying at that time from
London, where she had been residing
at her son-in-law the Duke of Nor-
folk's house, to her seat in the coun-
try; whither she was carrying the
three children of her daughter, the
Duchess of Norfolk, and of that lady's
first husband, the Lord Dacre of the
North. The eldest of these young
ladies was of about my own age, and
the others younger.
The day on which her ladyship was
expected, I could not sit with patience
at my tambour-frame, or con my les-
sons, or play on the virginals; but
watched the hours and the minutes in
my great desire to see these noble
wenches. I had not hitherto consorted
with young companions, save with Ed-
mund and John Genings, of whom I
shall have occasion to speak hereafter,
who were then my playmates, as at
a riper age friends. I thought, in the
quaint way in which children couple
one idea with another in their fantastic
imaginations, that my Lady Mount-
eagle's three daughters would be like
the three angels, in my mother's mis-
sal, who visited .Abraham in his tent.
I had craved from my mother a
holiday, which she granted on the
score that I should help her that fore-
noon in the making of the pasties and
jellies, which, as far as her strength
allowed, she failed not to lend a hand
to ; and also she charged me to set the
bed-chambers in fair order, and to
gather fresh flowers wherewith to
adorn the parlor. These tasks had
in them a pleasantness which whiled
away the time, and I alternated from
the parlor to the store-room, and the
kitchen to the orchard, and the poul-
try-yard to the pleasure-ground, run-
ning as swiftly from one to the other,
and as merrily, as if my feet were
keeping time with the glad beatings of
my heart. As I passed along the ave-
nue, which was bordered on each side
by tall trees, ever and anon, as the
wind shook their branches, there fell
on my head showers of red and gold-
colored leaves, which made me laugh ;
so easy is it for the young to find occa-
sion of mirth in the least trifle when
their spirits are lightsome, as mine
were that day. I sat down on a stone
bench on which the western sun was
shining, to bind together the posies I
had made ; the robins twittered around
me; and the air felt soft and fresh. It
was the eve of Martinmas- day Hal-
low tide Summer, as our country folk
call it. As the sun was sinking behind
the hills, the tread of horses' feet was
heard in the distance, and I sprang in
on the bench, shading my eyes wit-i
my hand to see the approach of that
goodly travelling-party, which was
soon to reach our gates. My paren's
came out of the front door, and beck-
oned me to their side. 1 held my po-
sies in my apron, and forgot to so!
them down; for the first sight of my
Lady Mounteagle, as she rode up th.?
avenue with her son at her side, and
her three grand-daughters with theh*
attendants, and many richly-attired
serving-men beside, filled me with awe.
I wondered if her majesty had looked
more grand on the day that she rod 3
into London to be proclaimed queen.
The good lady sat on her paltry in so
erect and stately a manner, as if age
had no dominion over her limbs and
her spirits ; and there was something
so piercing and commanding in her
eye, that it at once compelled rever-
ence and submission. Her son had
somewhat of the same nobility of mien,
and was tall and graceful in his move-
ments ; but behind her, on her pillion,
sat a small counterpart of herself, in-
asmuch as childhood can resemble old
age, and youthful loveliness matronly
dignity. This was the eldest of her
ladyship's grand-daughters, my sweet
Mistress Ann Dacre. This was my
first sight of her who was hereafter to
hold so great a place in my heart and
82
Constance Sherwood.
in my life. As she was lifted from the
saddle, and stood in her riding-habit
and plumed hat at our door, making a
graceful and modest obeisance to my
parents, one step retired behind her
grandam, with a lovely color tinging
her cheeks, and her long lashes veil-
ing her sweet eyes, I thought I had
never seen so fair a creature as this
high-born maiden of my own age ; and
even now that time, as it has gone by,
has shown me all that a court can dis-
play to charm the eyes and enrapture
the fancy, I do not gainsay that same
childish thought of mine. Her sisters,
pretty prattlers then, four and six
years of age, were led into the house
by their governess. But ere our guests
were seated, my mother bade me kiss
my Lady Mounteagle's hand and com-
mend myself to her goodness, praying
her to be a good lady to me, and over-
look, out of her great indulgence, my
many defects. At which she patted
me on the cheek, and said, she doubted
not but that I was as good a child as
such good parents deserved to have;
and indeed, if I was as like my mother
in temper as in face, I must needs be
such as her hopes and wishes would
have me. And then she commanded
Mistress Ann to salute me ; and I felt
my cheeks flush and my heart beat
with joy as the sweet little lady put
her arms round my neck, and pressed
her lips on my cheek.
Presently we all withdrew to our
chambers until such time as supper
was served, at which meal the young
ladies were present; and I marvelled
to see how becomingly even the young-
est of them, who was but a chit, knew
how to behave herself, never asking
for anything, or forgetting to give
thanks in a pretty manner when she
was helped. For the which my mother
greatly commended their good man-
ners; and her ladyship said, "In truth,
good Mistress Sherwood, I carry a
strict hand over them, never suffering
their faults to go unchastised, nor per-
mitting such liberties as many do to
the rum of their children." I was
straightway seized with a great confu-
sion and fear that this was meant as a
rebuke to me, who, not being much
used to company, and something over-
indulged by my father, by whose side
I was seated, had spoken to him more
than once that day at table, and had
also left on my plate some victuals not
to my liking; which, as I learnt at
another time from Mistress Ann, was
an offence for which her grandmother
would have sharply reprehended her.
I ventured not again to speak in her
presence, and scarcely to raise my eyes
toward her.
The young ladies withdrew early to
bed that night, and I had but little
speech with them. Before they left
the parlor, Mistress Ann took her sis-
ters by the hand, and all of them,
kneeling at their grandmother's feet,
craved her blessing. I could see a
tear in her eye as she blessed them ;
and when she laid her hand on the
head of the eldest of her grand-daugh-
ters, it lingered there as if to call down
upon her a special benison. The next
day my Lady Mounteagle gave per-
mission for Mistress Ann to go with
me into the garden, where I showed
her my flowers and the young rabbits
that Edmund Genings and his brother,
my only two playmates, were so fond
of; and she told me how well pleased
she was to remove from London unto
her grandmother's seat, where she
would have a garden and such pleas-
ant pastimes as are enjoyed in the
country.
"Prithee, Mistress Ann," I said,
with the unmannerly boldness with
which children are wont to question
one another, " have you not a mother,
that you live with your grandam?"
"I thank God that I have," she an-
swered ; " and a good mother she is to
me ; but by reason of her having lately
married the Duke of Norfolk, my
grandmother has at the present time
the charge of us."
" And do you greatly love my Lady
Mounteagle?" I asked, misdoubting in
my folly that a lady of so grave aspect
and stately carriage should be loved
by children.
Constance Sherwood.
83
"As greatly as heart can love," was
hex pretty answer.
"And do you likewise love the Duke
of Norfolk, Mistress Ann?" I asked
again.
" He is my very good lord and fath-
er," she answered; " but my knowledge
of his grace has been so short, I have
scarce had time to love him yet."
" But I have loved you in no time,"
I cried, and threw my arms round her
neck. " Directly I saw you, I loved
you, Mistress Ann."
"Mayhap, Mistress Constance," she
said, " it is easier to love a little girl
than a great duke."
" And who do you affection beside
her grace your mother, and my lady
your grandam, Mistress Ann ?" I said,
again returning to the charge; to which
she quickly replied :
"My brother Francis, my sweet
Lord Dacre."
"Is he a child?" I asked.
" In truth, Mistress Constance," she
answered, "he would not be well pleased
to be called so ; and yet methinks he
is but a child, being not older, but
rather one year younger than myself,
and my dear playmate and gossip."
" I wish I had a brother or a sister
to play with me," I said ; at which
Mistress Ann kissed me and said she
was sorry I should lack so great a com-
fort, but that I must consider I had a
good father of my own, whereas her
own was dead ; and that a father was
more than a brother.
In this manner we held discourse all
the morning, and, like a rude imp, I
questioned the gracious young lady as
to her pastimes and her studies and the
tasks she was set to ; and from her in-
nocent conversation I discovered, as
children do, without at the time taking
much heed, but yet so as to remember
it afterward, what especial care had
been taken by her grandmother that
religious and discreet lady to instil
into her virtue and piety, and in using
her, beside saying her prayers, to be-
stow alms with her own hands on pris-
oners and poor people ; and in particu-
lar to apply herself to the cure of dis-
eases and wounds, wherein she herself
had ever excelled. Mistress Ann, in
her childish but withal thoughtful way,
chid me that in my own garden were
only seen flowers which pleased the
senses by their bright colors and per-
fume, and none of the herbs which
tend to the assuagement of pain and
healing of wounds ; and she made me
promise to grow some against the time
of her next visit. As we went through
the kitchen-garden, she plucked some
rosemary and lavender and rue, and
many other odoriferous herbs ; and sit-
ting down on a bench, she invited me
to her side, and discoursed on their
several virtues and properties with a
pretty sort of learning which was mar-
vellous in one of her years. She
showed me which were good for pro-
moting sleep, and which for cuts and
bruises, and of a third she said it eased
the heart.
"Nay, Mistress Ann," I cried, "but
that must be a heartsease ;" at which
she smiled, and answered :
" My grandam says the best medi-
cines for uneasy hearts are the bitter
herb confession and the sweet flower
absolution."
" Have you yet made your first com-
munion, Mistress Ann ?" I asked in a
low voice, at which question a bright
color came into her cheek, and she re-
plied :
" Not yet ; but soon I may. I was
confirmed not long ago by the good
Bishop of Durham ; and at my grand-
mother's seat I am to be instructed by
a Catholic priest who lives there."
" Then you do not go to Protestant
service ?" I said.
"We did," she answered, "for a
short time, whilst we stayed at the
Charterhouse ; but my grandam has
understood that it is not lawful for
Catholics, and she will not be present
at it herself, or suffer us any more to
attend it, neither in her own house nor
at his grace's."
While we were thus talking, the
two little ladies, her sisters, came from
the house, having craved leave from
the governess to run out into the gar-
84
Constance Sherwood.
den. Mistress Mary was a pale deli-
cate child, with soft loving blue eyes ;
and Mistress Bess, the youngest, a
merry imp, whose rosy cheeks and
dimpling smiles were full of glee and
merriment.
" What ugly sober flowers are these,
Nan, that thou art playing with ?" she
cried, and snatched at the herbs in her
sister's lap. " When I marry my Lord
William Howard, I'll wear a posy of
roses and carnations."
"When I am married," said little
Mistress Mary, " I will wear nothing
but lilies."
" And what shall be thy posy, Nan ?"
said the little saucy one again, " when
thou dost wed my Lord Surrey?"
" Hush, hush, madcaps !" cried Mis-
tress Ann. " If your grandam was to
hear you, I doubt not but the rod would
bo called for."
Mistress Mary looked round affright-
ed, but little Mistress Bess said in a
funny manner, " Prithee, Nan, do rods
then travel ?"
"Ay; by that same token, Bess,
that I heard my lady bid thy nurse
take care to carry one with her."
"It was nurse told me I was to
marry my Lord William, and Madge
my Lord Thomas, and thee, Nan, my
Lord Surrey, and brother pretty Meg
Howard," said the little lady, pouting ;
" but I won't tell grandam of it an it
would be like to make her angry."
" I would be a nun !" Mistress Mary
cried.
" Hush!" her elder sister said ; "that
is foolish talking, Madge ; my grand-
mother told me so when I said the
same thing to her a year ago. Chil-
dren do not know what Almighty God
intends them to do. And now methinks
I see Uncle Labourn making as if he
would call us to the house, and there
are the horses coming to the door. We
must needs obey the summons. Prithee,
Mistress Constance, do not forget me."
Forget her ! No. From that day
to this years have passed over our
heads and left deep scars on our
hearts. Divers periods of our lives
have been signalized by many a strange
passage ; we have rejoiced, and, oftener
still, wept together; we have met in
trembling, and parted in anguish ;
but through sorrow and through joy,
through evil report and good report,
in riches and hi poverty, in youth and
in age, I have blessed the day when
first I met thee, sweet Ann Dacre, the
fairest, purest flower which ever grew
on a noble stem.
CHAPTER II.
A YEAR elapsed betwixt the period
of the so brief, but to me so memorable,
visit of the welcomest guests our house
ever received to wit, my Lady Mount-
eagle and her grand-daughters and
that in which I met with an accident,
which compelled my parents to carry
me to Lichfield for chirurgical advice.
Four times in the course of that year
I was honored with letters writ by
the hand of Mistress Ann Dacre ;
partly, as the gracious young lady
said, by reason of her grandmother's
desire that the bud acquaintanceship
which had sprouted in the short-lived
season of the aforesaid visit should,
by such intercourse as may be carried
on by means of letters, blossom into
a flower of true friendship ; and also
that that worthy lady and my good
mother willed such a correspondence
betwixt us as would serve to the sharp-
ening of our wits, and the using our
pens to be good servants to our
thoughts. In the course of this
history I will set down at intervals
some of the letters I received at divers
times from this noble lady; so that
those who read these innocent pictures
of herself, portrayed by her own hand,
may trace the beginnings of those
virtuous inclinations which at an
early age were already working in
her soul, and ever after appeared
in her.
On the 15th day of January of the
next year to tliat in which my eyes
had feasted on this creature so em-
bellished with rare endowments and
Constance Sherwood.
85
accomplished gracefulness, the first
letter I had from her came to my
hand ; the first link of a chain which
knit together her heart and mine
through long seasons of absence and
sore troubles, to the great comforting,
as she was often pleased to say, of
herself, who was so far above me in
rank, whom she chose to call her
friend, and of the poor friend and
servant whom she thus honored
beyond her deserts. In as pretty a
handwriting as can well be thought
of, she thus wrote :
" MY SWEET MISTRESS CONSTANCE,
Though I enjoyed your company
but for the too brief time during
which we rested under your honored
parents' roof, I retain so great a sense
of the contentment I received there-
from, and so lively a remembrance of
the converse we held in the grounds
adjacent to Sherwood Hall, that I am
better pleased than I can well express
that my grandmother bids me sit down
and write to one whom to see and to
converse with once more would be to
me one of the chiefest pleasures in
life. And the more welcome is this
command by reason of the hope it
raises in me to receive in return a
letter from my well-beloved Mistress
Constance, which will do my heart
more good than anything else that
can happen to me. 'Tis said that
marriages are made in heaven. When
I asked my grandam if it were so, she
said, ' I am of opinion, Nan, they are
made in many more places than one ;
and I would to God none were made
but such as are agreed upon in so
good a place.' But methinks some
friendships are likewise made in hea-
ven ; and if it be so, I doubt not but that
when we met, and out of that brief
meeting there arose so great and sud-
den a liking in my heart for you,
Mistress Constance, which, I thank
God, you were not slow to reciprocate,
that our angels had met where we
hope one day to be, and agreed to-
gether touching that matter.
" It suits ill a bad pen like mine to
describe the fair seat we reside in at
this present time the house of Mr.
James Labourn, which he has lent
unto my grandmother. 'Tis most
commodious and pleasant, and after
long sojourn in London, even in
winter, a terrestrial paradise. But,
like the garden of Eden, not without
dangers ; for the too much delight I
took in out-of-doors pastimes and
most of all on the lake when it was
frozen, and we had merry sports upon
it, to the neglect of my lessons, not
heeding the lapse of time in the pur-
suit of pleasure brought me into
trouble and sore disgrace. My grand-
mother ordered me into confinement
for three days in my own chamber,
and I. saw her not nor received her
blessing all that time ; at the end of
which she sharply reproved me for
my fault, and bade me hold in mind
that 'twas when loitering in a garden
Eve met the tempter, and threatened
further and severe punishment if I
applied not diligently to my studies.
When I had knelt down and begged
pardon, promising amendment, she
drew me to her and kissed me, which
it was not her wont often to do.
' Nan,' she said, * I would have thee
use thy natural parts, and improve
thyself in virtue and learning; for
such is the extremity of the tunes,
that ere long it may be that many
first shall be last and many last shall
be first in this realm of England. But
virtue and learning are properties
which no man can steal from another ;
and I would fain see thee endowed
with a goodly store of both. That
great man and true confessor, Sir
Thomas More, had nothing so much
at heart as his daughter's instruction ;
and Mistress Margaret Roper, once
my sweet friend, though some years
older than my poor self, who still
laments her loss, had such fine things
said of her by the greatest men of
this age, as would astonish thee to
hear ; but they were what she had a
right to and very well deserved. And
the strengthening of her mind through
study and religious discipline served
86
Constance Sherwood.
her well at the time of her great
trouble; for where other women
would have lacked sense and courage
how to act, she kept her wits about
her, and ministered such comfort to
her father, remaining near him at the
last, and taking note of his wishes,
and finding means to bury him in a
Christian manner, which none other
durst attempt, that she had occasion
to thank God who gave her a head as
well as a heart. And who knows,
Nan, what may befal thee, and what
need thou mayst have of the like
advantages ? '
My grandmother looked so kindly
on me then, that, albeit abashed at the
remembrance of my fault, I sought to
move her to further discourse; and
knowing what great pleasure she had
hi speaking of Sir Thomas More, at
whose house in Chelsea she had often-
times been a visitor in her youth, I
enticed her to it by cunning questions
touching the customs he observed in
his family.
" < Ah, Nan !' she said, that house
was a school and exercise of the
Christian religion. There was neither
man nor woman in it who was not
employed in liberal discipline and
fruitful reading, although the principal
study was religion. There was no
quarrelling, not so much as a peevish
word to be heard ; nor was any one
seen idle; all were in their several
employs : nor was there wanting sober
mirth. And so well-managed a gov-
ernment Sir Thomas did not maintain
by severity and chiding, but by gen-
tleness and kindness.'
"Methought as she said this, that
my dear grandam in that matter of
chiding had not taken a leaf out of
Sir Thomas's book ; and there was no
doubt a transparency in my face which
revealed to her this thought of mine ;
for she straightly looked at me and
said, ' Nan, a penny for thy thoughts !'
at the which I felt myself blushing,
but knew nothing would serve her but
the truth ; so I said, in as humble a
manner as I could think of, 'An if
you will excuse me, grandam,! thought
if Sir Thomas managed so well with-
out chiding, that you manage well
with it.' At the which she gave me a
light nip on the forehead, and said,
' Go to, child ; dost think that any but
saints can rule a household without
chiding, or train children without whip-
ping ? Go tliy ways, and mend them
too, if thou wouldst escape chastise-
ment; and take with thee, Nan, the
words of one whom we shall never
again see the like of in this poor
country, which he used to his wife or
any of his children if they were dis-
eased or troubled, " We must not look
at our pleasures to go to heaven in
feather-beds, or to be carried up thither
even by the chins." ' And so she dis-
missed me ; and I have here set down
my fault, and the singular goodness
showed me by my grandmother when
it was pardoned, not thinking I can
write anything better worth notice than
the virtuous talk with which she then
favored me.
"There is in this house a chapel
very neat and rich, and an ancient
Catholic priest is here, who says mass
most days ; at the which we, with my
grandmother, assist, and such of her
servants as have not conformed to the
times ; and this good father instructs
us in the principles of Catholic re-
ligion. On the eve of the feast of
the Nativity of Christ, my lady stayed
in the chapel from eight at night till
two in the morning ; but sent us to bed
at nine, after the litanies were said,
until eleven, when there was a ser-
mon, and at twelve o'clock three mass-
es said, which being ended we broke
our fast with a mince-pie, and went
again to bed. And all the Christmas-
time we were allowed two hours after
each meal for recreation, -instead of
one. At other times, we play not at
any game for money ; but then we
had a shilling a-piece to make us
merry ; which my grandmother says is
fitting in this time of mirth and joy
for his birth who is the sole origin
and spring of true comfort. And
now, sweet Mistress Constance, I must
bid you farewell ; for the greatest of
Constance Sherwood.
87
joys has befallen me, and a whole
holiday to enjoy it. My sweet Lord
Dacre is come to pay his duty to my
lady and tarry some days here, on his
way to Thetford, the Duke of Norfolk's
seat, where his grace and the duchess
my good mother have removed. He
is a beauty, Mistress Constance ; and
nature has so profusely conferred on
him privileges, that when her majesty
the queen saw him a short time back
on horseback, in the park at Rich-
mond, she called him to her carriage-
door and honored him with a kiss, and
the motto of the finest boy she ever
beheld. But I may not run on in
this fashion, letting my pen outstrip
modesty, like a foolish creature, mak-
ing my brother a looking-glass and
continual object for my eyes ; but
learn to love him, as my grandam says,
in God, of whom he is only borrowed,
and not so as to set my heart wholly
on him. So beseeching God bless
you and yours, good Mistress Con-
stance, I ever remain, your loving
friend and humble servant,
" ANN DACRE."
Oh, how soon were my Lady Mount-
eagle's words exalted in the event!
and what a sad brief note was penned
by that affectionate sister not one
month after she writ those lines, so
full of hope and pleasure in the pros-
pect of her brother's sweet company !
For the fair boy that was the continu-
al object of her eyes and the dear
comfort of her heart was accidentally
slain by the fall of a vaulting horse
upon him at the duke's house at Thet-
ford.
" MY GOOD MISTRESS CONSTANCE"
(she wrote, a few days after his la-
mentable death), "The lovingest
brother a sister ever had, and the
most gracious creature ever born, is
dead ; and if it pleased God I wish I
were dead too, for my heart is well-
nigh broken. But I hope in God his
soul is now in heaven, for that he was
so young and innocent; and when
here, a short time ago, my grand-
mother procured that he should for the
first, and as it has pleased God also
for the only and the last, time, confess
and be absolved by a Catholic priest,
in the which the hand of Providence
is visible to our great comfort, and
reasonable hope of his salvation.
Commending him and your poor friend,
who has great need of them, to your
good prayers, I remain your affection-
ate and humble servant,
" ANN DACRE."
In that year died also, in childbirth,
her grace the Duchess of Norfolk,
Mistress Ann's mother; and she then
wrote in a less passionate, but withal
less comfortable, grief than at her
brother's loss, and, as I have heard
since, my Lady Mounteagle had her
death-blow at that time, and never
lifted up her head again as heretofore.
It was noticed that ever after she
spent more time in prayer and gave
greater alms. Her daughter, the
duchess, who at the instance of her
husband had conformed to the times,
desired to have been reconciled on her
deathbed by a priest, who for that end
was conducted into the garden, yet
could not have access unto her by
reason of the duke's vigilance to hin-
der it, or at least of his continual
presence in her chamber at the tune.
And soon after, his grace, whose wards
they were, sent for his three step-
daughters to the Charterhouse ; the
parting with which, and the fears she
entertained that he would have them
carried to services and sermons in the
public churches, and hinder them in
the exercise of Catholic faith and
worship, drove the sword yet deeper
through my Lady Mounteagle's heart,
and brought down her gray hairs with
sorrow to the grave, notwithstanding
that the duke greatly esteemed and
respected her, and was a very moral
nobleman, of exceeding good temper
and moderate disposition. But of
this more anon, as 'tis my own history
I am writing, and it is meet I should
relate in the order of time what events
came under my notice whilst in Lich-
88
Constance Sherwood.
field, whither my mother carried me,
as has been aforesaid, to be treated by
a famous physician for a severe hurt I
had received. It was deemed con-
venient that I should tarry some time
under his care ; and Mr. Genings, a
kinsman of her own, who with his
wife and children resided in that town,
one of the chiefest in the county,
offered to keep me in their house as
long as was convenient thereunto a
kindness which my parents the more
readily accepted at his hands from
their having often shown the like unto
his children when the air of the coun-
try was desired for them.
Mr. and Mrs. Genings were of the
religion by law established. He was
thought to be Catholic at heart;
albeit he was often heard to speak
very bitterly against all who obeyed
not the queen hi conforming to the
new mode of worship, with the ex-
ception, indeed, of my mother, for
whom he had always a truly great
affection. This gentleman's house
was in the close of the cathedral, and
had a garden to it well stored with
fair shrubs and flowers of various
sorts. As I lay on a. low settle near
the window, being forbid to walk for
the space of three weeks, my eyes
were ever straying from my sampler
to the shade and sunshine out of
doors. Instead of plying at my nee-
dle, I watched the bees at their sweet
labor midst the honeysuckles of the
porch, or the swallows darting in and
out of the eaves of the cathedral, or
the butterflies at their idle sports over
the beds of mignonette and heliotrope
under the low wall, covered with ivy,
betwixt the garden and the close.
Mr. Genings had two sons, the eldest
of which was some years older and
the other younger than myself. The
first, whose name was Edmund, had
been weakly when a child, and by
reason of this a frequent sojourner at
Sherwood Hall, where he was carried
for change of air after the many ill-
nesses incident to early age. My
mother, who was some years married
before she had a child of her own,
conceived a truly maternal affection
for this young kinsman, and took
much pains with him both as to the
care of his body and the training of
his mind. He was an apt pupil, and
she had so happy a manner of im-
parting knowledge,' that he learnt
more, as he has since said, in those
brief sojourns in her house than at
school from more austere masters.
After I came into the world, he took
delight to rock me in my cradle, or
play with me as I sat on my mother's
knee ; and when I first began to walk,
he would lead me by the hand into the
garden, and laugh to see me clutch
marigolds or cry for a sunflower.
" I warrant thou hast an eye to gold,
Con," he would say ; " for 'tis the yel-
low flowers that please thee best."
There is an old hollow tree on the
lawn at Sherwood Hall where I often
hid from him in sport, and he would
make pretence to seek me elsewhere,
till a laugh revealed me to him, and a
chase ensued down the approach or
round the maze. He never tired of
my petulance, or spoke rude words, as
boys are wont to do ; and had a more
serious and contemplative spirit than
is often seen in young people, and like-
wise a singular fancy for gazing at
the sky when glowing with sunset
hues or darkened by storms, and most
of all when studded at night with
stars. On a calm clear night I have
noticed him for a length of time, for-
getting all things else, fix his eyes on
the heavens, as if reading the glory of
the Lord therein revealed.
My parents did not speak to him of
Catholic faith and worship, because
Mr. Genings, before he suffered his
sons to stay in their house, had made
them promise that no talk of religion
should be ministered to them in their
childhood. It was a sore trial to my
mother to refrain, as the Psalmist saith,
from good words, which were ever
rising from her heart to her lips, as
pure water from a deep spring. But
she instructed him in many things
which belong to gentle learning, and
in French, which she knew well ; and
Constance Sherwood.
89
taught him music, in which he made
great progress. And this wrought
with his father to the furtherance of
these his visits to us. I doubt not but
that, when she told him the names of
the heavenly luminaries, she inwardly
prayed he might one day shine as a
star in the kingdom of God ; or when
she discoursed of flowers and their
properties, that he should blossom as a
rose in the wilderness of this faithless
world ; or whilst guiding his hands to
play on the clavichord, that he might
one day join in the glorious harmony
of the celestial choirs. Her face itself
was a preachment, and the tones of
her voice, and the tremulous sighs she
breathed when she kissed him or gave
him her blessing, had, I ween, a privi-
lege to reach his heart, the goodness of
which was readable in his countenance.
Dear Edmund Genings, thou wert in-
deed a brother to me in kind care and
companionship whilst I stayed in Lich-
field that never-to-be-forgotten year!
How gently didst thou minister to the
sick child, for the first time tasting the
cup of suffering ; now easing her head
with a soft pillow, now strewing her
couch with fresh-gathered flowers, or
feeding her with fruit which had the
bloom on it, or taking her hand and
holding it in thine own to cheer her to
endurance! Thou wert so patient and
so loving, both with her who was a
great trouble to thee and oftentimes
fretful with pain, and likewise with
thine own little brother, an angel in
beauty and wit, but withal of so petu-
lant and froward a disposition that
none in the house durst contradict him,
child as he was ; for his parents were
indeed weak in their fondness for him.
In no place and at no time have I seen
a boy so indulged and so caressed as
this John Genings. He had a pretty
wilfulness and such playful ways that
his very faults found favor with those
who should have corrected them, and
he got praise where others would have
met with chastisement. Edmund's
love for this fair urchin was such as
is seldom seen in any save in a parent
for a child. It was laughable to see
the lovely imp governing one who
should have been his master, but
through much love was his slave, and
in a thousand cunning ways, and by
fanciful tricks, constraining him to do
his bidding. Never was a more way-
ward spirit enclosed in a more win-
some form than in John Genings.
Never did childish gracefulness rule
more absolutely over superior age, or
love reverse the conditions of ordinary
supremacy, than in the persons of these
two brothers.
A strange thing occurred at that
time, which I witnessed not myself,
and on which I can give no opinion,
but as a fact will here set it down, and
let such as read this story deem of it
as they please. One night that, by
reason of the unwonted chilliness of
the evening, such as sometimes occurs
in our climate even in summer, a fire
had been lit in the parlor, and the
family were gathered round it, Ed-
mund came of a sudden into the room,
and every one took notice that his face
Avas very pale. He seemed in a great
fear, and whispered to his mother,
who said aloud "Thou must have
been asleep, and art still dreaming,
child." Upon which he was very ur-
gent for her to go into the garden, and
used many entreaties thereunto. Upon
which, at last, she rose and followed
him. In another moment she called
for her husband, who went out, and
with him three or four other persons
that were in the room, and I remained
alone for the space of ten or fifteen
minutes. "When they returned, I heard
them speaking with great fear and
amazement of what they had seen ; and
Edmund Genings has often since de-
scribed to me what he first, and after-
ward all the others, had beheld in the
sky. He was gazing at the heavens,
as was his wont, when a strange spec-
tacle appeared to him in the air. As
it were, a number of armed men with
weapons, killing and murdering others
that were disarmed, and great store of
blood running everywhere about them.
His parents and those with them wit-
nessed the same thing, and a great
90
Constance Sherwood.
fear fell upon them all. I noticed
that all that evening they seemed
scared, and could not speak of this
appearance in the sky without shud-
dering. But one that was more bold
than the rest took heart, and cried,
" God send it does not forbode that
the Papists will murder us all in our
beds !" And Mistress Genings, whose
mother was a French Huguenot, said,
"Amen!" I marked that her hus-
band and one or two more of the
company groaned, and one made, as
if unwittingly, the sign of the cross.
There were some I know in that town,
nay and in that house, that were at
heart of the old religion, albeit, by
reason of the times, they did not give
over attending Protestants' worship.
A few days later I was sitting alone,
and had a long fit of musing over the
many new thoughts that were crowd-
ing into my mind, as yet too childish
to master them, when Edmund came
in, and I saw he had been weeping.
He said nothing at first, and made
believe he was reading ; but I could
see tears trickling down through his
fingers as he covered his face with
his hands. Presently he looked up
and cried out,
" Cousin Constance, Jack is going
away from us."
" And if it please God, not for a
long time," I answered; for it grieved
me to see him sad.
" Nay, but he is going for many
years, I fear," Edmund said. " My
uncle, Jean de Luc, has asked for him
to be brought up in his house at La
Rochelle. He is his godfather, and
has a great store of money, which he
says he will leave to Jack. Alack!
cousin Constance, I would that there
was no such thing in the world as
money, and no such country as France.
I wish we were all dead." And then
he fell to weeping again very bitterly.
I told him in a childish manner
what my mother was wont to say to
me when any little trouble fell to my
lot that we should be patient, and
offer up our sufferings to God.
" But I can do nothing now for
Jack," he cried. "It was my first
thought at waking and my last at
night, how to please the dear urchin;
but now 'tis all over."
" Oh, but Edmund," I cried, " an if
you were to be as good as the blessed
saints in heaven, you could do a great
deal for Jack."
" How so, cousin Constance ?" he
asked, not comprehending my mean-
ing ; and thereupon I answered :
" When once I said to my sweet
mother, 'It grieves me, dear heart,
that I can give thee nothing, who
gives me so much,' she bade me take
heed that every prayer we say, every
good work we do, howsoever imper-
fect, and every pain we suffer, may be
offered up for those we love ; and so
out of poverty, and weakness, and
sorrow, we have wherewith to make
precious and costly and cheerful gifts."
I spoke as a child, repeating what I
had heard; but he listened not as a
child. A sudden light came into his
eyes, and methinks his good angel
showed him in that hour more than
my poor lips could utter.
" If it be as your sweet mother
says," he joyfully cried, "we are rich
indeed ; and, even though we be sin-
ners and not saints, we have some-
what to give, I ween, if it be only our
heartaches, cousin Constance, so they
be seasoned with prayers."
The thought which in my simplicity
I had set before liim took root, as it
were, in his mind. His love for a
little child had prepared the way for
it ; and the great brotherly affection
which had so long dwelt in his heart
proved a harbinger of the more per-
fect gift of charity ; so that a heaven-
ly message was perchance conveyed
to him that day by one who likewise
was a child, even as the word of the
Lord came to the prophet through the
lips of the infant Samuel. From that
time forward he bore up bravely
against his grief; which was the
sharper inasmuch that he who was the
cause of it showed none in return, but
rather joy in the expectancy of the
change which was to part them. He
'
Constance Sherwood.
91
would still be a-prattling on it, and
telling all who came in his way that
he was going to France to a good
uncle ; nor ever intended to return, for
his mother was to carry him to La
Rochelle, and she should stay there
with him, he said, and not come back
to ugly Lichfield.
" And art thou not sorry, Jack," I
asked him one day, " to leave poor Ed-
mund, who loves thee so well ?"
The little madcap was coursing
round the room, and cried, as he ran
past me, for he had more wit and
spirit than sense or manners :
" Edmund must seek after me, and
take pains to find me, if so be he would
have me."
These words, which the boy said in
his play, have often come back to my
mind since the two brothers have at-
tained unto a happy though dissimilar
end.
When the tune had arrived for Mis-
tress Genings and her youngest son
to go beyond seas, as I was now im-
proved in health and able to walk, my
father fetched me home, and prevailed
on Mr. Genings to let Edmund go
back with us, with the intent to divert
his mind from his grief at his brother's
departure.
I found my parents greatly dis-
turbed at the news they had had
touching the imprisonment of thirteen
priests on account of religion, and of
Mr. Orton being likewise arrested,
who was a gentleman very dear to
them for his great virtues and the
steadfast friendship he had ever shown
to them.
My mother questioned Edmund as
to the sign he had seen hi the heavens
a short time back, of which the report
had reached them ; and he confirming
the truth thereof, she clasped her
hands and cried :
" Then I fear me much this fore-
bodes the death of these blessed con-
fessors, Father Weston and the rest."
Upon which Edmund said, in a
humble manner :
" Good Mistress Sherwood, my dear
mother thought it signified that those
of your religion would murder in their
beds such as are of the queen's re-
ligion ; so maybe in both cases there
is naught to apprehend."
" My good child," my mother an-
swered, " in regard of those now in
durance for their faith, the danger is
so manifest, that if it please not the
Almighty to work a miracle for their
deliverance, I see not how they may
escape."
After that we sat awhile in silence ;
my father reading, my mother and I
working, and Edmund at the window
intent as usual upon the stars, which
were shining one by one in the deep
azure of the darkening sky. As one
of greater brightness than the rest
shone through the branches of the old
tree, where I used to hide some years
before, he pointed to it,. and said to me,
who was sitting nearest to him at the
window :
" Cousin Constance, think you the
Star of Bethlehem showed fairer in
the skies than yon bright star that has
just risen behind your favorite oak?
What and if that star had a message
for us !"
My father heard him, and smiled.
" I was even then," he said, " reading
the words of one who was led to the
true religion by the contemplation of
the starry skies. In a Southern clime,
where those fair luminaries shine with
more splendor than in our Northern
heavens, St. Augustine wrote thus ;"
and then he read a few sentences in
Latin from the book in his hand,
" Raising ourselves up, we passed by
degrees through all things bodily, even
the very heavens, whence sun and
moon and stars shine upon the earth.
Yea, we soared yet higher by inward
musing and discourse and admiring of
God's works, and we came to our own
minds and went beyond them, so as to
arrive at that region of never-feiling
plenty where thou feedest Israel for
ever with the food of truth." These
words had a sweet and solemn force in
them which struck on the ear like a
strain of unearthly music, such as the
wind-harp wakes in the silence of the
92
Constance Sherwood.
night. In a low voice, so low that it
was like the breathing of a sigh, I
heard Edmund say, " What is truth ?"
But when he had uttered those words,
straightway turning toward me as if to
divert his thoughts from that too pithy
question, he cried : " Prithee, cousin
Constance, hast thou ended reading, I
warrant for the hundredth time, that
letter in thine hand ? and hast thou not
a mind to impart to thy poor kinsman
the sweet conceits I doubt not are
therein contained ?" I could not choose
but smile at his speech ; for I had
indeed feasted my eyes on the hand-
writing of my dear friend, now no
longer Mistress Dacre, and learnt off,
as it were by heart, its contents. And
albeit I refused at first to comply with
his request, which I had secretly a
mind to ; no sooner did he give over
the urging of it than I stole to his
side, and, though I would by no means
let it out of my hand, and folded down
one side of the sheet to hide what was
private in it, I offered to read such
parts aloud as treated of matters
which might be spoken of without
hindrance.
With a smiling countenance, then,
he set himself to listen, and I to be the
mouthpiece of the dear writer, whose
wit was so far in advance of her years,
as I have since had reason to observe,
never having met at any time with one
in whom wisdom put forth such early
shoots.
" DEAR MISTRESS CONSTANCE "
(thus the sweet lady wrote),
" Wherefore this long silence and neg-
lect of your poor friend ? An if it be
true, which pains me much to hear,
that the good limb which, together
with its fellow, like two trusty foot-
men, carried you so well and nimbly
along the alleys of your garden this
time last year, has, like an arrant
knave, played fast and loose, and failed
in its good service, wherein, I am
told, you have suffered much incon-
venience, is it just that that other ser-
vant, your hand, should prove rebel-
lious too, refuse to perform its office,
and write no more letters at your bid-
ding ? For I'll warrant 'tis the hand
is the culprit, not the will ; which nev-
ertheless should be master, and com-
pel it to obedience. So, an you love
me, chide roundly that contumacious
hand, which fails in its duty, which
should not be troublesome, if you but
had for me one-half of the affection I
have for you. And indeed, Mistress
Constance, a letter from you would be
to me, at this tune, the welcomesi
thing I can think of; for since we left
my grandmother's seat, and came to
the Charterhouse, I have new friends,
and many more and greater than I de-
serve or ever thought to have ; but,
by reason of difference of age or of
religion, they are not such as I can
well open my mind to, as I might to
you, if it pleased God we should meet
again. The Duke of Norfolk is a
very good lord and father to me ; but
when there are more ways of thinking
than one in a house, 'tis no easy mat-
ter to please all which have a right to
be considered ; and, in the matter of
religion, 'tis very hard to avoid giving
offence. But no more of this at pres-
ent; only I would to God Mr. Fox
were beyond seas, and my lady of
Westmoreland at her home in the
North ; and that we had no worse com-
pany in this house than Mr. Martin,
my Lord Surrey's tutor, who is a gentle-
man of great learning and knowledge,
as every one says, and of extraordinary
modesty in his behavior. My Lord
Surrey has a truly great regard for
him, and profits much in his learning
by his means. I notice he is Catholic
in his judgment and affections ; and
my lord says he will not stay with him,
if his grace his father procures minis-
ters to preach to his household and
family, and obliges all therein to fre-
quent Protestant service. I wish my
grandmother was in London ; for I am
sometimes sore troubled in my mind
touching Catholic religion and con-
forming to the times, of which an
abundance of talk is ministered unto
us, to my exceeding great discomfort,
by my Lady Westmoreland, his grace's
Constance Sherwood.
93
sister, and others also. An if I say
aught thereon to Mistress Fawcett (a
grave and ancient gentlewoman, who
had the care of my Lord Surrey du-
ring his infancy, and is now set over
us his grace's wards), and of misliking
the duke's ministers and that pestilent
Mr. Fox (I fear me, Mistress Con-
stance, I should not have writ that un-
beseeming word, and I will e'en draw
a line across it, but still as you may
read it for indeed 'tis what he is;
but 'tis from himself I learnt it, who
in his sermons calls Catholic religion a
pestilent idolatry, and Catholic priests
pestilent teachers and servants of An-
tichrist, and the holy Pope at Rome
the man of sin) she grows uneasy,
and bids me be a good child to her, and
not to bring her into trouble with his
grace, who is indeed a very good lord
to us in all matters but that one of
compelling us to hear sermons and the
like. My Lord Surrey mislikes all
kinds of sermons, and loves Mr. Mar-
tin so well, that he stops his ears when
Mr. Fox preaches on the dark mid-
night of papacy and the dawn of the
gospel's restored light. And it angers
him, as well it should, to hear him
call his majesty King Philip of Spain,
who is his own godfather, from whom
he received his name, a wicked popish
tyrant and a son of Antichrist. My
Lady Margaret, his sister, who is a
year younger than himself, and has a
most admirable beauty and excellent
good nature, is vastly taken with what
she hears from me of Catholic reli-
gion ; but methinks this is partly by
reason of her misliking Mr. Fulk and
Mr. Clarke's long preachments, which
we are compelled to hearken to ; and
their fashion of spending Sunday,
which they do call the Sabbath-day,
wherein we must needs keep silence,
and when not in church sit still at
home, which to one of her lively dis-
position is heavy penance. Methinks
when Sunday comes we be all in dis-
grace ; 'tis so like a day of correction.
My Lord Surrey has more liberty ;
for Mr. Martin carries him and his
brothers after service into the pleasant
fields about Westminster Abbey and
the village of Charing Cross, and suf-
fers them to play at ball under the
trees, so they do not quarrel amongst
themselves. My Lord Henry How-
ard, his grace's brother, always main-
tains and defends the Catholic religion
against his sister of Westmoreland ;
and he spoke to my uncles Leonard,
Edward, and Francis, and likewise to
my aunt Lady Montague, that they
should write unto my grandmother
touching his grace bringing us up as
Protestants. But the Duke of Nor-
folk, Mrs. Fawcett says, is our guar-
dian, and she apprehends he is re-
solved that we shall conform to the
times, and that no liberty be allowed
us for the exercise of Catholic reli-
gion."
At this part of the letter I stopped
reading ; and Edmund, turning to my
father, who, though he before had
perused it, was also listening, said:
" And if this be liberty of conscience,
which Protestants speak of, I see no
great liberty and no great conscience
in the matter."
His cheek flushed as he spoke, and
there was a hoarseness in his voice
which betokened the working of strong
feelings within him. My father smiled
with a sort of pitiful sadness, and
answered :
" My good boy, when thou art some-
what further advanced in years, thou
wilt learn that the two words thou art
speaking of are such as men have
abused the meaning of more than any
others that can be thought of; and I
pray to God they do not continue to do
so as long as the world lasts. It seems
to me that they mostly mean by ' lib-
erty' a freedom to compel others to
think and to act as they have them-
selves a mind to ; and by * conscience/
the promptings of their own judgments
moved by their own passions."
" But 'tis hard," Edmund said, 'tis
at times very hard, Mr. Sherwood,
to know whereunto conscience points,
in the midst of so many inward clam-
ors as are raised in the soul by con-
flicting passions of dutiful affection
94
Constance Sherwood.
and filial reverence struggling for the
mastery. Ay, and no visible token of
God's will to make that darkness light.
Tis that," he cried, more moved as he
went on, " that makes me so often gaze
upward. Would to God I might see
a sign in the skies ! for there are no
sign-posts on life's path to guide us on
our way to the heavenly Jerusalem,
which our ministers speak of."
" If thou diligently seekest for sign-
posts, my good boy," my father an-
swered, "fear not but that he who
said, ' Seek, and you shall find,' will
furnish thee with them. He has not
left himself without witnesses, or his
religion to be groped after in hopeless
darkness, so that men may not discern,
even in these troublous times, where
the truth lies, so they be in earnest in
their search after it. But I will not
urge thee by the cogency of arguments,
or be drawn out of the reserve I have
hitherto observed in these matters,
which be nevertheless the mightiest
that can be thought of as regards the
soul's health."
And so, breaking off this discourse,
he walked out upon the terrace ; and
I withdrew to the table, where my
mother was sitting, and once more
conned over the last pages of my ladys
letter, which, when the reader hath
read, he will perceive the writer's rank
and her right to be thus titled.
"And now, Mistress Constance, I
must needs inform you of a matter I
would not leave you ignorant of, so
that you should learn from strangers
what so nearly concerns one whom you
have a friendship to and that is my
betrothal with my Lord Surrey. The
ceremony was public, inasmuch as was
needful for the solemnising of a con-
tract which is binding for life ' until
death us do part,' as the marriage ser-
vice hath it. How great a change this
has 'wrought in my thoughts, none
knows but myself ; for though I be but
twelve years of age (for his grace
would have the ceremony to take
place on my birthday), one year older
than yourself, and so lately a child
that not a very long time ago my
grandmother would chastise me with
her own hands for my faults, I now am
wedded to my young lord, and by his
grace and all the household titled
Countess of Surrey! And I thank
God to be no worse mated ; for my
lord, who is a few months younger than
me, and a very child for frolicksome
spirits and wild mirth, has, notwith-
standing, so great a pleasantness of
manners and so forward a wit, that one
must needs have pleasure in his com-
pany ; and I only wish I had more of it.
Whilst we were only friends and play-
mates, I used to chide and withstand
him, as one older and one more staid
and discreet than himself; but, ah me !
since we have been wedded, 'tis grand
to hear him discourse on the duty of
wives, and quote the Bible to show they
must obey their husbands. He carries
it in a very lordly fashion ; and if I
comply not at once with his commands,
he cries out what he has heard at the
play-house :
' Such duty as the subject owes the prince
Even such a woman oweth to her husband ;
And when she's froward, peevish sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel
And graceless traitor to her loving lord ?
I ana ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace ;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, or sway,
Where they are bound to serve, love, and obey.'
He has a most excellent memory. If
he has but once heard out of any En-
glish or Latin book so much read as is
contained in a leaf, he will forthwith
perfectly repeat it. My Lord Henry,
his uncle, for a trial, invented twenty
long and difficult words a few days
back, which he had never seen or heard
before ; yet did he recite them readily,
every one in the same order as they
were written, having only once read
them over. But, touching that matter
of obedience, which I care not to gain-
say, 'tis not easy at present to obey my
lord my husband, and his grace his
father, and Mistress Fawcett, too, who
holds as strict a hand over the Count-
ess of Surrey as over Mistress Ann
Dacre ; for the commands of these
my rulers do not at all times accord :
but I pray to God I may do my duty,
and be a good wife to my lord ; and I
Constance Sherwood.
95
wish, as I said before, my grandmother
had been here, and that I had been
favored with her good counsel, and
had had the benefit of shrift and
spiritual advice ere I entered on this
stage of my life, which is so new to me,
who was but a child a few weeks ago,
and am yet treated as such in more
respects than one.
" My lord has told me a secret which
Higford. his father's servant, let out to
him; and 'tis something so weighty
and of so great import, that since he
left me my thoughts have been truants
from my books, and Monsieur Sebas-
tian, who comes to practice us on the
lute, stopped his ears, and cried out
that the Signora Contessa had no mer-
cy on him, so to murther his composi-
tions. Tis not the part of a true wife
to reveal her husband's secrets, or else
I would tell you, Mistress Constance,
this great news, which I can with
trouble keep to myself; and I shall
not be easy till I have seen my lord
again, which should be when we walk
in the garden this evening ; but I pray
to God he may not be off instead to
the Mall, to play at kittlepins ; for then
I have small chance to get speech with
him to-day. Mr. Martin is my very
good friend,- and reminds the earl of
his duty to his lady; but if my lord
comes at his bidding, when he would
be elsewhere than in my company, 'tis
little contentment I have in his visits.
" 'Tis yesterday I writ thus much,
and now 'tis the day to send this let-
ter; and I saw not my lord last night
by reason of his grandfather my Lord
Arundel sending to fetch me unto his
house in the Strand. His goodness to
me is so great, that nothing more can
be desired ; and his daughter my Lady
Lumley is the greatest comfort I have
in the world. She showed me a fair
picture of my lord's mother, who died
the day he was born, not then full
seventeen years of age. She was of
so amiable a disposition, so prudent,
virtuous, and religious, that all who
knew her could not but love and es-
teem her. And I read a letter which
this sweet lady had written in Latin
to her father on his birthday, to his
great contentment, who had procured
her to be well instructed in that lan-
guage, as well as in her own and in
all commendable learning. Then I
played at primero with my Lord Arun-
del and my Lady Lumley and my
uncle Francis. The knave of hearts
was fixed upon for the quinola, and I
won the flush. My uncle Francis
cried the winning card should be titled
Dudley. 'Not so,' quoth the earl;
* the knave that would match with the
queen in the suit of hearts should
never win the game.' And further
talk ensued ; from which I learnt that
my Lord Arundel and the Duke of
Norfolk mislike my Lord Leicester,
and would not he should marry the
queen; and my uncle laughed, and
said, 'My lord, no good Englishman
is there but must be of your lord-
ship's mind, though none have so good
reason as yourself to hinder so base a
contract ; for if my Lord of Leicester
should climb unto her majesty's throne,
beshrew me if he will not remember
the box on the ear your lordship min-
istered to him some time since ;' at
which the earl laughed, too ; but my
Lady Lumley cried, ' I would to God
my brother of Norfolk were rid of my
Lord Leicester's friendship, which has,
I much fear me, more danger in it
than his enmity. God send he does
not lead his grace into troubles greater
than can well be thought of!' Alack,
Mistress Constance, what uneasy times
are these which we have fallen on ! for
methinks 'troubles' is the word in
every one's mouth. As I was about
to step into the chair at the hall-door
at Arundel House, I heard one of my
lord's guard say to another, 'I trust
the white horse will be in quiet, and so
we shall be out of trouble.' I have
asked Mr. Martin what these words
should mean ; whereupon he told
me the white horse, which indeed I
might have known, was the Earl of
Arundel's cognisance; and that the
times were very troublesome, and plots
were spoken of in the North anent
the Queen of Scots, her majesty the
96
Two Sides of Catholicism*
queen's cousin, who is at Chates-
worth ; and when he said that, all of a
sudden I grew red, and my cheeks
burned like two hot coals ; but he took
no heed, and said, 'A true servant
might well wish his master out of
trouble, when troubles were so rife/
And now shame take me for taking
up so much of your time, which should
be spent in more profitable ways than
the reading of my poor letters ; and I
must needs beg you to write soon, and
hold me as long as I have held you,
and love me, sweet one, as I love you.
My Lady Margaret, who is in a sense
twice my sister, says she is jealous of
Mistress Constance Sherwood, and
would steal away my heart from her ;
but, though she is a winsome and cun-
ning thief in such matters, I warrant
you she shall fail therein. And so,
commending myself to your good
prayers, I remain
" Your true friend and loving ser-
vant, "ANN SURREY."
As I finished and was folding up my
letter the clock struck nine. It was
waning darker without by reason of a
cloud which had obscured the moon.
I heard my father still pacing up and
down the gravel-walk, and ever and
anon staying his footsteps awhile, as if
watching. After a short space the
moon shone out again, and I saw the
shadows of two persons against the
wall of the kitchen garden. Presently
the hall-door was fastened and bolt-
ed, as I knew by the rattling of the
chain which hung across it. Then
my father looked in at the door and
said, " 'Tis time, goodwife, for young
folks to be abed." Upon which my
mother rose and made as if she
was about to withdraw to her bed-
chamber. Edmund followed us up
stairs, and, wishing us both good-
night, went into the closet where he
slept. Then my mother, taking me
by the hand, led me into my father's
study.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Translated from Der Katholik.
THE TWO SIDES OF CATHOLICISM.
THE Church is, in a twofold respect,
universal or catholic. While, on the
one hand, she extends herself over the
whole earth, and encircles the entire
human race with the bond of the same
faith and an equal love, on the other
she makes known, by this very act,
the most special inward character of
her own being. Thus the Church is
the Catholic Church, both in her in-
terior being and in her exterior mani-
festation.
The ground of the well-known say-
ing of St. Ambrose, "Where Peter
is, there is the Church,"* lies in the
thought, that the nature of the Church
admits of only one form of historical
manifestation. The idea of the true
Church can only be realized where
Peter is, in the communion of the legi-
timate Pope as the successor of Peter.
This proposition has its proximate
justification in that clear expression of
the will of Jesus Christ, the founder of
the Church, in which he designates the
Apostle Peter as the rock on which he
will build his Church. Moreover, it is
precisely this rock-foundation which
is to make the Church indestructible.*
From this it follows that, in virtue of
the ordinance of Jesus, the office of
Peter, or the primacy given him in
the Church, was not to expire with
the death of the apostle. For, if the
Ubi Petnis ibi ecclesia. In Ps. xl. No. 30.
* Matt. xvi. 18.
Two Sides of Catholicism.
97
Church is indestructible precisely on
account of her foundation upon the
rock-man Peter, he must remain for
all time the support of the Church,
and historical connection with him is
the indispensable condition on which
the Church can be firmly established
in any part of the earth. This con-
stant connection with the Apostle Peter
is maintained through the bishop of
Rome for the time being. For these
two offices, the episcopate of Rome
and the primacy, were connected with
each other in the person of the Apos-
tle Peter. Consequently the same su-
perior rank in the Church which Peter
possessed is transmitted to the legiti-
mate bishop of Rome at the same time
with the Roman episcopal see. Thus
the Prince of the Apostles remains in
very deed the rock-foundation of the
Church, continually, in each one of
his successors for the time being.
In the view of Christian antiquity,
the unity of the Church was the par-
ticular object for which the papacy
was established.* This unity, appre-
hended in its historical development,
gives us the conception of catholicity .f
Both these marks of the Church
must embody themselves in the form
of an outwardly perceptible historical
reality. The Church being indebted
for her unity, and by necessary conse-
quence for her catholicity, precisely to
her historical connection with Peter,
catholicity is thus rooted in the idea
of the papacy. But does its ultimate
and most profound principle lie there-
in?
The argument, briefly sketched
above, obliges us to rest the catho-
licity of the Church on the actual
* St. Cyprian, De Unit Eccl. Primatus Petro da-
fur, ut una Christi ecclesia et cathedra una monstretur
The primacy is given to Peter, that the Church of
Christ may be shown to be one, and the chair one.
t Ibid. Ecclesia quoque. una est, qua in multitud-
inem. latius increm^nto f<xcunditatis extcnditur . .
ecclesia Domini luce perfusa per obem totam radios
suos porrifjit. Unum tamen lumen est, quod ubique
diffund/tur, nee unitas corporis separatur.
The Church also is on-j, which is extended to a
very great multitude by the increase of fruitful-
ness . . . the Church of the Lord pervaded with
light extends its rays over the whole world. Nev-
ertheless the light which is everywhere diffused is
one, and the unity of the body is never separated.
institution of Christ. We can, how-
ever, inquire into the essential reason
of this institution. Does this reason
lie simply in a free, voluntary deter-
mination of Christ, or in the interior
essence of the Church herself ? In the
latter case, the Church would appear
as Catholic, because the end of her es-
tablishment could be fulfilled under no
other condition. There would be in
her innermost being a secret determi-
nation, by force of which the idea of
the Church is completely incapable
of realization under any other form
than that of catholicity. A Christian
Church without the papacy were,
therefore, entirely inconceivable. If
this is actually the case, there lies
hidden under the rind of the Church's
visible form of catholicity, a still deep-
er catholicity, in which we are bound
to recognize the most profound princi-
ple of the outward, historical side of
catholicity.
But that inward principle, the mar-
row of the Church, where are we to
look for it ? Our theologians, follow-
ing St. Augustine, teach that the
Church, like man, consists of soul and
body. The theological virtues form
the soul of the Church, and her body
is constituted by the outward profession
of the faith, the participation of the
sacraments, and exterior connection
with the visible head of the Church.*
St. Augustine, indeed, also designates
the Holy Ghost as the soul or the
inner principle of the Church. This
is the same thought with the one
which will be presently evolved, in
which the inner principle of cathol-
icity will be reduced to the concep-
tion of the supernatural. This, how-
ever, considered in itself, is withdrawn
from the region of historical manifes-
tation. In order that it may pass
from the region of the invisible into
that of apprehensible reality, it needs
a medium that may connect together
both orders, the invisible order of the
supernatural and the order of histori-
cal manifestation. It is only in this
* Bellarm., DeJSccl. miliL, cap. ii.
98
Two Sides of Catholicism.
way that catholicity can acquire for
itself a historical shape, and assume
flesh and blood.
We might be disposed to regard the
sacraments as this medium, because
they are the instruments by which
grace is conferred, in a manner appre-
hensible through the senses. Never-
theless, we cannot find the constitutive
principle of the Church in the sacra-
ments alone. It is well known that
Protestantism has set forth the legiti-
mate administration of the sacraments
as a mark of the true Church. A
searching glance at the Protestant
conception of the Church will here-
after give us a proof that a bare com-
munication in sacraments, at least from
the Protestant stand-point, cannot pos-
sibly verify itself as making a visible
Church. According to the Protestant
doctrine of justification, a sacrament is
indebted for its grace-giving efficacy
solely to the faith of the receiver. In
this view, therefore, the connection of
the invisible element of the superna-
tural with the historically manifested
reality, and consequently the making
visible of the true Church, is depend-
ent on conditions where historical ful-
filment is not provable. "Who can
prove whether the recipient of a sacra-
ment has faith ? It is true that, ac-
cording to the Catholic view, an ob-
jective efficacy is ascribed to the sacra-
ment, i. e., the outwardly perceptible
completion of the sacramental action
of itself permits the invisible element
of the supernatural to penetrate into
the sphere of the visible.
Notwithstanding this, the Catholic
sacrament is, by itself alone, no suffi-
cient medium through which the being
of the true Church can be brought into
visibility. Did she embody herself
historically only in so far as a sensible
matter and an outward action are en-
dued with a supernatural efficacy, the
element of the supernatural would
come to a historical manifestation only
as the purely objective. A profound
view of the essence of the Church
would not find this satisfactory. The
Church, even on her visible side, is
not a purely objective, or merely out-
ward, institution. The ultimate prin-
ciple of catholicity and this state-
ment will make our conception intelli-
gible although implanted in the world
as a supernatural leaven from above,
has nevertheless its seat in the deepest
interior of the human spirit. Thence
it penetrates upward into the sphere
of historical manifestation, and thus
proves itself a church-constitutive prin-
ciple. Such a connection of the region
of the interior and subjective with that
of historical and visible reality is
caused by the objective efficacy of a
sacrament, only in the case where the
same is productive of its proper effect.
This, however, according to Catholic
doctrine, presupposes an inward dis-
position on the part of the recipient,
the presence of which cannot be mani-
fested to outward apprehension. A
Church, whose essence consisted mere-
ly in the bond established through the
sacraments, could either not be veri-
fied with certitude, or would have an
exclusively exterior character. Ac-
cordingly, we have not yet found, in
the Catholic sacramental conception,
the middle term we are seeking, by
which the essence of catholicity can
be brought into visible manifestation.
Rather, this process has to be already
completed and the conception of the
Church to be actualized, before the
sacrament can manifest its efficacy.
Through this last, the element of the
supernatural, i. e., the invisible germ
of the Church, must be originally
planted or gradually strengthened in
individual souls. But this is effected
by the sacrament as the organ and in
the name of the Church, though in
particular cases outside of her com-
munion.
The continuous existence of Cathol-
icity is essentially the self-building
of the body of Christ. It produces its
own increase through the instrument-
ality of the sacraments.* The union
between the supernatural and the his-
torical actuality, or the bond of cathol
* Eph. iv. 16.
Two Sides of Catholicism.
99
icity, is not tlien first established in
the sacraments. These only mediate
for individual souls the reception into
the union, or confirm them in their or-
ganic relation to it, and are signs of
fellowship. In addition to what has
been already said, there is another rea-
son, and one of wider application, to be
considered, as bearing on this point.
The principle of a new life which has
to be infused into individual souls
through the sacraments is sanctifying
grace. In this, therefore, by logical
consequence, we should be obliged to
recognize the interior constitutive prin-
ciple of the Church, if it were true
that the connection between the inner
being of the Church and her historical
manifestation were brought to pass
through the efficacy of the sacraments.
According to this apprehension of the
subject, only the saints would belong
to the true Church.
One might seek to evade this last
conclusion by averring that in the in-
stance of baptism, the sacrament pro-
duces in the soul of the recipient, be-
side sanctifying grace, still another
effect, independently of the disposi-
tion, namely, the baptismal character.
This character is an indelible mark
impressed on the soul. Here, then, is
given us a supernatural principle which
penetrates the deepest interior of the
human spirit, and which is, at the same
time, capable of verifying itself as a
historical fact ; inasmuch as it is infal-
libly infused into the soul through an
outward, sensible action, and thereby,
through the medium of the latter, be-
comes visible. Beside this, one might
be still more inclined to regard the
baptismal character as the Church's
formative principle, because the same
is stamped upon the soul through a
sacrament, whose special end is to in-
corporate with the body of Christ its
individual members; for which reason,
also, baptism is designated in the lan-
guage of the Church as the gate of
the spiritual life, vitas spiritualis
janua.*
Decret. pro Armenia.
We must, however, in this imme-
diate connection, put in a reminder,
that it is a disputed point in theology,
whether baptism is really, in all cases,
the indispensably necessary condition
of becoming a member of the Church.
In the opinion of prominent theolo-
gians, a mere catechumen can, under
certain circumstances, be a member of
the Church.* Be that as it may, no
one will certainly dispute the fact that
a catechumen, whose soul is glowing
with divine love, belongs at least to the
soul of the Church. In him, therefore,
the inner germ of the Church's life
really exists before the reception of
the baptismal character. Beside this,
it appears to us that the sacramental
character, precisely in view of its de-
terminate end, is not so qualified that
we can put it forward as the interior
principle of catholicity. The bap-
tismal character is intended for a dis-
tinctive mark ; by it the seal of Church
membership is stamped on the soul. It
is true that the same action by which
the character is impressed on the soul
also makes the baptized person a mem-
ber of the Church, or, that in the same
act which plants the inner germ of the
Church's being in the heart, the soul
receives also the characteristic outward
impress of that being. But in so far
as it is the immediate and proper facul-
ty of the baptismal character to impress
the stamp of the Church in indelible
features upon the soul, the very concep-
tion of this character presupposes neces-
sarily the conception of the Church, as
prior to itself; which shows that we
cannot find the principle of the interior
being of the Church in the baptismal
character. This is confirmed by the
additional consideration that the bap-
tismal character is not effaced from
those souls which have broken off
every kind of connection with the
Church, and have absolutely nothing
remaining in them by which they com-
municate in her being. Finally, the
existence of the Church, at least so far
as her inner being or soul is concerned,
* Suarez, De Fide. Disp. ix., $ i., No. 18.
100
Two Sides of Catholicism.
does not date its origin from the insti-
tution of baptism. We must, therefore,
go one step further, in order to discover
the interior source of catholicity. As
has been heretofore pointed out, this
source lies in that region which we are
usually wont to designate as the Super-
natural Order. Let us, therefore, make
a succinct exposition of the interior
law of development in this order.
According to the Catholic doctrine,
faith is the beginning of human salva-
' turn, the ground and root of justifica-
tion,* i. e., of the supernatural life of
the soul. St. Paul designates faith
" the substance of things hoped for."f
That is to say, the beatific vision of
God, and with it the point toward
which the whole supernatural order
tends and in which it rests, has its
foundation laid in faith, and is already
in germ contained in it. Christ, and
with him the fountain of our super-
natural life, dwells in us through faith. J
Is Christ, therefore, called the founda-
tion, beside which no other can be
laid, then is faith recognized in the
basis of the supernatural order, be-
cause by faith we are immediately
brought into union with Christ.
Wherefore the apostle makes our par-
ticipation in the fruits of the work of
redemption precisely dependent on the
condition, " If so ye continue in the
faith, grounded and settled."|| The
same portion as foundation, which
faith has in the inner life of grace in
the soul, is also accorded to it in rela-
tion to the exterior structure of the
Church. The visibility of the true
Church is only the historical embodi-
ment of the element of the supernat-
ural. The divine building of the
Church has for its foundation the
apostles,^[ that is, as the sense of the
passage evidently is, through the faith
which they preached. Very remark-
able is the form of expression in the
well-known saying of the apostle :
" One Lord, one &ith, one baptism."**
* Trid. Sess. vi. , cap. 8.
$ Eph iii. 17.
II Coloss. i. 2 {.
** Eph. iv. 5.
t Heb. xi. i.
I) ! Cor. iii. 11.
IT Eph. ii. 20.
Here the unity of faith is given the
precedence of the unity produced
through baptism, as being its necessa-
ry pre-requisite. The one baptism is
the bond of unity of the Church only
in the second line. Through it, name-
ly, the fruitful germ of the one faith
in which exclusively the unity of the
Church has its root, is continually
planted in individual souls, an actual
confession of that faith being also in-
cluded in the ceremony of baptism
itself.
The Church herself makes use of
language which clearly shows that she
regards faith as the deepest principle
of her being.* The Catechism of the
Council of Trent defines the Church
as " the faithful dispersed throughout
the world."f
According to St. Thomas, also, the
unity, and consequently the catholicity
of the Church, is radically grounded
in faith. The angelic doctor means
here living faith, or fides formata.
According to this view, the principle
of catholicity pervades the inner-
most depth of subjectivity. At the
same time it is clear how the same
comes to an historical manifestation.
This takes place in the symbol of the
Church. The faith which finds its
historical expression in the ecclesiasti-
cal symbol is to be regarded as fides
formata,l for this reason, because it is
a confession of faith made in the name
and by the personality of the collec-
tive Church, which possesses its in-
ward principle of unity in the fides
formata, or living faith. Moreover,
the symbol of the Church is a con-
stant warning for those of her mem-
bers who have not the grace of sanc-
tification to make their faith living
through charity .
In the foregoing doctrinal exposi-
tion St. Thomas has marked out for
us the path to be followed in seeking
* Condi. Lateran., iv. cap. Firmiter : Unafidelium
uninersalis ecclesia.
t Catech. Rom. , pars 1 , cap. x. . qu. 2.
i That is, faith made perfect by charity as it ex-
ists in a person who is in the state of grace, in
contradistinction from the faith of a sinner.
TKANSLATOB
Secunda Secundce, qu. 1. a. q. ad 3.
Two Sides of Catholicism.
101
for the medium of union between the
exterior and ulterior catholicity of the
Church. Our argument must start,
therefore, from the position that the
unity of the Church in the first line is
a unity in faith. In this notion we
have the speculative middle term be-
tween the inner being of the Church
and her historical form of manifesta-
tion. From the blending of both
these elements is formed the full, ade-
quate idea of catholicity. This last
exhibits itself as a force acting in two
distinct spheres, that of the inward
subjectivity and that of historical ob-
jectivity. Consequently, the exterior
and interior catholicity of the Church,
or the two sides of Catholicism, must
be reduced to the same principle. A
further evolution of this thought will
make it clear, why the being of the
true Church can only find its true ac-
tualization in the historical form of
Catholicism.
The catholic visible form of the
Church, as pointed out above, is indi-
cated in the papacy. But in what re-
lation does the latter stand to the in-
terior catholicity of the Church ? In
order to find the right answer to this
decisive question, we must first more
exactly define in what sense the pa-
pacy must be regarded as the bond of
the historical unity of the Church. It
must be so regarded, precisely in so
far as the primacy has been instituted
for the special end of preserving the
faith incorrupt. According to the
teaching of the Fathers of the Church,
Peter is the Church's foundation of
rock, in virtue of his faith.* By this,
of course, is not meant the personal
confession of the Apostle Peter, but
the object-matter of the same, the
contents of the faith to be preached by
Peter and his successors. Peter,
says Leo the Great, is called by
Christ the Rock, on account of the
solidity of the faith which he was to
preach, pro soliditate fidei quam erat
prcsdicaturus.^ This is not the place
* See the relevant passages from the fathers in
Ballerini, De vi ac rations primatus Rom. Pont., cap.
xiL, U, No. 1. t Serm. 02.
to develop further in what way the
papacy proves itself in act the cement
of the unity of faith. We shall
speak of that later. It is enough for
our purpose, in the meanwhile, to take
note of the judgment of the ancient
Church. According to the doctrine of
the Fathers of the Church, the funda-
mental significance which the papacy
has for the Church, rests upon a rela-
tion of dependence between her faith
and the faith of Peter, including by
consequence that of his successors.
In this sense St. Hilarius distinctly
calls the faith of the Apostle Peter
the foundation of the Church.* The
same view is found in St. Ambrose,f
expressed in nearly the same words.
But if Peter is the Church's founda-
tion of rock precisely through his
faith, that mutual relation between
the inner catholicity of the Church
and the papacy is no longer doubtful.
For that the Church, according to her
inward essence, verifies herself as the
Catholic Church, she owes precisely
to her faith, as likewise, on the other
side, her catholic visible form is con-
ditioned by the outward profession of
the same faith. Consequently, the
papacy as guardian of the unity of
faith, stands also in a necessary con-
nection with the inner being of the
Church. Here then we have the
uniting member we have been seeking
between inward and outward catho-
licity, the essence and the manifesta-
tion of the Church. In so far as the
historical connection with Peter must
be conceived as a bond of faith, in
this same connection or in the form of
Catholicism, the true Church, even as
to her inner being, comes historically
into visible manifestation.
Faith, which we affirm to be the
essential kernel of Catholicism, has
two sides, one which is interior and
subjective, and another which comes
to outward manifestation. With the
heart we believe unto justification, but
with the mouth confession is made
unto salvation.]: A revealed truth
* De Trin., vi. 37.
$ Eom. x. 10.
t De Incarn., cap. 5.
102
Two Sides of Catholicism.
corresponds to supernatural faith as
its necessary object. Therefore, it
may be remarked in passing, the sub-
jective act of faith is equally infalli-
ble with the divine testimony itself,
upon which it is essentially based.*
This revealed object of faith, without
which a supernatural faith is entirely
inconceivable, is mediated or set forth
through an organ directly instituted by
God for this purpose. An individual,
who thinks that he has discovered,
through private investigation or in
any other way, a particular point of
doctrine, which hitherto has not been
universally received as such, to be a
revealed truth, can only make it an
object of supernatural faith, when he
is able to judge with certainty that
this supposed new doctrine of faith
would be approved by the infallible,
divinely appointed organ of revealed
truth.f
This mediating organ is, however,
as we shall fully show in the course of
our further exposition, no other than
the Apostle Peter, and through the
relation which he bears to him, his le-
gitimate successor in office. Peter is
the support and the strength of his
brethren, inasmuch as his faith, to
which the dogmatic utterance of his
successors gives a new expression ac-
cording to the needs of the Church,
forms a criterion for the faith of the
Church. Peter, preaching of the faith,
continually apprehensible through the
papal definitions of faith, gives to the
faith of the Church the specific form
under which the same incorporates
itself historically in an ecclesiastical
confession. But in the Church-con-
fession of faith, -as we have before
shown, its inner being comes into visi-
ble manifestation. As medium of Pe-
ter's preaching of the faith, the papacy
is consequently also a Church-consti-
tutive principle, inasmuch as through
the actualization of the supreme power
delegated to him by Christ, the being
of the Church is made visible, and ob-
* St. Thomas, Secunda Secunda, q. 1 a. 3.
t Suarez, DeFide. Disp. iii., Sect, xiii., No. 9.
tains an historical form. This is the
sense of the words, " On this Rock I
will build my Church."
As we have, in the foregoing re-
marks, conceived of the papacy as the
angle at which the two sides of Ca-
tholicism meet, the uniting bond of the
outward and inward catholicity of the
Church, we are further bound to show
why precisely the papacy is the appro-
priate organ to establish that union
between the essence and the manifesta-
tion of Catholicism, and thereby to
mediate the actualization of the true
idea of the Church. For this purpose
we must endeavor to penetrate some-
what deeper into the inner being or
soul of the Church. We shall there
find a tendency which makes the Cath-
olic form of manifestation of the
Church a postulate of her being. This
tendency lies in the character of the
supernatural. In the conception of the
supernatural we shall endeavor to
point out the radical conception of Ca-
tholicism. The papacy, and the Cath-
olic visible form of the Church medi-
ated by it, is, in our opinion, the ne-
cessary consequence of the supernat-
urality of her being.
Thus far we have sketched in brief
outlines the mutual relation of the two
sides of Catholicism. We must re-
serve for a subsequent article the de-
tailed theological proof of that which
we have for the present suggested as
a new theory. Meanwhile we would
like to exhibit, in a few words, the in-
terest which an investigation of this
subject claims for itself at this partic-
ular period of time.
ii.
The distinction between an exterior
and interior catholicity of the Church
is but slightly touched upon in our
books of dogmatic instruction. No
one need wonder at this circumstance.
It is well known that the controversy
with Protestantism gave occasion to
the usual modern method of treating
of the marks of the Church. The
Two Sides of Catholicism.
103
method of the great controversialists
of the age of the Reformation has, at
least in regard to the present ques-
tion, remained, to a considerable ex-
tent, the model for the dogmatic writ-
ers of the present time. The theolo-
gians of a former time, however, found
no necessity for expressly distinguish-
ing between the catholicity of the be-
ing of the Church and that of her
manifestation. It was enough for their
purpose to prove that the Church, in
her historical manifestation, is the Cath-
olic Church.
The Protestantism of the epoch of
the Reformation claimed for its con-
gregations the honor of having actual-
ized the true idea of the Church. The
churches of Wittenberg, Zurich, and
Geneva each pretended to be the true
copy of the evangelical primitive
Church. It was easy for Catholic
polemics to destroy this pretension.
It was only necessary to inspect the
particular Protestant churches a little
closely. Such a reconnoissance con-
ducted necessarily to the indubitable
conclusion that none of those com-
munions had the marks of the true
Church upon it, and that these were
realized only in the Church in com-
munion with the Pope.
Modern Protestantism is much more
modest in its pretensions. The present
champions of the Protestant cause
characterize, without disguise, the at-
tempt of the Reformers to bring the
essence of the true Church historically
into manifestation in their commun-
ions as a gross error and a backsliding
into Catholicism. They will have it,
that the characteristic principle of
Protestantism lies precisely in the ac-
knowledgment that the true essence of
the Church can find its correlative ex-
pression in none of the existing
churches. The true Church, accord-
ing to this notion, remains an unat-
tainable ideal as long as the world
stands. Not to actualize the idea of
the Church, only to strive after its ac-
tualization, is the task of a religious
communion. The Protestantism of the
day accordingly recognizes it as its vo-
cation "to give Christianity precisely
the expression and form which best
corresponds to the necessities of the
time, the demands of an advanced
science and culture, the grade of intel-
lectual and moral development of the
Christian nations."*
Protestant polemic theology makes
the following use of this view. Over
against the magnificent historical man-
ifestation of the Catholic Church, the
torn and rent condition of the Prot-
estant religious community presents a
striking contrast. The proximate con-
clusion that the true Church can only
be found within the circle of Catholi-
cism, they seek now to anticipate on
the Protestant side by the observation
th#t already from the outset one makes
a false start who would wish to recog-
nize the true Church by her form of
historical manifestation. According to
the Protestant view, the mark of cath-
olicity verifies itself exclusively in the
inner being of the Church, and not in
her outward manifestation. For, owing
to the constant progress of human de-
velopment, and the extremely diversi-
fied individuality of single nations, the
historical manifestation of the Church
must be multiform to the same extent
as the intellectual and moral wants of
the different peoples are various. Nev-
ertheless, in spite of the manifold dif-
ferences which distinguish the paiticu-
lar churches in their historical mani-
festation, the members of the same
blend themselves together into a great
invisible spiritual kingdom. This is
the ideal Church.
This is the response which modern
Protestantism makes when Catholic
criticism places before its eyes the
melancholy picture of its inward di-
visions and the history of its variations.
From the historical manifestation of a
church to its inner being they say the
conclusion is invalid. In order, there-
fore, to make Catholic polemics effec-
tive, the relation between the essence
and the manifestation of the Church
must be first of all theologically es-
* Schenkel, ; ' Essence of Prot.," p. -J.
104
Two Sides of Catholicism.
tablished. It is only after this has
been done that the comparison between
"the Church and the churches" can be
exhibited in its entire argumentative
force.
The theory of the ideal church is
not yet effectively refuted, when we
on the Catholic side content ourselves
with proving that the true Church
must become visible. This general
proposition does not exclude the pro-
position of our opponents. For, ac-
cording to the Protestant doctrine, also,
the creative power of the spirit of
Christianity exhibits itself in the con-
struction of visible congregations, and
the gradual actualization of the ideal
Church is conditioned by a sensibly
apprehensible mediation. The fimal
decision of this question must there-
fore be sought in the demonstration of
the proposition that the inmost being
of the Church can only realize itself
historically in the one specific form ;
that a catholicity of the essence of the
Church without a catholicity in her
manifestation is entirely inconceivable.
Only by this demonstration will the
retreat of Protestant polemics into the
ideal Church be for ever cut off.
Some have argued against the Prot-
estant view, that as Christian truth is
one so the visible Church can also be
but one.* The argument is valid only
in the prior supposition that there can
be but a single form of historical mani-
festation for the inner being of the
Church. This, however, Protestant-
ism denies in the sense, that from its
stand-point every particular church
represents the idea of the Church,f
* Moehler, " Symbolism."
t This is also the theory of High-Church Episcopa-
lianism. Mr. Sewall has defined it more logically
than any other writer of that school. According to
him, the unity of the Church consists in this, that
all churches are formed after one ideal model, or on
one principle, and the separate churches of indi-
vidual bishops are each a perfect organic whole.
That is. Catholic unity is an abstract unity, concret-
ed in each particular bishop and diocese. Hence
there can be no organized unity of the universal
Church, but only union or friendly communion of
independent churches. This notion was highly
approved by Bishop Whittingham, who expressed
it in this way, that the true communion of church-
es with each other is in speculo Trinitatis. It is
pure Congregationalism, bating the difference be-
tween a dioceso governed by a chief and inferior
pastors, and a single congregation under one pas-
even though it may be on one side
only. According to the diversified
stages of cultivation in the Christian
people, so they say, now one, now
another side of Christian truth attains
to its expression in the particular con-
fessions, but in none the full and entire
truth. The contradiction existing be-
tween these, therefore, in nowise falls
back upon the Christian verity itself.
This Protestant evasion can also be
alone met in the way above designated,
by establishing the relation between
the essence and the manifestation of
Catholicism.
It has been further argued that a
Church of the Nations, which the
Christian Church must be, according
to its idea, is entirely inconceivable
without the papacy at its summit.*
Here, also, it is presupposed, as already
proved, that the conception of univer-
sality which is essentially connected
with the idea of the true Church must
also necessarily impress itself upon her
actual explication of herself in time.
But it is precisely against this notion
that modern Protestantism contends.
Therefore, if our polemic arms are to
bring down their man, the affair must
begin with a sharper delineation of the
mutual relation between the essence
and the visible form of the Church.
Beside the polemic advantages to be
gained in the course which has been
suggested, there is another in the in-
terest of pacification. Under the rub-
bish of the Protestant Church-idea
there still lies buried a remnant of
tor or several of the same order. But it is the only
logical conception of a visible church possible,
when the papacy, or principle of universal organic
unity, is denied. It is the logical result of the
schismatical position of the Greeks, who have no
unity among themselves except that which is na-
tional, but are divided into several independent
bodies. Hence, the so-called "union movement,"
as clearly shown by Cardinal Patrizi in the Decree
sent to the English bishops, is one which proceeds
from a denial of Catholic unity, and therefore can
never lead to unity, but only aim at union, or vol-
untary co-operation of distinct churches with each
other. The High-Church theory differs from that
of the German Protestants in this that the former
requires that all churches should be alike, and each
one represent completely the ideal Church ; but
both are based on the same principle, that of an
abstract, invisible unity and catholicity, concreted
in an individual and not a generic and universal
mode. TRANSLATOR.
* DSllinger, ' The Church and the Churches."
Two Sides of Catholicism.
105
Catholic truth. "We ought not to shun
the trouble of bringing this to light.
It is the Christian truth contained in
his confession which binds the believ-
ing Protestant to it. Catholic theology
has to reclaim this as its own property.
It has the mission intrusted to it to show
how the religious satisfaction, which the
deeper Protestant mind thinks it finds
in the doctrinal conception of its con-
fession, is imparted to it in richer abun-
dance and morally purified through
the dogma of the Church. Through
this conciliatory method, an understand-
ing of the Catholic truth can be much
more easily and effectually imparted
to the unprejudiced Protestant mind
than by a rough polemical method.
This end is most essentially served
by the distinction between the es-
sence and the manifestation of Cath-
olicism.
Protestant piety makes a great
boast of its deep spirituality. The
modern ideal theory of the Church
owes a great share of its popularity to
its aptitude of application in this direc-
tion. By means of this conception,
the Protestant Church is expected to
exhibit itself in a new light as the
church of the interior and spiritual
life. Does one attain the same depth
of view from the Catholic stand-point?
All doubt on this point must disappear
on thorough consideration of what we
have above named, the inner side of
Catholicism.
There is another ground for the
favor with which this ideal theory of
the Church is at present received.
Protestant theology regards it as a
means of its own resuscitation. The
old doctrine of justification by faith
alone has in great part lost the charm
it once exercised over the hearts of the
German people. The once mighty
battle-cry of inward, subjective faith
is no longer to the taste of our age.
Therefore, in our time, instead of the
antiquated idea of immediate union
with Christ, the world-moving power
of the mind, the creative power of the
idea, is set up as the distinguishing
principle of Protestantism. The latter
is thus made to appear as the most
powerful protector of the liberal as-
pirations of the age.
Catholic controversy must take some
cognizance of this, if it would make
its own proper principle prevail.
While Protestantism seeks to gain
the favor of the contemporary world
by obsequiously yielding to the caprices
of the spirit of the age, the inner
principle of Catholicism raises it above
the vacillations which sway particular
periods. Only a Church which, thanks
to its native principle, is not borne
along by intellectual and social periodi-
cal currents, can effectually correct
their movement. In order, therefore,
to measure accurately the influence
which the Church, by virtue of her in-
stitution, is called to exercise upon
human society, we must penetrate into
her innermost essence, to the very
point where Catholicism has its deep-
est principle. First from this point
can we correctly understand in how
far the Church is a social power.
From this point of view alone can we
comprehend her aptitude to be the
teacher of the nations. And precisely
of this social and instructive vocation
have our contemporaries lost the right
understanding to a great extent. It
is one of the mightiest tasks of our
modern theology to make the minds of
men once more capable of apprehend-
ing this truth.*
The high importance of authority
in the system of Catholicism is well
known. This fundamental principle
runs a danger of being placed in a
false light, when it is depressed to the
level of the historical and exterior side
of the Church. Ecclesiastical authori-
ty, separated from the ground which
lies back of it and which is above the
temporal order, may appear even to
the well-disposed as a mere brake for
the stoppage of all intellectual prog-
ress. This suggests a temptation to
desire a compromise between the
Church and the spirit of the age.
"When one takes a merely exterior and
* A few sentences rather digressive from the main
topic of the article are hero omitted. TRANSLATOB.
106
Monsieur JBabou.
historical view of church authority,
the proper spirit of joyousness which
ought to belong to faith is wanting in
the submisssion which is rendered to
its decrees. It is very easy, then, to
fall into a sort of diplomatic way of
acting toward the Church as teacher of
doctrine. One seeks to accommodate
one's self to her doctrine through sub-
tile distinctions. On the contrary, the
boldest scientific mind frankly and
cheerfully bows itself under the yoke
of the obedience of faith, when it sees
that the Church, in her doctrinal de-
cision, is acting from her own interior
principle.
Our doctrinal exposition requires
now that we should go into a more
thorough argument respecting the im-
manent principle of Catholicism, which
we shall first of all undertake to do
on Scriptural grounds. This part of
the subject will be treated hi an ensu-
ing article.
From The CornMll Magazine.
MONSIEUR BABOU.
IN the immediate vicinity of the
capital of the kingdom of Lilliput
there is a charming village called
" Les Grenouillettes." This rural re-
sort of the citizens of Mildendo con-
sists, mainly, of three hotels, thirty
public-houses, and five ponds. The
population I should reckon at about
ten millions, inclusive of frogs, who
are the principal inhabitants, and who
make a great noise in the world there.
Hither flock the jocund burgesses,
and dance to the sound of harp and
viol. . . .
It occurs to me that, sprightly as I
may think it to call Belgium Lilliput,
the mystification! miight possibly be-
come tiresome and inconvenient if per-
sisted in throughout this narrative, be-
side becoming absolutely unnecessary.
As for the village in question, I have
a reason or two for not calling it by its
right name.
About half-a-dozen years ago, my
brother (Captain John Freshe, R. N.),
his wife, and I had been wearily jog-
ging all a summer's day in search of
country lodgings for a few weeks in
the immediate neighborhood of Brus-
sels. Now nothing can be more diffi-
cult to find in that locality, except
under certain conditions.
You can live at a village hotel, and
pay a maximum price for minimum
comfort.
You can, possibly, lodge in a public-
house, where it will cost you dear,
however little you pay.
Or you can, in some villages, hire
empty rooms in an entirely empty
house, and hire furniture from Brus-
sels, and servants, if you have none,
by the month.
This last alternative has the advan-
tage of ennobling your position into a
quasi-martyrdom, by, in a measure,
compelling you to stay where you are,
whether you like it or not.
Toward the end of that longest of
the long days, we began to regard life
and circumstance with the apathy of
despair, and to cease to hope for any-
thing further from them except din-
ner.
The capital of the kingdom of Lilli-
put appeared to be partially sur-
rounded by a vast and melancholy
campagna of turnips. These wilds,
immeasurably spread, seemed length-
ening as we went. Village after vil-
Monsieur Babou.
107
had we reached, and explored
in vain. Judging by our feelings, I
should say we had ransacked at least
half-a-hundred of those rural colonies.
Almost all these villages possessed at
least six public-houses and two ponds.
Some few had no ponds, but all had six
public-houses. Rural, dusty, cracked
public-houses; with frowzy gardens,
with rotten, sloppy tables and benches ;
with beery gorillas playing at quoits
and ninepins.
The names of none of these settle-
ments seemed to us pronounceable by
human beings, with the exception of
two, which sounded like Diggum and
Hittumontheback. But our city driver
appeared to be acquainted with the
Simian tongue, and was directed from
village to village by the good-natured
apes whom he interrogated.
About sunset we came to a larger
and quite civilized place, with a French
name, signifying "The Tadpoles"
the place I have described at the com-
mencement of this narrative. Our
dusty fly and dejected horse turned
into the carriage entrance of the first
little hotel we saw. It stood sideways
to a picturesque little lake, with green
shores. The carriage entrance went
through the house. Beyond, we had
caught sight of a paved yard or court,
and of a vista of green leafmess that
looked cool and inviting. We heard
the noisy jangling of a barrel-organ
playing a polka, and we found a per-
formance going on in the court that
absorbed the attention of the whole
household. No one seemed to hear,
or at least to heed, the sound of our
wheels, but, when our vehicle fairly
stopped in the paved yard, a fishy-eyed
waiter came toward us, jauntily flipping
time with his napkin. We begged
him to get us dinner instantly.
" Way, Mosou," replied that official,
in the sweet Belgian-French language,
and let us out of the fly. We had
been so long cramped up in it that we
were glad to walk, and stand, and look
about the court while our food was got
ready.
The organ-grinder had not ceased
grinding out his polka for a moment.
The wiry screams of his infernal ma-
chine seemed to charm him as much
as they did the rest of the company
assembled. He was the usual Savoy-
ard, with a face like a burnt crust ; all
fire-brown eyes, sable ringlets, and in-
sane grimace. He leaned against a
low stone post, and ground out that
horrible bray, like a grinning maniac.
We walked to a short distance, and
took in the scene.
A little sallow young man, having a
bushy mustache, stood near a door into
the house, with a dish in his hand, as
if he had been transfixed in the act of
carrying it somewhere. Beside him,
on the step of the door, sat a blonde
young woman, with large blue eyes
and a little mouth as pretty and as
fade as a Carlo-Dolcian Madonna. Evi-
dently these were the landlord and his
lady.
On a garden-bench, by the low wall
that divided the court from the garden
beyond, sat, a little apart, a young per-
son of a decidedly French aspect,
dressed quite plainly, but with Parisian
precision, in black silk. In her hand
and on her lap lay some white em-
broidery. She was not pretty, but
had neat, small features, that wore a
pleasant though rather sad smile, as
she suspended her work to watch what
was going on. An old woman in a
dark-blue gown and a clean cap, with
a pile of freshly-ironed linen in her
arms, stood at the top of some steps
leading into a little building which was
probably the laundry. She was wag-
ging her old head merrily to the dance
tune. Other lookers-on lounged about,
but some of them had vanished since
our arrival for instance, the fishy-
eyed waiter and a burly individual in
a white nightcap.
The centre of attraction remains to
be described. Within a few paces of
the organ-grinder, a little girl and boy
danced indefatigably on the stones, to
the unmusical music of his box. The
little boy was a small, fair, sickly child,
in a linen blouse, and about four years
old. He jumped, and stamped, and
108
Monsieur Bdbou.
laughed excitedly. The little girl
looked about a year older. She was
plump and rosy, dressed in a full pink
frock and black silk apron. She had
light brown hair, cut short and
straight, like a boy's. She danced
very energetically, but solemnly, with-
out a smile on her wee round mouth.
She poussetted, she twirled her pink
frock spread itself out like a parasol.
Her fat little bare arms akimbo, she
danced in a gravely coquettish, thor-
oughly business-like way ; now cross-
ing, changing places with her partner ;
now setting to him, with little pattering
feet; now suddenly whisking and
whirling off. The little boy watched
her, and followed her lead : she was
the governing spirit of the dance.
Both children kept admirable time.
They were dancing the tarantella,
though they had never heard of it;
but of all the poetry of motion K the
tarantella is the most natural measure
to fall into.
The organ-grinder ground, and
grinned, and nodded; the landlord
and his wife exchanged looks of
admiration and complacency whenever
they could take their eyes off the little
dancing nymph: it was easy to see
they were her proud parents. The
quiet young lady on the bench looked
tenderly at the tiny, sickly boy, as he
frisked. We felt sure she was his
mother. His eyes were light blue,
not hazel ; but he had the same neat
little features.
All of a sudden, down from an open
window looking into the court, there
came an enormous voice
" Ah, ah ! Bravo ! Ah, ah, Mon-
sieur Babebibo-BOU ! "
The little boy stopped dancing ; so
did the little girl, and every one looked
up at the window. The little boy,
clapping his hands and screaming
with glee, ran under it. No one
could be seen at that aperture, but
we had caught a momentary glimpse
of a big blond man in a blue blouse,
who had instantly dropped out of
sight, and who was crouching on the
floor, for we saw, though the child
below could not, the top of his straw
hat just above the window-edge. The
little boy screamed, "Papa,- papa!"
The great voice, making itself preter-
natnrally gruff, roared out
" Qui est la ? Est-ce par chance
Monsieur Babebibo-BOU ? " (The first
syllables very fast, the final one ex-
plosive.)
" Way, way ! C'est Mosou Babi-
bou ! " cried the child, trying to imi-
tate the gruff voice, and jumping and
laughing ecstatically.
Out of the window came flying a
huge soft ball of many colors, and
then another roar: "Avec les com*
pliments du Roi de tous les joujoux, a
Monsieur Babebibo-BOU ! "
More rapture. Then a large white
packet, palpably sugar-plums, " Avec
les compliments de la Reine de tous
les bonbons, a Mademoiselle Marie, et
a Monsieur Babebibo-BOU ! "
Rapture inexpressible, except by
shrill shrieks and capers. The plump
little girl gravely advances and assists
at the examination of the packet,
popping comfits into her tiny mouth
with a placid melancholy, which I
have often observed in fat and rosy
faces.
Meanwhile, the organ-grinder has
at last stopped grinding, has lowered
his box, and is eating a plateful of
cold meat and bread which the old
woman has brought out to him. The
landlord and his wife have disappeared.
The young Frenchwoman on the gar-
den-bench has risen, and come toward
the children ; and now, from a door-
way leading into the house, issues the
big blond man we caught a momentary
glimpse of at the window.
The little boy abandons the sugar-
plums to his playfellow, and crying
"Papa! papa!" darts to the new
comer, who stoops and gathers him
up to his broad breast, in his large
arms and hands, kissing him fondly
and repeatedly. The child responds
with like effusion. The father's great
red face, with its peaked yellow beard,
contrasts touchingly, somehow, with
the wee pale phiz of his little son.
Monsieur Babou.
109
The child's tiny white puds pat the
jolly cheeks and pull the yellow beard.
Then the man in the blouse sets his
son carefully on the ground, and kisses
the young Frenchwoman who stands
by.
The big man has evidently been
absent awhile from his family. " How
goes it, my sister ? " says he.
"Well, my brother," she answers
quietly. " Thou hast seen Auguste
dance. Thou hast seen how well,
and strong, and happy he is the
good God be thanked."
"And after him, thee, my good
sister," says the big man, affec-
tionately.
We had been called in to dinner by
this time, but the open window of our
eating-room looked into the court close
to where the group stood. We ob-
served that Mademoiselle Marie had
remained sole possessor of the packet
of sweets; and that the little boy,
content to have got his papa, made no
effort to assert his rights in them.
The big papa interfered, saying,
"Mais, mals, la pstite .... Give
at least of the bonbons to thy comrade.
It is only fair."
" Let her eat them, Jean," put in
his sister, with naive feminine gen-
erosity and justice. " They are so
unwholesome for Auguste, seest thou ?"
The big man laughed, lit his pipe,
and the three went away into the little
garden, where they strolled, talking
in the summer twilight.
We came happily to an anchor
here, in' this foggy little haven, and
finding we could secure, at tolerably
moderate charges, the accommodation
we required, made up our minds to
stay at this little hotel for the few
weeks of our absence from Brussels.
ii.
Next morning we were breakfasting
in the garden under a trellis of hop-
leaves, when the big man in the blouse
came up the gravel-walk, with his
small son on his shoulder.
They were making a tremendous
noise. The little boy was pulling his
father's great red ear ; he affected to
bellow with anguish, his roaring voice
topped by the child's shrill, gleeful
treble. We saluted the new comers
in a neighborly manner.
" A beautiful day, Madame," said
the big man, in French, taking off his
hat and bowing politely to John's wife,
at the same time surrounding his son
safely with his left arm.
" Madame and these Messieurs are
English, is it not ?"
"A pretty place," we went on to
say, after owning our nationality, " and
very pleasant in this hot weather after
the glare of Brussels."
" It is that ; and I am here as often
as possible," returned our new ac-
quaintance. "My sister is staying
here for the advantage of this little
man. . . . Monsieur Auguste, at your
service. Salute then the society, Au-
guste. You must know he has the
pretension to be a little delicate, this
young man. An invalid, if you please ;
consequently his aunt spoils him! It
is a ruse on his part, you perceive.
Ah, bah ! An invalid ! My word, he
fatigues my poor arm. Ah h ! I
cannot longer sustain him. I faint
I drop him down he goes . . . la-
a a!"
Here, lowering him carefully, as if
he were crystal, he pretended to let
his son suddenly tumble on a bit of
grass-plot.
"At present" (grumbling) "here
he is, broken to pieces probably ; we
shall have the trouble of mending
him. His aunt must bring her needle
and thread."
Monsieur Auguste was so enchanted
with this performance that he encored
it ecstatically. His father obeyed, and
then sent him off running to call out
his aunt to breakfast, which was laid
under a neighboring trellis.
" He is strong on his legs, is it not,
Madame ?" said the father, looking af-
ter him ; his jolly face and light blue
eyes a little grave, and wistful. "His
spirits are so high, see you ? He is
110
Monsieur Bdbou.
too intelligent, too intellectual he has
a little exhausted his strength; that
says all. He is well enough ; he has
no malady ; and every day he is get-
ting stouter, plainly to the eye."
Here the aunt and nephew joined
us. Our new acquaintance introduced
her.
" Ma belle-soeur. Ma chere, Mad-
ame and these Messieurs are English.
They are good enough to take an in-
terest in this infant Hercules of ours."
He tossed the child on his shoulder
again; established on which throne
his little monarch amused himself by
ornamenting the parental straw-hat
with a huge flaring poppy and some
green leaves, beneath which the jovial
face bloomed Bacchic.
Meanwhile the quiet young French-
woman, smiling affectionately at those
playfellows as they went off together,
sat down on a chair we offered her,
and frankly entered into conversation.
In a few minutes we knew a great
deal about this little family. The man
in the blouse was a Belgian painter,
Jean Baudin, and " well seen in the
expositions of Paris and Brussels."
" His wife was my sister : we were of
Paris. When our little Auguste was
born, my poor sister died. She was
always delicate. The little one is very
delicate. Ah, so delicate, also. It is
impossible to be over-careful of him.
And his father, who is so strong so
strong ! But the little one resembles
in every manner his mother. His
poor father adores him, as you see.
Poor Jean ! he so tenderly loved his
wife, who died in her first youth. . . .
She had but eighteen years she had
six years less than I. In dying she
begged me to be to her infant a moth-
er, and to her poor Jean a sister. Jean
is a good brother, bon et brave homme.
And for the little one, he is truly a
child to be adored judiciously, it is
understood, madame : I spoil him not,
believe me. But he is clever to as-
tonish you, that child. So spirituel,
and then such a tender little good
heart a disposition so amiable. Hard-
ly he requires correction. . . . Au-
guste! how naughty thou art! Au-
guste ! dost thou hear ? Jean ! take
him then off the dusty wall, and wipe
him a little. Mon ami, thou spoilest
the child ; one must be judicious."
We presently left the garden, and,
in passing, beheld Monsieur Auguste
at breakfast. He was seated between
his papa and aunt, and was being
adored by both (judiciously and inju-
diciously) to the heart's content of all
three.
We stayed a month at this little ho-
tel at The Tadpoles. The English
family soon fraternized with that of
Jean Baudin, the Flemish painter, also
sojourning there, and the only other
resident guests.
John's wife and Mademoiselle be-
came good friends and gossips, and sat
at work and chat many a summer hour
under the hop trellises. Mademoiselle
Rose Leclerc was the Frenchwoman's
name, but her name of ceremony was
simply " Mademoiselle." John and I
used to walked about the country,
among the lanes, and woods, and han>
lets which diversify the flats on that
side of Brussels, accompanying Jean
Baudin and his paint-box. We sat
under a tree, or on a stone fence,
smoking pipes of patience, while Jean
made studies for those wonderful, elab-
orate tiny pictures, the work of his big
hands, by which he and his little son
lived. I remember, in particular, a
mossy old cottage, rough and grey ;
the front clothed with vines, the quaint
long gable running down behind to
within a yard of the ground. Baudin
sketched that cottage very often ; and
often used its many picturesque fea-
tures.
Sometimes it was the rickety, black-
timbered porch, garlanded with vine ;
a sonsy, blond-haired young Flemish
maiden sat there, and twirled the bob-
bins on a lace-cushion, in a warm yel-
low flicker of sunshine. Sometimes
Jean went right into the porch and
into the cottage itself, and presently
brought us out an old blue-gowned,
black-coifed creature, knitting as she
kicked the grand-babe's clumsy cradle
Monsieur Babou.
Ill
with her clumsy sabot ; a ray through
the leafy little window-hole found the
crone's white hair, and the infant
cheek. Honest Jean only painted
what he saw with his eyes. He could
copy such simple poetry as this, and
feel it too, though he could indite no
original poems on his canvas pages.
He was a hearty good fellow, and we
soon got to like him, and his kindly,
unpretentious, but not unshrewd,
talk that is, when it could be got off
the paternal grooves which, to say
the truth, was seldomer than we (who
were not ourselves at that period the
parents of prodigies) may have se-
cretly desired.
In the summer evenings we used to
sit in the garden all together, the
ladies graciously permitting us to
smoke. We liked to set the children
a-dancing again on the grass-plot be-
fore us ; and I must here confess that
they saltated to a mandolin touched
by this hand. I had studied the in-
strument under a ragged maestro of
Naples, and flattered myself I per-
formed on it with credit to both, and
to the general delight.
Sometimes Jean Baudin would tie
to his cane a little pocket-handkerchief
of Monsieur Auguste, and putting this
ensign into his hand, cause him to go
through a certain vocal performance
of a martial and defiant character.
The pale little man did it with much
spirit, and a truculent aspect, stamping
fiercely at particular moments of the
strain. I can only remember the
effective opening of this entertain-
ment. Thus it began " Les Beiges "
(at this point the small performer
threw up the staff and flag of his
country, and shouted ff) " SONT
BRAVES IT Papa and aunt re-
garded with pride that ferocious cham-
pion of his valiant compatriots, look-
ing round to read our astonishment
and rapture in our faces.
We all got on excellently with the
hotel folk, ingratiating ourselves chief-
ly by paying a respectful court to the
solid and rosy little princess of the
house. Jean Baudin painted her, sit-
ting placid, a little open-mouthed,
heavy-lidded, over-fed, with a lapful of
cherries. We all made much of her
and submitted to her. John's wife
presented her with a frock of English
print, of a charming apple-green ;
out of which the fat pink face bloomed
like a carnation-bud out of its calyx.
The young landlord would bring us
out a dish to our garden dinner-table,
on purpose that he might linger and
chat about England. That country,
and some of its model institutions, ap-
peared to excite in his mind a mixture
of awe and curiosity, wonder and
horror. For instance, he had heard
he did not altogether believe it (dep-
recatingly) that not only were the
shops of London closed, with shutters,
on the Sunday, but also the theatres ;
and not only the theatres, but also the
expositions, the gardens and salons of
dance, of music, of play. How ! it
was actually the truth ?
" Certainly, what Madame was good
enough to affirm one must believe.
But then what do they? No busi-
ness, no amusement what then do
they, mon Dieu ! "
" They go to church, read the Bible,
and keep the Sabbath day holy," as-
serts Mrs. Freshe, in perfect good
faith, and severely and proudly, as
becomes a Protestant Britishwoman.
"Tiens, tiens! But it is triste,
that . Is it not that it is triste,
Madame ? Tiens, tiens ! And this is
that which is the Protestantism.
Since Madame herself affirms it, one
can doubt no longer."
And he goes pondering away, to
tell his wife ; with no increased ten-
dency to the reformed faith.
Even Joseph, the stolid and fishy-
eyed waiter, patronized us, and grave-
ly did us a hundred obliging services
beyond his official duty.
On a certain evening, Mademoiselle,
John, John's wife, and I, sat as usual
at book or work under the trellises ;
while the two children, at healthful
play, prattled under the shade of the
laurel-bushes hard by. As usual, the
solid little Flemish maiden was tyr-
112
Monsieur Babou.
annizing calmly over her playfel-
low. We constantly heard her small
voice, quiet, slow, and dominating:
"Je le veux." "Je ne le veux pas."
They had for playthings a little hand-
bell and a toy-wagon, and were play-
ing at railways. Auguste was the
porter, trundling up, with shrill cries,
heavy luggage-trucks piled with grav-
el, gooseberry-skins, tin soldiers, and
bits of cork. Marie was a rich and
haughty lady about to proceed by the
next convoi, and paying an immense
sum, in daisies, for her ticket, to
Auguste, become a clerk. A disputed
point in these transactions appeared
to be the possession of the bell ; the
frequent ringing of which was indeed
a principal feature of the perform-
ance. Auguste contended hotly, but
with considerable show of reason, to
this effect : That the instrument be-
longed to him, in his official capacities
of porter and clerk, rather than to the
rich and haughty lady, who as a pas-
senger was not, and could not be, en-
titled to monopolize the bell of the
company. Indeed, he declared him-
self nearly certain that, as far as his
experience went, passengers never
did ring it at all. But Marie's " Je
le veux" settled the dispute, and car-
ried her in triumph, after the crushing
manner of her sex, over all frivolous
masculine logic.
Mademoiselle sat placid beside us,
doing her interminable and elaborate
satin-stitch. She was working at a
broad white slip, intended, I under-
stood, to form the ornamental base of
a petticoat. It was at least a foot
wide, of a florid and labyrinthine pat-
tern, full of oval and round holes,
which appeared to have been cut out
of the stuff in order that Mademoiselle
might be at the pains of filling them
up again with thready cobwebs. She
would often with demure and innocent
complacency display this fabric, in its
progress, to John's wife (who does not
herself, I fancy, excel in satin-stitch),
and relate how short a time (four
months, I think) she had taken to
bring it so near completion. Mrs.
Freshe regarded this work of art
with feminine eyes of admiration, and
slyly remarked that it was really
beautiful enough " meme pour un
trousseau." At the same time she
with difficulty concealed her disap-
proval of the waste of precious time
incurred by the authoress of the petti-
coat-border. Not that Mademoiselle
could be accused of neglecting the
severer forms of her science ; such as
the construction of frocks and blouses
for Monsieur Auguste adorned, it
must be admitted, with frivolous and
intricate convolutions of braid. And
the exquisite neatness of the visible
portions of Monsieur Jean's linen also
bore honorable testimony to Made-
moiselle's more solid labors.
Into the midst of this peaceful gar-
den-scene entered a new personage.
A man of middle height, with a knap-
sack at his back, came up the gravel-
walk : a handsome brown-faced fellow
of five-and-thirty, with a big black
beard, and a neat holland blouse, and
a grey felt hat.
Mademoiselle and he caught sight
of each other at the same instant.
Both gave a cry. Her rather sal-
low little face flushed like a rose. She
started up; down dropped her petti-
coat-work; she ran forward, throwing
out her hands ; she stopped short
shy, and bright, and pretty as eighteen !
The man made a stride and took her
in his arms.
" Ma Rose ! ma Rose ! Enfin !" cried
he in a strangled voice.
She said nothing, but hung at his
neck, her two little hands on his should-
ers, her face on his breast.
But that was only for a moment.
Then Mademoiselle disengaged her-
self, and glanced shamefacedly at us.
Then she came quickly up came to
John's wife, slid an arm round her
neck, and said rapidly, tremulously,
with sparkling, tearful eyes :
" C'est Jules, Madame. C'est mon
fiance depuis quatre ans. Ah, Mad-
ame, j'ai honte mais," and ran back
to him. She was transformed. In
place of that staid, almost old-maidish
Monsieur Babou.
113
little person we knew, lo! a bashful,
rosy, smiling girl, tripping, skipping,
beside herself with happy love ! And
her little collar was all rumpled, and
so were her smooth brown braids.
Monsieur Jules took off his felt hat, and
bowed politely when she came to us,
guessing that he was being introduced.
His brown face blushed a little, too: it
was a happy and honest one, very
pleasant to see.
The children had left off playing,
and stared wide-eyed at these extra-
ordinary proceedings. Mademoiselle
ran to her little nephew, and brought
him to Jules.
"I recognize well the son of our
poor Lolotte," said he, softly, lifting
and kissing him. "And that dear
Jean, where is he?"
Even as he spoke there came a
familiar roar from that window over-
looking the court-yard, by which the
painter sat at his easel almost all day.
" Qhe ! Monsieur Ba-Bou !"
The little boy nearly jumped out of
his new friend's arms.
"Papa! papa! Laissez-moi, done,
Mosou! Papa!"
"Is it that thou art by chance this
monsieur whom they call?" laughed
Jules, as he put him down.
"Way, way!" cried the little man
as he pattered off, with that gleeful
shriek of his. " C'est moi, Mosou Ba-
Bou ! Ba-Bou!"
" Thou knowest that-great voice of
our Jean," said Mademoiselle; "when
he has finished his day's labor he
always calls his child like that. Hav-
ing worked all day for the little one,
he goes now to make himself a child
to play with him. He calls that to
rest himself. And truly the little one
idolizes his father, and for him will
leave all other playfellows even me.,
Come, then, Jules, let us seek Jean."
And with a smiling salute to us the
happy couple went arm-in-arm out of
the garden.
in.
We did not see much of our friends
8
the next day. After their early din-
ner, Jean came up the garden all alone,
to smoke a pipe, and stretch his legs
before he returned to his work. We
thought his good-natured face was a
little sad, in spite of his cheerful abord,
as he came to our garden parlor and
spoke to us.
" It is a pleasure to see them, is it
not ?" said he, looking after the lovers,
just vanishing under the archway of
the court-yard, into the sunny village
road. ' Mademoiselle had left off her
sober black silk, and floated hi the
airiest of chintz muslins.
" My good little Rose merits well
her happiness. She sent that brave
Jules marching four years ago, because
she had promised my poor wife not to
abandon her helpless infant. Truly
she has been the best of little mothers
to my Auguste. Jules went away an-
gry enough ; but without doubt he must
have loved her all the better when he
came to reflect. He has been to Italy,
to Switzerland, to England know I
where ? He is artist-painter, like
me of France always understood.
Me, I am Flemish, and very content
to be the compatriot of Rubens, of
Vandyke. But Jules has very much
talent : he paints also the portraits, and
has made successes. He is a brave
boy, and deserves his Rose."
" Will the marriage take place now,
at last ?" we ventured to ask.,
"As I suppose," answered Jean, his
face clouding perceptibly.
"But you will not separate; you
will live together, perhaps," suggested
John's wife.
"Ah, Madame, how can that be?
Jules is of France and I of Belgium!,
When I married I brought my wife to
Brussels ; naturally he will carry his
to Paris. C'est juste."
"Poor little Auguste will miss his
aunt," said John's wife, involuntarily,
"and she will hardly bear to leave
him, I think."
"Ah, Madame," said Jean, with ever
so little bitterness in his tone, " what
would you? The little one must
come second now; the husband will
114
Monsieur Babou.
be first. Yes, yes, and it is but fair !
Auguste is strong now, and I must
find him a good bonne. I complain
not. I am not so ungrateful. My
poor Rose must not be always the
sacrifice. She has been an angel to
us. See you, she has saved the life
of us both. The little one must have
died without her, and apparently I
must have died without the little one.
C'est simple, n'est ce pas?" smiling.
Then he gave a sigh, truly as if he
could not repress it, and walked away
hastily. "We looked after him, com-
passion in our hearts.
" That sickly little boy will hardly
live if his aunt leaves him," said Mrs.
Freshe, " and his father knows it."
" But what a cruel sacrifice if she
stayed !" said John.
" And can her lover be expected to
wait till Auguste has grown up into a
strong man ?" I put in.
The day after was Sunday. Com-
ing from an early walk, I heard a tre-
mendous clamor, of woe or merriment,
proceeding from a small sitting-room
that opened into the entrance passage.
The door was wide, and I looked in.
Jean Baudin was jammed up in a
corner, behind a barricade of chairs,
and was howling miserably, entreating
to be let out. His big sun-browned
face was crowned by a white coif made
of paper, and a white apron was tied
round his great waist over his blue
blouse. Auguste and Marie danced
about the barricade with shrill screams,
frantic with joy.
When Baudin saw me he gave a
dismal yell, and piteously begged me
to come to his assistance. " See, then,
my dear young gentleman, how these
bandits, these rebels, these demons,
maltreat their poor bonne! Help,
help !" and suddenly, with a roar like
a small Niagara, he burst out of his
prison and took to his heels, round and
round the court and up the garden,
the children screaming after him the
noise really terrific. Presently it died
away, and he came back to the door-
step where I stood, Auguste on his
shoulder and the little maiden demure-
ly trotting after. " At present, I am
the bonne," said he. " Rose and her
Jules are gone to church; so is our
hostess. In the meanwhile, I under-
take to look after the children. Have
you ever seen a little bonne more
pretty ? with my coquette cap and my
neat apron hein ?"
That evening the lovers went out in
a boat on the great pond, or little lake,
at the back of the hotel. They car-
ried Auguste with them. We all went
to the water's edge ; the rest remained
a while, leaning over the rails that
partly skirted the parapet wall ex-
cept Jean, who strolled off with his
tiny sketch-book. A very peaceful
summer picture was before us, which
I can see now if I shut my eyes I
often see it. A calm and lovely Au-
gust evening near sunset ; a few gold-
en feathers afloat in the blue sky.
Below, the glassy pond that repeats
blue sky, red-roofed cottages, green
banks, and woody slopes repeats,
also, the solitary boat rowed by Jules,
the three Jight-colored figures it con-
tains, and a pair of swans that glide
stately after. The little boy is throw-
ing bits of bread or cake to them.
As we stood there and admired this
pretty little bright panorama, John's
wife observed that the child was fling-
ing himself dangerously forward, in
his usual eager, excited way, at every
cast he made.
"I wonder," said she, "that his aunt
takes no notice. She is so absorbed
in talk with Jules she never turns her
head. Look! look! A h!"
A dreadful shriek went up from
lake and shore. The poor little fellow,
had overbalanced himself, and had
gone headlong into the lake. Some
one had flashed over the parapet wall
at the same moment, and struck the
water with a splash and a thud. Some
one was tearing through it like a steam-
engine, toward the boat. It was my
brother John. We saw and heard
Jules, frantic, and evidently impotent
to save ; we saw him make a vain
clutch at something that rose to the
surface. At the same time we per-
Monsieur Bdbou.
115
ceived that he had scarce power to
keep Rose with his left hand from
throwing herself into the water.
Hardly three minutes had yet passed,
yet half the population seemed throng-
ing to the lake-side, here, where the
village skirted it.
And suddenly we beheld a terrible
a piteous sight. A big, bareheaded
man, that burst through the people,
pale, furious, awful ; his teeth set, his
light blue eyes flaring. He seemed to
crash through the crowd, splintering
it right and left, like a bombshell
through a wall, and was going crazy
and headlong over the parapet into
the water. He could swim no more
than Jules.
" Sauve ! sauve* !" cried John's wife,
gripping his hand and hanging to it as
he went rushing past. " My husband
has found him. See ! see there, Jean
Baudin! He holds up the dear child."
She could not have kept him back a
moment probably he did not feel her
touch ; he was only dragging her with
him. But his wild eyes, fixed and
staring forward, had seen for them-
selves what he never heard her say.
Fast, fast as one arm could oar him,
my brother was bringing Jean his lit-
tle one, held above water by the other
hand. Then that poor huge body
swayed and shivered; the trembling
hands went out, the face unlocked a
little, there came a hoarse sob, and
e a thin, strangled cry in a dream
" Mon petit ! mon petit I"
But strong again, and savage with
ve, how he snatched the pale little
burden from John, and tore up the
bank to the hotel. There were wooden
back-gates that opened into the court
on the lake-side, but which were un-
used and locked. At one mighty kick
they yawned open before Jean, and
he rushed on into the house. Here all
had been prudently prepared, and the
little dripping body was quickly strip-
ped and wrapped in hot blankets. The
village doctor was already there, and
two or three women. Jean Baudin
helped the doctor and the women with
a touching docility. All his noisy
litt:
roughness was smoothed. He tamed
his big voice to a delicate whisper.
He spoke and moved with an affecting
submissive gentleness, watching what
there was he could do, and doing it
exactly as he was bid. Now and then
he spoke a word or two under his
breath " One must be patient, I know,
Monsieur le Medecin ; yes, yes." And
now and then he muttered piteously
" Mon petit ! mon petit !" But he was
as gentle as a lamb, and touchingly
eager to be helpful.
In half an hour his pain got the bet-
ter of him a little.
" Mais, mon Dieu, mon Dieu !" he
moaned, "how I suffer! Ah, Mon-
sieur, is it not that he breathes a little,
my dear little one? Ah, my God,
save me him! Mon petit! mon petit!"
He went into a corner of the room,
and stood with his forehead against
the wall, his shoulders heaving with
silent sobs. Then he came back quiet
and patient again.
" Priez, priez pour moi, Madame,"
said he, once, to John's wife.
" I am praying without ceasing, my
poor friend," said she. And once she
hastily laid a handkerchief soaked in
essence on his forehead, for she thought
he was surely going to faint, when the
hope, long, long deferred, began to turn
his heart sick.
All this time John and I lingered in
the dusky passage, in which that door
ajar made a cleft of yellow light.
Every now and then a dim figure stole
up to us with an eager sad whisper,
asking, " How goes it ? how goes it ?"
and slipped away down-stairs with the
comfortless answer.
It was poor Jules, who could do
nothing for his Rose but this. She
had thrown herself on the floor in a
darkening room, and lay there moan-
ing. Her dire anguish, sharp as a
mother's for the little one, was cruelly
and unduly aggravated by self-re-
proach, and by the self-inflicted agony
of her exile from that room up-stairs.
She dared not enter Jean's presence.
She felt that he must for ever abhor
the sight of her; she was afraid he
nc
Monsieur Batiou.
might curse her! She rejected all
kindness, all sympathy, especially from
Jules, whom she quite fiercely ordered
to quit her. But when it got quite
dark, the poor fellow took in a candle,
and set it on a table ; and he spent the
time in going up and down-stairs to
fetch her that whisper of news, which,
perhaps, he sweetened with a little
false hope before he offered it to her.
At last we outside heard a move-
ment a stifled exclamation ; and then
one of the women ran out.
" The child has opened his eyes !"
said she, as she hurried down-stairs
for some article required.
Presently we heard a man sobbing
softly ; and then yes, a faint tiny
voice. And after that nothing, for a
long while. But at last at last! a
miserable, awful cry, and a heavy,
heavy fall. And then came out John's
wife, at sight of whose face we turned
sick at heart, and followed her silently
down-stairs. We knew what had hap-
pened : the little one was dead.
He had opened his eyes, and had
probably known his father; for the
light that his presence always kindled
there had come into the little white
face. Jean, too ready to clutch the
delusive hope, fell a-sobbing with rap-
ture, and kissing the little fair head.
The child tried to speak, and did
speak, though but once.
" He said, ' Ba-Bou' quite distinct-
ly," said John's wife, " and then such
a pretty smile came ; and it's it's
there still, on his little dear dead face,
John."
Here she broke down, and went into
a passion of tears, sobbing for " poor
Jean ! poor Jean !"
He had fainted for the first time in
his strong life, and so that blessed un-
consciousness was deadening the first
insupportable agony of his dreadful
wound. They carried him out, and
laid him on his bed, and I believe the
doctor bled him. They hoped he
would sleep afterward from sheer ex-
haustion.
Presently poor Jules came to us,
crying like a i-hild, and begging us to
go to his Rose to try to rouse her, if
only to make her weep. She had fall-
en into a dry depth and abyss of de-
spair an icy crevasse, where even his
love could not reach her.
Since she had known the child was
dead, she had not stirred, except to
resist, moaning, every attempt to lift
her from the floor, where she had cast
herself, and except that she shuddered
and repulsed Jules, especially, when-
ever he went near her.
We went into the room where she
lay. My good brother stooped, and
spoke to her in his tender, manly fash-
ion, and lifted her, with a resolution
to which she yielded, and seated her
on a sofa beside his wife, whose kind
arms closed round her suffering sister.
And suddenly some one had come
in whom Rose could not see, for her
eyes were pressed to that womanly bo-
som. John's wife made a little warn-
ing gesture that kept us others silent.
It was poor Jean himself; he came
in as if in search of somewhat ; he
was deadly pale, and perhaps half
unconscious what he did. He was
without shoes, and his clothes and
blond hair and beard were tumbled
and disordered just as when they had
laid him on his bed. When he saw
Rose, he came straight up to her, and
sat down on her other side.
" Ma pauvre Rose," said he piteous-
ly
She gave a cry and start of terror,
and turned and saw him. The poor
fellow's broken heart was in his face ;
she could not mistake the sweet-
natured anguish there. Half bewil-
dered by his inconceivable grief, he
had gone to her, instinctively, like a
child, for sympathy and comfort.
" Ma pauvre Rose," said he, broken-
ly ; " notre petit "
Passionately she took his great head
between her hands, and drew it down
on her bosom, and kissed it passion-
ately weeping at last.
And we all came out softly, and left
them left them to that Pity which
sends us the wholesome agony of such
tears.
Cardinal Wiseman in Rome.
117
CARDINAL WISEMAN IN ROME.
"!T was in the year 1863," says
Monsignore Manning, in his funeral
oration on the great prince of the
Church whose loss the whole Catholic
world is now deploring, " that the
sovereign pontiff, speaking of the
cardinal, described him as * the man
of divine Providence for England.' "
And truly it seems to us that the di-
rect inspiration of the Holy Ghost
has seldom been so clearly apparent
in the choice of a bishop as it was in
the case of him who has filled the
cathedral chair of Westminster for
the last fifteen years. When we re-
member the peculiar circumstances
under which he began his pastorship
the reaction which was steadily, though
as yet almost imperceptibly, going on
in favor of the Church ; the doubt
and perplexity and wavering with
which a crowd of wandering souls
were groping in darkness for the por-
tals of divine truth ; and then the
outburst of anger with which the na-
tion at large read the bulls of the
Holy Father, raising up the English
Church from the humiliation in which
she had lain for three hundred years,
we shall readily understand that a
rare union of qualities was required
in the man who should understand
and direct those honest seekers after
truth, and breast successfully that
storm of popular fury. That Nicholas
Wiseman, who had left England at
the age of sixteen, and passed twenty
years of his youth and early man-
hood at Rome absorbed, just at the
time when the character is most liable
to be moulded by external associations,
in the theological studies and cere-
monies and sacred traditions of the
ecclesiastical capital that he, we say,
should have displayed such a remark-
able fitness for both these works, is
not only an indication of the great
qualities of the man, but an instruc-
tive commentary on the school in
which he had been formed. It shows
us that a Roman education, while it
enlarges the view and sweeps away
local prejudices, yet leaves untouch-
ed the salient points of national
character. For his success in dealing
with the Catholic movement which
followed the emancipation act of 1829,
Cardinal Wiseman was largely in-
debted to the quickness and accuracy
of perception in theological matters
which he had acquired during his long
residence at the centre of the Chris-
tian Church ; what helped him most
in his victory over the burst of Prot-
estant fury which followed the restora-
tion of the English hierarchy, and
found official expression in the eccle-
siastical titles bill, was his thorough
English boldness and honesty of
speech and manly bearing. He ap-
pealed to his countrymen's traditional
love of fair-play ; they heard him ;
and before long all classes learned to
love and respect him.
Of the twenty years' schooling by
which he prepared himself for his
work in England, the cardinal has
left us some admirable sketches, scat-
tered through his books. Dr. Man-
ning alluded briefly to the influence of
his Roman education. We propose
to gather up what the cardinal him-
self has said about it ; to paint with
his own pencil a picture of his life of
preparation ; leaving other hands, if
they will, to paint his subsequent life
of labor.
Nicholas Wiseman was born at Se-
ville, in Spain, on the second of
August, 1802. % His father was an
English merchant, his mother an Irish
lady. He lost his father in infancy,
and at the age of six, in consequence
of those wars of invasion which for
a time made Spain no longer habitable,
was taken to Ireland to be educated.
After spending one or two years at a
boarding-school near Waterford, his
mother went with him to England, and
118
Cardinal Wiseman in Rome.
placed him at St. Cuthbert's college,
Ushaw, near Durham. Dr. Lingard
was then vice-president of the col-
lege, "and I have retained upon my
memory," wrote the cardinal, nearly
fifty years afterward, " the vivid rec-
ollection of specific acts of thoughtful
and delicate kindness, which showed
a tender heart, mindful of its duties
amidst the many harassing occupations
just devolved on him through the
death of the president and his own
literary engagements ; for he was re-
conducting his first great work through
the press. But though he went from
college soon after, and I later left the
country, and saw him not again for
fifteen years, yet there grew up an in-
direct understanding first, and by de-
grees a correspondence and an inti-
macy which continued to the close of
his life."*
It was in the course of the eight
years which he passed at this rev-
erend seat of learning lineal de-
scendant of the old English college of
Douay that he determined to be-
come a priest. Here he first began
to manifest that deep affection for the
city of St. Peter which distinguished
him down to the end of his life. " Its
history," he says, " its topography, its
antiquities, had formed the bond of a
little college society devoted to this
queen of cities, while the dream of its
longings had been the hope of one day
seeing what could then only be known
through hearsay tourists and fabulous
plans." But the hope was fulfilled
soon and unexpectedly. In 1818,
Pope Pius VII. restored the English
college at Rome, " after it had been
desolate and uninhabited during al-
most the period of a generation."
Nicholas Wiseman was one of a band
of young men sent out to colonize it.
He gives a charming description of
the arrival of the little party at their
Roman home, and the delight and
surprise with which they roamed,
alone and undirected, through the
solemn building, with its wide cor-
* Recollections of the Last Four Popes. Leo Xn.
Cliap. vii.
ridors ; its neat and cheerful rooms ;
its wainscotted refectory, from whose
groined ceiling looked down St. George
and the dragon ; its library heaped
with tumultuous piles of unorganized
volumes ; its garden, glowing with the
lemon and orange, and presenting to
one's first approach a perspective in
fresco by Pozzi ; and, above all, its
chapel, illuminated from floor to roof
with saints of England and celestial
glories ; or, better still, adjoining the
college, the old roofless church of the
Holy Trinity, where in generations
long past many a pilgrim from the
British Isles had knelt to pray when
the good priests of his nation fed and
lodged him on his visit to the tomb of
the apostles. Pleasant must have
been the meeting, on that December
afternoon in the year 1818, between
these six young men and their appoint-
ed rector Dr. Gradwell, who, being ab-
sent when they arrived, came home
that evening and found himself at the
head of a college, and his frugal meal
appropriated by the hungry students.
The happiness of that day casts a
glow over the page on which, when he
was an old man, the cardinal recorded
the incidents. On Christmas eve he
was presented, with some of his com-
panions, to the venerable Pius VII.
We can imagine the feelings of awe
with which he approached this saintly
man, released only a few years before
from the French capitivity. " There
was the halo of a confessor round the
tiara of Pius that eclipsed all gold
and jewels Instead of
receiving us, as was customary, seated,
the mild and amiable pontiff rose to
welcome us, and meet us as we ap-
proached. He did not allow it to be a
mere presentation, or a visit of cere-
mony. It was a fatherly reception,
and in the truest sense our inaugura-
tion into the duties that awaited us.
The friendly and almost na-
tional grasp of the hand, after due
homage had been willingly paid, be-
tween the head of the Catholic Church,
venerable by his very age, and a youth
who had nothing even to promise ;
Cardinal Wiseman in Rome.
119
the first exhortation on entering a
course of ecclesiastical study its very
inaugural discourse from him whom
he believed to be the fountain of spir-
itual wisdom on earth ; these surely
formed a double tie, not to be broken,
but rather strengthened, by every sub-
sequent experience."
Doubtless his early dreams of Rome
were now surpassed by the reality of
his daily life. It was unalloyed spirit-
ual and intellectual enjoyment. Study
was no task ; it was only a sort of
pleasure; and the hours of relaxation
became a source of mental schooling,
even while he was pursuing the most
delightful recreations. It is not diffi-
cult to imagine how he must have
spent his holidays roaming through
the field of art, or resting at some seat
of the Muses, or wandering along the
stream of time, bordered by monu-
ments of past greatness every foot-
step awakening the echoes of classic
antiquity, or calling up the most sacred
memories of the early suffering
Church. Even the solitude of buried
cemeteries, "where the tombs them-
selves are buried, where the sepulchres
are themselves things decayed and
mouldering in rottenness," is no solitude
to him ; for he peoples it with the
shadowy forms of the Scipios and Na-
sones whose ashes are there deposited.
How often, in after years, did he not
recur with fond delight to the " images
of long delicious strolls, in musing
loneliness, tlirough the deserted ways
of the ancient city ; of climbings among
its hills, over ruins, to reach some
vantage-ground for mapping the subja-
cent territory, and looking beyond on
the glorious chains of greater and
lesser mountains, clad in their imperial
hues of gold and purple ; and then
perhaps of solemn entrance into the
cool solitude of an open basilica,
where the thought now rests, as the
body then did, after the silent evening
prayer, and brings forward from many
well-remembered nooks every local
inscription, every lovely monument of
art, the characteristic feature of each,
or the great names with which it is as-
sociated Thus does
Rome sink deep and deeper into the
soul, like the dew, of which every
separate drop is soft and weightless,
but which still finds its way to the root
of everything beneath the soil, im-
parting there to every future plant its
own warm tint, its own balmy fra-
grance, and its own ever rejuvenescent
vigor."
Such were his hours of recreation :
still more delightful were his hours of
study, especially in " the great public li-
braries, where noiseless monks brought
him and piled round him the folios
which he required, and he sat as still
amidst a hundred readers as if he had
been alone." Every day his love, his
enthusiasm, for his work seemed to in-
crease. So he passed six or seven
years, " lingering and lagging behind
others," and revelling in spiritual and
intellectual luxury. " Every school-
fellow had passed on, and was hard at
his noble work at home, was gaming a
crown in heaven to which many have
passed." Our young student had kissed
the feet of the dead Pius VIL, as he
lay in state in one of the chapels of
St. Peter's; had mourned over the
departure of the great minister Con-
salvi; had presented himself to Leo
XIL, and told him, " I am a foreigner
who came here at the call of Pius
VIL, six years ago ; my first patrons,
Pius VII., Cardinals Litta, De Pietro,
Fontana, and now Consalvi, are dead.
I therefore recommend myself to your
Holiness's protection, and hope you
will be a father to me at this distance
from my country." He had obtained
the Holy Father's promise. Already
he was known for a youth of marvel-
lous talents and learning. He had
maintained a public disputation in
theology, and been rewarded for his
success by the title of D.D. At last
came the jubilee-year of 1825. " The
aim of years, the goal of long prepar-
ation, the longed-for crown of unwa-
vering desires, the only prize thought
worthy of being aspired to, was at-
tained in the bright jubilee spring of
Rome. It marks a blessed epoch in a
120
Cardinal Wisvman in Rome.
life to have had the grace of the priest-
hood superadded to the exuberant ben-
edictions of that year."
Fortunately for the English college,
and fortunately, perhaps we should
add, for England, he was not yet to
depart for the field of his great labor.
To use his own modest words, he was
found to be at hand in 1826, when
some one was wanted for the office of
vice-rector of the English college, and
so was named to it; and when, in
1828, the worthy rector, Dr. Grad-
well, was appointed bishop, Dr. Wise-
man was, by almost natural sequence,
named to succeed him.
Thus he continued to drink in the
spirit of catholicity, and devotion, and
steadiness in faith, of which Rome is
the fountain on earth. With reverent
affection he traced out the mementos
of primitive Christianity,, the tombs of
the martyrs and saints, the altars and
hiding-places and sacred inscriptions
of the catacombs. These holy retreats
had for him a fascination such as no
other spot even in Rome possessed.
Again and again he recurs to them in
his writings, lingering fondly around
the hallowed precincts, and inspiring
his readers with the love for them that
burned so ardently in his own breast.
One of the last pieces that came from
his pen was the little story of a mar-
tyr's tomb, which we have placed in
this number of our magazine.
Other studies were not neglected.
While his companions were indulging
in the mid-day sleep, which almost
everybody takes in Rome, he was at
his books. Often he passed whole
nights in study, or walking to and
fro, in meditation, through the cor-
ridors of the English college. The
seasons of vacation he would often
spend collating ancient manuscripts
in the Vatican library, and one of the
fruits of that labor was his fforce Sy-
riacce, published when he was only
twenty-five years old. In the same
year (1827), he was appointed
though without severing his connec-
tion with the English college pro-
fessor of oriental languages in the
Roman university. It is no doubt
to these two events that he alludes
in the following extract from his
"Recollections" of Leo XII., though
he tells the story as if he had been
only a witness of the circumstances:
"It so happened," he says, "that a
person connected with the English
college was an aspirant to a chair
in the Roman university. He had
been encouraged to compete for it, on
its approaching vacancy, by his pro-
fessors. Having no claims of any
sort, by interest or connection, he
stood simply on the provision of the
papal bull, which threw open all pro-
fessorships to competition. It was but
a secondary and obscure lectureship
at best ; one concerning which, it was
supposed, few would busy themselves
or come forward as candidates. It
was, therefore, announced that this
rule would be overlooked, and a per-
son eveiy way qualified, and of con-
siderable reputation, would be named.
The more youthful aspirant unhesi-
tatingly solicited an audience, at which
I was present. He told the Pope
frankly of his intentions and of his
earnest wish to have carried out, in
his favor, the recent enactments of
his Holiness. Nothing could be more
affable, more encouraging, than Leo's
reply. He expressed his delight at
seeing that his regulation was not a
dead letter, and that it had animated
his petitioner to exertion. He assured
him that he should have a fair chance,
1 a clear stage and no favor,' desiring
him to leave the matter in his hands.
" Time wore on ; and as the only
alternative given in the bull was proof,
by publication of a work, of proficiency
in the art or science that was to be
taught, he quietly got a volume through
the press probably very heavy ; but
sprightliness or brilliancy was not a
condition of the bull. When a va-
cancy arrived, it was made known,
together with the announcement that
it had been filled up. All seemed lost,
except the honor of the pontiff, to
which alone lay any appeal. An-
other audience was asked, and in-
Cardinal Wiseman in Rome.
121
stantly granted, its motive being, of
course, stated. I was again present,
and shall not easily forget it. It was
not necessary to re-state the case. ' I
remember it all/ the Pope said most
kindly ; * I have been surprised. I
have sent for C , through whom
this has been done ; I have ordered
the appointment to be cancelled, and
I have reproved him so sharply that
I believe it is the reason why he is
laid up to-day with fever. You have
acted fairly and boldly, and you shall
not lose the fruits of your industry.
I will keep my word with you and the
provisions of my constitution.* With
the utmost graciousness he accepted
the volume now treasured by its au-
thor, into whose hands the copy has
returned acknowledged the right to
preference which it had established,
and assured its author of fair play.
" The Pope had, in fact, taken up
earnestly the cause of his youthful
appellant; instead of annoyance, he
showed earnestness and kindness ; and
those who had passed over his preten-
sions with contempt were obliged to
treat with him and compromise with
him on terms that satisfied all his de-
sires. Another audience for thanks-
giving was kindly accorded, and I wit-
nessed the same gentle and fatherly
temper, quietly cheerful, and the same
earnest sympathy with the feelings of
him whose cause had been so gracious-
ly carried through. If this young
client gained no new energies, gath-
ered no strength from such repeated
proofs of interest and condescension ;
if these did not both direct and impel,
steer and fill, the sails of his little bark
through many troubled waters; nay,
if they did not tinge and savor his
entire mental life, we may write that
man soulless and incapable of any
noble emotions."
We must not suppose, however, that
all this while he was so lost among his
books as to have forgotten that land
for whose conversion he was destined
to labor through the best part of his
life. He told a dear friend how, hav-
ing to wait one day at the Sapienza
for the Hebrew lecture, he went into
the Church of St. Eustachio to pray ;
and there, before the altar of the Bless-
ed Sacrament and the altar of the
Holy Virgin Mother, the thought came
into his mind that, as his native coun-
try, in the oath which she imposes
upon the chief personages of the state,
solemnly abjures these sacred mys-
teries, it was his duty to devote him-
self to the defense and honor of those
very doctrines in England. And no
one who has read his sermons and
lectures and pastorals can have failed
to notice the burning love for the Eu-
charist and the Blessed Virgin which
inspired him.
The time was not yet for his mission
to England; and it is so hard, when
the mind has been long running in one
groove, to break out of it and take a
totally different course, that perhaps
he might have come in time to look
upon the Roman theological schools
as the ultimate sphere of usefulness
for which God had destined him, had
he not been suddenly called forth
from his studious retirement by the
voice of the supreme pontiff. It was
in 1827 that Leo XII. determined to
institute in the church of Gesu e
Maria a course of English sermons,
to be attended by all colleges and re-
ligious communities that spoke the
language, and by as many other per-
sons as chose to listen. It was in-
tended, of course, principally for the
benefit of strangers. His Holiness
appointed Dr. Wiseman preacher.
" The burden was laid there and
then," says the cardinal, describing
the audience at which he received
this commission, "with peremptory
kindness, by an authority that might not
be gainsaid. And crushingly it pressed
upon the shoulders. It would be im-
possible to describe the anxiety, pain,
and trouble which this command cost
for many years after. Nor would
this be alluded to were it not to illus-
trate what has been kept in view
through this volume how the most
insignificant life, temper, and mind
may be moulded by the action of a
122
Cardinal Wiseman in Rome.
great and almost unconscious power.
Leo could not see what has been the
influence of his commission, hi merely
dragging from the commerce with the
dead to that of the living one who
would gladly have confined his time
to the former, from books to men,
from reading to speaking. Nothing
but this would have done it. Yet
supposing that the providence of one's
life was to be active, and in contact
with the world, and one's future duties
were to be in a country and in times
where the most bashful may be driven
to plead for his religion or his flock,
surely a command overriding all in-
clination and forcing the will to un-
dertake the best and only preparation
for those tasks, may well be contem-
plated as a sacred impulse and a
timely direction to a mind that wanted
both. Had it not come then, it never
more could have come ; other bents
would have soon become stiffened and
unpliant; and no second opportunity
could have been opened after others
had satisfied the first demand."
From this time it would seem as if
England had a stronger hold upon his
heart than ever. The noble purpose
which worldly men have since laugh-
ed at as a wild dream of devoting
himself to the conversion of England,
became the ruling idea of his life.
And often alone at night in the college
chapel he would " pour out his heart
in prayer and tears, full of aspirations
and of a firm trust; of promptings
to go, but fear to outrun the bidding
of our divine -Master." He offered
himself to the Pope for this great
work ; but still the time was not come ;
and he was told to wait.
But if he was not to go yet himself,
he had his part to perform in making
others ready. He well knew that to
fit his pupils for their work, he must
teach them something beside theology.
Englishmen were a sort of Brahmins ;
the missionary who went among them
must go as one versed in all learning,
or he would not be listened to. He
saw how the natural sciences were
growing to be the favorite pursuit
we may almost say the hobby of
modern scholars, and in a preface to a
thesis by a student of the English
college he insisted on the necessity of
uniting general and scientific know-
ledge to theological pursuits. As
another instance of the personal in-
fluence which several successive pon-
tiffs exercised over his studies, and the
many kind marks of interest which
contributed to attach him so strongly
to their persons, we may repeat an
anecdote which he tells in reference
to this little essay. He went to pre-
sent it to Pius VIII., but the Holy
Father had it already before him, and
said, " You have robbed Egypt of its
spoil, and shown that it belongs to the
people of God." The same idea
which he briefly exposed in this essay,
he developed more fully and with
great wealth of illustration in a course
of lectures on the Connection between
Science and Revealed Religion, de-
livered first to his pupils and after-
ward to a distinguished audience at
the apartments of Cardinal Weld.
It was partly with a view to the re-
vision and publication of these lectures
that he visited England in 1835.
During his stay in London, he
preached a series of controversial dis-
courses in the Sardinian chapel dur-
ing the Advent of 1835, and another
in St. Mary's, Moorfields, in Lent,
1836. The latter were published un-
der the title of Lectures on the Prin-
cipal Doctrines and Practices of the
Catholic Church. They exhibit in a
remarkable degree the qualities, so
rare in polemical literature, of kind-
ness, moderation, and charity for all
men. The odium theologicum, indeed,
has less place at Rome than anywhere
else in the Christian world. It was
at the very centre and chief school of
the science of divinity that he learned
to fight against error without temper,
and expose falsehood without hard
language. " I will certainly bear will-
ing testimony," he says, "to the ab-
sence of all harsh words and uncharit-
able insinuations against others in pub-
lic lectures or private teaching, or even
Cardinal Wiseman in Rome.
123
in conversation at Rome. One grows
up there in a kinder spirit, and learns
to speak of errors in a gentler tone than
elsewhere, though in the very centre
of highest orthodox feeling." Dr. Wise-
man went back to the English college,
leaving among his countrymen at home
an enviable reputation for honesty,
learning, and good sense.
A few years more passed in fre-
quent contact with the Holy Father,
and under the continuous influence
of the sacred associations with which
eighteen centuries have peopled the
Christian capital, and Nicholas Wise-
man was then ready to go forth to his
work. The recollection of number-
less favors and kind words from the
supreme pontiff went with him, and
strengthened him, and colored his
thoughts. He has told of the cordial
and paternal treatment with which he
was honored by Gregory XVI. in par-
ticular. " An embrace would supply
the place of ceremonious forms on
entrance. At one time a long, famil-
iar conversation, seated side by side ;
at another a visit to the penetralia of
the pontifical apartment (a small suite
of entresols, communicating by an in-
ternal staircase) occupied the time.
What it has been my
happiness to hear from him in such
visits, it would be betraying a sacred
trust to reveal ; but many and many
words there spoken rise to the mind
in times of trouble, like stars, not only
bright in themselves, but all the bright-
er in their reflection from the bright-
ness of their mirror. They have been
words of mastery and spell over after
events, promises, and prognostics which
have not failed, assurances and sup-
ports that have never come to
naught."*
* He gives an amusing account of a perplexing
situation from which this same Pope once unwit-
tingly delivered him, while he was engaged in his
course of lectures on Science and Revealed Relig-
In 1840 it was determined to in-
crease the number of vicars apostolic in
England from four to eight, and Dr.
Wiseman, at the same time, was ap-
pointed coadjutor to Bishop Walsh at
Wolverhampton. " It was a sorrowful
evening," he says, " at the beginning
of autumn, when, after a residence in
Rome prolonged through twenty-two
years, till affection clung to every old
stone there, like the moss that grew
into it, this strong but tender tie was
cut, and much of future happiness had
to be invested in the mournful recol-
lections of the past."
Here we leave him. It was not
until ten years later that he became
cardinal, but though from 1840 to 1850
he filled only a subordinate position,
he was working hard and well during
this period, and fast rising to be the
foremost man of all the Catholics of
England. And his work never ceased.
He lived to see the hierarchy estab-
lished, and the conversion of his coun-
trymen making steady if not rapid
progress ; but his energy never flagged
when a part of his task was done ; he
passed on from one labor to another,
until that last day, when " he entered
into the sanctuary of God's presence,
from which he never again came forth.'*
ion at the apartments of Cardinal Weld. " On one
of the days of delivery," says he, " I had been pre-
vented from writing the lecture in time, and was
laboring to make up for my delay, but in vain.
Quarter after quarter of each hour flew rapidly on,
and my advance bore no proportion to the matter
before me. The fatal hour of twelve was fast ap-
proaching, and I knew not what excuse I could
make, nor how to supply, except by a lame re-
cital, the important portion yet unwritten of my
task for an index to the lectures had been printed
and circulated. Just as the last moment arrived, a
carriage from the palace drove to the door, with a
message that I would step into it at once, as His
Holiness wished to speak to me. This was, indeed,
a deus ex machinathe only and least thought of
expedient that could have saved me from my em-
barrassment. A messenger was despatched to in-
form the gathering audience of the unexpected
cause of necessary adjournment of our sitting till
the next day. The object of my summons was one
of very trifling importance, and Gregory little knew
what a service he had unintentionally rendered
124
The Nick of Time.
rrom All The Year Bound.
THE NICK OF TIME.
LET us suppose a case that might
occur if it has not occurred.
John Mullet, immersed (say) in the
button trade at Birmingham, has made
money in business. He bequeaths his
property by will, and is in due time
gathered to his fathers. His two
sons, Jasper and Josiah, take certain
portions ; and other portions are to go
either to the family of Jasper or to that
of Josiah, according as either one of
those brothers survives the other. Jas-
per remains in England ; but Josiah
goes out to Australia, to establish some-
thing that may make his children
great people over there. Both broth-
ers, twelve thousand miles apart,, die
on the same day, May 1st, one at noon
(Greenwich time), the other at noon
(Sydney time). Jasper's children
have been on pleasant cousinly terms
with Josiah's ; but they are aware of
the fact that it would be better for
them that Josiah should die before
their own father, Jasper. Josiah's
children, on the other hand, be they
few or many, although they always
liked uncle Jasper, cannot and do not
ignore the fact that their interests
would be better served by the surviv-
orship of Josiah than that of Jasper.
The two sets of cousins, therefore,
plunge into a contest, to decide the
question of survivorship between the
two sons of old John Mullet.
This is one variety of a problem
which the courts of law and equity are
often called upon to settle. Occasion-
ally th'.j question refers to two persons
who die at the same time, and in each
other's company. For instance : To-
ward the close of the last century,
George Netherwood, his children by
his first wife, his second wife, and her
son, were all wrecked during a voyage
from Jamaica to England. Eight
thousand pounds were left by will, in
such a way that the relations of the
two wives were greatly interested in
knowing whether the second Mrs.
Netherwood did or did not survive her
husband, even by one single minute
a matter which, of course, could not
be absolutely proved. Again, in 1806,
Mr. Mason and one son were drowned
at sea ; his remaining eight children
went to law, some of them against the
others ; because, if the father died be-
fore the son, 5,000 would be divided
equally among the other eight children ;
whereas, if the son died before the
father, the brothers only would get it,
the sisters being shut out. A few
years afterward Job Taylor and his
wife were lost in a ship wrecked at
sea ; they had not much to leave be-
hind them ; but what little there was
was made less by the struggles of two
sets of relatives, each striving to show
that one or other of the two hapless
persons might possibly have survived
the other by a few minutes. In 1819
Major Colclough, his wife, and four
children, were drowned during a voy-
age from Bristol to Cork; the hus-
band and wife had both made wills ;
and there arose a pretty picking for
the lawyers in relation to survivorships
and next of kin, and trying to prove
whether the husband died first, the
wife first, or both together. Two
brothers, James and Charles Corbet,
left Demerara on a certain day in 1828,
in a vessel of which one was master
and the other mate; the vessel was
seen five days afterward, but from
that time no news of her fate was
ever received. Their father died about
a month after the vessel was last seen.
The ultimate disposal of his property
depended very much on the question
whether he survived his two sons or
they survived him. Many curious
arguments were used in court. Two
or three captains stated that from
August to January are hurricane
The Nick of Time.
125
months in the West Indian seas, and
that the ship was very likely to have
been wrecked quite early in her voy-
age. There were, in addition, certain
relations interested in James's dying
before Charles ; and they urged that,
if the ship was wrecked, Charles was
likely to have outlived by a little space
his brother James, because he was a
stronger and more experienced man.
Alas for the "glorious uncertainty!"
One big-wig decided that the sons sur-
vived the father, and another that the
father survived the sons. About the
beginning of the present reign, three
persons, father, mother, and child, were
drowned on a voyage from Dublin to
Quebec ; the husband had made a
will, leaving all his property to his
wife ; hence arose a contest between
the next of kin and the wife's relations,
each catching at any small fact that
would (theoretically) keep one poor
soul alive a few minutes longer than
the other. About ten years ago, a
gentleman embarked with his wife and
three children for Australia : the ship
was lost soon after leaving England ;
the mate, the only person who was
saved among the whole of the crew
and passengers, deposed that he saw
the hapless husband and wife locked
in each other's arms at the moment
when the waves closed over them.
There would seem to be no question
of survivorship here ; yet a question
really arose ; for there were two wills
to be proved, the terms of which would
render the relatives much interested in
knowing whether husband or wife did
really survive the other by ever so
small a portion of time.
These entangled contests may rest
in peace, so far as the actual decisions
are concerned. And so may others
of a somewhat analogous nature. Such,
for instance, as the case of an old lady
and her housekeeper at Portsmouth.
They were both murdered one night.
The lady had willed all her property
to the housekeeper, and then, the law-
yers fought over the question as to
which of the women died first. Or,
the case of a husband who promised,
on his marriage-day, to settle 1,200
on his wife "in three or four years."
They were both drowned about three
years after the marriage ; and it was
not until after a tough struggle in
chancery that the husband's relatives
conquered those of the wife albeit,
the money had nearly vanished in law
expenses by that time. Or, the case
of a man who gave a power of attor-
ney to sell some property. The prop-
erty was sold on the 8th of June, but
the man was never seen after the 8th
of the preceding March, and was sup-
posed to have been wrecked at sea;
hence arose a question whether the
man was or was not dead on the day
when the property was sold- a ques-
tion in which the buyer was directly
interested. The decisions in these
particular cases we pass over ; but it
is curious to see how the law some-
times tries to guess at the nick of time
in which either one of two persons
dies. Sometimes the onus of proof
rests on one of the two sets of rela-
tions. If they cannot prove a survi-
vorship, the judgment is that the
deaths were simultaneous. Sometimes
the law philosophizes on vitality and
decay. The Code Napoleon lays
down the principle that of two persons
who perish by the same calamity, if
they were both children, the elder
probably survived the younger by a
brief space, on account of having
superior vital energy; whereas, if
they were elderly people, the younger
probably survived the elder. The
code also takes anatomy and physiol-
ogy into account, and discourses on
the probability whether a man would
or would not float longer alive than a
woman, in the event of shipwreck.
The English law is less precise in this
matter. It is more prone to infer sim-
ultaneous death, unless proof of sur-
vivorship be actually brought forward.
Counsel, of course, do not fail to make
the best of any straw to catch at. Ac-
cording to the circumstances of the
case, they argue that a man, being
usually stronger than a woman, prob-
ably survives her a little in a case of
126
The Nick of Time.
simultaneous drowning; that, irrespect-
ive of comparative strength, her great-
er terror and timidity would incapaci-
tate her from making exertions which
would be possible to him ; that a sea-
faring man has a chance of surviving
a landsman, on account of his ex-
perience in salt-water matters; that
where there is no evidence to the con-
trary, a child may be presumed to
have outlived his father ; that a man
in good health would survive one in
ill health ; and so forth.
The nick of time is not less an im-
portant matter in reference to single
deaths, under various circumstances.
People are often very much interested
in knowing whether a certain person
is dead or not. Unless under specified
circumstances, the law refuses to kill
a man that is, a man known to have
been alive at a certain date is pre-
sumed to continue to live, unless and
until proof to the contrary is adduced.
But there are certain cases in which
the application of this rule would in-
volve hardship. Many leases are de-
pendent on lives; and both lessor
and lessee are concerned in knowing
whether a particular life has terminated
or not. Therefore, special statutes
have been passed, in relation to a lim-
ited number of circumstances, enacting
that if a man were seen alive more
than seven years ago, and has not
since been seen or heard of, he may
be treated as dead.
The nick of time occasionally affects
the distribution or amount of property
in relation to particular seasons.
Some years ago the newspapers re-
marked on the fact that a lord of
broad acres, whose rent-roll reached
something like 40,000 a year, died
"about midnight" between the 10th
and llth of October; and the possi-
ble consequences of this were thus
set forth : " His rents are payable at
* old time,' that is, old Lady-day and
old Michaelmas -day. Old Michael-
mas-day fell this year on Sunday, the
llth instant. The day begins at mid-
night. Now, the rent is due upon the
first moment of the day it becomes
due; so that at one second beyond
twelve o'clock of the 10th instant,
rent payable at old Michaelmas-day is
in law due. If the lord died before
twelve, the rents belong to the parties
taking the estates ; but if after twelve,
then they belong to and form part of
his personal estate. The difference of
one minute might thus involve a
question on the title to about 20,000."
We do not know that a legal difficulty
did arise ; the facts only indicate the
mode in which one might have arisen.
Sometimes that ancient British insti-
tution, the house clock, has been at
war with another British institution,
the parish church clock. A baby was
born, or an old person died, just be-
fore the house clock struck twelve on
a particular night, but after the church
clock struck. On which day did the
birth or death take place yesterday
or to-day ? And how would this fact
be ascertained, to settle the inherit-
ance of an estate ? We know an in-
stance (not involving, however, the
inheritance to property) of a lady
whose relations never have definitely
known on which day she was born ;
the pocket watch of the accoucheur
who attended her mother pointed to a
little before twelve at midnight, where-
as the church clock had just struck
twelve. Of course a particular day
had to be named in the register ; and
as the doctor maintained that his
watch was right, there were the mate-
rials for a very pretty quarrel if the
parties concerned had been so dis-
posed. It might be that the nick of
time was midnight exactly, as meas-
ured by solar or sun-dial time : that
is, the sun may have been precisely in
the nadir at that moment ; but this
difficulty would not arise in practice,
as the law knows only mean time, not
sun-dial time. If Greenwich time
were made legal everywhere, and if
electric clocks everywhere established
communication with the master clock
at the observatory, there might be
another test supplied ; but under the
conditions stated, it would be a nice
matter of Tioeodledum and Tweedledee
The Nick of Time.
127
to determine whether the house clock,
the church clock, or a pocket watch,
should be relied upon. All the pocket
watches in the town might be brought
into the witness-box, but without avail ;
for if some accorded with the house
clock, others would surely be found to
agree better with the church clock.
This question of clocks, as com-
pared with time measured by the sun,
presents some very curious aspects in
relation to longitude. What's o'clock
in London will not tell you what's
o'clock in Falmouth, unless you know
the difference of longitude between the
two places. The sun takes about
twenty minutes to go from the zenith
of the one to the zenith of the other.
Local time, the time at any particular
town, is measured from the moment
of noon at that town ; and noon itself
is when the sun comes to the me-
ridian of that place. Hence Fal-
mouth noon is twenty minutes after
London noon, Falmouth midnight
twenty minutes after London mid-
night; and so on. When it is ten
minutes after midnight, on the morn-
ing of Sunday, the 1st of January, in
London, it is ten minutes before mid-
night, on Saturday, the 31st of De-
cember, at Falmouth. It is a Sab-
bath at the one place, a working-day
at the other. That particular mo-
ment of absolute time is in the year
1865 at the one, and 1864 at the
other. Therefore, we see, it might
become a ticklish point in what year a
man died, solely on account of this
question of longitude, irrespective of
any wrong-going or wrong-doing of
clocks, or of any other doubtful points
whatever. Sooner or later this ques-
tion will have to be attended to. In
all our chief towns, nearly all our
towns indeed, the railway-station clocks
mark Greenwich time, or, as it is
called, " railway time ;" the church
clocks generally mark local tune ; and
some commercial clocks, to serve all
parties, mark both kinds of time on
the same dial-face, by the aid of an
additional index hand. Railway time
is gradually beating local time ; and
the law will by-and-by have to settle
which shall be used as the standard in
determining the moment of important
events. Some of the steamers plying
between England and Ireland use
Greenwich time in notifying the de-
partures from the English port, and
Dublin time in notifying those from
the Irish port; a method singularly
embarrassing to a traveller who is in
the habit of relying on his own watch.
Does a sailor get more prog, more
grog, more pay, within a given space
of absolute time when coming from
America to England, or when going
from England to America ? The dif-
ference is far too slight to attract
either his attention or that of his em-
ployers ; yet it really is the case that
he obtains more good things in the
former of these cases than in the lat-
ter. His days are shorter on the
homeward than on the outward voy-
age ; and if he receive so much pro-
visions and pay per day, he interprets
day as it is to him on shipboard.
When in harbor, say at Liverpool, a
day is, to him as to every one else
who is stationary like himself, a pe-
riod of definite length ; but when he
travels Eastward or Westward, his
days are variable in length. When
he travels West, he and the sun run a
race; the sun of course beats; but
the sailor accomplishes a little, and
the sun has to fetch up that little be-
fore he can complete what foot-racers
call a lap. In other words, there is a
longer absolute time between noon
and noon to the sailor going West,
than to the sailor ashore. When he
travels East, on the contrary, he and
the sun run toward each other ; inso-
much that there is less absolute time
in the period between his Monday's
noon and Tuesday's noon than when
he was ashore. The ship's noon is
usually dinner-time for the sailors ;
and the interval between that and the
next noon (measured by the sun, not
by the chronometer) varies in length
through the causes just noticed. Once
now and then there are facts recorded
in the newspapers which bring this
128
The Nick of Time.
truth into prominence a truth de-
monstrable enough in science, but not
very familiar to the general public.
When the Great Eastern made her
first veritable voyage across the At-
lantic in June, 1860, she left South-
ampton on the 17th, and reached New
York on the 28th. As the ship was
going West, more or less, all the
while, she was going with or rather
after the sun ; the interval was great-
er between noon and noon than when
the ship was anchored off Southamp-
ton ; and the so-called eleven days of
the voyage were eleven long days.
As it was important, in reference to a
problem in steam navigation, to know
how many revolutions the paddles
made in a given time, to test the power
of the mighty ship, it was necessary to
bear in mind that the ship's day was
longer than a shore day ; and it was
found that, taking latitude and longi-
tude into account, the day on which
the greatest run was made was nearly
twenty-four and a half hours long;
the ship's day was equal to half an
hour more than a landsman's day.
The other days varied from twenty-
four to twenty-four and a half. On
the return voyage all this was reversed ;
the ship met the sun, the days were
less than twenty-four ordinary hours
long, and the calculations had to be
modified in consequence. The sailors,
too, got more food in a homeward
week than an outward week, owing to
the intervals between the meals being
shorter albeit, their appetites may
not have been cognizant of the differ-
ence.
And this brings us back to our hy-
pothetical Mullets. Josiah died at noon
(Sydney time), and Jasper died on the
same day at noon (Greenwich time).
Which died first? Sydney, although
not quite at the other side of the world,
is nearly so ; it is ten hours of longi-
tude Eastward of Greenwich ; the sun
rises there ten hours earlier than with
us. It is nearly bed-time with Sydney
folks when our artisans strike work for
dinner. There would, therefore, be
a reasonable ground for saying that
Josiah died first. But had it been
New Zealand, a curious question might
arise. Otago, and some other of the
settlements in those islands, are so
near the antipodes of Greenwich, that
they may either be called eleven and
three-quarter hours East, or twelve
and a quarter hours West, of Green-
wich, according as we suppose the
navigator to go round the Cape of
Good Hope or round Cape Horn. At
six in the morning in London, it is
about six in the evening at New Zea-
land. But of which day? When it
is Monday morning in London, is it
Sunday evening or Monday evening
in New Zealand ? This question is
not so easy to solve as might be sup-
posed. When a ship called at Pitcairn
Island several years ago, to visit the
singular little community that had de-
scended from the mutineers of the
Bounty, the captain was surprised to
find exactly one day difference between
his ship's reckoning and that of the isl-
anders; what was Monday, the 26th,
to the one, was Tuesday, the 27th, to
the other. A voyage East had been
the origin of one reckoning, a voyage
West that of the other. Not unlikely
we should have to go back to the voy-
age of the Bounty itself, seventy-seven
years ago, to get to the real origin of
the Pitcairners' reckoning. How it
may be with the English settlers in
New Zealand, we feel by no means
certain. If the present reckoning be-
gan with some voyage made round
Cape Horn, then our Monday morn-
ing is New Zealand Sunday evening ;
but if with some voyage made round
the Cape of Good Hope, then our
Monday morning is New Zealand
Monday evening. Probabilities are
perhaps in favor of the latter sup-
position. We need not ask, " What's
o'clock at New Zealand ?" for that can
be ascertained to a minute by counting
the difference of longitude ; but to ask,
"What day of the week and of the
month is it at New Zealand?" is a
question that might, for aught we can
see, involve very important legal con-
sequences.
fiecent Discoveries in the Catacombs.
129
From the Dublin Review.
RECENT DISCOVERIES IN THE CATACOMBS.
The chromo-lithographic press, es-
tablished at Rome by the munificence
of Pius IX., has issued its first publi-
cation, four sheets in large folio,
Imagines Selectee Deiparce Virginis
in Ccemeteriis Suburbanis Udo depictce,
with about twenty pages of text from
the pen of the Cavaliere G. B. de
Rossi. The subject and the author
are amply sufficient to recommend
them to the Christian archaeologist,
and the work of the artists employed
is in every way worthy of both. It
is by no means an uncommon idea,
even among Catholics who have visited
Rome and done the catacombs, that
our Blessed Lady does not hold any
prominent place in the decorations of
those subterranean cemeteries. Prot-
estant tourists often boldly publish
that she is nowhere to be found there.
The present publication will suffice to
show, even to those who never leave
their own homes, the falsehood of this
statement and impression. De Rossi
has here set before us a selection of
four different representations of Holy
Mary, as she appears in that earliest
monument of the Christian Church;
and, in illustrating these, he has taken
occasion to mention a score or two of
others. Moreover, he has vindicated
for them an antiquity and an impor-
tance far beyond what we were pre-
pared to expect ; and those who have
ever either made personal acquaintance
with him, or have studied his former
writings, well know how far removed
he is from anything like uncritical and
enthusiastic exaggerations. Even such
writers as Mr. Burgon (" Letters from
Rome") cannot refrain from bearing
testimony to his learning, moderation,
and candor; they praise him, often
by way of contrast with some Jesuit
or other clerical exponent of the
mysteries of the catacombs, for all
those qualities which are calculated to
9
inspire us with confidence in his inter-
pretations of any nice points of Chris-
tian archaeology. But we fear his
Protestant admirers will be led to
lower their tone of admiration for him,
and henceforward to discover some
flaw in his powers of criticism, when
they find him, as in these pages,
gravely maintaining, concerning a
particular representation of the Ma-
donna hi the catacombs, that it is of
Apostolic, or quasi- Apostolic antiquity.
It is a painting on the vaulted roof of
an arcosolium in the cemetery of St.
Priscilla, and it is reproduced in the
work before us in its original size.
The Blessed Virgin sits, her head
partially covered by a short slight
veil, holding the Divine Infant in her
arms ; opposite to her stands a man,
holding in one hand a volume, and
with the other pointing to a star which
appears between the two figures.
This star almost always accompanies
our Blessed Lady in ancient paintings
or sculptures, wherever she is repre-
sented either with the Magi offering
their gifts, or by the manger's side
with the ox and the ass ; but with a
single figure, as in the present instance,
it is unusual. Archaeologists will pro-
bably differ in their interpretation of
this figure ; the most obvious conjecture
would, of course, fix on St. Joseph;
there seem to be solid reasons, how-
ever, for preferring (with De Rossi)
the prophet Isaias, whose predictions
concerning the Messias abound with
imagery borrowed from light, and who
may be identified on an old Christian
glass by the superscription of his
name. But this question, interesting
as it is, is not so important as the
probable date of the painting itself;
and here no abridgment or analysis of'
De Rossi's arguments can do justice
to the moderation, yet irresistible force,
with which he accumulates proofs of"
130
Recent Discoveries in the Catacombs.
the conclusion we have already stated,
viz., that the painting was executed, if
not in Apostolic times and as it were
under the very eyes of the Apostles
themselves, yet certainly within the
first 150 years of the Christian era.
He first bids us carefully to study
the art displayed in the design and
execution of the painting; he com-
pares it with the decorations of the
famous Pagan tombs discovered on the
Via Latina in 1858, and which are
referred to the times of the Anton-
inuses ; with the paintings in the pon-
tifical cubiculum in the cemetery of St.
Callixtus, and with others more re-
cently discovered in the cemetery of
Pretextatus, to both of which a very
high antiquity is conceded by all com-
petent judges ; and he justly argues
that the more classical style of the paint-
ing now under examination obliges us to
assign to it a still earlier date. Next,
he shows that the catacomb in which
it appears was one of the oldest, St.
Priscilla, from whom it receives its
name, having been the mother of
Pudens and a contemporary of the
Apostles (the impress of a seal, with
the name Pudens Felix, is repeated
several times on the mortar round the
edge of a grave in this cemetery) ;
nay, further still, it can be shown that
the tombs of Sts. Pudentiana and
Praxedes, and therefore, probably, of
their father St. Pudens himself, were
in the immediate neighborhood of the
very chapel in which this Madonna is
to be seen ; moreover, the inscriptions
which are found there bear manifest
tokens of a higher antiquity than can
be claimed by any others from the
catacombs: there is the complete
triple nomenclature of pagan times,
e. g., Titus Flavius Felicissimus ; the
epitaphs are not even in the usual
form, in pace, but simply the Apostolic
salutation, Pax tecum, Pax tibi ; and
finally, the greater number of them
are not cut on stone or marble slabs,
but written with red paint on the tiles
which close the graves a mode of
inscription of which not a single ex-
ample, we believe, has hitherto been
found in any other part of the cata-
combs. This is a mere outline of the
arguments by which De Rossi estab-
lishes his conclusion respecting the
age of this painting, and they are not
even exhibited in their full force in
the present publication at all. For a
more copious induction of facts, and a
more complete elucidation both of the
history and topography of the cata-
combs, we must be content to wait till
the author's larger work on Roma
Sotterranea shall appear.
The most recent painting of the
Madonna which De Rossi has here
published is that with which our
readers will be the most familiar. It
is the one to which the late Father
Marchi, S. J., never failed to introduce
every visitor to the catacomb of St.
Agnes, and has been reproduced in
various works ; the Holy Mother with
her hands outstretched in prayer, the
Divine Infant on her bosom, and the
Christian monogram on either side of
her and turned toward her. This
last particular naturally directs our
thoughts to the fourth century as the
date of this work ; and the absence of
the nimbus and some other indications
lead our author to fix the earlier half
of the century in preference to the
later. Between these two limits, then,
of the first or second, and the fourth
century, he would place the two others
which are now published ; he distin-
guishes them more doubtfully, as be-
longing respectively to the first and
second half of the third century. In
one, from the cemetery of Domitilla,
the Blessed Virgin sits holding the
Holy Child on her lap, whilst four
Magi offer their gifts ; the other, from
the catacomb of Sts. Peter and Mar-
cellinus, represents the same scene,
but with two Magi only. In both
there is the same departure from the
ancient tradition of the number of the
wise men, and from the same cause,
viz., the desire to give a proper
balance and proportion to the two
sides of the picture, the Virgin occu-
pying the middle place. Indeed, in
one of them, it is still possible to trace
Recent Discoveries in the Catacombs.
131
the original sketch of the artist,
designing another arrangement with
the three figures only ; but the result
did not promise to be satisfactory, and
he did what thousands of his craft
have continued to do ever since, sacri-
ficed historic truth to the exigencies
of his art.
We trust our readers will be in-
duced to get this valuable work and to
study it for themselves ; the text may
be procured either in French or in
Italian, so that it is readily accessible
to all. At the same time we would
take the opportunity of introducing to
them another work by the same inde-
fatigable author, which is also pub-
lished both in French and in Italian.
At least, such is the announcement of a
prospectus now lying before us, which
states that the French translation is
published by Vives, in Paris. We
have ourselves only seen the original
Italian. It is a short monthly period-
ical, with illustrations, Bollettino di
Archeologia Cristiana, and is addressed
not merely to savans, Fellows of Royal
Societies, and the like, but rather to
all educated men who care for the his-
tory of their religion and are capable
of appreciating its evidences. De
Rossi claims for the recent discoveries
in the Roman catacombs the very
highest place among the scientific
events of the day which have an im-
portant religious bearing, and we think
that the justice of his plea must be ad-
mitted. Unfortunately, however, the
vastness of the subject, the multiplied
engagements of the author, and (not
least) the political vicissitudes of the
times, have hitherto prevented the
publication of these discoveries in a
complete and extended form. We are
happy to know that the work is satis-
factorily progressing ; but meanwhile
he has been persuaded by the sugges-
tions of many friends, and by the con-
venience of the thing itself, to publish
this monthly periodical, which will
keep us au courant with the most im-
portant additions that are being made
from time to time to our knowledge of
those precious memorials of primitive
Christianity, and also supply much in-
teresting information on other archaeo-
logical matters. In these pages the
reader is allowed to accompany, as it
were, the author himself in his sub-
terranean researches, to assist at his
discoveries, to trace the happy but
doubtful conjecture of a moment
through all its gradual stages, until it
reaches the moral certainty of a con-
clusion which can no longer be called
in question ; <?. ^., the author gives us a
portion of a lecture which he delivered
on July 3, 1852, to the Roman Ponti-
fical Academy of Archaeology. In
this lecture he maintained, in opposi-
tion to the usual nomenclature of the
catacombs, and entirely on the strength
of certain topographical observations,
that a particular cemetery, into which
a very partial opening had been made
in 1848, was that anciently called by
the name of Pretextatus, and in which
were buried St. Januarius, the eldest
of the seven sons of St. Felicitas, Fe-
licissimus and Agapitus, deacons of St.
Sixtus, Pope Urban, Quirinus, and
other famous martyrs. Five years
passed away, and this opinion had
been neither confirmed nor refuted;
but in 1857, excavations undertaken
for another purpose introduced our*
author into a crypt of this cemetery,
of unusual size and richness of orna-
ment, where one of the loculi bore an
inscription on the mortar which had
secured the grave-stone, invoking the
assistance of "Januarius, Agatop us (for
Agapitus), and Felicissimus, mar-
tyrs !" This, of course, was a strong
confirmation of the conjecture which
had been published so long before;
but this was all which he could pro-
duce in the first number of his Bollet,-
tino in January, 1863. In the second
number he could add that, as he was
going to press (February 21), small
fragments of an inscription on marble
had been disinterred from the same
place, of which only single letters had
yet been found, but which, he did not
hesitate to say, had been written by
Pope Damasus and contained his
name, as well as the name of St. Jan-
132
Recent Discoveries in the Catacombs.
uarius. In March he published the
twelve or fourteen letters which had
been discovered, arranging them in
the place he supposed them to have
occupied in the inscription, which he
conjecturally restored, and which con-
sisted altogether of more than forty
letters. In ^pril he was able still
further to add, that they had now re-
covered other portions ; amongst the
rest, a whole word, or rather the con-
traction of a word (episcop. for epis-
copus), exactly in accordance with
his conjecture, though, at the time he
made the conjecture, only half of one
of the letters had yet come to light.
We need not pursue the subject
further. Enough has been said to
satisfy those of our readers who have
any acquaintance with the catacombs,
both as to the kind and the degree of
interest and importance which belong
to this publication. Its intelligence,
however, is by no means confined to
the catacombs. The basilica of San
Clemente ; the recent excavations at
San Lorenzo, fuori le mura; the post-
script of St. Pamphilus the Martyr at
the end of one of his manuscript copies
of the Bible, reproduced in the Codex
Sinaiticus lately published by Tischen-
dorf ; the arch of Constantine; ancient
scribblings on the wall (graffiti) of
the palace of the Caesars on the Pala-
tine, etc., etc., are subjects of able and
learned articles in the several numbers
we have received. With reference to
the graffiti, one singular circumstance
mentioned by De Rossi is worth re-
peating here. Most of our readers
are probably acquainted with the graf-
fiti from this place, published by P.
Garrucci, in which one Alessamenus
is ridiculed for worshipping as his God
the figure of a man, but with the head
of an ass, nailed to a cross. P. Gar-
rucci had very reasonably conjectured
that this was intended as a blasphemous
caricature of the Christian worship;
and recently other graffiti in the very
same place have been discovered with
the title Episcopus, apparently given
in ridicule to some Christian youth;
for that the room on whose walls these
scribblings appear was used for educa-
tional purposes is abundantly proved
by the numerous inscriptions an-
nouncing that such or such a one exit
de pcedagogio. We seem, therefore,
in deciphering these rude scrawls, to
assist, as it were, at one of the minor
scenes of that great struggle between
paganism and Christianity, whereof
the sufferings of the early martyrs, the
apologies of Justin Martyr, etc., were
only another but more public and his-
torical phase. History tells us that
Caracalla, when a boy, saw one of
his companions beaten because he
professed the Christian faith. These
graffiti seem to teach us that there
were many others of the same tender
age, de domo G<z$aris, who suffered
more or less of persecution for the
same cause. Other interesting details
of the same struggle have been brought
together by De Rossi, carefully gleaned
from the patrician names which appear
on some of the ancient grave-stones,
sometimes as belonging to young vir-
gins or widows who had dedicated
themselves to the service of Christ
under the discipline of a religious com-
munity. That such a community was
to be found early in the fifth century,
in the immediate neighborhood of S.
Lorenzo fuori le mura, or, at least, that
the members of such a community
were always buried about that time in
that cemetery, is one of the circum-
stances which may be said to be clear-
ly proved by the recent discoveries.
The proofs are too numerous and min-
ute for abridgment, but the student
will be interested in examining them
as they appear in the Bollettino.
Another feature in this archaeological
publication is its convenience as a sup-
plement to the volume of Christian
Inscriptions published by the same
author. That volume, as our readers
are already aware, contains only such
inscriptions of the first six centuries
as bear a distinct chronological note
by the names of the chief magistrates,
or in some other way. Additional
specimens of these are not unfrequent-
ly discovered in the excavations still
Recent Discoveries in the Catacombs.
133
in progress on various sides of the
city ; and these De Rossi is careful to
chronicle, and generally also to illus-
lustrate by notes, in the pages of his
Bollettino. The chief value of these
additions, perhaps, is to be found in
the corroboration they uniformly give
to the conclusions which De Rossi had
already deduced, the canons of chron-
ological distinction and distribution
which he had established, from the
larger collection of inscriptions in the
work referred to whether as to the
style of writing or of diction and sen-
timents, etc. canons, the full import-
ance of which will only be recognized
when he shall have published the sec-
ond volume of the collection of epitaphs
bearing upon questions of Christian
doctrine and practice.
In the earlier numbers of the Bollet-
tino for the present year there is a
very interesting account of the recent
discoveries in the Ambrosian basilica
of Milan, where there seems no room
to doubt but that they have brought to
light the very sarcophagus in which
the relics of the gre^ St. Ambrose, as
well as those of the martyrs Sts. Ger-
vasius and Protasius, have rested for
more than ten centuries. The history
of the discovery is too long to be in-
serted here, and too interesting to be
abridged. One circumstance, however,
connected with it is too important to
be omitted. The sarcophagus itself
has not yet, we believe, been opened ;
but, from the two sepulchres below and
on either side of it, where the bishop
and the martyrs were originally de-
posited, and where they remained until
their translation in the ninth century,
many valuable relics have been gleaned.
We will only mention one of them
viz., portions of an ampulla such as
are found in the catacombs, and con-
cerning which Dr.- Biraghi, the libra-
rian of the Bibliotheca Ambrosiana
(to whose zeal we are indebted for the
whole discovery, and for the account
of it to his learning), assures us that
it has been subjected to a chemical
examination, and is shown to have
contained blood. This, as De Rossi
truly remarks, is the most notable in-
stance which has yet come before us
of this ampulla having been placed in
the sepulchre of famous and historical
martyrs, and it is of very special im-
portance as throwing a flood of light
on those words of St. Ambrose about
these relics so often quoted in the
controversy on this subject Sanguine,
tumulus madet; apparent cruoris tri-
umphales notes; inviolatce reliquice loco
suo et ordine repertce. And it is cer-
tainly singular that this discovery
should have been made at a moment
when the validity of these ampullce, as
sure signs of martyrdom, has been so
much called in question. The Sacred
Congregation of Rites had only recent-
ly reaffirmed their former sentence on
this matter; and this fact now comes
most opportunely from Milan to add
further weight to their decision, by
giving a historical basis to an opinion
which before had been thought by
some rather to rest upon theory and
conjecture. It will go far, we should
think, toward rehabilitating in the minds
of Christian archseologists the pious
belief of former ages upon this subject,
wherever it may have been shaken.
134
Miscellany.
MISCELLANY.
SCIENCE.
The Mason-Spider of Corfu. A corre-
spondent of a London journal gives an
interesting account of certain habits of
this insect, which belongs to the myga-
lidce family. The mygales are chiefly
found in hot climates, and include the
largest specimens of spiders known.
They are called mason-spiders, from the
curious manner in which they build
their houses. " The mygale nest," says
the correspondent, " varies much in
size, from one inch in length to three or
four, and even six or seven inches. In
the West Indies, where the spiders are
crab-like, the insects measure six inches
over. One nest, especially mentioned
and minutely described by Mr. Oudo-
uin, was three inches and a quarter long
and eight- tenths of an incli wide. The
nest, of cylindrical form, is made by
boring into the earth ; making his exca-
vation, the next thing, having decided
upon the dimensions of his habitation,
is to furnish it, and most beautiful are
his paper-hangings. The whole of the
interior is lined with the softest possi-
ble silk, a tissue which the 'major do-
mo' spins all over the apartment until
it is padded to a sufficient thickness and
made soft enough. Silk lining like this
gives the idea of the mygale having a
luxurious turn. This done, and the in-
terior finished, the mygale shows his
peculiarity by taking steps to keep out
the o Tro/Uoi of intruders by making not
only a door, and that self-closing, but a
door with swinging hinge, and some-
times one at each end of his nest, which
shows that he has a very good opinion
of his own work within, and knows how
to take care of it. Not having met with
any case where any one had seen the
positive operation of making the door
of these nests, I thought the details
would be interesting, the more so as
they corroborated preconceived ideas
of their construction, and were noticed
by a friend quartered at Corfu, who
brought home the nest with him. The
following is the description he gave me :
" Lying out in one of the sandy pla-
teaux covered with olive groves with
which Corfu abounds, enjoying his cigar
and lounging about in the sandy soil, he
came to a spider's nest. Examining it,
he found the lid or door would not open,
and seemed held firmly within by the
proprietor as if Jack were at home so
he applied forthwith the leverage of a
knife-blade, upon which the inmate re-
tired to his inner chamber. The aggres-
sor decided not to disturb him any more
that day, but marking the place , most
necessary thing to do thought he would
explore further the next day, if fine.
" Accordingly, the next day my i'riend
called early, intending to take off the
door and to watch the progress of res-
toration, and how it would be accom-
plished. After waiting a long time, out
came Monsieur Mygale, and looking
carefully round, and finding all quiet,
commenced operations by running his
web backward and forward across the
orifice of his nest, till there was a layer
of silken web ; upon this he ejected a
gluten, over which he scratched the fine
sand in the immediate neighborhood of
his nest ; this done, he again set to
work webbing, then gluten, sand ; then
again web, gluten, sand, about six times ;
this occupied in all about eight hours.
But the puzzling part was that this time
he was cementing and building himself
out from his own mansion, when, to the
astonishment and delight of his anxious
looker-on, he began the finishing stroke
by cutting and forming the door by fix-
ing his hind legs in the centre of the
new covering, and from these as a cen-
tre he began cutting with his jaws right
through the door he had made, striking
a clear circle round, and leaving about
one-eighth of the circumference as a
hinge. This done, he lifted the door up
and walked in. My friend then tried to
open the door with a knife, but the in-
sect pulled it tight from the inside. He
therefore dug round him and took him
off bodily mygale and nest complete.
The hinge is most carefully and beauti-
fully formed ; and there appears to be
an important object in view when the
spider covers over the whole of the ori-
fice, for immediately the door is raised
it springs back as soon as released ; and
this is caused by the elasticity of the
web on the hinge and the peculiar form-
ation of the lid or door, which is made
thicker on the lower side, so that its
135
own weight helps it to be self-closing,
and the rabbeting of the door is wonder-
fully surfaced. Bolts and Chub locks
with a latch-key the mygale family do
not possess, but as a substitute the
lower part of the door has clawholding
holes, so that a bird's beak or other
lever being used, Mons. Mygale holds
on to the door by these, and with his
legs against the sides of his house,
offers immense resistance against all
Instinct of Insects. One of the regular
course of free scientific lectures deliv-
ered at the Paris Sorbonne this last
winter, under the auspices of the Minis-
ter of Public Instruction, was by the
distinguished naturalist M. Milne-Ed-
wards, on the instinct and intelligence
of animals. Taking for his text the say-
ing of Linnseus, Natura maxime miranda
in minimis, he spoke principally of the
instinct of insects, and especially of sol-
itary bees. These hymenoptera, in fact,
afford one of the most striking examples
known of that faculty which impels an
animal, either for its own preservation
or for the preservation and development
of its offspring, to perform the most com-
plicated and intelligent actions, readily
and skilfully, yet without having learned
how to do them. One species, the car-
penter-bee (xylocopa), bores in the trunks
of trees galleries running first horizon-
tally and then vertically to a considerable
depth. She then collects a quantity of
wax and honey. The honey she kneads
into a little ball of alimentary matter, in
the midst of which she deposits her
first egg. With the wax she constructs
a horizontal partition, formed of concen-
tric annular layers ; this encloses the
cell. On this partition she deposits a
second egg, enclosed like the first in the
provision destined for the support of
the future larva ; and over it builds an-
other partition of wax ; and so on, to the
top of the vertical cavity. Then she
dies ; she never sees her offspring. The
latter, so long as they remain larvae, feed
upon the honey which the maternal fore-
sight provided for them ; and so soon as
they have passed through their second
metamorphosis and become winged in-
sects, issue forth from their retreat, to
perform in their turn a similar labor.
Another species of solitary bee, whose
larva is carnivorous, resorts to a still
more wonderful, but, it must be con-
fessed, very cruel, expedient to supply
the worm-like progeny with food. She
constructs a gallery or tunnel in the
earth, and crowns it with a chimney
curved somewhat like a crosier, so as
to keep out the rain. Then she goes
a-huntiug, and brings back to her den a
number of caterpillars. If she kills
them at once, they will spoil before her
eggs are hatched ; if she lets them alone,
they will run away. What shall she do?
She pierces the caterpillars with her
venomous little dart, and injects into
them a drop of poison, which Mr.
Claude Bernard no doubt will analyze
some day. It does not kill, it only par-
alyzes them ; and there they lie, torpid
and immovable, till the larvae come into
the world and feast off the sweet and
succulent flesh at their leisure.
Everybody is familiar with the habits
and wonderful industry of hive-bees,
wasps, and ants. These insects seem to
be governed by something more than
blind instinct: it is hardly too much to
say that they give indubitable signs of
intelligence. They know how to modify
their course according to circumstances,
to provide against unexpected wants, to
avert dangers, and to notify to each
other whatever is of consequence to be
known by their whole community. Hu-
ber, the celebrated bee-keeper of Gene-
va, relates the following anecdote : One
of his hives having been devastated one
night by a large sphinx-moth, the bees
set to work the next morning and plas-
tered up the door, leaving only a small
opening which would just admit them,
one at a time, but which the sphinx,
with its' big body and long wings, could
not pass. As soon as the season arrived
when the moths terminate their short
lives, the bees, no longer fearing an in-
vasion, pulled down their rampart. The
next season, as no sphinx appeared to
trouble them, they left their door wide
open.
Ostrich-keeping. By late news from
the Cape of Good Hope we learn that
the farmers of that colony are beginning
to find it profitable to keep flocks of
ostriches, for the feathers of those birds
are worth 25 sterling the pound. For
thirty-five ostriches, there must be three
hundred acres of grazing-ground. The
plucking takes place once in six months ;
the yield of feathers from each bird
being worth from 10 to 12, 10s. The
original cost of the young ostriches
is said to be 5 each. Some of the
136
Miscellany.
farmers who have tried the experiment
are of opinion that ostrich-feathers will
pay better than any other produce of
the colony.
Extraordinary Inland Navigation. We
hear from South America that a steamer
built in England for the Peruvian ^ gov-
ernment, for the exploration of rivers,
has penetrated the great continent from
the Atlantic side to a distance of ninety-
five leagues only from the Pacific, or
nearly all across. The vessel, which
draws seven feet water, steamed seven
hundred leagues up the Amazon, two
hundred up the Ucayati, and thence into
the Pachitea, which had never before
been navigated except by native canoes.
What a magnificent extent of inland
navigation is here opened to commercial
enterprise ! The mind becomes some-
what bewildered in imagining the future
of those vast river- valleys when hund-
reds of steamers shall navigate the
streams, trading among millions of popu-
lation dwelling on their banks.
Is the Sun getting Bigger ? It is known
that various speculations have been put
forward as to the cause or source of the
sun's heat. Among those who consider
that it consists in the falling of asteroids
or meteorites into the sun, is Mr. J. R.
Mayer, of Heilbronn, who states that
the surface of the sun measures 115,000
million square miles, and that the aster-
oids falling thereon form a mass every
minute equal in weight to from 94,000 to
188,000 billion kilogrammes. It might
be supposed that this enormous Shower
would increase the mass and weight of
the sun, and by consequence produce an
appreciable effect on the motion of the
planets which compose our system. For
instance, it would shorten our year by
a second or something less. But the
calculations of astronomers show that
this effect does not take place ; and Mr.
Mayer states that to increase the appar-
ent diameter of the sun a single second
by the shower of asteroids would re-
quire from 33,000 to 66,000 years.
Teaching the Deaf and Dumb to Speak.
Dr. Houdin, director of an institution
for the deaf and dumb at Passy, lately
announced to the French Academy, that
after twenty-five years' experience he
had proved the possibility of communi-
cating the faculty of speech, in a certain
degree, to deaf mutes. A commission
appointed by the Academy and the Fac-
ulty to investigate the subject, reports
that the learned doctor has really suc-
ceeded in several instances in teaching
these unfortunate beings to speak and
even comprehend spoken language so
well that it is difficult to believe that
they are not guided by the ear. The
patients conversed with the members of
the commission, and answered the dif-
ferent questions put to them. They were
found to be perfectly familiar with the
use and mechanism of speech, though
destitute of the sense of hearing, and
they comprehended what was said to
them, reading the words upon the lips
of the speaker with a marvellous facility.
Thus they become fit to enter into so-
ciety and capable of receiving all man-
ner of instruction.
But here is another case still more
wonderful. What would you do if you
had to instruct and prepare for first
communion a child who was at the same
time deaf, dumb, and blind? The case
is not an imaginary one ; it has occurred
in an asylum for deaf-mutes at Notre
Dame de Larnay, in the diocese of Poi-
tiers. A nun was there charged with
the instruction of a child in this unfor-
tunate state, to whom she could appeal
only by the sense of touch. Yet the
child, who astonishes everybody by her
sensibility and intelligence, has come
by that means to a knowledge of the
spiritual life, of God and his divine
Son, of religion and its mysteries and
precepts has been prepared, in fine, for
a worthy reception of the Eucharist.
ART.
THE past winter in New York has
scarcely kept pace with its immediate
predecessor in the number and merit of
the collections of pictures opened to
public inspection or disposed of at auc-
tion. The unprecedented prices ob-
tained for the really excellent collection
of Mr. Wolfe, in Christmas week of 1863,
seemed to have inoculated art collectors
and dealers with what may be called a
cacoethes vendendi, and until far into the
succeeding summer the picture auction-
eers were called upon to knock down
dozens of galleries of " private gentle-
men about to leave the country/' vary-
ing in merit from respectable to posi-
tively bad. In these sales the moderns
had decidedly the best of it, the few
Miscellany.
137
"old masters" who ventured to appeal
to the sympathies and pockets of our
collectors being at last treated with
proper contempt. But the prices real-
ized by the Wolfe gallery, even when
reduced to a specie basis, were too high
to become a recognized standard of
vafue, and gradually the interest in such
sales, as well as the bids, declined, until
the sellers became aware (the purchas-
ers had become aware some time pre-
vious) that the market was overstocked
and the demand for pictures had ceased.
The contributions of the foreign artists
to the New York Sanitary Fair brought
probably less than a third of the money
that would have been obtained for them
had they been sold in January instead
of June, and such collections as have
been scraped together for sale during
the present season have met with but
moderate pecuniary success. It is grati-
fying to know, however, that our resi-
dent artists, both native and foreign-
born, have for the most part been busily
and profitably employed, and that in
landscape, and in some departments of
genre, their works have not suffered in
competition with similar ones by reput-
able European painters. Without wish-
ing in any respect to recommend or sug-
gest a protective system for fostering
native art, we cannot but rejoice that the
overthrow of the late exaggerated prices
for foreign works will tend to encourage
and develop American artists.
The principal art event in anticipation
is the opening of next exhibition of the
National Academy of Design in the
building now hastening to completion at
the corner of Fourth avenue and Twen-
ty-third streets. It is to be hoped that
the contributions will be worthy of the
place and the occasion. Recent exhi-
bitions have not been altogether credit-
able to the Academy.
Durand, the late president of the
Academy, and one of our oldest and
most careful landscape painters, has a
characteristic work on exhibition at
Avery's Art Agency, corner of Fourth
street and Broadway. It is called " A
Summer Afternoon," and is pervaded by a
soft, pensive sentiment of rural repose.
In the elaboration of the trees and in
the soft, mellow distances the artist
shows his early skill, albeit in some of
his later pieces the timid handling in-
separable from age is discernible.
A collection of several hundred
sketches and studies of no special
merit, by Hicks, has recently been dis-
posed of at auction. The essays of this
gentleman in landscape are not happy,
and the specimens in this collection had
better, perhaps, have been excluded.
Rossiter's pictures representing Adam
and Eve in Paradise, now on exhibition
in New York, have excited more remark
than commendation. It may be said
briefly, that they fail to do justice to
the subject.
Curnmings's " Historic Annals of the
Academy of Design" have been pub-
lished, and constitute an interesting ad-
dition to the somewhat meagre collection
of works illustrating American art his-
tory.
Mr. Thomas Ball, the well-known
sculptor of Boston, is about to depart
for Italy, with the intention of remain-
ing several years in Florence, and exe-
cuting there in marble a number of
plaster models. Among these are a life-
size statue of Edwin Forrest in the part
of " Coriolanus," and busts of the late
Rev. Thomas Starr King and Edward
Everett. The latter is sard to be an ad-
mirable likeness.
M. J. Heade. an American artist, for-
merly of Boston and Providence, is pub-
lishing in London a work upon the hum-
ming-birds of Brazil, illustrated from
designs by himself.
The United States Senate was recently
the scene of a somewhat animated de-
bate on art matters, arising out of a
proposition to authorize the artist Pow-
ell to " paint a picture for the Capitol at
a cost not to exceed $25,000." The
scheme was defeated, chiefly through
the opposition of Senator Sumner, who
thought the present an improper time
to devote so large a sum to such a pur-
pose.
A very remarkable picture by Gerdme,
the most original ,arid realistic of living
French painters, is now on exhibition at
Goupil's, in this city. It is entitled
" The Prayer of the Arab in the Desert,"
and in a small space presents a complete
epitome of Oriental life.
In London the General Exhibition of
water-color drawings, and collections of
works of Holman Hunt, Madox Brown,
and the late David Roberts, have recently
been opened. The last named contains
900 pictures, drawings, and sketches,
showing the amazing industry of the
artist, and his skill as a draughtsman.
A monument to Shakespeare, from pen-
138
ny subscriptions, is to be erected on
Primrose Hill, near London.
The sale of the celebrated Pourtales
collection at Paris has been the all-ab-
sorbing art topic abroad. The gallery,
at last accounts, was daily crowded with
representatives from all parts of Europe,
and the prices surpassed the estimates
of the experts. The value set upon the
whole collection was upward of 3,000,-
000 francs, but that sum will probably
fall far short of the real total. The
bronzes and terra-cotta occupied four
days, and produced over 150,000 francs.
The following are among the most re-
markable items : A very small statuette
of Jupiter, found at Besancon in 1820,
8,000 francs ; another small statuette of
the same, seated, formerly in the Denon
collection, 12,000 francs ; the celebrated
statuette of Apollo, supposed to date
from the sixth century B.C., from the
Neri collection, 5,000 francs ; small stat-
uette of Minerva, arms missing, found
at Besancon, 19,200 francs ; armor found
at Herculaneum, and presented by the
Queen of Naples to Josephine, pur-
chased by the Emperor for 13,000 francs ;
a small Roman bust, supposed by Vis-
con ti to be a Balbus, bought for the
Louvre for 4,550 francs ; a tripod, found
in the ruins of the town of Metapont,
and described by Panofka, purchased
for the Berlin gallery, 10,000 francs ; fine
old Roman seat, in bronze, bought for
the Louvre, 5,300 francs ; vase from
Locres, 7,000 francs ; another vase, found
in one of the tombs of the Vulci, 9,000
francs.
At the sale of the collection of the
Marquis de Lambertye, in Paris, a charm-
ing work by Meissonier, ' Reynard in
his Study, reading a Manuscript," was
purchased for 12,600 francs ; had it not
been for the effect of the Pourtales sale
on the art market, the work would have
fetched considerably more money. It
was purchased of the artist himself, for
16,000 francs, by the late marquis. An-
other and smaller picture, not six inches
by four, also by Meissonier, was sold on
the same occasion subject, "Van de
Velde in his Atelier " for 7,020 francs.
In the same collection were four works
by Decamps, whose pictures are in great
request. One of these, an Eastern land-
scape, sold for 15,500 francs ; another, a
small work, a peasant girl in the forest,
for 4,240 francs ; and two still smaller
and less important works, "Tide Out,
with Sunset," and " Gorges d'Ollioule,"
for 1,500 francs each. Three small works
by Eugene Delacroix, a " Tiger attack-
ing a Serpent," " Combat between Moors
and Arabs," and "The Scotch Ballad,"
sold, respectively, for 1,820 francs, 1,300
francs, and 2,300 francs. A minute pic-
ture by Paul Delaroche, " Jesus on the
Mount of Olives," sold for 2.200 francs ;
Diogenes sitting on the edge of an im-
mense jar, holding his lantern, by Ge-
r6me, 1,950 francs ; and " Arnauts at
Prayer," by the same, 3,900 francs. " The
Beach at Trouville," by the lately de-
ceased painter, Troyon, 4,000 francs, and
"Feeding the Poultry," by the same,
4,850 francs.
At the sale of a collection of the
works of M. Cordier, the sculptor, who
has earned considerable popularity by
his variegated works, composed of mar-
bles, onyx and bronze, and variously
tinted and decorated, a marble statue,
called "La Belle Gallinara," sold for
4,100 francs ; a young Kabyle child car-
rying a branch loaded with oranges, in
Algerian onyx and bronze, and partly
colored, 3,000 francs ; an Arab woman, a
statue of the same materials as the pre-
ceding, intended to support a lamp or
candelabrum, purchased by the Due de
Morny for 6,825 francs.
There is a report that the collections
of pictures and curiosities belonging to
the Comte de Chambord will shortly be
dispersed by the hammer in Paris.
The scaffolding before the north front
of the cathedral of Notre Dame, in Paris,
has been removed, and the fapade, with
the magnificent Gothic window, forty
feet in diameter, can now be seen to
great perfection, all the rich sculptures
having been admirably restored.
A Paris letter says : " The celebrated
painting of the ' Assassination of the
Bishop of Liege,' by Eugene Delacroix,
was recently sold at auction at 35,000
francs. The ' Death of Ophelia,' in pen-
cil, by the same painter, was knocked
down for 2,020 francs, which was con-
sidered a large sum for a sketch. ' St.
Louis at the Bridge of Taillebourg,' in
water-colors, fetched 3,100 francs. Some
copper-plates engraved by Eugene Dela-
croix himself were^likewise sold."
At the sale of the collection of the
Chevalier de Knyff, at Brussels, the Vir-
gin with the host and surrounded by
angels, by Ingres, was withdrawn at
28,500 francs.
Book Notices.
139
Among the works of art destroyed in
the recent conflagration of the ducal
palace at Brunswick was the colossal
bronze figure of Brunonia, the patron
goddess of the town, standing in a car
of victory, drawn by four horses. It
was executed by Professor Howalclt and
his sons, after a design by Rietschel.
The colossal bronze statue of Her-
cules, lately exhumed at Rome, has been
safely deposited in the Vatican.
BOOK NOTICES.
SERMONS ON OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST, AND
ON HIS BLESSED MOTHER. By his Emi-
nence Cardinal "Wiseman. 8vo., pp.
421. New York : D. & J. Sadlier &
Co.
Coming to us almost in the same mo-
ment in which we hear of Cardinal Wise-
man's death, these sermons will be read
with a deep and peculiar interest, now
that the eloquent lips which uttered
them are closed for ever. Most of them
were preached in Rome, some so long
ago as 1827. These were addressed to
congregations composed parly of eccle-
siastics, partly of Catholic sojourners in
the Eternal City, and partly of Protest-
ants. At least one was delivered in
Ireland in 1858. But although some of
the discourses belong to the period of
the author's noviceship in the pulpit,
and between some there is an interval
of more than thirty years, we are struck
by no incongruity of either thought or
style. The earliest have the finish and
elegance of maturity ; the latest all the
vigor and enthusiasm of youth.
They are not controversial, and hardly
any of them can even be called dogmatic
sermons. They are addressed more to
the heart than directly to the under-
standing, although reasoning and ex-
hortation are often so skilfully blended
that it is hard to say where one begins
and the other ends. They are the out-
pourings, in fact, of a warm and loving
heart and a full brain. The argument is
all the more effective because the cardi-
nal covers his frame-work of logic with
the rich drapery of his brilliant rheto-
ric. And yet, with all their gorgeous
phraseology, they are characterized by
a simplicity of thought which brings
them down to the level of the com-
monest intellect.
The greater part of them were preached
during the seasons of Lent and Advent,
and the subjects will therefore be found
especially appropriate to the present
period. Here is a beautiful passage in
reference to our Lord's agony in the
garden :
<{ There are plants in the luxurious East,
my dearly beloved brethren, which men
gash and cut, that from them may distil
the precious balsams they contain ; but that
is ever the most sought and valued which,
issuing forth of its own accord, pure and
unmixed, trickles down like tears upon the
parent tree. And so it seems to me, we
may without disparagement speak of the
precious streams of our dear Redeemer's
blood. "When forced from his side, in
abundant flow, it came mixed with another
mysterious fluid ; when shed by the cruel
inflictions of his enemies, by their nails,
their thorns, and scourges, there is a painful
association with the brutal instruments that
drew it. as though in some way their defile-
ment could attaint it. But here we have
the first yield of that saving and life-giving
heart, gushing forth spontaneously, pure
and untouched by the unclean hand of man,
dropping as dew upon the ground. It is the
first juice of the precious vine ; before the
wine-press hath bruised its grapes, richer
and sweeter to the loving and sympathizing
soul, than what is afterward pressed out.
It is every drop of it ours ; and alas, how
painfully so ! For here no lash, no impious
palm, no pricking thorn hath called it forth ;
but our sins, yes, our sins, the executioners
not of the flesh, but of the heart of Jesus,
have driven it all out, thence to water that
garden of sorrows ! Oh, is it not dear to
us ; is it not gathered up by our affections,
with far more reverence and love than by
virgins of old was the blood of martyrs, to
be placed for ever in the very sanctuary, yea,
within the very altar of our hearts ?"
From the discourse on the "Triumphs
of the Cross," we select the closing par-
graph :
140
Book Notices.
" blessed Jesus, may the image of these
sacred wounds, as expressed by the cross,
never depart from my thoughts. As it is a
badge and privilege of the exalted office, to
which, most unworthy, I have been raised,
to wear ever upon my breast the figure of
that cross, and in it, as in a holy shrine, a
1'raement of that blessed tree whereon thou
didst hang on Golgotha, so much more let
the lively image of thee crucified dwell
within my bosom, and be the source from
which shall proceed every thought, and
word, and action of my ministry ! Let me
preach thee, and thee crucified, not the
plausible doctrines of worldly virtue and
human philosophy. In prayer and medita-
tion let me ever have before me thy likeness.
as thou stretchest forth thine arms to invite
us to seek mercy and to draw us into thine
embrace. Let my Thabor be on Calvary ;
there it is best for me to dwell. There thou
hast prepared three tabernacles ; one for
such as, like Magdalen, have offended much,
but love to weep at thy blessed feet; one for
those who, like John, have wavered in
steadfastness for a moment, but long again
to rest their head upon thy bosom ; and one
whereinto only she may enter whose love
burns without a reproach, whose heart, al-
ways one with thine, finds its home in the
centre of thine, fibre intertwined with fibre,
till both are melted into one in that furnace
of sympathetic love. With these favorites
of the cross, let me ever, blessed Saviour,
remain in meditation and prayer, and loving
affection for thy holy rood. I will venerate
its very substance, whenever presented to
me, with deep and solemn reverence. I will
honor its image, wherever offered to me,
with lowly and respectful homage. But
still more I will hallow and love its spirit
and inward form, impressed on the heart,
and shown forth in the holiness of life.
And oh ! divine Redeemer, from thy cross,
thy true mercy-seat, look down in compas-
sion upon this thy people. Pour forth
thence abundantly the streams of bless-
ing, which flow from thy sacred wounds.
Accomplish within them, during this week
of forgiveness, the work which holy men
have so well begun,* that all may worthily
partake of thy Paschal feast. Plant thy
cross in every heart ; may each one embrace
it in life, may it embrace him in death; and
may it be a beacon of salvation to his de-
parting soul, a crown of glory to his im-
mortal spirit 1 Amen. "
What follows is from the sermon on
the "Veneration of the Blessed Vir-
gin:"
" If, then, any one shall accuse me of
wasting upon the mother of my Saviour
* Alluding to the mission just closed by the
Fathers of the Institute of Cliarity.
feelings and affections which he hath jeal-
ously reserved for himself. I will appeal
from the charge to his judgment, and lay
the cause before him, at any stage of his
blessed life. I will go unto him at the crib
of Bethlehem, and acknowledge that, while,
with the kings of the East, I have presented
to him all my gold and frankincense and
myrrh, I have ventured, with the shepherds,
to present an humbler oblation of respect to
her who was enduring the winter's frost in
an unsheltered stable, entirely for his sake.
Or I will meet him, as the holy fugitives re-
pose on their desert-path to Egypt, and con-
fess that, knowing from the example of
Agar, how a mother cast forth from her
house into the wilderness, for her infant's
sake, only loves it the more, and needs an
angel to comfort her in her anguish (Gen.
xxi. 17), I have not restrained my eyes from
her whose fatigues and pain were a hundred-
fold increased by his, when I have sympa-
thized with him in this his early flight, en-
dured for my sins. Or I will approach a
more awful tribunal, and step to the foot of
his cross, and own to him, that while I
have adored his wounds, and stirred up in
my breast my deepest feelings of grief and
commiseration for what I have made him
suffer, my thoughts could not refrain from
sometimes glancing toward her whom I saw
resignedly standing at his feet, and sharing
his sorrows ; and that, knowing how much
Respha endured while sitting opposite to her
children justly crucified by command of God
(2 Kings xxi. 10), I had felt far greater
compassion for her, and had not withheld
the emotions, which nature itself dictated,
of love, and veneration, and devout affec-
tion toward her. And to the judgment of
such a son I will gladly bow, and his meek
mouth shall speak my sentence, and I will
not fear it. For I have already heard it
from the cross, addressed to me, to you, to
all, as he said : ' Woman, behold thy son ; '
and again : ' Behold thy mother.' (John
xix. 26, 27.)"
An appendix to the volume contains
six beautiful pastorals, on devotion to
the Sacred Heart of Jesus, in connection
with education.
SPIRITUAL PROGRESS. By J. W. Cum-
mings, D.D., LL.D., of St. Stephen's
Church, New York City. 12mo., pp.
330. New York : P. O'Shea.
We cannot better state the purpose
of this excellent little book than in the
words of the author's preface : " Spir-
itual Progress is a familiar exposition of
Catholic morality, which has for its ob-
ject to tell people of common intelli-
gence what they are expected to do in
Boole Notices.
141
order to be good Christians, and how
they shall do it, and the results that
will follow." It is written not for those
strong, heroic souls, whose faith is firm,
whose devotion is ardent, and who crave
strong spiritual food ; but for that nu-
merous class of weak Christians, recent
converts, honest inquirers, and fervent
but uninstructed Catholics, who are not
yet prepared to accept the more diffi-
cult counsels of perfection; who are
ready perhaps to do what God says they
must do ; but need a little training be-
fore they can be brought to do any
more. To put an ascetic work into the
hands of such persons would often be
like giving beef to a young baby : it
would hurt, not help them. Dr. Cum-
mings's book, in fact, is a sort of spirit-
ual primer for the use of those who are
just beginning their spiritual education.
It is simple, straightforward, and prac-
tical. There is a charm in the style so
clear, so terse, often almost epigrammatic,
and sometimes rising to the poetical
which carries the reader along in spite
of himself. The tone is not conversa-
tional ; 3 r et when you read, it seems as
if you were not so much reading as lis-
tening. And that argues great literary
merit.
Here is an extract from the chapter
on "Faults of Conversation:"
" Gossip is the bane of conversation, for it
is the name under which injustice makes
her entrance into society. There is an ele-
ment in the breast of the most civilized
communities, even in times of great refine-
ment, that explains how man may, under
certain circumstances, become a cannibal.
It is exhibited in the turns our humor takes
in conversation. We are not ill-natured,
nor disposed to lay a straw in the way of
any one who has not injured us, and yet,
when spurred on by the stimulus of talking
and being talked to, we can bring ourselves
to mimic, revile, and misrepresent others,
traduce and destroy their good name, reveal
their secrets, and proclaim their faults ; and
all this merely to follow the lead of others,
or for the sake of appearing facetious and
amusing, or for the purpose of building up
ourselves by running down those whom in
our hearts we know and believe to be better
than we are But as the gos-
sip attacks the absent because the absent
cannot defend himself or herself, shall not we r
dear readers, form a society to assist the weak
and the persecuted? Shall we not enter
into a compact to defend those who cannot
defend themselves? Let us answer as a
love of fair play suggests. If we are at all
influenced by regard for Christian charity,
let us remember that it takes two to carry
on a conversation against our neighbor, and
tbat if our visitor is guilty of being a gossip,
a false witness, or a detractor, we are also
guilty by consenting to officiate as listeners."
In a chapter on the " Schooling of the
Imagination," Dr. Cummings shows how
the imaginative faculty may be made to
serve the cause of religion, especially in
the practice of meditation, and how dan-
gerous it becomes when it is not held
in check :
" We hear songs and the flutters of many
wings at Bethlehem, and see the light
streaming from heaven upon the face of the
new-born Saviour. We look out over the
blue waters of the Lake of Genesareth,
and see the quaint little bark of Peter
as it lay near the shore when Jesus
preached to the people from its side, or as it
flew before the wind when the sea waxed
wroth, and a great storm arose, he mean-
while sleeping and they fearing they would
perish. With the aid of this wonderful
faculty we see him before us in the hour of
his triumph, surrounded by the multitudes
singing, ' Hosanna to the son of David ,'
and in that sad day of his final sorrow,
when the same voices swelled the fearful
cry, ' Crucify him, crucify him.' "
A GENERAL HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC
CHURCH, FROM THE COMMENCEMENT OF
THE CHRISTIAN ERA UNTIL THE PRESENT
TIME. By M. L'Abbe J. E. Darras.
First American from the last French
edition. With an Introduction and
Notes, by the Most Rev. M. J. Spald-
ing, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimore.
Parts 1, 2, and 3. 8vo. New York : P.
O'Shea.
This valuable work, which Mr. O'Shea,
with a laudable spirit- of enterprise, is
giving us by instalments, is intended for
just that class of readers who stand
most in need of a readable and pretty
full Church history. When completed
it will fill four portly volumes, imperial
octavo ; yet it is a work adapted more
especially to family reading than to the
use of the scholar in his closet. The
Abbe Darras has judiciously refrained
from obstructing the flow of his narra-
tive by minute references and quota-
tions, nor has he suffered his pen to run
away into long discussions of contro-
verted questions. What he says of the
chronology which he has followed, he
might have said, if we have read him
142
Book Notices.
aright, of his whole work : " We have
adopted a system already completed, not
that it may perhaps be the most exact
in all its details, but because it is the
one most generally followed." This
seems to be the principle which he has
kept before his eyes throughout; and
considering the purpose for which he
wrote, we think it a good one. With
all the simplicity and modesty of his
style, however, he shows a thorough
knowledge of the intricacies of his sub-
ject, and an acquaintance with what the
best scholars have written before him.
His history, therefore, fills a void which
has long been aching.
The translation, made by a lady well
known and respected by the Catholics
of the United States, reads smoothly,
and we doubt not is accurate. It has
been revised by competent theologians,
and has the special sanction of the Arch-
bishop of Baltimore, beside the appro-
bation of the Archbishops of New York
and Cincinnati. The work in the origi-
nal French received the warmest enco-
miums from the European clergy, and
the author was honored, at the conclu-
sion of his labors, by a kind letter from
the Pope.
The mechanical execution of the book
is beautiful. The paper is good, and
the type large and clear. We thank
Mr. O'Shea for giving us so important a
work in such a rich and appropriate
dress.
THE PROGRESS OF THE AGE, AND THE DAN-
GER OF THE AGE. Two lectures deliv-
ered before the St. Xavier Conference
of the St. Vincent de Paul Brother-
hood in the Hall of St. Louis Univer-
sity. By the Rev. Louis Heylen, S. J.
12rno., pp. 107. Cincinnati: John P.
Walsh.
These two lectures formed parts of a
course delivered during the winter of
1862-63, by some of the professors of
the St. Louis University. They are ad-
mirable compositions, redolent of good
sense, learning, and ripe thought, and
deeply interesting. The style has a
true oratorical ring. In the first lecture
Father Heylen, after adverting to the
fact that every age since the days of
Adam has been marked by some special
characteristic, examines the claim set
forth by our own century to be emphat-
ically the age of progress. In part he
admits and in part he denies it. In ma-
terial progress, and in the natural sci-
ences, especially as applied to the pur-
poses of industry and commerce, it
stands at the head of ages. But moral
progress is not one of its characteris-
tics. Here I feel," says he, " that I am
entering upon a difficult question. Has
there been, in the last fifty j'ears, any
marked increase of crime ? Is our age,
all things considered, really worse than
preceding ages ? This question I shall
not undertake to decide ; but there are
some forms of crime which appear to
me decidedly peculiar to our age." A
brief review of these sins of the day
leads naturally to the subject of the
second lecture. Father Heylen sees our
greatest danger in that practical mate-
rialism which places material interests
and materialistic passions above the in-
terests of the soul and the claims of vir-
tue. He considers successively its ex-
tent, its effects, and the means to avert
it the last being, of course, the ennob-
ling and spiritualizing influence of Cath-
olicism.
We advise those who wish to see
how a scholar and an orator can throw a
fresh charm into a stale subject, to read
Father Heylen's review of the startling
discoveries of modern science in the
first lecture, and his brilliant descrip-
tion in the second of the ruins with
which materialism has spread the pages
of history and the new life which Cath-
olicism has infused into effete civiliza-
tions.
Prefixed to the little volume before
us is a short biographical sketch of
Father Heylen, who died in 1863.
UNDINE, OR THE WATER-SPIRIT. Also
SlNTRAM AND HIS COMPANIONS. From
the German of Friedrich de la Motte
Fouque. 1 vol. 12mo., pp. 238. New
York : James Miller.
THIODOLF, THE ICELANDER. A Romance.
From the German of the Baron de la
Motte Fouque. 12mo., pp. 308. New
York : James Miller.
For a man of refined and cultivated
taste we know of hardly any more de-
lightful literary recreation than to turn
from the novels of our own day to one
of the exquisite romances of La Motte
Fouque. There is a nobleness of senti-
ment in his wild arid beautiful fancies
which seems to lift us out of this world
into a higher sphere. All his writings
are pervaded by an ideal Christian chiv-
airy, spiritualizing and refining the
supernatural machinery which he is so
fond of borrowing from the old Norse
legends. No other author has ever
treated the Northern mythology so well ;
because no other has attempted to give
us its beauties without its grossriess.
The gods and heroes of the Norsemen
have been very much in fashion of late
years ; but take almost any of the Scan-
dinavian tales recently translated tales
which, if they have any moral, seem to
inculcate the morality of lying and cheat-
ing, and the virtue of strong muscles
and how immeasurably finer and more
beautiful by the side of them appear the
fairy legends which Fouque interweaves
with his romances, mingling old super-
stitions with Christian faith and virtues,
in so delicate a manner that we see no
incongruity in the association. This
mutual adaptation, if we may call it so,
he effects partly by transporting us back
to those early times when the faith was
as yet only half-rooted in the Northern
soil, and when even many Christian con-
verts clnng almost unconsciously to some
of their old pagan beliefs ; partly by
the genuine religious spirit which in-
spires every page of his books, no mat-
ter what their subject ; and partly by
the allegorical significance which his
romances generally convey. So from
tales of water-sprites and evil spirits,
devils, dwarfs, and all manner of super-
natural appearances, we rise with the
feeling that we have been reading a les-
son of piety, truth, integrity, and honor.
Carlyle calls the chivalry of Fouque
more extravagant than that which we
supposed Cervantes had abolished ; but
we are far from agreeing in such a judg-
ment. A chivalry which rests upon
" wise and pious thoughts, treasured in
a pure heart," deserves something better
to be said of it.
The three tales whose titles are given
above are specimens of three somewhat
different styles in which Fouque treats
his darling subject of Christian knight-
hood. The story of "Undine" has al-
ways been a pet in every language of
Europe. Sir Walter Scott called it
"ravishing;" Coleridge expressed un-
bounded admiration of it ; the author
himself termed it his darling child. For
the tale of " Sintram" we have a particu-
lar affection. As a work of art, it is
not to be compared with the former: it
has but little of that tender aerial fancy
which makes the story of the water-
Booik Notices.
143
sprite so inexpressibly graceful ; but
there is a sombre beauty in it which is
not less captivating. It is a story
of temptation and trial, of battle with
self and triumph over sin. Its allegori-
cal meaning is more distinct than that
of Undine ; it speaks more unmistak-
ably of faith and heroic virtue. " Thio-
dolf,the Icelander," is a picture of Norse
and Byzantine manners in the tenth cen-
tury, and presents an interesting con-
trast between the rough manliness of
the former and the luxury of the court
of Constantinople. To the merits of
wealth of imagination, skilful delinea-
tion of character, and dramatic power of
narration, it is said to add historical ac-
curacy.
OUR FARM OP FOUR ACRES, AND THE
MONEY WE MADE BY IT. 12mo., pp. 128.
New York : James Miller.
It is no slight proof of the merit of
this little book that it has gone through
at least twelve editions in England, and
had so many imitators that it may al-
most be called the founder of a school
of literature. Its popularity is still un-
diminished, and promises long to con-
tinue so. Hardly any one can fail of
being interested in this simple narra-
tive of the blunders, mishaps, and final
triumphs of two city-bred sisters, in
their effort to keep a little farm and make
it pay; but to those who, either for
health's sake or economy, are about en-
tering on a similar enterprise, we can-
not too strongly recommend it. It is so
practical that we. cannot doubt it is all
true indeed its directness and air of
truth and good sense are the secrets of
its remarkable success. We commend
it to our readers as an interesting exem-
plification of a truth which ought to be
more widely known than it is that
with proper management a small family
on a small place in the country can raise
all their own vegetables, not only to their
great comfort, but with considerable
pecuniary profit. Men who spend half-
a-year's income in the rent of a city
house would do well to take to heart
the lessons of this little book.
THE IRVINGTON STORIES. By M. E. Dodge.
Illustrated by F. 0. C. Darley. IGrno.,
pp. 256. New York : James O'Kane.
This is a collection of tales for young
people, manufactured with considerable
144
Book Notices.
taste and neatness. Some of the stories
bear a good moral, distinctly brought
out.
REPLY TO THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER ON
CATHOLICITY AND NATURALISM. 8vo.,
pp. 24. Boston : Patrick Donahoe.
The Christian Examiner for January,
1865, contained an article on "The Order
of St. Paul the Apostle, and the New-
Catholic Church/' in which the writer,
after describing a visit to the Paulist
establishment in Fifty-ninth street, and
representing Father Hecker and his
companions as being engaged in the at-
tempt to found a new Catholic Church,
passed on to the consideration of the
question what form of religion is best
adapted to the wants of the American
people. It was a remarkable article
remarkable not only for its graceful dic-
tion, but for its curious admissions of
the failure of Protestantism as a reli-
gious system. "The process of disinte-
gration," says the Examiner, "is going
forward with immense rapidity through-
out Protestant Christendom. Organiza-
tions are splitting asunder, institutions
are falling into decay, customs are be-
coming uncustomary, usages are perish-
ing from neglect, sacraments are deserted
by the multitude, creeds are decompos-
ing under the action of liberal studies
and independent thought.'' But from
these falling ruins mankind will seek
refuge not in the bosom of the Catholic
Church, says the Christian Examiner, but
in Naturalism. The object of the pam-
phlet before us is to show, after cor-
recting certain misstatements concern-
ing the congregation of Paulists, that
Naturalism is utterly unable to satisfy
those longings of the heart which, as
the Examiner confesses, no Protestant
sect can appease.
PASTORAL LETTER OP THE MOST REV. MAR-
TIN JOHN SPALDING, D. D., ARCHBISHOP
OF BALTIMORE, ETC., TOGETHER WITH THE
LATE ENCYCLICAL OP THE HOLY FATHER,
AND THE SYLLABUS OF ERRORS CON-
DEMNED. 8vo., pp. 43. Baltimore:
Kelly & Piet.
In promulgating the jubilee lately pro-
claimed by the sovereign pontiif, the
Most Rev. Archbishop Spalding takes
occasion to make a few timely remarks
on the Encyclical, the character of Pius
IX., the temporal power of the Popes,
and the errors recently condemned. He
explains the true purport of the much-
abused Encyclical, shows against whom
it is directed namely, the European
radicals and infidels and proves that it
never was the intention of the Pope, as
has been alleged, to assail the institu-
tions of this country. In view of the
absurd mistranslations of the Encyclical
which have been published by the Prot-
estant press, Catholics will be glad to
have the correct English version of that
important document, which is given by
way of appendix to the pastoral.
We have received the First Supplement
to the Catalogue of the Library of the Young
Men's Association of the City of Milwau-
kee, with the annual report of the Board
of Directors for 1863.
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. I., NO. 2. MAY, 1865.
From the Dublin Review.
HEDWIGE, QUEEN OF POLAND.
HEDWIGE was the youngest daugh-
ter of Lewis, nephew and successor to
Casimir the Great, who, on account of
the preference he evinced for his Hun-
garian subjects, drew upon himself the
continued ill-will of the nation he was
called upon to govern. Finding he
was unable to cope with the numerous
factions everywhere ready to oppose
him, he, not without many humiliating
concessions to the nobles of Poland,
induced them to elect as his successor
his daughter Maria, wife of Sigismund,
Marquis of Brandenburg (afterward
emperor), and having appointed the
Duke of Oppelen regent of the king-
dom, retired to his native Hungary,
unwilling to relinquish the shadow of
the sceptre which continually evaded
his grasp.
On his death, which happened in
1382, Poland became the theatre of
intestine disorders fomented by the
turbulent nobles, who, notwithstanding
'the allegiance they had sworn to the
Princess Maria, refused to allow her
even to enter the kingdom. Sigismund
was not, however, -inclined thus easily
to forego his wife's claims ; and as the
Lord of Mazovia at the same time as-
pired to the vacant throne, many of the
provinces became so desolated by civil
war that the leaders of the adverse
factions threw down their arms, and
10
simultaneously agreed to offer the
crown to the Princess Hedwige, then
residing in Hungary under the care of
her mother Elizabeth. By no means
approving of a plan which thus uncer-
emoniously excluded her eldest daugh-
ter from the throne, the queen dowa-
ger endeavored to oppose injustice by
policy. Hedwige was at the time only
fourteen years of age, and the deputies
were informed that, as the princess was
too young to undertake the heavy re-
sponsibilities of sovereignty, her broth-
er-in-law Sigismund must act in her
stead until such time as she herself
should be considered capable of as-
suming the reins of government. This
stratagem did not succeed; the duke
was not allowed to cross the frontiers
of Poland, and Elizabeth found herself
compelled to part with her daughter,
if she would not see the crown placed
on the brow of whomever the diet
might elect.
Now commenced the trials of the
young Hedwige, who was thus early
called upon to exercise those virtues
of heroic fortitude, patient endurance,
and self-denial which rendered her life
a sort of continual martyrdom, a sac-
rifice daily offered up at the shrines of
religion and patriotism. At the early
age of four years she had been affi-
anced to William, Duke of Austria,
146
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
who, in accordance with the custom of
the times, had been educated in Hun-
gary ; his affection for his betrothed
growing with his growth, and increas-
ing with his years. Ambition hatf no
charms for Hedwige; her fervent
piety, shrinking modesty, and feminine
timidity sought to conceal, not only her
extraordinary beauty, but those rare
mental endowments of which she was
possessed. Bitter were the tears shed
by this gentle girl, when her mother,
alarmed at the menaces of the Polish
nobles, informed her she must imme-
diately depart for Cracow, under the
protection of Cardinal Demetrius, Bish-
op of Strigonia, who was pledged to
deliver her into the hands of those
whom she was disposed to regard
rather as her masters than as her sub-
jects. There had been one stipulation
made, which, had she been aware of its
existence, would have added a sharper
pang to the already poignant anguish
of Hedwige : the Poles required that
their young sovereign should marry
only with the consent of the diet, and
that her husband should not only re-
side constantly in Poland, but pledge
himself never to attempt to render that
country dependent on any other power.
Although aware of the difficulties thus
thrown in the way of her union with
Duke William, her mother had sub-
scribed to these conditions; and Hed-
wige, having been joyfully received by
the prelates and nobles of her adopted
country, was solemnly crowned in the
cathedral at Cracow, October 15, 1385,
being the festival of her patron, St.
Hedwige. Her youth, loveliness, grace,
and intellectual endowments won from
the fierce chieftains an enthusiastic af-
fection which had been denied to the
too yielding Lewis ; their national pride
was flattered, their loyalty awakened,
by the innocent fascinations of their
young sovereign, and they almost
sought to defer the time which, in her
husband, would necessarily give them
a ruler of sterner mould. Nor was
Hedwige undeserving of the exalted
station she had been compelled to fill :
a worthy descendant of the sainted
Lewis, her every word and action waa
marked by a gravity and maturity
which bore witness to the supernatural
motives and heavenly wisdom by which
it was inspired ; and yet, in the silence
of her chamber, many were the tears
she shed over the memory of ties sev-
ered, she feared, for ever. Amongst
the earliest candidates for her hand
was Ziemovit, Duke of Mazovia, al-
ready mentioned as one of the com-
petitors for the crown after the death
of her father; but the Poles, still
smarting from the effects of his un-
bridled ambition, dismissed his mes-
sengers with a refusal couched in terms
of undisguised contempt. The ques-
tion of her marriage once agitated, the
mind of Hedwige naturally turned to
him on whom her heart was unaltera-
bly fixed, and whom from her child-
hood she had been taught to con-
sider as her future husband ; but an
alliance with the house of Austria
formed no part of Polish policy, and
neither the wishes nor the entreaties
of their queen could induce the diet
to entertain the idea for a moment ; in
short, their whole energy was employed
in bringing about a union which, how-
ever disagreeable to the young sove-
reign, was likely to be in every way
advantageous to the country and favor-
able to the interests of religion.
Jagello, the pagan Duke of Lithua-
nia, was from his proximity and the
extent of his possessions (comprising
Samogitia and a large portion of Rus-
sia*) a formidable enemy to Poland.
Fame was not slow in wafting to his
ears rumors of the beauty and accom-
plishments of Hedwige, which being
more than corroborated by ambassa-
dors employed to ascertain the truth,
the impetuous Jagello determined to
secure the prize, even at the cost of
national independence. The idolatry
of the Lithuanians and the early be-
trothal of Hedwige to Duke William
were the chief obstacles with which he
had to contend ; but, after a brief de-
* The territories of many of the Russian or Eu-
thenian dukea which were conquered by the Lith-
uanian pagans.
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
147
liberation, an embassy was despatched,
headed by Skirgello, brother to the
grand-duke, and bearing the most cost-
ly presents; Jagello himself being
with difficulty dissuaded from accom-
panying them in person. The envoys
were admitted into the presence of the
council, at which the queen herself
presided, and the prince proceeded to
lay before the astonished nobles the
offers of the barbarian suitor, offers
too tempting to be weighed in the bal-
ance against such a trifle as a girl's
happiness, or the violation of what
these overbearing politicians were
pleased to term a mere childish en-
gagement, contracted before the par-
ties were able to judge for themselves.
After a long harangue, in which Skir-
gello represented how vainly the most
illustrious potentates and the most
powerful rulers had hitherto endeav-
ored to effect the conversion of Lithu-
ania, he offered as " a tribute to the
charms of the queen" that Jagello
and his brothers, together with the
princes, lords, and people of Lithuania
and Samogitia, should at once embrace
the Catholic faith ; that all the Chris-
tian captives should be restored un-
ransomed ; and the whole of their ex-
tensive dominions be incorporated with
Poland ; the grand-duke also pledging
himself to reconquer for that country
Pomerania, Silesia, and whatever other
territories had been torn from Poland
by neighboring states ; and, finally,
promising to make good to the Poles
the sum of two hundred thousand
florins, which had been sent to Wil-
liam of Austria as the dowry forfeited
by the non-fulfilment of the engage-
ment entered into by their late king
Lewis. A murmur of applause at
this unprecedented generosity ran
through the assembly ; the nobles
hailed the prospect of so unlooked-
for an augmentation of national power
and security ; and the bishops could
not but rejoice at the prospect of res-
cuing so many souls from the darkness
of heathenism, and securing at one
and the same time the propagation of
the Catholic faith and the peace of
Poland. But the queen herself shared
not these feelings of satisfaction : no
sooner had Skirgello ceased than she
started from her seat, cast a hasty
glance round the assembly, and, as if
reading her fate in the countenances
of the nobles, buried her face in her
hands and burst into a flood of tears.
All attempts to soothe and pacify her
were in vain : in a strain of passionate
eloquence, which was not without its
effect, she pleaded her affection for
Duke William, the. sacred nature of
the engagement by which she was
pledged to become his wife, pointed
to the ring on her finger, and reminded
an aged prelate who had accompanied
her from Hungary that he had himself
witnessed their being laid in the same
cradle at the ceremony of their be-
trothal. It was impossible to behold
unmoved the anguish of so gentle a
creature ; not a few of the younger
chieftains espoused the cause of their
sovereign ; and, at the urgent solici-
tation of Hedwige, it was finally de-
termined that the Lithuanian ambas-
sadors, accompanied by three Polish
nobles, should repair to Buda for the
purpose of consulting her mother, the
Queen of Hungary.
But Elizabeth, though inaccessible
to the temptations of worldly ambition,
was too pious, too self-denying, to allow
maternal affection to preponderate over
the interests of religion. Aware that
the betrothal of her daughter to the
Duke of Austria had never been re-
newed from the time of their infancy,
she, without a moment's hesitation, re-
plied that, for her own part, she de-
sired nothing, but that the queen
ought to sacrifice every Imman feeling
for the glory of Christianity and the
welfare of Poland. To Hedwige her-
self she wrote affectionately, though
firmly, bidding her lay every natural
inclination at the foot of the cross, and
desiring her to praise that God who had
chosen so unworthy an instrument as
the means by which the pure splendor
of Catholicity should penetrate the
darkness of Lithuania and the other
pagan nations. Elizabeth was aware
148
Hedwiye, Queen of Poland.
of the real power of religion over the
mind of her child, and doubted not
but that, after the first paroxysm of
grief had subsided, she should be able
to overcome by its means the violence
of her daughter's repugnance to the
proposed measure. In order "to give a
color of impartiality to their proceed-
ings, a diet was convoked at Cracow,
immediately on the return of the em-
bassy, to deliberate on the relative
claims of Jagello, William of Austria,
and the Dukes of Mazovia and Oppe-
len, all of whom aspired to the hand
of Hedwige and the crown of Poland.
The discussion was long and stormy,
for amongst those nobles more imme-
diately around the queen's person
there were many, including a large
body of ecclesiastics, who, although
convinced that no lawful impediment
existed to the marriage, yet shrank
from the cruelty of uniting the gentle
princess to a barbarian ; and these
failed not to insist upon the insult which
would be implied by such a choice to
the native Catholic princes. The ma-
jority, however, were of a different
opinion, and at the close of the diet it
was decided that an ambassador should
be despatched to Jagello, inviting him
to Cracow for the purpose of continu-
ing the negotiations in his own person.
But William of Austria was too se-
cure in the justice of his cause and
the affection of his betrothed to resign
his pretensions without an effort ; and
his ardor being by no means diminished
by a letter which he received from the
queen herself, imploring him to hasten
to her assistance, he placed himself at
the head of a numerous retinue, and,
with a treasure by which he hoped to
purchase the good-will of the adverse
faction, appeared so suddenly at Cracow
as to deprive his opponents of their
self-possession. The determination of
Hedwige to unite herself to the object
of her early and deep affection was
loudly expressed, and, as there were
many powerful leaders among others,
Gniewosz, Vice-chamberlain of Cracow
who espoused her cause, and rallied
round Duke William, the Polish nobles,
not daring openly to oppose their sov-
ereign, were on the point of abandon-
ing the cause of Jagello, when Dobes-
las, Castellain of Cracow, one of the
staunchest supporters of the Lithuanian
alliance, resolved at any risk to pre-
vent the meeting of the lovers, and
actually went so far as to refuse the
young prince admission into the castle,
where the queen -at the time was re-
siding, not only drawing his sword,
but dragging the duke with him over
the drawbridge, which he commanded
to be immediately lowered. William,
thus repulsed, fixed his quarters at the
Franciscan monastery ; and Hedwige,
fired by the insult, rode forth accom-
panied by a chosen body of knights
and her female attendants, determined
by the completion of her marriage to
place an insuperable bar between her
and Jagello.
In the refectory of the monastery,
the queen and the prince at length
met ; and, after several hours spent in
considering how best to avert the sep-
aration with which they were threat-
ened, it was arranged that William
should introduce himself privately into
the castle of Cracow, where they were
to be united by the queen's confessor.
Some time elapsed before this plan
could be carried into execution ; for
although even Dobeslas hesitated to
confine his sovereign within her own
palace, the castle gates were kept shut
against the entrance of the Duke of
Austria. Exasperated at this contin-
ued opposition, and her affection aug-
mented by the presence of its object,
from whom the arrival, daily expected,
of Jagello would divide her for ever,
Hedwige determined to admit the
prince disguised as one of her house-
hold, and a day was accordingly fixed
for the execution of this romantic pro-
ject. By some means or other the
whole plan came to the knowledge of
the vigilant castellain ; the adventur-
ous prince was seized in a passage
leading to the royal apartments, loaded
with insult, ancH driven from the pal-
ace, within the walls of which the
queen now found herself a prisoner.
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
149
It was in vain she wept, and implored
to be allowed to see her betrothed once
more, if only to bid him farewell ; her
letters were intercepted, her attendants
became spies on her movements, and,
on the young prince presenting himself
before the gates, his life was threatened
by the barons who remained within the
fortress. This was too much ; alarmed
for her lover's safety, indignant at the
restraint to which she was subjected,
the passion of the girl triumphed over
the dignity of the sovereign. Quitting
her apartment, she hurried to the great
gate, which, as she apprehended, was
secured in such a manner as to baffle
all her efforts ; trembling with fear,
and eager only to effect her escape,
she called for a hatchet, and, raising it
with both hands, repeatedly struck the
locks and bolts that prevented her
egress. The childish simplicity of the
attempt, the agony depicted in the
beautiful and innocent countenance of
their mistress, so touched the hearts of
the rude soldiery, that, but for their
dread of the nobles, Hedwige would
through their means have effected her
purpose. As it was, they offered no
opposition, but stood in mournful and
respectful silence ; when the venerable
Demetrius, grand-treasurer of the
kingdom, approached, and falling on
his knees, implored her to be calm,
and to sacrifice her own happiness, if
not to the wishes of her subjects and
the welfare of her country, at least to
the interests of religion. At the sight
of that aged man, whose thin white
hairs and sorrowful countenance in-
spired both reverence and affection,
the queen paused, and, giving him her
hand, burst into an agony of tears ;
then, hurrying to her oratory, she
threw herself on the ground before an
image of the Blessed Virgin, where,
after a sharp interior conflict, she suc-
ceeded in resigning herself to what
she now believed to be the will of God
embracing for his sake the heavy
cross which she was to bear for the
remainder of her life.
Meanwhile Duke William, to escape
the vengeance of the wrathful barons,
was compelled to quit Poland, leaving
his now useless wealth in the charge
of the vice-chamberlain, who still ap-
parently continued his friend. Not
long after his departure, Jagello, at the
head of a numerous army, and attended
by his two brothers, crossed the fron-
tiers, determined, as it seemed, to prose-
cute his suit. At the first rumor of
his approach, the most powerful and
influential among the nobles repaired
to Cracow, where prayers, remon-
strances, and even menaces were em-
ployed to induce the queeir to accept
the hand of the barbarian prince. But
to all their eloquence Hedwige turned
a deaf ear: in vain did agents, de-
spatched for the purpose, represent the
duke as handsome in person, princely
and dignified in manner ; her con-
science was troubled, duty had enlisted
on the same side as feeling, and the
contest again commenced. Setting in-
clination aside, how dared she break
the solemn compact she had made with
the Duke of Austria? She persisted
in regarding her proposed marriage
with Jagello as nothing short of an act
of criminal infidelity ; and, independ-
ently of the affliction of her heart,
her soul became a prey to the most
violent remorse. To obtain the con-
sent of Duke William to their separa-
tion was of course out of the question ;
and before the puzzled council could
arrive at any decision, JTagello entered
Cracow, more in the style of a con-
queror than a suitor, and repaired at
once to the castle, where he found the
queen surrounded by a court surpass-
ing in beauty and magnificence all that
his imagination had pictured. Pale
as she was from the intensity of her
sufferings, he was dazzled, almost be-
wildered, by the childlike innocence and
winning loveliness of Hedwige ; and
his admiration was expressed the fol-
lowing day by the revenues of a prov-
ince being laid at her feet in the shape
of jewels^and robes of the most costly
description. But the queen was more
obdurate than ever. With her know-
ledge and consent Duke William had
returned to Cracow, though compelled
150
ffedwige, Queen of Poland.
to resort to a variety of disguises to
escape the fury of the barons, now de-
termined to put an end to his preten-
sions and his existence together ; and
it is said that, in order to avoid his in-
defatigable enemy, Dobeslas, he was
once compelled to seek refuge in a
large chimney. Forced eventually to
quit the capital without seeing Hed-
wige, he still loitered in the environs ;
nor did he return to Austria until her
marriage with Jagello terminated those
hopes which he had cherished from
his earliest infancy. In order to quiet
the queen's religious scruples, a letter
is said to have arrived from Rome,
in which, after pronouncing that the
early betrothal involved no impediment
to the marriage, the Holy Father
placed before her the merits of the of-
fering she was called upon to make,
reminding her of the torments so
cheerfully suffered by the early mar-
tyrs for the honor of God, and calling
upon her to imitate their example.
This statement, however, is not suf-
ficiently authenticated.
After the severest interior trials,
days spent in tears, fasting, and the
most earnest petitions to the throne
of Divine grace, the queen received
strength to consummate the sacrifice
demanded from her. Naturally ar-
dent and impulsive, and at an age
when every sentiment is freshest and
most keen, she was called upon to ex-
tirpate from her heart an affection not
only deep but legitimate, to inflict a
wound on the object of her tenderest
love, and, finally, to transfer her devo-
tion to one whom she had hitherto re-
garded with feelings of unqualified
aversion. The path of highest, be-
cause self-sacrificing duty, once clear
before her, she determined to act with
generosity toward a God from whom
she had received so much : her beauty,
talents, the virtues with which she was
adorned, were so many precious gifts
to be placed at the disposal of Mm by
whom -they had been bestowed. Cov-
ering herself with a thick black veil,
she proceeded on foot to the cathedral
of Cracow, and, repairing to one of
the side chapels, threw herself on her
knees, where for three hours, with
clasped hands and streaming eyes, she
wrestled with the violent feeling that
struggled in her bosom. At length
she rose with a detached heart, having
laid at the foot of the cross her affec-
tions, her will, her hopes of earthly
happiness; offering herself, and all
that belonged to her, as a perpetual
holocaust to her crucified Redeemer,
and esteeming herself happy so that
by this sacrifice she might purchase
the salvation of those precious souls
for whom he had shed his blood. Be-
fore leaving the chapel she cast her
veil over the crucifix, hoping under
that pall to bury all of human infirm-
ity that might still linger round her
heart, and then hastened to establish a
foundation for the perpetual renewal of
this type of her " soul's sorrow." This
foundation yet exists : within the same
chapel the crucifix still stands, cov-
ered by its sable drapery, being com-
monly known as the Crucifix of Hed-
wige.
The queen's consent to the Lithua-
nian alliance endeared her still more
to the hearts of her subjects, who re-
garded her as a martyr to the peace '
Poland. On the 14th of Febi
1386, her marriage was celebrs
with becoming solemnity, Jagello hai
ing previously received the sacrament
of baptism ; shortly afterward he was
crowned, in the presence of Hedwige,
under his Christian name of Wladis-
las, which he had taken in deference
to the wishes of the Poles. The un-
assuming piety, gentle disposition, and
great learning of the young queen
commanded at once the respect and
admiration of her husband. So great,
indeed, was his opinion of her pru-
dence, that, being obliged to march
into Upper Poland to crush the rebel-
lion of the Palatine of Posnia, he took
her with him in the capacity of media-
trix between himself and the disaffect-
ed leaders who had for months deso-
lated that province. This mission of
mercy was most acceptable to Hed-
wige ; after the example of the saint-
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
151
ed Elizabeth of Hungary, her gene-
rosity toward the widows, orphans, and
those who had lost their substance
in this devastating war, was boundless ;
whilst ministering to their wants, she
failed not, at the same time, to sympa-
thize with their distress ; and, like an
angel of peace, she would stand be-
tween her husband and the objects of
his indignation. On one occasion, to
supply the necessities of the court, so
heavy a contribution had been laid
upon the peasants that their cattle did
not escape ; watching their opportu-
nity, they, with their wives and chil-
dren, threw themselves in the queen's
path, filling the air with their cries,
and conjuring her to prevent their ut-
ter ruin. Hedwige, deeply affected,
dismounted from her palfrey, and,
kneeling by their side, besought her
husband not to sanction so flagrant an
act of oppression ; and when the satis-
fied peasants retired fully indemnified
for their loss, she is said to have ex-
claimed, "Their cattle are restored,
but who will recompense them for
their tears?" Having reduced the
country to obedience, it was time for
Wladislas to turn his attention to his
Lithuanian territories, more especially
Russia Nigra, which, although gov-
erned by its own princes, was com-
pelled to do homage to the house of
Jagello. Poinerania, which by his
marriage articles he was pledged to
recover for Poland, had been usurp-
ed by the Teutonic Knights, who, sen-
sible with how formidable an opponent
they had to contend, endeavored to
frustrate his intentions, first by carry-
ing fire and sword into Lithuania, and
then by exciting a revolution in favor
of Duke Andrew, to whom, as well as
to the heathen nobles, the alliance (by
which their country was rendered de-
pendent on Poland) was displeasing.
Olgerd, the father of Wladislas, was a
fierce pagan, and his thirteen sons, if
we except the elder, inherited his cru-
elty, treachery, and rapacity. The
promised revolution in religion was
offensive to the majority of the people ;
and, to their shame be it spoken, the
Teutonic Knights (whose order was
first established to defend the Chris-
tian faith against the assaults of. infi-
dels) scrupled not to adopt a crooked
policy, and, by inciting the Lithuan-
ians against their sovereign, threw
every impediment in the way of their
conversion. Before the king had any
suspicion of his intentions, the grand-
master had crossed the frontiers, the
duchy was laid waste, and many im-
portant fortresses were already in the
hands of the order.
Wladislas, then absent in Upper
Poland, despatched Skirgello into
Lithuania, who, though haughty, licen-
tious, and revengeful, was a brave and
skilful general. Duke Andrew fled
before the forces of his brother, and
ttfe latter attacked the Knights with
an impetuosity that compelled them
speedily to evacuate their conquests.
The arrival of the king, with a number
of learned prelates, and a large body
of clergy, proved he was quite in
earnest regarding the conversion of
his subjects, hitherto immersed in the
grossest and most degrading idola-
try. Trees, serpents, vipers, were
the inferior objects of their adoration ;
gloomy forests and damp caverns their
temples ; and the most disgusting and
venomous reptiles were cherished in
every family as household gods. But,
as with the eastern Magi, fire was the
principal object of the Lithuanian wor-
ship ; priests were appointed whose
office it was to tend the sacred flame,
their lives paying the penalty if it
were allowed to expire. At Wilna,
the capital of the duchy, was a temple
of the sun ; and should that luminary
chance to be eclipsed, or even clouded,
the people fled thither in the utmost
terror, eager to appease the deity by
rivers of human blood, which poured
forth at the command of the Ziutz, or
high priest, the victims vieing with
each other in the severity of their self-
inflicted torments.
As the most effectual method of at
once removing the errors of this infat-
uated people, Wladislas ordered the
forests to be cut down, the serpents to
152
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
be crushed under the feet of his sol-
diers, and, after extinguishing with
his own hand the sacred fires, he
caused the temples to be demolished ;
thus demonstrating to the Lithuanians
the impotency of their gods. With
the cowardice ever attendant on ig-
norance and superstition, the pagans
cast themselves with their faces to the
earth, expecting to see the sacrilegious
strangers blasted by the power of the
profaned element ; but, no such results
following, they gradually lost confi-
dence in their deities, and of their own
free will desired to be instructed in the
doctrines of Christ. Their theological
knowledge was necessarily confined to
the Lord's Prayer and the Creed, and
a day was fixed for the commencement
of the ceremony of baptism. As, 6*h
account of the number of catechumens,
it was impossible to administer the sac-
rament to each individual separately,
the nobles and their families, after
leaving the sacred font, prepared to act
as sponsors to the people, who, being
divided into groups of either sex, were
sprinkled by the bishops and priests,
every division receiving the same
name.
Hedwige had accompanied her hus-
band to Lithuania, and was gratified
by witnessing the zeal with which he
assisted the priests in their arduous
undertaking ; whilst Wladislas, aware
of the value of his young auxiliary,
was not disappointed by the degree of
enthusiastic veneration with which the
new Christians regarded the sovereign
who, at the age of sixteen, had con-
ferred upon them peace and the light
of the true faith. Hedwige was admi-
rably adapted for this task: in her
character there was no alloy of pas-
sion, pride, or frivolity ; an enemy to
the luxury and pomp which her sex
and rank might have seemed to war-
rant, her fasts were rigid and her
bodily mortifications severe. Neither
did her fervor abate during her sojourn
in the duchy. By her profuse liber-
ality the cathedral of St. Stanislas of
Wilna was completed. Nor did she
neglect the other churches and reli-
gious foundations which, by her advice,
her husband commenced in the prin-
cipal cities of his kingdom. Before
quitting Lithuania, the queen's heart
was wrung by the intelligence she re-
ceived of a domestic tragedy of the
deepest dye. Her mother, the holy
and virtuous Elizabeth of Hungary,
had during a popular insurrection
been put to a cruel death ; whilst
her sister Maria, who had fallen into
the power of the rebel nobles, having
narrowly escaped the same fate, was
confined in an isolated fortress, subject
to the most rigorous and ignominious
treatment.
Paganism being at length thor-
oughly rooted out of Lithuania, a bish-
opric firmly established at Wilna, and
the seven parishes in its vicinity amply
supplied with ecclesiastics, Wladislas,
preparatory to his return to Poland,
appointed his brother Skirgello viceroy
of the duchy. This was a fatal error.
The proud barbarians, little disposed
to dependence on a country they had
been accustomed to despoil at pleas-
ure, writhed under the yoke of the
fierce tyrant, whose rule soon became
odious, and whose vices were rendered
more apparent by the contrast which
his character presented to that of his
cousin Vitowda, whom, as a checl
upon his well-known ferocity, Wlad-
islas had designated as his colleague.
Scarcely had the court returned to
Poland, when the young prince, ami-
able, brave, and generous, by oppos-
ing his cousin's unjust and cruel ac-
tions, drew upon himself the vengeance
of the latter, and, in order to save his
life, was obliged to seek refuge in
Pomerania, from whence, as his hon-
or and patriotism alike forbade his
assisting the Teutonic Knights in
their designs upon his country, he
applied to the king for protection.
Wladislas, of a weak and jealous
disposition, was, however, at the time
too much occupied in attending to foul
calumnies uttered against the spotless
virtue of his queen to give heed to
the application. Notwithstanding the
prudence of her general conduct, and
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
153
the tender devotion evinced by Hed-
wige toward her husband, the admi-
ration which her beauty and sweet-
ness of disposition commanded from
all who approached her was a contin-
ual thorn in his side. Her former love
for the Duke of Austria and repug-
nance to himself haunted him night
and day, until he actually conceived
suspicions injurious to her fidelity. In
the polluted atmosphere of a court
there were not wanting those who, for
their own aggrandizement, were base
enough to resort to falsehood in order
to destroy an influence at which the
wicked alone had cause to tremble.
It was whispered in the ear of the un-
fortunate monarch that his queen had
held frequent, and of course clandes-
tine, interviews with Duke William,
until, half frantic, he one day publicly
reproached her, and, turning to the
assembled bishops, wildly demanded a
divorce. The proud nobles indignant-
ly interposed, many a blade rattled in
its sheath, eager to vindicate the inno-
cence of one who, in their eyes, was
purity itself; but Hedwige calmly
arose, and with matronly dignity de-
manded the name of her accuser, and
a solemn trial, according to the custom
of her country. There was a dead
silence, a pause ; and then, trembling
and abashed before the virtue he had
maligned, the Vice-chamberlain Gnie-
wosz, before mentioned as the friend
of Duke William (whose wealth he
had not failed to appropriate), stepped
reluctantly forward. A murmur of
surprise and wrath resounded through
the council-chamber: many a sword
was drawn, as though eager for the
blood of the offender ; but the eccle-
siastics having at length calmed the
tumult, the case was appointed to be
judged at the diet of Wislica.
The queen's innocence was affirmed
on oath by herself and her whole
household, after which the castellain,
John Tenczynski, with twelve knights
of noble blood and unsullied honor,
solemnly swore to the falsehood of the
accusation, and, throwing down their
gauntlets, defied to mortal combat all
who should gainsay their assertion.
None, however, appeared to do battle
in so bad a cause ; and the convicted
traitor, silenced and confounded, sank
on his knees, confessed his guilt, and
implored the mercy of her he had so
foully aspersed. The senate, in def-
erence to the wishes of Hedwige,
spared his life ; but he was compelled
to crouch under a bench, imitate the
barking of a dog, and declare that,
like that animal, he had dared to snarl
against his chaste and virtuous sover-
eign.* This done, he was deprived of
his ofnce, and banished the crfurt ; and
Wladislas hastened to beg the forgive-
ness of his injured wife.
Meanwhile Prince Vitowda, despair-
ing of assistance and pressed on all
sides, after much hesitation joined the
Teutonic Knights in an incursion
against Lithuania. The country was
invaded by a numerous army, the
capital taken by storm, abandoned to
pillage, and finally destroyed by fire ;
no less than fourteen thousand of the
inhabitants perishing in the flames,
beside numbers who were massacred
without distinction of sex or age.
Fortunately the upper city was gar-
risoned by Poles, who determined to
hold out to the last. The slight forti-
fications were speedily destroyed ; but,
being immediately repaired, the siege
continued so long that Skirgello had
time to assemble an army before
which the besiegers were eventually
obliged to retreat. Vitowda, now too
deeply compromised to draw back,
though thwarted in his designs on Up-
per Wilna, gained possession of many
of the frontier towns, and, encouraged
by success, aimed at nothing less than
the independent sovereignty of Lithu-
ania. He was, however, opposed dur-
* This was a portion of the punishment special-
ly awarded by the penal code of Poland to the
crime of calumny. Like many other punishments
of those ages, it was symbolical in its character.
(See the valuable work of Albert du Boys, His-
toire du Drolt Criminel des Peuples Modernes, liv. ii. ;
chap. vii. ) Similar penalties had been common in
Poland from early times. Thus we find Boloslas
the Great inviting to a banquet and vapor bath no-
bles who had been guilty of some transgression ;
after the bath he administered a paternal reproof
and castigation. Hence the Polish proverb, "to
give a person a bath."
154
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
ing two or three campaigns by Wlad-
islas in person, until, wearied of the
war, the king had the weakness not
only to sue for peace, but to invest
Vitowda with the government of the
duchy. This, as might be expected,
gave great umbrage to Skirgello, and
to another brother, Swidrigal, so that
Lithuania, owing to the ambition of
the rival princes, became for some
time the theatre of civil discord.
Among her other titles to admira-
tion, we must not omit to mention that
Hedwige was a munificent patroness
of learning. She hastened to re-estab-
lish the college built by Casimir II.,
founded and endowed a magnificent
university at Prague for the education
of the Lithuanian youth, and super-
intended the translation of the Holy
Scriptures into Polish, writing with
her own hands the greater part of the
New Testament. Her work was in-
terrupted during her husband's ab-
sence by the attack of the Hungarians
on the frontiers of Poland ; and it was
then that, laying aside the weakness
of her sex, she felt herself called upon
to supply his place. A powerful army
was levied, of which this youthful
heroine assumed the command, direct-
ing the councils of the generals, and
sharing the privations of the meanest
soldier. When she appeared on horse-
back in the midst of the troops, nothing
could exceed the enthusiasm of these
hardy warriors; and the simplicity
with which they obeyed the slightest
order of their queen was touching in
the extreme. Hedwige led her forces
into Russia Nigra, and, partly by force
of arms, partly by skilful negotiations,
succeeded in reconquering the whole
of that vast province, which her father
Lewis had detached from the Polish
crown in order to unite it to that of
his beloved Hungary. This act of in-
justice was repaired by his daughter,
who thus endeared her name to the
memory of succeeding generations.
The conquering army proceeded to
Silesia, then usurped by the Duke of
Oppelen, where they were equally suc-
cessful; so that Wladislas was in-
debted for the brightest trophies of his
reign to the heroism of his wife
Encouraged by her past success,
he determined to reconduct her into
Lithuania, in hopes by her means to
settle the dissensions of the rival
princes. Accordingly, in the spring
of 1393, they proceeded thither, when
the disputants, subdued by the irresisti-
ble charm of her manners, agreed to
refer their claims to her arbitration.
Of a solid and mature judgment, Hed-
wige succeeded in pacifying them ; and
then, by mutual consent, they entered
into a solemn compact that in their
future differences, instead of resorting
to arms, they would submit their cause
unreservedly to the arbitration of the
young Queen of Poland.
Notwithstanding its restoration to
internal tranquillity, this unfortunate
duchy was continually laid waste by
the Teutonic Knights ; and Wladislas,
determined to hazard all on one de-
cisive battle, commanded forces to be
levied not only in Lithuania, but in
Poland. Before the preparations were
completed, an interview was arranged
to take place between the king and
the grand-master, Conrad de Jungen
but the nobility, fearing lest the irrita-
ble temper of Wladislas would prove
an insurmountable obstacle to all
commodation, implored him to allo^
the queen to supply his place. On his
consent, Hedwige, accompanied by the
ecclesiastics, the barons, and a mag-
nificent retinue, proceeded to the place
of rendezvous, where she was met by
Conrad and the principal knight-com-
manders of the order. The terms
she proposed were equitable, and more
lenient than the Teutonic Knights had
any reason to expect ; but, under one
trifling pretext or another, they refused
the restitution of the usurped territo-
ries on which the king naturally in-
sisted, and the queen was at length
obliged to return, prophesying, says
the chronicler, that, after her death,
their perversity would receive its de-
served punishment at the hands of her
husband. Her prediction was fulfilled.
Some years afterward, on the plains
between Grurmervaldt and Tannen-
berg, the grand-master, with fifty thou-
sand knights, was slain, and by this
decisive victory the order was placed
at the mercy of Poland, though, from
the usual indecision of its king, the
fruits of this splendid action were less
than might have been expected.
Until her early death, Hedwige con-
tinued the guardian angel of that be-
loved country for which she had made
her first and greatest sacrifice ; and it
is likely that but for her watchfulness,
its interests would have been frequent-
ly compromised by the Lithuanian
union. Acting on this principle, she
refused to recognize the investiture of
her husband's favorite, the Palatine of
Cracow, with the perpetual fief of
Podolia; and, undazzled by the appa-
rent advantages offered by an expe-
dition against the Tartars headed by
the great Tamerlane, she forbade the
Polish generals to take part in a cam-
paign which, owing to the rashness of
Vitowda, terminated so fatally.
It was shortly after her unsuccess-
ful interview with the Teutonic Knights
that, by the death of her sister Maria,
the crown of Hungary (which ought
to have devolved on her husband Sig-
ismund) became again an object of
contention. The Hungarians, attract-
ed by the report of her moderation,
wisdom, and even military skill not an
uncommon accomplishment in females
of those times determined to offer it
ro Hedwige ; but her brother-in-law,
trusting to her sense of justice, hast-
ened to Cracow, praying her not to ac-
cept the proposal, and earnestly solicit-
ing her alliance. The queen, whom
ambition had no power to dazzle, con-
sented, and a treaty advantageous to
Poland was at once concluded.
Hedwige was a good theologian, and
well read in the fathers and doctors of
the Church ; the works of St. Bernard
and St. Ambrose, the revelations of St.
Bridget, and the sermons of holy men,
being the works in which she most de-
lighted. In Church music she was an
enthusiast ; and not long after the
completion of the convent of the Vis-
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
155
itation, which she had caused to be
erected near the gates of Cracow, she
founded the Benedictine abbey of the
Holy Cross, where office was daily
recited in the Sclavonian language,
after the custom of the order at
Prague. She also instituted a college
in honor of the Blessed Virgin,
where the Psalms were daily chant-
ed, after an improved method, by six-
teen canons.
It was toward the close of the year
1398 that, to the great delight of her
subjects, it became evident that the
union of Wladislas and Hedwige would
at length be blessed with offspring. To
see the throne filled by a descendant
of their beloved sovereign had been
the dearest wish of the Polish people,
and fervent had been the prayers of-
fered for this inestimable blessing.
The enraptured Wladislas hastened to
impart his expected happiness to most
of the Christian kings and princes, not
forgetting the Supreme Pontiff, Boni-
face IX., by whom the merits of the
young queen were so well appreciated
that, six years after her accession, he
had addressed to her a letter, written
with his own hand, in which he thanked
her for her affectionate devotion to the
Catholic Church, and informed her
that, although it was impossible he
could accede to all the applications
which might be transmitted to the Holy
See on behalf of her subjects, yet, by
her adopting a confidential sign-man-
ual, those requests to which she indi-
vidually attached importance should
be immediately granted. The Holy
Father hastened to reply in the warm-
est terms to the king's communication,
promising to act as sponsor to the
child, who, if a boy, he desired might
be named after himself.
Unfortunately, some tune before the
queen's delivery, it became necessary
for her husband to quit Cracow, in
order to direct an expedition against
his old enemies the Teutonic Knights.
During his absence, he wrote a long
letter, in which, after desiring that the
happy event might be attended with
all possible magnificence, he entered
156
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
into a minute detail of the devices and
embroidery to be used in the adorn-
ment of the bed and chamber, particu-
larly requesting that the draperies and
hangings might not lack gold, pearls,
or precious stones. This ostentatious
display, though excusable in a fond
husband and a powerful monarch about
to behold the completion of his dearest
wishes, was by no means in^consonance
with Hedwige's intense love of Chris-
tian simplicity and poverty. We find
her addressing to her husband these
few touching words, expressing, as the
result proved, that presentiment of her
approaching end which has often been
accorded to saintly souls : " Seeing that
I have so long renounced the pomps
of this world, it is not on that treach-
erous couch to so many the bed of
death that I would willingly be sur-
rounded by their glitter. It is not by
the help of gold or gems that I hope
to render myself acceptable to that Al-
mighty Father who has mercifully re-
moved from me the reproach of bar-
renness, but rather by resignation to
his will, and a sense of my own noth-
ingness." It was remarked after this
that the queen became more recollect-
ed than ever, spending whole hours in
meditation, bestowing large alms, not
only on the distressed of her own
country, but on such pilgrims as pre-
sented themselves, and increasing her
exterior mortifications ; wearing a hair
shirt during Lent, and using the disci-
pline in a manner which, considering
her condition, might have been deemed
injudicious. She had ever made a
point of spending the vigil of the anni-
versary of her early sacrifice at the
foot of the veiled crucifix, but on this
occasion, not returning at her usual
hour, one of her Hungarian attendants
sought her in the cathedral, then but
dimly lighted by the massy silver lamp
suspended before the tabernacle. It
was bitterly cold, the wind was moan-
ing through the long aisles, but there,
on the marble pavement, in an ecsta-
cy which rendered her insensible to
bodily sufferings, lay Hedwige, she
having continued in this state of ab-
straction from the termination of
complin, at which she invariably
assisted.
At length, on the 12th of June, 1399,
this holy queen gave birth to a daugh-
ter, who was immediately 'baptized in
the cathedral of Cracow, receiving
from the Pope's legate, at the sacred
font, the name of Elizabeth Bonifacia.
The babe was weak and sickly, and
the condition of the mother so precari-
ous that a messenger was despatched
to the army urging the immediate re-
turn of Wladislas. IJe arrived in time
to witness the last sigh of his so ar-
dently desired child, though his disap-
pointment was completely merged in
his anxiety for his wife. By the ad-
vice of the physicians it had been de-
termined to conceal the death of the
infant, but their precautions were vain.
At the very moment it occurred, Hed-
wige herself announced it to her as-
tonished attendants, and then humbly
asked for the last sacraments of the
Church, which she received with the
greatest fervor. She, however, lin-
gered until the 17th of July, when, the
measure of her merits and good works
being full, she went to appear before
the tribunal of that God whom she had
sought to glorify on earth. She died
before completing her twenty-ninth
year.
A few days previously she had taken
a tender leave of her distracted hus-
band; and, mindful to the last of the
interests of Poland, she begged him to
espouse her cousin Anne, by whose
claim to the throne of the Piasts his
own would be strengthened. She then
drew off her nuptial ring, as if to de-
tach herself from all human ties, and
placed it upon his finger, and although,
from motives of policy, Wladislas suc-
cessively espoused three wives, he
religiously preserved this memorial
of her he had valued the most ; be-
queathing it as a precious relic (and a
memento to be faithful to the land
which Hedwige had so truly loved) to
the Bishop of Cracow, who had saved
his life in battle. Immediately after
t her funeral, he retired to his Russian
Hedwige, Queen of Poland.
157
province, nor could he for some time
be prevailed upon to return and as-
sume the duties of sovereignty.
There was another mourner for her
loss, William of Austria, who, not-
withstanding the entreaties of his
subjects, had remained single for her
sake. He was at length prevailed
upon to espouse the Princess Jane of
Naples, but did not long survive the
union.
The obsequies of Hedwige were
celebrated by the Pope's legate with
becoming magnificence. All that
honor and respect from which she
had sensitively shrunk during life was
lavished on her remains; she was
interred in the cathedral of Cracow
on the left of the high altar; her
memory was embalmed by her people's
love, and was sanctified in their eyes.
Numerous miracles are said to have
been performed at her tomb : thither
the afflicted in mind and body flocked
to obtain through her intercession that
consolation which during her life she
had so cheerfully bestowed. Contrary to
the general expectation, she was never
canonized ;* her name, however, con-
tinued to be fondly cherished by the
Poles, and by the people who under
God were indebted to her for their
first knowledge of Christianity, and of
whom she might justly be styled the
apostle. On her monument was
graven a Latin inscription styling her
the " Star of Poland," enumerating
her virtues, lamenting her loss, and
imploring the King of Glory to receive
her into his heavenly kingdom.
The life of Hedwige is her best
eulogium. As it has been seqn, she
combined all the qualities not only of
her own, but of a more advanced age.
The leisure which she could snatch
from the au#irs of government she
employed in study, devotion, and works
of charity. True to her principles,
she at her death bequeathed her jew-
els and other personal property in
trust to the bishop and castellain of
* Polish writers give her the title of saint, though
her name is not inserted in the Martyrologies.
Butler's Lives of the Saints, October 1 7th.
Cracow, for the foundation of a col-
lege in that city. Two years after-
ward her wishes were carried into
effect, and the first stone was laid of
the since celebrated university.
Wladislas survived his wife thirty-
five years. In his old age he was
troubled by a return of his former
jealousy, thereby continually embit-
tering the life of his queen, a Lithuan-
ian princess, who, although exculpat-
ed by oath, as Hedwige had formerly
been, was less fortunate, inasmuch as
she was the continual victim of fresh
suspicions. The latter years of his.
reign were much disturbed by the hos-
tilities of the Emperor Sigismund, and
by the troubles occasioned in Lithu-
ania by the rebels, who had again
combined with the Teutonic Knights.
Wladislas died in 1434, at the age
of eighty years. It is said that he
contracted his mortal sickness by be-
ing tempted to remain exposed too
long to the night air, captivated by
the sweet notes of a nightingale. Not-
withstanding his faults, this monarch
had many virtues ; his piety was great,
and he practised severe abstinences ;
and although he at times gave way to
a suspicious temper, his general char-
acter was trusting, frank, and generous
even to imprudence. His suspicions,
in fact, did not originate with himself.
They sprang, in the case of both his
wives, from the tongues of calumnia-
tors, to whom he listened with a hasty
credulity. He raised the glory and
extended and consolidated the domin-
ion of Poland. He was succeeded by
his son, a child of eleven years, who
had previously been, elected to the
throne, but not until Jagello had con-
firmed and even enlarged the privileges
of the nobles. His tardy consent, at
the diet of Jedlin, roused their pride,
so that it was not until four years later
that they solemnly gave their adhe-
sion.
It has not been our purpose to give
more than a page out of the Polish
annals illustrative of the patriotic and
Christian spirit of sacrifice for which
Poland's daughters have, down to the
158
Monks among the Mongols.
present day, been no less noted than
her sons. The mind naturally reverts
to the late cruel struggle in which this
generous people has once more succumb-
ed to the overwhelming power of Rus-
sia, and her unscrupulous employment
of the gigantic forces at her command.
Europe has looked on apathetically,
and, after a few feeble diplomatic re-
monstrances, has allowed the sacrifice to
be completed. But the cause of Poland
is essentially the cause of Catholicism
and of the Church ; and this, perhaps,
may account for the small degree of
sympathy it has awakened in Euro-
pean governments. Russia's repres-
sion of her insurgent subjects became
from the first a religious persecution.
Her aim is not to Russify, but to de-
catholicize Poland. The insurrection,
quenched in blood, has been followed
by a wholesale deportation of Poles in-
to the eastern Russian provinces, where,
with their country, it is hoped they
will, ere long, lose also their faith.
These are replaced by Russian colon-
ists transplanted into Poland. To
crush, extirpate, and deport the nobil-
ity to leave the lower class alone
upon the soil, who, deprived of their
clergy martyred, exiled, or in bonds
may become an easy conquest to the
dominant schism such is the plan of
the autocrat, as we have beheld it ac-
tively carried out with all its accom-
panying horrors of sacrilege and ruth-
less barbarity. One voice alone that
of the Father of Christendom has
been raised to stigmatize' these revolt-
ing excesses, and to reprove the ini-
quity of "persecuting Catholicism in
order to put down rebellion."* The
same voice has exhorted us to pray
for our Polish brethren, and has en-
couraged that suffering people to seek
their deliverance from the just and
compassionate Lord of all.
* The terms of the Holy Father's address have
been strangely exaggerated in many continental
journals, where he is made to refer to the subject
politically, and loudly to proclaim the justice of
the Polish insurrection in that regard. The Pope
entirely restricted his animadversions on the Czar-
to his persecution of the faith of his subjects.
From The Lamp,
MONKS AMONG THE MONGOLS,
IN tracing the progress of the various
branches of science during the Middle
Ages, there is nothing more striking
than the slow stages by which a
knowledge of the truth was reached
on the subject of the earth's form, and
the relative positions of the various
countries which compose it. Though
from the very earliest period the sub-
ject necessarily occupied a consider-
able amount of attention, and though
facts began to be observed bearing
upon it in the first ages after the diffu-
sion of mankind, and were largely mul-
tiplied in proportion as the formation
of colonies and intercommunication for
purposes of commerce or war became
more frequent, yet we find very little
advance made in geographical know-
ledge from the days of Ptolemy, when
the observations of the ancients were
most systematically collected and ar-
ranged, till some centuries after, when
the maritime enterprise of the Portu-
guese impelled them to the series of
discoveries which led to the doubling
of the Cape of Good Hope, and in-
cited the genius of Columbus to the
discovery of a new world.
The cause of this slow advance of
geographical, in comparison with other
branches of knowledge, was owing in
some measure to the absence of any
exact records of the discoveries made,
by which they might have been com-
municated to others, and become the
Monks among the Mongols.
159
starting-point for further investiga-
tions ; but still more to the imperfect
means of navigation in existence, and
to those barbarian uprisings and migra-
tions which for centuries, at least, were
perpetually changing the state of Eu-
rope and Asia, and, by removing the
landmarks of nations, obliging geog-
raphy to begin as it were anew.
During the whole of this period, how-
ever, we find evidences of the patient
cultivation of this, as of all other
branches of human knowledge, within
the walls of those monastic institutions
which ignorant prejudice still regards
as the haunts of idleness, but to which
the learned of all creeds and countries
acknowledge their deep debt of obliga-
tion. Formal accounts of some dis-
tant land, either written by the travel-
ler himself or recorded from the oral
information he communicated ; histori-
cal chronicles, in which not alone the
events, but all that was known of the
country is recorded, and maps in which
the position of various places is at-
tempted to be laid down, were to be
found in every monastery both on the
continent and in our own island. The
holy men, too, who preached the gos-
pel to pagan nations were usually care-
M also to enlarge their contempora-
ries' knowledge concerning the places
and the people among whom they la-
bored. Thus the great St. Boniface
not only converted the Sclavonic na-
tions to Catholic truth, but, at the spe-
cial injunction of the Pope, wrote an
account of them and of their country.
St. Otho, bishop of Bamberg, did the
same for the countries upon the shores
of the Baltic ; the holy monk Anscaire
for Scandinavia, where he carried on
his apostolic labors ; and many others
might be mentioned.
Among the most valuable of the
contributions to the geography of the
ilization, and whose enterprises, em-
barked in at the call of duty, are in
many respects interesting.
History, whether ancient or modern,
has few chapters so remarkable as
that which records the rise of the
Mongol power. A great chief, who
had ruled over an immense horde of
this hitherto pastoral people, died, leav-
ing his eldest son an infant, and unable
to command the adhesion of his rude
subjects. The young chief, as he
grew to man's estate, found his horde
dispersed, and only a few families will-
ing to acknowledge his sway. Deter-
mined, however, to regain his power
and carry out the ambitious design
which he had formed of conquering
the world, he caused an assembly of
the whole people to be summoned on
the banks of the Selinga. At this as-
sembly one of the wise men of the
tribes announced that he had had a vis-
ion, in which he saw the great God, the
disposer of kingdoms, sitting upon his
throne in council, and heard him decree
that the young chief should be " Zingis
Khan," or " Greatest Chief" of the
earth. The shouts of the Mongols
testified their readiness to accept the
decree ; Zingis Khan was raised to
supreme power over the whole Mongol
race. He soon subdued the petty op-
position of his neighbors, and, establish-
ing the seat of his empire at Karako-
rum, spread his conquests in every
direction with extraordinary rapidity,
and died the ruler of many nations,
bequeathing his power to sons and
grandsons as warlike and ambitious
as himself. One of these, Batoo Khan,
invaded Europe with an immense
army. He overran Russia, taking
Moscow and its other principal places ;
subdued Poland and burnt Cracow;
defeated the king of Hungary in a
great battle; penetrated to Breslau,
Middle Ages were those furnished by which he burned ; and defeated, near
some monks of the order of St. Fran-
cis, who in the middle of the thirteenth
century penetrated into the remote
east, on special missions to the bar-
barian hordes that then threatened
the very existence of religion and civ-
Liegnitz, an army composed of Chris-
tian volunteers from all lands; one
of the bloodiest battles ever fought
against the eastern hordes.
It was four years after this great
battle, namely, in 1246, and when all
1GO
Monks among the Mongols.
Europe was trembling at the expec-
tation of another invasion of the
Mongols (who, having devastated the
country with fire and sword, had re-
tired loaded with spoils), that two em-
bassies were despatched by the Pope,
Innocent IV., to endeavor to induce
them to stop their progress into Eu-
rope, and to embrace Christianity.
These important missions were in-
trusted to monks of the Franciscan
order; Jean du Plan Carpini being
despatched toward the north-east,
where the camp of Batoo was fixed,
and Nicholas Ascelin, the year after,
sent into Syria and Persia.
Ascelin's mission, which comprised
three other monks of the same order
beside himself, was the most rapidly
terminated. Following the south of
the Caspian Sea, the party traversed
Syria, Mesopotamia, and Persia, and
at length reached the Mongol or Tatar
encampment of Baiothnoy Khan. Be-
ing asked their object as they ap-
proached, the holy men boldly but
undiplomatically declared that they
were ambassadors from the head of the
Christian world, and that their mission
was to exhort the Tatars to repent of
their wicked and barbarous attacks
upon God's people. Being asked what
presents they brought to the khan, ac-
cording to eastern custom, they further
replied that the Pope, as the vicar of
God, was not accustomed to purchase
a hearing or favor by such means,
especially from infidels. The Mongols
were astonished at this bold language
used toward a race accustomed to
strike terror into all who came into
contact with them. They were still
more astonished when the holy men
refused, as a reprehensible act of idol-
atry, to make the usual genuflexions
on being admitted to the presence of
the khan, unless he first became a
Catholic and acknowledged the Pope's
supremacy, when they offered to do so
for the honor of God and the Church.
Hitherto the barbarians had borne pa-
tiently the display of what they doubt-
less regarded as the idiosyncrasies of
the good friars, but this last refusal in-
cited their rage ; the ambassadors and
their master the Pope were insulted
and threatened, and it was debated in
council whether they should not be
flayed alive, their skins stuffed with
hay, and sent back to the Pope. The
interposition of the khan's mother
saved their lives, however ; but the
Mongols could never understand how
the Holy Father, who they found from
Ascelin kept no army and had gained
no battles, could have dared to send
such a message to their victorious mas-
ter, whom they styled the Son of
Heaven. Ascelin and his companions
were treated during their stay with
scant courtesy, and were dismissed
with a letter to the Pope from Baioth-
noy Khan, commanding him, if he
wished to remain in possession of his
land and heritage, to come in his own
person and do homage to him who held
just sway over the whole earth. They
reached as speedily as possible the
nearest Syrian port, and embarked for
France. They brought back to EU-:
rope some valuable information re-
specting the country of the Mongols,
though small Compared with that of
the other ambassadors whom we hav<
to mention.
Carpini was a ma.n better fitted
the office of ambassador, and abl
without sacrificing his principles or
dignity, to become " all things to
men." He travelled with a nume
suite through Bohemia and Poland to
Kiow, then the Russian capital. A
quantity of skins and furs was given
him in the northern capitals, as pres-
ents to the Tatar chiefs, and all Eu-
rope watched with interest the result
of the embassy. On the banks of the
Dnieper they first encountered the
barbarians. The purpose of their
journey being demanded, they replied
that they were messengers from the
Pope to the chief of the Tatar people,
to desire peace and friendship between
them, and request that they would em-
brace the faith of Christ, and desist
from the slaughter of the Pope's sub-
jects, who had never injured or at-
tempted to injure them. Their bear-
Monks among the Mongols.
161
ing made a very favorable impression.
They were conducted to the tent of
the chief, where they did not hesitate
to make the usual salutations ; and by
his command post-horses and a Mon-
gol escort were given them to conduct
them to Batoo Khan. They found
him at a place on the borders of the
Black Sea ; and, before being admitted
to an audience, had to pass between
two fires, as a charm to nullify any
witchcraft or evil intention on their
parts. They found Batoo seated on
a raised throne with one of his wives,
and surrounded by his court. They
again made the usual genuflexions,
and then delivered their letters, which
Batoo Khan read attentively, but with-
out giving them any reply. For some
months they were " trotted about," with
a view to show them the wealth, pow-
er, and magnificence of the people
they were among ; and in order that
they might communicate at home what
they saw. The holy men passed Lent
' among the Mongols ; and, notwith-
standing the fatigues they had passed
through, observed a strict fast, taking,
as their only food for the forty days,
millet boiled in water, and drinking
only melted snow. They witnessed
the imposing ceremony of the investi-
ture of a Tatar chief, at which a large
number of feudatory princes were pres-
ent, with no less than four thousand
messengers bearing tribute or presents
from subdued or submitted states. Af-
ter the investiture, they also were ush-
ered into the presence ; but, alas, the
gifts intrusted to them and their whole
substance were already consumed. The
Tatars, however, considerately 'dis-
pensed with this usual part of the pro-
ceedings ; for the coarse garb of the
monks, contrasting as it did with the
rich silks and garments of gold and
silver which they describe as being
worn generally during the ceremonies,
must have marked them as men who
possessed little of tin's world's goods.
The ceremonials of investiture over,
Carpini was at length called upon to
deliver his message to the newly-
appointed khan ; and a reply was given,
11
which he was desired to translate into
Latin, and convey to the Pope. It
contained only meaningless expressions
of good-will ; but the fact was, that
the khan intended to carry the war into
Europe, though he did not desire to
give notice of his intent. He offered
to send with them an ambassador to
the Pope ; but Carpini seems to have
surmised his purpose, and that this
ambassador would really be only a
spy ; and he therefore found means to
evade the offer. They returned home-
ward through the rigors of a Siberian
whiter, accompanied by several Gen-
oese, Pisan, and Venetian traders, who,
following the papal envoys, had found
their way, in pursuit of commerce, to
the Tatar encampment. The hard-
ships the good men endured on the
return journey were of tho most fear-
ful kind. Often, in crossing the exten-
sive steppes of that country, they were
forced to sleep all night upon the
snow, and found themselves almost
buried in snow-drifts in 'the morning.
Kiow was at length reached ; and its
people, who had given up the adven-
turous travellers as lost, turned out to
welcome them, as men returned from
the grave. The rest of Carpini's life
was spent in similar hardships, while
preaching the gospel to the savage peo-
ples of Bohemia, Hungary, Denmark,
and Norway ; and death came to him
with his reward, at an advanced age,
in the midst of his apostolic labors.
A few years after the missions of
Ascelin and Carpini, another Francis-
can, named William Van Ruysbroeck,
better known as Rubriquis, a native of
Brabant, was sent by Saint Louis of
France on a similar errand to the Mon-
gols, one of whose khans, it was report-
ed, had embraced Christianity. He
found the rumor void of foundation ;
and, though received courteously, as
Carpini had been, could perceive not
the slightest disposition among the bar-
barians to receive or even hear the
truth. At the camp of Sartach Khan,
Rubriquis was commanded to .appear
before the chief in his priestly vest-
ments, and did so, carrying a missal
162
Monks among the Mongols.
and crucifix in his hands, an attendant
preceding him with a censer, and sing-
ing the Salve Regina. Everything
he had with him was examined very
attentively by the khan and his wives,
especially the crucifix ; but nothing
came of this curiosity. Like Carpini,
the party were frequently exposed to
great privations, both at the encamp-
ments and on their journeys ; and on
one occasion Rubriquis piously re-
cords : " If it had not been for the
grace of God, and the biscuit which
we had brought with us, we had
surely perished." On one journey
from camp to camp, they travelled
for five weeks along the banks of
the Volga, nearly always on foot,
and often without food. Rubriquis*
companion Barthelemi broke down un-
der the fatigues of the return journey ;
but Rubriquis persevered alone, and
traversed an immense extent of coun-
try, passing through the Caucasus,
Armenia, and Syria, before he took
ship for France, to report the failure
of his mission to the pious king.
Bootless as these journeys proved,
so far as their main object was con-
cerned, there is no doubt that in many
ways they effected a large amount of
good. The religious creed of the
Mongols appears to have been confined
to a belief in one God, and in a place
of future rewards and punishments.
For other doctrines, or for ceremonies
of religion, they appear to have
cared little. They trampled the Ca-
liph of Bagdad, the " successor of the
Prophet," beneath their horses' hoofs
at the capture of that city ; and they
tolerated at their camps our Christian
monks, as well as a number of profes-
sors of the Nestorian heresy. It was
only on becoming Mohammedans that
they, and the kindred but rival race of
Ottomans, became intolerant. But it
is to be observed that Islamism, which
allowed polygamy, and avoided inter-
ference with their other national habits
and customs, would be likely to at-
tract them, in consequence of their re-
ligious indifference, as naturally as
Christianity, which sought to impose
restraints upon their ferocity and sen-
sualism, would repel them. It is no
wonder, therefore, that the efforts of
the zealous Franciscans were unsuc-
cessful. But their zeal and disinter-
estedness, their irreproachable lives
and simple manners, were not without
producing an effect upon the savage
men with whom their embassies brought
them into contact ; and by their inter-
course, and that mercantile communi-
cation for which their travels pioneered
the way, the conduct of the Mongols
toward the Christian races was sensi-
bly affected beneficially, while on the
other side they taught Europe to re-
gard the Mongols as a people to be
feared indeed, and guarded against,
but not as the demons incarnate they
had been pictured by the popular ii
agination. The benefit these devc
monks conferred upon the progress
science and civilization is scarcely
be over-estimated; as not only die
they acquaint Europe with a numl
of minute, and in the main accurate,
details respecting a vast tract of coun-
try previously unknown, and the peo-
ples by whom it was inhabited, but
they opened up new realms to com-
merce, in the exploring of which Marco
Polo, Clavijo, and subsequent travel-
lers, pushed onward to China, Japan,
and India, and prepared the way for
the great maritime discoveries of the
succeeding century.
Constance Sherwood.
163
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLEKTON.
CHAPTER III.
As I entered the library, which my
father used for purposes of business
as well as of study, I saw a gentleman
who had often been at our house before,
and whom I knew to be a priest, though
he was dressed as a working-man of
the better sort and had on a riding
coat of coarse materials. He beck-
oned me to him, and I, kneeling, re-
ceived his blessing.
"What, up yet, little one ?" he said ;
" and yet thou must bestir thyself be-
times to-morrow for prayers. These
are not days in which priests may
play the sluggard and be found abed
when the sun rises."
" At what hour must you be on foot,
reverend father?" my mother asked,
as sitting down at a table by his side
she filled his plate with whatever might
tempt him to eat, the which he seemed
little inclined to.
" Before dawn, good Mrs. Sherwood,"
he answered ; " and across the fields
into the forest before ever the laboring
men are astir ; and you know best when
that is."
"An if it be so, which I fear it
must," my father said, "we must e'en
have the chapel ready by two o'clock.
And, goodwife, you should presently
get that wench to bed."
"Nay, good mother," I cried, and
threw my arms round her waist,
" prithee let me sit up to-night ; I can lie
abed all to-morrow." So wistfully and
urgently did I plead, that she, who had
grown of late somewhat loth to deny
any request of mine, yielded to my en-
treaties, and only willed that I should
lie down on a settle betwixt her chair
and the chimney, in which a fagot was
blazing, though it was summer-tune,
but the weather was chilly. I gazed
by turns on my mother's pale face and
my father's, which was thoughtful, and
on the good priest's, who was in an
easy-chair, wherein they had compelled
him to sit, opposite to me on the other
side of the chimney. He looked, as I
remember him then, as if in body and
in mind he had suffered more than
he could almost bear.
After some discourse had been min-
istered betwixt him and my father of
the journey he had been taking, and
the friends he had seen since last he
had visited our house, my mother said,
in a tremulous voice, " And now, good
Mr. Mush, an if it would not pain you
too sorely, tell us if it be true that your
dear daughter in Christ, Mrs. Clithe-
row, has indeed won the martyr's
crown, as some letters from York re-
ported to us a short time back ?"
Upon this Mr. Mush raised his head,
which had sunk on his breast, and said,
" She that was my spiritual daughter
in times past, and now, as I humbly
hope, my glorious mother in heaven,
the gracious martyr Mrs. Clitherow,
has overcome all her enemies, and
passed from this mortal life with rare
and marvellous triumph into the peace-
able city of God, there to receive a
worthy crown of endless immortality
and joy." His eye, that had been be-
fore heavy and dim, now shone with
sudden light, and it seemed as if the
cord about his heart was loosed, and
his spirit found vent at last in words
after a long and painful silence. More
eloquent still was his countenance than
his words as he exclaimed, " Torments
overcame her not, nor the sweetness of
life, nor her vehement affection for hus-
164
Constance Sherwood.
band and children, nor the flattering
allurements #nd deceitful promises of
the persecutors. Finally, the world,
the flesh, and the devil overcame her
not. She, a woman, with invincible
courage entered combat against them
all, to defend the ancient faith, wherein
both she and her enemies were bap-
tized and gave their promise to God to
keep the same until death. O sacred
martyr !" and, with clasped hands and
streaming eyes, the good father went
on, "remember me, I beseech thee
humbly, in thy perfect charity, whom
thou hast left miserable behind thee,
in time past thy unworthy father and
now most unworthy servant, made ever
joyful by thy virtuous life, and now
lamenting thy death and thy absence,
and yet rejoicing in thy glory."
A sob burst from my mother's breast,
and she hid her face against my father's
shoulder. There was a brief silence,
during which many quickly - rising
thoughts passed through my mind. Of
Daniel in the lions' den, and the Mach-
abees and the early Christians ; and of
the great store of blood which had been
shed of late in this our country, and of
which amongst the slain were truly mar-
tyrs, and which were not ; of the vision
in the sky which had been seen at Lich-
field ; and chiefly of that blessed wo-
man Mrs. Clitherow, whose virtue and
good works I had often before heard of,
such as serving the poor and harbor-
ing priests, and loving God's Church
with a wonderful affection greater than
can be thought of. Then I heard my
father say, "How was it at the last,
good Mr. Mush ?" I oped my eyes,
and hung on the lips of the good priest
even as if to devour his words as he
gave utterance to them.
" She refused to be tried by the
country," he answered, in a tremulous
voice ; " and so they murthered her."
" How so ?" my mother asked, shad-
ing her eyes with her hand, as if to
exclude the mental sight of that which
she yet sought to know.
" They pressed her to death," he
slowly uttered ; " and the last words
she was heard to say were ' Jesu, Jesu,
Jesu ! have mercy on me !' She was
in dying about a quarter of an hour,
and then her blessed spirit was re-
leased and took its flight to heaven.
May we die the death of the right-
eous, and may our last end be like
hers I"
Again my mother hid her face in my
father's bosom, and methought she said
not " Amen" to that prayer ; but turn-
ing to Mr. Mush with a flushed cheek
and troubled eye, she asked, "And
why did the blessed Mrs. Clitherow
refuse to be tried by the country, rev-
erend father, and thereby subject her-
self to that lingering death ?"
" These were her words when ques-
tioned and urged on that point," he an-
swered, " which sufficiently clear her
from all accusation of obstinacy or
desperation, and combine the rare dis-
cretion and charity which were in her
at all times : ' Alas !' quoth she, ' if I
should have put myself on the country,
evidence must needs have come against
me touching my harboring of priests
and the holy sacrifice of the mass in
my house, which I know none could
give but only my children and ser-
vants ; and it would have been to me
more grievous than a thousand deatl
if I should have seen any of the
brought forth before me, to give
dence against me in so good a cause
and be guilty of my blood ; and, sec-
ondly,' quoth she, ' I know well the
country must needs have found me
guilty to please the council, who so
earnestly seek my blood, and then all
they had been accessory to my death
and damnably offended God. I there-
fore think, in the way of charity, for
my part to hinder the country from
such a sin ; and seeing it must needs
be done, to cause as few to do it as
might be ; and that was the judge him-
self.' So she thought, and thereupon
she acted, with that single view to
God's glory and the good of men's
souls that was ever the passion of her
fervent spirit."
" Her children ?" my mother mur-
mured in a faint voice, still hiding her
face from him. " That little Agnes
Constance Sherwood.
165
you used to tell us of, that was so dear
to her poor mother, how has it fared
with her ?"
Mr. Mush answered, " Her happy
mother sent her hose and shoes to her
daughter at the last, signifying that
she should serve God and follow her
steps of virtue. She was committed
to ward because she would not betray
her mother, and there whipped and
extremely used for that she would not
go to the church and hear a sermon.
When her mother was murthered, the
heretics came to her and said that un-
less she would go to the church, her
mother should be put to death. The
child, thinking to save the life of her
who had given her birth, went to a
sermon, and thus they deceived her."
" God forgive them !" my father
ejaculated ; and I, creeping to my
mother's side, threw my arms about
her neck, upon which she, caressing
me, said :
" Now thou wilt be up to their de-
ceits, Conny, if they should practice
the same arts on thee."
" Mother," I cried, clinging to her,
" I will go with thee to prison and to
death ; but to their church I will not
go who love not our Blessed Lady."
" So help thee God !" my father
cried, and laid his hand on my head.
" Take heart, good Mrs. Sherwood,"
Mr. Mush said to my mother, who was
weeping ; " God may spare you such
trials as those which that sweet saint
rejoiced in, or he can give you a like
strength to hers. We have need in
these times to bear in mind that com-
fortable saying of holy writ, ' As your
day shall your strength be.' "
" 'Tis strange," my father observed,
" how these present troubles seem to
awake the readiness, nay the wish, to
suffer for truth's sake. It is like a
new sense in a soul heretofore but too
prone to eschew suffering of any sort :
'tis even as the keen breezes of our
own Cannock Chase stimulate the frame
to exertions which it would shrink
from in the duller air of the Trent
Valley."
" Ah ! and is it even so with you,
my friend ?" exclaimed Mr. Mush.
" From my heart I rejoice at it : such
thoughts are oftentimes forerunners of
God's call to a soul marked out for
his special service."
My mother, against whom I was
leaning since mention had been made
of Mrs. Clitherow's daughter, began to
tremble ; and rising said she would go
to the chapel to prepare for confession.
Taking me by the hand, she mounted
the stairs to the room which was used
as such since the ancient faith had
been proscribed. One by one that
night we knelt at the feet of the good
shepherd, who, like his Lord, was
ready to lay down his life for his sheep,
and were shriven. Then, at two of
the clock, mass was said, and my pa-
rents and most of our servants re-
ceived, and likewise some neighbors
to whom notice had been sent in se-
cret of Mr. Mush's coming. When
my mother returned from the altar to
her seat, I marvelled at the change in
her countenance. She who had been
so troubled before the coming of the
Heavenly Guest into her breast, wore
now so serene and joyful an aspect,
that the looking upon her at that time
wrought in me a new and comfortable
sense of the greatness of that divine
sacrament. I found not the thought
of death frighten me then ; for albeit
on that night I for the first time fully
arrived at the knowledge of the peril
and jeopardy in which the Catholics of
this land do live ; nevertheless this
knowledge awoke in me more exulta-
tion than fear. I had seen precautions
used, and reserves maintained, of which
I now perceived the cause. For some
time past my parents had prepared the
way for this no-longer-to-be-deferred
enlightenment. The small account
they had taught me to make of the
wealth and comforts of this perishable
world, and the histories they had re-
counted to me of the sufferings of
Christians in the early times of the
Church, had been directed unto this
end. They had, as it were, laid the
wood on the altar of my heart, which
they prayed might one day burn into
166
Constance Sherwood.
a flame. And now when, by reason
of the discourse I had heard touching
Mrs. Clitherow's blessed but painful
end for harboring of priests in her
house, and the presence of one under
our roof, I took heed that the danger
had come nigh unto our own doors, my
heart seemed to beat with a singular
joy. Childhood sets no great store on
life : the passage from this world to
the -next is not terrible to such as have
had no shadows cast on their paths by
their own or others' sins. Heaven is
not a far-off region to the pure in
heart ; but rather a home, where God,
as St. Thomas sings,
"Vitam sine termino
Nobis donet in patria."
But, ah me! how transient are
the lights and shades which flit across
the childish mind ! and how mutable
the temper of youth, never long im-
pressed by any event, however grave !
Not many days after Mr. Mush's visit
to our house, another letter from the
Countess of Surrey came into my
hand, and drove from my thoughts for
the time all but the matters therein
disclosed.
" SWEET MISTRESS CONSTANCE"
(my lady wrote), "In my last letter
I made mention, in an obscure fashion,
of a secret which my lord had told
me touching a matter of great weight
which Higford, his grace's steward,
had let out to him ; and now that the
whole world is speaking of what was
then in hand, and that troubles have
come of it, I must needs relieve my
mind by writing thereof to her who is
the best friend I have in the world, if
I may judge by the virtuous counsel
and loving words her letters do con-
tain. 'Tis like you have heard some-
what of that same matter, Mistress
Constance; for much talk has been
ministered anent it since I wrote,
amongst people of all sorts, and with
various intents to the hindering or the
promoting thereof. I mean touching
the marriage of his grace the Duke of
Norfolk with the Queen of Scots,
which is much desired by some, and
very little wished for by others. My
lord, as is reasonable in one of his
years and of so noble a spirit, and his
sister, who is in all things the counter-
part of her brother, have set their
hearts thereon since the first inkling
they had of it ; for this queen had so
noted a fame for her excellent beauty
and sweet disposition that it has
wrought in them an extraordinary
passionate desire to title her mother,
and to see their father so nobly mated,
though not more than he deserves ;
for, as my lord says, his grace's estate
in England is worth little less than the
whole realm of Scotland, in the ill
state to which the wars have reduced
it ; and when he is in his own tennis-
court at Norwich, he thinks himself as
great as a king.
" As a good wife, I should wish
as my lord does; and indeed this
marriage, Mistress Constance, would
please me well ; for the Queen of
Scots is Catholic, and methinks if his
grace were to wed her, there might
arise some good out of it to such as
are dependent on his grace touching
matters of religion ; and since Mr.
Martin has gone beyond seas, 'tis very
little I hear in this house but what is
contrary to the teaching I had at my
grandmother's. My lord saith this
queen's troubles will be ended if she
doth marry his grace, for so Higford
has told him ; but when I spoke there-
of to my Lady Lumley, she prayed
God his grace's might not then begin,
but charged me to be silent thereon
before my Lord Arundel, who has
greatly set his heart on this match.
She said words were in every one's
mouth concerning this marriage which
should never have been spoken of but
amongst a few. * Nan,' quoth she, ' if
Phil and thou do let your children's
tongues wag anent a matter which
may well be one of life and death,
more harm may come of it than can
well be thought of.' So prithee, Mis-
tress Constance, do you be silent as
the grave on what I have herein
written, if so be you have not heard
Constance Sherwood.
167
of it but from me. My lord had a
quarrel with my Lord Essex, who is
about his own age, anent the Queen
of Scots, a few days since, when he
came to spend his birthday with him ;
for my lord was twelve years old last
week, and I gave him a fair jewel to
set in his cap, for a love-token and for
remembrance. My lord said that the
Queen of Scots was a lady of so great
virtue and beauty that none else could
be compared with her; upon which
my lord of Essex cried it was high,
treason to the queen's majesty to
say so, and that if her grace held so
long a time in prison one who was her
near kinswoman, it was by reason of
her having murthered her husband
and fomented rebellion in this king-
dom of England, for the which she
did deserve to be extremely used.
My lord was very wroth at this, and
swore he was no traitor, and that the
Queen of Scots was no murtheress,
and he would lay down his head on
the block rather than suffer any should
style her such ; upon which my lord
of Essex asked, ' Prithee, my Lord
Surrey, were you at Thornham last
week when the queen's majesty was
on a visit to your grandfather, my
Lord Arundel ?' * No,' cried my lord,
* your lordship being there yourself in
my Lord Leicester's suite, must needs
have noticed I was absent; for if I
had been present, methinks 'tis I and
not your lordship would have waited
behind her majesty's chair at table
and held a napkin to her.' ' And if
you had, my lord,' quoth my Lord
Essex, waxing hot in his speech, ' you
would have noticed how her grace's
majesty gave a nip to his grace your
father, who was sitting by her side,
and said she would have him take
heed on what pillow he rested his
head.' ' And I would have you take
heed,' cries my lord, 'how you suffer
your tongue to wag in an unseemly
manner anent her grace's majesty and
his grace my father and the Queen of
Scots, who is kinswoman to both, and
even now a prisoner, which should
make men careful how they speak of
her who cannot speak in her own
cause ; for it is a very inhuman part,
my lord, to tread on such as misfor-
tune has cast down.' There was a
nobleness in these words such as I have
often taken note of in my lord, though
so young, and which his playmate
yielded to ; so that nothing more was
said at that time anent those mat-
ters, which indeed do seem too weighty
to be discoursed upon by young folks.
But I have thought since on the lines
which 'tis said the queen's majesty
wrote when she was herself a prisoner,
which begin,
1 O Fortune! how thy restless, wavering state
Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit ;
Witness this present prison, whither fate
Could bear me, and the joys I quit '
and wondered she should have no
greater pity on those in the same
plight, as so many be at this time. Ah
me ! I would not keep a bird in a cage
an I could help it, and 'tis sad men
are not more tender of such as are of
a like nature with themselves !
" My lord was away some days af-
ter this at Oxford, whither he had
been carried to be present at the
queen's visit, and at the play of Pa-
lamon and Arcite, which her majesty
heard in the common hall of Christ's
Church. One evening, as my lady
Margaret and I (like two twin cher-
ries on one stalk, my lord would say,
for he is mightily taken with the
stage-plays he doth hear, and hath a
trick of framing his speech from them)
were sitting at the window near unto
the garden practising our lutes and
singing madrigals, he surprised us
with his sweet company, in which I
find an ever increasing content, and
cried out as he approached, 'Ladies,
I hold this sentence of the poet as
a canon of my creed, that whom
God loveth not, they love not music.'
And then he said that albeit Italian
was a very harmonious and sweet lan-
guage which pleasantly tickleth the
ear, he for his part loved English
best, even in singing. Upon which,
finding him in the humor for discreet
168
Constance Sherwood.
and sensible conversation, which, al-
beit he hath good parts and a ready
wit, is not always the case, by reason
of his being, as boys mostly are, prone
to wagging, I took occasion to relate
what I had heard my Lord of Arun-
del say touching his visit to the court
of Brussels, when the Duchess of
Parma invited him to a banquet to
meet the Prince of Orange and most
of the chief courtiers. The discourse
was carried on in French; but my
lord, albeit he could speak well in that
language, nevertheless made use of an
interpreter. At the which the Prince
of Orange expressed his surprise to
Sir John Wilson, who was present,
that an English nobleman of so great
birth and breeding should be ignorant
of the French tongue, which the earl
presently hearing, said, ' Tell the prince
that I like to speak in that language
in which I can best utter my mind
and not mistake/ ' And I perceive,
my lord/ I said, ' that you are of a
like mind with his lordship, and no
lover of new-fangled and curious
terms.*
" Upon which my dear earl laughed,
and related unto us how the queen
had been pleased to take notice of
him at Oxford, and spoke merrily to
him of his marriage. 'And prithee,
Phil, what were her highness's words? '
quoth his prying sister, like a true
daughter of Eve. At which my lord
stroked his chin, as if to smooth his
beard which is still to come, and said
her majesty had cried, ' God's pity,
child, thou wilt tire of thy wife afore
you have both left the nursery.'
' Alack,' cried Meg, ' if any but her
highness had said it, thy hand would
have been on thy sword, brother, and
I'll warrant thou didst turn as red as
a turkey-cock, when her majesty thus
titled thee a baby. Nay, do not frown,
but be a good lord to us, and tell Nan
and me if the queen said aught else.'
Then my lord cleared his brow, and
related how in the hunting scene in
the play, when the cry of the hounds
was heard outside the stage, which
was excellently well imitated, some
scholars who were seated near him,
and he must confess himself also, did
shout, * There, there he's caught,
he's caught !' upon which her grace's
majesty laughed, and merrily cried out
from her box, ' Those boys in very troth
are ready to leap out of the windows !'
'And had you such pleasant sports
each day, brother?' quoth our Meg.
' No, by my troth,' my lord answered ;
' the more's the pity ; for the next day
there was a disputation held in physic
and divinity from two to seven; and Dr.
Westphaling held forth at so great
length that her majesty sent word to him
to end his discourse without delay, to
the great relief and comfort of all pres-
ent. But he would not give over, lest,
having committed all to memory, he
should forget the rest if he omitted
any part of it, and be brought to
shame before the university and the
court.' ' What said her highness when
she saw he heeded not her com-
mands ?' Meg asked. ' She was an-
gered at first,' quoth my lord, ' that he
durst go on with his discourse when
she had sent him word presently to
stop, whereby she had herself been
prevented from speaking, which
Spanish Ambassador had asked
to do ; but when she heard the
it move^ her to laughter, and she
him a parrot.'
" ' And spoke not her majesty at all ?'
I asked ; and my lord said, ' She
would not have been a woman, Nan,
an she had held her tongue after being
once resolved to use it. She made
the next day an oration in Latin, and
stopped in the midst to bid my Lord
Burleigh be seated, and not to stand
painfully on his gouty feet. Beshrew
me, but I think she did it to show the
poor dean how much better her mem-
ory served her than his had done, for
she looked round to where he was
standing ere she resumed her dis-
course. And now, Meg, clear thy
throat and tune thy pipe, for not an-
other word will I speak till thou hast
sung that ditty good Mr. Martin set to
music for thee.' I have set it down here,
Mistress Constance, with the notes as
Constance Sherwood.
169
she sung k, that you may sing it also ;
and not like it the less that my quaint
fancy pictures the maiden the poet sings
of, in her ' frock of frolic green/ like
unto my sweet friend who dwells not
far from one of the fair rivers therein
named.
A knight, as antique stories tell,
A daughter had named Dawsabel,
A maiden fair and free ;
She wore a frock of frolic green,
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see.
The silk well could she twist and twine,
And make the fine March pine,
And with the needle work ;
And she could help the priest to say
His matins on a holy day,
And sing a psalm in kirk.
Her features all as fresh above
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lythe as lass of Kent ;
Her skin as soft as Leinster wool,
And white as snow on Penhisk Hull,
Or swan that swims on Trent.
This maiden on a morn betime
Goes forth when May is in its prime,
To get sweet setywall,
The honeysuckle, the hurlock,
The lily aud the lady-smock,
To deck her father's hall.
" ' Ah,' cried my lord, when Meg had
ended her song, beshrew me, if Mon-
sieur Sebastian's madrigals are one-
half so dainty as this English piece of
harmony.' And then, -for his lord-
ship's head is at present running on
pageants such as he witnessed at
Nonsuch and at Oxford, he would
have me call into the garden Madge
and Bess, whilst he fetched his brothers
to take part in a May game, not in-
deed in season now, but which, he
says, is too good sport not to be fol-
lowed all the year round. So he must
needs dress himself as Robin Hood,
with a wreath on his head and a sheaf
of arrows in his girdle, and me as Maid
Marian ; and Meg, for that she is taller
by an inch than any of us, though
younger than him and me, he said
should play Little John, and Bess
Friar Tuck, for that she looks so glee-
some and has a face so red and round.
'And Tom,' he cried, ' thou needst not
be at pains to change thy name, for we
will dub thee Tom the piper.' < And
what is Will to be ?' asked my Lady
Bess, who, since I be titled Countess
of Surrey, must needs be styled My
Lady William Howard.' 'Why,
there's only the fool left,' quoth my
lord, ' for thy sweetheart to play, Bess.'
At the which her ladyship and his
lordship too began to stamp and cry,
and would have sobbed outright, but
sweet Madge, whose face waxes so
white and her eyes so large and blue
that methinks she is more like to an
angel than a child, put out her little
thin hands with a, pretty gesture, and
said, ' I'll be the fool, brother Surrey,
and Will shall be the dragon, and Bess
ride the hobby-horse, an it will please
her.' ' Nay, but she is Friar Tuck/
quoth my lord, ' and should not ride.'
* And prithee wherefore no ?' cried the
forward imp, who, now she no more
fears her grandam's rod, has grown
very saucy and bold; 'why should
not the good friar ride, an it doth
pleasure him ?'
" At the which we laughed and fell
to acting our parts with no little mer-
riment and noise, and sundry repre-
hensions from my lord when we mis-
took our postures or the lines he
would have us to recite. And at the
end he set up a pole on the grass-plat
for the Maying, and we danced and
sung around it to a merry tune, which
set our feet flying in time with the
music :
Now in the month of maying,
When the merry lads are playing,
Pa, la, la.
Each with his bonny lasse,
Upon the greeny grasse,
Fa, la, la.
Madge was not strong enough to dance,
but she stole away to gather white and
blue violets, and made a fair garland
to set on my head, to my lord's great
content, and would have me unloose
my hair on my shoulders, which fell
nearly to my feet, and waved in the
wind- in a wild fashion ; which he said
was beseeming for a bold outlaw's bride,
and what he had seen in the Maid Ma-
rian, who had played in the pageant
at Nonsuch. Mrs. Fawcett misdoubt-
ed that this sport of ours should be
approved by Mr. Charke, who calls all
170
Constance Sherwood.
stage-playing Satan's recreations, and
a sure road unto hell ; and that we
shall hear on it in his next preach-
ment ; for he has held forth to her at
length on that same point, and up-
braided her for that she did suffer
such foolish and profane pastimes to
be carried on in his grace's house. Ah
me ! I see no harm in it ; and if, when
my lord visits me, I play not with him
as he chooses, 'tis not a thing to be ex-
pected that he will come only to sing
psalms or play chess, which Mr. Charke
holds to be the only game it befits
Christians to entertain themselves with.
'Tis hard to know what is right and
wrong when persons be of such differ-
ent minds, and no ghostly adviser to be
had, such as I was used to at my
grandmother's house.
" All, Mistress Constance ! when I
last wrote unto you I said troubles
was the word in every one's mouth,
and ere I had finished this letter
which I was then writing, and have
kept by me ever since what, think
you, has befallen us ? "Tis anent the
marriage of his grace with the Queen
of Scots ; which I now do wish it had
pleased God none had ever thought
of. Some weeks since my lord had
told me, with great glee, that the
Spanish ambassador was about to pe-
tition her majesty the queen for the
release of her highness's cousin ; and
Higford and Bannister, and the rest
of his grace's household whom, since
Mr. Martin went beyond seas, my
lord spends much of his time with, and
more of it methinks than is beseeming
or to the profit of his manners and ad-
vancement of his behavior have told
him that this would prepare the way
for the greatly-to-be-desired end of
his grace's marriage with that queen ;
and my lord was reckoning up all the
fine sports and pageants and noble en-
tertainments would be enacted at Ken-
ninghall and Thetford when that right
princely wedding should take place ;
and how he should himself carry the
train of the queen-duchess when she
went into church ; who was the fair-
est woman, he said, in the whole
world, and none ever seen to be com-
pared with her since the days of Gre-
cian Helen. But when, some days
ago, I questioned my lord touching the
success of the ambassador's suits, and
the queen's answer thereto, he said:
' By my troth, Nan, I understand that
her highness sent away the gooseman,
for so she entitled Senor Guzman,
with a flea in his ear ; for she said
he had come on a fool's errand, and
gave him for her answer that she
would advise the Queen of Scots to
bear her condition with less impa-
tience, or she might chance to find
some of those on whom she relied
shorter by a head/ ' Oh, my lord,' I
cried ; ' my dear Phil ! God send she
was not speaking of his grace your
father !' ' Nan,' quoth he, ' she looked
at his grace the next day with looks
of so great anger and disdain, that
my lord of Leicester that false and
villainous knave gave signs of so
great triumph as if his grace was
even on his way to the Tower. Be-
shrew me, if I would not run my ra-
pier through his body if I could !'
' And where is his grace at present ?'
I asked. ' He came to town
night,' quoth my lord, 'with my
Arundel, and this morning went
JKenninghall/ After this for some
days I heard no more, for a new tutor
came to my lord, who suffers him not
to stay in the waiting-room with his
grace's gentlemen, and keeps so strict
a hand over him touching his studies,
that in his brief hours of recreation he
would rather play at quoits, and other
active pastimes, than converse with his
lady. Alack ! I wish he were a few
years older, and I should have more
comfort of him than now, when I must
needs put up with his humors, which
be as changeful, by reason of his great
youth, as the lights and shades on the
grass 'neath an aspen-tree. I must be
throwing a ball for hours, or learning
a stage-part, when I would fain speak
of the weighty matters which be on
hand, such as I have told you of.
Howsoever, as good luck would have it,
my Lady Lumley sent for me to spend
Constance Sherwood.
171
the day with her ; and from her lady-
ship I learnt that his grace had written
to the queen that he had withdrawn
from the court because of the pain he
felt at her displeasure, and his mortifi-
cation at the treatment he had been sub-
jected to by the insolence of his foes, by
whom he has been made a common ta-
ble talk ; and that her majesty had laid
upon him her commands straightway
to return to court. That was all was
known that day ; but at the very time
that I was writing the first of these wo-
ful tidings to you, Mistress Constance,
his grace whom I now know that I
do love dearly, and with a true daugh-
ter's heart, by the dreadful fear and
pain I am in was arrested at Burn-
ham, where he had stopped on his road
to Windsor, and committed to the Tow-
er. Alack ! alack ! what will follow ?
I will leave this my letter open until I
have further news to send.
" His grace was examined this day
before my Lord-keeper Bacon, and my
Lords Northampton, Sadler, Bedford,
and Cecil ; and they have reported to
her majesty that the duke had not put
himself under penalty of the law by
any overt act of treason, and that it
would be difficult to convict him with-
out this. My Lord of Arundel, at
whose house I was when these tidings
came, said her majesty was so angered
at this judgment, that she cried out in
a passion, * Away ! what the law fails
to do my authority shall effect ;' and
straightway fell into a fit, her passion
was so great ; and they were forced to
apply vinegar to restore her. I had a
wicked thought come into my mind,
Mistress Constance, that I should not
have been concerned if the queen's
majesty had died in that fit, which I
befear me was high treason, and a
mortal sin, to wish for one to die in a
state of sin. But, alack ! since I have
left going to shrift I find it hard to
fight against bad thoughts and naughty
tempers ; and when I say my prayers,
and the old words come to my lips,
which the preachments I hear do con-
tradict, I am sometimes well-nigh
tempted to give over praying at all.
But I pray to God I may never be so
wicked ; and though I may not have
my beads (which were taken from
me), that the good Bishop of Durham
gave me when I was confirmed, I use
my fingers in their stead ; and whilst
his grace was at the Tower I did say
as many ' Hail Maries' in one day
as I ever did in my life before ; and
promised him, who is God's own dear
Son and hers, if his grace came out
of prison, never to be a day of my
life without saying a prayer, or giving
an alms, or" doing a good turn to those
which be in the same case, near at hand
or throughout the world ; and I ween
there are many such of all sorts at this
tune.
" Your loving servant to command,
whose heart is at present heavier than
her pen,
" ANN SURREY."
" P. S. My Lord of Westmoreland
has left London, and his lady is in a
sad plight. I hear such things said on
all sides touching Papists as I can
scarce credit, and I pray to God they
be not true. But an if they be so bad
as some do say, why does his grace
run his head into danger for the sake
of the Popish queen, as men do style
her? They have arrested Higford
and Bannister last night, and they are
to taste of the rack to-day, to satisfy
the queen, who is so urgent on it. My
lord is greatly concerned thereat, and
cried when he spoke of it, albeit he
tried to hide his tears. I asked him
to show me what sort of pain it was ;
whereupon he twisted my arm till I
cried out and bade him desist. God
help me ! I could not have endured
the pain an instant longer ; and if they
have naught to tell anent these plots
and against his grace, they needs must
speak what is false when under the
rack. Oh, 'tis terrible to think what
men do suffer and cause others to
suffer !"
This letter came into my hand on a
day when my father had gone into
Lichfield touching some business ; and
172
Constance Sherwood.
he brought with it the news of a rising
in the north, and that his Grace of
Northumberland and my Lord of West-
moreland had taken arms on hearing
of the Duke of Norfolk's arrest ; and
the Catholics, under Mr. Richard Nor-
ton and Lord Latimer, had joined their
standard, and were bearing the cross
before the insurgents. My father was
sore cast down at these tidings ; for
he looked for no good from what was
rebellion against a lawful sovereign,
and a consorting with troublesome
spirits, swayed by no love of our holy
religion but rather contrary to it, as
my Lord of Westmoreland and some
others of those leading lords. And he
hence foreboded fresh trials to all such
as were of the ancient faith all over
England ; which was not long in ac-
cruing even in our own case ; for a
short time after, we were for the first
time visited by pursuivants, on a day
and in such a manner as I will now
briefly relate.
CHAPTEE IV.
ON the Sunday morning which fol-
lowed the day on which the news had
reached us of the rising in Northum-
berland, I went, as wais my wont, into
my mother's dressing-room, to crave
her blessing, and I asked of her if the
priest who came to say mass for us
most Sundays had arrived. She said
he had been, and had gone away again,
and that she greatly feared we should
have no prayers that day, saving such
as w.e might offer up for ourselves ; " to-
gether," she added after a pause, " with
a bitter sacrifice of tears and of such
sufferings as we have heard of, but
as yet not known the taste of our-
selves."
Again I felt in my heart a throbbing
feeling, which had in it an admixture
of pain and joy made up, I ween, of
conflicting passions such as curiosity
feeding on the presentment of an ap-
proaching change ; of the motions of
grace in a soul which faintly discerns
the happiness of suffering for con-
science sake ; and the fear of suffer-
ing natural to the human heart.
" Why are we to have no mass,
sweet mother ?" I asked, encircling her
waist in my arms ; " and wherefore
has good Mr. Bryan gone away ?"
" We received advice late last evei
ing," she answered, " that the queen*
pursuivants have orders to search tl
day the houses of the most noted i<
cusants in this neighborhood ; and 't
likely they may begin with us, wl
have never made a secret of our fa
and never will."
"And will they kill us if th(
come ?" I asked, with that same trei
bling eagerness I have so often knoi
since when danger was at hand.
" Not now, not to-day, Conny,'
answered ; " but I pray to God they
do not carry us away to prison ; fo
since this rising in the north, to be
Catholic and a traitor is one and tl
same in their eyes who have to jud<
us. We must needs hide our bool
and church furniture ; so give me tlrj
beads, sweet one, and the cross fr
thy neck."
I waxed red when my mother
me unloose the string, and tigl
clasped the cross in both my hanc
" Let them kill me, mother," I crk
" but take not off my cross."
" Maybe," she said, " the qut
officers would trample on it, and
injure their own souls in dishonoring
a holy symbol." And as she spoke
she took it from me, and hid it in a
recess behind the chimney ; which no
sooner was done, than we heard a
sound of horses' feet in the approach ;
and going to the window, I cried out,
" Here is a store of armed men on
horseback !" Ere I had uttered the
words, one of them had dismounted
and loudly knocked at the door with
his truncheon ; upon which my mother,
taking me by the hand, went down
stairs into the parlor where my
father was. It seemed as if those
knocks had struck on her heart, so
great a trembling came over her.
My father bade the servants throw
Constance Sherwood.
173
open the door; and the sheriff came
in, with two pursuivants and some
more men with him, and produced a
warrant to search the house ; which
my father having read, he bowed his
head, and gave orders not to hinder
them in their duty. He stood himself
the while in the hall, his face as white
as a smock, and his teeth almost run-
ning through his lips.
One of the men came into the
librar} r , and pulling down the books,
scattered them on the floor, and cried :
" Look ye here, sirs, what Popish
stuff is this, fit for the hangman's
burning ! " At the which another an-
swered :
" By my troth, Sam, I misdoubt
that thou canst read. Methinks thou
dost hunt Popery as dogs do game, by
the scent. Prithee spell me the title
of this volume."
" I will have none of thy gibing,
Master Sevenoaks," returned the
other. " Whether I be a scholar or
not, I'll warrant no honest gospeller
wrote on those yellow musty leaves,
which be two hundred years old, if
they be a day."
" And I'll warrant thee in that cre-
dence, Master Samuel, by the same
token that the volume in thy hand is a
treatise on field-sports, writ in the days
of Master Caxton ; a code of the laws
to be observed in the hunting and
killing of deer, which I take to be no
Popish sport, for our most gracious
queen God save her majesty !
slew a fat buck not long ago in "Wind-
sor Forest with her own hand, and
remembered his grace of Canterbury
with half her prey ;" and so saying, he
drew his comrade from the room ; I
ween with the intent to save the books
from his rough handling, for he seemed
of a more gentle nature than the rest
and of a more moderate disposition.
When they had ransacked all the
rooms below, they went upstairs, and
my father followed. Breaking from my
mother's side, who sat pale and still as
a statute, unable to move from her
seat, I ran after him, and on the land-
ing-place I heard the sheriff say
somewhat touching the harboring of
priests ; to the which he made answer
that he was ready to swear there was
no priest in the house. "Nor has
been?" quoth the sheriff; upon which
my father said:
" Good sir, this house was built in
the days of Ijer majesty's grandfather,
King Henry VH. ; and on one occa-
sion his majesty was pleased to rest
under my grandfather's roof, and to
hear mass in that room," he said,
pointing to what was now the chapel,
" the church being too distant for his
majesty's convenience: sopriestshave
been within these walls many tunes
ere I was born."
The sheriff said no more at that
time, but went into the room, where
there were only a few chairs, for that
in the night the altar and all that
appertained to it had been removed.
He and his men were going out again,
when a loud knocking was heard
against the wall on one side of the
chamber; at the sound of which my
father's face, which was white before,
became of an ashy paleness.
" Ah !" cried one of the pursuivants,
"the lying Papist! The egregious
Roman ! an oath is in his mouth that
he has no priest in his house, and here
is one hidden in his cupboard."
"Mr. Sherwood!" the sheriff
shouted, greatly moved, "lead the
way to the hiding-place wherein a
traitor is concealed, or I order the
house to be pulled down about your
ears."
My father was standing like one
stunned by a sudden blow, and I
heard him murmur, " 'Tis the devil's
own doing, or else I am stark, staring
mad."
The men ran to the wall, and
knocked against it with their sticks,
crying out in an outrageous manner
to the priest to come out of his hole.
" We'll unearth the Jesuit fox," cried
one; "we'll give him a better lodg-
ing in Lichfield gaol," shouted
another ; and the sheriff kept threat-
ening to set fire to the house. Still the
knocking from within went on, as if
174
Constance Shenoood.
answering that outside, and then a
voice cried out, " I cannot open : I am
shut in."
" 'Tis Edmund !" I exclaimed ;
" 'tis Edmund is in the hiding-place."
And then the words were distinctly
heard, "'Tis I; 'tis Edmund Gen-
ings. For God's sake, open ; I am
shut in." Upon which my father drew
a deep breath, and hastening for-
ward, pressed his "finger on a place in
the wall, the panel slipped, and Ed-
mund came out of the recess, looking
scared and confused. The pursuivants
seized him ; but the sheriff cried out,
surprised, " God's death, sirs ! but 'tis
the son of the worshipful Mr. Gen-
ings, whose lady is a mother in Israel,
and M. Jean de Luc's first cousin !
And how came ye, Mr. Edmund, to
be concealed in this Popish den?
Have these recusants imprisoned you
with some foul intent, or perverted
you by their vile cunning ?" Edmund
was addressing my father in an agi-
tated voice.
" I fear me, sir," he cried, clasping
his hands, " I befear me much I have
affrighted you, and I have been my-
self sorely affrighted. I was passing
through this room, which I have never
before seen, and the door of which
was open this morn. By chance I
drew my hand along the wall, where
there was no apparent mark, when the
panel slipped and disclosed this recess,
into which I stepped, and straight-
way the opening closed and I re-
mained in darkness. I was afraid no
one might hear me, and I should die
of hunger."
My father tried to smile, but could
not. " Thank God," he said, " 'tis no
worse ;" and sinking down on a chair
he remained silent, whilst the sheriff
and the pursuivants examined the
recess, which was deep and narrow,
and in which they brandished their
swords in all directions. Then they
went round the room, feeling the walls ;
but though there was another recess
with a similar mode of aperture, they
hit not on it, doubtless through God's
mercy ; for in it were concealed the
altar furniture and our books, with
many other things besides, which they
would have seized on.
Before going away, the sheriff ques-
tioned Edmund concerning his faith,
and for what reason he abode in a Po-
pish house and consorted with recu-
sants. Edmund answered he was no
Papist, but a kinsman of Mrs. Sher-
wood, unto whose house his father had
oftentimes sent him. Upon which he
was counselled to take heed unto him-
self and to eschew evil company, which
leads to horrible defections, and into
the straight road to perdition. Where-
upon they departed; and the officer
who had enticed his companion from
the library smiled as he passed me,
and said :
"And wherefore not at prayers, lit-
tle mistress, on the Lord's day, as all
Christian folks should be?"
I ween he was curious to see how
I should answer, albeit not moved
thereunto by any malicious intent.
But at the time I did not bethink mi
self that he spoke of Protestant
vice ; and being angered at what
passed, I said :
" Because we be kept from prajj
by the least welcome visit ever mi
to Christian folks on a Lord's
morning." He laughed and cried :
" Thou hast a ready tongue, young
mistress ; and when tried for recu-
sancy I warrant thou'lt give the judge
a piece of thy mind."
" And if I ever be in such a pres-
ence, and for such a cause," I an-
swered, " I pray to God I may say to
my lord on the bench what the blessed
apostle St. Peter spoke to his judges :
* If it be just in the sight of God to
hear you rather than God, judge ye.' '*
At which he cried :
" Why, here is a marvel indeed a
Papist to quote Scripture !" And laugh-
ing again, he went his way ; "and the
house was for that time rid of these
troublesome guests.
Then Edmund again sued for par-
don to my father, that through his rash
conduct he had been the occasion of
so great fear and trouble to him.
Constance Sherwood.
175
"I warrant thee, my good boy,"
quoth my father, " thou didst cause me
the most keen anguish, and the most
sudden relief from it, which can well be
thought of; and so no more need be
said thereon. And as thou must needs
be going to the public church, 'tis tune
that thou bestir thyself; for 'tis a long
walk there and back, and the sun wax-
ing hot."
When Edmund was gone, and I
alone with him, my father clasped me
in his arms, and cried :
" God send, my wench, thou mayest
justify thy sponsors who gave thee thy
name in baptism ; for 'tis a rare con-
stancy these tunes do call for, and
such as is not often seen, saving in
such as be of a noble and religious
spirit ; which I pray to God may be
the case with thee."
My mother did not speak, but went
away with her hand pressed against
her heart ; which was what of late I
had often seen her to do, as if the pain
was more than she could bear.
One hour later, as I was crossing
the court, a man met me suited as a
farmer ; who, when I passed him, laid
his hand on my shoulder; at the
which I started, and turning round
saw it was Father Bryan ; who, smil-
ing as I caught his hand, cried out :
"Dost know the shepherd in his
wolf's clothing, little mistress?" and
hastening on to the chapel he said
mass, at the which only a few assisted,
as my parents durst not send to the
Catholics so late in the day. As soon
as mass was over, Mr. Bryan said he
must leave, for there was a warrant
ssued for his apprehension ; and our
house famed for recusancy, so as he
might not stay in it but with great
peril to himself and to its owners. We
stood at the door as he was mounting
his horse, and my father said, patting
its neck :
" Tis a faithful servant this, rever-
nd father ; many a mile he has car-
ried thee to the homes of the sick and
dying since our troubles began."
"Ah! good Mr. Sherwood," Mr.
Bryan replied, as he gathered up the
bridle, " thou hast indeed warrant to
style the poor beast faithful. If I were
to shut my eyes and let him go, no
doubt but he would find his way to the
doors of such as cleave to the an-
cient faith, in city or in hamlet, across
moor or through thick wood. If a
pursuivant bestrode him, he might dis-
cover through his means who be re-
cusants a hundred miles around. But
I bethink me he would not budge with
such a burthen on his back ; and that
he who made the prophet's ass to speak,
would, give the good beast more sense
than to turn informer, and to carry the
wolf to the folds of the lambs. And
prithee, Mistress Constance," said the
good priest, turning to me, " canst keep
a secret and be silent, when men's
lives are in jeopardy ?"
" Aye," cried my father quickly,
" 'tis as much as worthy Mr. Bryan's
life is worth that none should know he
was here to-day."
" More than my poor life is worth,"
he rejoined ; " that were little to think
of, my good friends. For five years I
have made it my prayer that the day
may soon come and I care not how
soon when I may lay it down for his
sake who gave it. But we must e'en
have a care for those who are so rash
as to harbor priests in these evil
times. So Mistress Constance must
e'en study the virtue of silence, and
con the meaning of the proverb which
teacheth discretion to be the best part
of valor."
"If Edmund Genings asketh me,
reverend father, if I have heard mass
to-day, what must I answer ?"
" Say the queen's majesty has for-
bidden mass to be said in this her
kingdom ; and if he presseth thee more
closely thereon, why then tell him the
last news from the poultry-yard, and
that the hares have eat thy mignon-
ette ; which they be doing even now,
if my eyes deceive me not," said the
good father, pointing with his whip to
the flower-garden.
So, smiling, he gave us a last bless-
ing, and rode on toward the Chase,
and I went to drive the hares away
176
Constance Sherwood.
from the flower-beds, and then to set
the chapel in fair order. And ever
and anon, that day and the next, I
took out of my pocket my sweet Lady
Surrey's last letter, and pictured to
myself all the scenes therein related ;
so that I seemed to live one-half of my
life with her in thought, so greatly was
my fancy set upon her, and my heart
concerned in her troubles.
CHAPTER V.
NOT many days after the sheriff and
the pursuivants had been at our house,
and Mr. Bryan, by reason of the
bloody laws which had been enacted
against Papists and such as harbor
priests, had left us, though intending
to return at such times as might serve
our commodity, and yet not affect our
safety, I was one morning assisting
my mother in the store-room, wherein
she was setting aside such provisions as
were to be distributed to the poor that
week, together with salves, medicines,
and the like, which she also gave out
of charity, when a spasm came over
her, so vehement and painful, that for
the moment she lost the use of speech,
and made signs to me to call for help.
I ran affrighted into the library for my
father, and brought him to her, upon
which, in a little time, she did some-
what recover, but desired he would
assist her to her own chamber, whither
she went leaning on his arm. When
laid on her bed she seemed easier;
and smiling, bade me leave them for
awhile, for that she desired to have
speech with my father alone.
For the space of an hour I walked
in the garden, with so oppressive a
grief at my heart as I had never be-
fore experienced. Methinks the great
stillness in the air added thereunto
some sort of physical disorder ; for
the weather was very close and heavy ;
and if a leaf did but stir, I started as
if danger was at hand ; and the noise
of the chattering pies over my head
worked in me an apprehensive melan-
choly, foreboding, I doubt not, what
was to follow. At about eleven
o'clock, hearing the sound of a horse's
feet in the avenue, I turned round,
and saw Edmund riding from the
house ; upon which I ran across the
grass to a turning of the road where he
would pass, and called to him to stop,
which he did ; and told me he was
going to Lichfield for his father,
whom my mother desired presently
to see. "Then thou shouldst not
tarry," I said ; and he pushed on and
left me standing where I was ; but the
bell then ringing for dinner, I went
back to the house, and, in so doing,
took notice of a bay-tree on the lawn
which was withered and dried-up,
though the gardener had been at pains
to preserve it by sundry appliances and
frequent watering of it. Then it came
to my remembrance what my nurse
used to say, that the dying of that
sort of tree is a sure omen of a death
in a family ; which thought sorely dis-
turbed me at that time. I sat down
with my father to a brief and silent
meal; and soon after the physician he
had sent for came, whom he con-
ducted to my mother's chamber,
whereunto I did follow, and slipped in
unperceived. Sitting on one side of
the bed, behind the curtains, I heard
her say, in a voice which sounded
hollow and weak, " Good Master
Lawrenson, my dear husband was
fain to send for you, and I cared not
to withstand him, albeit persuaded
that I am hastening to my journey's
end, and that naught that you or any
other man may prescribe may stay
what is God's will. And if this be
visible to you as it is to me, I pray
you keep it not from me, for it will be
to my much comfort to be assured
of it,"
When she had done speaking, he
did feel her pulse ; and the while my
heart beat so quick and, as it seemed
to me, so loud as if it must needs im-
pede my hearing ; but in a moment I
heard him say : " God defend, good
madam, I should deceive you. While
there is life, there is hope. Greater
Constance Sherwood.
177
comfort I dare not urge. If there be
any temporal matter on your mind,
'twere better settled now, and likewise
of your soul's health, by such pious
exercises as are used by those of
your way of thinking."
At the hearing of these his words,
my father fetched a deep sigh; but
she, as one greatly relieved, clasped
her hands together, and cried, " My
God, I thank thee !"
Then, steah'ng from behind the cur-
tain, I laid my head on the pillow nigh
unto hers, and whispered, " Sweet
mother, prithee do not die, or else take
me with thee."
But she, as one not heeding, ex-
claimed, with her hands uplifted, " O
faithless heart ! O selfish heart ! to
be so glad of death !"
The physician was directing the
maids what they should do for her
relief when the pain came on, and he
himself stood compounding some med-
icine for her to take. My father asked
of him when he next would come ;
and he answered, " On the morrow ;"
but methinks 'twas even then his be-
lief that there would be no morrow
for her who was dying before her
time, like the bay-tree in our garden.
She bade him farewell in a kindly
fashion ; and when we were alone, I
lying on the bed by her side, and my
father sitting at its head, she said,
in a low voice, rf How wonderful be
God's dealings with us, and how fath-
erly his care ; in that he takes the
weak unto himself, and leaves behind
the strong to fight the battle now at
hand! My dear master, I had a
dream yesternight which had some-
what of horror in it, but more me-
thinks of comfort." My father break-
ing out then in sighs and tears as if
his heart would break, she said, " Oh,
but thou must hear and acknowledge,
my loved master, how gracious is
God's providence to thy poor wife.
When thou knowest what I have suf-
fered not in body, though that has
been sharp too, but in my soul it
will reconcile thine own to a parting
which has in it so much of mercy.
13
Thou dost remember the night when
Mr. Mush was here, and what his dis-
course did run on ?"
u Surely do I, sweet wife," he an-
swered ; " for it was such as the mind
doth not easily lose the memory of;
the sufferings and glorious end of the
blessed martyr Mrs. Clitherow. I
perceived what sorrowful heed thou
didst lend to his recital; but has it
painfully dwelt in thy mind since ?"
" By day and by night it hath not
left me ; ever recurring to my
thoughts, ever haunting my dreams,
and working in me a fearful apprehen-
sion lest in a like trial I should be
found wanting, and prove a traitor to
God and his Church, and a disgrace
and heartbreak to thee who hast so
truly loved me far beyond my deserts.
I have bragged of the dangers of the
times, even as cowards are wont to
speak loud in the dark to still by the
sound of their own voices the terrors
they do feel. I have had before my
eyes the picture of that cruel death,
and of the children extremely used for
answering as their mother had taught
them, till cold drops of sweat have
stood on my brow, and I have knelt
in my chamber wringing my hands
and praying to be spared a like trial.
And then, maybe an hour later, sit-
ting at the table, I spake merrily of
the gallows, mocking my own fears, as
when Mr. Bryan was last here ; and
I said that priests should be more
welcome to me than ever they were,
now that virtue and the Catholic cause
were made felony ; and the same would
be in God's sight more meritorious
than ever before : upon which, ' Then
you must prepare your neck for the
rope,' quoth he, in a pleasant but
withal serious manner ; at the which a
cold chill overcame me, and L very
well-nigh faulted, though constraining
my tongue to say, ' God's will be
done ; but I am far unworthy of so
great an honor.' The cowardly heart
belied the confident tongue, and fear
of my own weakness affrighted me,
by the which I must needs have
offended God, who helps such as trust
178
Constance Sherwood.
in him. But I hope to be forgiven,
inasmuch as it has ever been the wont
of my poor thoughts to picture evils
beforehand in such a form as to scare
the soul, which, when it came to meet
with them, was not shaken from its
constancy. When Conny was an
infant I have stood nigh unto a win-
dow with her in my arms, and of a
sudden a terror would seize me lest I
should let her fall out of my hands,
which yet clasped her ; and methinks
'twas somewhat of alike feeling which
worked in me touching the denying of
my faith, which, God is my witness,
is dearer to me than aught upon
earth."
"'Tis even so, sweet wife," quoth
my father ; " the edge of a too keen
conscience and a sensitive apprehen-
sion of defects visible to thine own
eyes and God's never to mine, who
was ever made happy by thy love and
virtue have worn out the frame
which enclosed them, and will rob
me of the dearest comfort of my life, if
I must lose thee."
She looked upon him with so much
sweetness, as if the approach of death
had brought her greater peace and
joy than life had ever done, and she
replied : " Death comes to me as a
compassionate angel, and I fain would
have thee welcome with me the kindly
messenger who brings so great relief
to the poor heart thou hast so long
cherished. Now, thou art called to
another task ; and when the bruised,
broken reed is removed from thy side,
thou wilt follow the summons which
even now sounds in thine ears."
" Ah," cried my father, clasping her
hand, " art thou then already a saint,
sweet wife, that thou hast read the
vow slowly registered as yet in the
depthg of a riven heart?" Then his
eyes turned on me; and she, who
seemed to know his thoughts, that
sweet soul who had been so silent in
life, but was now spending her last
breath in never-to-be-forgotten words,
answered the question contained in
that glance as if it had been framed in
a set speech.
" Fear not for her," she said, laying
her cheek close unto mine. " As her
days, so shall her strength be. Me-
thinks Almighty God has given her
a spirit meet for the age in which her
lot is cast. The early training thou
hast had, my wench ; the lack of such
memories as make the present twofold
bitter ; the familiar mention round thy
cradle of such trials as do beset Cat
lies in these days, have nurtured
thee a stoutness of heart which wil
stand thee in good stead amidst
rough waves of this troublesome
world. The iron will not enter int
thy soul as it hath done into mine."
Upon which she fell back exhausted
and for a while no sound was heai
in or about the house save the barkii
of our great dog.
My father had sent a messenger
a house where we had had notice
days before Father Ford was stayii
but with no certain knowledge he
still there, or any other priest hi
neighborhood, which occasioned hii
no small disquietude, for my mother's
strength seemed to be visibly sinkii
which was what the doctor's words he
led him to expect. The man he
sent returned not till the evening;
in the afternoon Mr. Genings and
son came from Lichfield, which, when
my mother heard, she said God was
gracious to permit her once more to
see John, which was Mr. Genings'
name. They had been reared in the
same house ; and a kindness had al-
ways continued betwixt them. For
some time past he had conformed to
the times ; and since his marriage with
the daughter of a French Huguenot
who lived in London, and who was a
lady of very commendable character
and manners, and strenuous in her
own way of thinking, he had left off
practising his own religion in secret,
which for a while he used to do. When
he came in, and saw death plainly writ
in his cousin's face, he was greatly
moved, and knelt down by her side
with a very sorrowful countenance ;
upon which she straightly looked at
him, and said : " Cousin John, my
Constance Sherwood.
179
breath is very short, as my time is also
like to be. But one word I would
fain say to thee before I die. I was
always well pleased with my religion,
which was once thine and that of all
Christian people one hundred years
ago ; but I have never been so well
pleased with it as now, when I be about
to meet my Judge."
Mr. Genings' features worked with
a strange passion, in which was more
of grief than displeasure, and grasping
his son's shoulder, who was likewise
kneeling and weeping, he said : " You
have wrought with this boy, cousin, to
make him a Catholic."
"As heaven is my witness," she
answered, "not otherwise but by my
prayers."
" Hast thou seen a priest, cousin
Constance?" he then asked: upon
which my mother not answering, the
poor man burst into tears, and cried :
" Oh, cousin cousin Constance, dost
count me a spy, and at thy death-bed ?"
He seemed cut to the heart ; where-
upon she gave him her hand, and said
she hoped God would send her such
ghostly assistance as she stood in need
of; and praying God to bless him and
his wife and children, and make them
his faithful servants, so she might meet
them all in perpetual happiness, she
spoke with such good cheer, and then
bade him and Edmund farewell with
so pleasant a smile, as deceived them
into thinking her end not so near.
And so, after a while, they took their
leave ; upon which she composed her-
self for a while in silence, occupying
her thoughts in prayer ; and toward
evening, through God's mercy, albeit
the messenger had returned with the
heavy news that Father Ford had left
the county some days back, it hap-
pened that Mr. Watson, a secular priest
who had lately arrived in England,
and was on his way to Chester, stopped
at our house, whereunto Mr. Orton,
whom he had seen in prison at London,
had directed him for his own conven-
ience on the road, and likewise our
commodity, albeit little thinking how
great our need would be at that time
of so opportune a guest, through whose
means that dear departing soul had
the benefit of the last sacraments with
none to trouble or molest her, and such
ghostly aid as served to smooth her
passage to what has proved, I doubt
not, the beginning of a happy eternity,
if we may judge by such tokens as the
fervent acts of contrition she made
both before and after shrift, such as
might have served to wash away ten
thousand sins through his blood who
cleansed her, and her great and peace-
able joy at receiving him into her
heart whom she soon trusted to behold.
Her last words were expressions of
wonder and gratitude at God's singu-
lar mercy shown unto her in the quiet
manner of her death in the midst of
such troublesome times. And me-
thinks, when the silver cord was
loosed, and naught was left of her on
earth save the fair corpse which re-
tained in death the semblance it had
had in life, that together with the nat-
ural grief which found vent in tears,
there remained in the hearts of such
as loved her a comfortable sense of the
Divine goodness manifested in this her
peaceable removal.
How great the change which that
day wrought in me may be judged of
by such who, at the age I had then
reached to, have met with a like afflic-
tion, coupled with a sense of duties to
be fulfilled, such as then fell to my lot,
both as touching household cares, and
in respect to the cheering of my father
in his solitary hours during the time
we did yet continue at Sherwood Hall,
which was about a year. It waxed
very hard then for priests to make
their way to the houses of Catholics,
as many now found it to their interest
to inform against them and such as
harbored them ; and mostly in our
neighborhood, wherein there were at
that time no recusants of so great rank
and note that the sheriff would not be
lief to meddle with them. We had
oftentimes had secret advices to beware
of such and such of our servants who
might betray our hidden conveyances
of safety ; and my father scarcely durst
180
Constance Sherwood.
be sharp with them when they offend-
ed by slacking their duties, lest they
might bring us into danger if they re-
vealed, upon any displeasure, priests
having abided with us. Edmund we
saw no more since my mother's death ;
and after a while the news did reach
us that Mr. Genings had died 'of the
small-pox, and left his .wife in so dis-
tressed a condition, against all expec-
tation, owing to debts he had incurred,
that she had been constrained to sell
her house and furniture, and was living
in a small lodging near unto the school
where Edmund continued his studies.
I noticed, as tune went by, how
heavily it weighed on my father's heart
to see so many Catholics die without
the sacraments, or fall away from their
faith, for lack of priests to instruct
them, like so many sheep without a
shepherd ; and I guessed by words he
let fall on divers occasions, that the in-
tent obscurely shadowed forth in his
discourse to my mother on her death-
bed .was ripening to a settled purpose,
and tending to a change in his state
of life, which only his love and care
for me caused him to defer. What I
did apprehend must one day needs
occur, was hastened about this time by
a warning he did receive that on an
approaching day he would be appre-
hended and carried by the sheriff be-
fore the council at Lichfield, to be ex-
amined touching recusancy and har-
boring of priests ; which was what he
had long expected. This message was,
as it were, the signal he had been
waiting for, and an indication of God's
will in his regard. He made instant
provision for the placing of his estate
in the hands of a friend of such singu-
lar honesty and so faithful a friendship
toward himself, though a Protestant,
that he could wholly trust him. And
next he set himself to dispose of her
whom he did term his most dear earth-
ly treasure, and his sole tie to this
perishable world, which he resolved to
do by straightway sending her to Lon-
don, unto his sister Mistress Congleton,
who had oftentimes offered, since his
wife's death, to take charge of this
daughter, and to whom he now de-
spatched a messenger with a letter,
wherein he wrote that the times were
now so troublesome, he must needs
leave his home, and take advantage of
the sisterly favor she had willed to
show him in the care of his sole child,
whom he now would forthwith send
London, commending her to her
keeping, touching her safety and
ligious and virtuous training, and
he should be more beholden to
than ever brother was to sister, and,
long as he lived, as he was bound
do, pray for her and her good husbanc
"When this letter was gone, and ord<
had been taken for my journey, whic
was to be on horseback, and in tl
charge of a maiden gentlewoman wl
had been staying some months in
neighborhood, and was now about
two days to travel to London, it seeim
to me as if that which I had long e
pected and pictured unto myself
now come upon me of a sudden,
in such wise as for the first time
taste its bitterness. For I saw, wit
out a doubt, that this parting was
the forerunner of a change in my fat
er's condition as great and weighty
could well be thought of. But of
howbeit our thoughts were full of
no talk was ministered between us.
He said I should hear from him in
London ; and that he should now travel
into Lancashire and Cheshire, changing
his name, and often shifting his quar-
ters whilst the present danger lasted.
The day which was to be the last to
see us in the house wherein himself
and his fathers for many centuries
back, and I his unworthy child, had
been born, was spent in such fashion
as becometh those who suffer for con-
science sake, and that is with so much
sorrow as must needs be felt by a
loving father and a dutiful child in a
first and doubtful parting, with so much
regret as is natural in the abandon-
ment of a peaceful earthly home,
wherein God had been served in a
Catholic manner for many generations
and up to that time without discontinu-
ance, only of late years as it were by
The Marquis de Chastellux.
181
night and stealth, which was linked in
their memories with sundry innocent,
joys and pleasures, and such griefs as
do hallow and endear the visible scenes
wherewith they be connected, but
withal with a stoutness of heart in him,
and a youthful steadiness in her whom
he had infested with a like courage
unto his own, which wrought in them
so as to be of good cheer and shed no
more tears on so moving an occasion
than the debility of her nature and the
tenderness of his paternal care extort-
ed from their eyes when he placed her
on her horse, and the bridle in the
hand of the servant who was to ac- (
company her to London. Their last
parting was a brief one, and such as I
care not to be minute in describing;
for thinking upon it even now 'tis like
to make me weep ; which I would not
do whilst writing this history, in the
recital of which there should be more
of constancy and thankful rejoicing in
God's great mercies, than of womanish
softness in looking back to past trials.
So I will even break off at this point ;
and in the next chapter relate the
course of the journey which was begun
on that day.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Abridged from Le Correspondant.
THE MARQUIS DE CHASTELLUX.
IN the bleak region of Upper Bur-
gundy, not far from the domain of
Vauban, stands the old manor of
Chastellux, famous since the fifteenth
century as the birth-place of two
brothers, one of whom became an ad-
miral, the other a marshal of France.
From this feudal stronghold came
forth one of the most amiable of the
courtiers of Louis XVI. a disciple
of Voltaire and Hume, a rival of Tur-
got and Adam Smith, a friend of
Washington and Jefferson, a forerun-
ner of the revolutionists of 1789, a phil-
osopher, an historian, a political econo-
mist, something of a poet, something
of a naturalist, something of an artist,
a man of taste, an enthusiastic student,
a brilliant talker, and an elegant writ-
er. The rude Sieurs de Chastellux
would have been not a little astonished
could they have foreseen what charac-
ter of man was destined to inherit
their title.
Frangois Jean de Beauvoir, first
known as Chevalier and afterward
Marquis de Chastellux, was born at
Paris in 1734. He was a son of the
Count de Chastellux, lieutenant-gen-
eral of the armies of the king, by
Mile. d'Aguesseau, daughter of the
chancellor. His mother, being left a
widow at an early period, withdrew
thereupon into the privacy of domes-
tic life, and the young marquis had the
good fortune to be brought up under
the eyes of the Chancellor d'Agues-
seau himself. He entered the army
at sixteen, and was hardly twenty-one
before he had risen to be colonel. He
distinguished himself highly during
the campaigns of the Seven Years'
"War, and it was as a reward of his
gallantry no less than out of compli-
ment to his hereditary rank that he
was selected on one occasion to pre-
sent to the king the flags of a con-
quered city. It is hard to understand
how, in the midst of such an active
life, he could find time for study ; but
for all that he knew Greek, Latin,
English, and Italian, and had some
acquaintance with every branch of
science cultivated in his time. From
boyhood he showed a zealous interest
in every sort of invention or discovery
which promised to be of practical use
182
The Marquis de Chastellux.
,to mankind. When the principle of
inoculation for small-pox was first
broached in Europe, everybody shrank
in alarm from the experiment. The
young marquis had himself inocu-
lated without his mother's knowledge,
and then, running to Buffon, who
knew his family, exclaimed joyfully,
" I am saved, and my example will be
the means of saving many others. "
When peace was declared in 1763,
he was not yet thirty. With his emi-
nent gifts of mind and person, a bril-
liant career in society lay open to him,
but he aimed to be something more
than a mere man of fashion. His first
literary productions were biographical
sketches of two of his brother officers,
MM. de Closen and de. Belsunce,
which appeared in the Mercure, in
1765. He wrote a lively and grace-
ful little essay on the " Union of
Poetry and Music," the same subject
which Marmontel afterward treated
in his poem of Polymnie. The great
quarrel between the schools of Gluck
and Piccini did not break out until
ten years later ; but mutterings of the
coming tempest were heard already.
Itah'an music had its enthusiastic ad-
mirers and its implacable foes, and in
the midst of their disputes Monsigny
and Gretry had just given to France
a lyric school of her own by creating
the comic opera. M. de Chastellux,
like everybody else in those days, was
passionately fond of the theatre, and
he espoused the cause of Italian music
with the ardor that characterized ev-
erything he did. About the same
time he fell into the society of the En-
cyclopoedists, and allied himself with
Helvetius, d'Alembert, Turgot, and
the rest of the philosophical party,
who received the illustrious recruit
with open arms.
About the same time that M. de
Chastellux left the army, and made
his debut in civil life, the Scottish his-
torian and philosopher, David Hume,
arrived in Paris, with the British am-
bassador, Lord Hertford. He became
the lion of the day. Courtiers and
philosophers fell down and worship-
ped him ; his skeptical opinions were
eagerly imbibed, and the three years
that he spent in the French capital
became, owing to his extraordinary
influence, one of the most important
epochs in the literary history of the
eighteenth century. M. de Chastellux
shared in the general enthusiasm ; and
the " Essays" and " Political Discours-
es" of Hume, together with the Essai
sur les mceurs et I'esprit des nations
of Voltaire, which had appeared a few
years before, wrought upon his mind
a deep and lasting impression. The
united influence of these two authors
led him to a course of study wKich re-
sulted in a work upon which his reputa-
tion was finally established. This was
his celebrated treatise, " On Public Fe-
licity; or, Considerations on the Con-
dition of Man at different Periods of
his History," in two volumes. It bears
a resemblance to both its parents. It
is historical, like the Essai sur
mceurs, and dogmatic, like the "
says" and " Discourses." And that
one of its defects. The " Consid(
tions" on the condition of man at
ous periods serve by way of introdi
tion to the author's theory of public
felicity ; lout the second part is inferior
to the first, The body of the book is
sacrificed to the introduction.
This was four years before the ap-
pearance of Adam Smith's " Wealth
of Nations." The Marquis de Mira-
beau and others of his school had be-
gun to write ; but their notions of po-
litical economy were still unfamiliar
to the public. M. de Chastellux may
therefore be regarded as one of the
first supporters of that doctrine of
human perfectibility which lies at the
bottom of all the prevailing opinions
of the eighteenth century. To this he
added another theory, that the only
end of government ought to be " the
greatest happiness of the greatest pos-
sible number." Nearly one hundred
years ago, therefore, he discovered
and developed the principle which is
now one of the most popular epitomes
of social science. His style is good,
The Marquis de Chastellux.
183
but neither very concise nor very bril-
liant. It is now and then obscure,
sometimes digressive, sometimes de-
clamatory ; but for the most part clear,
lively, and abounding in those happy
touches which show the writer to be
a man of the world as well as an
author.
It is said that the immediate occasion
of his writing the book was a conver-
sation with Mably, the author of " Ob-
servations on the History of France,"
who maintained that the world was
constantly degenerating, and that the
men of to-day were not half so good
as their grandfathers. The young
philosopher, his head full of the new
ideas, resolved to demonstrate the su-
periority of the present over the past.
The first edition of his work appeared
in 1772, two years before the death of
Louis XV. It was printed anony-
mously in Holland. Everywhere it
was read with avidity, abroad as well
as in France. It was translated into
English, German, and Italian. Vol-
taire read it at Ferney, and was so
much struck by it that he covered his
copy with marginal notes not always
of approbation which were repro-
duced in a new edition of the work by
the author's son, in 1822.
Despite great merits, which cannot
be denied it, the essay "On Public
Felicity " is now almost forgotten. In
the historical portion, M. de Chastel-
lux passes in review all the nations of
ancient and modern times, for the pur-
pose of showing that the general con-
dition of man has never before been so
good as it is now. The fundamental
principle of his work is disclosed in
the following profession of faith : " To
say that man is born to be free, that
his first care is to preserve his liberty
when he enjoys it, and to recover it
when he has lost it, is to attribute to
him a sentiment which he shares with
the whole animal kingdom, and which
cannot be called in question. And if
we add that this liberty is by its very
nature indefinite, and that the liberty
of one individual can only be limited
by that of another, we do but express
a truth which few in this enlightened
age will be found to contradict. Look
at society from this point of view,
and you will see nothing but a series
of encroachments and resistances ; and
if you Avant to form a just idea of
government, you must consider it as
the equilibrium which ought to result
from these opposing struggles ....
Government a.nd legislation are only
secondary and subordinate objects.
They ought to be regarded merely as
means through which men may pre-
serve in the social state the greatest
possible portion of natural liberty."
It is melancholy to see how, in a
work that has so much to recom-
mend it, the chapter which treats
of the establishment of Christianity is
disfigured by the skeptical philosophy
of the age. Our regret at this is per-
haps the more keen because the fault
was altogether without excuse. Tur-
got had argued before the Sorbonne,
only a few years previously, that a
belief in the progress of the human
race, so far from being incompatible
with the doctrine of redemption, is its
necessary consequence. De Chas-
tellux might have shown that, if the
coming of our Lord did not immedi-
ately effect a sensible reformation
throughout the civilized world, it was
because the vices and bad passions of
the old pagan society long survived
the overthrow of the old pagan gods.
But there is this to be said for him :
if he does not evince an adequate
appreciation of the great moral revo-
lution effected by Christianity, he at
least does not speak of it in the same
insolent tone that was fashionable in
his day. "When he comes down to
modern times, and treats of density of
population in its relation to national
prosperity, he repeats the popular
fallacy that the multiplication of
religious orders exerts a pernicious
influence upon the progress of popula-
tion. But when from general views
he descends to statistics, he refutes
his own arguments. " The number
of monks in France," he says,
" according to a careful enumeration
184
The Marquis de Chastellux.
made by order of government, a few
years ago, was 26,674, and it cer-
tainly is not less now." In point
of fact, the real number when the
property of the clergy was confiscated
in 1790 was only 17,000; and what
is that in a population of 24,000,000
or 26,000,000 ? The army withdraws
from the marriage state twenty times
that number of men, in the vigor of
their age; whereas the greater part
of the monks are men in the decline of
life.
It is a matter of astonishment that
a work which professes to treat of
"public felicity" should devote itself
entirely to the material well-being of
society, and have nothing to say of the
moral condition of mankind, which is
the more important element of the two
in making up the sum of human happi-
ness. Every author, of course, has a
right to fix the limits of his subject;
but then he must not promise on the
title-page more than he means to per-
form.
The authorship of the essay on
"Public Felicity" was not long a
secret; but de Chastellux received
perhaps as much annoyance as glory
from the discovery. His ideas did
not please everybody, and among those
who fell foul of him for his philosophi-
cal errors were some of his own fam-
ily. He made little account of their
opposition, and in 1774 came out
boldly with an eulogy on Helvetia s,
with whom he had lived for a long
tune on the most intimate terms. Two
years later, he published a second edi-
tion of his previous treatise, with the
addition of a chapter of "Ulterior
Views," in which he points out the
danger of some of the revolutionary
opinions which were then coming more
and more into vogue, and the futility
of trying to realize in actual life that
form of government which might be
theoretically the best. If he had been
alive in 1789, he would have belonged
to the monarchical party in the Con-
stituent Assembly ; and, after having
done his part in paving the way for
the revolution, he would have perished
as one of its victims. Among political
and social reformers, he must be classed
with the school of Montesquieu rather
than with that of Rousseau.
The attention of France, however,
was now fixed more and more firmly
upon the conte&t going on in America
between Great Britain and her re-
bellious colonies. Louis XVI., after
some resistance, yielded to the demand
of public opinion, and, in 1778, not
only recognized the independence of
the United States, but sent a fleet
under Count d'Estaing to help them.
A second expedition was despatched
under Count de Rochambeau. M. de
Chastellux, who then held the grade
of marechal de camp [equivalent to
something between brigadier and
major-general in the present Unil
States army ED.], obtained permit
sion to join it, and was appoint
major - general. The expedition!
corps arrived at Newport, capital
the state of Rhode Island, July II
1780. It consisted of eight ships
the line, two frigates, two gunl
and over 5,000 troops. The ne:
year came a reenforcement of 3,0(
men. Lord Cornwallis, who
manded the English forced was shi
up in Yorktown, Va., and, being close-
ly besieged by the allies and invested
by land and sea, was compelled to sur-
render in October, 1781. This forced
England to conclude a peace, and the
auxiliary corps re-embarked at Boston
on their return to France at the close
of 1782. It had been two years and
a half in America, and during this time
the republic had achieved its independ-
ence.
During his visit to America, M. de
Chastellux employed the brief periods
of leisure left him from military occu-
pations in making three tours through
the interior. He wrote down as he
travelled a journal of his observations,
and printed at a little press on board
the fleet some twenty copies of it, ten
or twelve of which found their way to
Europe. So great was the eagerness
The Marquis de Chastellux.
185
with which people there seized upon
every book relating to America, that a
number of copies were surreptitiously
printed, and a publisher at Cassel
brought out an imperfect edition. The
author then pubh'shed the book himself
in 1786 (2 vols., 12mo, Paris), under
the title, Voyages de M. le Marquis de
Chastellux dans I'Amerique septentri-
onale en 1780, 1781, et 1782. Though
written originally only for his friends,
it has a general interest, and presents
a curious picture of the condition of
North America at the period of which
it treats.
The author set out from Newport,
where the troops had landed and gone
into winter-quarters, in order to visit
Pennsylvania. Accompanied by two
aides-de-camp, one of whom was the
Baron de Montesquieu, grandson of
the author of the Esprit des lois, and
by five mounted servants, he started,
November 11, 1780, on horseback, for
that was the only means of travelling
that the country afforded. The ground
was frozen hard, and already covered
with snow. The little party directed
their steps first toward Windham,
where Lauzun's hussars, forming the
advance-guard of the army, were en-
camped. They found the Duke de
Lauzun at the head of his troops, and
this meeting between the grandsons of
d'Aguesseau and Montesquieu, and a
descendant of the Lauzuns and Birons,
all three fighting for the cause of lib-
erty in the wilds of America, was a
curious beginning of their adventures.
It was this same Duke de Lauzun, a
friend of Mirabeau and Talleyrand,
who became Duke de Biron after the
death of his uncle, was chosen a mem-
ber of the States General in 1789,
commanded the republican army of
La Vendee, and finished his career on
the scaffold.
^ The travellers crossed the mount-
ains which separated them from the
Hudson, and, after passing through a
wild and almost desert country, ar-
rived at West Point, a place celebrated
at that time for the most dramatic in-
cidents of the war of independence (the
treason of General Arnold and the
execution of Major Andre), and now
famous as the seat of the great mili-
tary school of the United States. The
American army occupying the forts of
"West Point, which Arnold's treachery
had so nearly given over to the enemy,
saluted the French major-general with
thirteen guns one for each state in
the confederation. " Never," says he,
" was honor more imposing or majestic.
Every gun was, after a long inter-
val, echoed back from the opposite
bank with a noise nearly equal to that
of the discharge itself. Two years
ago, West Point was an almost inac-
cessible desert. This desert has been
covered with fortresses and artillery
by a people who, six years before, had
never seen a cannon. The well-filled
magazines, and the great number of
guns in the different forts, the pro-
digious labor which must have been
expended in transporting and piling up
on the steep rocks such huge trunks of
trees and blocks of hewn stone, give
one a very different idea of the Ameri-
cans from that which the English min-
istry have labored to convey to Parlia-
ment. A Frenchman might well be
surprised that a nation hardly born
should have spent in two years more
than 12,000,000 francs in this wilder-
ness ; but how much greater must be
his surprise when he learns that these
fortifications have cost the state noth-
ing, having been constructed by the
soldiers, who not only received no ex-
tra allowance for the labor, but have
not even touched their regular pay!
It will be gratifying for him to know
that these magnificent works were
planned by two French engineers, M.
du Portail and M. Gouvion,* who
have been no better paid than their
workmen."
West Point stands on the bank of
* MM. du Portail and Gouvion went to America
with Lafayette, and returned with him. Each rose
afterward to the rank of lieutenant-general in the
French army. The former, through the influence
of Lafayette, was appointed minister-of-war in
1790 ; he fled -to the United States during the Reign
of Terror. The other was created major-general of
the National Guard of Paris in 1769 ; ho fell in bat-
tle in 1792.
186
The Marquis de ChasteUux.
the Hudson, in a situation which may
well be compared with the most beau-
tiful scenery of the Rhine. M. de
ChasteUux describes it with the live-
liest admiration; but he remained
there only a short time, because he
was in haste to reach the head-quarters
of Washington.
" After passing thick woods, I found
myself in a small plain, where I saw a
handsome farm. A small camp which
seemed to cover it, a large tent pitched
in the yard, and several wagons
around it, convinced me that I was at
the head-quarters of His Excellency,
for so Mr. Washington is called, in the
army and throughout America. M.
de Lafayette was conversing in the
yard with a tall man about five feet
nine inches high, of a noble'and mild
aspect: it was the general himself.
I was soon off my horse and in his
presence. The compliments were short ;
the sentiments which animated me and
the good-will which he testified for me
were not equivocal. He led me into
his house, where I found the company
still at table, although dinner had long
been over. He presented me to the
generals and the aides-de-camp, adju-
tants, and other officers attached to his
person, who form what is called in
England and America the family of
the general. A few glasses of claret
and madeira accelerated the acquaint-
ances I had to make, and I soon felt at
my ease in the presence of the greatest
and best of men. The goodness and
benevolence which characterize him
are evident from everything about
him; but the confidence he inspires
never gives occasion to familiarity, for
it originates in a profound esteem for
his virtues and a high opinion of his
talents."
The next day Washington offered
to conduct his guest to the camp of
the marquis : this was the appellation
universally bestowed in America upon
Lafayette, who commanded the ad-
vance of the army.
" We found his troops in order of
battle, and himself at their head, ex-
pressing by his air and countenance
that he was better pleased to receive
me there than he would be at his es-
tate in Auvergne.* The confidence
and attachment of his troops are inval-
uable possessions for him, well-earned
riches of which nobody can deprive
him ; but what, in my opinion, is still
more flattering for a young man of his
age (he was not more than twenty-
three) is the influence and conside
tion he has acquired in political
well as military matters. I do not ex-
aggerate when I say that private let
ters from him have often produ(
more effect upon some of the stat(
than the most urgent recommenda-
tions of the Congress. On seeing him,
one is at a loss to decide which is the
stranger circumstance that a rm
so young should have given such ex-
traordinary proofs of ability, or tl
one who has been so much trk
should still give promise of such a
career of glory. Happy his country,
should she know how to make use
his talents! happier still, should sh<
never stand in need of them !"
This last remark shows that M.
ChasteUux, with all his enthusiasm fo
the present, was not without anxietj
for the future. He spent three
at head-quarters, nearly all the wl
at table, after the American fashk
At the end of each meal nuts wei
served, and General Washington si
for several hours, eating them, " toast-
ing/' and conversing. These long
conversations only increased his com-
panion's admiration.
" The most striking characteristic of
this respected man is the perfect accord
which exists between his physical and
moral qualities. This idea of a per-
fect whole cannot be produced by en-
thusiasm, which would rather reject it,
since the effect of proportion is to di-
minish the idea of greatness. Brave
without rashness, laborious without
ambition, generous without prodigality,
noble without pride, virtuous without
severity, he seems always to have con-
* M. de ChasteUux was cousin-german by the
mother's side to the Duchess of Ayen, the mother
of Madame de Lafayette.
The Marquis de OhasteUux.
187
fined himself within those limits where
the virtues, by clothing themselves in
more lively but more changeable and
doubtful colors, may be mistaken for
faults."
The city of Philadelphia was the
capital of the confederation and the
seat of the Congress. M. de Chastel-
lux did not fail to visit it. He en-
joyed there the hospitality of the Chev-
alier de la Luzerne, French minister
to the United States, and had the pleas-
ure of meeting several young French
officers, some in the service of the
United States, others belonging to the
expeditionary corps, whom the inter-
ruption of military operations had left
at liberty, like himself. Among them
were M. de Lafayette, the Viscount de
Noailles, the Count de Damas, the
Count de Custine, the Chevalier de
Mauduit, and the Marquis de la Roue-
rie. Let us give a few particulars
about these " Gallo- Americans," as
our author calls them. The Viscount
de Noailles, brother-in-law of Lafay-
ette, and colonel of the chasseurs of
Alsace, was afterward a member of
the States General, and principal
author of the famous deliberations of
the 4th of August. The Count Charles
de Damas, an aide-de-camp of Roch-
ambeau, in after years took part, on
the contrary, against the revolutionists,
and, attempting to rescue Louis XVI.
at Varennes, was arrested with him.
The Count de Custine, colonel of. the
regiment of Saintonge infantry, is the
same who was general-in-chief of the re-
publican armies in 1792, and who died
by the guillotine the next year, like
Lauzun. The Chevalier de Mauduit
commanded the American artillery.
At the age of fifteen, with his head full
of dreams of classical antiquity, he
ran away from college, walked to Mar-
seilles, and shipped as cabin-boy on
board a vessel bound for Greece, in
order to visit the battle-fields of Pla-
teea and Thermopylae. The same spirit
of enthusiasm carried him, at the age
of twenty, to America. Appointed,
after the war, commandant at Port au
Prince, he was assassinated there by
his own soldiers in 1791. The history
of the Marquis de la Rouerie, or Rou-
arie, is still more romantic. In his
youth he fell violently in love with an
actress, and wanted to marry her.
Compelled by his family to break off
this attachment, he oletermined to be-
come a Trappist ; but he soon threw
aside the monastic habit and went to
America, where he commanded a
legion armed and equipped at his own
cost. He abandoned his surname and
title, and would only be known as Col-
onel Armand. After his return to
France, he was concerned, with others
of the nobility of Brittany, in the
troubles which preceded the revolution.
He was one of the twelve deputies
sent in 1787 to demand of the king
the restoration of the privileges of that
province, and as such was committed
to the Bastile. The next year he had
occasion to claim the same privileges,
not from the king, but from the Third
Estate. In 1791 he placed himself at
the head of the disaffected, and organ-
ized the royalist insurrection in the
west. Denounced and pursued, he
saved himself by taking to the forest,
lay hid in one chateau after another,
fell sick in the middle of winter, and
died in a fit of despair on hearing of
the execution of Louis XVI.
The Chevalier de la Luzerne,
brother of the Bishop of Langres,
afterward cardinal, so distinguished for
his noble conduct in 1789, was a man
of more coolness and deliberation, but
not less devoted to the cause of the
United States. He had given abun-
dant proof of his friendship by con-
tracting a loan on his own responsibili-
ty for the payment of the American
troops.
" M. de la Luzerne," says de Chas-
tellux, " is so formed for the station he
occupies, that one would be tempted to
imagine no other could fill it but him-
self. Noble in his expenditure, like
the minister of a great monarchy, but
plain in his manners, like a republican,
he is equally fit to represent the king
with the Congress, or the Congress
with the king. He loves the Ameri-
188
The Marquis de Chastellux.
cans, and his own inclination attaches
him to the duties of his administration.
He has accordingly obtained their con-
fidence, both as a private and a public
man ; but in both these respects he is
inaccessible to the spirit of party
which reigns but too much around him.
He is anxiously courted by all parties,
and, espousing none, he manages all."
In acknowledgment of his services
in America, the Chevalier was appoint-
ed, after the peace, minister at London ;
rather an audacious action on the
part of the government of Louis XVI.
to choose as their representative in
England the very man who had con-
tributed most of all to the independ-
ence of the United States. The state
of Pennsylvania, in gratitude for his
acts of good-will, gave the name of
Luzerne to one of her counties.
The principal occupation of these
officers, during their stay at Philadel-
phia, was to visit, notwithstanding the
inclemency of the weather, the scenes
of the recent conflicts near that city,
or to discuss the causes which had
turned the fortune of war, now in favor
of the Americans, and now against
them. Our author here shows himself
in a new light, as a tactician who, with
a thorough knowledge of the art of
war, points out the circumstances which
have led to the success or failure of
this or that manoeuvre. Those affairs
in which the French figured especially
attracted his attention. Bravery, gen-
erosity, disinterestedness, all the na-
tional virtues were conspicuous in these
volunteers who had crossed the ocean
to make war at their own expense, and
who softened the asperity of military
operations by the charm of their ele-
gant manners and chivalric bearing.
Among the battle-fields which these
young enthusiasts, while a waiting some-
thing better to do, loved to trace out
was that of Brandy wine, where M. de
Lafayette, almost immediately after
his landing in America, received the
wound in the leg of which he speaks
so gaily in a letter to his wife. La-
fayette himself acted as their guide,
and recounted to his friends, on the
very scene of action, the incidents of
this day, which was not a fortunate
one for the Americans. He did the
honors of another expedition to the
heights of Barren Hill, where he had
gained an advantage under rather cu-
rious circumstances. He had with him
there about two thousand infantry with
fifty dragoons and an equal number
of Indian's, when the English, who oc-
cupied Philadelphia, endeavored to
surround and capture him.
" General Howe [Sir Henry Clin-
ton ED.] thought he had now fairly
caught the marquis, and even carried
his gasconade so far as to invite ladies
to meet Lafayette at supper the next
day ; and, whilst the principal part of
the officers were at the play, he put in
motion the main body of his forces,
which he marched in three columns.
The first was not long in reaching the
advanced posts of M. de Lafayette,
which gave rise to a laughable adven-
ture. The fifty savages he had wit
him were placed in ambuscade in tl
woods, after their own manner ;
is to say, lying as close as rabbit
Fifty English dragoons, who had nev<
seen any Indians, entered the w(
where they were hid. The Indh
on their part, had never seen dragooi
Up they start, raising a horrible cry,
throw down their arms, and escape by
swimming across the Schuylkill. The
dragoons, on the other hand, as much
terrified as they were, turned tail, and
fled in such a panic that they did not
stop until they reached Philadelphia.
M. de Lafayette, finding himself in dan-
ger of being surrounded, made such
skilful dispositions that he effected his
retreat, as if by enchantment, and
crossed the river without losing a man.
The English army, finding the bird
flown, returned to Philadelphia, spent
with fatigue, and ashamed of having
done nothing. The ladies did not see M.
de Lafayette, and General Howe [Clin-
ton] himself arrived too late for supper."
By the side of these admirable mil-
itary sketches, we have an account of
a ball at the Chevalier de la Luzerne's.
" There were near twenty women,
The Marquis de Cha&tellux.
189
twelve or fifteen of whom danced, each
having her ' partner,' as the custom is
in America. Dancing is said to be at
once the emblem of gaiety and of love ;
here it seems to be the emblem of legis-
lation and of marriage : of legislation,
inasmuch as places are marked out,
the country-dances named, and every
proceeding provided for, calculated, and
submitted to regulation ; of marriage,
as it furnishes each lady with a part-
ner, with whom she must dance the
whole evening, without being permitted
to take another. Strangers have gen-
erally the privilege of being compli-
mented with the handsomest women ;
that is to say, out of politeness, the
prettiest partners are given to them.
The Count de Damas led forth Mrs.
Bingham, and the Viscount de Noailles,
Miss Shippen. Both of them, like true
philosophers, testified a great respect
for the custom of the country by not
quitting their partners the whole eve-
ning ; in other respects they were the
admiration of the whole assembly from
the grace and dignity with which they
danced. To the honor of my country,
I can affirm that they surpassed that
evening a chief justice of Carolina, and
two members of Congress, one of whom
(Mr. Duane) passed for being by ten
per cent, more lively than all the
other dancers."
At Philadelphia, as in camp, a
great part of the day was passed at
table. -The Congress having met, M.
de Chastellux was invited to dinner
successively by the representatives
from the North and the representa-
tives from the South ; for the political
body was even then divided by a geo-
graphical line, each side having sepa-
rate reunions at a certain tavern which
they used to frequent: so we see the
differences between North and South
are as old as the confederation itself.
He made the acquaintance of all the
leading members, and especially of
Samuel Adams, one of the framers of
the Declaration of Independence.* He
* A mistake of the reviewer's. Samuel Adams
had no hand in writing the Declaration, nor does
de Chastellux say that he had. ED. C. W.
saw also the celebrated pamphleteer,
Thomas Paine, who ten years after-
ward came to France, and was chosen
a member of the National Convention.
Together with Lafayette, our author
was elected a member of the Academy
of Philadelphia. Despite so many
circumstances to prepossess him in fa-
vor of the Americans, he appears not
a very ardent admirer of what he wit-
nesses about him. He shows but little
sympathy with the Quakers, whose
" smooth and wheedling tone" disgusts
him, and whom he represents as wholly
given up to making money. Phila-
delphia he calls "the great sink in
which all the speculations of the Unit-
ed States meet and mingle." The city
then had 40,000 inhabitants; it now
contains 600,000.
We can easily conceive that, in con-
trasting the appearance of this republic-
an government with the great French
monarchy, he should have found abun-
dant food for study and reflection. He
speaks with great reserve, but what
little he says is enough to show that
he was not so much enamored of
republican ideas as Lafayette and
most of his friends. The disciple of
Montesquieu loses much of his ad-
miration for the American constitu-
tions when he sees them in opera-
tion, and seems especially loath to
introduce them into his own coun-
try. The constitution of Pennsyl-
vania strikes him as particularly de-
fective.
" The state of Pennsylvania is far
from being one of the best governed of
the members of the confederation.
The government is without force ; nor
can it be otherwise. A popular gov-
ernment can never have any whilst
the people are uncertain and vacillat-
ing in their opinions; for then the
leaders seek rather to please than to
serve them, and end by becoming the
slaves of the multitude whom they
pretended to govern."
This constitution had one capital
defect : it provided only for a single
legislative chamber. After a disas-
trous trial, Pennsylvania was com-
190
The Marquis de Chastellux.
pelled to change her laws, and adopt
the system of two chambers, like the
other states of the Union.
Our author betrays his misgivings
most clearly in his narrative of an in-
terview with Samuel Adams. His
report of the conversation is especially
curious, as it shows how entirely the
two speakers were preoccupied by dif-
ferent ideas. Samuel Adams, who
has been called " the American Cato,"
bent himself to prove the revolution
justifiable, by arguments drawn not
only from natural right but from his-
torical precedent. The thoroughly
English character of mind of these in-
novators led them to make it a sort
of point of honor to find a sanction
for their conduct in tradition. M. de
Chastellux, like a true Frenchman,
made no account of such reasonings.
" I am clearly of opinion that the
parliament of England had no right to
tax America without her consent ; but
I am still more clearly convinced that,
when a whole people say, ' We will be
free !' it is difficult to demonstrate that
they are in the wrong. Be that as it
may, Mr. Adams very satisfactorily
proved to me that New England was
peopled with no view to commerce and
aggrandizement, but wholly by individ-
uals who fled from persecution, and
sought an asylum at the extremity of
the world, where they might be free to
live and follow their own opinions ;
that it was of their own accord that
these colonists placed themselves un-
der the protection of England; that the
mutual relationship springing from this
connection was expressed in their
charters, and that the right of impos-
ing or exacting a revenue of any kind
was not comprised in them."
There was no question between the
two speakers of the Federal Constitu-
tion, for it did not yet exist. The
states at that time formed merely a
confederation of sovereign states, with
a general congress, like the German
confederation. They had no president
or central administration. The con-
stitutions spoken of in this conversa-
tion were simply the separate constitu-
tions of the individual states, and Sam-
uel Adams, being from Massachusetts,
referred particularly to that state. M.
de Chastellux, accustomed to the com-
plex social systems of Europe, was
surprised that no property qualifica-
tion should be required of voters ; the
Americans, on the contrary, who had
always lived in a democratic commun-
ity, both before and since the decla-
ration of independence, could not com-
prehend the necessity of such a restric-
tion. Both were doubtless right ; for
it is equally difficult to establish polit-
ical inequality where it does not al-
ready exist, and to suddenly abolish it
where it does exist. The constitution
of Massachusetts, superior in this
spect to that of Pennsylvania, provk
ed for a moderating power by
creation of a governor's council, el
ed by property-holders.
Our author's first journey terminat
in the north, near the Canada frontiei
He crosses the frozen rivers in a sleij
in order to visit the battle-field of
atoga, the scene, three years before,
the capitulation of General Burgoym
the most important success which
Americans had achieved previous
the arrival of the French. Returnii
to Newport in the early part of 1781
after having travelled, in the course
two months, more than three hundi
leagues, on horseback or in sleighs, '.
passed the rest of the year solely oc-
cupied in the duties of the glorious cam-
paign which put an end to the war.
He wrote a journal of this campaign,
but it has not been published. He
speaks of it in the narrative of his
travels. From the Memoires of Ro-
chambeau, however, we learn some-
thing of his gallant behavior at the
siege of Yorktown, where, at the head
of the reserve, he repulsed a sortie of
the enemy.
His second journey was made imme-
diately after the surrender of Cornwal-
lis, and was directed toward Virginia,
the most important of the southern, as
Pennsylvania was of the northern,
states. It was the birth-place of Wash-
ington, of Jefferson, of Madison, and
The Marquis de ChasteUux.
191
of Monroe ; the state which shared
most actively in the war of independ-
ence, and which is now the principal
battle-field of the bloody struggle be-
tween North and South. This second
journey did not partake of the military
and political character of the first.
Now that the destiny of America
seemed settled, the author gave his at-
tention, principally, to natural history.
In every phrase we recognize the pupil
and admirer of Buffon. His chief
purpose was to visit a natural bridge
of rock across one of the affluents of
the James river, in the Appalachian
mountains. He describes this stupen-
dous arch with great care, and illus-
trates his narrative with several draw-
ings which he caused to be made by
an officer of engineers.
A propos of this subject, he indulges
in speculations upon the geological
formation of the New "World, quite after
the manner of the author of j&poques
de la nature. On the road he amused
himself by hunting. He describes the
animals that he kills, and gives an ac-
count of the mocking-bird, which al-
most equals Buffon's in vivacity, and
excels it in accuracy. He gives sev-
eral details respecting the opossum,
that singular animal which almost
seems to belong to a different creation.
All natural objects interest him, and
he studies them with the zeal of a first
discoverer. His description of the
mocking-bird is well worth reproduc-
ing :
"I rose with the sun, and, while
breakfast was preparing, took a walk
around the house. The birds were
heard on every side, but my attention
was chiefly attracted by a very agree-
able song, which appeared to proceed
from a neighboring tree. I approached
softly, and perceived it to be a mock-
ing-bird, saluting the rising sun. At
first I was afraid of frightening it, but
my presence, on the contrary, gave it
pleasure ; for, apparently delighted at
having an auditor, it sang better than
before, and its emulation seemed to
increase when it saw a couple of dogs,
which followed me, draw near to the
tree on which it was perched. It kept
hopping incessantly from branch to
branch, still continuing its song ; for
this extraordinary bird is not less re-
markable for its agility than its charm-
ing notes. It keeps perpetually rising
and sinking, so as to appear not less
the favorite of Terpsichore than Poly-
hymnia. This bird cannot certainly
be reproached with fatiguing its audit-
ors, for nothing can be more varied
than its song, of which it is impossible
to give an imitation, or even to furnish
any adequate idea. As it had every
reason to be satisfied with my atten-
tion, it concealed from me none of its
talents ; and one would have thought
that, after having delighted me with a
concert, it was desirous of entertaining
me with a comedy. It began to coun-
terfeit different birds ; those which it
imitated the most naturally, at least to
a stranger, were the jay, the raven, the
cardinal, and the lapwing. It ap-
peared desirous of detaining me near
it ; for, after I had listened for a quar-
ter of an hour, it followed me on my
return to the house, flying from tree to
tree, always singing, sometimes its
natural song, at others those which it
had learned in Virginia and in its
travels ; for this bird is one of those
which change climate, although it
sometimes appears here during the
winter."
Continuing his journey, the trav-
eller visited Jefferson at his country-
home, situated .deep in the wilderness,
on the skirts of the Blue Ridge. This
visit gives him opportunity for a new
historical portrait :
" It was Jefferson himself who built
his house and chose the situation.
He calls it Monticello [' little mount-
ain'], a modest title, for it is built
upon a very high mountain ; but the
name indicates the owner's attach-
ment to the language of Italy, and
above all to the fine arts, of which that
country was. the cradle. He is a man
not yet forty, of tall stature and a
mild and pleasant countenance ; but
his mind and understanding are ample
substitutes for every external grace.
192
The Marquis de Chastellux.
An American who, without having
ever quitted his own country, is skilled
in music and drawing ; a geometri-
cian, an astronomer, a natural phil-
osopher, a jurist and a statesman ; a
senator who sat for two years in the
congress which brought about the
revolution, and which is never men-
tioned without respect, though un-
happily not without regret;* a
governor of Virginia, who filled this
difficult station during the invasions of
Arnold, of Phillips, and of Corn-
wallis ; in fine, a philosopher in
voluntary retirement from the world
and public affairs, because he only
loves the world so long as he can
flatter himself with the conviction that
he is of some use to mankind. A
mild and amiable wife, charming chil-
dren, of whose education he himself
takes charge, a house to embellish,
great possessions to improve, and the
arts and sciences to cultivate these
are what remain to Mr. Jefferson after
having played a distinguished part on
the theatre of the New World. Before
I had been two hours in his company,
we were as ultimate as if we had
passed our whole lives together.
Walking, books, but above all a con-
versation always varied and interest-
ing, sustained by that sweet satisfac-
tion experienced by two persons whose
sentiments are always in unison, and
who understand each other at the
first hint, made four days seem to me
only so many minutes. No object
had escaped Mr. Jefferson's atten-
tion ; and it seemed as if from his
youth he had placed his mind, as he
has done his house, on an elevation
from which he might contemplate the
universe."
At the period of this visit, Mr. Jef-
ferson thought only of retirement ; but
when M. de Chastellux's Voyages en
Amerique appeared, three years after-
ward, he was minister-plenipotentiary
of the United States in Paris. The
* The United States were then passing through
a crisis of anarchy, which lasted until the adoption
of the Federal Constitution in 1 7^8, and the eleva-
tion of Washington to the presidency.
death of his wife had determined him
to return to public life. He formed a
solid friendship for M. de Chastellux,
of which his correspondence contains
abundant proof. The brilliant French
soldier introduced the solitary of Mon-
ticello, the " American wild-man of the
mountains," to the salons of Paris ; and
the republican statesman, with the
manners of an aristocrat, entered, noth-
ing loath, into the society of the gay
and polished capital, where he received
the same welcome and honors that
were accorded to Franklin.
This portion of the Journal closes
with some general remarks upon Vir-
ginia, which possess a new interest
now that the people of that state re-
appear upon the scene in the same
bellicose and indomitable character
which they bore of old.
" The Virginians differ essentially
from the people of the North, not only
in the nature of their climate, soil, and
agriculture, but in that indelible char-
acter which is imprinted on every
nation at the moment of its origin,
and which, by perpetuating itself from
generation to generation, justifies the
great principle that ' everything which
is partakes of that which has been. 5
The settlement of Virginia took place
at the commencement of the seventeenth
century. The republican and demo-
cratic spirit was not then common in
England ; that of commerce and navi-
gation was scarcely in its infancy.
The long wars with France and Spain
had perpetuated the military spirit,
and the first colonists of Virginia
were composed in great part of gen-
tlemen who had no other profession
than that of arms. It was natural,
therefore, for these colonists, who were
filled with military principles and the
prejudices of nobility, to carry them
even into the midst of the savages
whose lands they came to occupy.
Another cause which operated in form-
ing their character was the institution
of slavery. It may be asked how
these prejudices have been brought to
coincide with a revolution founded on
such different principles? I answer
The Marquis de Chastellux.
193
that they have perhaps contributed to
produce it. While the insurrection in
New England was the result of reason
and calculation, Virginia revolted
through pride."
The third and last journey of M. de
Chastellux led him through New
Hampshire, Massachusetts, and north-
ern Pennsylvania. This was during
the months of November and Decem-
ber, 1782, on the eve of his return to
France. He started from Hartford,
the capital of Connecticut, and, after
visiting several other places, went to
Boston, for he could not leave America
without seeing this city, the cradle of
the revolution. He found at this port
the French fleet, under command of
M. de Vaudreuil, which was to carry
back the expeditionary corps to France.
He closes his Journal with an interest-
ing account of the university at Cam-
bridge, which Ampere, who was, like
him, a member of the French Academy,
visited and described seventy years
afterward. In the appendix to his
book he gives a letter written by him-
self on board the frigate F$meraude,
just before sailing, to Mr. Madison,
professor of philosophy in William
and Mary College. It is upon a sub-
ject which has not yet lost its ap-
propriateness the future of the arts
and sciences in America. A demo-
cratic and commercial society, always
in a ferment, seemed to him hardly
compatible with scientific, and still less
with artistic, progress. But, in his
solicitude for the welfare of the coun-
try he had been defending, he would
not allow that the difficulty was in-
superable. Some of his remarks upon
this subject are extremely delicate and
ingenious.
The question which troubled him is
not yet fully answered, but it is in a
fair way of being settled. The United
States have really made but little
progress in the arts, though they have
produced a few pictures and statues
which have elicited admiration even in
Europe at recent industrial exhibitions.
They are beginning, however, to have
13
a literature. Even in the days of the
revolution they could boast of the
writings of Franklin, which combined
the-most charming originality with re-
finement and solid good sense. Now they
can show, among novelists, Fenimore
Cooper and the celebrated Mrs. Beech-
er Stowe, whose book gave the signal
for another revolution; among story-
tellers, Washington Irving and Haw-
thorne; among critics, Ticknor; among
historians, Prescott and Bancroft;
among economists, Carey ; among
political writers, Everett ; among mor-
alists, Emerson and Channing ; among
poets, Bryant and Longfellow. In
science they have done still more.
They have adopted and naturalized
one of the first of modern geologists,
Agassiz; and the hydrographical
labors of Maury, [late] director of
the Washington Observatory, are the
admiration of the whole world. Their
immense development in industrial
pursuits implies a corresponding prog-
ress in practical science. It was
Fulton, an American, who invented
the steamboat, and carried out in his
own country the idea which he could
not persuade Europe to listen to ; and
only lately the reaping-machine has
come to us from the shores of the
great lakes and the vast prairies of
the Far West.
When the Voyages en Amerique ap-
peared, the revolutionary party in
France were still more dissatisfied
with the book than they had been with
the Felicite publique. They were an-
gry at the wise and unprejudiced judg-
ments which the author passed upon
men and things in the New World ;
they were angry that he found some
things not quite perfect in republic-
an society, that his praises of democ-
racy were not louder, his denuncia-
tions of the past not more sweeping.
Brissot de Warville, whose caustic pen
was already in full exercise, published
a bitter review of the book. Some of
the hostile criticisms found their way
to the United States, and M. de Chas-
tellux, in sending a copy of his work to
General Washington, took occasion to
194
The Marquis de Chastellux.
defend himself. He received from the
general a long and affectionate reply,
written at Mount Vernon, in April,
1786.
M. de Chastellux also wrote a " Dis-
course on the Advantages and Disad-
vantages which have resulted to Eu-
rope from the Discovery of America,"
and edited the comedies of the Mar-
chioness de Gle'on. This lady, cele-
brated for her wit and beauty, was the
daughter of a rich financier. At her
house, La Chevrette, near Montmo-
rency, she entertained all the literary
world, and gave representations of her
own plays. Her friend, M. de Chastel-
lux, was himself the author of a few dra-
matic pieces, performed either at La
Chevrette or at the Prince de Conde's,
at Chantilly ; but they have never
been published. We shall respect his
reserve, and refrain from giving our
readers a taste either of these compo-
sitions or of his " Plan for a general
Reform of the French Infantry," and
other unpublished writings.
After his return from America, de
Chastellux was appointed governor of
Longwy. He had reached the age of
nearly fifty and was still unmarried,
when he met at the baths of Spa,
which were still the resort of all the
good company in Europe, a young,
beautiful, and accomplished Irish girl,
named Miss Plunkett, with whom he
fell over head and ears in love. He
married her in 1787, but did not long
enjoy his happiness, for he died the
next year. Like most men who de-
vote themselves to the pubh'c welfare,
he had sadly neglected his private af-
fairs. Being the youngest of five chil-
dren, his fortune was not large, and it
gave him little trouble to run through
it. General officers in those days
took a pride in their profuse ex-
penditures in the field : he ruined him-
self by his American campaign. His
widow was attached in the capacity of
maid of honor to the person of the esti-
mable daughter of the Duke de Pen-
thievre,the Duchess of Orleans, mother
of King Louis Philippe. This princess
adopted, after a certain fashion, his pos-
thumous son, who became one of the
chevaliers d'honneur of Madame Ade-
laide, the daughter of his patroness.
He was successively a deputy and
peer of France after the revolution
1830. He published a short memoir
of his father, prefixed to an edition
of the Felicite publique.
The jLcgend of Limerick Bells. 195
Prom The Month.
THE LEGEND OF LIMERICK BELLS.
BY BESSIE RAYNER PARKES.
THERE is a convent on the Alban hill,
Round whose stone roots the gnarled olives grow ;
Above are murmurs of the mountain rill,
And all the broad Campagna lies below ;
Where faint gray buildings and a shadowy dome
Suggest the splendor of eternal Rome.
Hundreds of years ago, these convent-walls
Were reared by masons of the Gothic age :
The date is carved upon the lofty halls,
The story written on the illumined page.
What pains they took to make it strong and fair
The tall bell-tower and sculptured porch declare.
When all the stones were placed, the windows stained,
And the tall bell-tower finished to the crown,
Only one want in this fair pile remained,
Whereat a cunning workman of the town
(The little town upon the Alban hill)
Toiled day and night his purpose to fulfil.
Seven bells he made, of very rare devise,
With graven lilies twisted up and down ;
Seven bells proportionate in differing size,
And full of melody from rim to crown ;
So that, when shaken by the wind alone,
They murmured with a soft .ZEolian tone.
These being placed within the great bell-tower,
And duly rung by pious skilful hand,
Marked the due prayers of each recurring hour,
And sweetly mixed persuasion with command.
Through the gnarled olive-trees the music wound,
And miles of broad Campagna heard the sound.
And then the cunning workman put aside
His forge, his hammer, and the tools he used
To chase those lilies ; his keen furnace died;'
And all who asked for bells were hence refused.
With these his best, his last were also wrought,
And refuge in the convent-walls he sought.
There did he live, and there he hoped to die,
Hearing the wind among the cypress-trees
196 The Legend of Limerick Bells.
Hint unimagined music, and the sky
Throb full of chimes borne downward by the breeze ;
Whose undulations, sweeping through the air,
His art might claim as an embodied prayer.
But those were stormy days in Italy :
Down came the spoiler from the uneasy North,
Swept the Campagna to the bounding sea,
Sacked pious homes, and drove the inmates forth ;
Whether a Norman or a German foe,
History is silent, and we do not know.
Brothers in faith were they ; yet did not deem
The sacred precincts barred destroying hand.
Through those rich windows poured the whitened beam,
Forlorn the church and ruined altar stand.
As the sad monks went forth, that self-same hour
Saw empty silence in the great bell-tower.
The outcast brethren scattered far and wide ;
Some by the Danube rested, some in Spain :
On the green Loire the aged abbot died,
By whose loved feet one brother did remain
Faithful in all his wanderings : it was he
Who cast and chased those bells in Italy.
He, dwelling at Marmontier, by the tomb
Of his dear father, where the shining Loire
Flows down from Tours amidst the purple bloom
Of meadow-flowers, some years of patience saw.
Those fringed isles (where poplars tremble still)
Swayed like the olives of the Alban hill.
The man was old, and reverend in his age ;
And the " Great Monastery" held him dear.
Stalwart and stern, as some old Roman sage
Subdued to Christ, he lived from year to year,
Till his beard silvered, and the fiery glow
Of his dark eye was overhung with snow.
And being trusted, as of prudent way,
They chose him for a message of import,
Which the " Great Monastery" would convey
To a good patron in an Irish court ;
Who, by the Shannon, sought the means to found
St. Martin's off-shoot on that distant ground.
The old Italian took his staff in hand,
And journeyed slowly from the green Touraine
Over the heather and salt-shining sand,
Until he saw the leaping crested main,
The Legend of Limerick Bells. 197
Which, dashing round the Cape of Brittany,
Sweeps to the confines of the Irish Sea.
There he took ship, and thence with laboring sail
He crossed the waters, till a faint gray line
Rose in the northern sky ; so faint, so pale,
Only the heart that loves her would divine,
In her dim welcome, all that fancy paints
Of the green glory of the Isle of Saints.
Through the low banks, where Shannon meets the sea,
Up the broad waters of the River King
(Then populous with a nation), journeyed he,
Through that old Ireland which her poets sing ;
And the white vessel, breasting up the stream,
Moved slowly, like a ship within a dream.
When Limerick towers uprose before his gaze,
A sound of music floated in the air
Music which held him in a fixed amaze,
Whose silver tenderness was alien there ;
Notes full of murmurs of the southern seas,
And dusky olives swaying in the breeze.
His chimes ! the children of the great bell-tower,
Empty and silent now for many a year,
He hears them ringing out the vesper hour,
Owned in an instant by his loving ear.
Kind angels stayed the spoiler's hasty hand,
And watched their journeying over sea and land.
The white-sailed boat moved slowly up the stream ;
The old man lay with folded hands at rest ;
The Shannon glistened in the sunset beam;
The bells rang gently o'er its shining breast,
Shaking out music from each lilied rim :
It was a requiem which they rang for him.
For when the boat was moored beside the quay,
He lay as children lie when lulled by song ;
But never more to waken. Tenderly
They buried him wild-flowers and grass among,
Where on the cross alights the wandering bird,
And hour by hour the bells he loved are heard.
198
A Perilous Journey.
From London Society.
A PERILOUS JOURNEY.
A TALE.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune
So says the sage, and it is not to
be gainsayed by any man whom forty
winters have chilled into wisdom.
Ability and opportunity are fortune.
Opportunity is not fortune ; otherwise
all were fortunate. Ability is not
fortune, else why does genius slave ?
Why ? But because it missed the op-
portunity that fitted it?
What I have wife, position, inde-
pendence I owe to an opportunity
for exercising the very simple and
unpretending combination of qualities
that goes by the name of ability. But
to my story.
My father was a wealthy country
gentleman, of somewhat more than
the average of intelligence, and some-
what more than the average of gen-
erosity and extravagance. His young-
er brother, a solicitor in large practice
in London, would in vain remonstrate
as to the imprudence of his course.
Giving freely, spending freely, must
come to an end. It did ; and at
twenty I was a well educated, gentle-
manly pauper. The investigation of
my father's affairs showed that there
was one shilling and sixpence in the
pound for the whole of his creditors,
and of course nothing for me.
The position was painful. I was
half engaged to that is, I had gloves,
flowers, a ringlet, a carte de visite of
Alice Morton. That, of course, must
be stopped.
Mr. Silas Morton was not ill-pleased
at the prospect of an alliance with his
neighbor Westwood's son while there
was an expectation of a provision for
the young couple in the union of estates
as well as persons ; but now, when
the estate was gone, when I, Guy
Westwood, was shillingless in the
world, it would be folly indeed. Nev-
ertheless I must take my leave.
" Well, Guy, my lad, bad job this ;
very bad job ; thought he was as safe
as the Bank. Would not have be-
lieved it from any one not from any
one. Of course all that nonsense
about you and Alice must be stopped
now ; I'm not a hard man, but I can't
allow Alice to throw away her life in
the poverty she would have to bear as
your wife; can't do it; wouldn't be
the part of a father if I did."
I suggested I might in time.
"Time, sir! time! How much?
She's nineteen now. You're broi _
up to nothing ; know nothing that wil
earn you a sixpence for the next si:
months ; and you talk about tii
Time, indeed ! Keep her waiting
she's thirty, and then break her
by finding it a folly to marry at all.'
" Ah ! Alice, my dear, Guy's cor
to say ' Good by :' he sees, with me,
that his altered position compels him,
as an honorable man, to give up any
hopes he may have formed as to the
future."
He left us alone to say * Farewell!'
a word too hard to say at our ages.
Of course we consulted what stould be
done. To give each other up, to bury
the delicious past, that was not to be
thought of. We would be constant,
spite of all. I must gain a position,
and papa would then help us.
Two ways were open ; a commis-
sion in India, a place in my uncle's
office. Which ? I was for the com-
mission, Alice for the office. A re-
spectable influential solicitor; a posi-
tion not to be despised; nothing but
cleverness wanted; and my uncle's
name, and no one to wait for ; no lirer
A Perilous Journey.
199
complaints ; no sepoys ; no sea voya-
ges ; and no long separation.
" Oh, I'm sure it is the best thing."
I agreed, not unnaturally then, that
it was the best.
" Now, you young people, youVe
had time enough to say ' Good by,'
so be off, Guy. Here, my lad, you'll
need something to start with," and the
old gentleman put into my hands a
note for fifty pounds.
" I must beg, sir, that you will not
insult"
God bless the boy! ' Insult!' Why
Fve danced you on my knee hundreds
of times. Look you, Guy," and the
old fellow came and put his hand on
my shoulder, " it gives me pain to do
what I am doing. I believe, for both
your sakes, it is best you should part.
Let us part friends. Come now, Guy,
you'll need this ; and if you need a
little more, let me know."
" But, sir, you cut me off from all
hope ; you render my life a burden to
me. Give me some definite task ; say
how much you think we ought to
have ; I mean how much I ought to
have to keep Alice I mean Miss
Morton in such a position as you
would wish."
Alice added her entreaties, and the
result of the conference was an under-
standing that if, within five years from
that date, I could show I was worth
500 a year, the old gentleman would
add another 500 ; and on that he
thought we might live for a few years
comfortably.
There was to be no correspondence
whatever ; no meetings, no messages.
We protested and pleaded, and finally
he said
Well, well, Guy ; I always liked
you. and liked your father before you.
Come to us on Christmas day, and
you shall find a vacant chair beside
Alice. There, now ; say * Good by,'
and be off."
I went off. I came to London to
one of the little lanes leading out of
Cannon street. Five hundred a year
in five years ! I must work hard.
I My uncle took little notice of me ;
I fancied worked me harder than the
rest, and paid me the same. Seventy-
five pounds a year is not a large sum.
I had spent it in a month before now,
after the fashion of my father : now, I
hoarded; made clothes last; ate in
musty, cheap, little cook-shops; and
kept my enjoying faculties from abso-
lute rust by a weekly half-price to the
theatres the pit.
The year passed. I went down on
Christmas, and for twenty-four hours
was alive ; came back, and had a rise
of twenty pounds in salary for the next
year. I waited for opportunity, and
it came not.
Thi jog-trot routine of office-work
continued for two years more, and at
the end of that time I was worth but
my salary of 135 per year- 135 ! a
long way from 500. Oh, for oppor-
tunity? I must quit the desk, and
become a merchant; all successful
men have been merchants ; money be-
gets money. But, to oppose all these
thoughts of change, came the memory
of Alice's last words at Christmas,
" Wait and hope, Guy, dear ; wait
and hope." Certainly ; it's so easy to.
" Governor wants you, Westwood.
He's sharp this morning ; very sharp ;
so look out, my dear nephy."
" You understand a little Italian, I
think ?" said my uncle.
" A little, sir."
"You will start to-night for Flor-
ence, in the mail train. Get there as
rapidly as possible, and find whether
a Colonel Wilson is residing there,
and what lady he is residing with.
Learn all you can as to his position
and means, and the terms on which he
lives with that lady. Write to me,
and wait there for further instructions.
Mr. Williams will give you a cheque
for 100 ; you can get circular notes
for 50, and the rest cash. If you
have anything to say, come in here at
five o'clock; if not, good morning. By-
the-by, say nothing in the office."
I need not say that hope made me
believe my opportunity was come.
I hurried to Florence and dis-
charged my mission ; sent home a
200
A Perilous Journey.
careful letter, full of facts without com-
ment or opinion, and in three weeks'
time was summoned to return. I had
done little or nothing that could help
me, and in a disappointed state of
mind I packed up and went to the
railway station at St. Dominico. A
little row with a peasant as to his de-
mand for carrying my baggage caused
me to lose the last train that night,
and so the steamer at Leghorn. The
station-master, seeing my vexation,
endeavored to console me :
" There will be a special through
train to Leghorn at nine o'clock, or-
dered for Count Spezzato : he is good-
natured, and will possibly let you go
in that."
It was worth the chance, and I hung
about the station till I was tired, and
then walked back toward the village.
Passing a small wine-ahop, I entered,
and asked for wine in English. I don't
know what whim possessed me when
I did it, for they were unable to un-
derstand me without dumb motions. I
at length got wine by these means,
and sat down to while away the time
over a railway volume.
I had been seated about half an
hour, when a courier entered, accom-
panied by a railway guard. Two
more different examples of the human
race it would be difficult to describe.
The guard was a dark, savage-look-
ing Italian, with ' rascal' and ' bully'
written all over him ; big, black, burly,
with bloodshot eyes, and thick, heavy,
sensual lips, the man was utterly re-
pulsive.
The courier was a little, neatly-
dressed man, of no age in particular ;
pale, blue-eyed, straight-lipped, his
face was a compound of fox and rab-
bit that only a fool or a patriot would
have trusted out of arm's length.
This ill-matched pair called for
brandy, and the hostess set it before
them. I then heard them ask who
and what I was. She replied, I must
be an Englishman, and did not under-
stand the Italian for wine. She then
left.
They evidently wanted to be alone,
and my presence was decidedly disa-
greeable to them ; and muttering that
I was an Englishman, they proceeded
to try my powers as a linguist.
The courier commenced in Italian,
with a remark on the weather. I
immediately handed him the Newspa-
per. I didn't speak Italian, that was
clear to them.
The guard now struck in with a
remark in French as to the fineness of
the neighboring country. I shrugged
my shoulders, and produced my cigar
case. French was not very familiar
to me, evidently.
"Those beasts of English think
their own tongue so fine they are too
proud to learn another," said the
guard.
I sat quietly, sipping my wine, and
reading.
" Well, my dear Michael Pultuski,"
began the guard.
" For the love of God, call me
by that name. My name is Alexis
Alexis Dzentzol, now."
" Oh ! oh !" laughed the guard ;
"you've changed your name, you fox ;
it's like you. Now I am the
that you knew fifteen years ago, Cc
rad Ferrate to-day, yesterday, am
for life, Conrad Ferrate. Come,
tell us your story. How did you
out of that little affair at Warsaw?
How they could have trusted you, with
your face, with their secrets, I can't
for the life of me tell ; you look so
like a sly knave, don't you, lad ?"
The courier, so far from resenting
this familiarity, smiled, as if he had
been praised.
" My story is soon said. I found,
after my betrayal to the police of the
secrets of that little conspiracy which
you and I joined, that Poland was too
hot for me, and my name too well
known. I went to France, who values
her police, and for a few years was
useful to them. But it was dull work ;
very dull ; native talent was more es-
teemed. I was to be sent on a secret
service to Warsaw ; I declined for ob-
vious reasons."
" Good ! Michael Alexis ; good,
A Perilous Journey.
201
Alexis. This fox is not to be trapped."
And he slapped the courier on the
shoulder heartily.
"And," resumed the other, "Ire-
signed. Since then I have travelled
as courier with noble families, and I
trust I give satisfaction."
" Good ! Alexis ; good Mich good
Alexis ! To yourself you give satis-
faction. You are a fine rascal ! the
prince of rascals! So decent; so
quiet ; so like the cure* of a convent.
Who would believe that you had sold
the lives of thirty men for a few hun-
dred roubles ?"
" And who," interrupted the courier,
" would believe that you, bluff, honest
Conrad Ferrate, had run away with
all the money those thirty men had col-
lected during ten years of labor, for res-
cuing their country from the Russian ?"
" That was good, Alexis, was it
not ? I never was so rich hi my life
as then ; I loved I gamed I drank
on the patriots' money."
" For how long ? Three years ?"
"More and now have none left.
Ah! Tunes change, Alexis; behold
me." And the guard touched his but-
tons and belt, the badges of his office.
" Never mind here's my good friend,
the bottle let us embrace the only
friend that is always true if he does
not gladden, he makes us to forget."
" Tell me, my good Alexis, whom
do you rob now? Who pays for the
best, and gets the second best ? Whose
money do you invest, eh ! my little
fox ? Why are you here ? Come, tell
me, while I drink to your success."
" I have the honor to serve his Ex-
cellency the Count Spezzato."
"Ten thousand devils! My ac-
cursed cousin!" broke in the guard.
"He who has robbed me from his
birth; whose birth itself was a vile
robbery of me me, his cousin, child
of his father's brother. May he be
accursed for ever !"
I took most particular pains to
appear only amused at this genuine
outburst of passion, for I saw the
watchful eye of the courier was on me
all the time they were talking.
The guard drank off a tumbler of
brandy.
" That master of yours is the man
of whom I spoke to you years ago, as
the one who had ruined me ; and you
serve him ! May he be strangled on
his wedding night, and cursed for
ever."
" Be calm, my dearest Conrad, calm
yourself; that beast of an Englishman
will think you are drunk, like one of
his own swinish people, if you talk so
loud as this."
" How can I help it ? I must talk.
What he is, that /ought to be : I was
brought up to it till I was eighteen;
was the heir to all his vast estate ;
there was but one life bet wee a me and
power my uncle's and he, at fifty,
married a girl, and had this son, this
son of perdition, my cousin. And
after that, I, who had been the pride
of my family, became of no account ;
it was * Julian/ ' sweet Julian !' "
" I heard," said the courier, " that
some one attempted to strangle the
sweet child, that was ?"
" Me you fox me. I wish I had
done it ; but for that wretched dog
that worried me, I should have been
Count Spezzato now. I killed that
dog, killed him, no not suddenly ; may
his master die like him !"
"And you left after that little
affair ?"
" Oh yes ! I left and became what
you know me."
" A clever man, my dear Conrad.
I know no man who is more clever
with the ace than yourself, and, as to
bullying to cover a mistake, you are an
emperor at that. Is it not so, Con-
rad ? Come, drink good health to my
master, your cousin."
"You miserable viper, I'll crush
you if you ask me to do that again.
I'll drink here, give me the glass
Here's to Count Spezzato: May he
die like a dog! May his carcase
bring the birds and the wolves to-
gether ! May his name be cursed and
hated while the sun lasts ! And may
purgatory keep him till I pray for his
release !"
202
A Perilous Journey,
The man's passion was something
frightful to see, and I was more than
half inclined to leave the place ; but
something, perhaps a distant murmur
of the rising tide, compelled me to stay.
I pretended sleep, allowing my head
to sink, down upon the table.
He sat still for a few moments, and
then commenced walking about the
room, and abruptly asked :
" What brought you here, Alexis?"
" My master's horse, Signor Con-
rad." "
" Good, my little fox ; but why did
you come on your master's horse ?"
"Because my master wishes to
reach Leghorn to-night, to meet his
bride, Conrad."
"Then his is the special train
ordered at nine, that I am to go with ?"
exclaimed the guard eagerly.
" That is so, gentle Conrad ; and
now, having told you all, let me pay
our hostess and go."
" Pay ! No one pays for me, little
fox ; no, no, go ; I will pay."
The courier took his departure, and
the guard kept walking up and down
the room, muttering to himself:
" To-night, it might be to-night. If
he goes to Leghorn, he meets his
future wife ; another life, and perhaps
a dozen. No, it must be to-night or
never. Does his mother go ? Fool
that I am not to ask ! Yes ; it shall
be to-night ; " and he left the room.
What should be " to-night ?" Some
foul play of which the count would
be the victim, no doubt. But how ?
when? That must be solved. To
follow him, or to wait which? To
wait. It is always best to wait ; I had
learned this lesson already.
I waited. It was now rather more
than half-past eight, and I had risen to
go to the door when I saw the guard
returning to the wine-shop with a man
whose dress indicated the stoker.
" Come in, Guido ; come in," said
the guard ; " and drink with me."
The man came in, and I was again
absorbed in my book.
They seated themselves at the same
table as before, and drank silently for
a while ; presently the guard began a
conversation in some patois I could
not understand ; but I could see the
stoker grow more and more interested
as the name of Beatrix occurred more
frequently.
As the talk went on, the stoker
seemed pressing the guard on some
part of the story with a most vin-
dictive eagerness, repeatedly asking,
" His name ? The accursed ! His
name ?"
At last the guard answered, " The
Count Spezzato."
" The Count Spezzato !" said the
stoker, now leaving the table, and
speaking in Italian.
" Yes, good Guido ; the man who
will travel in the train we take to-night
to Leghorn."
"He shall die! The accursed! He
shall die to-night !" said the stoker.
" If I lose my life, the betrayer of my
sister shall die !"
The guard, returning to the un
known tongue, seemed to be endeavor-
ing to calm him ; and I could only
catch a repetition of the word
" Empoli " at intervals. Presently
the stoker took from the seats beside
him two tin bottles, such as you may
see in the hands of mechanics who dine
out ; and I could see that one of them
had rudely scratched on it the name
"William Atkinson." I fancied the
guard produced from his pocket a
phial, and poured the contents into
that bottle ; but the action was so
rapid, and the comer so dark, that I
could not be positive ; then rising, they
stopped at the counter, had both
bottles filled with brandy, and went
out
It was now time to get to the I
station ; and, having paid my modest \
score, I went out.
A little in front of me, by the light
from a small window, I saw these two
cross themselves, grip each other's
hands across right to right, left to left,
and part.
The stoker had set down the bottles,
and now taking them up followed the
guard at a slower pace.
A Perilous Journey.
203
"How much will you give for your
life, my little fox ?" said the guard.
"To-day, very little; when I am
sixty, all I have, Conrad."
" But you might give something for
it, to-night, sweet Alexis, if you knew
it was in danger ?"
" I have no fear ; Conrad Ferrate
has too often conducted a tram for me
to fear to-night."
" True, my good Alexis ; but this is
the last train he will ride with as guard,
for to-morrow he will be the Count
Spezzato."
" How ? To-morrow ? You joke,
Conrad. The brandy was strong ; but
you who have drunk so much could
hardly feel that."
" I neither joke, nor am I drunk ;
yet I shall be Count Spezzato to-mor-
row, good Alexis. Look you, my gen-
tle fox, my sweet fox ; if you do not
buy your life of me, you shall die to-
night. That is simple, sweet fox."
" Ay ; but, Conrad, I am not in dan-
ger." '
" Nay, Alexis ; see, here is the
door " (I heard him turn the handle).
" If you lean against the door, you
will fall out and be killed. Is it not
simple?"
" But, good Conrad, I shall not lean
against the door."
"Oh, my sweet fox, my cunning
fox, my timid fox, but not my strong
fox ; you will lean against the door.
I know you will, unless I prevent
you; and I will not prevent you,
unless you give me all you have in
that bag."
The mocking tone of the guard
seemed well understood, for I heard
the click of gold.
" Good, my Alexis ; it is good ; but
it is very little for a life. Come, what
is your life worth, that you buy it
with only your master's money ? it has
cost you nothing. I see you will
lean against that door, which is so
foolish."
" What, in the name of all the dev-
ils in hell, will you have ?" said the
trembling voice of the courier.
" Only a little more ; just that belt
204:
A Perilous Journey.
that is under your shirt, under every-
thing, next to your skin, and dearer to
you; only a little soft leather belt
with pouches in. Is not life worth a
leather belt?"
" Wretch ! All the earnings of my
life are in that belt, and you know it."
" Is it possible, sweet fox, that I
have found your nest ? I shall give
Marie a necklace of diamonds, then.
Why do you wait ? Why should you
fall from a train, and make a piece of
news for the papers ? Why ?"
"Take it; and be accursed in
your life and death !'* and I heard the
belt flung on the floor of the carriage.
" Now, good Alexis, I am in funds ;
there are three pieces of gold for you ;
you will need them at Leghorn. Will
you drink? No? Then I will tell
you why, without drink. Do you
know where we are ?"
"Yes; between St. Dominico and
Signa."
" And do you know where we are
going?"
"Yes; to Leghorn."
"No, sweet Alexis, we are not;
we are going to Empoli : the train
will go no further. Look you, little
fox ; we shall arrive at the junction
one minute before the Sienna goods
train, and there the engine will break
down just where the rails cross ; for
two blows of a hammer will convert
an engine into a log ; I shall get out
to examine it; that will take a little
time ; I shall explain to the count
the nature of the injury; that will
take a little time ; and then the goods
train will have arrived; and as it
does not stop there, this train will go
no further than Empoli, and I shall
be Count Spezzato to-morrow. How
do you like my scheme, little fox ? Is
it not worthy of your pupil ? Oh, it
will be a beautiful accident; it will
fill the papers. That beast of an Eng-
lish who begged his place in the train
will be fortunate ; he will cease, for
goods trains are heavy. Eh ! but it's
a grand scheme the son, the mother,
the servant, the stranger, the engine-
driver, all shall tell no tales."
" And the stoker?" said the courier.
" Oh, you and he and I shall escape.
We shall be pointed at in the street
as the fortunate. It is good, is it not,
Alexis, my fox? I have told him
that the count is the man who be-
trayed his sister. He believes it, and
is my creature. But, little fox, it was
not my cousin, it was myself, that
took his Beatrix from her home. Is
it not good, Alexis ? Is it not genius ?
And Atkinson he, the driver is
now stupid : he has drunk from his
can the poppy juice that will make
him sleep for ever. I will be a poli-
tician. I am worthy of office. I
will become the Minister of a Bour-
bon when I am count, my dear fox,
and you shall be my comrade again, as
of old."
I was, for a time, lost to every
sensation save that of hearing. The
fiendish garrulity of the man had all
the fascination of the serpent's rattle.
I felt helplessly resigned to a certain
fate.
I was aroused by something white
slowly passing the closed window of
the carriage. I waited a little, then
gently opened it and looked out. The
stoker was crawling along the foot-
board of the next carnage, holding on
by its handles, so as not to be seen by
the occupants, and holding the signal
lantern that I had noticed at the back
of the last carriage in his hand. The
meaning of it struck me in a moment :
if by any chance we missed the goods
train from Sienna, we should be run
into from behind by the train from
Florence.
The cold air that blew in at the
open window refreshed me, and I
could think what was to be done. The
train was increasing its pace rapidly.
Evidently the stoker, in sole charge,
was striving to reach Empoli before
the other train, which we should fol-
low, was due : he had to make five
minutes in a journey of forty-five, and,
at the rate we were going, we should
do it. We stopped nowhere, and the
journey was more than half over.
We were now between Segua and
A Perilous Journey.
205
Montelupo; another twenty minutes
and I should be a bruised corpse.
Something must be done.
I decided soon. Unfastening my
bag, I took out my revolver, without
which I never travel, and looking
carefully to the loading and capping,
fastened it to my waist with a hand-
kerchief. I then cut with my knife
the bar across the middle of the win-
dow, and carefully looked out. I
could see nothing ; the rain was falling
fast, and the night as dark as ever.
I cautiously put out first one leg and
then the other, keeping my knees and
toes close to the door, and lowered
myself till I felt the step. I walked
carefully along the foot-board by side
steps, holding on to the handles of the
doors, till I came to the end of the
carriages, and was next the tender.
Here was a gulf that seemed impass-
able. The stoker must have passed
over it ; why not I ? Mounting from
the foot-board on to the buffer, and
holding on to the iron hook on which
the lamps are hung, I stretched my
legs to reach the flat part of the buffer
on the tender. My legs swung about
with the vibration, and touched no-
thing. I must spring. I had to hold
with both hands behind my back, and
stood on the case of the buffer-spring,
and, suddenly leaving go, leaped for-
ward, struck violently against the
edge of the tender, and grasped some
of the loose lumps of coal on the top.
Another struggle brought me on my
knees, bruised and bleeding, on the top.
I stood up, and at that moment the
stoker opened the door of the furnace,
and turned toward me, shovel in hand,
to put in the coals. The bright red
light from the fire enabled him to see
me, while it blinded me. He rushed
at me, and then began a struggle that
I shall remember to my dying day.
He grasped me round the throat
with one arm, dragging me close to
his breast, and with the other kept
shortening the shovel for an effective
blow. My hands, numbed and bruised,
were almost useless to me, and for
some seconds we reeled to and fro on
the foot-plate in the blinding glare.
At last he got me against the front of
the engine, and, with horrible ingen-
uity, pressed me against it till the
lower part of my clothes were burnt
to a cinder. The heat, however, re-
stored my hands, and at last I man-
aged to push him far enough from my
body to loosen my pistol. I did not
want to kill him, but I could not be
very careful, and I fired at his shoul-
der from the back. He dropped the
shovel, the arm that had nearly throt-
tled me relaxed, and he fell. I pushed
him into a corner of the tender, and
sat down to recover myself.
My object was to get to Empoli be-
fore the Sienna goods train, for I knew
nothing of what might be behind me.
It was too late to stop, but I might, by
shortening the journey seven minutes
instead of five, get to Empoli three
minutes before the goods tram was
due.
I had never been on an engine be-
fore in my life, but I knew that there
must be a valve somewhere that let
the steam from the boiler into the
cylinders, and that, being important, it
would be in a conspicuous position. I
therefore turned the large handle in
front of me, and had the satisfaction
of finding the speed rapidly increased,
and at the same time felt the guard
putting on the break to retard the train.
Spite of this, in ten minutes I could
see some dim lights ; I could not tell
where, and I still pressed on faster and
faster.
In vain, between the intervals of
putting on coals, did I try to arouse the
sleeping driver. There I was, with
two apparently dead bodies, on the foot-
plate of an engine, going at the rate of
forty miles an hour, or more, amidst a
thundering noise and vibration that
nearly maddened me.
At last we reached the lights, and I
saw, as I dashed by, that we had
passed the dread point.
As I turned back, I could see the
rapidly-dropping cinders from the tram
which, had the guard's break been suf-
ficiently powerful to have made me
206
A Perilous Journey.
thirty seconds later, would have utterly
destroyed me.
I was still in a difficult position.
There was the train half a minute be-
hind us, which, had we kept our time,
would have been four minutes in front
of us. It came on to the same rails,
and I could hear its dull rumble rush-
ing on toward us fast. If I stopped
there was no light to warn them. I
must go on, for the Sienna train did
not stop at Empoli.
I put on more fuel, and after some
slight scalding, from turning on the
wrong taps, had the pleasure of seeing
the water-gauge filling up. Still I
could not go on long ; the risk was
awful. I tried in vain to write on a
leaf of my note-book, and after search-
ing in the tool-box, wrote on the iron
lid of the tank with a piece of chalk,
"Stop everything behind me. The
train will not be stopped till three red
lights are ranged in a line on the
ground. Telegraph forward." And
then, as we flew through the Empoli
station, I threw it on the platform.
On we. went ; the same dull thunder be-
hind warning me that I dare not stop.
We passed through another station
at full speed, and at length I saw the
white lights of another station in the
distance. The sound behind had al-
most ceased, and in a few moments
more I saw the line of three red lamps
low down on the ground. I pulled
back the handle, and after an ineffec-
tual effort to pull up at the station,
brought up the train about a hundred
yards beyond Pontedera.
The porters and police of the station
came up and put the train back, and
then came the explanation.
The guard had been found dead on
the rails, just beyond Empoli, and the
telegraph set to work to stop the train.
He must have found out the failure of
his scheme, and in trying to reach the
engine, have fallen on the rails.
The driver was only stupefied, and
the stoker fortunately only dangerously,
not fatally, wounded.
Another driver was found, and the
train was to go on.
The count had listened most atten-
tively to my statements, and then,
taking my grimed hand in his, led me
to his mother.
" Madam, my mother, you have from
this day one other son: this, my
mother, is my brother."
The countess literally fell on my
neck, and kissed me in the sight of
them all; and speaking in Italian
said
" Julian, he is my son ; he has saved
my life ; and more, he has saved your
life. My son, I will not say much;
what is your name ?"
" Guy Westwood."
" Guy, my child, my son, I am your
mother ; you shall love me."
" Yes, my mother ; he is my brother,
I am his. He is English too ; I like
English. He has done well. Blanche
shall be his sister."
During the whole of this time both
mother and son were embracing me
and kissing my cheeks, after the impul-
sive manner of their passionate natures,
the indulgence of which appears so
strange to our cold blood.
The train was delayed, for my
wounds and bruises to be dressed, and
I then entered their carriage and went
to Leghorn with them.
Arrived there, I was about to say
" Farewell."
" What is farewell, now ? No ; you
must see Blanche, your sister. You
will sleep to my hotel : I shall not let
you go. Who is she that in your great
book says, ' Where you go, I will go ?'
That is my spirit. You must not leave
me till till you are as happy as
I am."
He kept me, introduced me to
Blanche, and persuaded me to write for !
leave to stay another two months, when
he would return to England with me. !
Little by little he made me talk about |
Alice, till he knew all my story.
"Ah! that is it; you shall be un-
happy because you want 500 every
year, and I have so much as that. ;
I am a patriot to get rid of my money, i
So it is that you will not take money. I
You have saved my life, and you will !
The Winds.
207
This is not conspiracy ; it is not plot ;
it is not society with ribbons ; but it is
what Italy, my country, wants. I grow
poor; Italy grows rich. I am not
wise in these things ; they cheat me,
because I am an enthusiast. Now,
Guy, my brother, you are wise ; you
are deep ; long in the head ; in short,
you are English ! You shall be my
guardian in these things you shall
save me from the cheat, and you shall
work hard as you like for all the
money you shall take of me. Come,
my Guy, is it so ?"
Need I say that it was so ? The
count and his Blanche made their
honeymoon tour in England. They
spent Christmas day with Alice and
myself at Mr. Morton's, and when they
left, Alice and I left with them, for our
new home in Florence.
From The Cornhffl Magazine.
THE WINDS.
O wild raving west winds ....
Oh ! where do ye rise from, and where do ye die?
THE question which is put in these
lines is one which has posed the in-
genuity of all who have ever thought
on it ; and though theories have re-
peatedly been propounded to answer
it, yet one and all fail, and we again
recur to the words of him who knew
all things and said, " The wind blow-
eth where it listeth, and thou hearest
the sound thereof, but canst not tell
whence it cometh or whither it goeth."
However, though we cannot assign
exactly the source whence the winds
rise or the goal to which they tend,
the labors of meteorologists have been
so far successful as to enable us to un-
derstand the causes of the great cur-
rents of air, and even to map out the
winds which prevail at different sea-
sons in the various quarters of the
globe. The problem which has thus
been solved is one vastly more simple
than that of saying why the wind
changes on any particular day, or at
what spot on the earth's surface a
particular current begins or ends.
Were these questions solved, there
would be an end to all uncertainty
about weather. There need be no
fear that the farmer would lose his
crops owing to the change of weather,
if the advent of every shower had been
foretold by an unerring guide, and the
precise day of the break in the weather
predicted weeks and months before.
This is the point on which weather-
prophets ' astro-meteorologists ' they
call themselves now-a-days still ven-
ture their predictions, undismayed by
their reported and glaring failures.
208
The Winds.
It has been well remarked that not
one of these prophets foretold the dry
weather which lasted for so many weeks
during the last summer ; yet, even at
the present day, there are people who
look to the almanacs to see what
weather is to be expected at a given
date ; and even the prophecies of " Old
Moore " find, or used to find within a
very few years, an ample credence.
In fact, if we are to believe the opin-
ions propounded by the positive phil-
osophers of the present day, we must
admit that it is absurd to place any
limits on the possibility of predicting
natural phenomena, inasmuch as all
operations of nature obey fixed and
unalterable laws, which are all discov-
erable by the unaided mind of man.
True science, we may venture to
say, is more modest than these gentle-
men would have us to think it ; and
though in the particular branch of
knowledge of which we are now treat-
ing daily prophecies (or ' forecasts,'
as Admiral Fitzroy is careful to call
them) of weather appear in the news-
papers, yet these are not announced
dogmatically, and no attempt is made
in them to foretell weather for more
than forty-eight hours in advance.
We are not going to discuss the ques-
tion of storms and storm-signals at
present, so we shall proceed to the
subje'ct in hand the ordinary wind-
currents of the earth ; and in speak-
ing of these shall confine ourselves as
far as possible to well-known and re-
corded facts, bringing in each case the
best evidence which we can adduce to
support the theories which may be
broached.
What, then, our readers will ask,
is the cause of the winds ? The simple
answer is the sun. Let us see, now,
how this indefatigable agent, who ap-
pears to do almost everything on the
surface of the earth, from painting
pictures to driving steam-engines, as
George Stephenson used to maintain
that he did, is able to raise the wind.
If you light a fire in a room, and
afterward stop up every chink by
which air can gain access to the fire,
except the chimney, the fire will go
out in a short time. Again, if a lamp
is burning on the table, and you stop
up the chimney at the top, the lamp
will go out at once. The reason of
this is that the flame, in each case,
attracts the air, and if either the supply
of air is cut off below, or its escape
above is checked, the flame cannot go
on burning. This explanation, how-
ever, does not bear to be pushed too
far. The reason that the fire goes
out if the supply of air is cut off is,
that the flame, so to speak, feeds
on air ; while the sun cannot be
said, in any sense, to be dependent on
the earth's atmosphere for the fuel for
his fire. We have chosen the illus-
tration of the flame, because the facts
are so well known. If, instead of a
lamp in the middle of a room, we were to
hang up a large mass of iron, heated,
we should find that currents of air set
in from all sides, rose up above it, and
spread out when they reached the
ceiling, descending again along the
walls. The existence of these currents
may be easily proved by sprinkling a
handful of fine chaff about in the room.
What is the reason of the circulation
thus produced? The iron, unless it
be extremely hot, as it is when
melted by Mr. Bessemer's process,
does not require the air in order
to keep up its heat; and, in fact,
the constant supply of fresh air cools
it, as the metal gives away its own
heat to the air as fast as the particles
of the latter come in contact with it.
Why, then, do the currents arise ? Be-
cause the air, when heated, expands
or gets lighter, and rises, leaving an
empty space, or vacuum, where it was
before. Then the surrounding cold
air, being elastic, forces itself into the
open space, and gets heated in its turn.
From this we can see that there
will be a constant tendency in the air
to flow toward that point on the earth's
surface where the temperature is high-
est or, all other things being equal^
to that point where the sun may be at
that moment in the zenith. Accord-
ingly, if the earth's surface were either
The Winds.
209
entirely dry land, or entirely water,
and the sun were continually in the
plane of the equator, we should ex-
pect to find the direction of the great
wind-currents permanent and un-
changed throughout the year. The
true state of the case is, however, that
these conditions are very far from be-
ing fulfilled. Every one knows that
the sun is not always immediately
over the equator, but that he is at the
tropic of Cancer in June, and at the
tropic of Capricorn in December, pass-
ing the equator twice every year at
the equinoxes. Here, then, we have
one cause which disturbs the regular
flow of the wind-currents. The effect
of this is materially increased by the
extremely arbitrary way in which the
dry land has been distributed over the
globe. The northern hemisphere
contains the whole of Europe, Asia,,
and. North America, the greater part
of Africa, and a portion of South
America ; while in the southern hem-
isphere we only find the remaining
portions of the two last-named contin-
ents, with Australia and some of the
large islands in its vicinity. Accord-
ingly, during our summer there is a
much greater area of dry land exposed
to the nearly vertical rays of the sun
than is the case during our winter.
Let us see for a moment how this
cause acts in modifying the direction of
the wind-currents. We shall find it eas-
I ier to make this intelligible if we take an
llustration from observed facts. It
takes about five times as much heat to
raise a ton weight of water through a
certain range of temperature, as it
loes to produce the same effect in the
ease of a ton of rock. Again, the ten-
dency of a surface of dry land to give out
leat, and consequently to warm the air
ibove it, and cause it to rise, is very
much greater than that of a surface
of water of equal area. Hence we can
at once see the cause of the local
winds which are felt every day in calm
weather in islands situated in hot
climates. During the day the island
become* very hot, and thus what the
French call a courant ascendant
14
is set in operation. The air above
the land gets hot and rises, while the
colder air which is on the sea all
round it flows in to fill its place, and
is felt as a cool sea-breeze. During
the night these conditions are exactly
reversed : the land can no longer get
any heat from the sun, as he has set,
while it is still nearly as liberal in
parting with its acquired heat as it
was before. Accordingly, it soon be-
comes cooler than the sea in its neigh-
borhood ; and the air, instead of rising
up over it, sinks down upon it, and
flows out to sea, producing a land-
wind.
These conditions are, apparently,
nearly exactly fulfilled in the region
of the monsoons, with the exception
that the change of wind takes place at
intervals of six months, and not every
twelve hours. In this district which
extends over the southern portion of
Asia and the Indian ocean the wind
for half the year blows from one point,
and for the other hah from that which
is directly opposite. The winds are
north-east and south-west in Hindos-
tan ; and in Java, at the other side of
the equator, they are south-east and
north-west. The cause of the winds
monsoons they are called, from an
Arabic word, mausim, meaning season
is not quite so easily explained as
that of the ordinary land and sea
breezes to which we have just referred.
Their origin is to be sought for in the
temperate zone, and not between "the
tropics. The reason of this is that the
districts toward which the air is sucked
in are not those which are absolutely
hottest, but those where the rarefac-
tion of the air is greatest. When the
air becomes lighter, it is said to be
rarefied, and this rarefaction ought ap-
parently to be greatest where the tem-
perature is highest. This would be
the case if the air were the only con-
stituent of our atmosphere. There is,
however, a very important disturbing
agent to be taken into consideration,
viz., aqueous vapor. There is always,
when it is not actually raining, a quan-
tity of water rising from the surface of
210
The Winds.
the sea and from every exposed water-
surface, and mingling with the air.
This water is perfectly invisible : as it
is in the form of vapor, it is true steam,
and its presence only becomes visible
when it is condensed so as to form a
cloud. The hotter the air is, the more
of this aqueous vapor is it able to hold
in the invisible condition.
We shall naturally expect to find a
greater amount of this steam in the air
at places situated near the coast, than
at those in the interior of continents,
and this is actually the case. The
amount of rarefaction which the dry
air on the sea-coast of Hindostan un-
dergoes in summer, is partially com-
pensated for by the increased tension
of the aqueous vapor, whose presence
in the air is due to the action of the
sun's heat on the surface of the Indian
ocean. In the interior of Asia there
is no great body of water to be found,
and the winds from the south lose most
of the moisture which they contain in
passing over the Himalayas. Ac-
cordingly the air is extremely dry,
and a compensation, similar to that
which is observed in Hindostan, can-
not take place. It is toward this dis-
trict that the wind is sucked in, and
the attraction is sufficient to draw a
portion of the south-east trade-wind
across the line into the northern hem-
isphere. In our winter the region
where the rarefaction is greatest is the
continent of Australia ; and according-
ly, in its turn, it sucks the north-east
trade-wind of the northern hemisphere
across the equator. Thus we see that
in the region which extends from the
coast of Australia to the centre of Asia
we have monsoons, or winds which
change regularly every six months.
As to the directions of the different
monsoons, we shall discuss them when
we have disposed of the trade-winds
which ought by rights, as Professor
Dove observes, rather to be considered
as an imperfectly developed monsoon,
than the latter to be held as a modifi-
cation of the former.
The origin of the trade-winds is to
be sought for, as before, in the heating
power of the sun, and their direction
is a result of the figure of the earth,
and of its motion on its axis. When
the air at the equator rises, that in
higher latitudes on either side flows in,
and would be felt as a north wind or
as a south wind respectively, if the
earth's motion on its axis did not affect
it. The figure of the earth is pretty
nearly that of a sphere, and, as it re-
volves round its axis, it is evident that
those points on its surface which are
situated at the greatest distance from
the axis, will have to travel over a
greater distance in the same time than
those which are near it. Thus, for in-
stance, London, which is nearly under
the parallel of 50, has only to travel
about three-fifths of the distance which
a place like Quito, situated under the
equator, has to travel in the same time.
A person situated in London is carried,
imperceptibly to himself, by the mo-
tion of the earth, through 15,000 miles
toward the eastward in the twenty-four
hours ; while another at Quito is car-
ried through 25,000 miles in the same
time. Accordingly, if the Londoner,
preserving his own rate of motion,
were suddenly transferred to Quito, he
would be left 10,000 miles behind the
other in the course of the twenty-four
hours, or would appear to be moving
in the opposite direction, from east to
west, at the rate of about 400 miles
an hour. The case would be just as
if a person were to be thrown into a
railway carriage which was moving at
full speed ; he would appear to his j
fellow-passengers to be moving in thei
opposite direction to them, while in re-
ality the motion of progression was in
the train, not in the person who was I
thrown into it. The air is transferred
from high to low latitudes, but this;
change is gradual, and the earth, ac-
cordingly, by means of the force oi
friction, is able to retard its relative
velocity before it reaches the tropics
so that its actual velocity, though stil
considerable, is far below 400 miles ar
hour.
This wind comes from high latitudes
and becomes more and more easterly
The Winds.
211
reaching us as a nearly true north-east
wind ; and as it gets into lower lati-
tudes becoming more and more nearly
east, and forming-a belt of north-east
wind all round the earth on the north-
ern side of the equator. In the south-
ern hemisphere, there is a similar belt
of permanent winds, which are, of
course, south-easterly instead of north-
easterly. These belts are not always
at equal distances at each side of the
equator, as their position is dependent
on the situation of the zone of maxi-
mum temperature for the time being.
When we reach the actual district
where the air rises, we find the easter-
ly direction of the wind no longer so
remarkable, as has been noticed by
Basil Hall and others. The reason is,
that by the time that the air reaches
the district where it rises, it ha,s ob-
tained by means of its friction with the
earth's surface a rate of motion round
the earth's axis nearly equal to that
of the earth's surface itself.
The trade-wind zones, called, by the
Spaniards, the "Ladies' Sesf'MGolfo
de las Damas because navigation on
a sea where the wind never changed
was so easy, shift their position ac-
cording to the apparent motion of the
sun in the ecliptic. In the Atlantic
the north-east trade begins in summer
in the latitude of the Azores ; in win-
ter it commences to the south of the
Canaries.
In the actual trade-wind zones rain
very seldom falls, any more than it
does in these countries when the east
wind has well set in. The reason of
this is, that the air on its passage from
high to low latitudes is continually be-
coming warmer and warmer. Accord-
ing as its temperature rises, its power
of dissolving (so to speak) water in-
creases also, and so it is constantly
increasing its burden of water until it
reaches the end of its journey, where
it rises into the higher regions of the
atmosphere, and there is suddenly
cooled. The chilling process con-
denses, to a great extent, the aqueous
vapor contained in the trade-wind air,
and causes it to fall in constant dis-
charges of heavy rain. Throughout
the tropics the rainy season coincides
with that period at which the sun is in
the zenith, and in this region the
heaviest rain-fall on the globe is ob-
served. The wettest place in the
world, Cherrapoonjee, is situated in the
Cossya hills, about 250 miles north-
east of Calcutta, just outside the torrid
zone. There the ram-fall is upward
of 600 niches in the year, or twenty
times as much as it is on the west
coasts of Scotland and Ireland. How-
ever, in such extreme cases as this,
there are other circumstances to be
taken into consideration, such as the
position of the locality as regards
mountain chains, which may cause the
clouds to drift over one particular spot.
To return to the wind : "W^en the
air rises at the equatorial edge of the
trade-wind zone, it flows away above
the lower trade-wind current. The
existence of an upper current in the
tropics is well known. Volcanic ashes,
which have fallen in several of the
"West Indian islands on several occa-
sions, have been traced to volcanoes
which lay to the westward of the lo-
cality where the ashes fell, at a time
when there was no west wind blowing
at the sea-level. To take a recent in-
stance : ashes fell at Kingston, Jamai-
ca, in the year 1835, and it is satisfac-
torily proved that they had been eject-
ed from the volcano of Coseguina, on
the Pacific shore of Central America,
and must consequently have been borne
to the eastward by an upward current
counter to the direction of the easterly
winds which were blowing at the tune
at the sea-level.
Captain Maury supposes that when
the air rises, at either side of the
equator, it crosses over into the oppo-
site hemisphere, so that there is a
constant interchange of air going on
between . the northern and southern
hemispheres. This he has hardly
sufficiently proved, and his views are
not generally accepted. One of the
arguments on which he lays great
stress in support of his theory is that
on certain occasions dust has fallen in
212
The Winds.
various parts of western Europe, and
that in it there have been discovered
microscopical animals similar to those
which are Found in South America.
This appears to be scarcely an incon-
trovertible proof; as Admiral Fitzroy
observes : " Certainly, such insects
may be found in Brazil ; but does
it follow that they are not also in
Africa, under nearly the same paral-
lel?"
This counter-current, or "anti-trade,"
as Sir J. Herschel has called it, is at
a high level in the atmosphere be-
tween the tropics, far above the top of
the highest mountains ; but at the ex-
terior edge of the trade-wind zone, it
descends to the surface of the ground.
The Canary islands are situated close
to this edge, and accordingly we find
that fhere is always a westerly wind
at the summit of the Peak of Tener-
iffe, while the wind at the sea-level, in
the same island, is easterly through-
out the summer months. Professor
Piazzi Smyth, who lived for some time
on the top of that mountain, making
astronomical observations, has record-
ed some very interesting details of
the conflicts between the two currents,
which he was able to observe accu-
rately from his elevated position. In
winter the trade-wind zone is situated
to the south of its summer position in
latitude, and at this season the south-
west wind is felt at the sea-level in
the Canary islands. Similar facts to
these have been observed in other
localities where there are high mount-
ains situated on the edge of the trade-
wind zone, as, for instance, Mouna
Loa, in the Sandwich islands. There
can, therefore, be no doubt that the
warm, moist west wind, which is felt
so generally in the temperate zones,
is really the air returning to the poles
from the equator, which has now as-
sumed a south-west direction on its
return journey, owing to conditions
the reverse of those which imparted
to it a north-east motion on its way
toward the equator. This, then, is our
south-west wind, which is so prevalent
in the North Atlantic ocean that the
voyage from Europe to America is
not unfrequently called the up-hill
trip, in contradistinction to the down-
hill passage home. These are the
" brave west winds" of Maury, whose
refreshing action on the soil he never
tires of recapitulating.
The south-west monsoons of Hin-
dostan, which blow from May to Oc-
tober, and the north-west monsoons
of the Java seas, which are felt be-
tween November and April, owe their
westerly motion to a cause similar to
that of the anti-trades which we have
just described. To take the case of
the monsoons of Hindostan : we have
seen above how the rarefaction of the
air in Central Asia attracts the south-
east trade-wind of the southern hemi-
sphere across the equator. This air,
when it moves from the equator into
higher latitudes, brings with it the
rate of motion, to the eastward, of the
equatorial regions which it has lately
left, and is felt as a sonth-west wind.
Accordingly, the directions of the mon-
soons are thus accounted for. In the
winter months the true north-east
trade-wind is felt, in Hindostan ; while
in the summer months its place is
taken by the south-east trade of the
southern hemisphere, making its ap-
pearance as the south-west monsoon.
In Java, conditions exactly converse
to these are in operation, and the
winds are south-east from April to
November, and north-west during the
rest of the year.
The change of one monsoon to the
other is always accompanied by rough
weather, called in some places the
" breaking out" of the monsoon ; just
as with us the equinox, or change of
the season from summer to winter,
and vice versa, is marked by " windy
weather," or " equinoctial gales."
The question may, however, well
be asked, why there are no monsoons
in the Atlantic Ocean ?
In the first place, the amount of
rarefaction which the air in Africa and
in Brazil undergoes, in the respective
hot seasons of those regions, is far less
considerable than that which is ob-
^
served in Asia and Australia at the
' corresponding seasons.
Secondly, in the case of the Atlan-
tic ocean, the two districts toward
which the air is attracted are situated
within the torrid zone, while in the In-
dian ocean they are quite outside the
tropics, and in the temperate zones.
Accordingly, even if the suction of the
air across the equator did take place
to the same extent in the former case
as in the latter, the extreme contrast
in direction between the two monsoons
would not be perceptible to the same
extent, owing to the fact that the same
amount of westing could not be im-
parted to the wind, because it had not
to travel into such high latitudes on
either side of the equator. A ten-
dency to the production of the phe-
nomena of the monsoons is observable
along the coast of Guinea, where
winds from the south and south-west
are very generally felt. These winds
are not really the south-east trade-
wind, which has been attracted across
e line to the northern hemisphere,
ey ought rather to be considered
of the same nature as the land and
ea breezes before referred to, since
find it to be very generally the
that in warm climates the ordi-
ary wind-currents undergo a deflection
a greater or less extent along a
oast-line such as that of Guinea,
razil, or north of Australia.
Our readers may perhaps ask why
t is, that when we allege that the whole
f the winds of the globe owe their
igin to a regular circulation of the air
roni the Polainregions to the equator,
back again, we do not find more
efinite traces of such a circulation in
he winds of our own latitudes? The
mswer to this is, that the traces of
lis circulation are easily discoverable
we only know how to look for them,
tn the Mediterranean sea, situated near
le northern edge of the trade-wind
le, the contrast between the equa-
rial and polar currents of air is very
lecidedly marked. The two conflict-
ids are known under various
les in different parts of the dis-
The Winds.
213
trict. The polar current, on its way
to join the trade-wind, is termed the
" tramontane," in other parts the
" bora," the " maestral," etc. ; while the
return trade-wind, bringing rain, is
well known under the name of the
" sirocco." In Switzerland the same
wind is called the " Fohn," and is a
warm wind, which causes the ice and
snow to melt rapidly, and constantly
brings with it heavy rain.
In these latitudes the contrast is not
so very striking, but even here every
one knows that the only winds which
last for more than a day or two at a
time are the north-east and the south-
west winds, the former of which is
dry and cold, the latter moist and
warm. The difference between these
winds is much more noticeable in win-
ter than in summer, inasmuch as in
the latter season Russia and the north-
ern part of Asia enjoy, relatively to
the British Islands, a much higher
temperature than is the case in winter;
so that the air which moves from those
regions during the summer months
does not come to us from a climate
which is colder than our own, but from
one which is warmer.
So far, then, we have attempted to
trace the ordinary wind-currents, but
as yet there are very many questions
connected therewith which are not
quite sufficiently explained. To men-
tion one of these, we hear from many
observers on the late Arctic expedi-
tions, that the most marked character-
istic of the winds in the neighborhood
of Baffin's Bay, is the great predomi-
nance of north-westerly winds. It is
not as yet, nor can it ever be satisfac-
torily, decided how far to the north-
ward and westward this phenomenon
is noticeable. The question then is,
Whence does this north-west wind
come?.
As to the causes of the sudden
changes of wind, and of storms, they
are as yet shrouded in mystery, and
we cannot have much expectation that
in our lifetime, at least, much will be
done to unravel the web. Meteorology
is a very young science if it deserves
214
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
the title of science at all and until
observations for a long series of years
shall have been made at many stations,
we shall not be in the possession of
trustworthy facts on which to ground
our reasoning. It is merely shoving
the difficulty a step further off to as-
sign these irregular variations to at-
mospheric waves. It will be time
enough to reason accurately about the
weather and its changes when we as-
certain what these atmospheric waves
are, and what causes them. Until
the " astro-meteorologists" will tell us
the principles on which their calcula-
tions are based, we must decline to
receive their predictions as worthy of
any credence whatever.
From The Month. .
EUGENIE AND MAURICE DE GUCRIN.
THE life of Eugenie de Gue'rin
forms a great contrast with those
which are generally brought before
the notice of the world. Not only did
she not seek for fame, but the circum-
stances of her life were the very
ones which generally tend to keep a
woman in obscurity. Her life was
passed in the deepest retirement of a
country home. The society even of
a provincial town was not within her
reach. Poverty placed a bar between
her and the means for study in con-
genial society. The routine of her
life shut her out from great deeds or
unusual achievements. In fact, her
life, so far from being a deviation
from the ordinary track which women
have to tread, was a very type of the
existence which seems to be marked
out for the majority of women, and at
which they are so often wont to mur-
mur. The want of an aim in life, the
necessity of some fixed, engrossing oc-
cupation, and the ennui which follows
on the deprivation of these, forms the
staple trial of thousands of women,
especially in England, where tliere is
much intellectual vigor with so little
power for its exercise. That the re-
action from this deprivation is shown
by " fastness," or an excessive love of
dress and amusement, is acknowledged
by the most keen observers of human
nature. But to the large class of
women who, disdaining such means
of distraction, bear their burden pa-
tiently, Eugenie de Guerin's Journal
et Lettres possess an intense interest.
Her life was so uneventful that it ab-
solutely affords no materials for a biog-
raphy, but her character is so full of
interest that her name is now a fa-
miliar one in England and France.
Far away in the heart of sunny
Languedoc stands the chateau of Le
Cayla, the home of the de Gue'rins.
They were of noble blood. The old
chateau was full of reminiscences
of the deeds of their ancestors. De
Guerin, Bishop of Senlis and Chan-
cellor of France, had gone forth, with
a valor scarcely befitting his episcopal
character, to animate the troops at
the battle of Bouvines ; and from the
walls of Le Cayla looked down from
his portrait de Guerin, Grand Master
of the Knights of Malta in 1206. A
cardinal, a troubadour, and countless
gallant and noble soldiers filled up the
family rolls the best blood in France
had mingled with theirs ; but now the
family were obscure, forgotten, and
poor. But these circumstances were
no hindrances to the happiness of
Eugenie's early life.
" My childhood passed away like
one long summer-day," said she after-
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
215
ward. Thirteen happy years fled by.
There was the father, cherished with
tender, self-forgetting love ; the brother
Eranbert; the sister Marie, the young-
est pet of the household ; the beauti-
ful and precocious Maurice; and the
mother, the centre of all, loving and
beloved. But a shadow suddenly fell
on the sunny landscape, and Mad-
ame de Guerin lay on her death-bed,
when, calling to her Eugenie, her eld-
est child, she gave to her especial
charge Maurice, then aged seven, and
his mother's darling. The dying lips
bade Eugenie fill a mother's place to
him, and the sensitive and enthusiastic
girl received the words into her heart,
and never forgot them.
From that day her childhood, al-
most her youth, ended ; and it is with-
out exaggeration we may say that the
depth of maternal love passed into
her heart. Henceforth Maurice was
the one object and the absorbing
thought of her heart, second only to
one other, and that no love of earth.
Sometimes, indeed, that passionate
devotion to Maurice disputed the sway
of the true Master, as we shall here-
after see, but it was never ultimately
victorious. It was not likely that
their lives should for long run side
by side. The extraordinary brilliancy
of Maurice's gifts made his father
determine upon cultivating his mind.
As soon as possible, he was sent first
to the petit seminaire at Toulouse, and
then to the college Stanislaus at Paris.
Maurice de Guerin was a singular-
ly endowed being. He possessed that
kind of personal beauty so very rare
among men, and which is so hard to
describe a spiritual beauty, which
insensibly draws the hearts of others
to its possessor. Added to this, he
had that sweetness of tone and man-
ner, that instinctive power of sym-
pathy, that sparkling brilliance which
made him idolized by those who knew
him, which rendered him literally the
darling of his friends. "7/ etait leur
vie? said those who spoke of him after
he was gone from earth.
The early and ardent aspirations of
this gifted being were turned heaven-
ward. His youthful head was de-
voutly bowed in prayer. The coun-
try people called him "lejeune saint;"
and his conduct at the petit seminaire
gave such satisfaction that the Arch-
bishop of Toulouse, and also the Arch-
bishop of Rouen, offered to take the
whole charge of his future education
on themselves ; but his father refused
both. The temptations of a college
life had left him scathless, and the
longing of his soul was for the conse-
cration of the priesthood. What he
might have been, had he fallen into
other hands, cannot now be known.
Whether there was an inherent weak-
ness and effeminacy in the character
which would have unfitted him for the
awful responsibilities of the priestly
office, we know not. At all events,
he was attracted, as many minds of
undoubted superiority were at that
time, by the extraordinary brilliancy
and commanding genius of de Lamen-
nais; and Maurice de Guerin found
himself in the solitude of La Chesnaie,
a fellow-student with Hippolyte La-
cordaire, Montalembert, Saint-Beuve,
and a group of others. Here some
years of his life were spent, divided
between prayer, study, and brilliant
conversation, led and sustained by M.
de Lamennais. Maurice, of a shy
and diffident disposition, does not seem
to have attached himself to Lamen-
nais, although he admired and looked
up to him, and although the insidious
portion of his teaching was making
havoc with his faith.
And now, it may be asked, what of
Eugenie ? Dwelling in an obscure
province, with no other living guide
than a simple parish cure, with
a natural enthusiastic reverence for
genius, and a predilection for all Mau-
rice's friends, was she not dazzled
from afar off by this great teacher of
men's minds, this earnest reformer of
abuses ? The instinct of the single in
heart w.as hers. Long ere others had
discerned the canker eating away the
fruit so fair to look on, Eugenie, with
prophetic voice, was warning Maurice.
216
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
Lacordaire's noble soul was yet en-
snared. Madam Swetchine's remon-
strances had not yet prevailed ; while
this young girl in the country, whose
name no one knew, was watching and
praying for the issue of the delibera-
tions at La Chesnaie.
At length the break-up came the
memorable journey to Rome was over.
Submission had been required, and
Lacordaire had given it. " Silence is
the second power in the world," he had
said to Lamennais ; and he had with-
drawn with hmi to La Chesnaie for a
time of retreat, where he was soon
undeceived as to Lamennais' inten-
tions. And these two great men
parted one to reap the fruits of pa-
tient obedience in the success of one
of the greatest works wrought in his
century, to gain a mastery over the
men of his age, and to die at last worn
out by labors before his time, the be-
loved child of the Church, whose bor-
ders he had enlarged, whose honor he
had defended ; the other, to follow the
course of self-will, and to quench his
light in utter darkness.
The students of La Chesnaie went
away, and Maurice was thrown on the
world with no definite employment.
An unsuccessful attachment deepened
the natural melancholy of his sensitive
nature. He went to Paris, and was
soon in the midst of the literary world.
He wrote, and obtained fame ; he was
admired and sought after ; but the
beautiful faith of his youth faded away
like a flower, and the innocent pleas-
ures of his childhood, and the passion-
ate love of his sister, had no attractions
for him compared to the brilliant cir-
cles of Parisian society.
And thus was Eugenie's fate marked
out. From afar off her heart followed
him; and, partly for his amusement,
partly to relieve the outpourings of
her intensely-loving heart, she kept a
journal, intended for Maurice's eye
only. A few letters to Maurice and
one or two intimate friends make up
the rest of the volume, which was,
after her death, most fortunately given
to the world. In these pages her
character stands revealed, and no long
description of her mode of life could
have made us more thoroughly ac-
quainted with her than these words,
written sometimes in joy, sometimes
in sorrow, in weariness and depression,
in all weathers, and at all times ; for,
believing that she pleased her brother,
nothing would prevent her from keep-
ing her promise of a daily record of
her life and thoughts. Its chief beauty
lies in that she made so much out of
so little. "I have just come away
very happy from the kitchen, where I
stood a long time this evening, to per-
suade Paul, one of our servants, to go
to confession at Christmas. He has
promised me, and he is a good boy
and will keep his word. Thank God,
my evening is not lost! What a hap-
piness it would be if I could thus every
day gain a soul for God ! Walter
Scott has been neglected this evening;
but what book could have been worth
to me what Paul's promise is ? . . .
The 20th. I am so fond of the snow!
Its perfect whiteness has something
celestial about it. To-day I see nothing
but road-tracks, and the marks of the
feet of little birds. Lightly as they
rest, they leave their little traces in a
thousand forms upon the snow. It is
so pretty to see their little red feet, as
if they were all drawn with pencils of
coral. Winter has its beauties and
its enjoyments, and we find them every-
where when we know how to see them.
God spreads grace and beauty every-
where. ... I must have another
dish to-day for S. R., who is come to
see us. He does not often taste good
things that is why I wish to treat him
well ; for it is to the desolate that, it
seems to me, we should pay attentions.
No reading to-day. I have made a
cap for a little child, which has taken
up all my time. But, provided one
works, be it with the head or the fin-
gers, it is all the same in the eyes of
God, who takes account of every work
done in his name. I hope, then, that
my cap has been a charity I have
given my time, a little material, and a
thousand interesting lines that I could
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
217
have read. Papa brought me yester-
day Ivankoe, and the Siecle de Louis
XIV. Here are provisions for some
of our long winter evenings."
Then she had a keen sense of en-
joyment, and a wonderful faculty of
making the best of things. Thus a
simple pleasure to her was a source of
delight. Here is her description of
Christmas night in Languedoc :
"Dec. 31. I have written nothing
for a fortnight. Do not ask me why.
There are times when we cannot speak,
things of which we can say nothing.
Christmas is come that beautiful fete
which I love the most, which brings
me as much joy as the shepherds of
Bethlehem. Truly our whole soul
sings at the coming of the Lord, which
is announced to us on all sides by
hymns and by the pretty nadalet.*
Nothing in Paris can give an idea of
what Christmas is. You have not
even midnight mass.| We all went
to it, papa at our head, on a most
charming night. There is no sky
more beautiful than that of midnight :
it was such that papa kept putting his
head out of his cloak to look at it.
The earth was white with frost, but
we were not cold, and, beside,. the air
around us was warmed by the lighted
fagots that our servants carried to
light us. It was charming, I assure
you, and I wish I could have seen you
sliding along with us toward the church
on the road, bordered with little white
shrubs, as if they were flowering. The
frost makes such pretty flowers ! We
saw one wreath so pretty that we
wanted to make it a bouquet for the
Blessed Sacrament, but it melted in our
hands ; all flowers last so short a time.
I very much regretted my bouquet ; it
was so sad to see it melt drop by drop.
I slept at the presbytery. The cure's
good sister kept me, and gave me an
excellent reveillon of hot milk." Then,
again, the grave part of her nature
prevails, and she continues :
* A particular way of ringing the bells during
the fifteen days which precede the feast of Christ-
mas, called in patois nodal.
t Since the period at which Mdlle. de Guerin
wrote, midnight maos has been resumed in Paris.
" These are, then, my last thoughts ;
for I shall write nothing more this year;
in a few hours it will be over, and we
shall have begun a new year. Oh, how
quickly time passes ! Alas, alas, can
I say that I regret it ? No, my God,
I do not regret time, or anything that
it brings ; it is not worth while to throw
our affections into its stream. But
empty, useless days, lost for heaven,
this causes me regret as I look back
on life. Dearest, where shall I be
at this day, at this hour, at this min-
ute, next year ? Will it be here, else-
where ; here below, or above ? God
only knows ; I am before the door of
the future, resigned to all that can
come forth from it. To-morrow I will
pray for your happiness, for papa,
Mimi, Eran [her other brother and sis-
ter], and all those whom I love. It is
the day for presents ; I will take mine
from heaven. I draw all from thence,
for truly there are few things which
please me on earth. The longer I live,
the less it pleases me, and I see the
years pass by without sorrow, because
they are but steps to the other world.
Do not think it is any sorrow or trouble
which makes me think this. I assure
you it is not, but a home-sickness
comes over my soul when I think of
heaven. The clock strikes ; it is the
last I shall hear when writing to
you."
The following is an account of what
she called " a happy day :" " God be
blessed for a day without sorrow.
They are rare in this life, and my soul,
more than others, is soon troubled. A
word, a memory, the sound of a voice,
a sad face, nothing, I know not what,
often troubles the serenity of my soul
a little sky, darkened by the small-
est cloud. This day I received a let-
ter from Gabriejle, the cousin whom
I love so for her sweetness and beau-
tiful mind. I was uneasy about her
health, which is so delicate, having
heard nothing of her for more than a
month. I was so pleased to see a
letter from her, that I read it before
my prayers. I was so eager to read it.
To see a letter, and not to open it, is
218
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
an impossible thing. Another letter
was given to me at Cahuzac. It was
from Lili, another sweet friend, but
quite withdrawn from the world; a
pure soul a soul like snow, from its
purity so white that I am confounded
when I look at it a soul made for the
eyes of God. I was coming from
Cahuzac, very pleased with my letter,
when I saw a little boy, weeping as if
his heart were broken. He had broken
his jug, and thought his father would
beat him. I saw that with half a franc
I could make him happy, so I took
him to a shop, where we got another
jug. Charles X. could not be happier
if he regained his crown. Has it not
been a beautiful day ?"
Here is another instance of the way
she had of beautifying the most simple
incidents : " I must notice, in passing,
an excellent supper that we have had
papa, Muni, and I at the corner of
the kitchen-fire, with the servants :
soup, some boiled potatoes, and a cake
that I made yesterday with the dough
from the bread. Our only servants were
the dogs Lion, Wolf, and Tritly, who
licked up the fragments. All our peo-
ple were in church for the instruction
which is given for confirmation ;" and,
she adds, "it was a charming meal."
The daily devotions of the month
of Mary were very recently established
when Eugenie wrote ; she speaks thus
of them : on one first of May when
absent from home, she writes: "On
this day, at this moment, my holy Mi-
mi (a pet name for her sister) is on
her knees before the little altar for the
month of Mary in my room. Dear
sister, I join myself to her, and find a
chapel here also. They have given
me for this purpose a room filled with
flowers ; in it I have made a church,
and Marie, with her little girls, serv-
ants, shepherds, and all the household,
assemble together every evening be-
fore the Blessed Virgin. They came
at first only to look on, for they had
never kept the month of Mary before.
Some good will result to them of this
new devotion, if it is only one idea, a
single idea, of their Christian duties,
which these people know so little of,
and which we can teach them while
amusing them. These popular devo-
tions please me so, because they are
so attractive in their form, and thereby
offer such an easy method of instruc-
tion. By their means, salutary truths
appear most pleasing, and all hearts
are gained in the name of our Lady
and of her sweet virtues. I love the
month of Mary, and the other little
devotions which the Church permits ;
which she blesses ; which are born at
the feet of the Faith like flowers at
the mountain-foot."
Speaking of St. Teresa, to whom
she had a great devotion, she says:
" I am pleased to remember that, when
I lost my mother, I went, like St.
Teresa, to throw myself at the feet
of the Blessed Virgin, and begged her
to take me for her daughter." At an-
other time she says : " To-day, very
early, I went to Vieux, to visit the
relics of the saints, and, in particular,
those of St. Eugenie, my patron. I
love pilgrimages, remnants of the an-
cient faith ; but these are not the days
for them ; in the greater number of
people the spirit for them is dead.
However, if M. le Cure" does not have
this procession to Vieux, there will be
discontent. Credulity abounds where
faith disappears. We have, however,
many good souls, worthy to please the
saints, like Rose Drouille, who knows
how to meditate, who has learnt so
much from the rosary ; then Frangon
de Gaillard and her daughter Jacquette,
so recollected in church. This holy
escort did not accompany me ; I was
alone with my good angel and Mimi.
Mass heard, my prayers finished, I left
with one hope more. I had come to
ask something from St. Eugene ? The
saints are our brothers. If you were
all-powerful, would you not give me
all that I desired? This is what I
was thinking of while invoking St.
Eugene, who is also my patron. We
have so little in this world, at least let
us hope in the other."
Those who are not of the same faith
as Eugenie de Guerin have not failed
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
219
to be attracted by the depth and ardor
of her faith and piety. A writer in
the Cornhill Magazine observes, " The
relation to the priest, the practice of
confession assume, when she speaks of
them, an aspect which is not that under
which Exeter Hall knows them."
" In my leisure time I read a work
of Leitniz, which delighted me by its
catholicity and the pious things which
I found in it like this on confession :
" t j regard a pious, grave, and pru-
dent confessor as a great instrument
of God for the salvation of souls ; for
his counsels serve to direct our affec-
tions, to enlighten us about our faults,
to make us avoid the occasions of sin,
to dissipate our doubts, to raise up our
broken spirit ; finally, to cure or to
mitigate all the maladies of the soul ;
and, if we can never find on earth any-
thing more excellent than a faithful
friend, what happiness is it not to find
one who is obliged, by the inviolable
law of a divine sacrament, to keep
faith with us and to succor souls ?'
" This celestial friend I have in M.
Bories, and therefore the news of his
departure has deeply affected me. I
am sad with a sadness which makes
the soul weep. I should not say this
to any one else ; they would not, per-
haps, understand me, and would take
it ill. In the world they know not
hat a confessor is a man who is a
d of our soul, our most intimate
fidant, our physician, our light, our
her a friend who binds us to
and is bound to us ; who gives us
e, who opens heaven to us, who
,ks to us while we, kneeling, call
, like God, our father ; and faith
ly makes him God and father.
hen I am at his feet, I see nothing
e in him than Jesus listening to
,gdalen, and pardoning much be-
cause she has loved much. Confes-
sion is but an expansion of repentance
in love."
Again she writes : " I have learnt
that M. Bories is about to leave us
this good and excellent father of my
soul. Oh, how I regret him ! What
a loss it will be to me to lose this good
guide of my conscience, of my heart,
my mind, of my whole self, which God
had confided to him, and which I had
trusted to him with such perfect free-
dom ! I am sad with the sadness
which makes the soul weep. My God,
in my desert to whom shall I have
recourse? Who will sustain me in
my spiritual weakness? who will
lead me on to great sacrifices ? It is
in this last, above all, that I regret M.
Bories. He knew what God had put
into my heart. I needed his strength
to follow it. The new cure* cannot
replace him ; he is so young ; then he
appears so inexperienced, so unde-
cided. It is necessary to be firm to
draw a soul from the midst of the
world, and to sustain it against the
assaults of flesh and blood.
" It is Saturday the day of pilgrim-
age to Cahuzac. I will go there ;
perhaps I shall come back more tran-
quil. God has always given me some
blessing in that chapel, where I have
left so many miseries ... I was
not mistaken in thinking that I should
come back more tranquil. M. Bories
is not going ! How happy I am, and
how thankful to God for this favor.
It is such a great blessing to me to
keep this good father, this good guide,
this choice of God for my soul, as St.
Francis de Sales expresses it.
" Confession is such a blessed thing,
such a happiness for the Christian
soul ; a great good, and always greater
in measure when we feel it to be so ;
and when the heart of the priest, into
which we pour our sorrow, resembles
that Divine Heart which has loved us
so much. This is what attaches me
to M. Bories ; you will understand it."
Nevertheless, when the trial of
parting with this beloved friend did
come, at length, it was borne with gen-
tle submission.
* Our pastor is come to see us. I
have not said much to you about him.
He is a simple and good man, know-
ing his duties well, and speaking bet-
ter of God than of the world, which he
knows little of. Therefore, he does
not shine in conversation. His con-
220
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
versation is ordinary, and those who
do not know what the true spirit of a
priest is would think little of him. He
does good in the parish, for his gentle-
ness wins souls. He is our father
now. I find him young after M. Bor-
ies. I miss that strong and powerful
teaching which strengthened me ; but
it is God who has taken it from me.
Let us submit and walk like children,
without looking at the hand which
leads us."
Eugenie's life revolved round that
of Maurice. No length of separation
could weaken her affection, nor make
her interest in his pursuits less en-
grossing. His letters, so few and so
scanty, were treasured up and dwelt
upon in many a lonely hour. She
suffered with him, wept over his dis-
appointments, and prayed for his re-
turn to the faith of his youth with all
the earnestness of her soul. With
exquisite tact she avoided preaching
to him. It was rather by showing him
what religion was to her that she strove
to lead him back to its practice.
" Holy Thursday. I have come
back all fragrant from the chapel of
moss, in the church where the Blessed
Sacrament is reposing. It is a beau-
tiful day when God wills to rest among
the flowers and perfumes of the spring-
time. Mimi, Rose, and I made this
reposoir, aided by M. le Cure. I
thought, as we were doing it, of the
supper-room, of that chamber well
furnished, where Jesus willed to keep
the pasch with his disciples, giving
himself for the Lamb. Oh, what a
gift ! What can one say of the Euch-
arist? I know nothing to say. We
adore ; we possess ; we live ; we love.
The soul is without words, and loses
itself in a,n abyss of happiness. I
thought of you among these ecstasies,
and ardently desired to have you at
my side, at the holy table, as I liad
three years ago."
Mademoiselle de Guerin occasionally
composed ; her brother was very anx-
ious she should publish her productions,
but she shrank from the responsibility.
" St. Jean de Damas," she remarks,
" was forbidden to write to any one,
and for having composed some verses
for a friend he was expelled from the
convent. That seemed to me very
severe ; but one sees the wisdom of it,
when, after supplication and much
humility, the saint had been forgiven,
he was ordered to write and to employ
his talents in conquering the enemies
of Jesus Christ. He was found strong
enough to enter the lists when he had
been stripped of pride. He wrote
against the iconoclasts. Oh, if many
illustrious writers had begun by a les-
son of humility, they would not have
made so many errors nor so many
books. Pride has blinded them, and
thus see the fruits which they produce,
into how many errors they lead the
erring. But this chapter on the science
of evil is too wide for me. I should
prefer saying that I have sewn a sheet.
A sheet leads me to reflect, it will
cover so many people, so many differ-
ent slumbers perhaps that of the
tomb. Who knows if it will not be
my shroud, and if these stitches which
I make will not be unpicked by the
worms? While I was sewing, papa
told me that he had sent, without my
knowledge, some of my verses to
Bayssac, and I have seen the letter
where M. de Bagne speaks of them
and says they are very good. A little
vanity came to me and fell into my
sewing. Now I tell myself the thought
of death is good to keep us from sin.
It moderates joy, tempers sadness,
makes us see that all which passes by
us is transitory."
Again she writes : " Dear one, I
would that I could see you pray like
a good child of God. What would it
cost you ? Your soul is naturally lov-
ing, and prayer is nothing else but
love ; a love which spreads itself out
into the soul as the water flows from
the fountain."
******
" Ash- Wednesday. Here I am, with
ashes on my forehead and serious
thoughts in my mind. This ' Remem-
ber thou art dust !' is terrible to me.
I hear it all day long. I cannot ban-
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
221
ish the thought of death, particularly
in your room, where I no longer find
you, where I saw you so ill, where I
have sad memories both of your pres-
ence and your absence. One thing
only is bright the little medal of Our
Lady, suspended over the head of your
bed. It is still untarnished and in the
same place where I put it to be your
safeguard. I wish you knew, dearest,
the pleasure I have in seeing it the
remembrances, the hopes, the secret
thoughts that are connected with that
holy image. I shall guard it as a
relic ; ana, if ever you return to sleep
in that little bed, you shall sleep again
near the medal of the Blessgd Virgm.
Take from, me this confidence and
love, not to a bit of metal, but -to tfce
image of the Mother of God. I
should like to know, if in your neT%
room I should see St. Teresa, wrho
used to hang in your other room near
the lenitier:
pu toi, necessitous
Befaillant, tu prenais 1'aumone dans ce creui.'
You will no longer, I fear, seek alms
there. Where will you seek them?
Who can tell ? Is the world in which
you live rich enough for all your neces-
sities ? Maurice, if I could but make
you understand one of these thoughts,
breathe into you what I believe, and
what I learn in pious books those
beautiful reflections of the Gospel if
I could see you a Christian, I would
give life and all for that."
******
Maurice's absence was the great
trial of Eugenie's life ; but there were
minor trials also, concerning the lit'tle
things that make up the sum of our
happiness. She suffered intensely and
constantly from ennui. Her active,
enterprising mind had not sufficient
food to sustain it, and bravely did she
fight against this constant depression
and weariness.
A duller life than hers could hardly
be found ; she had literally " nothing
to do." She had no society, for she
lived at a distance from her friends.
Sometimes the cur^ called, sometimes
a priest from a neighboring parish, and
then the monotonous days went on
without a single incident. There was
no outward sign of the struggle going
on. Speaking of her father, she says :
" A grave look makes him think there
is some trouble, so I conceal the pass-
ing clouds from him ; it is but right
that he should only see and know my
calm and serene side. A daughter
should be gentle to her father. We
ought to be to them something like
the angels are to God."
Nor would she distract her thoughts
by any means which might injure her
soul. " I have scarcely read the author
whose work you sent, though I admired
him as I do M. Hugo ; but these
geniuses have blemishes wmjKh wound
a woman's eye. I detest to meet with
wlllPt I dfc not wish to see ; and this
makes me close so many books. I
have had Notre Dame de Paris under
my hands a hundred times to-day ; and
the style, Esmeralda, and so many
pretty things in it, tempt me, and say
to me, 'Read look.' I looked; I
turned it over ; but the stains here and
there stopped me. I read no more,
and contented myself with looking at
the pictures." At another time, when
she is staying at a " deserted house,"
rather duller than her own, she writes :
" The devil tempted me just now in a
little room, where I found a number of
romances. ' Read a word,' he said to
me ; ' let us see that ; look at this ;'
but the titles of the books displeased
me. I am no longer tempted now,
and will go only to change the books
in this room, or rather to throw them
into the fire."
There was one sovereign remedy
for lier ills, and she sought for it with
fidelity, and reaped her reward.
" This morning I was suffering.
Well, at present, I am calm ; and this
I owe to faith, simply to faith, to an
act of faith. I can think of death and
eternity without trouble, without alarm.
Over a deep of sorrow there floats a
divine calm, a serenity, which is the
work of God only. In vain have I
tried other things at a time like this ;
222
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
nothing human comforts the soul, noth-
ing human upholds it.
i
' A 1'enfant il faut sa mere,
A mon ame il faut mon Dieu.' "
At another time of suffering she
writes : " God only can console us
when the heart is sorrowful: human
helps are not enough ; they sink be-
neath it, it is so weighed down by sor-
row. The reed must have more than
other reeds to lean on."
******
"To distract my thoughts, I have
been turning over Lamartine, the dear
poet I love his hymn to the nighfct
ingale, and many other of his ' Har*
monies i but they are far from having
the effec\on me that his ' Meditations'
used tfr have. I was ravished and in
ecstacy with them. I was flut sixl^n,
and time changes many things. The
great poet no longer makes my heart
vibrate ; to-day he has not even power
to distract my thoughts. I must try
something else, for I must not cherish
ennui, which injures the soul. What
can I do ? It is not good for me to
write, to communicate trouble to others.
I will leave pen and ink. I know
something better, for I have tried it a
hundred times ; it is prayer prayer
which calms me when I say to my
soul before God, ' Why art thou sad,
and wherefore art thou troubled ?' I
know not what he does in answering
me, but it quiets me just like a
weeping child when it sees its mother.
The Divine compassion and tenderness
is truly maternal toward us."
******
And, further on: "Now I have
something better to do than write : I
will go and pray. Oh, how I love
prayer! I would that all the world
knew how to pray. I would that chil-
dren, and the old, and the poor, the
afflicted, the sick in soul and body
all who live and suffer could know
the balm that prayer is. But I know
not how to speak of these things. We
cannot tell what is ineffable."
She had said once, as we have seen,
that she would give life and all to see
Maurice once more serving God. She
had written to him thus, not carelessly
indeed, but as we are too wont to write
not counting the cost, because we
know not what the cost is. She wrote
thus, and God took her at her word,
and he asked from her not life, as she
then meant it, but her life's life. First
came the trial of a temporary estrange-
ment. Her journal suddenly stops;
she believed it wearied him, and, with-
out a word of reproach, she silenced
her eager pen. Maurice, however,
declared she was mistaken, and she
joyfully resumed her task with words
which would evidence, if nothing else
^gre left, us, the intense depth of her
love for her brother. " Vas in the
\-ong. So much the better; for I
had feared it had been your fault."
Then Maurice's health, which had al-
wa*^s been delicate, began to fail, and
her heart was tortured at the thought
of him suffering, away from her loving
care, unable to send her news of him.
" I have, been reading the epistle
about the child raised to life by Elias.
Oh, if I knew some prophet, some
one who would give back life and
health, I would go, like the Shunamite,
and throw myself at his feet."
And again, most touchingly, she
says: "A letter from Felicite, which
tells me nothing better about you.
When will those who know more
write ? If they knew how a woman's
heart beats, they would have more
pity."
Maurice recovered from these at-
tacks, and in the autumn of 1836 mar-
ried a young and pretty Creole lady.
He had not the violent attachment as
to the "Louise" of his early youth;
but the union seemed a suitable one
on both sides. One of Eugenie's brief
visits to Paris was made for the pur-
pose of being present at her brother's
marriage. It was a romantic scene.
It took place in the chapel of the old
and quaint Abbaye aux Bois. The
church was filled with brilliant and ad-
miring friends. The bride and bride-
groom, both so beautiful, knelt before
the altar; the Pere Bugnet, who had
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
223
known Maurice as a boy, blessed the
union. The gay procession passed
from the church, and met a funeral
cortege ! It fell like an omen on
Eugenie's heart. Six short months
went by, and Eugenie was again sum-
moned to Paris, to Maurice's sick-bed
his dying-bed it indeed was, but his
sister's passionate love would not re-
linquish hope. The physicians, catch-
ing at a straw, prescribed native air,
and the invalid caught at the proposal
with feverish impatience. That eager
longing sustained him through the
long and terrible journey of twenty
days ; for, the moment he revived, he
would be laid in the salon, and see
the home-faces gathered round him.
Then he was carried to his room, and
soon the end came. At last Euge'nie
knew that he must go, and all the pow-
ers of her soul were gathered into that
one prayer, that he might die at peace
with God. Calmly she bent over him,
and kissed the forehead, damp with
the dews of death.
" Dearest, M. le Cure* is coming,
and you will confess. You have no
difficulty in speaking to M. le Cure ?"
" Not at all," he answered. " You will
prepare for confession, then?" He
asked for his prayer-book, and had
the prayers read to him.
When the priest came, he asked for
more time to prepare. At last the
cure was summoned.
" Never have I heard a confession
better made," said the priest after-
ward. As he was leaving the room,
Maurice called him back, and made
a solemn retraction of the doctrines of
M. de Lamennais. Then came the
Viaticum and the last anointing.
Life ebbed away; he pressed th
hand of the cure*, who was by him to
the last, he kissed his crucifix, and
died. Eugenie's prayer was heard.
He died, but at home ; a wanderer
come back ; an erring child, once more
forgiven, resting on his Father's breast.
And he was gone ! " king of my
heart ! my other self!" as she had
called him and Euge'nie was left
behind. She had loved him too well
for her eternal peace, and it was
necessary that she should be purified v
in the crucible of suffering. Very
gradually she parted from him; the
gates of the tomb closed not on her
love ; slowly she uprooted the fibres
of her nature which had been entwined
in his. Her journal did not end, and
she wrote still to him to Maurice in
heaven : " Oh, my beloved Maurice !
Maurice, art thou far from me ? hear-
est thou me ? Sometimes I shed tor-
rents of tears ; then the soul is dried
up. All my life Avill be a mourning
one ; my heart is desolate." Then,
reproaching herself, she turns to her
only consolation : " Do I not love thee,
my God ? only true and Eternal Love !
It seems to me that I love thee as the
fearful Peter, but not like John, who
rested on thy heart divine repose
which I so need. What do I seek in
creatures ? To make a pillow of a hu-
man breast ? Alas ! I have seen how
death can take that from us. Better
to lean, Jesus, on thy crown of thorns.
******
" Tin's day year, we went together
to St. Sulpice, to the one o'clock mass.
To-day I have been to Lentin in the
rain, with bitter memories, in solitude.
But, my soul, calm thyself with thy
God, whom thou hast received to-day,
in that little church. He is thy
brother, thy friend, the well-beloved
above all ; whom thou canst never see
die ; who can never fail thee, in this
world or the next. Let us console
ourselves with this thought, that in
God we shall find again all we have
lost."
One great desire was, however, left
to her; that of publishing the letters
and writings of Maurice, and of whi-
ning for her beloved one the fame
which she so despised for herself. A
tribute to his memory appeared the
year after his death, in the Revue des
deux Mondes, from the brilliant pen of
Madame Sand ; but it was the source
of more pain than pleasure to Eugenie.
With the want of candor which is so
often a characteristic of the class of
writers to whom Madame Sand be-
224
Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin.
longs, she represented Maurice as a
man totally without faith. Eugenie
believed that he had never actually
lost it, although it had been darkened
and obscured ; and she was certainly
far more in his confidence than any of
his friends.
For some time before his death he
had gradually been returning to relig-
ious exercises; and, as we have seen,
on his death-bed , he had most fully
retracted and repented of whatever
errors there had been in his life. But
Madame Sand was not very likely to
trouble herself about the dying mo-
ments of her friend, while it was an-
other triumph to infidelity to let the
world think this brilliant young man
lived and died in its ranks.
"Madame Sand makes Maurice a
skeptic, a great poet, like Byron, and
it afflicts me to see the name of my
brother a name which was free from
these lamentable errors 4;hus falsely
represented to the world." And again :
" Oh, Madame Sand is right when she
says that his words are like the dia-
monds linked "together, which make a
diadem; or, rather, my Maurice was
all one diamond. Blessed be those who
estimated his price; blessed be the
voice which praises him, which places
him so high, with so much respect and
enthusiasm ! But on one point this
voice is mistaken when she says he
had no faith. No; faith was not
wanting in him. I proclaim it, and
attest it by what I have seen and
heard ; by his prayers, his pious read-
ing ; by the sacraments he received ;
by all his Christian actions; by the
death which opened life unto him a
death with his crucifix."
This article of Madame Sand only
increased Eugenie's desire to vindicate
her brother, by letting the world judge
from his own writings and letters what
Maurice really was. Many projects
were set on foot for publishing this
work. Rather than leave it undone,
Eugenie would have undertaken it her-
self, though her broken spirit shrank
more than ever from any sort of noto-
riety, or communication with the busy
world outside her quiet home. But
she would greatly have preferred the
task should be accomplished by one of
his friends ; and much of her corre-
spondence was devoted to the purpose.
Time passed, and plan after plan fell
to the ground. This last satisfaction
was not to be hers. She was to see, as
she thought, the name of her beloved
one gradually fading away, and for-
gotten as years went on. To the very
last drop she was to drain the cup of
disappointment and loss. Her journal
ceased, and its last sentence was, " Tru-
ly did the saint speak who said, ' Let
us throw our hearts into eternity.' "
There are a few fragments and let-
ters, which carry us on some years
later ; and in one of the last of these
letters, dated 15th of June, 1845, we
find these consoling words : " I have
suffered ; but God teaches us thus,
and leads us to willingly place our
hearts above. You are again in mourn-
ing, and I have felt your loss deeply.
I mean the death of your poor brother.
Alas! what is life but a continual
separation? But you will meet in
heaven, and there will be no more
mourning nor tears ; and there the
society of saints will reward us for
what we have suffered in the society
of men. And, while waiting, there is
nothing else to do than to humble one's
self, as the Apostle says, 'under the
mighty hand of God, that he may
exalt you in the time of visitation ;
casting all your care upon him, for
he hath care of you.' "
These are almost her closing words ;
and thus we see God comforted her.
Three years more passed, of which
we have no record ; and we cannot
fcut deeply regret the determination of
M. Trebutien not to give any account
of her beyond her own words. As
long as they lasted, they are indeed
sufficient ; but we would have fain fol-
lowed her into the silence of those last
years, and have seen the soul grad-
ually passing to its rest. We would
have liked to know if the friends she
loved soothed her dying hours
whether M. Bories, with his "strong
The Building of Moume.
225
and powerful words," was by her side
in her last earthly struggle. But a
veil falls over it all. We feel assured,
as we close the volume, that whatever
human means were wanting, the God
she had faithfully served consoled his
child to the last, and sustained her
mortal weakness till she reposed in
him. After her death, her heart's
wish was fulfilled, and abundant honor
has been rendered to Maurice de
Gue'rin. Nay, more ; for homage is
ever given to the majesty of unselfish
love ; and from henceforth, if Maurice
the poet shall be forgotten, Maurice
the brother of Eugenie will never be.
She has embalmed his memory with
her deep and fond devotion ; and she
has left 'a living record of how, in the
midst of a wearisome, an objectless, a
monotonous life, a woman may find
work to do, and doing it, like Eugenie,
with all her might, leave behind her a
track of light by which others may fol-
low after her, encouraged and con-
soled. F.
THE BUILDING OF MOURNE.
A LEGEND OF THE BLACKWATER.
BY EGBERT D. JOYCE.
ROME, according to the old aphor-
ism, was not built in a day. Neither
was the old town of Mourne, although
it was destroyed in a day, and made
fit almost for the sowing of salt upon
its foundations, by the great Lord of
Thomond, Murrough of the Ferns, when
he gathered around it his rakehelly
kerns, as Spenser in his spleen called
them, and his fierce galloglasses and
roving hobbelers. But the present
story has naught to do with the spo-
liation and burning of towns. Far
different, indeed, was the founding of
Mourne, to the story of the disastrous
termination of its prosperity. You will
look in vain to the histories for a suc-
cinct or circumstantial account of the
building of this ancient town ; but
many a more famous city has its early
annals involved in equal obscurity
Rome, for instance. What tangible
fact can be laid hold of with regard to
its early history, save the will-o'-the-
wisp light emanating from the tradi-
tions of a more modern day ? A cim-
merian cloud of darkness overhangs
its founding and youthful progress,
through which the double-distilled mi-
15
croscopic eyes of the historian are
unable to penetrate with any degree of
certainty. Mourne, however, though
it cannot boast of a long-written his-
tory, possesses an oral one of remark-
able perspicuity and certainty. The
men are on the spot who, with a mathe-
matical precision worthy of Archi-
medes or Newton, will relate every-
thing about it, from its foundation to
its fall. The only darkness cast upon
their most circumstantial history is the
elysian cloud from their luxuriant
dudheens, as they whiff away occasion-
ally, and relate
That there was long ago a certain
Dhonal, a nobleman of the warlike race
of Mac Caurha, who ruled over Duhal-
low, and the wild mountainous terri-
tories extending downward along the
banks of the Blackwater. This noble-
man, after a long rule of prosperity
and peace, at length grew weary of
inaction, and manufactured in his pug-
nacious brain some cause of mortal
affront and complaint aginst a neigh-
boring potentate, whose territory ex-
tended in a westerly direction on the
opposite shore of the river. So he
226
The Building of Mourne.
mustered his vassals with all imagin-
able speed, and prepared to set out for
the domains of his foe on a foray of
unusual ferocity and magnitude.
Before departing from his castle,
which stood some miles above Mallow,
on the banks of the river, he held a
long and confidential parley with his
wife, in which he told her, if he were
defeated or slain, and if the foe should
cross the Blackwater to make repris-
als, that she should hold out the fort-
ress while one stone would stand upon
another, and especially that she should
guard their three young sons well,
whom, he doubted not, whatever
might happen, would one day gain
prosperity and renown. After this,
he set out on his expedition, at the
head of a formidable array of turbu-
lent kerns and marauding horsemen.
But his neighbor was not a man to be
caught sleeping ; for, at the crossing of a
ford near Kanturk, he attacked Dhonal,
slew him in single combat, and put
his followers to the sword, almost to a
man. After this he crossed the Black-
water, laid waste the territories of the
invader, and at length besieged the
castle, where the widowed lady and
her three sons had taken refuge. For
a long time she held her own bravely
against her enemy ; but in the end the
castle was taken by assault, and she
and her three young sons narrowly es-
caped with their lives out into the wild
recesses of the forest.
After wandering about for some
time, the poor lady built a little hut of
brambles on the shore of the Clydagh,
near the spot where stand the ruins of
the preceptory of Mourne, or Ballina-
mona, as it is sometimes called. Here
she dwelt with her children for a long
time, in want and misery. Her sons
, grew up without receiving any of
those accomplishments befitting their
birth, and gained their subsistence, like
the children of the common people
around, by tilling a little plot of land
before their hut, and by the products of
the chase in the surrounding forest.
One day, as Diarmid, the eldest, with
his bow and arrows ready for the chase,
was crossing a narrow valley, he met
a kern, one of the followers of the
great lord who had slain his father.
Now, neither Diarmid nor his brothers
recollected who had killed their father,
nor the high estate from which they
had fallen, for their mother kept them
carefully in ignorance of all, fearing
that they might become known, and
that their enemies would kill them
also. So the kern and himself wended
their way for some time together
along the side of the valley. At
length they started a deer from its bed
in the green ferns. Each shot his
arrow at the same moment, and each
struck the deer, which ran downward
for a short space, and at last fell dead
beside the little stream in the bottom of
the valley.
" The deer is mine !" said the
strange kern, as they stood over its
body.
"No!" answered Diarmid, "it is
not. See ! your arrow is only stickin'
in the skin of his neck, an' mine is af-
ther rattlin' into his heart, through an'
through !"
" No matther," exclaimed the kern,
with a menacing look. " I don't care
how he kem by his death, but the
deer I must have, body an' bones,
whatever comes of it ! Do you think
sich a sprissawn as you could keep me
from it, an' I wantin* its darlin' car-
kiss for the table o' my lord, the Mac
Donogh?"
Now Diarmid recollected that his
mother and brothers were at the same
time almost dying in their little hut for
want of food. So without further
parley he drew his long skian from its
sheath.
" Very well," said he, " take it, if
you're a man ; but before it goes, my
carkiss must lie stiff an' bloody in its
place !"
The kern drew his skian at the
word, and there, over the body of the
fallen deer, ensued a combat stern and
fierce, which at last resulted in Diar-
mid's plunging his skian through and
through the body of his foe into the
gritty sand beneath them.
The Building of Mourne.
227
Diarmid then took the spear and
other weapons of the dead kern, put
the deer upon his broad shoulders, and
marching off in triumph, soon gained
his mother's little hut. There, after
eating a comfortable meal, and telling
his adventure, Diarmid began to lay
down his future plans.
" Mother," he said, " the time is
come at last when this little cabin is too
small for me. I'm a man now, an'
able to meet a man, body to body, as
I met him to-day ; so I'll brighten up
my weapons, an' set off on my adven-
tures, that I may gain renown in the
wars. Donogh here, too, has the
four bones of a man," continued he,
turning to his second brother; " so let
him prepare, an' we'll thramp off to-
gether as soon as we can, an' perhaps
afther all we'd have a castle of our
own, where you could reign in glory,
as big an' grand as Queen Cleena o'
the Crag !"
" Well, then," answered his mother,
" if you must go, before you leave me,
you and your brothers must hunt in
the forest for a month, and bring in as
much food as will do me and Rory
here for a year and a day."
" But," said Rory, the youngest, or
Roreen Shouragh, or the Lively, as he
was called, inconsequence of the 'cute
and merry temperament of his mind
" but, Diarmid, you know I am now
beyant fifteen years of age, an' so, if
you go, I'll folly you to the worldt's
end!"
" You presumptious little atomy of
a barebones," answered his eldest
brother, " if I only see the size of a
thrush's ankle of you follyin' us on
the road, I'll turn back an' bate that
wiry an' freckled little carkiss o' yours
into frog's jelly ! So stay at home in
pace an' quietness, an' perhaps when
I come back I might give you a good
purse o' goold to begin your forthin
with."
" That for your mane an' ludiacrous
purse o' goold!" exclaimed Roreen
Shouragh, at the same time snapping
his fingers in the face of his brother.
"Arrah! do you hear him, mother?
But never mind. Let us be off into
the forest to-morrow, an' we'll see
who'll bring home the most food before
night !"
" Well," said his mother, whether
he stays at home or goes away, I fear
he'll come to some bad end with that
sharp tongue of his, and his wild
capers."
" With all jonteel respect, mother,"
answered Shouragh again, " I mane to
do no such thing. I think myself as
good a hairo this minnit because I
have the sowl an' heart o' one as
King Dathi, who was killed in some
furrin place that I don't recklect the
jography of, or as Con o' the Hun-
dhert Battles, or as the best man
amongst them, Fion himself an' I'll
do as great actions as any o' them yet !"
This grandiloquent boast of Roreen
Shouragh's set his mother and broth-
ers into a fit of laughter, from which
they only recovered when it was time to
retire to rest. In the morning the three
brothers betook themselves to the for-
est, and at the fall of night returned with
a great spoil of game. From morning
till night they hunted thus every day for
a month, at the end of which time
Diarmid said that they had as much
food stored in as would last his mother
and Rory for a year and a day.
On a hot summer noon the two
brothers left the little hut, with their
mother's blessing on their heads, and
set off on their adventures. After
crossing a few valleys, they came at
length to the shore of the Blackwater.
and sat down in the shade of a huge
oak-tree on the bank to rest them-
selves. Beneath them, in a clear,
shady pool, a huge pike, with his vora-
cious jaws ready for a plunge, was
watching a merry little speckled trout,
which in its turn was regarding with
most affectionate eyes a bright blue fly,
that was disporting overhead on the
surface of the water. Suddenly the
trout darted upward into the air,
catching the ill-starred fly, but, in its
return to the element beneath, unfor-
tunately plumped itself into the
Charybdis-like jaws of the villanous
228
The Building of Mourne.
pike, and was from that in one
moment quietly deposited in his stom-
ach.
" Look at that !" said Diarmid to his
brother. " That's the way with a man
that works an* watches everything
with a keen eye. He'll have all in the
end, just as the pike has both fly and
throut an' just as I have both fly, an'
throut, an' pike !" continued he, giv-
ing his spear a quick dart into the
deep pool, and then landing the luck-
less pike, transfixed through and
through, upon the green bank.
" That's the way to manage, and the
divvle a betther sign o' good luck we
could have in the beginning of our
journey, than to get a good male so
aisy !"
" Hooray !" exclaimed a voice be-
hind them. " That's the way to man-
age most galliantly. "What a nate din-
ner the thurminjous monsther will
make for the three of us !" and on
turning round, the two brothers beheld
Roreen Shouragh, accoutred like them-
selves, and dancing with most exube-
rant delight at the feat beside them on
the grass.
" An' so you have follied us afther
all my warnin', you outragious little
vagabone !" exclaimed Diarmid, mak-
ing a wrathful dart at Roreen, who,
however, eluding the grasp, ran and
doubled hither and thither with the
swiftness of a hare, around the trunks
of the huge oak-trees on the shore. In
vain Diarmid tried every ruse of the
chase to catch him. Roreen Shouragh
could not be captured. At length the
elder brother, wearied out, returned to
Donogh, who, during the chase, was
tumbling about on the grass in convul-
sions of laughter.
"'Tis no use, Donogh," he said,
" we must only let him come with us.
He'll never go back. Come here, you
aggravatin' young robber," continued
he, calling out to Roreen, who was still
dancing in defiance beneath a tree,
some distance off "come here, an'
you'll get your dinner, an' may folly us
if you wish."
Roreen knew that he might depend
on the word of his brother. " I
towld ye both," said he, coming up to
the spot, "that I'd folly ye to the
worldt's end ; so let us have pace, an' I
may do ye some service yet. But may I
supplicate to know where ye're pream-
blin' to at present ; for if ye sit down that
way in every umberagious coolin' spot,
as the song says, the divvle a much
ye'll have for yeer pains in the ind ?"
" I'll tell you then," answered Don-
ogh, now recovered from his fit of
laughing. " We're goin' off to Corrig
Cleena, to see the Queen o' the Fairies,
an' to ask her advice what to do so as
to win wealth an' renown."
" 'Tis aisier said than done," said
Roreen, "to see Queen Cleena. But
howsomdever, when we're afther de-
vourin' this vouracious thief of a pike
here, we'll peg off to the Corrig as
swift as our gambadin'-sticks will carry
us!"
After the meal the three brothers
swam across the river, and proceeded
on their way through the forest toward
Corrig Cleena. On gaining the sum-
mit of a little height, a long, straight
road extended before them.
On and on the straight road they
went, till, turning up a narrow path in
the forest, they beheld the great grey
boulders of Corrig Cleena towering
before them. They searched round its
base several times for an entrance, but
could find none. At length, as they
were turning away in despair, they
saw an extremely small, withered old
atomy of a woman, clad all in sky blue,
and sitting beside a clump of fairy
thimbles, or foxgloves, that grew on a
little knoll in front .of the rock. They
went up and accosted her :
" Could you tell us, ould woman,"
asked Diarmid, ' < how we can enter
the Corrig ? We want to speak to the
queen."
"Ould woman, inagh!" answered
the little atomy in a towering passion.
" How daar you call me an ould woman,
you vagabone? Offwid you thramp,
I say, for if you sted there till your
legs would root in the ground, you'd
get no information from me !"
The Building of Mourne.
229
" Be aisy, mother," said Donogh,
in a soothing voice ; " sure, if you can
tell us, you may as well serve us so
far, an' we'll throuble you no more."
"Ould woman an' mother, both!"
screamed the little hag, starting up
and shaking her crutch at the brothers ;
" this is worse than all. You dirty an'
insultin' spalpeens, how daar ye again,
I say call me sich names ? What for
should I be decoratin' my fingers wid
the red blossoms o' the Lusmore, if I
was as ould as you say ? Be off out
o' this, or be this an' be that, I ruinate
ye both wid a whack o' this wand o'
mine !"
" Young leedy," said Roreen Shou-
ragh, stepping up cap in hand at this
juncture, and making the old hag an
elaborately polite bow "young, an'
innocent, an' delightful creethur, p'r'aps
you'd have the kindness to exercise
that lily-white hand o' yours in pointin'
out the way for us into Queen Cleena's
palace !"
"Yes, young man," answered the
crone, greatly mollified at the hand-
some address of Roreen. " For your
sake, I'll point out the way. You at
laste know the respect that should be
paid to youth an' beauty !"
" Allow me, my sweet young dar-
lint," said Roreen at this, as he step-
ped up and offered her his arm " al-
low me to have the shuprame pleasure
of'conductin' you. I'm sure I must
have the honor an' glory of ladin' on
my arm one of the queen's maids of
honor. May those enticin' cheeks o'
yours for ever keep the bloomin' an*
ravishin' blush they have at the pres-
ent minnit, an' may those riglar ivory
teeth o' yours, that are as white as the
dhriven snow, never make their con-
jay from your purty an' delightful
mouth !"
The "delightful young creethur"
allowed herself, with many a gratified
smirk, to be conducted downward by
the gallant Roreen toward the rock,
where, striking the naked wall with
her crutch, or wand as she was
pleased to call it, a door appeared
before them, and the three brothers
were immediately conducted into the
presence of the fairy queen.
It would be long, but pleasant, to
tell the gallant compliments paid by
Roreen to the queen, and the queen's
polite and gracious acceptance of them ;
merry to relate the covert laughter of
the lovely maids of honor, as Roreen
occasionally showered down praises
on the head of the " young leedy" who
so readily gained him admittance to
the palace, and who was no other than
the vain old nurse of the queen ; but,
despite all such frivolities, this history
must have its course. At length the
queen gave them a gentle hint that
their audience had lasted the proper
time, and as they were departing she
cast her bright but love-lorn eyes upon
them with a kindly look.
" Young man," she said, " you ask
my advice how to act so as to gain
wealth and renown. I could give
you wealth, but will not, for wealth
thus acquired rarely benefits the pos-
sessor. But I will give you the advice
you seek. Always keep your senses
sharp and bright, and your bodies
strong by manly exercise. Look
sharply round you, and avail your-
selves honorably of every opportunity
that presents itself. Be brave, and
defend your rights justly ; but, above
all, let your hearts be full of honor
and kindness, and show that kindness
ever in aiding the poor, the needy, and
the defenceless. Do all this, and I
doubt not but you will yet come to
wealth, happiness, and renown. Fare-
well !"
And in a moment, they knew not how,
they found themselves sitting in the
front of the Rock of Cleena, upon the lit-
tle knoll where Roreen had so flatter-
ingly accosted the "young leedy."
Away they went again down to the
shore, swam back across the river, and
wandered away over hill and dale, till
they ascended Sliabh Luchra, and lost
themselves in the depths of the great
forest that clothed its broad back.
Here they sat down in a green glade,
and began to consider what they should
further do with themselves. At length
230
The Building of Mourne.
they agreed to build a little hut, and
remain there for a few days, in order
to look about the country. No sooner
said than done.
To work they went, finished their hut
beneath a spreading tree, and were soon
regaling themselves on a young fawn
they had killed as they descended the
mountain. Next day they went out
into the forest, killed a deer, brought
him back to the hut, in order to pre-
pare part of him for their dinner.
Diarmid undertook the cooking for
the first day, while his two younger
brothers went out along the back of
the mountain to kill more game. With
the aid of a small pot, which they had
borrowed from a forester at the north-
ern part of the mountain, and a ladle
that accompanied it, Diarmid began
to cook the dinner, stirring the pieces
of venison round and round over the
fire, in order to have some broth ready
at the return of his brothers. As he
was stirring and tasting alternately
with great industry, he heard a light
footstep behind him, and on looking
round, beheld sitting on one of the
large mossy stones they used for a
seat a little crabbed-looking boy, with
a red head almost the color of scarlet,
a red jacket, and tight-fitting trowsers
of the same hue, which, reaching a
little below the knee, left the fire-
bedizened and equally rubicund legs
and feet exposed in free luxury to the
air. His face was handsomely formed,
but brown and freckled, and he had a
pair of dark, keen eyes, which seemed
to pierce into the very soul of Diar-
mid as he sat gazing at him. There
was a wild, elfish look about him alto-
gether, as, with a vivacious twinkle of
his acute eye, he saluted Diarmid po-
litely, and asked him for a ladleful
of the broth. Diarmid, however, in
turning round from the pot, had spilt
the contents of the ladle on his hand,
burning it sorely, and was in conse-
quence not in the most amiable hu-
mor.
" Give you a ladle of broth, indeed,
you little weasel o' perdition!" ex-
claimed he. " Peg off out o' my house
this minute, or I'll catch you by one
o' them murtherin' legs o' yours, an'
bate your brains out against one o' the
stones !"
" I'm well acquainted with the cozy
an' indestructible fact, that a man's
house is his castle," said the little fel-
low, at the same time thrusting both
his hands into his pockets, inclining
his head slightly to one side, and look-
ing up coolly at Diarmid ; " but some o'
that broth I must have, for three rai-
sons. First, that all the wild-game o'
the forest are mine as well as yours ;
second, that I'm a sthranger, an' you
know that hospitality is a virthue in
ould Ireland; an', third an' best, be-
cause you darn't refuse me ! So, sit
down there an' cool me a good rich
ladleful, or, be the hole o' my coat !
there'll be wigs on the green bethune
you an' me afore you're much ouldher !"
" Ther's for your impidence, you
gabblin' little riffin !" said Diarmid,
making a furious kick at the imper-
turbable little intruder, who, however,
evaded it by a nimble jump to one
side ; and then leaping up suddenly,
before his assailant was aware, hit
him right and left two stunning blows
with his hard and diminutive fists in
the eyes. Round and round hopped red-
head, at each hop striking the luckless
Diarmid right in the face, till at length,
with one finishing blow, he brought
him to the ground, stunned and sense-
less.
" There," he said, as he took a ladle-
ful o' broth and began to cool it de-
liberately, "that's the most scientific
facer I ever planted on a man's fore-
head in my life. I think he'll not re-
fuse me the next time I ask him."
With that he drank off the broth at
a draught, laid the ladle carefully in
the pot, stuck his hands in his pockets,
and jovially whistling up, "The
cricket's rambles through the hob," he
left the hut, and strutted with a light
and cheerful heart into the forest.
When Diarmid's brothers returned,
they found him just recovering from
his swoon, with two delightful black
eyes, and a nose of unusual dimensions.
The Building of Mournc.
231
He told them the cause of his mishap,
at which they only laughed heartily,
saying that he deserved it for allowing
himself to be beaten by such an in-
significant youngster. Next day, Di-
armid and Roreen went out to hunt,
leaving Donogh within to cook the
dinner. When they returned, they
found the ill-starred Donogh lying
almost dead on the floor, with two
black eyes far surpassing in beauty
and magnitude those received on the
preceding evening by his brother.
" Let me stay within to-morrow,"
said Roreen, " for 'tis my turn ; an' if
he has the perliteness o' payin' me a
visit, I'll reward him for his conde-
scension."
"Arrah!" said both his brothers,
"is it a little traneen like you to be
able for him, when he bate the two
of us?"
"No matther," answered Roreen;
" tis my turn, an' stay I will, if my
eyes were to be oblitherated in my pur-
ricranium !"
And so, when the morrow came,
Diarmid and Donogh went out to hunt,
and Roreen Shouragh stayed within
to cook the dinner. As the pot com-
menced boiling, Roreen kept a sharp
eye around him for the expected visitor,
whom he at length descried coming up
the glade toward the door of the hut,
whistling cheerfully as he came.
" Good-morrow, youngster !" said the
chap as he entered, and made a most
hilarious bow ; " you seem to have the
odor o' charity from your handsome
face here, at laste it comes most aro-
matically from the pot, anyhow."
" Ah, then ! good-morrow kindly,
my blushin' little moss-rose !" said
Roreen, answering the salutation with
an equally ornamental inclination of
his head " welcome to the hall o' my
fathers. P'r'aps you'd do me the thur-
minjous honor o' satin' that blazin' little
earkiss o' yours on the stone foment
me there."
" With all the pleasure in the uni-
varse," answered the other, seating him-
self ; "but as the clay is most obsthrep-
orously hot an* disthressin' to the dis-
solute traveller, p'r'aps you'd have the
exthrame kindness o' givin' me a ladle-
ful o' broth to refresh myself."
" Well," said Roreen, " I was always
counted a livin' respectacle o' the hos-
pitality of ould Ireland. Yet, although
the first law is not to ask the name of
a guest, in regard to the unmerciful
way you thrated my brothers, I must
make bowld, before I grant your re-
quest, to have the honor an' glory of
hearin' your cognomen."
"With shuprame pleasure," an-
swered the visitor. " My name, accord-
in' to the orthography o' Ogham charac-
ters, is Shaneen cus na Thinne, which,
larnedly expounded, manes John with
his Feet to the Fire. But the ferlos-
ophers an' rantiquarians of ould Ire-
land, thracin' effect from cause, call me
Fieryfoot, an' by that name I shall be
proud to be addhressed by you at pres-
ent"
"Well," rejoined Roreen, "it only
shows their perfound knowlidge an'
love for truth, to be able to make out
such a knotty ploberm in derivations ;
an' so, out o' compliment to their oceans
o' larnin', you'll get the broth ; but,"
continued he, as he took up a ladleful
and held it to cool, " as there are a few
questions now and then tlirublin' my
ruminashins, p'r'aps you may be so
perlite as to throw a flash o' lightnin' on
them, while we're watin'. One is in
nathral history. I've heerd that of
late the hares sleep with one eye shut
an' th' other open. What on earth is
the raison of it ?"
"That," answered Fieryfoot, "is
aisily solvoluted. Tis on account o' the
increase o' weasels, and their love for
suckin' the blood o' hares in their sleep.
So the hares, in ordher to be on their
guard an' prevent it, sleep with only
one eye at a time, an' when that's rested
an' has slept enough, they open it an*
shut the other !"
"The other," said Roreen, "is in
asthronomy, an' thrubbles me most of
all, sleepin' an' noddin', aitin' an' dhrink-
in'. Why is it that the man in the
moon always keeps a rapin'-hook in his
hand, and never uses it ?"
232
The Building of Mourne.
" Because," answered Fieryfoot, get-
ting somewhat impatient, "because,
you poor benighted crathure, he's not
a man at all, but the image of a man
painted over the door of Brian Airach's
shebeen there, where those that set off
on a lunarian ramble go in to refresh
themselves, as I want to refresh myself
with that ladle o' broth you're delayin'
in your hand !"
" Oh ! you'll get it fresh an' fastin' !"
exclaimed Roreen, and with that he
dashed the ladleful of scalding broth
right into the face of Fieryfoot, who
started up with a wild cry, and rushed
half-blinded from the hut. Away went
Roreen in hot pursuit after him, with
the ladle in his hand, and calling out
to him, with the most endearing names
imaginable, to come back for another
supply of broth away down the glades,
till at length, on the summit of a smooth,
green little knoll, Fieryfoot suddenly
disappeared. Roreen went to the spot,
and found there a square aperture,
just large enough to admit his body.
He immediately went and cut a sap-
ling with his knife, stuck it by the side
of the aperture, and placed his cap
on it for a mark, and then returned to
the hut, and found his brothers just
after coming in. He related all that
happened, and they agreed to go to-
gether to the knoll after finishing their
dinner. When the dinner was over,
the three brothers went down to the
knoll, and easily found out the aper-
ture through which Fieryfoot had dis-
appeared.
" An' now, what's to be done ?" asked
Diarmid.
"What's to be done, is it?" said
Roreen ; " why just to have me go down,
as I'm the smallest smallest in body
I mane for, to spake shupernathrally,
my soul is larger than both of yurs
put together ; an', in the manetime, to
have ye build another hut over the spot
an' live there till I return with a power
o' gold an' dimons, and oceans o' re-
nown an' glory !"
With that he crept into the aperture,
while his brothers busied themselves
in drawing brambles and sticks to the
spot in order to build a hut as he Lad
directed. As Roreen descended, the
passage began to grow more broad and
lightsome, and at length he found him-
self on the verge of a delightful country,
far more calm and beautiful than the
one he had left. Here he took the
first way that presented itself, and trav-
elled on till he came to the crossing of
three roads. He saw a large, dark-
looking house, part of which he knew
to be a smith's forge, from the smoke,
and from the constant hammering that
resounded from the inside. Roreen
entered, and the first object that pre-
sented itself was Fieryfoot, as fresh
and blooming as a trout, and roasting
his red shins with the utmost luxuri-
ance and happiness of heart before the
blazing fire on the hob.
" Wisha, Roreen Shouragh," ex-
claimed Fieryfoot, starting from his seat,
spitting on his hand for good luck, and
then offering it with great cordiality,
" you're as welcome as the flowers o*
May ! Allow me to offer you my con-
gratulations, ad infinitum, for your su-
perior cuteness in the art of circum-
wentin' your visitors. I prizhume
you'll have no objection to be present-
ed to the three workmen I keep in the
house the smith there, the carpenter,
.an' the mason. Roreen Shouragh,
gentlemin, the only man in the world
above that was able to circumwint your
masther !"
" A cead mille failte*, young gintle-
man !" said the three workmen in a
breath.
Roreen bowed politely in acknow-
ledgment.
" Any news from the worldt above ? M
asked the smith, as he rested his pon-
derous hammer on the anvil.
"Things are morthially dull," an-
swered Roreen, giving a sly wink at
Fieryfoot. " I've heard that the Danes
are making a divarshin in Ireland;
that a shower o' dimons fell in Dublin ;
that the moon is gettin' mowldy for
want o' shinin' ; and that there's a say
in the west that is gradually becoming
transmogrified into whiskey. I hum-
bly hope that the latther intelligence
The Building of Mourne.
is unthrue, for if not, I'm afraid the
whole worldt will become drunk in the
twinklin' of a gooldfrinch's eye !"
" Mile, mile gloire !" exclaimed the
three workmen, " but that's grate an*
wondherful intirely ! P'r'aps masther,"
continued they, addressing Fieryfoot,
and smacking their lips at the thought
of whiskey, " p'r'aps you'd have the
goodness o' givin' us a few days' lave
of absence !"
" Not at present," answered Fiery-
foot ; " industry is the soul o' pleasure,
as the hawk said to the sparrow before
he transported him to his stomach, so
ye must now set to work an' make a
sword, for I want to make my frind
here a present as a compliment for his
superior wisdom."
To work they went. The smith
hammered out, tempered, and polished
the blade, the carpenter fashioned the
hilt, which the mason set with a bril-
liant row of diamonds ; and the sword
was finished instantly.
" An' now," said Fieryfoot, present-
ing the sword to Roreen, " let me have
the immorthial pleasure o' presenting
you with this. Take it and set off on
your thravels. Let valior and magna-
nimity be your guide, and you'll come
to glory without a horizintal bounds.
In the manetime I'll wait here till you
return."
" I accept it with the hottest grati-
tudinity an' gladness," said Roreen,
taking the sword and running his eye
critically along hilt and blade. " "Tis
a darlin', handy sword ; 'tis sharp,
shinin', an' killin', as the sighin' lover
said to his sweetheart's eyes, an' alto-
gether 'tis the one that matches my
experienced taste, for 'tis tough, an*
light, and lumeniferous, as Nero said
to his cimitar, whin he was preparin'
to daycapitate the univarsal worldt wid
one blow !"
Saying this, Roreen buckled the
sword to his side, bade a ceremonious
farewell to the polite Fieryfoot and his
workmen, left the house, and proceed-
ed on his adventures. He took the
west and broader road that led by the
forge, and travelled on gaily till night.
For seven days he travelled thus,
meeting various small adventures by
the way, and getting through them with
his usual light-heartedness, till at
length he saw a huge dark castle
before him, standing on a rock over a
solitary lake. He accosted an old
man by the way-side, who told him
that a huge giant of unusual size,
strength, and ferocity dwelt there, and
that he had kept there in thrall, for
the past year and a day, a beautiful
princess, expecting that in the end
she'd give her consent to marry him.
The old peasant told him also that the
giant had two brothers, who dwelt far
away in their castles, and that they
were the strangest objects ever seen
by mortal eyes ; one being a valiant
dwarf as broad as he was long, and the
other longer than he was broad, for he
was tall as the giant, but so slightly
formed that he was designated by the
inhabitants of the country round
Snohad na Dhial, or the Devil's Needle.
Roreen thanked the old man with great
urbanity, and proceeded on his way
toward the castle. When he came to
the gate, he knocked as bold as brass,
and demanded admittance. He was
quickly answered by a tremendous
voice from the inside, which demanded
what he wanted.
" Let me in, ould steeple," said Ro-
reen ; " I'm a poor disthressed boy
that's grown wary o' the worldt on ac-
count o' my fatness, an' I'm come to
offer myself as a volunthary male for
your voracious stomach !"
At this the gate flew open with a
loud clang, and Roreen found himself
in the great court-yard of the castle,
confronting the giant. The giant was
licking his lips expectantly while open-
ing the gate, but seemed now not a
little disappointed as he looked upon
the spare, wiry form standing before
him.
" If you're engaged, ould cannibal,"
said Horeen again, "in calkalatin' a
gasthernomical ploberm, as I'm aweer
you are, by the way you're lookin' at
me, allow me perlitely to help you in
hallucidatin' it. In the first place, if
234
The Building of Mourne.
you intend to put mt in a pie, I must
tell you that you'll nofc get much gravy
from my carkiss, an' in the next, if you
intend to ate me on the spot, raw, I
must inform you that you'll find me as
hard as a Kerry dimon, an' stickin* in
your throat, before you're half acquaint-
ed with the politics of your abdominal
kingdom !"
As an answer to this the giant did
precisely what Roreen Shouragh ex-
pected he would do. He stooped down,
caught him up with his monstrous
hand, intending to chop off his head
with the first bite ; but Roreen, the mo-
ment he approached his broad, hairy
chest, pulled suddenly out the sword
presented to him by Fiery foot, and
drew it across the giant's windpipe,
with as scientific a cut as ever was
given by any champion at the battle of
Gaura, Clontarf, or of any other place
on the face of the earth. The giant
did not give the usual roar given by a
giant in the act of being killed. How
could he, when his windpipe was cut ?
He only fell down simply by the gate
of his own castle, and died without a
groan. Roreen, by way of triumph,
leaped upon his carcass, and with a
light heart cut a few nimble capers
thereon, and then proceeded on his ex-
plorations into the castle. There he
found the beautiful princess sad and
forlorn, whom he soon relieved from
her apprehensions of further thraldom.
She told him that she was not the only
lady whose wrongs were unredressed
in that strange country, for that the
two remaining brothers of the giant, to
wit, the dwarf and the Devil's Needle,
had kept, during her time of thrall, her
two younger sisters in an equally cruel
bondage.
" An' now, my onrivalled daisy," said
Roteen, after some conversation had
passed between them, " allow me, while
I'm in the humor for performin* deeds
o' valior, to thramp off an' set them
free !"
" But," said the princess, " am I to
be left behind pining in this forlorn
dungeon of a castle ?"
"Refulgint leedy," answered Ro-
reen, " a pair of eyes like yours, when
purferrin' a request, are arrisistible,
but this Kerry-dimon' heart o' mine is.
at present onmovable ; and in ferloso-
phy, when an arrisistible affeer con-
glomerates against an onmovable one,
nothin' occurs, an' so I must have the
exthrame bowldness of asking you to
stay where you are till I come back,
for 'tis always the maxim of an expa-
rienced an' renowned gineral not to
oncumber himself with too much bag-
gage when settin' out on his advin-
thures !"
And so the young princess consent-
ed to stay, and Roreen, with many
bows and compliments, took his leave.
For three days he travelled, till at
length he espied the castle of the dwarf
towering on the summit of a great hill.
He climbed the hill as fast as his
nimble legs could carry him, blew the
horn at the gate, and defied the dwarf
to single combat. To work they went.
The skin of the dwarf was as hard
and tough as that of a rhinoceros, but
at length Roreen's sword found a pas-
sage through it, and the dwarf fell
dead by his own gate. Roreen went
in, brought the good news of her sis-
ter's liberation to the lady, and after
directing her to remain where she was
till his return, set forward again. For
three days more he travelled, till he
came to the shore of a sea, where he
saw the castle of Snohad na Dhial
towering high above the waves. He
climbed up the rock on which the castle
stood, found the gate open, and whis-
tling the romantic pastoral of " The
piper in the meadow straying," he jo-
vially entered the first door he met.
On he went, through room after room,
and saw no one, till at last he came
before an exceedingly lofty door, with
a narrow and perpendicular slit in it,
extending almost from threshold to
lintel. He peeped in through the open
slit, and beheld inside the most beauti-.
ful young lady his eyes ever rested
upon. She was weeping, and seemed
sorely troubled. Roreen opened the
door, presented himself before her, and
told her how he had liberated her sis- .
The Building of Mourne.
235
ters. In return she told him how that
very day she was to be married to
Snohad na Dliial, and wept, as she
further related that it was out of the
question to think of vanquishing him,
for that he was as tall as the giant, yet
so slight that the slit in the door served
him always for an entrance, but then
he was beyond all heroes strong, and
usually killed his antagonist by knot-
ting his long limbs around him and
squeezing him to death.
"No matther," said Roreen. "I'll
sing a song afther my victory, as the
gamecock said to the piper. An' now,
most delightful an' bloomin' darlint o'
the worldt, this purriliginious heart o'
mine is melted at last with the con-
shumin' flame o' love. Say, then, the
heart-sootherin' an' merlifluous word
that you'll have me, an' your thrubbles
are over in the twinklin' "
" Not over so soon !" interrupted a
loud, shrill voice behind them, and Ro-
reen, turning round, beheld Snohad na
Dhial entering at the slit, with deadly
rage and jealousy in his fiery eyes.
Snohad, however, in his haste to get
in and fall upon Roreen, got his middle
in some way or other entangled in the
slit, and in his struggles to free him-
self, his feet lilted upward, and there
he hung for a few moments, inward
and outward, like the swaying beam
of a balance. For a few moments only ;
for Roreen, running over, with one
blow of his faithful sword on the waist
cut him in two, and down fell both
halves of Snohad na Dhial as dead as
a door-nail. After this Roreen got the
heart-sootherin' answer he so gallantly
implored. He then bethought himself
of returning. After a few weeks he
found himself with the three sisters,
and with a cavalcade of horses laden
with the most precious diamonds,
pearls, and other treasures belonging
to the three castles, in front of the forge
where he had met Fieryfoot, and talk-
ing merrily to that worthy.
" An' now," said Fieryfoot, after he
had complimented the ladies on their
beauty, and Roreen on his success and
bravery, " I am about to give my three
workmen lave of absence. But they
must work seven days for you first.
Then they may go on their peregrina-
tions about ould Ireland. Farewell.
Give my ondeniable love to the ladle,
and remember me to your brothers
balligerently !"
"With that the two friends embraced,
on which Fieryfoot drew out a small
whistle and blew a tune, which set
Roreen Shouragh and the three prin-
cesses into a pleasant sleep ; on awak-
ening from which they found them-
selves by the side of the little hut on
the knoll, with the three workmen be-
neath them, holding the horses and
guarding their loads of treasure. Ro-
reen's two brothers had just returned
from the chase, and were standing
near them in mute wonderment at the
spectacle. After some brief explana-
tions, the whole cavalcade set out on
their journey home, and travelled on
till they came to the hut of the lonely
widow on the banks of the Clydagh.
It was nightfall when they reached the
place. Roreen told the three work-
men that he wanted to have a castle
built on the meadow beside the hut,
and then went in and embraced his
mother. The workmen went to the
meadow, and when the next morning
dawned, had a castle of unexampled
strength and beauty built for Roreen
and his intended bride. The two suc-
ceeding mornings saw two equally
splendid castles built for the two broth-
ers and their brides elect, for they
were about to be married to the two
elder princesses. By the next morn-
ing after that they had a castle finished
for Roreen's mother. On the second
morning afterward they had a town
built, and at length, on the seventh
morning, when Roreen went out, he
found both castles and town' enclosed
by a strong wall, with ramparts, gate-
ways, and every other necessary ap-
pliance of defence. The three work-
men then took their leave, and by the
loud smacking of their lips as they de-
parted, Roreen knew that they were
going off to the west in search of the
" say " of whiskey. After this the three
236
The Building of Mourne.
brothers were married to the three
lovely princesses, mercenary soldiers
flocked in from every quarter, and took
service under their banners ; the in-
habitants of the surrounding country
removed into the town, and matters
went on gaily and prosperously. The
name of Roreen's wife was Mourne
Blanaid, or the Blooming, and on a
great festival day got up for the pur-
pose, he called the town Mourne, in
honor of her. In a pitched battle they
defeated and killed the slayer of their
father, and drove his followers out of
their patrimony, and after that they
lived in glory and renown till their
death.
For centuries after the town of
Mourne flourished, still remaining in
possession of the race of the Mac Car-
thys. At length the Normans came
and laid their mail-clad hands upon it.
In the reign of King John, Alexander
de St. Helena founded a preceptory
for Knights Templars near it, the ruins
of which stand yet in forlorn and soli-
tary grandeur beside the little river.
Still the town flourished and throve,
though many a battle was fought with-
in it, and around its gray walls, till at
length, according to Spenser, Murrogh
na Ranagh, prince of Thomond, burst
out like a fiery flame from his fast-
nesses in Clare, overran all Munster,
burnt almost every town in it that had
fallen into the possession of the Eng-
lish, and among the rest Mourne,
whose woful burning did not content
him, for he destroyed it altogether,
scarcely leaving one stone standing
there upon another. And now only a
few mounds remain to show the spot
where Roreen Shouragh got his town
built, and where he ruled so jovially.
And so, gentle reader, if you look
with me to the history of Troy, Rome,
the battle of Ventry Harbor, the Pyra-
mids, or Tadmor hi the Desert, I think
you will say that there is none of them
so clear, so circumstantial, and so trust-
worthy as the early history of the old
town of Mourne.
Hans Euler. 237
HANS EULER.
FROM THE GERMAN OF J. G. SEIDL.
, " HARK, child again that knocking! Go, fling wide the door, I pray ;
Perchance 'tis some poor pilgrim who has wandered from his way.
Now save thee, gallant stranger! Sit thou down and share our cheer :
Our bread is white and wholesome see ! our drink is fresh and clear."
" I come not here your bread to share, nor of your drink to speak.
Your name ?" " Hans Euler." " So ! 'tis well : it is your blood I seek.
Know that through many a weary year I've sought you for a foe :
I had a goodly brother once : 'twas you who laid him low.
" And as he bit the dust, I vowed that soon or late on you
His death should be avenged ; and mark ! that oath I will keep true."
" I slew him ; but in quarrel just. I fought him hand to hand :
Yet, since you would avenge his fall, I'm ready ; take your stand.
" But I war not in my homestead, by this hearth whereon I tread ;
Not in sight of these my dear ones for whose safety I have bled.
My daughter, reach me down yon sword, the same that laid him low ;
And if I ne'er come back again, Tyrol has sons enow."
So forth they fared together, up the glorious Alpine way,
Where newly now the kindling east led on the golden day.
The sun that mounted with them, as he rose in all his pride,
Still saw the stranger toiling on, Hans Euler for his guide.
They climbed the mountain summit ; and behold ! the Alpine world
Showed clear and bright before them, 'neath the mists that upward curled.
Below them, calm and happy, lay the valley in her rest,
With the chalets in her arms, and with their dwellers on her breast.
Amidst were sparkling waters ; giant chasms, scarred and riven ;
Vast, crowning woods ; and over all, the pure, blest air of heaven :
And, sacred in the sight of God, where peace her treasures spread,
On every hearth, on every home, the soul of freedom shed !
Both gazed in solemn silence down. The stranger stayed his hand.
Hans Euler gently pointed to his own beloved land :
" 'Twas this thy brother threatened ; such a wrong might move me well.
'Twas in such a cause I struggled : 'twas for such a fault he fell."
The stranger paused : then, turning, looked Hans Euler in the face ;
The arm that would have raised the sword fell powerless in its place.
u You slew him. Was it, then, for this for home and fatherland ?
Forgive me ! 'Twas a righteous cause. Hans Euler, there's my hand !"
ELEANORA L. HERVEY.
238
The Modern Genius of the Streams.
From All the Year Round.
THE MODERN GENIUS OF THE STREAMS.
WATER to raise corn from the seed,
to clothe the meadow with its grass,
and to fill the land with fruit and
flowers ; water to lie heaped in fan-
tastic clouds, to make the fairy-land of
sunset, and to spread the arch of
mercy in the rainbow ; water that
kindles our imagination to a sense of
beauty ; water that gives us_ our meat,
and is our drink, and cleans us of dirt
and disease, and is our servant in a
thousand great and little ways it is
the very juice and essence of man's
civilization. And so, whether we
shall drag over cold water, or let hot
water drag us, is one way of putting
the question between canal and steam
communication for conveyance of our
heavy traffic. The canal-boat uses its
water cold without, the steam-engine
requires it hot within. Before hot
water appeared in its industrial char-
acter to hiss off the cold, canals had
all the glory to themselves. They are
not yet hissed off their old stages and
cat-called into contempt by the whistle
of the steam-engine, for canal commu-
nication still has advantages of its
own, and canal shares are powers in
the money market.
Little more than a century ago, not
only were there neither canals nor
railroads in this country, but the com-
mon high-roads were about the worst
in Europe. Corn and wool were sent
to market over those bad roads on
horses' or bullocks' backs, and the
only coal used in the inland southern
counties was carried on horseback in
sacks for the supply of the black-
smiths' forges. Water gave us our
over-sea commerce, that came in and
went out by way of our tidal rivers ;
and the step proposed toward the fos-
tering of our home industries was a
great one when it occurred to some-
body to imitate nature, by erecting
artificial rivers that should flow where-
ever we wished them to flow, and*
should be navigable along their whole
course for capacious, flat-bottomed
carrying-boats.
The first English canal, indeed, was
constructed as long as three hundred
years ago, at Exeter, by John Trew, a
native of Glamorganshire, who ena-
bled the traders of Exeter to cancel
the legacy of the spite of an angry
Countess of Devon, who had, nearly
three hundred years before that time,
stopped the ascent of sea-going vessels
to Exeter by forming a weir across
the Exe at Topham. Trew contrived,
to avoid the obstruction, a canal from
Exeter to Topham. three miles long,
with a lock to it. John Trew ruined
himself in the service of an ungrateful
corporation.
After this time, improvements went
no further than the clearing out of
some channels of natural water-com-
munication, until the time of James
Brindley, the father of the English
canal system.
James Brindley was born in the
year 1716, the third of the reign
of George the First, in a cottage
in the parish of Wormhill, mid-
way between the remote hamlets of
the High Peak of Derby. There his
father, more devoted to shooting, hunt-
ing, and bull-running, than to his
work as a cottier, cultivated the little
croft he rented, got into bad company
and poverty, and left his children
neglected and untaught. The idle
man had an industrious wife, who
taught the children, of whom James
was the eldest, what little she knew ;
but they must all.help to earn as soon
as they were able, and James Brind-
ley earned wages at any ordinary
laborer's work that he could get
until he was seventeen years old.
The Modern Genius of the Streams.
239
He was a lad clever with his knife,
who made little models of mills, and
set them to work in mill-streams of
his own contrivance. The machinery
of a neighboring grist-mill was his
especial delight, and had given the
first impulse to his modellings. He
and his mother agreed that he should
bind himself, whenever he could, to a
millwright ; and at the age of seventeen
he did, after a few weeks' trial, be-
come apprentice for seven years to
Abraham Bennett, wheelwright and
millwright, at the village of Sutton,
near Macclesfield, which was the
market-town of Brindley's district.
The millwrights were then the only
engineers ; they worked hy turns at
the foot-lathe, the carpenter's bench,
and the anvil ; and, in country places
where there was little support for
division of labor, they had to find skill
or invention to meet any demand on
mechanical skill. Bennett was not a
sober man, his journeymen were a
rough set, and much of the young
apprentice's time was at first occupied
in running for beer. He was taught
little, and had to find out everything
for himself, which he did but slowly ;
so that, during some time, he passed
with his master for a stupid bungler,
only fit for the farm-work from which
he had been taken. But, after two
years of this sort of pupilage, a fire
having injured some machinery in a
small silk-mill at Macclesfield, Brind-
ley was sent to bring away the dam-
aged pieces ; and, by his suggestions on
that occasion, he showed to Mr. Mil-
ner, the mill superintendent, an intel-
ligence that caused his master to be
applied to for Brindley's aid in a
certain part of the repairs. He was
unwillingly sent, worked under the
encouragement of the friendly super-
intendent with remarkable ability, and
was surprised that his master and
the other workmen seemed to be
dissatisfied with his success. When
they chaffed him, at the supper cele-
brating the completion of the work,
his friend Milner offered to wager a
gallon of the best ale that, before the
lad's apprenticeship was out, he would
be a cleverer workman than any of
them there present, master or man.
This was a joke against Brindley
among his fellow-workmen ; but in
another year they found " the young
man Brindley " specially asked for
when the neighboring millers needed
repairs of machinery, and sometimes
he was chosen in preference to the
master himself. Bennett asked " the
young man Briudley" where he had
learnt his skill in mill-work, but he
could tell no more than that it " came
natural like." He even suggested
and carried out improvements, espe-
cially in the application of the water-
power, and worked so substantially
well, that his master said to him one
day, "Jem, if thou goes on i' this
foolish way o' workin', there will
be very little trade left to be done
when thou comes oot o' thy time:
thou knaws firmness o' wark's h' ruin
o' trade."
But presently Jem's "firmness o'
wark" was the saving of his master.
Bennett got a contract to set up a
paper-mill on the river Dane, upon
the model of a mill near Manchester.
Bennett went to examine the Manches-
ter mill, brought back a confused and
beery notion of it, and, proceeding
with the job, got into the most hope-
less bewilderment. An old hand, who
had looked in on the work, reported,
over his drink at the nearest public-
house, that the job was a farce, and
that Abraham Bennett was only
throwing away his employer's money.
Next Saturday, after his work, young
Jem Brindley disappeared. He was
just of age, and it was supposed he
had taken it into his head to lea^e his
master and begin life on his own ac-
count. But on Monday morning,
there he was at his work, with his
coat off, and the whole duty to be
done clear in his head. He had taken
on Saturday night a twenty-five mile
walk to the pattern mill, near Man-
chester. On Sunday morning he
had asked leave of its proprietor to
go in and examine it. He had spent
240
The Modem Genius of the Streams.
some hours on Sunday in the study of
its machinery, and then had walked
the twenty-five miles back, to resume
his work and save his master from a
failure that would have been disas-
trous to his credit. The conduct of
the work was left to him ; he undid
what was amiss, and proceeded with
the rest so accurately, that the con-
tract was completed within the ap-
pointed time, to the complete satis-
faction of all persons concerned.
After that piece of good service,
Bennett left to James Brindley the
chief care over his business. When
Bennett died, Brindley carried on to
completion all work then in hand, and
wound up the accounts for the benefit
of his old master's family. That done,
he set up in business on his own ac-
count at the town of Leek, in Stafford-
shire ; he was then twenty-six years
old, having served seven years as an
apprentice and two years as journey-
man.
Leek was then but a small market-
town, with a few grist-mills, and Brind-
ley had no capital; but he made
himself known beyond Leek as a
reliable man, whose work was good
and durable, who had invention at the
service of his employers, and who
always finished a job within the stipu-
lated time. He did not confine him-
self to mill-work, but was ready to
undertake all sorts of machinery con-
nected with the draining of mines, the
pumping of water, the smelting of
iron and copper, for which a demand
was then rising, and became honora-
bly known to his neighbors as " the
Schemer." At first he had no jour-
neyman cfr apprentice, and he cut the
tree for his own timber. While work-
ing as an apprentice, he had taught
himself to write in a clumsy, half-illeg-
ible way he never learnt to spell
and when he had been thirteen years
in business, he would still charge an
employer his day's work at two shil-
lings for cutting a big tree, for a mill-
shaft or for other use. When he was
called to exercise his skill at a dis-
tance upon some machinery, he added
a charge of sixpence a day for extra
expenses.
When the brothers John and Thom-
as Wedgwood, potters in a small way
at the outset of their famous career,
desired to increase the supply of flint-
powder, they called " the Schemer" to
their aid, and the success of the flint-
mill Brindley then erected brought him
business in the potteries from that time
forward.
About this time, also, a Manchester
man was being married to a young
lady of mark in the potteries, and,
during the wedding festivities, conver-
sation once turned on the cleverness
of the young millwright of Leek. The
Manchester man wondered whether
he was clever enough to get the water
out of some hopelessly drowned coal
mines of his, and thought he should
like to see him. Brindley was sent
for, told the case and its hitherto insu-
perable difficulties, went into a brown
study, then suddenly brightened up,
and told in what way he thought that,
without great expense, the difficulty
might be conquered. The gist of his
plan was to use the fall of the river
Irwell, that formed one boundary of
the estate, and pump the water from
the pits by means of the greater
power of the water in the river. His
suggestion was thought good, and,
being set to work upon this job, he
drove a tunnel through six hundred
yards of solid rock, and by the tunnel
brought the river down upon the
breast of an immense water-wheel,
fixed in a chamber thirty feet below
the surface of the ground ; the water,
when it had turned the wheel, was
carried on into the lower level of the
Irwell. That wheel, with its pumps,
working night and day, soon cleared
the drowned outworkings of the mine ;
and for the invention and direction of
this valuable engineering work, he
seems only to have charged his
workman's wages of two shillings a
day.
An engineer from London had been
brought down to superintend the
building of a new silk-mill at Congle-
The Modern Genius of. the Streams.
241
ton, and Brindley was employed un-
der him to make the water-wheel and
do the common work of his trade.
The engineer from London got his
work into a mess, and at last was
obliged to confess his inability to carry
out his plan. " The Schemer " Brind-
ley was applied to by the perplexed
proprietor. Could he put the confu-
sion straight? James Brindley asked
to see the plans ; but the great engineer
refused to show them to a common
millwright. " Well, then," said Brind-
ley to the proprietor of the mill, " tell
me exactly what you want the machin-
ery to do, and I will try to contrive
what will do it. But you must leave
me free to work in my own way."
He was told the results desired, and
not only achieved them, but achieved
much more, adding new contrivances,
which afterward proved of the great-
est value.
After this achievement, Brindley
was employed by the now prospering
potters to build flint-mills of more
power upon a new plan of his own.
One of the largest was that built for
Mr. Baddely, of which work there is
record in such trade entries of his as
March 1 5, 1757. With Mr. Baddely
to Matherso about a now " (newj " flint-
mill upon a windey day 1 day 3s. 6d.
March 19 draing a plann 1 day 2s. 6d.
March 23 draing a plann and to sat
out the wheelrace 1 day 4s."
At this time Brindley is also exer-
cising his wit on an attempt at an
improved steam-engine ; but though his
ideas are good, it is hard to bring them
into continuously good working order,
and after the close of entries about it
in his memorandum-book, when it
seems to have broken down for a
second time, he underlines the item
" to Run about a Drinking Is. 6d."
But he confined his despair to the
loss of a day and the expenditure of
eighteen pence. Not long afterward
he had developed a patent of his
own, and erected, in 1763, for
the Walker Colliery at Newcastle,
a steam-engine wholly of iron, which
was pronounced the most " complete
16
and noble piece of iron- work " that had
up to that time been produced. But
the perfecting of the steam-engine was
then safe in the hands of Watt, and
Brindley had already turned into his
own path as the author of our Eng-
lish canal system.
The young Duke of Bridgewater,
vexed in love by the frailty of fair
woman, had abjured interest in their
sex, had gone down to his estate of
Worsley, on the borders of Chat Moss,
and, to give himself something more
wholesome to think about than the
sisters Gunning and their fortunes,
conferred with John Gilbert, his land
steward, as to the possibility of cutting
a canal by which the coals found
upon his Worsley estate might be
readily taken to market at Manches-
ter. Manchester then was a rising
town, of which the manufacturers
were yet unaided by the steam-engine,
and there was no coal smoke but that
which arose from household fires.
The roads out of Manchester were so
bad as to be actually closed in winter,
and in summer the coal, sold at the
pit mouth by the horse-load, was con-
veyed on horses' backs at an addition
to its cost of nine or ten shillings a
ton.
When the duke discussed with Gil-
bert old abandoned and new possible
schemes of water conveyance for his
Worsley coal, Gilbert advised the
calling in of the ingenious James
Brindley of Leek, "the Schemer."
When the duke came into contact
with Brindley, he at once put trust in
him, and gave him the direction of
the proposed work ; whereupon he
was requested to base his advice
upon what he enters in his memoran-
dum-book of jobs done, as an " ochilor,"
(ocular) " servey or a ricconitering."
Brindley examined the ground, and
formed his own plan. He was against
carrying the canal down into Irwell by
a flight of locks, and so up again on
the other side to the proposed level,
but counselled carrying the canal by
solid embankments and a stone aque-
duct right over the river upon one
242
The Modern Genius of the Streams.
level throughout. The duke accepted
his opinion, and had plans prepared
for a new application to parliament,
Brindley often staying with him at
work and in consultation for weeks to-
gether, while still travelling to and fro
in full employment upon mills, water-
wheels, cranes, fire-engines, and other
mechanical work. Small as his pay
was, he lived frugally. He had by
this time even saved a little money,
and gained credit enough to be able,
by borrowing from a friend at Leek,
to pay between five and six hundred
pounds for. a fourth share of an estate
at Turnhurst, in Staffordshire, sup-
posed by him to be full of minerals.
The Duke of Bridgewater obtained
his act in the year 1760, but the
bold and original part of Brindley's
scheme, which many ridiculed as
madness, caused the duke much anx-
iety. In England there had never
been so great an aqueduct, but the
scheme was not only for the carrying
of water in a water-tight trunk of
earth over an embankment, but also
for the carrying of ships on a bridge of
water over water. Brindley had no
misgivings. To allay the duke's fears,
he suggested calling in and question-
ing another engineer, who surprised
the man of genius by ending an ad-
verse report thus : " I have often
heard of castles an the air ; but never
before saw where any of them were to
be erected."
The duke, however, with all his hes-
itation, had most faith in the head of
James Brindley, bade him go on in his
own way, and resolved to run the risk
of failure. And so, on a bridge of
three arches, the canal was carried
over the Irwell by the Barton aqueduct,
thirty-nine feet above the river. The
water was confined within a puddled
channel, to prevent leakage, and the
work is at this day as sound as it
was when first constructed. For the
safe carrying of water along the top
of an earthen embankment, Brindley
had relied upon the retaining pow-
ers of clay puddle. It was by help
also of clay puddle that he carried the
weight of the embankment safe over
the ooze of Trafford Moss.
With great ingenuity, also, Brindley
provided for the crossing of his canal
by streams intercepting its course, with-
out breach of his rule that it is unsafe
to let such waters freely mix with the
canal stream. Thus, to provide for
the free passage of the Medlock with-
out causing a rush into the canal, an
ingenious form of weir was contrived,
over which its waters flowed into a
lower level, and thence down a well
several yards deep, leading to a sub-
terranean passage by which the stream
was passed into the Irwell, near at
hand. Arthur Young, who saw Brind-
ley's canal soon after it was opened,
said that "the whole plan of these
works shows a capacity and extent of
mind which foresees difficulties, and
invents remedies in anticipation of
possible evils. The connection and
dependence of the parts upon each
other are happily imagined ; and all
are exerted in concert, to command by
every means the wished-for success."
At the Worsley end Brindley con-
structed a basin, into which coal was
brought from different workings of the
mine by a subterranean water channel.
Brindley also invented cranes for the
more ready loading of the boats, laid
down within the mines a system of un-
derground railways leading from the
face of the coal where the miners
worked, to the wells that he had made
at different points in the tunnels for
shooting the coal down into the boats
waiting below. He drained and venti-
lated with a water-bellows the lower
parts of the mine. He improved the
barges, invented water-weights, rais-
ing dams, riddles to wash the coal for
the forges. At the Manchester end
Brindley made equally ingenious ar-
rangements for the easy delivery of
the coal at the top of Castle Hill. At
every turn in the work his inventive
genius was felt. When the want of
lime for the masonry was a serious
impediment, Brindley discovered how
to make, of a useless, unadhesive lime-
marl, by tempering it and casting it in
The Modern Genius of the Streams.
243
moulds before burning, an excellent
lime, a contrivance that alone saved
the duke several thousands of pounds
cost. When the water was let in, and
the works everywhere stood firm, peo-
ple of fashion nocked to see Brindley's
canal, as " perhaps the greatest arti-
ficial curiosity in the world :" and wri-
ters spoke in glowing terms of the
surprise with which they saw several
barges of great burden drawn by a
single mule or horse along a " river
hung in the air," over another river
flowing beneath.
As for Manchester, with the price
of coal reduced one half, it was ready
to make the best use of the steam-en-
gine when it was established as the
motive-power in our factories.
Within two months of the day,
seventeenth of July, 1761, when the
first boat-load of coals travelled
over the Barton viaduct, Brindley's
notes testify that he was at Liver-
pool " recconitoring " and by the end
of September he was levelling for a
proposed extension of his canal from
Manchester to Liverpool, by joining
it with the Mersey, eight miles below
Warrington Bridge, whence there is a
natural tideway to Liverpool, about
fifteen miles distant. At that time there
was not even a coach communication
over the bad roads between Manches-
ter and Liverpool, the first stage-coach
having been started six years later,
when it required six, and sometimes
eight horses to pull it the thirty miles
along the ruts and through the sloughs. .
The coach started from Liverpool
early in the morning, breakfasted at
Prescot, dined at Warrington, and
reached Manchester by supper-time.
From Manchester to Liverpool it
made the return journey next day.
The Duke of Bridgewater's proposed
canal was strongly opposed as an an-
tagonist interest by the Mersey and
Irwell Navigation Company. The
canal promised to take freights at half
the price charged by the Navigation
Company. A son of the Earl of Derby
took the part of the " Old Navigators,"
and as the Duke of Bridgewater was
a Whig, Brindley had to enter in hig
note-book that " the Toores " (Tories)
had " mad had " (made head) " agane
ye Duk." But at last his entry was :
"ad a grate Division of 127 fort Duk
98 nos
for t e Duke 29 Me Jorete,"
and the Duke's cause prospered during
the rest of the contest.
Brindley bought a new suit of clothes
to grace his part as principal engineer-
ing witness for the canal, and having
upset his mind for some days by going
to see Garrick play Richard the Third,
(wherefore he declared against all fur-
ther indulgence in that sort of excite-
ment), he went to the committee-room
duly provided with a bit of chalk in
his pocket, and made good the saying
that originated from his clear way of
showing what he meant, upon the floor
of the committee-room, that " Brind-
ley and chalk would go through the
world." When asked to produce a
drawing of a proposed bridge, he said
he had none, but could immediately
get a model. Whereupon he went
out and bought a large cheese, which
he brought into the committee-room
and cut into two equal parts, saying,
" Here is my model." The two halves
of the cheese represented the two
arches of his bridge, the rest of the
work connected with them he built
with paper, with books, or with what-
ever he found ready to hand. Once
when he had repeatedly talked about
" puddling," some of the members
wished to know what puddling was.
Brindley sent out for a lump of clay,
hollowed it into a trough, poured water
in, and showed that it leaked out.
Then he worked up the clay with
water, going through the process of
puddling in miniature, again made a
trough of the puddled clay, filled it
with water, and showed that it was
water-tight. " Thus it is," he saifl,
"that I form a water-tight trunk to
carry water over rivers and valleys,
wherever they cross the path of the
canal."
And so the battle was fought, and
the canal works completed at a total
244
The Modern Genius of the Streams.
cost of two hundred and twenty thou-
sand pounds, of which Brindley was
content to take as his share a rate of
pay below that of an ordinary me-
chanic at the present day. The canal
yielded an income Avhich eventually
reached eighty thousand pounds a
year; but three and sixpence a day,
and for a greater part of the time half
a crown a day, was the salary of the
man of genius by whom it was planned
and executed. Yet Brindley was then
able to get a guinea a day for services
to others, though from the Duke of
Biidgewater he never took more than
a guinea a week, and had not always
that. The duke was investing all the
money he could raise, and sometimes at
his wit's end for means to go on with the
work. Brindley gave his soul to the
work for its own sake, and if he had a
few pence to buy himself his dinner
with one day he enters only "ating
and drinking 6d." he could live, con-
tent with having added not a straw's
weight of impediment to the great en-
terprise he was bent with all the force
of his great genius upon achieving. It
gave him the advantage, also, of being
able, as was most convenient, to treat
with the duke on equal terms. He
was invited as a canal maker to Hesse
by offers of any payment he chose to
demand, but stuck to the duke, who is
said even to have been in debt to him
for travelling and other expenses,
which he had left unpaid with the an-
swer, "I am much more distressed for
money than you ; however, as soon as
I can recover myself, your services
shall not go unrewarded." After Brind-
ley's sudden death his widow applied
in vain for sums which she said were
due to her late husband.
The Staffordshire Grand Trunk Ca-
nal, Brindley 's other great work, start-
ed from the duke's canal, near Run-
cbrn, passed through the salt-making
districts of Cheshire and the Pottery
district, to unite the Severn with the
Mersey by one hundred and forty
miles of water-way. This canal went
through five tunnels, one of them, that
at Harecastle, being nearly three thou-
sand yards long, a feature in the
scheme accounted by many to be as
preposterous as they had called his
former " castle in the air." The work
was done ; bringing with it traffic, pop-
ulation, and prosperity into many half-
savage midland districts. It gave com-
fort and ample employment hi the Pot-
tery district, while trebling the num-
bers of those whom it converted, from
a half-employed and ill-paid set of
savages, into a thriving community.
Once, when Brindley was demon-
strating to a committee of the House
of Commons the superior reliableness
and convenience of equable canals as
compared with rivers, liable to every
mischance of flood and drought, he
was asked by a member, " What, then,
he took to be the use of navigable
rivers ?" and replied, " To make canal
navigations, to be sure !" From the
Grand Trunk, other canals branched,
and yet others were laid out by Brind-
ley before he died. He found time
when at the age of fifty to marry a
girl of nineteen, and the house then
falling vacant on the estate of Turn-
hurst, of which he had, for the sake of
its minerals, bought a fourth share,
and by that time had a colliery at
work, he took his wife home as the mis-
tress of that old, roomy dwelling. He
was receiving better pay then as the
engineer of the Grand Trunk Canal,
and his new home was conveniently
near to the workings of its great Hare-
castle Tunnel, into which he and his
partners sent a short branch canal
of a mile and a half long from
their coal mine, which was only a few
fields distant from his house.
Water, that made his greatness, was
at last the death of Brindley. He got
drenched one day while surveying a
canal, went about in his wet clothes,
and when he went to bed at the inn
was put between damp sheets. This
produced the illness of which he died,
at the age of fifty-six. It was not the
first time that he had taken to his bed.
Scarcely able to read, and if he could
have read, engaged on work so new
that no book precedents could have
t
A L/ie.
245
helped him, whenever Brindley had
some difficulty to overcome that seemed
for a time insuperable, he went to bed
upon it, and is known to have stopped
in bed two or three days, till he had
quietly thought it all over, and worked
his way to the solution. It is said that
when he lay on his death-bed some
eager canal undertakers urged to see
him and seek from him the solution of
a problem. They had met with a se-
rious difficulty in the course of their
canal, and must see Mr. Brindley and
get his advice. They were admitted,
and told him how at a certain place
they had labored in vain to prevent
their canal from leaking. " Then pud-
dle it," murmured Brindley. " Sir, but
we have puddled it." " Then " and
they were almost his last words in life
" puddle it again and again." As
he had wisely invested his savings in
Grand Trunk shares, they and his
share in the colliery enabled him to
leave ample provision for his widow
and two daughters.
As for the canal system that he es-
tablished, it has not been made obsolete
by its strong younger brother, the rail-
way system. The duke's canal is as
busy as ever. Not less than twenty
million tons of traffic are at this date
carried yearly upon the canals of
England alone, and this quantity is
steadily increasing.
We have taken the facts in this ac-
count of Brindley, from a delightful
popular edition of that part of Mr.
Smiles's Lives of the Engineers which
tells of him and of the earlier water
engineers. Of Mr. Smiles's Lives of
George and Robert Stephenson there
is a popular edition as a companion
volume, and therein all may read,
worthily told, the tale of the founda-
tion and of the chief triumphs of that
new form pf engineering wjfich dealt
with water* not by the riverful, but
by the bucketful, and made a few
buckets of water strong as a river
to sweep men and their goods and
their cattle in a mighty torrent
from one corner o <he country to
another.
From Chambers's Journal.
A LIE.
A THISTLE grew in a sluggard's croft,
Rough and rank with a thorny growth,
With its spotted leaves, and its purple flowers
(Blossoms of Sin, and bloom of Sloth);
Slowly it ripened its baneful seeds,
And away they went in swift gray showers.
But every seed was cobweb winged,
And they spread o'er a hundred miles of land.
'Tis centuries now since they first took flight,
In that careless, gay, and mischievous band,
Yet still they are blooming and ripening fast,
And spreading their evil by day and night.
246
Christian Art.
From The Dublin Beview.
CHRISTIAN ART.
The History of our Lord as exempli-
fied in Works of Art ; with that of
the Types, St. John the Baptist and
other persons of the Old and New
Testament. Commenced by the late
Mrs. JAMESON ; continued and com-
pleted by Lady EASTLAKE. 2 vols.
London : Longman. 1864.
THE series of works on Christian
Art brought out by the late Mrs. Jame-
son, and which earned for her so high
a reputation as an art /critic, 'was con-
ceived upon a plan of progressive in-
terest ancRmportance. Broja " Sacred
and Legendary Art," "published in
1848, she passed to the special legends
connected witto Monastic Orders, and
in 1852 gave to the public her most
charming volujne, entitled " Legends
of the Madonna3 The series was to
have closed ^ff the subject of the
volum% nowbefore us, and some
progress had been made by Mrs. Jame-
son in collecting notes on various
pictures, when, in the -spring of 1860,
death cut her labors short. The
work, however, has passed into hands
well able toj complete it worthily.
We may miss some of the freshness
and genuiie simplicity with which
Mrs. JanSRi' was wont to transfer
to paper rare impression madg on her
mind and heart ; but Lady Eastlake,
while bringing to her task ttye essen-
tial ^qualification of earnestness and
exhibiting considerable grace and
force of style, is possessed of a far
wider and more critical acquaintance
with the history of art than her ami-
able predecessor either had or pre-
tended to have. It is pleasant to find
in these pages, as in those which pre-
ceded them, the evidence of a desire to
avoid controversial matter ; and that,
without compromise of personal con-
viction, care has been generally taken
not to wound the feelings of those
who differ from the writer in religious
belief. The primary object of the
work is aesthetic and artistic, not re-
ligious ; and it is seldom that the laws
of good taste are transgressed in its
pages by gratuitous attacks upon the
tenets of the great body of artists who
are the immediate subject of criticism.
Indeed, considering that these volumes
are the production of a Protestant, we
think that less of Protestant animus
could hardly be shown, at all consist-
ently with honesty of purpose and
frankness of speech. That no traces
of the Protestant spirit should appear,
would be next to an impossibility ; and
the affectation of Catholic feeling,
where it did not exist, would be offen-
sive from its very unreality. So much
self-control in traversing a vast extent
of ^delicate and dangerous ground de-
serves all the more hearty acknowl-
edgment, as it must have been pecul-
iarly difficult to a person of Lady
Eastlake's ardent temperament and
evident strength of conviction. If,
therefore, in the course of our remarks,
we feel bound to point out the evil in-
fluence which Lady Eastlake's relig-
ious views seem to us to have exercised
on her critical appreciations, it will be
understood that theories, not persons,
are the object of our animadversions.
It is at all times an ungrateful task to
expose the weak points of an author ;
it would be especially ungenerous to
be hard upon the shortcomings of one
who has done such good service to
the cause of truth, in proving, how-
ever unconsciously, by the mere exer-
cise of persistent candor, the identity of
Christian and Catholic art. Catholics,
indeed, do not ordinarily stand in
need of such proof. If they know
anything of art, the fact of this identity
must be with them an early discovery ;
but it is gratifying, especially in a
time and country in which scant jus-
tice on such matters is too often dealt
out to us, to be able to adduce a testi-
Christian Art.
247
mony the more valuable because given
in despite of an adverse bias. It is
quite possible, indeed, that the writer
has not perceived the full import of her
work ; but no one, we think, can study
her examples or weigh the force of her
criticism with out coming to the true
conclusion up- on this subject.
But, before establishing the correct-
ness of this assertion, we must draw
attention to one point upon which we
are at issue with Lady Eastlake: a
point, moreover, of no small impor-
tance, as it vitally aifects the value of a
large part of her criticisms. A ques-
tion arises at the outset, what stand-
ard or test of Christian art is to be
set up ; and Lady Eastlake makes an
excellent start in the investigation.
There is, perhaps, no principle so
steadily kept in view throughout the
work, or so often and earnestly insisted
on, as this : that genuine Christian
art and true Christian doctrine are
intimately and essentially connected.
Art is bound to depict only the truth
in fact or doctrine (vol. ii., p. 266,
note). Departure from sound theol-
ogy involves heresy in art. Now, no
principle can be more true than this,
or of greater importance toward form-
ing a correct judgment upon works
professing to belong to Christian art.
Beauty and truth are objectively iden-
tical, for beauty is only truth lighted
up and harmonized by the reason ;
'and to supernatural beauty, which
Christian art essentially aims at ex-
pressing, supernatural truth must ne-
cessarily correspond. For here we
have nothing to do with mere material
beauty, " the glories of color, the
feats of anatomical skill, the charms of
chiaroscuro, the revels of free hand-
ling." Admirable as these are in
themselves, and by no means, theoret-
ically at least, injurious to Christian
art, they belong properly to art as art,
and are more or less separable from
art as Christian. Christian art is
never perfect as art, unless material
beauty enters into the composition ;
but as Christianity is above art, and the
soul superior to the body, so material
beauty must never forget its place,
never strive to obtain the mastery, or
constitute itself the chief aim of the
artist, upon pain of total destruction of
the Christian element. The soul of
Christian art is in the idea the shad-
owing out by symbol or representation,
under material forms and conditions,
of immaterial, supernatural, even un-
created beauty, the beauty of heavenly
virtue, or heavenly mystery or divinity
itself. But how are these objects, in all
their harmony, proportion, and splen-
dor, to be realized how is supernatural
beauty to be conceived except by a
soul gifted with supernatural percep-
tions ? Faith, at least, is indispensably
requisite to the truthfulness of any ar-
tistic work intended to represent the su-
pernatural. Without faith, distortion
and caricature are inevitable. With
faith the foundation of all knowledge
of the supernatural in this life much,
very much, may be accomplished.
But it is when faith, enlivened and
perfected by supernatural love, exer-
cises itself in contemplation, that the
spiritual sight becomes keen, and the
soul, from having simply a just ap-
preciation, passes to a vision of ex-
quisite beauty, sublimity, and tender-
ness, which a higher perception of di-
vine mysteries has laid open to its
gaze. The hand may falter, and be
faithless to the mental conception, so
as to produce imperfect execution and
inadequate artistic result. Faith and
love do not make a man an artist. But,
amidst deformity or poverty of art in the
material element, if there is any, how-
ever slight, artistic power employed,
the outward defects will be qualified,
and almost transformed, to the eye of
an appreciating spectator, through the
inner power which speaks from the
painter's soul to his own : just as we
learn to overlook, or even to admire,
plain features, and anything short of
positive ugliness of outline, in those
whose mental greatness and moral
beauty we have learned to venerate
and to love. On the other hand, any
amount of material perfection in con-
tour and color is insipid as a doll,
248
Christian Art.
a mere mask of nothingness, incapable
of arresting attention or captivating
the heart, unless within there be a soul
of beauty that inward excellence
which subordinates to itself, while it
gives life and meaning to, the outward
form. On the side of the object, truth ;
on the part of the spectator, faith and
love these are the palmary condi-
tions of Christian art and its apprecia-
tion. For it must ever be remem-
bered that supernatural truth lies be-
yond the ken of any but souls elevated
by faith ; and, what is of equal impor-
tance, that faith can have no other
object than the truth. Its object is
infallible truth, or it is not faith. No
wonder, then, that, when we see a
prodigality of manual skill and grace
of form, and even moral beauty of the
natural order, devoid of the inspira-
tion of supernatural faith and love, we
are forced to exclaim with St. Greg-
ory, as he gazed on the fair Saxon
youths, Heiij proh dolor! quod tarn
lucidi vultus homines tenebrarum auc-
tor possideret, tantaque gratia frontis
conspicui mentem ab ceterna gratia
vacuam gestarent.* Alas ! that so
much physical beauty should embody
nothing but a pagan idea ! It were as
unreasonable to look for Christian art
as the product of an heretical imagin-
ation, as to demand Christian elo-
quence or Christian poetry from an
heretical preacher or a free-thinking
poet. The vision is wanting, the ap-
preciation is not there how, then,
is the expression possible ?
Nor is this a mere abstract theory,
erected on a priori principles. It
would be easy to verify our position by
a large induction from the history of
art. Is there a picture whose mute
eloquence fills the soul with reveren-
tial awe, or holy joy, or -supernatural
calm, or deep, deep sympathy with
the sufferings of our Lord, or the sor-
rows of his Immaculate Mother, we
* "Alas! what pain it is t^> I' ' ' >hat men of
such bright countenance sho possession
of the Prince of Darkness ; ami ..'. though con-
spicuous for surprising grace of feature, they
should bear a soul within untenanted by everlast-
ing grace."
may be sure the painter was some
humble soul, ascetical and pious, who,
like Juan de Joanes, or Zurbaran,
spent his days in lifelong seclusion,
given up to the grave and holy thoughts
which their pictures utter to us ; or
that other Spaniard, Luis de Vargas,
famed alike for his austerity and
amiable Christian gaiety ; or a Sasso-
ferrato, or a Van Eyck, seeking in,
holy communion the peace of soul
which can alone reflect the calmness
of sanctity, or the bliss of celestial
scenes ; or the holy friar, John of Fie-
soli, known to all as the Angelic
whose heroic humility and Christian
simplicity, learned in a life of prayer
and contemplation, invest his pictures
with an unearthly charm. These, and
many another pious painter, known or
unknown by name to men, looked on
their vocation as a holy trust, and
sought to keep themselves unspotted
from the world. Theirs was the practi-
cal maxim so dear to the blessed Angel-
ico, that " those who work for Christ
must dwell in Christ." On the other
hand, does a picture, albeit Christian in
subject and in name, offend us by false
sentiment, or cold conventionalism, or
sensuality, or affectation, or strain
after theatrical effect, or any of the
hundred forms which degraded art
exhibits when it has wandered from
the Christian type we know that we
are looking on the handiwork of some
schismatic Greek, or modern Protest-
ant ; or that, if the painter be a Cath-
olic, he lived in the days or wrought
under the influence of the Renaissance,
when paganism made its deadly in-
roads upon art, substituting the spirit
of voluptuousness for the sweet and
austere graces that spring of divine
charity; or under the blighting in-
fluence of Jansenism, which killed
alike that queenly virtue and her sis-
ter humility by false asceticism and
pharisaic rigor. We might even trust
the decision as to the truthfulness of our
view to an inspection of the examples
with which Lady Eastlake has so abun
dantly illustrated her volumes. Indeed,
hitherto her principle and ours are one.
Christian Art.
249
But unfortunately, though the
major premise of the art-syllogism is
granted on both sides, Lady Eastlake
adopts a minor, from which we utterly
dissent. It is implied in one and all of
the following statements, and is more
or less interwoven with the whole
staple of her work. She tells us
that " the materials for this history in
art are only properly derivable from
Scripture, and therefore referable back
to the same source for verification"
(vol. i., p. 3). And again: " It may be
at once laid down as a principle, that
the interests of art and the integrity
of Scripture [by integrity is meant
literal adherence to the text of Scrip-
ture] are indissolubly united. Where
superstition mingles, the quality of
Christian art suffers ; where doubt en-
ters, Christian art has nothing to do.
It may even be averred that, if a per-
son could be imagined, deeply imbued
with aesthetic instincts and knowledge,
and utterly ignorant of Scripture, he
would yet intuitively prefer, as art,
all those conceptions of our Lord's his-
tory which adhere to the simple text.
. . . All preference for the simple
narrative of Scripture he would arrive
at through art all condemnation of
the embroideries of legend through the
same channel " (vol. i., p. 6). And
again : " The simplicity of art and of
the Gospel stand or fall together. The
literal narrative of the agony in the
garden lost sight of, all became con-
fusion and error" (vol. ii., p. 30).
Now, whatever obscurity and con-
fusion these passages contain and
they do contain a great deal one
thing is unmistakably clear, that the
orthodoxy of the ultra-Protestant
maxim, "The Bible and the Bible
only," is a fixed principle with Lady
Eastlake. And the consequence is,
that, whenever she looks at a religious
picture, she refers to the Gospel narra-
tive for its verification. If it does not
stand this test, it is nowhere in her es-
teem. What is not in Scripture is
legendary and unartistic, because
necessarily at variance with scriptu-
ral trutli. Thus whole provinces of
art in connection with our Lord are
banished from her pages. Surely such
a canon of taste is not only narrow,
but arbitrary: narrow, as excluding
whatever comes down to us hallowed
by tradition, considered apart from or
beyond the limits of scriptural state-
ment ; arbitrary, because it leaves
art at the mercy of the sects, with
their manifold dissensions as to the ex-
tent of Scripture, or its true interpreta-
tion. Thus, Lady Eastlake, being
herself no believer in the doctrine of
the real presence, does not recognize
its enunciation in the sacred pages, and
loses, apparently, all interest in the
great pictures which symbolize or
relate to the most holy sacrament of
the altar. So, too, most of the special
devotions to the person of our Lord,
which have sprung out of the living
faith of the church, and have furnished
subjects for pictures iucontestably of a
high order, are totally omitted from
her classification of devotional compo-
sitions. We can hardly imagine it
possible for her to adhere consistently
to her rule in other departments of
Christian art. The Immaculate Con-
ception, for instance, the Assumption,
the Coronation of our Lady, the mar-
riage of St. Catherine, the stigmata of
St. Francis, the vision of St. Dominic,
the miracles of the saints subjects,
many of which have inspired some of
the noblest productions of her favor-
ite Fra Angelico, or of Raphael, or
Murillo, or Velasquez undoubtedly
do violence to her criteria of artistic
merit, though we cannot believe that
she would contest their universally
acknowledged claim to the highest
honors in Christian art. Indeed,
fidelity to this narrow Protestant
maxim would have rendered these two
volumes an impossibility. Strange,
then, that it should not have occurred
to the mind of the authoress that by far
the larger part, and, on her own
showing, the most glorious part, of the
fraternity r " ^Vistian artists have
been men - ^ overflowing of the
spirit of a church which has never
adopted her standard of orthodoxy.
250
Christian Art.
The Catholic Church is at once the
parent, historically, of all Christian art
and the upholder of that grand prin-
ciple of tradition which gives to art,
no less than to doctrine, a range far
wider and more ample than the mere
letter of the biblical records. Of
course, contradiction of Scripture, or
" alterations of the text, which, how-
ever slight, affect the revealed charac-
ter of our Lord," must give offence to
every judicious critic ; but it is tradi-
tion and the voice of the living
Church together with that instinctive
sense of the faithful which, so long as
they live in submission to their
divinely-appointed teachers, is so mar-
vellously true and unerring that
must be the criteria of orthodoxy, and
determine when the artist's concep-
tions or mode of treatment are con-
trary to, or in accordance with, the
spirit of the sacred text.
Lady Eastlake does not like the
notion of our Lord's falling under the
cross. It is not in the Bible, and she
pronounces it to be counter to the spirit
and purport of the Gospel narrative.
She grows positively angry with some
painters for having represented an
angel holding the chalice, surmounted
by a cross or host, before the eyes of
our 'blessed Redeemer in his agony.
She has her own standard of feeling,
abstract and arbitrary, to which she
refers the decision of such points.
But where is the guarantee for the
correctness of that standard, or the
security for its general acceptance ?
The Bible does not tell us what its
own spirit and purport are, and out-
side the Bible Lady Eastlake, at least,
cannot point to any infallible authority.
She is, therefore, imposing her own
judgment, unsupported by any as-
signed reason, upon the world, as a
rule to be followed. So, too, St.
Veronica to her is always de trop,
morally and pictorially, in the Way of
the Cross ; and scholastic interpreta-
tions, seemingly because they are
scholastic, of the types of the Old
Testament, are invariably pronounced
by her to be strained, unreal, and
superstitious. So effectually does
Protestantism interfere with the capac-
ity of a critic to appreciate the higher
developments and fuller expression of
Christian art.
Not that a Protestant or a free-
thinker can have no sense at all of the
supernaturally beautiful. If they are
trained to a high degree of moral and
intellectual cultivation in the natural
order, and in proportion to the height
of their attainments in that order, they
will not fail to be affected by beauty
of a superior order. For there is no
contradiction between the truth of na-
ture and the truth which is above na-
ture. The Protestant, indeed, as sin-
cerely holding large fragments of
Christian truth, will necessarily have
much sympathy with many exhibitions
of supernatural beauty. But he lacks
the clue to it as a whole ; and if he
can often admire, rarely, if ever, can
he create. Both Protestant and unbe-
liever must therefore labor under much
vagueness and uncertainty of judg-
ment, inasmuch as they can have no
fixity of principle. Often they will
not know what they want ; they will
praise in one page what they condemn
in the next ; or, when moved, will be at
a loss to account for their emotion.
They will exhibit phenomena not un-
like those so often presented in this
country by unbelievers, who, entering
our churches, are one while overawed
by a presence they cannot define, and
which bewilders their intellect, whilst
it captivates their imagination ; and
another while, as unaccountably, are
moved to disgust and derision by what
to them is an insoluble riddle, a per-
plexity, and an annoyance. To such
critics some phases of the supernatural
will never be welcome. The tortures
of the martyrs, the self-inflicted macer-
ations of ascetics, the sublime self-
abandonment of heroic charity what-
ever, in a word, embodies and brings
home the grand, sacred, but, to the
natural man, repugnant idea of the
cross, will always be offensive, and
produce a sense of irritation, such as
even Lady Eastlake, with all her self-
Christian Art.
251
mastery and good taste, cannot wholly
suppress or conceal. So true is it in
the sphere of Christian art, as in that
of Christian doctrine and devotion,
Nisi credideritis, non intelligetis. Cas-
ual excitement, transient enthusiasm,
unmeaning admiration, are at best the
pitiful substitutes for an intelligent and
abiding appreciation of excellence, in
those who are not possessed of super-
natural ideas hi common with the sub-
jects and authors of the works of genu-
ine Christian art.
It would be unfair, however, not to
mention that Lady Eastlake admits
many important modifications of this
rigid principle of adherence to the
letter of Scripture. The following sec-
ondary canons go far to soften down
the asperity of her Protestantism.
They shall be stated in her own
words :
" On the other hand, additions to
Scripture given in positive images, if
neither prejudicial to art nor incon-
sistent with our Lord's character, are
not in themselves necessarily objec-
tionable ; but will, according to their
merits, be looked upon with indulgence
or admiration. The pictures, for in-
stance, representing the disrobing of
our Lord a fact not told in Scripture,
yet which must have happened will be
regarded with pathetic interest. The
same will be felt of Paul Delaroche's
exquisite little picture, where St. John
is leading the Virgin home ; for such
works legitimately refresh and carry
on the narrative in a scriptural spirit.
Nay, episodes which are more purely
invention such as the ancient tradi-
tion of the Mother of Christ wrapping
the cloth round her son, previous to
his crucifixion ; or, again, the picture
by Paul Delaroche, of the agony of
her and of the disciples, represented
as gathered together in a room while
Christ passes with his cross even
such imaginary episodes will silence
the most arrant Protestant criticism,
by their overpowering appeal to the
feelings ; since in neither case is the
great duty of art to itself or to its di-
vine object tampered with.
" The same holds good where sym-
bolical forms, as in Christian art of
classic descent, are given, which em-
body the idea rather than the fact.
For instance, where the Jordan is rep-
resented as a river god, with his urn
under his arm, at the baptism of our
Lord ; or when, later, the same event
is accompanied by the presence of
angels, who hold the Saviour's gar-
ments. Such paraphrases and poetical
imaginings in no way affect the truth
of the facts they set forth, but rather,
to mortal fancy, swell their pomp and
dignity.
" Still less need the lover of art and
adorer of Christ care about inconsist-
encies in minor matters. As, for ex-
ample, that the entombment takes
place in a renaissance monument, in
the centre of a beautiful Italian land-
scape, and not in a cave in a rock in
the arid scenery of Judea. On the
contrary, it is right that art should
exercise the utmost possible freedom
in such circumstances, which are the
signs and handwriting of different
schools and times, and enrich a picture
with sources of interest to the historian
and the archgeologist. It is the moral
expression which touches the heart and
adorns the tale, not the architecture or
costume ; and whether our Lord be in
the garb of a Roman citizen or of a
German burgher (though his dress is
usually conventional in color and
form), it matters not, if he be but God
in all."
The arbitrariness of the principles
set forth in the earlier portion of this
passage, and the quiet assumption that
all ancient traditions are pure inven-
tions, may well be excused by the
reader for the sake of the inconsistency
which saves from condemnation not a
few glorious pictures, which could never
otherwise have been made to square
with the rule of literal adherence to
the Gospel narrative.
Another principle essential to the
right appreciation of art is admirably
stated by Lady Eastlake :
" All will agree that the duty of the
Christian artist is to give not only the
252
Christian Art.
temporary fact, but the permanent
truth. Yet this entails a discrepancy
to which something must be sacrificed.
For, in the scenes from our Lord's life,
fact and truth are frequently at vari-
ance. That the Magdalen took our
Lord for a gardener, was the fact ; that
he was Christ, is the truth. That the
Roman soldiers believed him to be a
criminal, and therefore mocked and
buffeted him without scruple, is the
fact ; that we know him through all
these scenes to be the Christ, is the
truth. Nay, the very cruciform nim-
bus that encircles Christ's head is an
assertion of this principle. As visible
to us, it is true ; as visible even to his
disciples, it is false. There are, how-
ever, educated people so little versed
in the conditions of art, as to object
even to the nimbus, as a departure
from fact, and, therefore, an offence to
truth ; preferring, they say, to see our
Lord represented as he walked upon
earth. But this is a fallacy in more
than one sense. Our Lord, as he
walked upon earth, was not known to
be the Messiah. To give him as he
was seen by men who knew him not,
would be to give him not as the Christ.
It may be urged that the cruciform
nimbus is a mere arbitrary sign, noth-
ing in itself more than a combination
of lines. This is true ; but there must
be something arbitrary in all human
imaginings (we should prefer to say
symbolizings) of the supernatural.
Art, for ages, assumed this sign as that
of the Godhead of Christ, and the
world for ages granted it. It served
various purposes ; it hedged the rudest
representations of Christ round with a
divinity, which kept them distinct from
all others. It pointed him out to the
most ignorant spectator, and it identi-
fied the sacred head, even at a dis-
tance."
This principle may, indeed, be legit-
imately extended much further. The
purpose of Christian art is instruc-
tion, either in morals or in dogma, or
in both. It is not, therefore, a sin in
art to sacrifice upon occasion some
portion of historical truth, in subservi-
ence to this end. Nor in fact, in Cath-
olic ages, was there danger of the
people being led into error on the fun-
damental facts of religion. The Gos-
pel narrative was too familiar to them
for that. They seem, as is well re-
marked by Father Cahier, to have had
hearts more elevated than ours, and
more attuned by meditation and ha-
bitual catholicity of spirit to mystery,
and its sublimer lessons ; and there-
fore, whenever we find in early paint-
ings what seems to us anomalous in
an historic point of view, we may con-
clude with safety that there was a dog-
matic intention.
There are, however, limits to liber-
ties of this kind, which may not be
transgressed without incurring censure.
Overbold speculation has ere now be-
trayed even orthodox theologians into
accidental error. And a Catholic art-
ist may depict, as a Catholic school-
man may enunciate, views which de-
serve to be stigmatized as rash, offen-
sive, erroneous, scandalous, or even,
in themselves, heretical. There have
been occasions in which the Church has
felt herself bound to interfere with
wanderings of the artistic imagination,
as injurious, morally or doctrinally, to
the faithful committed to her charge.
Nor have theologians failed to protest
from time to time against similar
abuses. Bellannine frowned upon the
muse in Christian art. Savonarola,
in his best days, made open war upon
the pagan corruptions which in his
time had begun to abound in Floren-
tine paintings. Father Canisius de-
nounces those painters as inexcusable
who, in the face of Scripture, represent
our Lady as swooning at the foot of the
cross; and Father de Ligny repro-
bates, on the same grounds, the intro-
duction of St. Joseph into pictures of
the meeting between the Blessed Virgin
and St. Elizabeth. For whatever
we may think as to his having accom-
panied our Lady on the journey had
he been present at the interview, he
would have been enlightened upon the
mystery, his ignorance of which after-
ward threw him into such perplexity.
Christian Art.
253
As to the order of the work, Lady
Eastlake gives ample explanation in
the preface :
" In the short programme left by
Mrs. Jameson, the ideal and devotion-
al subjects, such as the Good Shepherd,
the Lamb, the Second Person of the
Trinity, were placed first ; the scrip-
tural history of our Lord's life on earth
next ; and, lastly, the types from the
Old Testament. There is reason,
however, to believe, from the evidence
of what she had already written, that
she would have departed from this ar-
rangement. After much deliberation,
I have ventured to do so, and to place
the subjects chronologically. The
work commences, therefore, with that
which heads most systems of Christian
art The Fall of Lucifer and Creation
of the World followed by the types
and prophets of the Old Testament.
Next comes the history of the Inno-
cents and of John the Baptist, written
by her own hand, and leading to the
Life and Passion of our Lord. The
abstract and devotional subjects, as
growing out of these materials, then
follow, and the work terminates with
the Last Judgment."
Mrs. Jameson's own share in the
work is confined mainly to some of the
types, the histories specified above,
and familiar scenes in the earlier por-
tions of the Gospel narrative, including
a few of the miracles and parables of
our Lord. The notes are fragmentary,
but written in her usual interesting
and lively style. How refreshing, for
instance, and characteristic are the
following comments upon some pic-
tures representing the dismissal of
Hagar and Ishmael at the imperious
request of Sarah :
" I believe the most celebrated ex-
ample is the picture by Guercino, in
the Brera ; but I do not think it de-
serves its celebrity the pathetic is
there alloyed with vulgarity of charac-
ter. I remember that, when I first saw
this picture, I could only think of the
praises lavished on it by Byron and
others, as the finest expression of deep,
natural pathos to be found in the whole
range of ait. I fancied, as many do,
that I could see in it the beauties so
poetically described. Some years later,
when I saw it again, with a more cul-
tivated eye and taste, my disappoint-
ment was great. In fact, Abraham is
much more like an unfeeling old beggar
than a majestic patriarch, resigned to
the divine will, yet struck to the heart
by the cruel necessity under which he
was acting. Hagar cries like a house-
maid turned off without wages or
warning, and Ishmael is merely a
blubbering boy. For expression, the
picture by Govaert Hiricke (Berlin
Gallery, 81 5) seems to me much su-
perior ; the look of appealing anguish
in the face of Hagar as she turns to
Abraham, and points to her weeping
boy, reaches to the tragic in point of
conception, but Ishmael, if very natu-
ral, with his fist in his eye, is also
rather vulgar. Rembrandt's composi-
tion is quite dramatic, and, in his
manner, as fine as possible. Hagar,
lingering on the step of the dwelling
whence she is rejected, weeps reproach-
fully ; Ishmael, in a rich Oriental cos-
tume, steps on before, with the boyish
courage of one destined to become an
archer and a hunter in the wilderness,
and the father of a great and even
yet unconquered nation ; in the back-
ground Sarah is seen looking out of
the window at her departing rival, with
exultation in her face."
Those who are acquainted with Ital-
ian paintings of the 15th century must
have remarked the frequency with
which the great masters of the Tuscan
school in that era treat the subject of
"The Massacre of the Innocents."
Though our Lord is not an actor in the
scene, it is intimately connected with
his history. The Innocents were the
first martyrs in his cause, and from
the earliest times attracted the venera-
tion and tender affection of Christians.
Painful as the subject is, it affords scope
for the exercise of the highest tragic
power. The mere fact that Herod's
sword swept the nurseries of Bethle-
hem, though necessarily entering into
the picture, becomes subordinate to the
254
Christian Art.
sorrow which then started into life in
so many mothers' hearts. That is the
point made most prominent in the Gos-
pel by the citation of the pathetic words
of Jeremias in the prophecy: "In
Rama was there a voice heard, lamen-
tations, and weeping, and great mourn-
ing. Rachel weeping for her children,
and would not be comforted, because
they are not." The mind is carried
back to the time when the very sound
of those tottering feet sufficed to waken
the pulses of love in the mother's
bosom; when those confiding hands
were ever locked in hers. How dear
had been the pretty prattle of those
little ones, the first stammerings of the
tongue, the silvery laughter, even the
cries of passion or of pain ! Hitherto
all had bsen sunshine, or once and
again the shadow of some light cloud
had drifted across the face of heaven ;
but noAV agony comes on the wings of
the whirlwind a pitiless storm that
leaves nothing but blank, broken hearts
behind. Here we see a bereaved
mother, wildly passionate, tossing her
frantic arms heavenward ; we almost
fancy we hear her rave and moan.
There we mark the wandering foot-
steps, no longer obedient to the helm
of reason. Another, with clasped
hands, kneels, gazing on the purple
stains which dye the ivory limbs of her
slaughtered darling. Or the eye rests
with awful compassion on a standing
figure, another speechless Niobe, pale
and unconscious as a statue, still press-
ing her dead infant to her breast.
Upon one or two upturned faces a light
has broken ; the grand thought seems
just to have flashed upon their souls
that the purple stains are the dye of
martyrdom, destined by a loving Prov-
idence to adorn a robe of unfading
glory. And so sorrow passes almost
into joy, and the imagination reaches
forward to another sorrowful Mother
Mother of sorrows who is to sit in
desolation, yet mastering her deep woe,
and, with a sacrificing love that trans-
cends resignation, entering into and
uniting herself with the mysterious de-
signs . of God. In spite, however, of
the interest of the subject, for ages it
was rarely depicted. Mrs. Jameson
gives the following account of its sud-
den rise into general favor :
" All at once, however, in the latter
half of the 15th century that is, after
1450 we find the subject of the Holy
Innocents assuming an extraordinary
degree of popularity and importance.
Then, for the first time, we find chapels
dedicated to them, and groups of mar-
tyred children in altar-pieces round the
throne of Christ or the Virgin. From
this period we have innumerable ex-
amples of the terrible scene of the
massacre at Bethlehem, treated as a
separate subject in pictures and prints,
while the best artists vied with each
other in varying and elaborating the
details of circumstantial cruelty and
frantic despair.
" For a long time, I could not compre-
hend how this came about, nor how it
happened that through all Italy, es-
pecially in the Tuscan schools, a sub-
ject so ghastly and so painful should
have assumed this sort of prominence.
The cause, as it gradually revealed
itself, rendered every picture more and
more interesting ; connecting them with
each other, and showing how intimately
the history of art is mixed up with
the life of a people.
" There had existed at Florence, from
the 13th century, a hospital for found-
lings, the first institution of the kind in
Europe. It was attached to the Ben-
edictine monastery of San Gallo, near
one of the gates of the city still bear-
ing the name. In the 15th century,
when the population and extent of the
city had greatly increased, it was found
that this hospital was too small, and the
funds of the monastery quite inade-
quate to the purpose. Then Lionardo
Buruni, of Arezzo, who was twice chan-
cellor of Florence the same Lionardo
who gave to Ghiberti the subjects of
his famous gates filled with compas-
sion for the orphans and neglected
children, addressed the senate on the
subject, and made such an affecting
appeal in their behalf, that not the
senate only, but the whole people of
Christian Art.
255
Florence, responded with enthusiasm,
frequently interrupting him with cries
of ' Viva Messer Lionardo d'Arezzo ! '
* And/ adds the historian, ' never was
a question of importance carried with
such [more] quickness and unanimity*
{mai con maggior celerita e pienezza
de' voti fu vinto partita di cosa grave
come questd). Large sums were
voted, offerings flowed in, a superb
hospital was founded, and Brunelleschi
was appointed architect. When finish-
ed, which was not till 1444, it was
solemnly dedicated to the ' Holy Inno-
cents? The first child consigned to the
new institution was a poor little female
infant, on whose breast was pinned
the name 'Agata,' in remembrance of
which an altar in the chapel was ded-
icated to St. Agatha. We have proof
that the foundation, progress, and con-
secration of this refuge for destitute
children excited the greatest interest
and sympathy, not only in Florence,
but in the neighboring states, and that
it was imitated in Pisa, Arezzo, and
Siena. The union of the two hospitals
of San Gallo and the 'Innocenti' took
place in 1463. Churches and chapels
were appended to the hospitals, and,
as a matter of course, the painters and
sculptors were called upon to decorate
them. Such are the circumstances
which explain, as I think, the popu-
larity of the story of the Innocents in
the 15th century, and the manner in
which it occupied the minds of the
great cotemporary artists of the Tus-
can school, and others after them."
We cannot pretend to decide upon
the truth of this supposed connection
between the establishment of an in-
stitution to minister to the wants of
the forsaken and the development of
a special branch of Christian art.
Whether true or not, this much is
certain, that it is in keeping with a
multitude of instances which go to
prove how favorable the practice of
Catholic charity is to the progress
of the arts. Love ever pours itself
around in streams of radiance, light-
ing up whole regions which lie beyond
its immediate object. It copies the
creative liberality of God, who, in
providing us with what is necessary
for subsistence, surrounds us at the
same time with a thousand superflu-
ous manifestations of beauty.
But it is time to pass on to the second
volume of this history, which we
owe almost entirely to the pen of Lady
Eastlake. It is mainly occupied with
the Passion of our Lord ; and certain-
ly the diligent attention paid by the
authoress to this subject, and the
judgment displayed in the arrange-
ment of the narrative and the selec-
tion of examples, cannot be too highly
commended. The style is generally
clear, simple, and earnest. Always
dignified, it sometimes rises to elo-
quence, as in the description of
Rembrandt's etching of the " Ecce
Homo," and in the following criticism
of Leonardo da Vinci's celebrated
"Last Supper." After a clever dis-
quisition on the difficulties of the sub-
ject, and the conditions essential to its
effective treatment, she thus pro-
ceeds :
"We need not say who did fulfil
these conditions, nor whose Last
Supper it is all ruined and defaced as
it may be which alone arouses the
heart of the spectator as effectually as
that incomparable shadow in the
centre has roused the feelings of the
dim forms on each side of him.
Leonardo da Vinci's Cena, to all who
consider this grand subject through
the medium of art, is the Last Supper
there is no other. Various repre-
sentations exist, and by the highest
names in art, but they do not touch
the subtle spring. Compared with
this chef d'ceuvre, their Last Suppers
are mere exhibitions of well-drawn,
draped, or colored figures, in studious-
ly varied attitudes, which excite no
emotion beyond the admiration due to
these qualities. It is no wonder that
Leonardo should have done little or
nothing more after the execution, in
his forty-sixth year, of that stupen-
dous picture. It was not in man not
to be fastidious, who had such an
unapproachable standard of his own
256
Christian Art.
powers perpetually standing in his
path.
" Let us now consider this figure of
Christ more closely.
" It is not sufficient to say that our
Lord has just uttered this sentence,
viz., ' Verily, verily, I say unto you,
one of you shall betray me ;' we must
endeavor to define in what, in his own
person, the visible proof of his hav-
ing spoken consists. The painter has
cast the eyes down an action which
generally detracts from the expression
of a face. Here, however, no such
loss is felt. The outward sight, it is
true, is in abeyance, but the intensest
sense of inward vision has taken its
place. Our Lord is looking into
himself that self which knew l all
things,' and therefore needed not to
lift his mortal lids to ascertain what
effect his words had produced. The
honest indignation of the apostles, the
visible perturbation of the traitor, are
each right in their place, and for the
looker-on, but they are nothing to him.
Thus here at once the highest power
and refinement of art is shown, by
the conversion of what in most hands
would have been an insipidity into the
means of expression best suited to the
moment. The inclination of the head,
and the expression of every feature,
all contribute to the same intention.
This is not the heaviness or even
the repose of previous silence. On
the contrary, the head has not yet
risen, nor the muscles of the face sub-
sided from the act of mournful speech.
It is just that evanescent moment
which all true painters yearn to catch,
and which few but painters are wont to
observe when the tones have ceased,
but the lips are not sealed when, for
an instant, the face repeats to the eye
what the voice has said to the ear.
No one who has studied that head can
doubt that our Lord has just spoken :
the sounds are not there, but they
have not travelled far into space.
" Much, too, in the general speech of
this head is owing to the skill with
which, while conveying one particular
idea, the painter has suggested no
other. Beautiful as the face is, there
is no other beauty but that which min-
isters to this end. We know not
whether the head be handsome or
picturesque, masculine or feminine in
type whether the eye be liquid, the
cheek ruddy, the hair smooth, or the
beard curling as we know with such
painful certainty in other representa-
tions. All we feel is, that the wave
of one intense meaning has passed
over the whole countenance, and left
its impress alike on every part. Sor-
row is the predominant expression
that sorrow which, as we have said in
our Introduction, distinguishes the
Christian's God, and which binds
him, by a sympathy no fabled deity
ever claimed, with the fallen and suf-
fering race of Adam. His very words
have given himself more pain than
they have to his hearers, and a pain
he cannot expend in protestations as
they do, for for this, as for every other
act of his life, came he into the
world.
" But we must not linger with the
face alone ; no hands ever did such
intellectual service as those which lie
spread on that table. They, too, have
just fallen into that position one so
full of meaning to us, and so uncon-
sciously assumed by him and they
will retain it no longer than the eye
which is down and the head which is
sunk. A special intention on the
painter's part may be surmised in the
opposite action of each hand: the
palm of the one so graciously and
bountifully open to all who are weary
and heavy-laden; the other averted,
yet not closed, as if deprecating its
own symbolic office. Or we may con-
sider their position as applicable to
this particular scene only ; the one
hand saying, 'Of those that thou
hast given me none is lost,' and the
other, which lies near Judas, ' except
the son of perdition.' Or, again, we
may give a still narrower definition,
and interpret tin's averted hand as
directing the eye, in some sort, to Hie
hand of Judas, which lies nearest it,
* Behold, the hand of him that betray-
Christian Art.
257
eth me is with me on the table.' Not
that the science of Christian icono-
graphy has been adopted here, for the
welcoming and condemning functions
of the respective hands have been
reversed in reference, probably, to
Judas, who sits on our Lord's right.
Or we may give up attributing sym-
bolic intentions of any kind to the
painter a source of pleasure to the
spectator more often justifiable than
justified and simply give him credit
for having, by his own exquisite feel-
ing alone, so placed the hands as to
make them thus minister to a variety
of suggestions. Either way, these
grand and pathetic members stand as
preeminent as the head in the picto-
rial history of our Lord, having seldom
been equalled in beauty of form, and
never in power of speech.
" Thus much has been said upon this
figure of our Lord, because no other
representation approaches so near
the ideal of his person. Time, igno-
rance, and violence have done their
worst upon it ; but it may be doubted
whether it ever suggested more over-
powering feelings than in its present
battered and defaced condition, scarce-
ly now to be called a picture, but a
fitter emblem of him who was * de-
spised and rejected of men.' "
Perhaps there is no other passage
in the work so lovingly elaborated as
this. Rivalling in energy, it surpasses
in delicate discrimination even such
brilliant criticisms as that of the elo-
quent Count- de Montalembert on Fra
Angelico's u Last Judgment " a criti-
cism which must have struck all read-
ers of " Vandalism and Catholicism in
Art" as worthy of the painting it de-
scribes. But the mention of the
blessed friar of Fiesoli reminds us
that he is a special favorite with Lady
Eastlake also. The spell of his ten-
der and reverent contemplations has
told upon her with considerable power,
to an extent, indeed, which makes her
scarcely just toward Raphael himself.
Several graphic pages are devoted to
a description of Fra Angelico's " Last
Judgment." His "Adoration of the
17
Cross " also is dwelt upon with much
affection, and in great detail. But our
readers will be enabled, we hope, to
form some idea of the feelings with
which Lady Eastlake regards this
most Christian of all artists, from the
shorter extracts which we subjoin.
After criticizing a fine fresco by Giotto
of " Christ washing the Disciples*
feet," she thus comments upon Fra
Angelico's treatment of the same sub-
ject :
" Of all painters who expressed the
condescension of the Lord by the im-
pression it produced upon those to
whom it was sent, Fra Ajigelico stands
foremost in beauty of feeling. Not
only the hands, but the feet of poor
shocked Peter protest against his
Master's condescension. It is a con-
test for humility between the two ;
but our Lord is more than humble,
he is lovely and mighty too. He is
on his knees ; but his two outstretched
hands, so lovingly offered, begging to
be accepted, go beyond the mere inci-
dent, as art and poetry of this class
always do, and link themselves typi-
cally with the whole gracious scheme
of redemption. True Christian art,
even if theology were silent, would,
like the very stones, cry out and pro-
claim how every act of our Lord's
course refers to one supreme idea."
And, once more, speaking of the
same artist's picture of the " Descent
from the Cross," she thus contrasts
his conception with those of Luca Sig-
norelli, Michael Angelo, Raphael,
Razzi, Da Volterra, and other Italian
versions of the 15th and 16th cen-
turies :
" After contemplating these concep-
tions of the deposition in which a cer-
tain parade of idle sorrow, vehement ac-
tion, and pendent impossibilities are con-
spicuous, it is a relief to turn to one
who here, as ever, stands alone in his
mild glory. Fra Angelico's Descent,
painted for- the Sta. Trinita at Florence,
now in the Accademia there, is the
perfect realization of the most pious
idea. No more Christian conception
of the subject, and no more probable
258
Christian Art.
setting forth, of the scene, can perhaps
be attained. All is holy sorrow, calm
and still ; the figures move gently, and
speak in whispers. No one is too ex-
cited to help, or not to hinder. Joseph
and Nicodemus, known by their glo-
ries, are highest in the scale of rever-
ential beings who people the ladder,
and make it almost look as if it lost
itself, like Jacob's, in heaven. They
each hold an arm close to the shoulder.
Another disciple sustains the body as
he sits on the ladder, a fourth receives
it under the knees ; and St. John, a
figure of the highest beauty of expres-
sion, lifts his hands and offers his
shoulder to the precious burden, where
in another moment it will safely and
tenderly repose. The figure itself is
ineffably graceful with pathetic help-
lessness, but Corona glorice, victory
over the old enemy, surrounds a head
of divine peace. He is restored to
his own, and rests among them with a
security as if he knew the loving
hands so quietly and mournfully bus-
ied about him. And his peace is with
them already : l Peace I leave with
you, my peace I give unto you.' In
this picture it is as if the pious artist
had sought first the kingdom of God,
and all things, even in art, had been
added unto him. . . . We have
taken only the centre group (the size
forbidding more), leaving out the sor-
rowing women on the right, with the
Mother piously kneeling with folded
hands, as if so alone she could wor-
thily take back that sacred form."
Such a picture might have been
supposed to be the source of Father
Faber's most pathetic description of
the same scene in his " Foot of the
Cross," did we not know that there is
sure to be a strong family likeness
between the conceptions of two gentle,
humble souls, deriving their inspira-
tion from the same exercise of prayer-
ful and compassionate contemplation.
It would be a pity to mar the im-
pression made upon our readers by
passages such as we have quoted, and
of which there are many kindred ex-
amples scattered throughout Lady
Eastlake's volume, by the painful con-
trast of a sad passage upon the Agony
in the Garden (vol.ii.,p. 30). Though
not the sole, it is the most serious,
blot upon her work. Misconceiving
altogether the symbolic intention of
Catholic artists in placing the chalice
and host in the hand of the minister-
ing angel, Lady Eastlake for once
allows the Protestant spirit within to
break through all bounds of decorum.
In what sense the eucharistic chalice,
introduce it where you will, can be a
profane representation, it is impossi-
ble to conceive. Good taste, not to
say reverence, should have proscribed
the employment of such an epithet.
A little patient reflection, or the still
easier and surer method of inquiry at
some Catholic source, would, we ven-
ture to think, have overcome her re-
pugnance, and have saved her Catho-
lic readers some unnecessary pain.
But we are willing to let this offence
pass, and to leave the logic of the ac-
companying strictures, bad as it is,
unchallenged, in consideration of the
eminent service rendered by the work,
as a whole, to the cause of Christian
art. Few could have brought to-
gether a larger amount of instructive
and interesting matter. Few, perhaps
no one, at least among Protestants,
could have undertaken the task with
so much to qualify, so little to disqual-
ify, them for the office of historian and
critic of the glorious series of monu-
ments which Christian artists have
bequeathed to us.
One lesson, above all, every unpre-
judiced reader ought to derive from
these volumes that Christian art and
Catholic art are identical. Not to
every Catholic artist is it given to pro-
duce true Christian art ; but he, ctzte-
risparibus, is most certain of attaining
the true standard who is most deeply
imbued with true Catholic principles,
most highly gifted with the Catholic
virtues of supernatural faith and love.
Looking at the whole range of Chris-
tian art, it may be safely averred that
whatever shortcomings there have been
within the Church have been owing to
Christian Art.
259
the influence of principles foreign to
her spirit ; and that, outside the Church
(we say it in spite of Lady Eastlake's
admiration of Rembrandt), there has
simply never existed any Christian
art at all. In our own days the rule is
not reversed. Whom have Protest-
ants to set against Overbeck, Corne-
lius, Deger, Molitor, and we are proud
to add our own illustrious countryman,
Herbert ? Not surely the Pre-Raphael-
ite school in England, though it is
the only one that has the least preten-
sions to the cultivation of Christian
art. No, it is the Catholic Church
alone that can stamp upon the paint-
er's productions the supernatural im-
press of those notes by which she her-
self is recognizable as true.
There is a unity of intention, scope,
and spirit in Catholic art of every age
and clime. Like the doctrines and
devotions of the Church, Catholic art,
in all its various forms symbolical,
historical, devotional, ideal ever re-
volves round one centre, and is refer-
able to one exemplar. Divine beauty
"manifest in the flesh" the image
of the Father clothed in human form
and living in the Church he is the in-
spirer of Christian art. Deum nemo
vidit unquam : unigenitus Films, qui
est in sinu Patris, ipse narravit* The
God-man is the primary object of
artistic contemplation. As in doctrine,
so in aestheticism, every truly Catholic
artist may exclaim, Verbum carofactum
estj et habitavit in nobis ; et vidimus
gloriam ejus, gloriam quasi unigeniti a
Patre, plenum gratia et veritatis.^
But this unity, how exuberant in its
fertility ! The unity of the Church is
the source of her catholicity. The two
stand or fall together. And. so, too,
the oneness of Catholic art is the
secret of its universality. It admits
of no partial view, excludes no variety
or difference. Unity of spirit binds all
together in perfect harmony, just as
* " No man hath seen God at any time : the only-
begotten Son who is in the bosom of the Father,
he hath declared him." John i. l:i.
f " The Word was made flesh and dwelt among
us ; and we saw his glory, the glory as it were of
the only-begotten of the father, full of grace and
truth." John i. 14.
diversity of race and multiplicity of
individual gifts, hi her members, are
fitted together, organized, and held in
balance by the unity of the Church.
Unity is the basis and safeguard of
catholicity; catholicity the glory and
crown of unity.
Nor is the note of apostolicity want-
ing. For the Bible, and the Bible
only, as the rule and standard of art,
substitute Catholic tradition handed
down from the apostles, inclusive of
atl that is in Scripture, but reaching
beyond the limits of the written word,
and ever interpreted to the artist, no
less than to the rest of the faithful, by
the living voice of the teaching Church,
and then the principle which identifies
orthodoxy with Christian art may safely
be applied as a test to religious painting.
Lastly we had almost said above
all the beauty of holiness is stamped
exclusively upon all art created after
the mind of the Church. For Catholic
art is nothing else than the product of
contemplation hi souls gifted with art-
istic capacities; and contemplation is
only another word for the gaze of
supernatural faith, quickened and per-
fected by supernatural love, upon one
or other of those mysteries which the
Church sets before the minds of her
children. So at least we have learned
from the Angelic Doctor; who tells us*
that beauty is found primarily and
essentially in the contemplative life.
For, although St. Gregory teaches that
contemplation consists in the love of
God, we are to understand this rather
of the motive than of the precise act.
The will inflamed with love desires
to behold the beauty of the beloved
object, either for its own sake the
heart always being where the treasure
is__or for the sake of the knowledge
itself which results from the act of
vision. Sometimes it is the senses
which are thus compelled to act, some-
times the intellect which is prompt-
ed to this gaze, according as the
object is material or spiritual. But
how is the beauty of the object per-
* 2. 2. Q. clxxx. a. 1, and a. 2. ad 3.
260
Poucette.
ceived? What is the faculty whose
office it is to light up and reduce to
order and due proportion what is seen?
Evidently, the reason. For reason is
light, and where there is reason there
is harmony and proportion. And so
beauty, whose essence is brightness
and due proportion, is, as we have
said, primarily and necessarily found
in the contemplative life 5 or, which is
the same thing, in the exercise of the
reason its natural exercise, if the
beauty contemplated be in the natural
order ; its supernatural exercise, if re-
vealed mystery be that which attracts
and occupies the souL
From Chambers's Journal.
POUCETTE.
NEARLY seven years ago, I was
walking hurriedly along the boulevards
of Paris one winter's evening ; it was
Christmas-eve, and had been ushered
in by thick fog and miserable drizzling
rain, which provoked the inhabitants
of the gay capital to complain loudly
of the change which they fancied had
taken place in the seasons of late years,
whereby the detested brouillards de
Londres had been introduced into their
once clear, pure atmosphere. The
weather was certainly most unseason-
able, and took away almost entirely
the small remnant of Christmas-like
feeling, which an Englishman, with all
his efforts, can manage to keep up in a
foreign land. I had sat chatting with
a friend over a cosey fire until dusk ;
and, on leaving his house, neither a
remise nor ajiacre was to be met with
empty ; so I made up my mind to a
wet walk, and amused myself, as I went
on, by observing the various groups
of passengers, some of them suddenly
benighted like myself, as they sped on
their way along the crowded thorough-
fare. The brilliant lamps hung from
the shops threw a glare over each face
as it flitted past, or paused to look in
at the windows ; and the noise of ham-
mers resounded incessantly from the
edge of the pavement, where workmen
were busy erecting small wooden
booths for the annual New- Year's fair.
Some were already completed, and
their owners hovered about, ever and
ahon darting forth from behind their
small counters, to pounce upon a likely
customer, to whom they extolled the
beauty and cheapness of their wares in
tempting terms.
" Tenez, monsieur !" cries an old
woman, whose entire stock-in-trade
consists of a few pairs of doll's shoes
of chocolate, displayed upon a tin
tray, over which she carefully holds a
weather-beaten umbrella. " Two sous
the pair, two sous !" " Voila, mes-
dames," bawls a youth of ten, who, in
London, would probably execute an
unlimited number of Catherine-wheels
under the feet of paterfamilias, as he
crosses a crowded street ; here he is
carefully watching a basinful of water,
in which float a number of glass ducks
of the most brilliant and unnatural
colors. " Pour un sou !" and he holds
up one tiny image between his finger
and thumb, with a business-like air.
" Fi done !" answers a sharp-visaged
elderly woman, as she withdraws six
of the ducks from their watery bed,
and places them gently in a corner
of her capacious basket, offering the
owner at the same time four sous,
Poucette.
261
which he accepts with the invariable
"Merci, madame," and the polite Pa-
risian bow ; and depositing the coins
in some deep recess of his huge trouser-
pockets, he resumes his cry of "Un
sou, mesdames, pour un sou," with un-
blushing mendacity. Just at the corner
of the boulevard, where the Rue de
la Paix joins it, stood a lively, wiry-
looking little man, whose bows and
cries were incessant, holding something
in his outstretched hands carefully
wrapped in wet grass, which he en-
treats the bystanders to purchase. As
I approach him, he uncovers it, and
discloses a small tortoise, who waves
his thin neck from side to side depre-
catingly, and looks appealingly out of
his dark eyes. " Buy him, monsieur,"
cries the little owner : " he is my last ;
he will be your best friend for many
years, and afterward he will make an
excellent soup !" A laugh from some
of the passers-by rewarded this very
naive definition of a pet ; and leaving^
the lively bustle of the boulevard, I
turned down the Rue de la Paix, and
into the dark-looking Rue Neuve St.
Augustin ; a little way down which, I
perceived a small knot of people gath-
ered under the arched entrance to a
hotel
There were not many a fewbloused
workmen returning from their daily
toil, two or three women, and the usual
amount of active gamins darting about
the outskirts ; within, I could perceive
the cocked-hat of the ever-watchful
sergent de vitte. Prompted by that
gregarious instinct which leads most
men toward crowds, I went up to it ;
and, by the help of a tolerably tall
figure, I looked over the heads of the
people into the centre, at a group, the
first sight of whom I shall not soon
forget. There, before me, on the cold
pavement, now wet with wintry rain,
lay a little, a very little girl, fainting.
Her face, which was deadly pale, looked
worn and pinched by want into that
aged, hard look so touching to see in
the very young, because it tells of a
premature exposure to trial and care,
if not of a struggle literally for life.
Her jet-black hair, of which she had a
profusion, lay unbound over her shoul-
ders like a mantle. Her dress was an
old black velvet frock, covered with
spangles, with a piece of something
red sewn on the skirt, and a scarlet
bodice. Her neck and arms were
bare ; and the gay dress, where it had
been opened in front, showed nothing
underneath it but the poor thin body.
Her legs were blue and mottled with
cold; and the tiny feet were thrust
into wooden sabots, one of which had
dropped off", a world too wide for the
little foot it was meant to protect. A
kind-looking elderly woman knelt on
the pavement, and supported the child's
head in her arms, chafing her cold
hands, and trying, by every means in
her power, to restore animation ; and
wandering uneasily up and down be-
side them, was a curious-looking non-
descript figure, such as one can rarely
meet with out of Paris. It was a
poodle at least so its restless, bead-
like, black eyes and muzzle betokened,
and also a suspicious-looking tuft of
hair, now visible, waving above its
garments but the animal presented a
most ludicrous appearance, from being
dressed up in a very exact imitation
of the costume of a fine lady during
the century of Louis le Grand. The
brilliant eyes were surmounted by a
cleverly contrived wig, frizzed, pow-
dered, and sparkling with mock jewels ;
the body decked out in a cherry-colored
satin bodice, with a long peaked stom-
acher, trimmed with lace, and a stiff
hoop, bell-like in shape, but, in propor-
tion, far within the dimensions of a
modern crinoline ; even the high-heeled
shoes of scarlet leather were not for-
gotten ; and the strange anomaly be-
tween the animal and its disguise was
irresistibly ludicrous. The dog was
perfectly aware that something was
going on something strange, pitiful,
and, what was more to the purpose,
nearly concerning himself; and clever
as he was, he could not yet see a way
through his difficulties.
His misery was extreme ; he pat-
tered piteously up and down the space
262
Poucette.
round the fainting child, and raised
himself up anxiously on his hind-legs
to peer into her little wan face, pre-
senting thus a still more ludicrous as-
pect than before. With his wise dog-
gish face peeping out curiously from
the ridiculous human head-dress, he
sniffed all over the various feet which
encircled his precious mistress, suspi-
ciously ; and finally placing himself,
still on his hind-legs, close by her side,
he laid his head lovingly to her cheek,
and uttered a low dismal howl, fol-
lowed, after an instant's pause, by an
impatient bark. The child stirred
roused apparently by the familiar
sound gasped for breath once or
twice ; and presently opening her eyes,
she cried feebly, "Mouton, oil es tu
done ?" He leaped up in an ecstacy,
trying, in the height of his joy, to lick
her face ; but this was not to be : she
pushed him away as roughly as the
little feeble hand had strength to do.
" Ah, wicked dog, go away ; you do
mischief," she said, fixing a pair of
eyes as round and almost as black as
his own upon the unfortunate animal.
He dropped instantly, and with a sub-
dued, sorrowful air, lay down, licking
diligently, in his humility, the little foot
from which the sabot had fallen : he
had evidently proved that submission
was the only plan to pursue with his
imperious mistress. The girl was
stronger now, and able to sit up with
the help of the good woman's knee,
and she drank off a cup of milk which
the compassionate wife of the concierge
handed to her. "Thanks, madame,"
said the child, with native politeness ;
" I am better now. You are a good
Christian," she added, turning her head
so as to look in the face of the woman
who supported her.
" What are you called, my child ?"
asked her friend. " Where do you
live ?"
" Antoinette Elizabeth is my baptis-
mal name," answered the child, with
odd gravity; "but I am generally
called Poucette^ because, you see, I am
small ;" and a faint tinge of color came
into her pale cheeks.
No wonder the name was bestowed
upon her, for we could see that she
was small, very small ; and, from the
diminutive size of her limbs, she seemed
likely to remain so till the end of her
days.
" Will you go home now ?" asked
the woman, after a moment's pause.
" No, not just yet," said the tiny
being. "I have had no supper. I
shall go to Emile, but Mouton may
go home. Go!" she cried, impe-
riously, to the dog, as she swiftly slid
off the marvellous dress and wig, out
of which casing Mouton came forth an
ordinary looking and decidedly dirty
poodle. He hesitated for an instant,
when she raised her little clenched fist,
and shook it fiercely at him, repeating
" Go !" in louder tones. He wagged
his tail deprecatingly, licked his black
lips, looked imploringly at her out of
his loving eyes, and seemed to beg
permission to remain with her ; but in
arain ; then, seeing her endeavor to
rise, he turned, fled up the street with
the swiftness of a bird, and disappeared
round the corner. His mistress, in the
meantime, folded up the dog's finery
carefully, and deposited it inside her
own poor garments ; then, after an in-
stant's pause, she rose to her feet, and
looked round at us. She was well
named Poucette : in stature she did
not exceed a child of four years old ;
but she was perfectly made, and the
limbs were in excellent proportion with
the stature, only her face showed age.
There was a keen, worldly look about
the mouth, with its thin scarlet lips ;
and a vindictive expression shining in
the bold, black eyesaltogether a hard-
looking face, not at ah 1 attractive in its
character ; and yet I felt myself drawn
to the poor child.
She was evidently half-starved, fight-
ing her own hard battle with the world,
and keeping her struggle as much to
herself as she could ; and when, scan-
ning curiously over the faces surround-
ing her, her eyes rested on mine, I
stepped forward, and offered her a
five-franc piece. To my surprise, she
threw the money on the pavement
Poucette.
263
with the bitterest scorn. " I don't want
money," she shrieked, passionately
" I want my supper. Go away, ca-
naille /" I stooped down toward her,
and took her hand. " Come with me,"
I said to her, "and you shall have
some supper. I live close by." She
stood on tiptoe even then, and peered
into my face with her sharp eyes.
Apparently, however, a short inspec-
tion satisfied her, for she said -softly,
" Thank you," and tried to hold my
hand. Finding it too much for her
small grasp, she clung to my trousers
with one hand, and with the other she
waved off the wondering bystanders
with a most majestic air. I offered
payment for the milk, which the good
woman civilly refused ; and then I sent
for a fiacre in which to get to my
lodgings in the Rue Rivoli, shrinking,
I must confess, from the idea of the
ridiculous figure I should cut walking
along the streets with this absurd
though unfortunate creature. Pres-
ently the concierge arrived with one,
and we stepped in, Poucette entering
majestically first. I gave the word,
and we started. Hardly had we turned
out of the street, when the impulsive
child beside me seized me with both
hands, and in an ecstacy of gratitude
thanked me with streaming eyes for
what I was doing for her. "I am
starving," she sobbed " I fainted from
hunger. I have been dancing on the
boulevards all day with Mouton, who
is hungry, too, poor fellow, for he only
ate a small bit of bread which a good
little gentleman gave him this morn-
ing."
" Why did you not take the money,
then ?" I asked. " You might have
bought food for yourself and Mouton."
" I did not want money," said the
girl proudly " I don't beg."
" But you say you are hungry."
" That is nothing. I never beg ; I
dance ; and tonight, when I have had
some supper, I shall dance for you,
and you shall see," drawing herself up.
At this speech I hesitated. What
in the world had I to do with a danc-
ing-girl in my quiet bachelor rooms ?
Did she intend taking them by storm,
and quartering herself upon me,
whether I liked it or not ? The ques-
tion was a difiicult one ; but yet, when
I looked down at the tiny figure, with
its poor, woe-begone face, so thin and
weary-looking, its utter weakness and
dependence, I felt that, come what
might, I could not act otherwise than
I was doing. "There, go up stairs,
au troisieme" said I to my charge, as
the fiacre stopped, and we got out;
when lo ! from behind a large stone
close by the entrance to the porte-co-
chere, the black round eyes of Mouton
glanced furtively out upon us. His
behavior was exceedingly reserved ;
he durst not even wag his tail for fear
of giving offence, but he glanced at
me in the meekest, humblest entreaty
ever dog did. " Don't send him
away," I said to Poucette : " take him
up stairs with you ; I wish him to re-
main."
She made no reply, but snapped
her fingers encouragingly at him, and
he followed her closely, as she walked
up stairs. I paused a moment with
the concierge, to ask her to provide
some dinner for my unexpected guests ;
and then mounted the stairs after
them. I found Antoinette Elizabeth
and her faithful follower seated at my
door, gravely awaiting my arrival.
Mouton recognized me as a friend,
and faintly wagged his tail ; evidently
he was careful, in the presence of his
mistress, upon whom he bestowed his
favors. We entered my room, all
three of us; and presently the dinner
arrived, and was done ample justice
to. Poucette ate heartily, but not
ravenously ; and after the meal was
over, we drew our chairs round the
fire, and sat eating walnuts. She
asked then, with more timidity than
she had yet shown : " When shall we
have the honor of dancing for mon-
sieur ?" raising her large black eyes,
which had lost their fierce look, to my
face.
" Not just yet, Poucette," I replied.
"Tell me something about yourself
first, and eat more walnuts."
264
Poucette.
She looked up sharply at this, as if
to say, What business is that of yours ?
then away into the fire, which was
evidently a novel luxury to her ; and
finally her glance rested on Mouton,
who, having devoured every super-
fluous piece of meat, and gnawed the
only bone at table, had now stretched
himself on the hearth-rug, and slum-
bered peacefully at her feet. " Mon-
sieur is very good," she said presently,
with a sigh, still with her eyes fixed
on Mouton. " My history is nothing
very great. I am not a Parisian ; my
father was a Norman."
" Is he alive now ?" I asked, as she
paused here.
" I don't know about that," she an-
swered haughtily. " He was a wicked
man. Monsieur understands me?"
.she said questioningly, with a piercing
look.
" Yes, poor child. And your mother,
what of her?"
" She is an angel," faltered the girl.
" She went up to heaven last Christ-
mas ;" and the tears filled her eyes as
she said it.
" How have you lived since ?'
" Oh, that was at Marseilles ; and
I came on here with Mouton. We
dance," she continued in a firmer
voice ; " we go out with a man called
Emile, who plays the organ very well,
and he has another dog like Mouton,'
only not at all clever : the stupid crea-
ture can only hold a basket in his
mouth, and beg for sous ; he has no
talent." She shrugged her shoulders,
and continued, " We live with Emile
and his wife ; they are not always
kind to me ; but I love Jean."
" Who is this Jean ?" I asked.
" Ah ! he is a poor boy," she re-
plied; the whole expression of her
countenance softening at his name, and
her sallow cheeks crimsoning with a
tender flush. " He is lame ; he can-
not walk, and is pulled about in a lit-
tle carriage ; but he does not like to
beg, so Emile will not take him out
with us."
" Is Emile his father?" I asked.
" No, monsieur ; his father is dead,
but his mother is Emile's wife. I
take care of Jean myself."
" Are they good to you ?"
" Yes, pretty well. You see I dance
for them, and people give more money
because I am there ; and then Mou-
ton is so clever ; one does not easily
meet with a dog like that, who will
stand on his hind-legs for an hour to-
gether, ana dance as he does. Look
at his dress too ; " and she pulled out
of the bosom of her frock Mouton's
paraphernalia, and displayed it with
evident pride. " In my opinion now,
there is no such dress as that for a dog
in all Paris," she said, as she held it
up admiringly to the lamp. "Jean
made those shoes ; ar'n't they droll ?
And the wig ; look, that is superb !"
" Who made the wig?" I asked.
" Ah ! it was a little boy who is ap-
prenticed to a wigmaker," she an-
swered. " Monsieur, it was a bargain
between us ; he wanted something
from me, and and I said I would
give it him if he made a wig for Mou-
ton ; and this is the wig. He is not
bad himself, that little boy ; but he is
not at all so good as Jean."
" How old is Jean ?" I asked.
" He is twelve years old, monsieur."
" And you ?"
" I am ten," she replied, with a lit*
tie sigh and a blush. " But I may
grow still, may I not ?" she asked tim-
idly, looking up into my face so pathet-
ically, that I had hardly sufficient
gravity to answer, " Yes, of course ;
you will doubtless grow for a long
time yet."
" Ah ! that is exactly what Jean
says," she exclaimed gaily; then
added in a lower voice, "Jean says
he likes little people best; but, you
see, he may say that because he likes
me."
I answered nothing to this; and
presently she roused herself from a
little reverie, and said, " Now we
shall dance for you, because it gets
late, and I must go home."
"If you like to remain here all
night," I said, " the wife of the con-
cierge will let you sleep in a little
Poucette.
265
room off theirs, down stairs ; and when
you have had some breakfast, you can
then return."
" No, no," she repeated sharply ;
" I will not sleep here ; I go home to
Jean."
" Will Emile be glad to see you ?"
" That depends ; if he is cross, he
will beat me for staying so long ; but
it does not matter ; I wished to stay,
and I liked my dinner, and this warm
fire" (she looked wistfully at it).
"Monsieur is very good. Come,
Mouton, my friend ; wake yourself
up."
The dog rose, shook himself, and
patiently allowed himself to be
dressed once more. He took an
unfair advantage of his mistress, how-
ever, when she knelt down to put on
his shoes, and licked her face. " Ah,
cochon, how often must I box your
ears for that trick!" she said,
as she gave him a tap on the side
of his head, for the liberty. " Come
now, walk along." The dog paced
soberly toward the door on his hind-
legs. " That is the ancien regime"
she explained to me. " Now, Mou-
ton, show us how people walk at the
present day." The dog stopped, and
at once imitated the short, mincing
step of a Parisian belle, shaking his
hoop from side to side in most ludi-
crous fashion; and as he reached his
mistress, he dropped a little awkward
courtesy.
"That is well," she said. "Now
sing for us like Madame G ,"
naming a famous opera-singer, whose
fame was then at its height, and she
laid a light piece of music-paper
across his paws. The dog looked
closely down on the paper for an in-
stant, licked his lips, looked round at an
imaginary audience, and then throwing
back his head, and fixing his black
eyes on the ceiling, he uttered a howl
so shrill and piercing that I stopped
my ears ; he then ceased for an in-
stant, looked at his music attentively,
then at his audience, and again uttered
that ear-piercing howl. " That is
enough," said Poucette ; " bow to the
company." The dog rose and sank
with the grace almost of the pruna
donna herself.
"Now, Mouton, we are going to
dance ;" and taking the animal by
its paw, she put the other arm round it,
and the two whirled round in a waltz,
keeping admirable time to a tune
which Poucette whistled. " Now
read a book, and rest yourself whilst I
dance ;" and again the piece of music
was laid on Mouton's paws, and he
bent his eyes on it, apparently with
the most devoted attention, whilst
Poucette slipped off her heavy sabots,
and with naked feet thrust into a pair
of old satin slippers, which she pro-
duced from some pocket in her dress,
she executed a sort of fancy dance,
half Cachuca, half Bolero, throwing
herself into pretty, graceful attitudes,
with a step as light as a fairy's ; then,
as she approached Mouton in the fig-
ure, she lifted the music, and taking
him by one paw, she led him forward
to the front of my chair on the points
of her toes, the two courtesying nearly
to the ground, when Mouton affection-
ately kissed his mistress on the cheek.
" There, it is over now," said Pou-
cette ; " that is all. He does not know
the minuet perfectly yet : next week,
perhaps, we shall try it for the Jour
de VAnr
"Well done!" I exclaimed, and
clapped my hands. " He is a famous
dog ; and you you dance beautifully."
Mouton came to be patted and made
much of ; and his mistress now an-
nounced her intention of going home
at once. Finding it useless to try
and induce her to stay, I offered to go
with her myself, and see her safely
through the still crowded streets ; but
this she firmly declined.
" No, not to-night," she said. " You
may come to-morrow, if you will be
so kind, but not to-night. You have
been very good, monsieur; I am not
ungrateful. You may come to-mor-
row ; Rue , No. , quite close to
Notre Dame." She took my hand,
raised it to her lips, courtesied, and
was gone.
266
Poucette.
I followed her down stairs, and
watched the little figure hurrying
along with a firm step, upright as a
dart, the light from the gas-lamps fall-
ing now and then on the spangles of
her dress, and making them twinkle
for an instant ; and the dark outline of
Mouton following closely behind her,
under the shadow of the houses.
Presently they crossed the street, and
disappeared in the distance ; and I
turned and walked up stairs to my
cosey well-lighted room, to think over
the strange life of a street dancing-
girl.
After this, I made inquiries about
Poucette in the part of the town where
she lived, and visited the man Emile
and his wife often. Here I found the
cripple boy Jean, to whom Poucette
clung with a tenacity of affection that
was touching to witness. He had had
a fall as an infant, so his mother said,
and never had walked ; but his fingers
were skilful in making toys, baskets,
and small rush-mats, which Poucette
sold during her daily rounds. To
him she devoted her affections, her
life, with a steady ardor not often
met with at her age. Toward others,
she was always grave, distant, often
haughty and bitter in her expressions
of anger, but to him never. However
tired she might return home after
dancing or selling his wares on the
boulevard, she never showed him that
she was so ; if he wished to go out,
she drew him in a rude wooden sledge
to the gardens of the Luxembourg ;
and the two would sit there by the
hour together on Sundays, criticising
the passers-by as they walked about in
their gay dresses. At night, if the in-
valid was restless or in pain, Poucette
sat beside him, sometimes till day
dawned, with a sympathizing cheerful
face, ready to attend upon every want.
There she shone ; but take away Jean
out of her world, and Poucette stood
forth a vixen. Madame Emile, who
was herself somewhat of a shrew,
vowed that if it were not that she and
Jean were so bound up together, and
nothing could separate them, she must
have sent away Poucette long ago.
" No one could endure her temper,
monsieur," she would declare to me ;
and when she began upon this subject,
madame waxed eloquent. " She is a
girl such as there is not besides in
Paris. For Jean, she will give up
dress, company, the theatre, every-
thing ; but except for him, she would
not go one step out of her way to be
made an empress. It is not natural
that. After she first came here, we
had a great deal of trouble with her,
and Emile beat her well ; but then she
would run away in a rage, and come
back again during the night, for fear
Jean should want something. Now
we are more used to her, and we let
her have her own way pretty much."
Jean I could get nothing out of
except a " Bonjour, monsieur" at enter-
ing and on leaving his house. He
sat silently plaiting his mats or carv-
ing toys with his long fingers, looking
as if he neither heard nor understood
what we were talking about ; but he
carefully repeated all the conversa-
tion afterward to his friend Poucette,
for she told me so often when we
were together. She used to come
and see me at my rooms, when it was
wet, or business was slack ; and I suc-
ceeded in finding a customer for her
wares in a toy-merchant, who promis-
ed to take all Jean's work at a rcason-
ble price, and was liberal toward the
two children. Poucette was thus able
to give up her public dancing, and
stay more at home ; and the toyman's
daughter taught her dainty embroid-
ery, in which her skilful fingers soon
excelled. She tamed down wonder-
fully that winter, and even made some
efforts to learn reading, as I suggested
to her what a source of pleasure it
would be to Jean, whose thirst for
hearing stories related was intense, if
he could read them for himself. But
she was very slow at this ; the letters
proved a heavy task to learn, and
when we came to spelling, I often de-
spaired ; still she toiled on, and when I
left Paris in May, she could read a
very little.
Poucette.
267
Six months pa'ssed, and again I
turned my steps to my old winter-
quarters. The summer and autumn
had been spent by me partly in Eng-
land, partly in Switzerland. My
protege was unable to write, and I
had heard nothing of her since I left
Paris. I had not returned there
longer than a week, when I set off
into the cite, to discover again my
little pupil. It was much the same
sort of a day as that on which we had
first met ; cold, dank, misty rain kept
falling, and streets were wet and
sloppy. The part of the town where
Poucette lived was wretchedly poor,
dingy, and dirty-looking, especially in
such weather as I now visited it, and
the reputed haunt of thieves and evil-
doers of various kinds. I picked my
way along narrow ill-paved streets,
with the gutters in the middle, and at
last I reached her old abode. There
was no one stirring about ; but the
door was ajar. I pushed it open, and
walked in. The dwelling had once
been some nobleman's hotel in bygone
days, and its rooms were large and
lofty, and at present each inhabited by
different poor families. Emile's was
on the ground floor a long room,
formerly used either as a guard-room
or for playing billiards in. It had
one large window, opening in the cen-
ter, and crossed outside with thick
iron bars, which partially excluded the
light. I was confused on entering
from the outer air, and at first could
only perceive that the room was filled
with a crowd of people, of various
ages and sexes, but all of the lowest
order, some sitting, some standing. A
woman came forth to meet me, whom
I recognized as Madame Emile, sob-
bing and holding her apron to her
eyes. " Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu ! "
she whispered, as she looked at me and
clasped her hands piteously; "the
poor Poucette, how hard it is ! Mon-
sieur, you are welcome ; but this is
a sorrowful time ; she is much hurt."
She led me gently through the various
groups, all sorrowfully silent, toward
a low pallet, at the head of the room,
where, crushed, bleeding, and now
insensible from pain, lay the form of
poor Poucette. " What is this ?" I
asked in a whisper. "How did it
happen ?"
" Ah, it was a vile remise," eagerly
answered a dozen voices. " She was
returning home yesterday from sell-
ing the mats, and the driver was drunk.
She fell in crossing, and he did not
see her. The wheel crushed her poor
chest. Ah, she will die, the unhappy
child!"
" Where is Jean ? " I asked.
His mother silently pointed out
what looked like a bundle of clothes
huddled up in the bed beside the dy-
ing child. She was dying, my poor
Poucette. One of the kind-hearted
surgeons from the hopital had been
to see her early that morning, and
pronounced that beside the blow on
her chest, which was of itself a dan-
gerous one, severe internal injuries
had taken place, which must end her
life in a few hours. Poor Poucette !
I seated myself by the little couch in
the dark room, which was so soon to
be filled by the presence of death, and
presently the surgeon came again.
All eyes turned anxiously toward
him as he walked to the bed, and
kneeling down beside it, carefully ex-
amined the poor little sufferer, whose
only sign of consciousness was a groan
of anguish now and then.
" Can nothing be done for her ?" I
asked, as he rose to his feet and stood
by the bed, looking pityingly down at
the two children.
" Nothing whatever," he said, with
a mournful shake of his head. " She
will not last through the night."
" Does she suffer ?" I asked.
"Acutely, but it will not be for
long. Mortification is setting in rap-
idly." He paused, then added : " She
will probably regain consciousness at
the last ;" and left the room.
Slowly the weary hours glided on ;
gradually the moans became weaker,
and the pulse quick and fitful. Sud-
denly she opened her eyes, and looked
at me inquiringly ; then her eyes fell
268
Dante's Divina Commedia.
on Jean, who lay at her side, and
uttered an exclamation of joy. " I am
not in pain now," she said faintly;
" that is over. Ah, my good mon-
sieur, you said you would return. I
am glad."
"I am grieved 'to find you thus,
Poucette," I whispered. " Can I do
anything for you ?"
" Perhaps you would like to have
Mouton," she said calmly, as if think-
ing aloud.
" I will keep him, if you like it," I
replied. " Is there anything else you
would like ?"
"Only Jean, dear Jean," and her
soft dark eyes were fixed timidly yet
imploringly on my face.
" I will take care of Jean."
"The good God reward you, my
kind monsieur! That is all that I
want. Adieu, madame. Adieu, my
good friends. It is over." Just then
Mouton raised himself on his hind-legs
by the bed, and peered anxiously into
her face. She put out her little right
hand, and gently patted his head;
then, with a last effort, she turned
round from us, and flung one tiny arm
round the crippled boy at her side.
" Je t'aime toujours," she whispered,
as she bent over and kissed him.
It was a last effort. A slight shiver
passed over the little figure ; one long-
drawn sigh escaped the white lips.
Poucette was gone to her mother ; the
wanderer had been taken home ; the
desolate one was comforted !
My tale is ended, except to say
that, from that evening, Mouton has
been my inseparable companion. He
is by no means, however, as complais-
ant to me as he was to his mistress ;
on the contrary, Mouton, like many
other nouveaux riches, is rather a spoil-
ed dog, and the tyrant of my small
household. Jean became a basket-
maker, and it is not improbable that
my fair readers may have in then*
possession some of the productions of
his skilful fingers. Such was the
fruit of my Christmas-eve in Paris
six years ago. I have never spent
one there since.
Translated from Der Katholik.
DANTE'S DIVINA COMMEDIA.
THERE is none of the Christian
poets who has exercised so great an
influence in the intellectual world as
Dante Alighieri. His " Vision of Hell,
Purgatory, and Paradise" has been,
ever since its appearance, a mine in
which artists, poets, philosophers,
theologians, historians, and statesmen
have found treasures. In Italy, imme-
diately after his death, professors were
appointed in the universities to explain
his work, and numbers of both lay and
clerical savants, among them even
princes, bishops, and archbishops, took
delight in its study and exposition.
With the spread of the Italian lan-
guage, on which Dante has stamped
for ever the impress of his genius,
and with the progress of Italian cul-
ture, all Europe became acquainted
with the Commedia, and learned to
admire its beauty and its grandeur
It was translated into other tongues ;
learned foreigners undertook to fathom
its depths ; and even the spirit of
religious unity in the sixteenth cen-
tury did not check its influence over
the Roman- Germanic nations. Protest-
ant translators and expositors con-
tended with the Catholic writers who
made of the work of Dante a special
study. The Germans especially have
Dante's Divina Commedia.
269
not been backward in this respect, and
to prove it we need only name Kan-
negieser, Strecksufs, Kofisch, Witte,
Wegele, and Philalethes (the present
king of Saxony).
When we wish to assign Dante his
proper place in Christian art and
poetry, by comparison with antiquity,
we are reminded at once of Homer
and the veneration in which he was
held by the Greeks. But how has
the Florentine poet merited such high
consideration ? Is it by the might of
his genius and the peculiarity of his
chosen theme ? By the perfection and
the poetic charm of his expression and
language? By his deep knowledge
of life and of human nature ? By the
philosophic and moral truths which he
has woven into his poem ? By his
religious and political views ? Or by
his judgment of historical personages
and facts ?
No doubt all these have been help-
ing causes to establish Dante's fame
and give him the position which he
holds. But the true reason of all the
singular prerogatives of the poet and
of the poem, the reason which gives
us the key to the right understanding
of the " Divine Comedy," and of the
various and discrepant explanations of
it, must be sought deeper. There is a
principal cause of Dante's greatness,
from which the secondary causes, just
named, diverge, as rays of light Yrom a
common centre, and to the knowledge
of which only a philosophical compre-
hension of history, and especially of
poetry, can lead us. We shall endeavor
in this essay to discover this cause,
after having given a brief sketch of
the contents and the scope of the great
poem.
The Commedia, which, in the form
of a vision, paints the condition of the
soul after death, is divided into three
parts, Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise.
Each part consists of thirty-three can-
tos, which, with the introductory canto,
make the round number one hundred.
Surrounded by trials and troubles of
various kinds, Dante is guided into the
regions of the invisible by his favorite
poet Virgil, who comes to his assist-
ance. Virgil here represents poetry
and the idea of the poem. It was
through him that Dante was first led
to the serious study of truth, and to
direct his mind to the philosophical
consideration of the condition of man-
kind.
Our poet now proceeds into the
realm of the damned souls, into the
regions of night and hell, which he
represents in the form of a funnel
having nine gradually narrowing ed-
dies, in which the souls of the damned
are revolving to the throne of Satan,
who sits at the top of the cone. The
narrower grow the circles, the more in-
tense become the punishments inflicted,
in proportion to the increasing guilt
of the culprits. The lowest place
among the lost souls is occupied by
the traitors, Brutus, Cassius, and
Judas.
The power of the devil over men,
and the inexorable character of the
Christian idea of retributive justice, is
grandly portrayed in this part of the
work, by interweaving the most mov-
ing and striking episodes, in which
well-known characters are described
as receiving punishment equal to their
crimes. Even paganism is made to
lend its graces to increase the sublim-
ity of the picture, and clothe the
thoughts of the writer in poetic gar-
ments.
Both poets then leave the darkness
and horror of hell behind them, and
approach the regions of purification or
purgatory, over which perpetual twi-
1 ight reigns. This realm of temporary
suffering is supposed by the poet to
be on the opposite side of the earth,
where the antipodes dwell. This abode
of those souls who are being purified
and doing penance for minor offences,
and whose pains are lessened by the
hope of future happiness, is represent-
ed in the form of a mountain, to whose
summit one ascends by nine successive
degrees, as the descent through the
270
Dante's Divina Commedia.
funnel of hell was by nine lessening cir-
cles. At the top of the mountain is
placed that earthly paradise which was
lost by the sins of .our first parents, and
from which the way to heaven leads.
Having arrived in the terrestrial
paradise, Dante suddenly finds himself
deserted by Virgil, who from the be-
ginning had promised to guide him only
so far. But Beatrice meets our poet
here, Beatrice the beloved of his youth.
She teaches him the science of God,
and, aided by the light of faith and
revelation, which Virgil had not, she
shows him the higher knowledge given
to human reason under the influence
of Christianity. At her voice and
teaching, Dante is moved to repentance
for his transgressions, and she becomes
his future guide.
Dante paints in the most lively col-
ors, and describes with the greatest
beauty, in episodes and conversations,
the intimate relation of the souls in pur-
gatory with each other, and with those
they left behind them on earth, and
with the blessed in heaven. This latter
point is illustrated by the frequent ap-
pearance of angels, who descend from
time to time into the dusky realms of
purgatory.
Led by his beloved Beatrice, our
poet now mounts to heaven, and tra-
verses its various spheres, which are
represented according to the system of
Ptolemy. Beginning by the moon, the
poet travels through Mercury, Venus,
the Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn,
the glory and happiness of the beati-
fied increasing as he advances, in pro-
portion with their virtues and holiness,
till he arrives at the so-called Empyr-
ean, at the very throne of God. In
the highest sphere Dante beholds the
mystical rose, that is, the glory of the
Blessed Virgin, who is surrounded by
the highest saints and angels in the
form of a rose ; and among these glo-
rified spirits he sees with delight his
Beatrice near the Mother of God, who
gives an honorable place to those who
had been her fervent followers during
life. The Vision of Heaven ends by
a glance at the mysteries of the Holy
Trinity and the Incarnation, which
mortal eye, though supernaturally
strengthened, is unable to dwell upon
for excess of light.
Dante in this part of his work treats
the most difficult questions, not only
of philosophy, which he had also done
in the preceding cantos, but also of
theology, with the greatest clearness,
depth, and poetic grace. He treats in
it of the fundamental ideas of Chris-
tianity, of faith, hope, and charity. The
spirits that he represents to the reader
in hell, purgatory, and paradise are
by no means the mere wilful crea-
tions of his fancy, but for the most
part are historical characters, some of
them but little removed from his own
time, others contemporary ; and even
those which he borrows from Judaism
or paganism to embellish his poem
are symbolical, and have an intimate
connection with some reality. On
this very account we should not judge
the Vision as an allegory, although
in many respects it has the peculiari-
ties of an allegorical poem. It is, rath-
er, a mystic poem, hi which the deepest
religious and philosophical truths are
represented under the shadow of vis-
ionary forms and ethereal similitudes;
and realities are raised to an ideal
sphere, where the mind's eye can pen-
etrate through their misty covering
and contemplate them to satiety. But
what is the cause of the great influ-
ence which this poem has exerted on
mankind? This is the question which
we have undertaken to answer, and j
which we shall now endeavor to
solve.
n.
As in the history of nations and of
mankind there are certain epochs in
which the elements that had formed
the groundwork of society, and of na-
tional life, in their gradual develop-
ment, culminate in a certain point,
where the mental powers of the people
put forth all their strength in the pro-
duction of facts, or works of various
kinds that give expression to the spirit
Dante's Divina Commedia.
271
of the age ; so in the history of poetry
there are poets and poems in which
the ruling ideas of their time and na-
tion appear in all their truth and
power,
In the works of great poets we have,
as it were, a copy of God's creative
power. He seems to lend it to the
poet. Of all the productions of the
human mind, the poem has the great-
est similarity with the works of Al-
mighty power, and both offer to human
contemplation beauties ever varying
and ever new. But between the works
of divine and of human skill there is an
essential difference. The works of
God express the thoughts of the Cre-
ator, whose glory and invisibility, ac-
cording to the Psalmist, the heavens
declare, and whose eternal might and
divinity creatures proclaim ; but with
the effects of human genius it is en-
tirely different.
Every individual is but a member
of the gieat whole, which we call the
human family ; he can do nothing
alone, but depends on others both for
his material and spiritual support;
and the degree of culture which he
attains, the aim which he proposes to
himself in life, and the germ of his
future progress, are as much the result
of the influences exercised on him
from the cradle to the grave, by the
family circle, by the school, and by
the associations of society, as they are
the effects of his own independent
strength and originality. Hence the
work of the poet, no matter how great
he may be, is not to be considered the
exclusive product of the individual, for
it must bear on it the stamp of his ed-
ucation, and of the people among whom
he dwells, and of the age in which he
lives. As tl\e waters of a lake do not
merely reflect their own color, but also
the green shore of the surrounding
woods and hills, the passing clouds, the
deep blue of the heavens above, and of
the stars that glitter in it ; so in the poem
we see not only the soul of its creator,
but every great emotion that swelled
in the breast of the men of his age and
nation. In a word, we see the whole
circle of contemporary ideas more or
less vividly expressed in it. Nor are
the productions of human genius less-
ened by this fact ; they are, on the con-
trary, enhanced in value. For it is no
longer one person, with his subjective
views of his own world and life, who
speaks to us in them, but it is the
spirit of a portion of mankind, express-
ing to us the ideas of a certain stage
in the progress of civilization.
Now, if such a work of genius be at
the same tune the foundation of a
further development in the future, and
of such a character that it represents
the condition not only of one nation,
but of several ; and if the ideas which
it contains and which sway men be
such as by their truth and universality
overleap the limits of time and space ;
then such a power will maintain its
hold upon the admiration and esteem
of men, not only in a certain epoch
and among a certain people, but for
ever and among all nations where
the same order of civilization reigns.
Poets who are distinguished above
others by the creative power and supe-
riority of their genius in the produc-
tion of such a work, are not merely
the poets of one age, or of one nation,
but they belong to all times and to all
nations. They will not be merely
read once, and then thrown aside ; but
they will be reperused and studied
with ever increasing pleasure.
The age of Dante was an epoch of
this character among the Christian
nations. He has hardly his superior
as a poet, either among the ancients or
the moderns. Hence, if we contem-
plate the Commedia from this point of
view, we shall be able not only to
understand the general scope of the
work, but even to comprehend with
ease all its details and peculiarities.
But in order to show that the peri-
od at which Dante appeared (the sec-
ond half of the thirteenth and the
beginning of the fourteenth century)
was one like that which we have
described, we must briefly recall to
mind the condition of the Church, of
the state of science and art, and give
272
Dante's Divina Com/media.
expression to the spirit of the age in a
scientific formula.
If we then look at the Church, we
find her displaying such fecundity and
power as we shall hardly find at any
other period in her history. She is
not only busy in the work of convert-
ing the still pagan nations of Europe,
especially in the north, and strength-
ening the faith among believers by
missions, voyages, and diplomacy ; by
the foundation of new congregations
and bishoprics ; by councils ; by strin-
gency of external discipline, and great-
er solemnity in the public worship ;
but also by the internal reformation
effected by such men as popes Alex-
ander III., Innocent III., and Inno-
cent IV., who continued the good work
begun by Gregory VII., of freeing the
Church from the oppressions of secular
power. They succeeded at length in
propagating and realizing among the
Christian nations of the West the idea
of one vast spiritual community, under
the headship of one spiritual ruler,
who, instead of destroying national
diversity and independence, protected
and favored them. This idea prevailed
through the agency of the supreme
pontiffs over the pagan idea so cher-
ished by the emperors of a universal
monarchy. The crusades, too, fostered
and led by the Church, and which are
the clearest expression of the thor-
oughly Christian spirit of those cen-
turies, bring the West into closer
intimacy with the East, and enrich
the former with all the material and
spiritual treasures of the latter. Then
arise those great orders which half
religious and half secular, as the
Knights Hospitallers and the Temp-
lars, or entirely religious, like the
Dominicans and Franciscans defend-
ed the Church, cared for the sick and
the poor, sacrificed themselves in
spreading Christian faith and morality,
and gave birth to countless institutions
of charity.
If we now glance at the political
condition of the people, a spectacle
equally grand as that just described
offers itself to our view. On the
imperial throne of Germany appear
those powerful princes of the house of
Hohenstaufen, who contended so hero-
ically with the papacy for the success
of the Ghibelline idea of a universal
monarchy, but who in the end were
worsted in the fight ; while in France
a St. Louis IX., and in England a
Richard the Lion-hearted, excite the
admiration of the world. In Italy, even
in the midst of the struggle between
the secular and the spiritual powers,
and between the Guelphs and Ghibel-
lines, mighty republics spring up under
the protection of the Church ; and in
the other nations also we see a power-
ful effort for national independence
and freedom appearing in the many
guilds, corporations, free cities, states,
and parliaments which were every-
where rising into a dignified exist-
ence. But above all, the order of
chivalry in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries an order which even yet
throws such a halo of poetry and ro-
mance around the middle ages in which
it nourished, walking hand in hand with
religion, which had consecrated it
helped much to civilize the barbarian
character of the age, and improve the
moral condition of society.
As to science in the epoch of which
we write, it was mostly occupied in.
the investigation of those subjects
which lay next the Christian heart of
the people ; namely, in theology, phi-
losophy, and ethics. And how great has
been its success ! What great results
has not mediaeval science effected ! I
need only mention the immortal names
of Anselem of Canterbury, of St. Ber-
nard, Albert the Great, Thomas Aqui-
nas, Bonaventure, Roger Bacon, and
Vincent of Beauvais ; men whose works
in theology, philosophy, .history, and
in the natural sciences, remain to the
present time as monuments of genius,
hardly equalled by ancient or modern
productions.
At this period, too, sprang up the
universities, which realize in their con-
ception the universal idea of catho-
licity. They were founded in every
land, and all the sciences were taught in
Dante's Divina Commedia.
273
them. The Church herself, hi the Coun-
cil of Vienne, in 1311, decreed that,
beside the chairs of theology, philoso-
phy, medicine, and jurisprudence, there
should be in the four principal univer-
sities, and wherever the papal. court
should be held, professors of Hebrew,
Chaldaic, Arabic, and Greek. But
what especially shows the intellectual
bent of this age is the zeal and youth-
ful ardor manifested in every rank for
all the different branches of science.
Popes, emperors, kings, and nobles
emulated each other in this respect,
and consecrated their energies to the
furtherance of learning.
If we now turn to the state of art
and poetry, on every side the old ca-
thedrals and monuments erected in the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries meet
our eyes, and in their various styles of
Gothic and Roman architecture excite
our admiration, fill us with holy awe,
and, as they lift their spires to heaven,
speak more eloquently of the greatness
of the spirit and aesthetic feeling of the
people than any words of ours could
do. In the suite of architecture the
other arts followed and were elevated
to its height ; and even before Dante,
and contemporaneously with him, lived
the founders ef the Italian schools of
painting and sculpture, which so soon
after attained to such perfection. As
for poetry, we need only remember
that at this time most of the modern
languages began to be developed and
become the mediums of literature. " It
was the gay time of the troubadours
and incense-singers," says Vilmar, in
his History of German National Liter-
ature, " in which the melody of song
rang out from hamlet to hamlet, from
city to city, from castle to castle, and
court to court, and a thousand harmo-
nious echoes, near and far, from hill
and valley, answered out of the people's
heart." It was the first classic period
of German literature, in which the na-
tional and artistic epic appear well de-
veloped in such works as the Nibelun-
gen, Gudrun, Parceval, and others.
No doubt there are shadows on the
picture of the age just described, as
18
there are in our own. But still, who-
ever considers the facts we have al-
leged, cannot fail to admit the age as a
real epoch in the history of the Chris-
tian world, unless he is blind or wil-
fully shuts his eyes to the light. In
view of these facts, also, he must per-
ceive that the civilization of the vari-
ous western nations was most inti-
mately connected ; that it rested on the
same common foundation ; and that the
ideas which ruled them and constituted
their vital principle were eternally
and universally true, and became the
platform of succeeding intellectual ev-
olution. Hence, those nations, though
differing in origin and political inde-
pendence, made but one grand spirit-
ual community, bound together by a
common faith and a common church.
But if we would now express the
spirit of this epoch in a philosophical
formula, we should say that it was the
period in which the Roman and Ger-
manic races were converted to Chris-
tianity after the decease of the old world
and of pagan civilization; and after these
races had become a spiritual commun-
ity under the hierarchy of the popes,
and become bound together under the
government of one worldly empire,
after various combats with outward
enemies and triumphs over internal
elements of discord ; when these races
had appropriated to themselves Chris-
tianity as their vital element, and req-
ognized it as the power which moved
and governed the world, and sought to
produce, realize, and use Christian
ideas in every direction, in the sciences,
in arts, in society, in the state, and in
the Church. The Protestant, Vilmar,
whom we have already cited, agrees
with this assertion, when he writes :
" It was the spirit of Christianity which
had become the spirit of the western
nations, and which inspired, in the
highest degree, the higher ranks of so-
ciety, the nobility, and the clergy ; and
which penetrated into the masses, not
so much as a theory, but as a fact not
as a science, but as an element of their
life ; it was Christianity, not as a sim-
ple doctrine or idea, but as a practical
274
Dante's Divina Oommedia.
boon and benefit ; it was a joy to the
Christian Church and to its internal
and external glory, and a blessing with
its gifts, more general than it has been
since, and so strong that even the
struggle between the popes and the
emperors, for over two centuries, could
not affect the great happiness of men
whose social and individual existence
was actuated by the spirit of Chris-
tianity."
ni.
Taking, therefore, this comprehen-
sive view of the state of society ; con-
sidering the triumph of the Christian
idea in history, the consciousness of
Christianity as the principle of life in
the newly-organized world, and the
struggle of this element to mould and
fashion everything according to its na-
ture, we may easily answer the ques-
tion as to the character of a poem
which should thoroughly express the
spirit of the age. It would not be
hard to show that the Divine Comedy
of Dante derived its matter, its form,
its name, and its sentiment from the
peculiar condition of the epoch. In
fact, any poem that represents, the conr
quest of the Christian idea in all con-
ditions of private and public life must
ever exercise great influence over
men. But in order to give a poetical
representation of this thought, the
poet should choose a framework suffi-
ciently large to contain the vast pic-
ture in which God and man, heaven
and earth, nature and grace, creation
and redemption, past, present, and fu-
ture, science and life, church and
state, appear ; and such a framework
was offered to him in the Christian
idea of the judgment ,of God, and of
the existence of the other world, in its
three divisions of hell, purgatory, and
paradise.
Now, only by carrying up ordinary
facts to this higher, ideal sphere was
it possible to overleap the limits of
time and space, and give greater unity
to the picture, and make it a master-
piece. But he who lives here below
is ignorant of the future, and of the
condition of the departed souls. Only
by a supernatural revelation can we
know their lot. Consequently, the
form of a wonderful vision, in which
the poet enters into communion with
the spirits of the dead, and wanders
through their regions, is the most nat-
ural manner of representing his idea
in the poem ; consequently, it should
be called by right a " divine drama," a
Divina Commedia, as the most appro-
priate title.
The true scope of the poem, there-
fore, must not be sought for either in a
purely religious, or a purely political, or
a purely scientific or personal point of
view ; but in the prosecution of a far
more general, comprehensive, higher,
philosophic, theological, and particu-
larly moral or ethical object, to which
all the details of the work are subordi-
nated. Hence, he who examines these
details from this or that stand-point
may give them the most different ex-
planations, as in fact many commenta-
tors of the poem do not having fath-
omed its depths and perceived the
general object of the sacred epic.
Dante himself leaves us no reason
to doubt on this point. In his dedica-
tory epistle to Cardinal Grande della
Scala, he speaks thus : " The meaning
of this poem is not simple, but multi-
ple. The first sense is in the words,
the second in the things expressed :
the one is called literal, the other
moral or allegorical. Taken literally,
the whole work is simple, and ex-
presses the condition of souls after
death, for this is expressed by the
whole tenor of the poem. But taken
in the higher sense, its object is man,
either deserving rewards or chastise-
ments through the exercise of his free
will. And if we wish to name the
kind of philosophy contained in the
work, we must call it moral, or ethics.
For the whole tends to practice and ac-
tion, and is not content with simple
contemplation and speculation."
Giacomo di Dante, the son of the
poet, develops more clearly the scope
of the work, in the preface to his com-
Dante's Divina Commedia.
275
mentary. " The whole work," says he,
" is divided into three parts ; the first
of which treats of hell, the second of
purgatory, and the third of paradise.
In order to understand the general
allegorical bearing, I say that the object
of the poet is to represent to us in figura-
tive language the three several divis-
ions of mankind. The first part con-
siders vice in man, and is called hell,
to show us that mortal sin by its depth
of iniquity is directly opposed to tHe
sublimity of virtue. The second con-
templates those who detach themselves
from vice and strive after virtue.
His place for such persons he calls
purgatory, or place of purification, to
show the condition of the soul, which
cleanses itself from its sins in time, for
time is the medium in which all
changes happen. The third considers
perfect man, and is called paradise, in
order to express the greatness of its
bliss, and the elevation of mind con-
nected with it ; two things without
which a knowledge of the supreme
good cannot be attained. And thus
the poet pursues his object through
the three several parts of his poem by
means of the figures and representa-
tions with which he surrounds him-
self."
But the poet, in order to realize his
grand idea, should be gifted not only
with the highest poetical genius in
order to represent the philosophical
principles of Christianity in the pecu-
liar characters and types of Christian
art, and give them a new, independ-
ent, and majestic appearance ; but he
should be also possessed, on the one
hand, of a clear and perfect knowledge
of Christian doctrine and ethics, and a
deep and extensive knowledge of phi-
losophy and theology ; and, on the
other, of a profound and extensive ac-
quaintance with men and human life,
as well as with the history of the
human race. Both these requisites
are found in Dante in the highest
degree. Christian faith and morality
is as well and correctly explained by
him as by the best approved theolo-
gians. But this fact will not excite
our surprise if we consider that, in
his Vision, without however sacrificing
his "individuality, he adheres strictly
to the great doctors of the age, Saints
Thomas Aquinas and Bonaventure,
as King John of Saxony clearly
proves in his commentary on the Di-
vine Comedy.
Hence, at an*early period Dante's
work became a favorite theme of scho-
lastic study, and under the portal
of the cathedral at Florence there is
seen an old statue of the poet near
that of the patron saint of the city,
with this inscription : Theologus Dante,
nullius dogmatis expers " Dante the
theologian, to whom no dogma was
unknown." In the Raphael chamber
in the Vatican, he is represented crown-
ed with laurel on the famous painting
of the disputa, among the popes, bish-
ops, and doctors assembled round the
holy sacrament of the altar.
An occasional writer has suspected
the faith of Dante, because in his
poem he deplores several abuses in
the Church, such as the corruption of
some of the clergy and monks, and
lashes some of the popes and the
relation of the papacy to the secular
power in his time. But such a sus-
picion is unwarranted when we consid-
er that many Catholic reformers, even
saints like Peter Damien, Saint
Thomas of Canterbury, Saint Bernard,
Saint Hildegard, Jacopone, and oth-
ers, have spoken even more strong-
ly than Dante against abuses ; and
that he never confounds the use with
the abuse, excrescences of an institu-
tion with the institution itself, or
persons with principles.
Dante's thorough knowledge of hu-
man life and of history is fully
shown in his surprising explanations,
and by the manner in which with
one trait he paints the famous char-
acters and facts in the Commedia, as
well as by the examples and narra-
tions which he takes from all tunes,
regions, and nations of the earth.
But in his judgment of persons and
facts in the past and present, Dante is
not always impartial or just, for, being
276
Dante's Divina Commedia.
subject to human frailties and preju-
dices, he is often guilty of great in-
justice to those against whom he had
motives of hatred. Consequently, in
order to appreciate Dante's poem on
this point, we must consider the char-
acter of his life and fortunes, as well
as the history of his native city and
country. * .-
Dante Alighieri was born at Flor-
ence in the year 1265, and received
in baptism the name of Durante. which
was shortened to that of Dante. Early
in his youth an event happened which
determined his life, and to which pos-
terity is indebted for his great work.
In the year 1274, in the ninth year of
his age, Dante saw, at a church festi-
val, the daughter of Falco Portinari,
Beatrice, a child eight years old, whom
he says, in one of his poems, no one
could see without crying out, " This
is not a woman, but one of the most
beautiful of the heavenly angels !" He
conceived for her, on the spot, the most
violent passion, but, at the same time,
one so pure and holy that Beatrice,
even on earth and wedded to another,
became for him and his muse a perfect
ideal that inspired all his first and ten-
derest poems, and moved him to high
and holy thoughts. But after Beat-
rice's untimely death, she became, in
the imagination of the poet, a holy
spirit, whose glory he undertook to
exalt after a wonderful vision which he
had, and who became, in all the sor-
rows of his life, a star of hope and
anchor of safety to him. A few years
after the decease of his beloved, Dante
espoused Gemma di Donati, a lady of
a noble family in Florence, and through
this marriage, as well as by his pro-
found theological and philosophical
studies, he was drawn into the vortex
of the politics of his native city, in
which, after many struggles, the
Guelph party gained the ascendency,
toward the end of the thirteenth cen-
tury.
Sprung from a Guelph family and
surrounded by Guelph influences, and
prominent by his genius in the party,
although keeping clear of its excesses,
Dante, from 1293 to 1299, filled many
posts of honor, especially many places
of ambassador, and was elected, with
five others, in the year 1300, to the
priorate, the highest office in the re-
public. But soon after his prosperous
career was changed to one of misfor-
tune. In 1292 a division was made
in the Guelph party, when, under the
tribune Giano della Bella, the consti-
tution of the state was changed, the
riibles driven from the magistracy, and
the government of the city given en-
tirely into the hands of the plebeians ;
and this division led gradually to an
open rupture between the parties called
the Blacks and the Whites " Neri "
and "JBianchi" The latter were by-
far the more moderate, and the Ghi-
bellines, both nobles and plebeians,
joined them. Dante belonged to the
Whites, who stood at the head of
affairs. But by the interference of
Charles of Valois, whom the Blacks
called to Florence in order to seize the
government with his aid, the Whites
lost their power, and Dante, who was
then on an embassy to Rome, together
with the other chiefs of the party, was
exiled by a decree, which was repealed
in the year 1302.
This trial was important in two ways
to our poet. It excited his hatred
against one party of the Guelphs, and
then against them all ; and evoked his
inclination for the Ghibellines and his
dislike toward the popes, who gave
assistance to the Guelph party, and
finally made him a strong partisan of
the Ghibellines and their operations
against Florence, and of the empire
against the papacy. On the other
hand, he became, by his misfortunes,
more devoted to virtue, his studies,
and his poem, from the prosecution of
which he had been distracted by polit-
ical cares ; so that the whole history
of his exile is nothing else than the his-
tory of his scientific life and the exe-
cution of the Divine Comedy. After
having wandered from city to city,
from country to country, to Verona,
Bologna, Padua, Paris, and England,
and dwelt for a time in Pisa, and in
Dante's Divina Gommedia.
277
Lucca at the monastery of Fonteavel-
luna and in Udine, and after hav-
ing finished his great works "The
Banquet," " De Vulgari Eloquio" "J}e
Monarchic*" and the three parts of
his great poem, he rested at last in
Ravenna, where, in the year 1321, he
fell sick and died, in the 56th year of
his age, after having received, as Boc-
cacio tells us, the last sacraments with
humility and piety, and become recon-
ciled to God by true repentance for
all he had done contrary to his holy
will. The poet was buried in the
Franciscan church, where his ashes
still repose.
This sketch of his life and fortunes
gives us the key to the solution of
many peculiarities of the Divine
Comedy. We can now understand
why politics play so conspicuous a
role in the great poem, in spite of its
higher philosophico-theological and
ethical scope; and why some should
have considered the work as of a
purely political character. This sketch
of his life also shows the partial truth
contained in the assertion of Wegele,
a German commentator on Dante.
This writer says the leading thought
of the poet was to work out his own
salvation by considering the state of
the world at his time ; and in fact
Dante found consolation and strength
against earthly misfortune, found the
way of virtue and eternal salvation,
in the execution of his poem. For
similar reasons, others considered the
poem as purely didactic, and this view
has a foundation in the confession of
the poet himself.
But above all, .the life of Dante
explains his ideas about the relations
between the papacy and the empire,
expressed not only in his book on mon-
archy, but also in the Divine Comedy ;
and his strange judgments about per-
sons and circumstances especially of
his own age. It is true Dante never
for a moment disputes the primacy
and divine appointment of the popes
in the Church ; and even in hell he
describes those pontiffs whom he con-
demns to it as having certain dis-
tinctions. He maintains in the clear-
est manner the freedom and independ-
ence of the divine power in regard to
the secular, and acknowledges a cer-
tain superiority in the former, for he
requires that Caesar should have that
reverence for Peter which the first-
born son should have to his father, so
that Caesar, illuminated by the light
of paternal grace, might shine more
brilliantly over the earth. But as
Dante was possessed with the Ghibel-
line idea, and as he saw in the tempo-
ral power of the popes, who were the
head of the Guelph party, the greatest
obstacle to the success of his princi-
ples, we must not be surprised to find
him the enemy of the pope's temporal
power, and, in his judgment of men and
things, to see him frequently led away
by party rage and revenge for injuries
received.
Dante, however, was noble and Chris-
tian enough to keep his eyes open
even to the faults of his own party,
and he spared not even the heads of the
Ghibellines, as Frederic II. and other
noble and popular persons, if they
seemed to him deserving of blame.
Nor must we imagine that Dante
really thought all those were in hell
whom he places there, any more than
he thought the real pains of hell were
such as he described them : only the
vulgar could believe this. Those per-
sons were only such as in his eyes
were guilty of mortal sins ; and the
punishments inflicted were such as his
fancy conceived to be adequate to the
guilt. But we must bear in mind that
his judgments must always be received
with caution when there is question
of facts, persons, and circumstances
connected with the opposite party;
and we have the right to examine and
correct the criticisms of Dante by the
light of history. Dante, for instance,
goes so far as to put in hell even Pope
Celestine, who, after governing the
Church for six months, tired of the
tiara, went into solitude ; because, in
the opinion of the poet, Celestine
renounced the pontificate through
timidity and weakness, and made way
278
Dante's Divina Commedia.
for the hated Boniface, VHI. The
Church, on the contrary, puts Celestine
among the saints on account of his
extraordinary virtues.
But let us now turn from the dark
side of the picture, and from the weak-
ness of the great man, to take a view of
the fortunes of the Commedia in the
course of six centuries. We have
already in the beginning of this essay
spoken of the great number of editions,
translations, and commentaries on the
great work, and in this respect no other
work can compare with it except the
Holy Scripture and the Following of
Christ. But these proofs of admira-
tion and study of the Divine Come-
dy are not equally divided among
the centuries, and the recent and*
renowned writer of Dante's life, Count
Caesar Balbo, justly remarks that, at
those periods in which an earnest
religious and truly patriotic feeling
pervaded the fatherland of the poet
and Christian Europe in general, those
proofs are to be found in greater num-
ber than when the knowledge and
study of supreme truth had grown
less, love of religion and country had
died or gone astray, and the minds of
men sunk in the earthly and the
sensible. Thus, in the fifteenth centu-
ry, after the invention of the art of
printing, nineteen or twenty editions of
Dante appeared ; in the sixteenth cen-
tury, forty ; in the seventeenth, only
three ; in the eighteenth, thirty -four ; in
the nineteenth, up to 1839, over seven-
ty, and perhaps up to the present year
one hundred. This is a striking proof
of the increasing love of the spiritual
in our century, in spite of the great
influence of materialism.
But in this age of surprises and
contradictions, a new glory of which he
had never dreamt has been added to
Dante's name. For some time in Italy
that political party which aims at the
subversion of the existing order of
things, and the establishment of a sin-
gle republic or monarchy, and which
finds in the papacy or States of the
Church the principal obstacle to the
carrying out of its plans, has made
use of commentaries on the Divine
Comedy, among other means, to
spread its principles among the peo-
ple. Hence, two Italian refugees,
Ugo Foscolo and Rosetti, during
their sojourn in England, undertook
the dreary task of explaining Dante's
poem in a purely political point of
view, and with learning and wit they
have attempted to prove that the poet
was opposed to the temporal power of
the pope, and the head, or at least a
member, of a secret society.
In Italy, however, and in Germany,
especially by the great critic, Schlegel,
this theory has been refuted. It falls
to the ground by the simple consider-
ation of the fact, that if the Divine
Comedy Was as clear in every point as
where he speaks against the popes of
his time and their earthly possessions,
no commentary on the poem would be
necessary. Yet, no sooner was war
against Rome proclaimed at Paris and
Turin, than recourse was had to Dante,
and an attempt made to conjure up
his spirit as a partisan in the fight.
Rosetti already occupies a chair hi
the Sardinian capital, from which he
expounds Dante in the interest of
Italian unity, and in Germany the
secret societies applaud his course ; so
that, if in 1865 there be in Italy a
celebration of Dante's six hundredth
birthday, as in Germany there is of
Schiller, we may expect to find the
politicians make use of it to further
their ends.
So then we have lived to see the day
when Dante, the Ghibelline and fanat-
ical adherent of the German empire ;
who was opposed to the temporal
power of the pope only because it
stood in the way of a universal secu-
lar monarchy ; who invoked the wrath
of heaven on the German Albert be-
cause he delayed coming to subjugate
Italy ; and who wrote the famous letter
to the Emperor Henry VII., inviting
him to come and chastise his native
city; when that Dante, I say, has
become the herald and standard-bearer
of a party which calls itself the old
national Guelph party, whose watch-
Dante's Divina Commedia.
279
word is " Death to the Germans and
foreign rulers," and which, like the
ancient Guelphs, is aided by French
soldiers in its struggle against the Ger-
man emperors.
In spite of his Ghibelline proclivi-
ties, Dante was filled with lively faith,
and he had so great a veneration for the
power of the keys entrusted by Christ
to Peter and his successors that even
in hell he bowed with respect before
one of those who had borne them, and
even in his narration of the arrest and
ill-treatment of Boniface VIII., whom
he hated and placed in hell, he breaks
out into the following strains':
" Lo ! the flower de luce
Enters Alagna ; in his Vicar Christ?
Himself a captive, and his mockery
Acted again. Lo ! to his holy lip
The vinegar and gall once more applied ;
And he 'twixt living robbers doomed to bleed.
Lo ! the new Pilate, of whose cruelty
Such violence cannot fill the measure up,
With no decree to sanction, pushes on
Into the temple his yet eager sails.
O sovereign Master ! when shall I rejoice
To see the vengeance, which thy \vrath, well
pleased,
In secret silence broods? "
(Purg, xx. 85-97. Carey's translation.)
So we have lived to see the day
when the author of the above lines is
represented as the herald of a party
which has treated so shamefully the
gentle successor of Boniface VIII.,
Pius IX., whose only fault was to have
opened the prison doors to his enemies,
and recalled them from exile with too
great indulgence. They have made
him drink the chalice of humiliation to
the dregs, and, leagued with a French
despot, they renew in the Vicar of
Christ all the insults heaped of old on
the Saviour by the Roman soldiers,
when, putting on Mm the mantle of
purple and the crown of thorns, they
mocked him, saying, " Hail, King of
the Jews !" Dante was no such Christ-
killer.
And what folly is it not to imagine
Dante, the haughty aristocrat, whose
pride of birth shows itself everywhere
in his poem, a partisan of a faction
which, like that which governed Flor-
ence during the middle ages, is made
up of the rabble and of levelers, haters
of all nobility.
In another age, when it was not the
principle of public life to have no
principle at all, such contradictions as
those of which we write would have
been incomprehensible ; but in our
own century, in which truth wages an
unequal conflict with falsehood, not so
much because men do not know how to
separate truth from falsehood, as be-
cause men find truth less useful for
their purposes than falsehood, the con-
duct of the so-called national party in
Italy is easily explained. But if Dante
were to rise up from the grave, how
strongly he would rebuke those who
are making such an unwarrantable
use of his name ! He would quote for
them, perhaps, as he does in many
parts of his great work, an apt text of
the Holy Scriptures ; and none, proba-
bly, would come sooner to his mind
than the following :
" Why have the Gentiles raged, and
the people devised vain things?
" The kings of the earth stood up,
and the princes met together, against
the Lord and against his Christ.
" Let us break their bonds asunder :
and let us cast away their yoke from
us.
" He that dwelleth in heaven shall
laugh at them ; and the Lord shall de-
ride them. Then shall he speak to
them in his anger, and trouble them in
his rage."
280
Miscellany.
MISCELLANY.
SCIENCE.
Important Geological Discovery. Sir
Charles Lyell, in his address to the
British Association a few months ago,
mentioned the discovery of a fossil ani-
mal much more ancient than any previ-
ously supposed to exist. Heretofore,
as is well known, an immense series of
rocks below the Silurians have been
termed azoic, as exhibiting no remains
of animal life ; but this term must now
be dismissed.
It is well kuown that a staff of com-
petent geologists, under the direction
of Sir "William E. Logan, have been en-
gaged for some years in a geological
survey of Canada. The oldest rocks in
that country are granite, described as
upper and lower Laurentian, their thick-
ness being 40,000 feet, with bands of
limestone intervening. In one of these
bands in the lower series of rocks,
which are the most ancient, there were
discovered, in 1858, certain flattish
rounded masses, which seemed to be of
organic origin. These were examined
under the microscope by Dr. Dawson of
Montreal, who, from their structure, de-
clared them to be foraminifera, similar
in character, but by no means in size,
to the foraminifera living at the present
day in vast multitudes at the bottom of
the sea; and to this newly-discovered
and wonder-exciting creature he gave
the significant name Eozoon Canadense,
or the Dawn-animal of Canada.
The foraminifer of the present day is
a microscopic creature ; the eozoon was
enormous in comparison, about twelve
inches diameter, and from four to six
inches in thickness, presenting the gen-
eral form of a much flattened globe.
Its growth was by the process techni-
cally known as gemmation, or the con-
tinued development of cells upon the
surface ; hence, these cells form success-
ive layers of chambers, separated by
exceedingly thin walls or laminse of cal-
careous matter. They are now all filled
with solid matter, mineral silicates,
serpentine, and others ; but sections or
slices cut from the mass, and examined,
show the form of the cells still perfect,
and what is more remarkable, the very
minute tubes (tubuli) by which commu-
nication was maintained from one to the
other throughout the entire animal.
Mr. Sterry Hunt, the chemist employed
on the Canadian survey, is of opinion
that the silicates and solid matters were
directly deposited in waters in the
midst of which the eozoon was still
growing, or had only recently perished,
and that these solid matters penetrated,
enclosed, and preserved the structure
of th animals precisely as carbonate of
lime might have done. Here, then, we
have an example of fossilization, accom-
plished by reactions going on at the
earth's surface, not by slow metamor-
phism in dfeeply-buried sediments.
^ Papers on this subject and one by
Sir W. Logan himself have been read
before the Geological Society, and will
shortly be published ; and at a recent
meeting of the Royal Society, a highly,
interesting communication in further
elucidation of the matter was made by
Dr. Carpenter, who has devoted himself
for some years to the study of forami-
nifera. He confirms Dr. Dawson's gen-
eral conclusions, and identifies among
living foraminifera the species which
has most affinity with this very an-
cient dawn-animal. He makes out
the identification in an ingenious way,
resting his proof on the peculiar struc-
ture of the cell- walls, and of the minute
tubuli by which, as before observed,
communication between the cells was
maintained. Henceforth, we shall have
to regard the silurian fossils as modern.
^ Since this discovery was made pub-
lic, it has been ascertained that there
are fossil remains of the eozoon in the
serpentine rocks of Great Britain.
The importance of this of course depends
on the age of serpentine, and that is a
question which geologists have not yet
settled ; but some of them are of opin-
ion that the British serpentines are of
the same age as the Laurentian rocks
in which the Canadian eozoon was
found. Pending their decision of the
question, keen explorers are on the
search for other specimens.
Curious and Delicate Experiments. Dr.
Bence Jones recently communicated to
the Royal Society of Great Britain the
result of a series of experiments by
MsceUany.
281
which he had attempted to ascertain
the time required for certain crystal-
lized substances to reach the textures
of the body after being taken into the
stomach. In other words, he proposed
to solve these problems : If a dose of
medicine be given, what becomes of it,
and does it arrive quickly or slowly at
the parts for which it is intended ? It
is obvious, that if these questions could
be accurately determined, medical men
would have a better knowledge than at
present of the action and progress, so
to speak, of medicine within the body.
Substances, when taken into the stomach,
pass into the blood, which may be sup-
posed to distribute them to all parts of
the body. If, in ordinary circumstances,
no trace of a particular substance can
be found in a body, but is found after
doses of the substance have been ad-
ministered, it is clear that the doses
are the source from which that trace is
derived.
Lithium is a substance sometimes
given as medicine. Dr. Jones gave
half a grain of chloride of lithium to a
guinea-pig, on three successive days ;
and, by means of the spectrum analysis,
he found lithium in every tissue of the
animal's body, even in the cartilages,
the cornea, and the crystalline lens of the
eye. In another experiment, the lithi-
um was found in the eye eight hours
after the dose had been administered ;
and in another, four hours after. In
another, the lithium was found after
thirty-two minutes, in the cartilage of
the hip, and in the outer part of the
eye. These cases show that chemical
substances do find their way very
quickly into the tissues of the body ;
and a similar result appears from ex-
periments on the human subject. A
patient, dying of diseased heart, took
fifteen grains of nitrate of lithia thirty-
six hours before death, and a similar
quantity six hours before death. Lith-
ium was afterward found distinctly in
the cartilage of one of the joints, and
faintly in the eye and the blood. A
like result was obtained with a patient
who had taken ten grains of carbonate
of lithia five and a half hours before
death. And to this Dr. Bence Jones
adds, that he expects to find lithium in
the lens of the eye after operation for
cataract.
Giant Trees of California. Some time
ago, much regret was expressed that
the giant trees (Wellingtonia] of Califor-
nia had been recklessly cut down.
Their fall was a loss to the world. But
Sir William Hooker has received a let-
ter in which Professor Brewer, of the
California State Geological Survey, re-
ports that " an interesting discovery
has been made this year of the exist-
ence of the big trees in great abundance
on the western flanks of the Sierra Ne-
vada. They abound along a belt at
5,000-7,000 feet of altitude for a distance
of more than twenty-five miles, some-
times in groves, at others scattered
through the forest in great numbers.
You can have no idea of the grandeur
they impart to the scenery, where at
times a hundred trees are in sight at
once, over fifteen feet in diameter, their
rich foliage contrasting so finely with
their bright cinnamon-colored bark.
The largest I saw was 106 feet in cir-
cumference at four feet from the ground,
and 276 feet high.
" There seems no danger of the speedy
extinction of the species, as it is now
known in quite a number of localities ;
and, contrary to the popular notion,
there are immense numbers of younger
trees of all sizes, from the seedling up
to the largest. There has been much
nonsense and error published regarding
them."
Photographing the Interior of the Great
Pyramid. Our readers may remember
that some time last winter a distin-
guished English savant, Professor
Piazzi Smyth, went out to Egypt for
the purpose of taking photographic
views of the interior chambers of the
great pyramid. The impossibility of
lighting these vast halls had hitherto
proved an insuperable bar to the under-
taking ; ordinary methods of illumina-
tion seemed, if we may so speak, to
make no impression upon the thick
darkness. But with the discovery of
the wonderful powers of the magne-
sium wire light, this difficulty was re-
moved. Professor Smyth writes as
follows to the London Chemical News;
his letter is dated East Tomb, Great
Pyramid, February 2d:
" We are settled down at last to the
measuring ; the chief part of the time
hitherto (about three weeks) having
been occupied in concert with a party
of laborers, furnished by the Egyptian
government, in clearing away rubbish
from important parts of the interior,
282
Miscellany.
and in cleansing and preparing it for
nice observation. The magnesium wire
light is something astounding in its
power of illuminating difficult places.
With any number of wax candles which
we have yet taken into either the king's
chamber or the grand gallery, the im-
pression left on the mind is merely see-
ing the candles and whatever is very
close to them, so that you have small
idea whether you are in a palace or a
cottage ; but burn a triple strand of
magnesium wire,. and in a moment you
see the whole apartment and appreci-
ate the grandeur of its size and the
beauty of its proportions. This effect,
so admirably complete, too, as it is, and
perfect in its way, probably results from
the extraordinary intensity of the light,
apart from its useful photographic
property ; for side by side with the
magnesium light the wax candle flame
looked not much brighter than the red
granite of the walls of the room
Whatever can be reached by hand is
chipped, and hammered, and fractured
to a frightful degree ; and this maltreat-
ment by modern men, combined with
the natural wear and tear of some of the
softer stones under so huge a pressure
as they are exposed to, and for so long
duration, has made the measuring of
what is excessively tedious and difficult,
and the concluding what was, in some
cases, rather ambiguous."
ART.
Domestic. The National Academy ex-
hibition will probably be open before
our readers receive these pages ; and
from those cognizant of the internal
arrangements of the new building, and
of the preparations making by our
resident artists, we learn that the col-
lection will exceed in the number,
and probably in the merit of the pic-
tures, any of its predecessors. The
make-shift character and unsuitable-
ness of the rooms in which the Acad-
emy has of late years held its annual ex-
hibitions, have deterred many of its most
prominent members from sending in
contributions, which they were satisfied
could not be seen to advantage ; and
this sin of omission was so evident in
the last two or three exhibitions, that
one of the leading objects of the Acad-
emy the improvement of public taste
by the display of the annual produc-
tions of our best artists seemed in
danger of being defeated. The new
galleries, it is said, can exhibit to ad-
vantage more than fifteen hundred pic-
tures, and a capacity so ample, in con-
junction with the prestige attending
the opening of the new building, ought
to cover the walls to their fullest extent.
The public will not be surprised then
to learn that an unusual number of artists
have been, and are still, busily apply-
ing the final touches to their works, in
anticipation of " opening day" (to bor-
row a phrase from the milliners); and it
is to be hoped that the Academy, having
now " ample room and verge enough"
to satisfy fastidious members, may soon
become the fostering abode of art which
its projectors intended to make it. A
slight foretaste of what the exhibition is
likely to contain was afforded at the
recent reception of the Brooklyn Art As-
sociation, where an elaborate and effec-
tive work by Grignoux, entitled " Among
the Alps," and several by Leutze, G-if-
ford, Huntington, Stone, White, Hart,
Beard, and others, were on view. A num-
ber of pictures destined for the Acad-
emy were also exhibited at the monthly
social gatherings of the Century and
Athenaeum clubs of this city in the be-
ginning of April. We propose to give
an extended notice of the new building
and its art collections in our next num-
ber.
The inaugural ceremonies of the New
York association for " The Advance-
ment of Science and Art" took place at
the Cooper Institute on the evening of
March 31st. One of the objects of the
association is the collection and preser-
vation of works of art, and one of the
fifteen sections into which it is divided
is devoted to the fine arts. Amid the
multiplicity of special branches, which
the association proposes to investigate
and promote, from jurisprudence and
the prevention of pauperism down to
chronology, the fine arts must necessa-
rily receive but a limited share of atten-
tion ; but even this, if guided by taste
and intelligence, is better than the indif-
ference to aesthetic matters which is too
often characteristic of a commercial me-
tropolis ; and the association will find
plenty of well-wishers, and, we trust,
some who will add substantial aid to
their sympathy.
Among the attractions of the Central
Park will be a hall of statuary, now in
the course of preparation in the old
arsenal building near the Fifth Avenue,
which is not yet open to public inspec-
tion. It will contain, what ought to
prove a boon to all students of form, a
collection of casts from Crawford's
principal works. The Park Commis-
sioners have, in this instance, shown an
enlightened enterprise which might be
imitated by wealthy private individuals.
A few bronze statues of American
statesmen, soldiers, or authors, placed
on appropriate sites in the park, would
add greatly to its attractions. And if it
should be thought desirable to illustrate
a national era, what one more worthy
than the memorable epoch through
which we are now passing, the termina-
tion of which will be coeval with the
completion of the park ?
A new group by Rogers, entitled
"The Home Guard Midnight on the
Border," attracts throngs of gazers be-
fore the windows of Williams and
Stevens's art emporium in Broadway.
The story is naturally and effectively
told. A mother and her daughter, the
only inmates, probably, of some lonely
farm-house, have been aroused from
their slumbers by marauding bushwhack-
ers, and tremblingly prepare to repel the
assailants, or sell their lives dearly.
The elder of the two females, with her
body slightly poised on one foot, stands
in attitude of rapt attention, while me-
chanically cocking a revolver, her sole
weapon of defence. The daughter, less
resolute in expression and action, cow-
ers at her side. As a work of art, it is
perhaps inferior to the " Wounded
Scout" or " One Shot More," which ex-
hibit the artist's highest efforts in char-
acteristic expression and the manage-
ment of details ; but it presents a vivid
idea of a scene we fear only too fre-
quently enacted along the border, and
will speak to aftertimes of the horrors
of civil war. The steady improvement
which Mr. Rogers has shown in his
groups, illustrating the episodes of our
great struggle, can be readily seen by
an inspection of his collected works,
the earliest of which were scarcely
better than clever caricatures ; and it is
not surprising to learn that there is a
demand for them in Europe, whither
the artist himself proposes going during
the present season. Foreign critics
may now obtain a correct notion of the
outward aspects of the participators in
the war, if they cannot appreciate its
motives or character. Mr. Rogers is
at present engaged upon a group entitled
" The Bushwhacker," which he will fin-
ish before his departure. According to
one of the daily newspapers it " repre-
sents a wife in the act of drawing away
from her husband an old, grizzled, and
care-worn fighter his gun, and at the
same time appealing to him to leave his
perilous vocation. The Bushwhacker
clasps in his arms his little child, who is
toying with his shaggy beard. If we
may judge from the half-relenting expres-
sion of his countenance, we can safely
conclude that the wife will not sue in
vain, although he still resistingly grasps
his musket with one hand. The pose and
execution of the figures are carefully
attended to, and the work is one of the
most spirited and successful of Mr.
Rogers' productions."
Among other American artists who
intend to visit Europe the ^present
season, are Ives, the sculptor, and
Haseltine and Dix, painters of coast
and marine scenery. The last named
gentleman four years ago forsook his
profession, in which he had begun to
attain some skill, to accept a place on
the military staff of his father, Major Gen-
eral Dix, and now, with renewed ardor,
resumes his pencil. He will study prin-
cipally along the Mediterranean coasts.
A very miscellaneous collection of
pictures, containing a vast deal of rub-
bish, and a few good specimens of for-
eign artists, was disposed of at auction
by Messrs. Leeds & Miner, in the
latter part of March, at tolerably fair
prices. The following will serve as
examples : " Snow Scene" by Gignoux,
$900 (quite as much as it was worth) ;
" Lady with Flowers," by Plassan, $750 ;
" A Reverie," by Chavet, $850 ; " Even-
ing Prayer," by E. Frere, $1,000 ; " The
Alchemyst," by Webb, $380. A curi-
ous essay of Col. Trumbull in the peril-
ous regions of " high art," entitled " The
Knighting of De Wilton," fetched the
moderate sum of $150. As an example
of the style of composition and treatment
affected by the painters who illustrated
Boydeli's Shakespeare Gallery, it was
both amusing and instructive. Fortun-
ately for his reputation, the painter of
" Bunker Hill" and the " Sortie from
Gibraltar" did not often recur to Wal-
ter Scott for subjects.
Quite recently there has been on
exhibition at Goupil's gallery a remark-
able picture by the French artist Jean
Leon Gerdme, entitled L'Almee, which
284
Miscellany.
may be thus briefly described: Scene,
a dilapidated Egyptian Khan or coffee
shop ; in the foreground and centre of
the picture a Ghawazee,or dancing girl,
performing a striking but immodest
dance, which consists wholly of move-
ments of the body from the hips, the
legs remaining stationary ; a group of
fierce looking and fantastically bediz-
ened Bashi-Bazouks, sitting cross-leg-
ged on a divan, spectators of the per-
formance ; and in the background some
musicians and an attendant or two. It
would be almost impossible to over-
praise the marvellous finish of this work,
the skilful blending of the colors, the sub-
dued yet appropriate tone, or the dra-
matic force of the composition. If these
qualities were all that are demanded in
a work of art, we might stop here ; but
when the subject is repulsive, they
prove asource of aggravation rather than
of pleasure, and few, we think, will deny
that the scene depicted by Ger6me,
though illustrating a peculiar and per-
haps important phase of Oriental life, is
one of too gross a character to subserve
the purposes of true art. A vast deal of
sentiment has been wasted upon the
" moral significance " of pictures of this
type. The less said upon that score, the
better. We do not instruct children to
abstain from vice by putting immoral
books into their hands, trusting that
some innate sense of propriety may
prompt them thereby to see virtue in a
clearer light. If disposed to criticise
the technical part of this work, we should
say that the finish is too elaborate.
Everything, to the smallest minutiae, is
polished almost to the degree of hard-
ness, and one instinctively longs for an
occasional roughness or evidence of the
brush something of that manual move-
ment which indicates the passing
thought of the painter. Where all is of
so regular and level a merit, the con-
trasts which should give strength and
spirit to a painting are sure to be want-
ing. In this respect Ger6me compares
unfavorably with Meissonier. Both rm-
ish with scrupulous exactness ; but the
latter never makes finish paramount to
the proper expression of his subject.
Hence the life and action, so to speak,
of his most nicely elaborated figures.
In the Almee, on the other hand, the
group of soldiers, though wearing an
admirable expression of stoical sensual-
ity, are too rigid and immovable, too
much like well painted copies of the lay
figures which served as models for
them. So, too, of many of the details,
excepting always the draperies, which
could not be improved. A little more
attention to the ars celare artem would
render Ger6me almost unapproachable in
his peculiar style.
Before leaving Goupil's, we cannot
avoid drawing attention to some studies
of trees and foliage, by Richards, of
Philadelphia, now exhibited there. One
of them, representing the interior of a
wood in early autumn, is the best delin-
eation of that phase of nature we have
recently seen. Generally, the pictures
of this artist are wanting in relief; his
foliage lies flat upon the canvas ; the
trunks of his trees have no rounded out-
line, nor can the eye penetrate through
the recesses of the wood ; there is, in
fact, no atmosphere to speak of. These
defects have been happily overcome in
the present instance, and, with no lack
of Pre-Raphaelite power in delineating
the outward aspect of nature, there is a
pervading tone of melancholy appropri-
ate to the scene and the season. Less
remarkable than this, but of considera-
ble merit, is a mountain landscape, in
which the season depicted is also the
autumn.
Foreign. Abroad there seems to be a
perfect fever to buy and sell works of
art. "Everybody," says the London Athe-
naeum, " who has a collection, seems de-
termined to dispose of it, and accident
has thrown a large number of works on
the art-market ; but as those who have
taste and means seem just as eager to
buy as the collectors are to sell, the ac-
tivity of the art-marts is but a natur-
al consequence of the law of supply
and demand, the natural limit having
been extended in several instances by
the accidental re-appearance of many
works twice or three times during the
season. This has been the case es-
pecially with respect to the pictures of
Delacroix. It is always dangerous to
assume the prophetic character ; but it
appears very improbable that, on the
average, works of art will fetch higher
sums than they have during the present
season.'' In Paris the Pourtales sale
continues, and is daily crowded by
eager virtuosi, whose competition runs
up prices to an extent bordering on the
extravagant. The proceeds of the third
portion of the sale, which occupied
three days, and included the engraved
Miscellany.
285
gems, antique jewelry and glass, were
45,743 francs ; those of the fourth sec-
tion, the coins and medals, 18,430 francs ;
and of the fifth, which comprised the
sculpture in ivory and wood, the renais-
sance bronzes, arms, faiences, glass,
and some miscellaneous articles, 505,640
francs. The following are some of the
prices obtained for the sculptures in
ivory, of which there was a magnificent
collection of 70 pieces : A statuette of
Hercules resting on his club, one foot
on the head of the Hydra, purchased
for England, $3,280. Venus with Cupid
at her side, left by Fiamingo as security
in the house at Leghorn wherein he
died, $1,180. A renaissance bronze bust
of Charles IX., of France, life size, artist
unknown, formerly the property of the
Due de Berri. brought $9,000." Henry
II. ware," the well-known biberon, with
cover bearing the arms of France,
surmounted by a coronet, and bearing
the arms and initials of Diane de Poitiers,
uninjured, just over ten inches in height,
$5,500. The celebrated Marie Stuart
cup, presented to her when affianced to
the Dauphin, was disposed of for $5,420.
It is but a few inches in height, but is
covered, inside and out, with designs
illustrating classical mythology and al-
legory, and with profuse ornamentation,
all in exquisite taste and of perfect
workmanship. It was executed by Jean
Court dit Vigier, about 1556. A round
basin, in grisaille, by Pierre Raymond
(1558), representing the history of Adam
and Eve, in enamel on a black ground,
brought $4,040 ; a large oval salver, by
Jean Courtois, enamelled in the richest
manner, representing the passage of the
Red Sea, with borders decorated with
figures, medallions, etc., $6,000. These
prices, it may be observed, were con-
sidered by competent judges to be
rather low ! The vases and goblets of
rock crystal were also well contested.
A magnificent head, of Apollo, in mar-
ble, formerly in the Justiniani gallery,
was bought, it is said, for the British
Museum, for $9,000 ; and the celebrated
Pallas vase, the most perfect specimen
of Greek work in porphyry extant,
fetched $3,400.
The new chapel of the Palais de
1'Elysee has just been completed, and
is said to be a perfect gem of artistic
decoration. The style is Byzantine, the
mosaic work of the altar being executed
in marbles of the rarest kinds ; but the
pillars and vaulted roof are in stucco,
imitating porphyry, vert antique, arid
gold, in such perfection that it is diffi-
cult to believe that the mines of Sweden
and Russia had not been ransacked to
produce the rich coloring and massive
effect which strikes the eye of the visi-
tor. The twelve patron saints of France
are represented including Charlemagne
and St. Louis.
The Aguado pictures were announced
for sale, in Paris, on the 10th of April.
They include the famous " Death of
Sainte Claire," by Mnrillo, brought
from the convent of Saint Francois d'As-
rise in Seville, by Mathieu Fabirer,
Commissary-General of Napoleon's army
a very large canvas, including no less
than twenty-eight figures.
The collection of ancient and modern
pictures and water-color drawings
formed by Mr. Thomas Blackburn, of
Liverpool, was recently disposed of at
auction in London for 8,763. Some of
the water-color drawings by Copley
Fielding, Louis Haghe, John Gilbert,
Prout, Birket Foster, and others, realized
very large sums.
Theed's colossal statue of the Prince
Consort, which has been cast in bronze
at Nuremberg, has recently arrived in
London. The model of this figure was
originally executed by command of her
majesty, and sent as a present to Coburg,
where it at present remains, a bronze
cast having been taken from it. The
town of Sydney being desirous of erect-
ing a statue of the prince, this second
cast was executed by command of the
Duke of Newcastle, on the ground that
of all the numerous likenesses now ex-
tant this was the best. The figure is
ten feet high, and represents the prince
in a commanding attitude, dressed in
the robes of the garter.
The alterations in progress in the
Wolsey Chapel, at Windsor Castle,
have brought to light three full-length
portraits of knights of the garter, attired
in the military costume of the order,
capped with helmets, and wearing
cloaks with the insignia. These were
hidden by stone slabs, and as there are
upwards of twenty similar slabs, it is
probable that other similar paintings
may be discovered.
Mr. G. T. Doo's large line-engraving
from Sebastiano del Piombo's " Resur-
rection of Lazarus," in the National
Gallery, by far the most important of its
kind produced for many years past, is
286
New Publications.
now finished. The figure of Christ is
13 inches high, that of Lazarus is still
larger, and, being naked, invoked the
utmost care and knowledge of the en-
graver to deal with its superbly drawn
forms and perfect surface. The execu-
tion, if not the whole design, of this fig-
ure has been, on good grounds, attribut-
ed to Michael Angelo. Mr. Doo has
rendered these with great success, even
to giving the somewhat hard and posi-
tive tone of the original ; and with one or
two exceptions, the drawing is describ-
ed as admirable throughout. In view
of the few really good line-engravings
now produced, and of the prospect of
the art perhaps becoming extinct
within the present century, the pro-
duction of such a work possesses a
genuine though somewhat melancholy
interest.
Kaulbach, it is said, will finish his
paintings in the Berlin Museum this
spring. The price he has received for
them is given at $187,000, with an addi-
tion of $18,700 for the cost of materials.
One of the smaller pictures for the
series represents Germany absorbed in
reading Humboldt's " Cosmos," and let-
ting the imperial crown fall off her head
in the abstraction caused by her stud-
ies. Underneath, the various small
states that compose the confederation
are poking out their heads as far as
possible to escape from under a hat
which is coming down upon them
an illusion to the popular phrase of
uniting the whole of Germany " under
one hat."
The Pontifical Academy of Roman
Archaeology has decreed that the col-
lossal statue of Hercules in gilt bronze,
recently discovered among the ruins of
Pompey's theatre, and sent to the Va-
tican, shall bear the name of " The Her-
cules Mastai," in honor of Pius IX.
NEW PUBLICATIONS,
THE BOYNE WATER: A TALE. By John
Banim. Post 8vo., pp. 578, Boston:
Patrick Donahoe. [For sale in New
York by P. O'Shea, Bleecker street].
This story is reprinted from The Bos-
ton Pilot, of whose columns it has formed
for some months past a principal at-
traction. It is one of 1he earliest of
Banim's works, and the favorable judg-
ment which it received on its first ap-
pearance has now a success of forty
years to confirm it. It is a novel of the
historical school which Scott made so
popular in the last generation, the in-
cidents upon which it is founded belong-
ing to the revolution of 1688, which
established William of Orange on the
throne of Great Britain. It gives a
graphic picture of the siege and capit-
ulation of Limerick, and brings upon
the scene James and William, Sarsfield,
Tyrconnel, Ginkell, and other familiar
characters of that stirring epoch. Banim
delights, also, in descriptions of natural
scenery. In these he is spirited, and, we
believe, accurate. He spared no pains
to make himself thoroughly familiar
with the localities of which he wrote.
While he was engaged upon his novels
he used to journey, in company with his
brother, through the theatre of action,
and study each historical spot with the
care of an antiquary. The perfect ac-
quaintance thus obtained with the places
of which he wrote had, of course, no
little effect upon the vivacity of his
narrative.
His pictures of Irish life are vivid
and truthful, -though he is happier in
narrative or description than in dia-
logue. His heroes #nd heroines are too
much addicted to stilted conversation
and to sentimental remarks, which look
very well in print, but are never heard
in ordinary life. The minor characters,
especially those of the peasant class,
such as Rory na Choppell, the " whis-
perer," or horse-tamer, have the gift of
speech in a much more natural and
agreeable manner. The subordinate
parts of the book, in fact, are its best
parts. The Gaelic chieftain, reduced to
poverty by the English conquerors, but
retaining all his pride of spirit and
New Publications.
287
authority over his people, in a seques-
tered hut among the mountains ; the
blind harper ; the old priest ; the mad
woman of the cavern ; the fanatical sol-
dier of Cromwell ; and the lawless Rap-
parees, are depicted with great skill.
The heroes of the story for there are
two are the one a Catholic, the other
a Protestant. They fight on opposite
sides, and in the delineation of their
characters, and the division of fine
sentiments between them, Banim holds
an even hand. He wrote for an English
public, and fearful of offending by too
warm an avowal of his religious convic-
tions, he seems to us to have gone
occasionally to the opposite extreme,
and penned several passages which
Catholics cannot read without displeas-
ure. But, despite these faults, which
are neither very many nor very serious,
" The Boyne Water" ranks among the
best of Irish novels, and Banim as a
worthy companion of Carleton and Ger-
ald Griffin.
SERMONS ON MORAL SUBJECTS. By his
Eminence Cardinal Wiseman. 8vo.,
pp.434. New York : D. &J. Sadlier
& Co.
The discourses contained in this vol-
ume form an appropriate supplement to
the " Sermons on our Lord and on His
Blessed Mother" which we noticed last
month. They were delivered under the
same circumstances as the previous col-
lection that is, for the most part, at the
English College in Rome and ought not,
therefore, to be considered as a regular
course. But if they do not pretend to
be a complete series of moral instruc-
tions, they will, nevertheless, be found
to touch upon nearly all the fashionable
sins, and to afford ample food for reflec-
tion to all classes of persons. They
have the same characteristics of thought
and expression which mark the cardi-
nal's other writings the same kind tone
of remonstrance with sinners and en-
couragement for the penitent, the same
earnest love of God and man, and the
same, rich, sometimes exuberant, dic-
tion. Cardinal Wiseman ranged through
a great variety of subjects, and touched
nothing that he did not adorn, but his
style never varied much; from one of
his books you can easily judge of all.
There is little difference between the
style of the " Sermons on Moral Sub-
jects" and that, for instance, of " Fabio-
la," or the " Lectures on Science and Re-
vealed Religion. ' ; It is an ornate mode
of writing which accommodates itself to
a diversity of subjects, and never, in the
cardinal's pages, seems out of place.
The sermons now before us are emi-
nently practical ; and, although a large
proportion of them are addressed di-
rectly to irreligious persons, and treat of
such subjects as "The Love of the World,"
" Scandal," " Detraction," " Unworthy
Communion,'' " Unprepared Death," and
the " Hatefulness of Sin," they display, in
a very marked manner, that affectionate-
ness to which we have elsewhere al-
luded as a characteristic of the cardi-
nal's discourses. He seems to love rather
to expostulate than to upbraid ; rather
to remind us of the happiness we have
lost by sin than to threaten us with the
punishment of impenitence ; and even
when his subject calls for stern language,
the kindly spirit continually breaks out.
The last sermon in the volume is en-
titled " Conclusion of a Course." It con-
tains the following passage, explanatory
of the purpose of the whole collection:
"These instructions, my dear breth-
ren, have obviously one tendency ; they
are all directed to expound what the
law of God commands us to believe and
to practice, in order to reach those re-
wards which he has prepared for his
faithful servants. They are directed to
suggest such motives as may induce us
to fulfil these commands ; to encourage
those who are already on the path to
persevere in it ; to bring back those who
have wandered; to impart strength to
the weak and resolution to the wavering
and undecided."
AT ANCHOR ; A STORY OP OUR CIVIL WAR.
By an American. 12mo., pp. 311. New
York : D. Appleton & Company.
The writer of this novel is evidently
a Catholic, but the story is political,
not religious. It purports to be the
autobiography of a loyal Massachusetts
woman. She marries a Carolinian
whom she does not love, and accom-
panies him to his plantation-home.
At the breaking out of the war, the hus-
band accepts a commission in the Con-
federate service. He is reported killed,
and the wife, having learned during his
absence to love him, devotes herself to
the sick and wounded in Richmond.
After a time she makes her way back to
Massachusetts, and there, at the end of
the book, the missing lord turns up ;
not only safe and sound, but converted
from the political errors of his ways,
and eager to fight under the Federal
288
New Publications.
flag. He enlists as a private, and has
risen to be sergeant when a wound dis-
ables him for further service, and hus-
band and wife are at last united and
happy in each other. This plot, if it is
a plot, is interwoven we cannot say
complicated with several interesting
incidents. The heroine has another
lover, toward whom she leans a willing
ear , both in maiden life and during her
supposed widowhood ; and he, on his
part, has another mistress, who turns
out to be our heroine's half-sister. Of
course he marries this lady ; and so
both couples, after much tossing about,
are peacefully " at anchor."
This is something far better than the
common sort of sensational war-stories.
It contains neither a guerrilla nor a spy ;
narrates no thrilling deed of blood or
hair's-breadth escape ; describes no
battle ; and admits that both parties
embrace many noble and honorable men.
The writer (it needs little penetration to
see that she is a woman) expresses
herself fearlessly, but without undue
bitterness, on political matters, and
scatters over her pages many excellent
reflections.
THE MYSTICAL ROSE ; OR, MARY OP NAZ-
ARETH, THE LlLY OP THE HOUSE OF DA-
VID. By Marie Josephine. 12mo., pp.
viii., 290. New York: D. Appleton &
Company.
The authoress of this work is a Ver-
mont lady of some literary experience.
Her book gives ample evidence of a
cultivated and well-stored mind. It is
an attempt to present, in irregular
verse, a legendary narrative of the life
of the Blessed Virgin ; and if the poetry
is not all of the first order, it is at least
devotional, or perhaps we should, say
consistent with devotional ideas for
the writer deals more with the poetical
than the religious aspect of her subject.
She has drawn the rough materials for
her poem from a great variety of
sources, to which she gives reference in
copious notes. She claims to have
"appropriated every coveted relic or
tradition handed down by historian,
Christian or pagan, from the archives of
Latin Church, Hebrew, or Greek, com-
ing within scope of her original plan."
She has certainly succeeded in bring-
ing together a great number of beauti-
ful legends, which she handles in the
most affectionate manner.
THE CORRELATION AND CONSERVATION OP
FORCES : A series of Expositions, by
Prof. Grove, Prof. Helmholtz, Dr.
Mayer, Dr. Faraday, Prof. Liebig, and
Dr. Carpenter. With an Introduc-
tion and brief Biographical Notices
of the Chief Promoters of the New
Views. By Edward L. Youmans, M. D.
12mo., pp. xlii., 438. New York: D.
Appleton & Company.
This excellent work reached us too
late for an extended notice in the pres-
ent number. We shall speak of it at
greater length next month. In the
meantime we warmly recommend our
readers to buy it.
We have received the April number
of The New Path : a Monthly Art Jour-
nal, the publication of which, after an
interval of several months, is resumed
under the auspices of James Miller,
522 Broadgay. This little periodical
represents radical and peculiar views
or art, Heing allied in opinions to the
Pre-Raphaelite school ; but its inde-
pendent and out-spoken, and often val-
uable, criticisms must have struck the
limited circle of readers to whom it for-
merly appealed. We hope under its new
management it will exercise a healthful
influence on Amerie^jwrJ. The pres-
ent number contanHHicles on Miss
Ilosmer's Statue of Ztfoobia, " Our Fur-
niture, 7 ' notices of recent exhibitions,
etc., etc.
Murphy & Co., Baltimore, send us The
Mysteries of the Living Rosary, printed
in sheets, and accompanied by appro-
priate instructions, prayers, and medita-
tions.
THE
CATPIOLIG WOELD,
VOL. I., NO. 3. JUNE, 1865.
THE WORKINGS OF THE HOLY SPIRIT IN THE CHURCH
OF ENGLAND.
A LETTER TO THE REV. E. B. PUSEY, D.D.
BY HENRY EDWARD MANNING, D.D.
MY DEAR FRIEND, I do not
know why twelve years of silence
should forbid my calling you still by
the name we used both to give and to
accept of old. Aristotle says indeed
af uTTpooTjyopia dieh
but ho did not know the basis and the
affections of a Christian friendship
such as that to which though I
acknowledge in myself no claim to it
you were so kind as to admit me.
Silence and suspension of communi-
cations cannot prevail against the
kindliness and confidence which springs
from such years and such events as
once united us. Contentions and
variances might indeed more seriously
try and strain such a friendship. But,
though we have been both parted and
opposed, there has been between us
neither variance nor contention. We
have both been in the field indeed
where a warfare has been waging, but,
happily, we have not met in contest.
Sometimes we have been very near to
each other, and have even felt the
opposition of each other's will and
hand ; but I believe on neither side
has there ever been a word or an act
19
which has left a needless wound.
That I should have grieved and dis-
pleased you is inevitable. The sim-
ple fact of my submitting to the Catho-
lic Church must have done so, much
more the duties which bind me as a
pastor. If, hi the discharge of that
office, I have given you or any one
either pain or wound by personal faults
in the manner of its discharge, I should
be open to just censure. If the dis-
pleasure arise only from the substance
of my duties, " necessity is laid upon
me," and you would be the last to
blame me.
You will perhaps be surprised at
my beginning thus to write to you. I
will at once tell you why I do so.
Yesterday I saw, for the first time,
your pamphlet on the legal force of
the Judgment of the Privy Council,
and I found my name often in its
pages. I have nothing to complain of
in the way you use it. And I trust
that in this reply you will feel that I
have not forgotten your example. But
your mention of me, and of old days,
kindled in me a strong desire to pour
out many things which have been for
years rising in my mind. I have long
wished for the occasion to do so, but I
290
The Workings of the Holy Spirit
have always felt that it is more fitting
to take than to make such an occasion :
and as your kindness has made it, I
will take it.
But before I enter upon the subject
of this letter I wish to say a few words
of yourself, and of some others whom
I am wont to class with you.
Among the many challenges to con-
troversy and public disputation which
it has been my fortune to receive, and,
I may add, my happiness to refuse, in
the last twelve or thirteen years, one
was sent me last autumn at Bath. It
was the only one to which, for a
moment, I was tempted to write a
reply. The challenger paid me com-
pliments on my honesty in leaving the
Church of England, denouncing those
who, holding my principles, still eat its
bread. I was almost induced to write
a few words to say that my old friends
and I are parted because we hold prin-
ciples which are irreconcileable ; that I
once held what they hold now, and
was then united with them ; that they
have never held what I hold now, and
therefore we are separated ; that they
are as honest in the Church of England
now as I was once ; and that our sepa-
ration was my own act in abandoning
as untenable the Anglican Church and
its rule of faith, Scripture and antiquity,
which you and they hold still, and in
submitting to the voice of the Catholic
and Roman Church at this hour, which
I believe to be the sole authoritative
interpreter of Scripture and of anti-
quity. This principle no friend known
to me in the Church of England has
ever accepted. In all these years,
both in England and in foreign coun-
tries, and on occasions both private
and public, and with persons of every
condition, I have borne this witness for
you and for others.
I felt no little indignation at what
seemed to me the insincerity of my
correspondent, but on reflection I felt
that silence was the best answer.
I will now turn to your pamphlet,
and to the subject of this letter.
You speak at the outset of " the
jubilee of triumph among half-be-
lievers" on the occasion of the late
Judgment of the Crown in Council ;
and you add, " A class of believers
joined in the triumph. And while I
know that a very earnest body of
Roman Catholics rejoice in all the
workings of God the Holy Ghost in
the Church of England (whatever
they think of her), and are saddened
in what weakens her who is, in God's
hands, the great bulwark against infi-
delity in this land, others seemed to be
in an ecstasy of triumph at this victory
of Satan."* Now, I will not ask where
you intended to class me. But as an
anonymous critic of a pamphlet lately
published by me accused me of re-
joicing in your troubles, and another
more recently with a want of candor
visible in every line of the attack
accused me of being " merry" over
these miseries of the Church of Eng-
land, I think the time is made for me
to declare how I regard the Church of
England, and events like these ; and I
know no one to whom I would rather
address what I Have to say than to
yourself.
I will, then, say at once :
1. That I rejoice with all my heart
in all the workings of the Holy Ghost
in the Church of England.
2. That I lament whensoever what
remains of truth in it gives way before
unbelief.
3. That I rejoice whensoever what
is imperfect in it is unfolded into a
more perfect truth.
4. But that I cannot regard the
Church of England as " the great bul-
wark against infidelity in this land,"
for reasons which I will give in their
place.
1. First, then, I will say what I be-
lieve of the Church of England, and
why I rejoice in every working of the
Holy Spirit in it. And I do this the
more gladly because I have been
sometimes grieved at hearing, and
once at even seeing in a handwriting
which I reverence with affection, the
* "Legal Force of the Judgment of the Privy
Council/' by the Rev. E. B. Puscy, D.D., pp.
in the Church of England.
291
statement that Catholics or at least
the worst of Catholics called converts
deny the validity of Anglican baptism,
regard our own past spiritual life as
a mockery, look upon our departed
parents as heathen, and deny the opera-
tions of the Holy Spirit in those who
are out of the Church. I do not believe
that those who say such things have
ever read the Condemned Propositions,
or are aware that a Catholic who so
spoke would come under the weight of
at least two pontifical censures, and
the decrees of at least two general
councils.
I need not, however, do more than
remind you that, according to the faith
and theology of the Catholic Church,
the operations of the Holy Spirit of
God have been from the beginning of
the world co-extensive with the whole
human race.*
Believing, then, in the operations of
the Holy Spirit, even among the nations
of the world who have neither the
revelation of the faith nor the sacra-
ments, how much more must we be-
lieve his presence and grace in those
who are regenerate by water and the
Holy Ghost ? It would be impertinent
for me to say to you whose name
first became celebrated for a tract on
baptism, which, notwithstanding cer-
tain imperfections inseparable from a
work written when and where you
wrote it, is in substance deep, true, and
elevating that baptism, if rightly ad-
ministered with the due form and mat-
ter, is always 'valid by whatsoever hand
it may be given.f
Let me, then, say at once
1. That in denying the Church of
* Suarez, De Divina Gratia. Pars Secunda, lib.
iv., c. viii. xi. xii. Ripalda, De Ente Supenmtu-
rali, lib. i., disp. xx., s. xii. and s. xxii. Viva,
Cursus Theol., pars iii., disp. i.. quaest. v. iii.
t Cpncil. Florent. Decretum Eugenii IV. Mansi
Concil., torn, xviii. 547. " In casu autem neces-
sitatis non solum sacerdos vel diaconus sed
etiam laicus vel mulier, imrao etiam paganus et
haereticus baptizare potest, dummodo formana
servet Ecclesire, et facere intendat quod facit
Ecclesia." The Council of Trent repeats this
under anathema, Sess. vii., can. iv. : " Si quis
dixerit Baptismum qui etiam datur ab hiereticia
in Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,
cum intentione faciendi quod facit Ecclesia, non
esse veruin Baptismum, anathema sit. 1 ' See also
Bellarm. Controversial, De Baptismo, lib. i., c.
England to be the Catholic Church, or
any part of it, or in any divine and
true sense a church at all, and in deny-
ing the validity of its absolutions and
its orders, no Catholic ever denies the
workings of the Spirit of God or the
operations of grace in it.
2. That in affirming the workings
of grace in the Church of England, no
Catholic ever thereby affirms that it
possesses the character of a church.
They who most inflexibly deny to it
the character of a church affirm most
explicitly the presence and the opera-
tions of grace among its people, and
that for the following reasons :
In the judgment of the Catholic
Church, a baptized people is no longer
in the state of nature, but is admitted
to a state of supernatural grace. And
though I believe the number of those
who have never been baptized to be
very great in England, and to be in-
creasing every year, nevertheless I
believe the English people, as a mass,
to be a Baptized people. I say the
number of the unbaptized is great,
because there are many causes which
contribute to produce this result. First,
the imperfect, and therefore invalid,
administration of baptism through the
carelessness of the administrators. You,
perhaps, think that this is exaggerated,
through an erroneous belief of Catho-
lics as to the extent of such careless-
ness among the Protestant ministers,
both in and out of the Church of Eng-
land. It is, however, undeniable, as I
know from the evidence of eye-wit-
nesses, that such carelessness has, in
times past, been great and frequent.
This I consider the least, but a suffi-
cient, reason for believing that many
have never been baptized. Add to
this, negligence caused by the formal
disbelief of baptismal regeneration in
a large number of Protestant min-
isters. There are, however, two other
reasons far more direct. The one is
the studied rejection, as a point of re-
ligious profession, of the practice of
infant baptism. Many therefore grow
up without baptism who in adult life,
for various causes, never seek it.
292
The Workings of the Holy Spirit
The other, the sinful unbelief and
neglect of parents in every class of
the English people, who often leave
whole families of children to grow up
without baptism. Of the fact that
many have never been baptized, I, or
any Catholic priest actively employed
in England, can bear witness. There
are few among us who have not had
to baptize grown people of every con-
dition, poor and rich ; and, of children,
often whole families together. There
has indeed been, in the last thirty
years, a revival of care in the admin-
istration of baptism on the part of the
Anglican ministers, and of attention on
the part of parents in bringing their
children to be baptized ; but this reac-
tion is by no means proportionate to
the neglect, which on the other side
has been extending. My fear is that,
after all, the number of persons un-
unbaptized in England is greater at
this moment than at any previous
time.
Still the English people as a body
are baptized, and therefore elevated
to the order of supernatural grace.
Every infant, and also every adult
baptized, having the necessary dispo-
sitions, is thereby placed in a state of
justilication ; and, if they die without
committing any mortal sin, would cer-
tainly be saved. They are also, in the
sight of the Church, Catholics. St.
Augustine says, " Ecclesia etiam inter
eos qui foris sunt per baptismum gen-
erat suos." A mortal sin of any kind,
induing prava voluntatis electio, the
perverse election of the will, by which
in riper years such persons chose for
themselves, notwithstanding sufficient
light, heresy instead of the true faith,
and schism instead of the unity of the
Church, would indeed deprive them of
their state of grace. But before such
act of self-privation all such people
are regarded by the Catholic Church
as in the way of eternal life. With
perfect confidence of faith, we extend
the shelter of this truth over the mil-
lions of infants and young children
who every year pass to their Heavenly
Father. We extend it also in hope
to many more who grow up in their
baptismal grace. Catholic mission-
aries in this country have often as-
sured me of a fact, attested also by
my own experience, that they have
received into the Church persons
grown to adult life, in whom their bap-
tismal grace was still preserved. Now
how can we then be supposed to re-
gard such persons as no better than
heathens ? To ascribe the good lives
of such persons to the power of nature
would be Pelagianism. To deny their
goodness, would be Jansenism. And,
with such a consciousness, how could
any one regard his past spiritual life in
the Church of England as a mockery ?
I have no deeper conviction than that
the grace of the Holy Spirit was with
me from my earliest consciousness.
Though at the time, perhaps, I knew
it not as I know it now, yet I can
clearly perceive the order and chain
of grace by which God mercifully led
me onward from childhood to the age
of twenty years. From that time the
interior workings of his light and
grace, which continued through all my
life, till the hour in which that light
and grace had its perfect work, to
which all its operations had been con-
verging, in submission to the fulness
of truth of the Spirit of the Church of
God, is a reality as profoundly certain,
intimate, and sensible to me now as
that I live. Never have I by the
lightest word breathed a doubt of this
fact in the divine order of grace.
Never have I allowed any one who
has come to me for guidance or in-
struction to harbor a doubt of the past
workings of grace in them. It would
be not only a sin- of ingratitude, but
a sin against truth. The working of
the Holy Spirit in individual souls
is, as I have said, as old as the fall of
man, and as wide as the human race.
It is not we who ever breathe or har-
bor a doubt of this. It is rather they
who accuse us of it. Because, to be-
lieve such an error possible in others
shows how little consciousness there
must be of the true doctrine of grace
in themselves. And such, I am forced
in the Church of England.
293
to add, is my belief, because I know
by experience how inadequately I un-
derstood the doctrine of grace until I
learned it of the Catholic Church.
And I trace the same inadequate con-
ception of the workings of grace in
almost every Anglican writer I know,
not excepting even those who are
nearest to the truth.
But, further, our theologians teach,
not only that the state of baptismal
innocence exists, and may be pre-
served out of the Church, but that
they who in good faith are out of it, if
they shall correspond with the grace
they have already received, will re-
ceive an increase or augmentation of
grace.* I do not for a moment doubt
that there are to be found among the
English people individuals who prac-
tise in a high degree the four cardinal
virtues, and in no small degree, though
with the limits and blemishes insepa-
rable from their state, the three theo-
logical virtues of faith,t hope, and char-
ity, infused into them in their baptism.
I do not think, my dear friend, in all
that I have said or written in the last
fourteen years, that you can find a
word implying so much as a doubt of
the workings of the Holy Spirit among
all the baptized who are separated
from the Catholic Church.
I will go further still. The doctrine,
" Extra ecclesiam nulla salus" is to be
interpreted both by dogmatic and by
moral theology. As a dogma, theo-
logians teach that many belong to the
Church who are out of its visible
unity ; | as a moral truth, that to be
out of the Church is no personal sin,
except to those who sin in being out
of it. That is, they will be lost, not
* Suarcz, De Div. Gratia, lib. iv., c. xi. Ri-
palda, De Ente Supernatural^ lib. i., disp. xx.,
sect. xii. et sea. a. AlpJionsi Tficol. Moral., lib.
i., tract, i. 5, 6.
t De Lugo, De Virtute divina Fidei, disp. xvii.,
sect. iv. v. Viva, Cursus Tlieol., p. iv., disp. iv.,
qiuest. iii. 7.
t^See Perrone Pnxlect. Theolog., pars i., c. ii.
1 " Omnes et soli justi pertinent ad Ecclesiaj
animam."
" Ad Christi Ecclesise corpus spectant fideles
omnes tarn justi quain peccatores."
St. Augustine expresses these two proposi-
tions iu six words, " Multss oves foris, rnulti lupi
intus." St. Aug., torn, iii., p. ii. 600.
because they are geographically out of
it, but because they are culpably out of
it. And they who are culpably out of
it are those who know or might, and
therefore ought to, know that it is
their duty to submit to it. The Church
teaches that men may be inculpdbly
out of its pale. Now they are incul-
pably out of it who are and have al-
ways been either physically or morally
unable to see their obligation to sub-
mit to it. And they only are culpably
out of it who are both physically
and morally able to know that it is
God's will they should submit to the
Church ; and either knowing it will
not obey that knowledge, or, not know-
ing it, are culpable for that ignorance.
I will say then at once, that we apply
this benign law of our Divine Master
as far as possible to the English peo-
ple. First, it is applicable in the let-
ter to the whole multitude of those
baptized persons who are under the
age of reason. Secondly, to all who
are in good faith, of whatsoever age
they be : such as a great many of the
poor and unlettered, to whom it is
often physically, and very often mor-
ally, impossible to judge which is the
true revelation or Church of God. I
say physically, because in these three
hundred years the Catholic Church
has been so swept off the face of Eng-
land that nine or ten generations of
men have lived and died without the
faith being so much as proposed to them,
or the Church ever visible to them ; and
I say morally, because the great major-
ity of the poor, from lifelong prejudice,
are often incapable of judging in a
question so far removed from the pri-
mary truths of conscience and Chris-
tianity. Of such simple persons it may
be said that, infantibus cequiparantur,
they are to be classed morally with
infants. Again, to these may be added
the unlearned in all classes, among
whom many have no contact with the
Catholic Church, or with Catholic
books. Under this head will come a
great number of wives and daughters,
whose freedom of religious inquiry
and religious thought is unjustly lim-
294
The Workings of the Holy Spirit
ited or suspended by the authority of
parents and husbands. Add, lastly,
the large class who have been stu-
diously brought up, with all the dom-
inant authority of the English tradi-
tion of three hundred years, to believe
sincerely, and without a doubt,, that
the Catholic Church is corrupt, has
changed the doctrines of the faith, and
that the author of the Reformation is
the Spirit of holiness and truth. It may
seem incredible to some that such an il-
lusion exists. But it is credible to me,
because for nearly forty years of my life
I was fully possessed by this erroneous
belief. To all such persons it is mor-
ally difficult in no small degree to dis-
cover the falsehood of this illusion.
All the better parts of their nature
are engaged in its support: dutiful-
ness, self-mistrust, submission, respect
for others older, better, more learned
than themselves, all combine to form
a false conscience of the duty to refuse
to hear anything against " the religion
of their fathers," " the church of their
baptism," or to read anything which
could unsettle them. Such people
are told that it is their duty to ex-
tinguish a doubt against the Church
of England, as they would extinguish
a temptation against their virtue. A
conscience so subdued and held in sub-
jection exercises true virtues upon a
false object, and renders to a human
authority the submissive trust which
is due only to the divine voice of the
Church of God.
One last point I will add. I believe
that the people of England were not
all guilty of the first acts of heresy
and schism by which they were sepa-
rated from the Catholic unity and
faith. They were robbed of it. In
many places they rose in arms for it.
The children, the poor, the unlearned
at that time, were certainly innocent :
much more the next generation. They
were born into a state of privation.
They knew no better. No choice was
before them. They made no perverse
act of the will in remaining where they
were born. Every successive genera-
tion was still less culpable, in propor-
tion as they were born into a greater
privation, and under the dominion of
a tradition of error already grown
strong. For three centuries they have
been born further and further out of
the truth, and their culpability is per-
petually diminishing; and as they were
passively borne onward in the course
of the English separation, the moral
responsibility for the past is propor-
tionately less.
The divine law is peremptory " to
him who knoweth to do good, and doeth
it not, to him it is sin."* Every di-
vine truth, as it shines in upon us, lays
its obligation on our conscience to be-
lieve and to obey it. When the divine
authority of the Church manifests it-
self to our intellect, it lays its juris-
diction upon our conscience to submit
to it. To refuse is an act of infidelity,
and the least act of infidelity in its
measure expels faith ; one mortal act
of it will expel the habit of faith alto-
gether, f Every such act of infidelity
grieves the Holy Ghost by a direct
opposition to his divine voice speaking
through the Church ; the habit of such
opposition is one of the six sins against
the Holy Ghost defined as "impugn-
ing the known truth." All that I have
said above in no way modifies the ab-
solute and vital necessity of submitting
to the Catholic Church as the only
way of salvation to those who know it,
by the revelation of God, to be such.
But I must not attempt now to treat of
this point.
Nevertheless for the reasons above
given we make the largest allowance
for all who are in invincible ignorance ;
always supposing that there is a pre-
paration of heart to embrace the truth
when they see it, at any cost, a desire
to know it, and a faithful use of the
means of knowing it, such as study,
docility, prayer, and the like. But I
do not now enter into the case of the
educated or the learned, or of those
who have liberty of mind and means
of inquiry. I cannot class them under
* St. James iv. 17.
t De Lu<?o, De Vlrtute Fidel Divince, disp.
xvii., sect. iv. 53 et seq.
in the Church of England.
295
the above enumeration of those who
are inculpably out of the truth. I leave
them, therefore, to the only Judge of all
men.
Lastly, I will not here attempt to
estimate how far all I have said is
being modified by the liberation and
expansion of the Catholic Church in
England during the last thirty years.
It is certain that the restoration of the
Catholic hierarchy, with the universal
tumult which published it to the whole
world, still more by its steady, wide-
spread, and penetrating action through-
out England, is taking away every year
the plea of invincible ignorance.
It is certain, however, that to those
who, being in invincible ignorance,
faithfully co-operate with the grace
they have received, an augmentation
of grace is given ; and this at once
places the English people, so far as
they come within the limits of these
conditions, in a state of supernatural
grace, even though they be out of the
visible unity of the Church. I do not
now enter into the question of the state
of those who fall from baptismal grace
by mortal sin, or of the great difficulty
and uncertainty of their restoration.
This would lead me too far ; and it lies
beyond the limits of this letter.
It must not, however, be forgotten,
for a moment, that this applies to the
whole English people, of all forms of
Christianity, or, as it is called, of all
denominations. What I have said
does not recognize the grace of the
Church of England as such. The
working of grace in the Church of Eng-
land is a truth we joyfully hold and
always teach. But we as joyfully
recognize the working of the Holy
Spirit among Dissenters of every kind.
Indeed, I must say that I am far more
able to assure myself of the invincible
ignorance of Dissenters as a mass than
f Anglicans as a mass. They are far
re deprived of what survived of
tholic truth ; far more distant from
the idea of a Church ; far more tradi-
tionally opposed to it by the prejudice
of education ; I must add, for the most
part, far more simple in their belief in
the person and passion of our Divine
Lord. Their piety is more like the
personal service of disciples to a per-
sonal Master than the Anglican piety,
which has always been more dim and
distant from this central light of souls.
Witness Jeremy Taylor's works, much
as I have loved them, compared with
Baxter's, or even those of Andrews
compared with Leighton's, who was
formed by the Kirk of Scotland.
I do not here forget all you have
done to provide ascetical and devotion-
al books for the use of the Church of
England, both by your own writings,
and, may I not say it, from your neigh-
bor's vineyard ?
With truth, then, I can say that I
rejoice in all the operations of the
Holy Spirit out of the Catholic Church,
whether in the Anglican or other
Protestant bodies ; not that those com-
munions are thereby invested with any
supernatural character, but because
more souls, I trust, are saved. If I
have a greater joy over these work-
ings of grace in the Church of Eng-
land, it is only because more that are
dear to me are in it, for whom every
day I never fail to pray. These graces
to individuals were given before the
Church was founded, and are given still
out of its unity. They are no more
tokens of an ecclesiastical character,
or a sacramental power in the Church
of England, than in the Kirk of Scot-
land, or in the Wesleyan connexion;
they prove only the manifold grace of
God, which, after all the sins of men,
and in the midst of all the ruins he has
made, still works in the souls for whom
Christ died. Such, then, is our esti-
mate of the Church of England in re-
gard to the grace that works not by it,
nor through it, but in it and among
those who, without faults of their own,
are detained by it from the true Church
of their baptism.
And here it is necessary to guard
against a possible misuse of what I
have said. Let no one imagine that
he may still continue in the Church of
England because God has hitherto
mercifully bestowed his grace upon
296
The Workings of the Holy Spirit
him. As I have shown, this is no evi-
dence that salvation is to be had by the
Church of England. It is an axiom
that to those who do all they can God
never refuses his grace. He bestows
it that he may lead them on from
grace to grace, and from truth to truth,
until they enter the full and perfect
light of faith in his only true fold.
The grace they have received, there-
fore, was given, not to detain them in
the Church of England, but to call
them out of it. The grace of their
past life lays on them the obligation of
seeking and submitting to the perfect
truth. God would " have all men to
be saved, and to come to the knowledge
of the truth." * But hia Church is an
eminent doctrine, and member of that
truth ; and all grace given out of the
Church is given in order to bring
men into the Church, wheresoever the
Church is present to them. If they
refuse to submit to the Church they
resist the divine intention of the graces
they have hitherto received, and are
thereby in grave danger of losing them,
as we see too often in men who once
were on the threshold of the Church,
and now are in rationalism, or in states
of which I desire to say no more.
2. Let me next speak of the truths
which the Church of England still re-
tains. I have no pleasure in its pres-
ent trials ; and the anonymous writer
who describes me as being " positively
merry" over its disasters little knows
me. If I am to speak plainly, he
seems to me to be guilty of one of the
greatest offences a rash accusation
against one whom he evidently does
not know. I will further say that I
lament with all my heart whensoever
what remains of truth in the Anglican
system gives way before unbelief.
I do not, indeed, regard the Church
of England as a teacher of truth, for
that would imply that it teaches the
truth in all its circumference, and in
all its divine certainty. Now this is
precisely what the Church of England
does not, and, as I will show present-
* 1 Tim. ii. 4.
ly, has destroyed in itself the power of
doing. I am willing to call it a teacher
of truths, because many fragmentary
truths, shattered, disjointed from the
perfect unity of the Christian revela-
tion, still survive the Reformation, and,
with much variation and in the midst
of much contradiction, are still taught
in it. I have been wont always to say,
and to say with joy, that the Reforma-
tion, which has done its work with such
a terrible completeness in Germany,
was arrested in England; that here
much of the Christian belief and Chris-
tian order has survived. Until lately
I have been in the habit of saying that
there are three things which missiona-
ries may take for granted in England :
first, the existence of a supernatural
world ; secondly, the revelation of
Christianity ; and thirdly, the inspira-
tion of Scripture. The Church of
England has also preserved other doc-
trines with more or less of exactness,
such as the doctrine of the Holy Trin-
ity, the incarnation, baptism, and the
like. I will not now enter into the
question as to what other doctrines are
retained by it, because a few more or
a few less would make little difference
in the final estimate a Catholic must
make of it. A teacher of Christian
truths I gladly admit it to be. A
teacher of Christian truth no, because
it rejects much of that truth, and also
the divine principle of its perpetuity in
the world. Nevertheless, I rejoice in
every fragment of doctrine which re-
mains in it ; and I should lament the
enfeebling or diminution of any par-
ticle of that truth. I have ever re-
garded with regret the so-called Low-
Church and Latitudinarian schools in
the Anglican Church, because I be-
lieve their action and effect is to di-
minish what remains of truth in it.
have always regarded with joy, and I
have never ceased to regard with sym-
pathy, notwithstanding much which I
cannot either like or respect, the labors
of the High-Church or Anglo- Catholic
party, because I believe that their ac-
tion and effect are " to strengthen the
things which remain, which were ready
in the Church of England.
297
to die." For myself, I am conscious
how little I have ever done in my life ;
but as it is now drawing toward its
end, I have at least this consolation,
that I cannot remember at any time,
by word or act, to have undermined a
revealed truth ; but that, according to
my power, little enough as I know, I
have endeavored to build up what truth
I knew, truth upon truth, if only as
one grajn of sand upon another, and
to bind it together by the only bond
and principle of cohesion which holds
in unity the perfect revelation of God.
A very dear friend, whose friendship
has been to me one of the most instruc-
tive, and the loss of which was to me
one of the hardest sacrifices I had to
make, has often objected to me, with
the subtlety which marks his mind,
that my act in leaving the Church of
England has helped forward the un-
belief which is now invading it. No
doubt he meant to say that the tenden-
cy of such an act helped to shake the
confidence of others in the Church of
England as a teacher of truth. This
objection was, like his mind, ingenious
and refined. But a moment's thought
unravelled it, and I answered it much
in these words :
I do not believe that by submitting
to the Catholic Church any one can
weaken the witness of the Church of
England for the truth which it retains.
So far as it holds the truth, it is in
conformity to the Catholic Church.
In submitting to the Catholic Church,
I all the more strongly give tes-
timony to the same truths which
the Church of England still re-
tains. If I give testimony against
the Church of England, it is in
those points in which, being at va-
riance with the truth, the Church of
England is itself undermining the
faith of Christianity.
It was for this reason I always
kmented the legalizing of the sac-
ramentarian errors of the Low-Church
party by the Gorham Judgment ; and
that I lament now the legalizing of
the heresies of the " Essays and^Re-
views," and the spreading unbelief of
Dr. Colenso. I believe that anything
which undermines the Christianity of
England is drawing it further and
further from us. In proportion as men
believe more of Christianity, they are
nearer to the perfect truth. The
mission of the Church in the world
is to fill up the truth. Our Divine
Lord said, " I am not come to destroy,
but to fulfil;" and St. Paul did not
overthrow the altar of the Unknown
God, but gave to it an object of divine
worship and a true adoration. For
this cause I regard the present down-
ward course of the Church of England
and the Christianity of England with
great sorrow and fear. And I am all
the more alarmed because of those
who are involved in it so many not
only refuse to acknowledge the fact,
but treat us who give warning of the
danger as enemies and accusers.
One of my critics has imagined,
that I propose to myself and others
the alternative of Catholicism or
atheism. I have never attempted to
bring any one to the perfect truth by
destroying or by threatening the im-
perfect faith they might still possess.
I do not believe that the alternative
before us is Catholicism or atheism.
There are lights of the natural order,
divine witnesses of himself inscribed
by the Creator on his works, char-
acters engraven upon the conscience,
and testimonies of mankind in all the
ages of the world, which prove the
existence and perfections of God, the
moral nature and responsibility of man
anterior to Catholicism, and independ-
ently of revelation. If a man, through
any intellectual or moral aberration,
should reject Christianity, that is
Catholicism, the belief of God and of
his perfections stands immutably upon
the foundations of nature. Catholi-
cism, or deism, is indeed the only ulti-
mately logical and consistent alterna-
tive, though, happily, few men in
rejecting Catholicism are logically con-
sistent enough to reject ' Christianity.
Atheism is an aberration which im-
plies not only an intellectual blindness,
but a moral insensibility. The theism
298
The Workings of the Holy Spirit
of the world has its foundation on the
face of the natural world, and on the
intellect and the heart of the human
race. The old paganism and modern
pantheism are reverent, filial, and
elevating compared with the atheism
of Comte and of our modern secularists.
It would be both intellectually and
morally impossible to propose to any
one the alternative of Catholicism or
atheism. Not only then do I lament
to see any truth in the Church of Eng-
land give way befere unbelief, but I
should regard with sorrow and impa-
tience any attempt to promote the be-
lief of the whole revelation of Christi-
anity by a mode of logic which under-
mines even the truths of the natural
order. The Holy See has authorita-
tively declared that the existence of
God may be proved by reason and the
light of nature,* and Alexander VIII.
declared that men who do not know of
the existence of God are without ex-
cuse.| Atheism is not the condition of
man without revelation. As Viva
truly says in his comment on this
declaration, atheists are anomalies and
exceptions in the intellectual tradition
of mankind.
Nay, I will go further. I can con-
ceive a person to reject Catholicism
without logically rejecting Christianity.
He would indeed reject the divine
certainty which guarantees and pro-
poses to us the whole revelation of the
day of Pentecost. But, as Catholic
theologians teach, the infallible author-
ity of the Church does not of necessity
enter into the essence of an act of
faith.J It is, indeed, the divine pro-
vision for the perfection and perpetu-
ity of the faith, and in hac providentia,
the ordinary means whereby men are
illuminated in the revelation of God ;
but the known and historical evidence
* " Ratiocinatio Dei existentiam, animae spiri-
tualitatem, hominis libertatem, cum certitndine
probare potcst." Theses a SS. D. N. Pio IX. ap-
probatce, 11 Junii 1855. Denzinger's Enchiridi-
on, p. MS. Ed. 1856.
f Viva, Propos. damnatce, p. 372. Ripalda, De
Ente Supernaturali. disp. xx., s. 12, 59.
$ De Lugo, De Virtute Fidei Divince, disp. i.,
sect. xii. 250-53. Viva, Carsus TheoL, p. iv.,
disp. i., quicst. iv., art. iii. Ripalda, De Ente
Supern., disp. xx., Beet. xxii. 117.
of Christianity is enough to convince
any prudent man that Christianity is a
divine revelation. It is quite true
that by this process he cannot attain an
explicit faith in all the doctrines of
revelation, and that in rejecting Cathol-
icism he reduces himself to human
and historical evidence as the maxi-
mum of extrinsic certainty for his
religion, and that this almost inevita-
bly resolves itself in the long run into
rationalism. It is an inclined plane
on which, if individuals may stand,
generations cannot. Nevertheless,
though the alternative in the last ana-
lysis of speculation be Catholicism or
deism, the practical alternative may
be Catholicism and fragmentary Chris-
tianity.
I have said this to show how far I
am from sympathizing with those, if
any there be, and I can truly say I
know none such, who regard the
giving way of any lingering truth in
the Church of England under the
action of unbelief with any feeling
but that of sorrow. The Psalmist
lamented over the dying out of truths.
" Diminutce sunt veritates a filiis
hominum," and I believe that every
one who loves God, and souls, and
truth must lament when a single
truth, speculative or moral, even of
the natural order, is obscured ; much
more when any revealed truth of the
elder or of the Christian revelation is
rejected or even doubted. Allow me
also to answer, not only for myself,
which is of no great moment, but for
an eminent personage to whom you
have referred in your pamphlet. I
can say, with a personal and perfect
knowledge, that no other feeling has
ever arisen in His Eminence's mind,
in contemplating the troubles of the
Anglican Church, than a sincere
desire that God may use these things
to open the eyes of men to see the un-
tenableness of their positions ; coupled
with a very sincere sorrow at the
havoc which the advance of unbelief is
making among the truths which yet
linger in the Church of England.
3. It is, however, but reason that I
in the Church of England.
299
should rejoice when whatsoever re-
mains in it of imperfect truth is
unfolded into a more perfect faith :
and that therefore I desire to see not
only the conversion of England, but
the conversion of every soul to whom
the more perfect truth can be made
known. You would not respect me if
I did not. Your own zeal for truth
and for souls here speaks in my behalf.
There are two kinds of proselytism.
There are the Jews whom our Lord
condemned. There are also the
Apostles whom he sent into all the
world. If by proselytizing be meant
the employing of unlawful and unwor-
thy means, motives, or influences to
change a person's religion, I should
consider the man who used such
means to commit lese-majeste against
truth, and against our Lord who is the
truth. But if by proselytizing be
meant the using all the means of
conviction and persuasion which our
divine Master has committed to us to
bring any soul who will listen to us
into the only faith and fold, then of
this I plead guilty with all my heart.
I do heartily desire to see the Church
of England dissolve and pass away, as
the glow of lingering embers in the
rise and steady light of a reviving
flame. If the Church of England
were to perish to-morrow under the
action of a higher and more perfect
truth, there would be no void left in
England. All the truths hitherto
taught in fragments and piecemeal
would be still more vividly and firmly
impressed upon the minds of the
English people. All of Christianity
which survives in Anglicanism would
be perfected by the restoration of the
truths which have been lost, and the
whole would be fixed and perpet-
uated by the evidence of divine
certainty and the voice of a divine
Teacher. No Catholic desires to see
the Church of England swept away by
an infidel revolution, such as that
of 1789 in France. But every Cath-
olic must wish to see it give way year
by year, and day by day, uuder the in-
tellectual and spiritual action of the
Catholic Church : and must watch
with satisfaction every change, social
and political, which weakens its hold
on the country, and would faithfully
use all his power and influence for
its complete removal as speedily as
possible.
4. But lastly, I am afraid we have
reached a point of divergence. Hither-
to I hope we may have been able to
agree together ; but now I fear every
step of advance will carry us more
wide of each other. I am unable to
consider the Church of England to be
"in God's hands the great bulwark
against infidelity in this land." And
my reasons are these :
1.) First, I must regard the Anglican
Reformation, and therefore the Anglic-
an Church, as the true and original
source of the present spiritual anarchy
of England. Three centuries ago the
English people were in faith unius
labii : they were in perfect unity. Now
they are divided and subdivided by a
numberless multiplication of errors.
What has generated them? From
what source do they descend ? Is it
not self-evident that the Reformation
is responsible for the production of
every sect and every error which has
sprung up in England in these three
hundred years, and of all which cover
the face of the land at this day ? It is
usual to hear Anglicans lament the
multiplication of religious error. But
what is the productive cause of all ?
Is it not Anglicanism itself which, by
appealing from the voice of the Church
throughout the world, has set the
example to its own people of appealing
from the voice of a local and provincial
authority ?
I am afraid, then, that the Church
of England, so far from, a barrier
against infidelity, must be recognized
as the mother of all the intellectual
and spiritual aberrations which now
cover the face of England.
2.) It is true, indeed, that the Church
of England retains many truths in it.
But it has in two ways weakened the
evidence of these very truths which it
retains. It has detached them from
300
The Workings of the Holy Spirit
other truths which by contact gave
solidity to all by rendering them cohe-
rent and intelligible. It has detached
them from the divine voice of the
.Church, which guarantees to us the
truth incorruptible and changeless.
The Anglican Reformation destroyed
the principle of cohesion, by which all
truths are bound together into one.
The whole idea of theology, as the
science of God and of his revelation,
has been broken up. Thirty-nine
Articles, heterogeneous, disjointed, and
mixed with error, is all that remains
instead of the unity and harmony of
Catholic truth. Surely this has been
among the most prolific causes of error,
doubt, and unbelief. So far from the
bulwark against it, Anglicanism ap-
pears to me to be the cause and spring
of its existence. As I have already
said, the Reformation placed tlfe Eng-
lish people upon an inclined plane, and
they have steadily obeyed the law of
their position, by descending gradually
from age to age, sometimes with a
more rapid, sometimes with a slower
motion, but always tending downward.
Surely it would be unreasonable to say
of a body always descending, that it is
the great barrier against reaching the
bottom.
I do not, indeed, forget that the
Church of England has produced
writers who have vindicated many
Christian truths. I am not unmindful
of the service rendered by Anglican
writers to > Christianity in general, nor,
in particular, of the works of Bull and
Waterland in behalf of the Holy Trin-
ity ; of Hammond and Pearson in
behalf of Episcopacy ; of Butler and
"Warburton in behalf of Revelation,
and the Mke. But whence came the
errors and unbeliefs against which they
wrote ? Were they not generated by
the Reformation abroad and in Eng-
land? This is like the spear which
healed the wounds it had made. But
it is not the divine office of the Church
to make wounds in the faith that it may
use its skill in healing. They were
quelling the mutiny which Protestant-
ism had raised, and arresting the
progress of the Reformation which, like
Saturn, devours its own children.
Moreover, to be just I must say that
if the Church of England be a barrier
against infidelity, the Dissenters must
also be admitted to a share in this office
and commendation. And in truth I
do not know among the Dissenters any
works like the Essays and Reviews, or
any Biblical criticism like that of Dr.
Colenso. They may not be very dog-
matic in their teaching, but they bear
their witness for Christianity as a
divine revelation, for the Scriptures as
an inspired book, and, I must add fur-
ther, for the personal Christianity of
conversion and repentance, with an
explicitness and consistency which is
not less effectual against infidelity than
the testimony of the Church of Eng-
land. I do not think the Wesleyan
Conference or the authorities of the
three denominations would accept
readily this assumed superiority of the
Anglican Church as a witness against
unbelief. They would not unjustly
point to the doctrinal confusions of
the Church of England as causes of
scepticism, from which they are com-
paratively free. And I am bound to
say that I think they would have an
advantage. I well remember that
while I was in the Church of England
I used to regard Dissenters from it
with a certain, I will not say aversion,
but distance and recoil. I never re-
member to have borne animosity against
them, or to have attacked or pursued
them with unkindness. I always be-
lieved many of them to be very earnest
and devoted men. I did not like their
theology, and I believed them to be
in disobedience to the Church of Eng-
land ; but I respected them, and lived
at peace with them. Indeed, I may
say that some of the best people I have
ever known out of the Church were
Dissenters or children of Dissenters.
Nevertheless, I had a dislike of their
system, and of their meeting-houses.
They seemed to me to be rivals of the
Church of England, and my loyalty to
it made me look somewhat impatiently
upon them. But I remember, from
in the Church of England.
301
the hour I submitted to the Catholic
Church, all this underwent a sensible
change. I saw that the whole revela-
tion was perpetuated in the Church
alone, and that all forms of Christian-
ity lying round about it were but frag-
ments more or less mutilated. But
with this a sensible increase of kindly
feeling grew upon me. The Church
of England and the dissenting com-
munions all alike appeared to me to be
upon the same level. I rejoiced in all
the truth that remains in them, in all
the good I could see or hope in them,
and all the workings of the Holy Spirit
in them. I had no temptation to ani-
mosity toward them ; for neither they
nor the Church of England could be
rivals of the imperishable and immuta-
ble Church of God. The only sense,
then, in which I could regard the Church
of England as a barrier against infidel-
ity, I must extend also to the dissenting
bodies ; and I cannot put this high, for
reasons I will give.
3.) If the Church of England be a
barrier to infidelity by the truths which
yet remain in it, I must submit that it
is a source of unbelief by all the de-
nials of other truths which it has re-
t jected. If it sustains a belief in two
N , sacraments, it formally propagates un-
belief in five ; if it recognizes an un-
defined presence of Christ in the sac-
rament, it formally imposes on its peo-
ple a disbelief intransubstantiation and
the sacrifice of the altar ; if it teaches
that there is a church upon earth, it
formally denies its indissoluble unity,
its visible head, and its perpetual
divine voice.^x
It is not easy to see how a system
can be a barrier against unbelief when
by its Thirty -nine Articles it rejects, and
binds its teachers to propagate the re-
jection, of so many revealed truths.
4.) But this is not all. It is not
only by the rejection of particular
doctrines that the Church of England
propagates unbelief. It does so by
principle, and in the essence of its
whole system. What is the ultimate
guarantee of the divine revelation but
the divine authority of the Church?
Deny this, and we descend at once to
human teachers. 'But it is this that
the Church of England formally and
expressly denies. The perpetual and
ever-present assistance of the Holy
Spirit, whereby the Church in every
age is not only preserved from error,
but enabled at all times to declare the
truth, that is the infallibility of the
living Church at this hour this it is that
the Anglican Church in terms denies.
But this is the formal antagonist of
infidelity, because it is the evidence on
which God wills that we should believe
that which his veracity reveals. Do
not be displeased with me. It appears
to me that the Anglican system, by this
one fact alone, perpetually undoes what
it strives to do in behalf of particular
doctrines. What are they, one by one,
when the divine certainty of all is
destroyed ? Now, for three hundred
years the Anglican clergy have been
trained, ordained, and bound by sub-
scriptions to deny not only many
Christian truths, but the divine author-
ity of the r} ud enKfajoia, the living
Church of every age. The barrier
against infidelity is the divine voice
which generates faith. But this the
Anglican clergy are bound to deny.
And this denial opens a flood-gate in
the bulwark, through which the whole
stream of unbelief at once finds way.
Seventeen or eighteen thousand men,
educated with all the advantages of
the English schools and universities,
endowed with large corporate revenues,
and distributed all over England,
maintain a perpetual protest, not only
against the Catholic Church, but
against the belief that th^re is any
divine voice immutably and infallibly
guiding the Church at this hour in its
declaration of the Christian revelation
to mankind. How can this be regarded
as " the great bulwark in God's hand
against infidelity ?"
It seems to me that the Church of
England, so far from being a bulwark
against the flood, has floated before it.
Every age has exhibited an advance
to a more indefinite and heterogeneous
state of religious opinion within its
302
The Workings of the Holy Spirit
pale. I will not go again over ground
I have already traversed. Even in
our memory the onward progress of
the Church of England is manifest.
That I may not seem to draw an un-
favorable picture from my own view,
I will quote a very unsuspected wit-
ness. Dr. Irons, in a recent pamph-
let, says : " The religion of the Church
has sunk far deeper into conscience
now than the surviving men of 1833-
1843 are aware of. And all that
Churchmen want of their separated
brethren is that they accept nothing,
and profess nothing, and submit to
nothing which has 'no root' in their
conscience."* If this means anything,
it means that objective truth has given
place to subjective sincerity as the
Anglican rule of faith. You will
know better than I whether this be
the state of men's minds among you.
To me it is as strange as it is inco-
herent, and a sign how far men have
drifted. This certainly was not the
faith or religion that we held together
in the years when I had the happiness
of being united in friendship with you.
Latitudinarian sincerity was not our
.basis, and if the men of 1833 and 1843
have arrived at this, it is very unlike
the definite, earnest, consistent belief
which animated us at that time. You
say in your note (page 21) kindly, but
a little upbraidingly, that my comment
on your letter to the "Record" was
not like me in those days : forasmuch
as I used then to join with those with
whom even then you could not. It
was this that made me note your
doing so now. It was this which
seemed to me to be a drifting back-
ward from old moorings. For myself,
it is true, indeed, that I have moved
likewise. I have been carried on-
ward to what you then were, and
beyond it. What I might have done
then, I could not do now. What you
do now seems to me what you would
not have done then. I did not note
this unkindly, but with regret, because,
as I rejoice in every truth, and in
* "Apologia pro vita Ecclesias Anglican*, " p. 22.
every true principle retained in the
Church of England, it would have
given me great joy to see you main-
taining with all firmness, not only all
the particular truths you held, but also
the impossibility of uniting with those
who deny both those truths and the
principles on which you have rested
through your laborious life of the last
thirty years.
And now I will add only a few
more words of a personal sort, and
then make an end. It was not my
fate in the Church of England to be
regarded as a contentious or contro-
versial spirit, nor as a man of extreme
opinions, or of a bitter temper. I re-
member indeed that I was regarded,
and even censured, as slow to advance,
somewhat tame, cautious to excess,
morbidly moderate, as some one said.
I remember that the Catholics /car'
efrxyv used to hold me somewhat
cheap, and to think me behindhand,
uncatholic, over-English, and the like.
But now, is there anything in the ex-
treme opposite of all this which I am
not? Ultramontane, violent, unrea-
soning, bitter, rejoicing in the miseries
of my neighbors, destructive, a very
Apollyon, and the like. Some who
so describe me now are the same who
were wont then to describe me as the
reverse of all this. They are yet
catholicizing the Church of England,
without doubt more catholic still than
I am. Well, what shall I say ? If I
should say that I am not conscious of
these changes, you would only think
me self-deceived. I will therefore
only tell you where I believe I am
unchanged, and then where I am con-
scious of a change, which, perhaps,
will account for all you have to say of
me.
I am unconscious, then, of any
change in my love to England in
all that relates to the natural order.
I am no politician, and I do not set up
for a patriot; but -I believe, as St.
Thomas teaches, that love of country
is a part of charity, and assuredly I
have ever loved England with a very
filial love. My love for England be-
in the Church of England.
303
gins with the England of St. Bede.
Saxon England, with all its tumults,
seems to me saintly and beautiful.
Norman England I have always loved
less, because, though more majestic,
it became continually less Catholic,
until the evil spirit of the world broke
off the light yoke of faith at the so-
called Reformation. Still, I loved the
Christian England which survived, and
all the lingering outlines of dioceses
and parishes, cathedrals and churches,
with the names of saints upon them.
It is this vision of the past which still
hovers over England and makes, it
beautiful, and full of memories of the
kingdom of God. Nay, I loved the
parish church of my childhood, and
the college chapel of my youth, and
the little church under a green hill-
side, where the morning and evening
prayers, and the music of the English
Bible, for seventeen years, became a
part of my soul. Nothing is more
beautiful in the natural order, and if
there were no eternal world I could
have made it my home. But these
things are not England, they are only
its features, and I may say that my
love was and is to the England which
lives and breathes about me, to my
countrymen whether in or out of the
Church of England. With all our
faults as a race, I recognize in them
noble Christian virtues, exalted char-
acters, beautiful examples of domestic
life, and of every personal excellence
which can be found, where the fulness
of grace and truth is not, and much,
too, which puts to shame those who
are where the fulness of grace and
truth abounds. So long as I believed
the Church of England to be a part of
the Church of God I loved it, how well
you know, and honored it with a filial
reverence, and labored to serve it, with
what fidelity I can affirm, with what,
or if with any utility, it is not for me
to say. And I love still those who are
in it, and I would rather suffer any-
thing than wrong them in word or
deed, or pain them without a cause.
To all this I must add, lastly, and in a
way above all, the love I bear to many
personal friends, so dear to me, whose
letters I kept by me till two years ago,
though more than fifty of them are
gone into the world unseen, all these
things are sweet to me still beyond all
words that I can find to express it.
You will ask me then, perhaps, why
I have never manifested this before ?
It is because when I left you, in the
full, calm, deliberate, and undoubting
belief that the light of the only truth
led me from a fragmentary Christian-
ity into the perfect revelation of the
day of Pentecost, I believed it to be
my duty to walk alone in the path in
which it led me, leaving you all un-
molested by any advance on my part.
If any old friend has ever written to
me, or signified to me his wish to re-
new our friendship, I believe he will
bear witness to the happiness with
which I have accepted the kindness
offered" to me. But I felt that it was
my act which had changed our rela-
tions, and that I had no warrant to
assume that a friendship, founded
upon agreement in our old convic-
tions, would be continued when that
foundation had been destroyed by
myself, or restored upon a foundation
altogether new. And I felt, too, a
jealousy for truth. It was no human
pride which made me feel that I ought
not to expose the Catholic Church to
be rejected in my person. Therefore
I held on my own course, seeking no
one, but welcoming every old friend
and they have been many who came
to me. This has caused a suspension
of nearly fourteen years in which I
have never so much as met or ex-
changed a line with many who till
then were among my nearest friends.
This, too, has given room for many
misapprehensions. It would hardly sur-
prise me if I heard that my old friends
believed me to have become a cannibal.
But perhaps you will say, This
does not account for your hard words
against us and the Church of England.
When I read your late pamphlet I
said to myself, Have I ever tvritten
such hard words as these ? I will not
quote them, but truly I do not think
304
The Workings of the Holy Spirit
that, in anything I have ever written,
I have handled at least any person as
you, my dear friend, in your zeal,
which I respect and honor, have treat-
ed certain very exalted personages who
are opposed to you. But let this pass.
It would not excuse me even if I were
to find you in the same condemnation.
One of my anonymous censors writes
that " as in times past I had written
violently against the Church of Rome,
so now I must do the same against the
Church of England." Now I wish he
would find, in the books I published
when out of the Church, the hard say-
ings he speaks of. It has been my
happiness to know that such do not
exist. I feel sure that my accuser
had nothing before his mind when he
risked this controversial trick. I ar-
gued, indeed, against the Catholic and
Roman Church, but I do not know of
any railing accusations. How I was
preserved from it I cannot tell, except
by the same divine goodness which
afterward led me into the perfect light
of faith.
But I have written, some say, hard
things of the Church of England. Are
they hard truths or hard epithets ? If
they are hard epithets, show them to
me, aad I will erase them with a prompt
and public expression of regret ; but if
they be hard facts, I cannot change
them. It is true, indeed, that I have
for the last fourteen years incessantly
and unchangingly, by word and by
writing, borne my witness to the truths
by which God has delivered me from
the bondage of a human authority in
matters of faith. I have borne my
witness to the presence and voice of a
divine, and therefore infallible, teacher,
guiding the Church with his perpetual
assistance, and speaking through it as
his organ. I have also borne witness
that the Church through which he
teaches is that which St. Augustine
describes by the two incommunicable
notes that it is "spread throughout
thej^jjl&ind "united to the Chair
of PS^pF I know that the corol-
* S. Aug. Op., torn, ii., pp. 119, 120 ; torn, x.,
laries of these truths are severe, per-
emptory, and inevitable. If the Catho-
lic faith be the perfect revelation of
Christianity, the Anglican Reformation
is a cloud of heresies ; if the Catholic
Church be the organ of the Holy
Ghost, the Anglican Church is not
only no part of the Church, but no
church of divine foundation. It is a
human institution, sustained as it was
founded by a human authority, with-
out priesthood, without sacraments,
without absolution, without the real
presence of Jesus upon its altars. I
know these truths are hard. It seems
heartless, cruel, unfilial, unbrotherly,
ungrateful so to speak of all the beau-
tiful fragments of Christianity which
mark the face of England, from its
thousand towns to its green villages,
so dear even to us who believe it to
be both in heresy and in schism. You
must feel it so. You must turn from
me and turn against me for saying it ;
but if I believe it, must I not say it ?
And if I say it, can I find words more
weighed, measured, and deliberate
than those I have used ? If you can,
show them to me, and so that they are
adequate, I will use them always here-
after. God knows I have never writ-
ten a syllable with the intent to leave
a wound. I have erased, I have re-
frained from writing and speaking,
many, lest I should give more pain
than duty commanded me to give. I
cannot hope that you will allow of all
I say. But it is the truth. I have
refrained from it, not only because it
is a duty, but because I wish to disarm
those who divert men from the real
point at issue by accusations of bitter-
ness and the like. It has been my
lot, more than of most, to be in these
late years on the frontier which divides
us. And why I know not people
have come to me with their anxieties
and their doubts. What would you
have done in my place ? That which
you have done in your own ; which,
mutato nomine, has been my duty and
my burden.
And now I have done. I have a
hope that the day is coming when all
in the Church of England,
305
in England who believe in the super-
natural order, in the revelation of
Christianity, in the inspiration of Holy
Scripture, in the divine certainty of
dogmatic tradition, in the divine ob-
ligation of holding no communion
with heresy and with schism, will be
driven in upon the lines of the only
stronghold which God has constituted
as "the pillar and ground of the truth."
This may not be, perhaps, as yet ; but
already it is time for those who love
the faith of Christianity, and look with
sorrow and fear on the havoc which is
laying it waste among us, to draw
together in mutual kindness and mu-
tual equity of judgment. That I have
so ever treated you I can truly say ;
that I may claim it at your hands I
am calmly conscious ; but whether you
and others accord it to me or not, I
must leave it to the Disposer of hearts
alone to determine. Though we are
parted now, it may not be for ever ;
and morning by morning, in the holy
Sacrifice, I pray that the same light of
faith which so profusely fell upon my-
self, notwithstanding all I am, may in
like manner abundantly descend upon
you who are in all things so rar above
me, save only in that one gift which is
not mine, but his alone who is the
Sovereign Giver of all grace.
Believe me, my dear friend,
Always affectionately yours,
HENRY EDWARD MANNING.
ST. MARY'S, BAYSWATEE,
Sept. 27, 1864.
P. S. My attention has just been
called to the concluding pages of the
last number of the Quarterly Review,
in which I am again described by a
writer who evidently has abilities to
know better, to be in " ecstasies." The
writer represents, as the sum or chief
argument of my " Second Letter to an
Anglican Friend," the passing refer-
ence I there made to the Lord Chan-
cellor's speech. I quoted this to prove
that the late judgment is a part of the
law, both of the land and of the Church
of England. But the whole of the
letter, excepting this single point, is an
argument to show that the vote of the
Convocation carries with it no divine
certainty, and resolves itself into the
private judgment of the majority who
passed it. For all this argument the
writer has not a word. I cannot be
surprised that he fills out his periods
with my " ecstasies," " shouts of joy,"
" wild pasans," a quotation from " Shy-
lock," and other things less fitting.
This is not to reason, but to rail. Is
it worthy ? Is it love of truth ? Is
it good faith? Is it not simply the
fallacy of evasion ? I can assure him
that this kind of controversy is work
that will not stand. We are in days
when personalities and flimsy rhetoric
will not last long. Neither will it
bear to be tried by " the fire," nor will
it satisfy, I was about to say, nor will
it mislead, men who are in earnest for
truth or for salvation. I had hoped
that this style of controversy had been
cured or suppressed by a greater sin-
cerity and reality of religious thought
in these days of anxiety*and unbelief.
There either is, or is not, a divine Per-
son teaching perpetually through the
Church in every age, and therefore
now as always, generating faith with
divine certainty in the minds of men.
This question must be answered ; and,
as men answer it, we know where to
class them, and how to deal with them.
All the evasions and half-arguments
of such writers are becoming daily
more and more intolerable to those of
the English people and they are a
multitude who would give all that
they count dear, and life itself, to
know and to die in the full and cer-
tain light of the revelation of God in.
Jesus Christ.
H. E. M.
306
A Russian Religious.
Translated from Le Correspondant.
A RUSSIAN RELIGIOUS.
BY PRINCE AUGUSTIN GALITZIN.
ON the 6th of May, 1840, in a little
hut upon the slope of that chain of
mountains which separates the north-
ern from the southern states of the
American Union, died an old man
who had spent his life in spreading
the faitn through those distant regions.
A crowd of persons surrounded his
bed in tears ; for during half a century
he had been the depositary of public
misfortunes, domestic troubles, and
spiritual distress. Though known by
the humble name of Father Smith,
this priest was not a native of the land
which received his last breath : he was
a Russian by birth, and his name was
Galitzin.
On the 1st of September in the
same year eight women landed at
New York, clad all in black, and
wearing no ornament but a cross on
the breast. They came to educate
new generations in the New World.
The eldest of them was not, like her
sisters, a Frenchwoman ; the same
blood ran in her veins as in those of
the missionary just dead, and her
heart beat with the same love. She
too was a Russian, and her name was
Madame Elizabeth Galitzin.
Born at St. Petersburg in 1795, the
Princess Elizabeth was the daughter
of a woman of whom it is praise
enough to say that she was the wor-
thiest and most intimate friend of
Madame Swetchine, who called her
" her second conscience." * On the
day when Elizabeth reached her fif-
teenth year, her mother confided to
her the secret that she had become a
Catholic, and told the reasons which
had induced her not, as is still sup-
posed in Russia, to* abandon the faith
* Lettres de Mme. Swetchine, I. 321.
of her fathers, but to return to it in all
its integrity. Elizabeth thus describes
the emotion which she felt in listening
to this disclosure, and the influence
which it had upon her own future.*
" The secret which my mother con-
fided to me filled me with despair ; I
burst into tears, without uttering a
word. For several days I wept bit-
terly whenever I was alone, and dur-
ing the night. I believed that my
mother had committed a great sin, be-
cause the government punished so
severely those who forsook the religion
of the country. The reasons which
she gave made no impression on me ;
I did not even understand them : the
moment of the fiat lux was not yet
come. From that day I felt an im-
placable hatred of the Catholic religion
and its 'ministers, especially of the
Jesuits, who, as I supposed, had ef-
fected my mother's conversion. One
night, as I was lamenting my isolated
condition, separated from my mother
by this division of sentiments, I was
struck by the sudden thought, * If the
Jesuits have gained over so excellent
a woman as mamma, a woman so
reasonable, so well-informed, and of
so much experience, what will they
not do with an ignorant, unsophisticat-
ed girl like me ? I must protect my-
self against their persecutions. I
firmly believe that the Greek Church
is the true church ; I am resolved to
be faithful to it unto death. To with-
draw myself effectually from the se-
ductions of the Jesuits, I will write
down a vow that I will never change
my religion.' No sooner said than
* This extract and the details that follow are
taken from or confirmed by the Rev. A. Guidee's
Vie du P. Rozaven and the Rev. J. Gagarin's
notice of Madame Galitzin in his Etudes de t/ieO-
logie, de philosophie et cThistoire, vol. ii.
A Russian Religious.
307
done. I rose at once, and despite the
darkness wrote out my vow in due
form, invoking the wrath of God if I
ever broke it. Then I went back to
bed, feeling much more composed, and
believing that I had gained a great
victory over the devil. Alas ! it was
he that guided my pen. For four
years I repeated that vow every day
when I said my prayers ; I never
omitted it. I gloried in my obstinacy,
and took every opportunity to show
my aversion to the Catholic reli-
gion, and above all to the Jesuits.
In this I was encouraged by my
confessor. He asked me one day
if I had any leaning toward Catho-
licism.
" ' I, father ! I detest the Catholic
religion and the Jesuits !'
"'Good, good!' said he; 'that is
as it should be/
" I let slip no occasion of defaming
these holy men. I delighted in repeat-
ing all the absurd stories that I heard
against them, and believed them as
much as if they were articles of faith.
But about the middle of the fourth
year an excellent Italian priest, who
had given me lessons, died. My
mother sometimes requested me to go
to the Catholic church on days of great
ceremony, and I durst not refuse,
though I used to go with rage in my
heart. When she invited me, how-
ever, to go with her to the funeral of
the poor priest, I consented willingly,
out of gratitude, and respect for the
memory of the deceased. As soon as
I entered the church a voice within me
seemed to say, ' You hate this church,
but you will one day belong to it your-
self.' The words sank into my heart.
I was deeply moved, and shed abund-
ance of tears all the while I remained
in the church I could not tell why.
A thought all at once occurred to me :
* You hate the Jesuits,' said I to my-
self ; ' is not hatred a sin ? When did
you learn to consider this feeling a
virtue ? If it is a sin, I must not com-
mit it again : I will not hate the Jesu-
its then ; I will pray for them.' And
so, in fact, I did, every day from that
moment. I struggled against my dis-
like for them.
" In the meanwhile we went to pass
the summer away from home. In this
retirement our good Lord vouchsafed
to speak to my heart and inspire me
with such a lively sorrow for my sins
that I often passed part of the night in
weeping. I watered my couch with
tears, and judging myself unworthy to
sleep on a bed, I cast myself on the
ground, and used to lie there until
fatigue obliged me to return to my
pillow. At the end of three months
we went back to St. Petersburg, and I
there learned that a cousin of mine*
had become a convert. I was deeply
pained. I accused the Jesuits of being
the cause of the step, and had hard
work not to yield to my old hatred of
them. I avoided speaking with my
cousin alone, because I did not want
to receive the confidence which I knew
she was anxious to give me. But at
last, to my great regret, I had to listen
to her. When she had told me what
I was so unwilling to know, I burst
into tears, and replied :
" ' If you believe that the Catholic
religion is the true one, you were right
to embrace it ; but I do not understand
how you could believe it/
" ' Oh,' said she, ' if you would only
read something that my motherf has
written on the Greek schism and the
truth of the Catholic Church, you
would be persuaded as I was/
" 'You may send me whatever you
wish,' I answered, 'but you may be
certain that it will not affect me. I
am too firmly convinced that truth
lives in the Greek Church/
" I went home in great distress of
mind. For the first time in four years
I omitted to repeat my vow before
going to bed ; it seemed to me rash.
I retired, but God would not let me
sleep ; he filled my mind with salutary
thoughts. ' I must examine this mat-
ter,' said I, ' it is certainly worth the
* The lady here mentioned was the mother of
Monseigneur de Sesur.
t The Countess Rostopchine, whom Madame
de Stael mentions with BO much praise hi her
Dix annees d'exil.
308
A Russian Religious.
trouble ; it is something of too much
consequence to be deceived about.' I
thought over all that I knew about the
Catholic faith, and at that moment
God opened my eyes. I saw as clear
as day that hitherto I had been in the
wrong, and the truth was to be found
only in the Catholic Church. ' It is
our pride,' I exclaimed, ' which pre-
vents our acknowledging the suprem-
acy of the Pope : to-morrow I will
embrace the truth. Yet how can I?
And my vow ? Ah, but the vow is
null ; it can be no obstacle to the fulfil-
ment of my resolution. If I had taken
an oath to commit a murder, the oath
would have been a sin, and to fulfil it
would be another. I will not commit
the second sin. I will not put off being
a Catholic beyond to-morrow.'
" I waited impatiently for day that
I might read my aunt's little treatise,
not because I needed arguments to
convince me, but I wanted to have it
to say that I had read something. At
day-break I wrote to my cousin these
words : ' Send me the manuscript,
pray for me, and hope.' I read it
quickly ; it consisted of not more than
thirty pages. I found in it all that I
had said to myself during the night.
I hesitated no longer, but hastened to
my mother, declared myself a Catho-
lic, and begged her to send for Father
Rozaven. He came the same morn-
ing. He was not a little surprised at
the unexpected intelligence, and asked
me if I was ready to suffer persecution,
even death itself, if need were, for the
love of the religion which I was going
to embrace. My blood froze in my
veins, but I answered : ' I hope every-
thing from the grace of God.' The
good father doubted no longer the sin-
cerity of my conversion, and promised
to hear my confession the next day but
one, that is, the 18th of October. It
was during the night of the loth and
16th of October, 1815, that God spoke
for me the words fiat lux"
After she had been received into the
Church, Father Ro.zaven said to her :
" I wish to establish in your heart a
great love of God which shall mani-
fest itself not by fine sentiments but
by practical results, and shall lead you
to fulfil with zeal and courage all your
duties without exception. I want you
to strive ardently to acquire the solid
virtues of humility, love of your neigh-
bor, patience and conformity to the
will of God. I want to see in you a
grandeur, an elevation, and a firmness
of soul, and to teach you to seek and
find your consolation in God."
The princess became all that her
wise director wished her to be ; and
the constant practice of the funda-
mental Christian virtues soon led her
to aim at a still more perfect life.
Even her mother for a long time op-
posed her design. Her friends ridi-
culed her for wanting to lead what
they called a "useless" life. Sensitive
to this reproach, so constantly made by
people who themselves do nothing at
all, she begged the learned Jesuit to
furnish her with weapons to repel it.
Her request called forth the following
excellent reply, which may be read
with especial profit just now, when so
much is said about the uselessness of
nuns :
" Tell me, my child, have you read
the catechism? One of the first ques-
tions is, Why has God created us and
placed us in this world ? To know
him, love him, and serve him, and by
this means to obtain everlasting life.
It does not say, to be * useful.' Even
when a nun is of no use to others, she
is useful to herself, and to be so is her
first duty ; she labors to sanctify her-
self and to save her soul. Is not this
the motive which led St. Paul, St. An-
thony, and so many thousands of an-
chorets into the desert ? These saints
were certainly not fools. Beside, is it
true that nuns are useless ? Was it
not the story of the virtues of St. An-
thony which determined the conversion
of St. Augustine? and certainly this
conversion was something far greater
than all that St. Anthony could have
done by remaining in the world. But
to say nothing of the example of the
saints, are not nuns useful to each
A Russian Religious.
309
other ? Do you see no advantage in
the union of twenty or thirty persons,
more or less, who incite each other to
the acquisition of virtue, and take each
other by the hand in their journey to
the same goal, the salvation of their
souls ? And then again, many religi-
ous communities devote themselves to
the education of youth; and surely
there are few occupations more useful
than bringing up in the knowledge and
practice of religion young girls who
are destined to become mothers of
families, and to fulfil all the duties of
society that belong to their sex."
A devotion of this sort commended
itself especially to our young convert.
She made choice of the new order of
the Sacred Heart, and after eleven
years' delay finally entered it at Metz
in 1826. She made her vows in 1828
at Rome, and remained there until
she was ordered to France in 1834
and made . general secretary of the
congregation. In 1839 she was chos-
en assistant mother, and appointed to
visit the houses of the Sacred Heart in
America, and to found some new ones.
Her correspondence during this period
with her mother is now before me, and
will show, far better than any worYls of
mine, not only her piety, but the seren-
ity of her soul and that love of country
and kindred, which religion, far from
extinguishing, can alone purify by car-
rying it beyond the narrow boundaries
of this life. Like those austere Chris-
tians whose lives Count de Montalem-
bert has written, she kept a large
place in her heart for love and friend-
ship, and clung ardently to those
natural ties which she did not feel
called upon to break when she gave
herself to God.
I shall then leave Madame Eliza-
beth to speak in her own words ; and
in so doing, it seems to me that I am
fulfilling the wish of Madame Swetch-
ine, who wrote thus to Father Ga-
garin (ii. 360): "There are many
details respecting her life which might
be found and authenticated, and I am
convinced that many interesting par-
ticulars might be obtained from
her correspondence during her two
journeys in America."
NEW YORK, Sept. 1, 1840.
MY DEAREST MAMMA, I arrived
at New York a few hours ago, after a
voyage of forty-five days. Our voy-
age, thank God, was a good one,
despite thirty-two days of contrary
winds. We had neither storms nor
rough weather; the trip was a long
one, that is all. Having two priests
with us, we had mass often ; you may
imagine what a consolation it was to
us. I was sea-sick only one week ;
after that, so well that I passed a great
part of my time in drawing.
" I am here for only four days ; at
least I trust that the business which I
have to transact with the bishop will
not keep me longer. Then I shall go
with my seven companions and a
worthy priest who has us in charge,
to St. Louis in the state of Missouri,
2,000 versts from New York. They
say that we shall reach there in twelve
days ; by this reckoning we shall ar-
rive at our first house about the 20th of
September. I believe that I shall die
of joy when I get there ; for here in the
midst of the world, though surrounded
by excellent people, who show us a
thousand attentions, I am like a fish out
of water. I will write to you as soon
as I reach St. Louis. I cannot re-
main with our family of the Sacred
Heart there more than a fortnight, for
I must then visit two other establish-
ments not far distant. I shall return
to St. Louis, and leave there about
the middle of November for our house
at St. Michael, near New Orleans,
which is 1,500 versts from St. Louis.
After a few days' rest I shall then go
to our house at Grand Coteau, also in
Louisiana ; and after staying there
three weeks I shall return to pass the
winter at St. Michael. I hope to do
well there, for the climate is warmer
than that of Rome. In the spring I
shall make another visitation of the
houses in Missouri, and then go back
to New York to begin the foundation
310
A Russian Religious.
of a new establishment there. So you
see I shall not be very long in any one
place.
" What a consolation it will be for
me if I find a letter from you at St.
Louis! I am impatient for news of
you and my brothers. How did they
take the news of my departure for
America ? With indifference perhaps ;
but they are far from being indifferent
to me. God knows what wishes I
form for them, and how sweet it is to
me to be able to offer up for them the
fatigues and petty sufferings which
divine Providence sends us. When
you write to my brothers do not fail to
remember me to them, for, they are
dearer to me than ever in our Lord.
" I was in hopes of finding our rela-
tive in America ; but he is dead. He
died universally regretted. Every-
body looked upon him as a saint. I
will make it a point to obtain his
works and send them to you."
" ST. Louis, Nov. 9, 1840.
" I have had the consolation of re-
ceiving your letter dated the loth of
July. Write to me now at St. Louis, at
the Academy of the Ladies of the Sacred
Heart, for so they call here those re-
ligious houses which receive pupils as
boarders. For my part, I am de-
termined to send you this letter at once,
because I am afraid that Paris will be
turned topsy-turvy by the remains of
Bonaparte, which are to be removed
thither in the month of November.
" It is too true that our ; American
uncle' is dead. You may suppose
how deeply I regret it. He was not
a bishop ; only a simple missionary.
He invariably refused all dignities,
and devoted himself for more than
forty years to the missions, in which
he displayed a zeal worthy of an
apostle. He died at the age of seventy-
two, like a saint as he had lived, hav-
ing given himself to God since his
seventeenth year. The whole country
in which he preached the gospel weeps
for him as for a father. His memory
is revered in America among Prot-
estants as well as Catholics. I have
been shown an article about him in
the Gazette: it gives his whole his-
tory, and it would be impossible to
write a more touching eulogy of him.
I have some of his works ; they are
excellent.
" I expected that my departure for
America would have but little effect
upon my brothers. Our good Lord
permits it to be so, and we must wish
whatever he wishes. A day will
come, I trust, when their hearts will
be touched. Let us wait and pray,
and suffer with more fervor than ever.
Remember me to them and to my
aunts. Beg for me the light of the
Holy Ghost : I need it sorely, for my
post is a very difficult one."
"ST. MICHAEL, Dec. 6, 1840.,
" Here I am, near New Orleans ;
but I shall soon start on another jour-
ney, and not be at rest again before the
month of June. I am now in the land
of the sugar-cane ; it is very nice to
eat, or rather to suck. As if I brought
the cold with me in all my travels,
I had scarcely arrived here when bit-
ter cold weather set in, and the ice
was as thick as a good fat finger. The
weather has moderated since then-
to my great satisfaction, for I have
not enough of the spirit of mortifi-
cation to bear cold very well. I begin
to believe that there is not a single
warm country under the sun, and that
the reputation of those lands that are
called so is not well-founded.
" I send you only these few words,
that you may not be uneaasy about me ;
for I have no leisure. Remember me
to my brothers. Bless me, and believe,
dear mamma, in my tender and re-
spectful attachment."
" ST. MICHAEL, Feb. 28, 1841.
" I leave this place on the loth of
March, and shall be in St. Louis for
the feast of the Annunciation. I shall
remain three weeks at three of our
houses in Missouri, and then go to
Cincinnati and Philadelphia ; so I
hope to be in New York by the begin-
ning of May. Do not fear on my
A Russian Religious.
311
account the dangers of railroads and
steamboat^. Those who are sent on a
mission are under the special protec-
tion of divine Providence. I have
never met with the slightest accident ;
and this constant journeying about
has moreover rid me of my fever. I
am perfectly well. I rise every morn-
ing at twenty minutes after four; I
fast and abstain; and nothing hurts
me. So don't be uneasy about me. I
think I shall stay in New York until
November, if God opposes no obstacle
to my doing so; I shall then make
a last visit to our houses in Louisiana
and Missouri, and sail for Europe
probably during the summer of 1842.
In fifteen months I shall be afloat
again on the great ocean. I hope
Alexander will not be off again before
that, so that I may have the consola-
tion of seeing him once more. He is
the only one of my brothers whom
I may never see again, and he was my
Benjamin. Tell them I do not forget
them in my prayers, and I wish they
would also remember me before God :
that will come some day, I hope.
Pray have some masses said for me ;
I have great need of them. If you
only knew what it was to hold such an
office as mine! The responsibility is
enough to make one tremble."
" LOUISIANA, March 29, 1841.
" Before starting on my journey I
must send you a few lines. It is a
little before my accustomed time for
writing ; but I shall be nearly two
months on the route before reaching
New York, and I am afraid I shall
have no opportunity of writing except
on my arrival in that city, and after
my return here. So do not be anx-
ious on account of my future silence :
it will not be a sign of anything bad.
I am better than ever. Make your
mind at rest about my health. Our
Lord gives me astonishing strength.
Fatigue has no effect upon me."
"NEW YORK, May 15, 1841.
" I arrived here without accident,
and take comfort in thinking that I
shall be stationary now until October.
Since I left Rome I have not been six
weeks at a tikie in any one place. I
am about founding an establishment
here, and the task is no easy one, in
any point of view. The expenses to
be incurred are enormous, and our re-
sources, to say the best of them, are
very moderate. So I have begged
our mother-general to allow the 200
francs which you were so good as to
send us for postage, to be devoted
to the first expenses of the chapel.
"You have no idea how deeply
our * relative' is regretted here. He
was universally loved and respected.
People look upon me with favor,
because I bear the same name."
" NEW YORK, June 20, 1841.
" The climate of New York is very
disagreeable. It was so cold yesterday
that even with a woollen coverlid I had
hard work to keep warm through the
night. It is not cold two days in suc-
cession. The temperature varies even
between morning and evening that is,
when it is not continually raining. I
believe after all that the climate of St.
Petersburg is the best. Oar sum-
mers at least are superb, and we have
long days ; but here it is hardly light,
this time of year, at half after four
in the morning, and by half after
seven in the evening we need lamps.
In fact, you must go to a cold climate
if you want to keep warm and to see
well!
" I have had an agreeable surprise
here, and you would never guess what
it is. It is to have klioukva* to eat
nearly every day ; it is .the first time I
have seen them since I left Russia.
This is absurd, I know, but I cannot
tell you what pleasure it gave me.
" New York is an immense city ; it
has nearly 400,000 inhabitants, and is
as noisy as Paris. There are some
80,000 Catholics and only eight
churches, but religion is making pro-
gress. The next time I write to you,
it will be from our house of the Sacred
* Cranberries.
312
A Russian Religious.
Heart. I am burning with impatience
to be in it ; for though we are extremely
comfortable with the good Sisters of
Charity, who are truly sisters to us,
we nevertheless long to be at home,
where we can live in conformity to our
rule and customs.
" What news of my brothers ? How
happy I shall be when you can tell me
that all is well with them ! I would
give a thousand lives for that. The
day and hour of God will come ; let us
be patient and pray. Say a thousand
affectionate things to them for me."
" NEW YORK, Aug. 2, 1841.
" I dare say you will be pleased to
learn, dear mamma, that I have just
opened a little mission among the In-
dian savages in Missouri, 300 miles
beyond St. Louis. Four of our com-
munity have been established there.
The population consists of 900 Indians,
all converted by the Jesuits. Thanks
be to God, his kingdom is extending
itself, and what it loses on one side
through the wiles of the enemy, it
gains on another.
" I never let a month pass without
writing to you, despite my many occu-
pations, because I know your anxiety ;
but do not distress yourself. I am, if
possible, but too well, in every respect.
Our houses here are like those in Eu-
rope ; while within doors we never
could suspect that we had been trans-
planted into the new world (that used
to be). Don't be afraid about croco-
diles. The country abounds in them,
as it does in snakes ; but nobody thinks
of them, and I have never even seen
one. Several, however, have been
pointed out to me ; but as my eyes
were cast down, I saw nothing."
"NEW YORK. Sept. 13, 1841.
" Oar establishment is well under
way; the house is finished, and we
have already twelve pupils. I have
no doubt their number will increase
next month to twenty, and perhaps
more, for there have been already at
least forty applications. Beside this,
I have just established a mission among
the Potawatamie Indians in the Indian
Territory. There is a population of
3,000 Indians in the place where our
ladies arc, 1,000 of whom are fervent
Catholics ; the others are pagans, but
to some extent civilized. We have
there already a school of fifty little
girls, and a great many women come
to learn from us how to work.
" I shall leave New York and pass
the winter in Louisiana. I am quite
well better than in Europe ; but I am
over-burdened with work. You may
readily believe it when I tell you that
beside governing this house, and my
province, which comprises seven houses,
I have had to paint three large pic-
tures for the chapel, and to finish them
in six weeks. At last, thank God,
they are done, and our chapel is really
charming. What a pity that you can-
not come and hear mass in it !"
"En route, between St. Michael and
Grand Coteau, Dec. 4, 1841.
" From a tavern on the banks of the
Mississippi I write to wish you and all
the family a happy New Year ! I
pray devoutly that it may be fertile in
graces and divine blessings ; every-
thing else is superfluous and valueless,
and therefore unnecessary. I have
travelled a good deal since I wrote you
from Harrisburg, Penn. I am now
going to our house at Grand Coteau,
where I shall stay about five weeks ;
then I shall spend an equal time at St.
Michael. This will bring me to the
end of February ; after which I shall
start for St. Louis, and visit our other
establishments in Missouri, including
our new mission among the Potawata-
mie savages. Don't let the word
1 savages ' frighten you. They won't
eat me ; for they are more than civil-
ized. One thousand of them are Cath-
olics, in the place to which I have sent
our sisters, who are only four in number,
and have a school which succeeds ad-
mirably. Our good savages are so
fervent that they come every day to
church at half-past five in the morning.
They say their prayers, meditate for
half an hour, and then hear mass,
A Russian Religious.
313
during which they sing canticles in
their savage fashion. After mass one
of the Indians teaches the catechism to
about thirty little boys and a like num-
ber of girls ; that over, they go off to
their respective employments, and
about six in the evening they come
back to the church to say their prayers
together. It was the Jesuits who con-
verted this tribe, and they are still
doing a vast amount of good out there.
I shall probably go there in April ; it
will be a three-weeks' journey. After
that I mean to return to New York,
and probably about the 1st of June I
shall sail for Havre. So there you
have my route ; you see that I lead the
life of a regular courier more than
ever. But fortunately, to one who has
the happiness of being a religious, all
things are indifferent, provided they
are in accordance with holy obedience.
I am very much afraid I shall miss
some of your letters, for they must
follow me at a gallopping pace or they
will not overtake me.
" Assure yourself, my dear mamma,
that Russia is not the coldest country
in the world. The so-called burning
Louisiana is colder. From the 25th
to the 30th of November we had hard
frosts which chilled us through and
through. Perhaps I am mistaken, but
I have a pleasant recollection that in
November at St. Petersburg we have
more rain than frost. In a word, now
that I have tried, so to speak, all cli-
mates, I am firmly persuaded that
there is not a warm country on the
face of the earth, and I have resigned
myself to look for pleasant and eternal
rarmth only in the next world.
" What news of my brothers and my
sters-in-law ? Are they as great
vagabonds as I ? Ah, if their hearts
and minds could only be composed and
settled in God alone! It will come,
some day or other; we must hope,
even against all hope. Our Lord is
the master of hearts, and he wills from
all eternity that these hearts shall be
wholly his. A touch of his grace will
soften those of my brothers ; the day
of illusions will pass away, and we
shall sing eternally with them that
God is good and his mercies are un-
speakable. A thousand kisses, dear
mamma ; bless your dutiful and grate-
ELIZABETH."
ful daughter
In 1842 Madame Elizabeth went to
Rome to give an account of her fruit-
ful mission to her superiors. I have
before me a last letter of hers, written
to her mother, whom she had just lost
at St. Petersburg almost at the same
hour in which her eldest brother died
in Paris in the bosom of the Catholic
Church.
" I confess to you," she says, " that
for several months past, I have con-
tinually felt impelled to make a sacri-
fice of my life for my brothers. Per-
haps you will think this presumptuous
on my part, so I will explain myself.
When I am making my preparation
for death, according to custom, the
thought often comes into my mind to
offer the sacrifice of my life in advance,
and to beseech our Lord to accept it,
as well as all the sufferings I may have
to undergo, especially at that terrible
moment when the soul is separated
from the body, in order that I may ob-
tain the conversion of my brothers. I
have asked permission to transfer to
them all the merit which, by God's
grace, I may acquire through resigna-
tion or suffering not only in my last
sickness, but even during the period of
life which yet remains to me so that,
accumulating no more merits by way
of satisfaction for my own sins, I may
have, for my part, purgatory without
any alleviation ; for in that place of
propitiation and peace I can no longer
be of any use to them. I hope our
Lord will grant my request: all I
know is that since that time my habit-
ual gladness of heart is increased a
hundred-fold, and that I think of death
with unspeakable consolation."
This sacrifice, which reminds one of
a similar incident in the life of St. Vin-
cent de Paul,* seems to have been ac-
* One day, moved with compassion at the state
of aii unfortunate priest, a doctor of theology,
314
The Stolen Sketch.
cepted by God. Returning to Ameri-
ca in 1843, Madame Elizabeth had not
time to enjoy the fruits of her labors.
She was attacked at St. Michael by
the yellow fever, and there fell asleep
in the Lord on the feast of the Immac-
ulate Conception, saying : "I do not
fear death ; I long for it, if it is God's
will." *
" What more glorious title of no-
bility," says Monseigneur the Duke
d'Aumale, "than to count saints and
martyrs among one's ancestors ?" My
object is not so much to lay claim to
this distinction, as to show, for the
honor of my country, the part which
some of her children have taken in the
genesis of civilization and Catholicism
in America. And this ambition will
perhaps seem excusable to those who
admit that every gift of God ought to
be an object of our most religious
care.
From The Month.
THE STOLEN SKETCH.
I WAS sitting in the National Gal-
lery, copying one of Murillo's glorious
little beggar-boys. A tube of color fell
from my box ajnd rolled out upon the
floor. A gentleman passing picked it
up, and restored it to me. I thanked
him ; and then he lingered some minutes
by my chair, watching my work and
giving me some useful hints with the
air of a person who thoroughly under-
stands the art. I was striving to be
an artist, struggling through difficult
uphill labor. I was not acquainted
who had lost his faith, "because he had ceased to
study the science of divinity, St. Vincent de
Paul besought God to restore to this man the
liveliness of his faith, offering to take up him-
self, if necessary, the burden which this poor
brother was unable to bear. His prayer was
heard at once, and for four years this great saint
remained as it were deprived of that faith which
was nevertheless his life. " Do you know how
he passed through this trial ?" says an admirable
master of the spiritual life. " He passed through
it by becoming St. Vincent de Paul ; that is to
say, all that this name signifies. 1 ' GRATRY, Les
Sources, p. 82.
* Writing from Lyons to Bishop Hughes in
September, 1842, Madame Galitzm said: "I
avail myself of this opportunity to write a few
lines, although detained in my bed with the
fever for upward of three weeks. My health is
in a poor state, and if I go on as I did these two
months, there is more prospect for me to go to
heaven next year than to return to America."
The letter is in English, which she wrote with
apparent ease and considerable approach to
purity. ED. OATH. WORLD.
with any one of the profession. I had
no one to give me counsel. Those few-
friendly words of advice from a stran-
ger fell on my ear like so many pearls,
and I gathered them gratefully and
stored them fast in memory's richest
jewel-casket.
After that he seemed to take an in-
terest in my progress, gave me valu-
able lessons, and occasionally lent me
colors or brushes. I wondered at my-
self for conversing with him fearlessly,
for I was usually shy of strangers ;
but his manner was so quiet and easy,
his tone so deferential, and he spoke
so well on the subjects which interest-
ed me most, that I forgot to be nervous,
and listened and answered with delight.
He was copying a picture quite near
to me, and I felt humbled when re-
turning to my own effort after glancing
at his masterly work. But he cheered
me with kind words of encouragement,
which had a different effect upon me
from my mother's fond admiration and
Hessie's eloquent praises. It was so
new to be told to expect success by
one whose words might be hailed as a
prophecy. I grew to look forward
with increased interest to my long
day's work in the gallery, and to think
the place lonely when the kind artist
The Stolen Sketch.
315
was not there. Before my picture was
finished I felt that I had gained a
friend.
One afternoon on leaving the gal-
lery I was dismayed to find that it
rained heavily. Quite unprepared for
the wet, I yet shrank from the expense
of a cab. While standing irresolute
upon the steps, I presently saw my
artist friend at my side. He shot open
his umbrella, and remarked on the un-
pleasant change in the weather. Per-
haps he saw my distress in my face,
for he asked me how far I had to go.
He also was going to Kensington, he
said, and begged permission to shelter
me. I was obliged to accept his offer,
for it was getting late. It was one of
those evenings so dreaded by women
who are forced to walk alone in Lon-
don, when the light fades quickly out,
and darkness drops suddenly upon the
city.
Tying my thick veil over my face,
and wondering at myself, I took his
arm and walked by his side through
the twilight streets. I thought of a
time long ago when I used to get upon
tiptoe to clasp my father's arm, he
laughing at my childish pride, while
we sauntered up and down the old
garden at home, for away. Never,
since that dear arm had been draped
in the shroud, had my hand rested on
a man's sleeve. Memory kept vexing
me sorely ; and I, who seldom cried,
swallowed tears behind my veil and
went along in silence. Still I liked
the walk. As we passed on, sliding
easily through those rough crowds
which at other times I dreaded so much,
I felt keenly how good it is to be taken
care of. I seemed to be moving along
in a dream. Even when it began to
thunder, and lightning flashed across
our eyes, the storm could not rouse me
from my reverie. I felt no fear, stout-
ly protected as I was.
ii.
"When we reached my home, a vio-
lent gust of rain made my friend step
inside the open doorway. I asked him
to come into the parlor till the shower
should lighten ; and he did so. My
mother sat by the fender in her arm-
chair, the fire burned blithely, the tea-
things were on the table. The room
looked very cosy after the stormy
streets.
My mother received the unexpected
visitor cordially. She had heard of his
kindness to me before. Hessie came
in with the bread and butter, in her
brown housefrock, with her bright curls
a little tossed, and her blue eyes won-
dering wide at sight of a stranger.
My mother asked him to stay for tea,
and I went upstairs to take off my
bonnet.
Never before had I felt so anxious
to have my hair neat, and to find
an immaculate collar and cuffs. My
hands trembled as I tied my apron and
drew on my slippers. This was always
to me a pleasant hour, when my re-
turn made Hessie and my mother glad,
when I got refreshingly purified from
the stains and odor of paint, and when
we all had tea together. To-night a
certain excitement mingled with my
usual quiet thankful satisfaction.
I hurried down to the parlor. Hes-
sie was filling the cups, and Edward
Vance (our new friend) was talking
pleasantly to my mother. He looked
up as I came in, and when I reached
my seat a sensation of gladness was
tingling from my heart's core to my
finger-ends. My mother took my hand
and fondled it in hers, and thanked
him for his kindness to her "good
child." I felt that he could not but
sympathize with my dear, sick, uncom-
plaining mother, and I somehow felt it
sweet that she should give me that
little word of praise while speaking to
him. After tea Hessie played us
dreamy melodies from Mozart in the
firelight, and I sat by mother's side
tracing pictures in the burning coals.
After that first evening Edward
Vance often came to our house. At
these times our conversation was chiefly
upon art-subjects. Hessie and my
mother were deeply interested in them
for my sake ; I, for their own, and for
316
The Stolen Sketch.
the hopes which were entwined about
them.
I thought him an ambitious man,
one whose whole soul was bent upon
success. I liked him for it. I thought,
" The noblest man is he who concen-
trates all his powers upon one worthy
aim, and wins a laurel-crown from his
fellow-men as the reward of his stead-
fastness." Yet he seemed often troubled
when we asked him about his own
works.
A remark I overheard one day in
the gallery puzzled me. Some one
said, " Vance ? Oh, yes ! he's a clever
copyist a determined plodder ; but
he originates nothing." I don't know
that I had any right to be indignant ;
but I was. That very evening I asked
him to show us some of his designs.
His face got a dark troubled look upon
it, and he evaded the promise.
Meantime he took a keen interest in
my work. He taught me how to finish
my etchings more delicately, and his
remarks on my compositions were
always most useful. His suggestions
were peculiarly happy. The drawing
was ever enhanced in strength or
beauty by his advice. His ideas were
just and true ; his taste daintily critical.
This convinced me that the remark
overheard in the gallery was made
either in ignorance or ill-nature ; or
perhaps that there were more artists
called Vance than one.
He came often now, very often. I
ceased to feel angry at myself for start-
ing when his knock came. Many small
things, too trivial to be mentioned, filled
my life with a delicious calm, and
breathed a rose-colored atmosphere
around me. Everything in my inner
and outer world had undergone a
change. I grew subject to idle fits at
my work ; but then the suspended
energy came back with such a rush of
power, almost like inspiration, that I
accomplished far more than I ever had
done in the former quiet days when
there was little sunshine to be had, and
I thought I had been born to live con- t
tentedly under a cloud all my life. Art
seemed glorified a thousandfold in my
eyes. The galleries had looked to me
before like dim treasuries of phantom
beauty, shadowy regions of romance
and perfection, through the gates of
which I might peer, though the key
was not mine. Now they teemed with
a ripe meaning ; the meaning which
many glorious souls that once breathed
and wrought on this earth have woven
into their creations ; a meaning which
unlocked for me the world of love, and
gave me long bright visions of its
beautiful vistas.
My mother looked from Edward
Vance to me, and from me to him ;
and I knew her thought. It sweetened
yet more that food of happiness on
which I lived. omething said to me,
"You may meet his eye fearlessly,
place your hand frankly in his clasp,
follow his feet gladly."
One evening after he had gone my
mother stroked my head lying on her
knee.
" You are very happy, Grace ?" she
said.
" I am, mother," I whispered.
" Ah ! your life is set to music, my
love," she murmured ; " the old tune."
in.
Never was one sister so proud
of another as I of Hessie. She was
only seventeen, three years younger
than I, and I felt almost a motherly
love for her. She was slight and fair,
and childish both in face and disposi-
tion. I gloried in her beauty ; her
head reminded me of Rafeielle's
angels. I thought that one day I
should paint a picture with Hessie for
my model a picture which should
win the love and admiration of all
who gazed. One leisure time, in the
midst of my happiness, I suddenly
resolved to commence the work. I
chose a scene from our favorite poem
of Enid the part where the mother
goes to her daughter's chamber,
bearing Geraint's message, and finds
' Half disarrayed, na to her rest, the girl,
Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then
On either shining shoulder laid a hand,
And kept her off, aud gazed into her face,
The Stolen Sketch.
317
And told her all their converse in the hall,
Proving her heart. But never light and shade
Coursed one another more on open ground,
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale
Across the face of Enid, hearing her ;
While slowly falling, as a scale that falls
When weight is added only grain by grain,
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast.
Nor did she lift an eye, nor speak a word,
Rapt in the fear, and in the wonder of it."
I made a sketch. Never had I
been so happy in any attempt. My
own mother, worn, sad, dignified I
gave her face and form to the poet's
conception of Enid's mother. And
Plessie made a very lovely Enid, with
the white drapery clinging to her
round shoulders, and her golden head
drooped. I wrought out all the acces-
sories with scrupulous care the shad-
owy old tower-chamber ; the open
window, and the dim drifts of cloud
beyond; the stirring tapestry; the
lamp upon the table, flinging its yellow
light on the rich faded dress of the
mother and on Enid's glistening hair.
I toiled at the sketch almost as if I
had meant to make it a finished picture.
It was large. I lavished labor upon
it with a pas'sionate energy. I never
wearied of conjuring up ideas of
beauty, to lay them in luxurious pro-
fusion under my brush. I gloried in
the work of my hands ; and yet I felt
impatient when others praised it. I
burned to show them what the finished
picture should prove to be. This
sketch, much as I prized it as an
earnest of future success, I held only
as the shadow of that which must one
day live in perfection on the canvas.
So I raved in my dreams.
I had resolved not to speak of it to
Edward Vance till I had completed the
sketch. I had Hessie's promise not
to show it, not to tell him. I worked
at it daily, not feeling that I worked,
but only that I lived only that my
soul was accomplishing its appointed
task of creation; that it breathed in
its element, revelled in its God-given
power ; that it was uttering that which
should stir many other souls with a
myriad blessed inspirations, long after
the worn body had refused to shelter
it longer, and eternity had summoned
it from the world of endeavor to that
rest which, in the fever of its earnest-
ness, it knew not yet how to appre-
ciate.
And Hessie stood for me, patient
day after day.
darling !
" But never light and shade
Coursed one another more on open ground,
Boneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale
Across the face of Euid, hearing her."
I read aloud the passage again and
again, that Hessie might feel it as well
as I. And truly, as I worked, the
color on Hessie's cheek changed and
changed under my eyes, till I forgot
my purpose in wondering at her.
One day, while I laid down my brush
questioning her, she burst into tears,
and sobbed in childish impetuous dis-
tress. She would not answer my anx-
ious questions ; she shunned my sym-
pathy.
But that night, before I slept, I had
my little sister's secret. She wor-
shipped Edward Vance as simple
childish natures worship heroes whom
they exalt to the rank of gods.
IV.
I had no more joy, no more heart to
work. I laid my sketch in my port-
folio, and said that it was finished, and
that I should not commence the picture
at present. I could not work looking
at Hessie's changed face.
What should I do ? How should I
restore happiness to my little sister ?
This was the question which haunted
me. Night or day it would give me
no peace. I could not rest at home.
I undertook a work once more at the
National Gallery, and stayed away
all day. Often I sat for hours, and
did nothing, thinkin*
with painful
one question,
pertinacity of that
" How should I restore happiness to
my little sister ?" Edward Vance
had never asked me to be his wife.
Perhaps Hessie did not guess that I
had believed and hoped that he would.
My mother but then a mother's eye
will see where others are blind.
I sat in my deserted corner of the
gallery, dropping tears into my lap,
318
The Stolen Sketch.
and pondering my question. If my
mother were dead, if I were married,
how lonely would not Hessie be in
her misery! But if Hessie were a
happy wife, why, I could support my-
self and live in peace and independ-
ence, blessed with congenial occupa-
tion, solaced by the love and joy of my
art. " Edward Vance must never
ask me to be his wife." I repeated
the words again and again, till the re-
solve burnt itself into my heart.
" I believe that he has loved me,
that he loves me now ; but I can so
wrap myself up in my work, so seem
to forget him in my art, that I shall
cease to be loveable ; and then he
must, he will, perceive Hessie's affec-
tion, and take her to his heart. He
cannot help it, beautiful and fresh and
simple as she is." So I looked at her
face as she lay dreaming, sullen and
grieved like a vexed child, even in
sleep ; and I vowed to carry out my
strange resolve to crush my love for
Edward, to destroy his for me, to link
the two dear ones together, and go
on my life alone, with no comforter
but God and my toil. It was but a
short time since I had contemplated
such a prospect with calm content ;
and why could I not forget all that
had lately been, and return to my
serene quiet ? I said it should be so.
But in this I assumed a power over
my own destiny and the destinies of
others which none but God had a right
to sway, and he had entered it against
me in the great book of good and evil.
He had planted in my heart a natural
affection, and laid at my feet a treasure
of happiness. I had stretched forth
my hand to uproot that beautiful
flower which should have borne me
joy. I had turned aside from the rich
gift, and thought to sweep it from my
path. I had vowed to do evil, that
good might come of it ; and a mighty
hand was already extended to punish
my presumption.
v.
In pursuance of my resolve, I ab-
sented myself from home as much as
possible, leaving Hessie to entertain
Edward Vance when he came. I did
not intend to quarrel with him I
could not have done that ; but I
wanted him to see more of Hessie and
less of me. I had so much faith in her
superior beauty and loveableness, that
in the* morbid frame of mind into
which I had fretted myself, I believed
my object would soon be accom-
plished.
I had succeeded in obtaining some
tuitions ; and between the time which
they occupied and the hours spent hi
the galleries, I was very little at home.
My mother looked at me uneasily;
but I smiled and deceived her with
pleasant words. On coming home
late, I sometimes heard that Mr. Vance
had been there ; my mother always
told me Hessie never. I longed
to lay my head on my mother's knee
and say, " Did he ask for me ?" but
the voice never would come.
Sometimes he came, as of old, to
spend the whole evening. I would
not notice how he bore my altered
ways. I sat all the time apart by the
window, seemingly absorbed, puzzling
out some difficult design, or working
up some careful etching. I did not
ask his advice ; I did not claim his
sympathy with my occupation. I
sat wrapped up within myself, grave
and ungenial, while he lingered by
Hessie at the piano, and asked her to
play her soft airs again. And all the
time I sat staring from my paper into
the little patch of garden under the
window, twining my sorrow about the
old solitary tree, building my unhealthy
purpose into the dull wall of discol-
ored brick, which shut us and our
troubles from our neighbors. I sat
listening to the plaintive tunes with
which so many associations were in-
woven, hearing Hessie's musical prat-
tle she was always gay while he
stayed and Edward's rich voice and
pleasant laugh, contrasting with them
as a deep wave breaks in among the
echoes of a rippling creek. I sat and
listened in silence, while all my life
The Stolen Sketch.
319
rebelled in every vein and pulse at
the false part I acted.
But it was too late now to retract.
Though every day proved to me that
the task I had undertaken was too dif-
ficult, the step had been made and
could not be retraced. I had lifted my
burden, and I must bear it even to
the end. I had no doubt from Hessie's
shy happy face that at least my object
must be attained, whatever it might
cost myself.
I had never shown Edward Vance
the dear sketch for which I had once
so keenly coveted his approval. So
absorbed had I lately been in other
thoughts, that it lay by forgotten.
One evening my mother desired
Hessie to bring it out and show it to
him. I seldom looked at him, but for
a moment I now glanced at his face.
His eyelids flickered, and a strange
expression passed over his counte-
nance. It was admiration, suprise,
and something else I knew not what ;
something strange and unpleasant.
The admiration, I jealously believed,
was for Hessie's face in its downcast
beauty. He gazed at it long, but put
it aside 'with a few cold words of com-
mendation. I felt, with an intolerable
pang, that even so he had put me
aside, and thought no more about me.
But at different times afterward I saw
him glance to where the sketch lay.
That night my mother kept me Avith
her after Hessie had gone to bed. She
questioned me anxiously ; asked me
if I had quarrelled with Edward
Vance. I said, "No, mother, why
should we quarrel?"
By-and-by she said, " Grace, can it
be that he has not asked you to be his
wife ?"
I answered quickly, " Oh, no ; it is
Hessie whom he loves."
My mother looked puzzled and
grieved, though I smiled in her face.
VI.
One evening I came home and found
Hessie dull and out of humor. My
mother told me that Mr. Vance had
called and mentioned that he was
about to leave town for some weeks.
He had left his regards for me. I
knew by Hessie's face that he had
said nothing to make her happy during
his absence.
Some evenings after, I found my
mother sitting alone in the parlor, and
on going upstairs Hessie curled up on
our bed with her face in the pillows.
I so loved this little sister, that I
could not endure to see her grieve
without sharing her vexation. So I
sat down by her side and drew her
head upon my shoulder. Sitting thus I
coaxed her trouble from her. She had
been out walking, and had met Ed-
ward Vance in Kensington. He had
seen her. He had pretended not to
see her. He had avoided her.
At first this seemed so very un-
likely, I jested with her, laughed at
her, said she must have been mistak-
en. He had been delayed in London,
and had not recognized her. But Hes-
sie declared vehemently that he had
purposely avoided her, and cried as
though her heart would break.
Then I said: Hessie, if he be a
person to behave so, we need neither
di ? us trouble ourselves about him.
We lived before we knew him, and I
dare say we shall get on very well now
that he has gone." But Hessie only
stared and turned her face from me.
She could not understand such a view
of the case. She thought I did not
feel for her.
After that the weeks passed drear-
ily. We heard no news of Edward
Vance; but he had not left London,
for I saw him once in the street. I
told Hessie, for I thought it right to
rouse her a little rudely from the des-
pondent state into which she had fallen.
I tried, gently but decidedly, to make
her understand that we had looked on
as a steadfast friend one who for some
reason had been tired of us, and made
an excuse to drop our acquaintance ;
and that she would be doing serious
injury to her self-respect did she give
him one more thought.
For myself I mused much upon his
320
The Stolen Sketch.
strange conduct. It remained an enig-
ma to me. A dull listlessness hung
upon me, which was more terrible
than physical pain. I spent the days
at home, because I could not leave
Hessie to mope her life away, and
damp my mother's spirits with her sad
face. So I had not even the obliga-
tion of going out to daily work to
stimulate me to healthful action. Now,
indeed, was my life weary and burden-
some for one dark space, which, thank
God and his gift of strong energy, was
not of vast compass. So long as we
sacrifice ourselves for those we love,
whether in reality or in imagination,
something sublime in the idea of our
purpose whether that purpose be mis-
taken or not is yet a rock to lean on
in the weakest hour of anguish. But
when our eyes are opened, and we
see that we have only dragged others
as well as ourselves deeper into mis-
ery, then indeed it is hard to " suffer
and be strong."
VII.
I had done nothing of late nothing,
although I had toiled incessantly ; for
I did not dignify with the name of
" work" the soulless mechanical drudg-
ery which had kept me from home
during the past months. My spirit
had grovelled in a state of prostration,
stripped of its wings and its wand of
power. I now knelt and cried : " Give,
oh, give me back my creative im-
pulse !"
I had never since looked at the be-
loved sketch. I longed now to draw
it forth, and commence the picture
while I stayed at home. But Hessie
shuddered when I spoke of it, and
looked so terrified, pleading that she
could not stand for me, that I gave up
the idea for the time. I thought she
had distressing memories connected
with it, and I tried to rid her of them
by speaking cheerfully of how suc-
cessful I expected the picture to be,
and what pleasure we should have
in working at it. I regretted bitterly
that I had not commenced it long be-
fore, just after I had made the sketch.
I should then, perhaps, have had it
finished in time for the Exhibition
drawing near. But that was impossi-
ble now. I must wait in patience for
another year. I did not at that time
even look between the leaves of the
portfolio. Though I thought it right
to talk briskly and cheerily about it
for both our sakes, I had sickening
associations with that work of my
short, brilliant day of happiness which
Hessie, with all her childish grieving,
could hardly have comprehended.
I allowed some time to pass, and
at last I thought Hessie's whim had
been indulged long enough. She must
learn how to meet a shock and outlive
it. I did not like the idea of having
ghosts in the house skeletons of un-
healthy sentiment hidden away in un-
approachable chambers. The shadow
should be hunted from its corner into
the light. The sketch must grow into
a picture, which anew aspect of things
must despoil of all stinging associa-
tions.
I went to seek the sketch ; but the
sketch was gone. I sought it in every
part of the house ; but to no purpose.
It had quite disappeared. I mentioned
the strange circumstance to my mother
in Hessie's presence, and Hessie sud-
denly left the room. Then it struck
me for the first time that my sister
had either destroyed it (which I could
hardly believe), or that some acccident
had happened to it in her hands. I
observed that she never alluded to it,
never inquired if I had found it. I
did not question her about it. Indeed
I felt too much vexed to speak of it.
I grieved more for its loss than I had
believed it remained in me to grieve
at any fresh trial. I loved it as we do
love the creation on which we have
lavished the most precious riches of
our mind, on which we have spent
our toil, in which we have conquered
difficulty, striven and achieved, strug-
gled and triumphed. I should have
loved it all my life, hanging in my
own chamber, if no one might ever
see it but myself; and borne my
The Stolen Sketch.
321
sorrows with a better spirit, and tasted
keener joys, while thanking God that
I had been permitted to call it into
existence. I gloried too much in the
work of my own hands, and I was
punished.
Never since have I tasted that
vivid sense of delight in any achieve-
ment of my own. I have worked as
zealously, and more successfully, but
it has been with a humbler heart.
And looking backward, I now believe
that it was my inner happiness which
haloed my creation with a beauty that
was half in my own glad eyes.
VIII.
The succeeding few months were
quiet, in the dullest sense of the word.
Strive as I would, the sunshine had
gone from our home. Hessie was no
longer the bright Hessie of old days.
I tried to forget my dear sketch of
" Enid," and made several attempts to
paint some other picture ; but the Ex-
hibition drew near, and I had nothing
done.
One bright May morning I read in
the newspaper an account of the Acad-
emy Exhibition. The list of artists
and their works stirred me with a
strange trouble. Tears rose in my
eyes and blotted out the words. I
spread the paper on the table before
me, pressed my temples with my fin-
gers, and travelled slowly through the
criticisms and praises which occupied
some columns. Why was there no
work of mine mentioned there ? Why
had I lost my time so miserably during
the past months? And questioning
myself thus, I was conscious of two
sins upon my own head. The first
was in glorying in and worshipping
the creation of my own labor: the
second, in exalting myself upon an
imaginary pinnacle of heroism by
a fancied self-sacrifice, and having
brought deeper trouble upon the sister
whose happiness I thought to compass.
I wept the choking tears out of my
throat and read on.
Something dazzled my eyes for a
21
moment, and brought the blood to my
forehead. A picture was mentioned
with enthusiastic praise ; a picture by
E. Vance. It was called "Enid/*
and was interpreted by a quotation
from the poem ; my passage the sub-
ject of my lost sketch ! A strange
idea glanced across my mind. I half
smiled at it and put it away. But all
day I was restless ; and that evening I
proposed to Hessie an expedition early
next morning to see the pictures. My
mother longed to go with us ; but as she
could not, I promised to bring home a
catalogue, and describe each painting
to the best of my memory.
With a feverish haste I sought out
the picture of " Enid" by E. Vance.
Was I dreaming ? I passed my hand
across my eyes as though some imag-
inary scene had come between me and
the canvas. I did not feel Hessie's
hand dropping from my arm. I stood
transfixed, grasping the catalogue,
and staring at the picture before me.
It was my " Enid." My own in
form, attitude, tint, and expression.
It was the " Enid" of my dreams real-
ized ; the " Enid" of my labor wrought
to completion ; the " Enid" of my lost
sketch ennobled, perfected, glorified.
My work on which I had lavished
my love and toil was there, and it
was not mine.
Another, a more skilled, a subtler
hand, had brought out its meaning
with delicate appreciation, ripened its
original purpose, enriched the subdued
depths of its coloring, etherealized the
whole by the purest finish. But that
hand had robbed me, with cruel cow-
ardly deliberation. It had stolen my
mellow fruit ; taken my sweetest rose
and planted it in a strange garden.
I felt the wrong heavy and sore upon
me. I resented it fiercely. I could
not endure to look at the admiring
faces around me. I turned away sick
and trembling, while the blood pulsed
indignantly in my throat and beat
painfully at my temples.
Why should he who had already
so troubled my life enjoy success and
gold which should have been mine?
322
The Stolen Sketch.
" mother, mother !" I inwardly cried,
" how much would the price of this
picture have done for you !" And I
thought of her yearnings for the scent
of sea spray, and the taste of sea
breath, which the scanty purse forbade
to be satisfied.
I sought Hessie, a,nd found her sit-
ting alone and very pale. I said,
" Come home, Hessie ;" and she fol-
lowed me, obeying like a child.
When we reached our house, I was
thankful that my mother slept upon the
couch, for I needed a time to calm my-
self, and think and pray. I threw
away my bonnet, and sat down by our
bedside. Hessie came and crept to
my feet.
" Grace," she sobbed, " can you ever
forgive me ? I gave him the sketch ;
but I declare on my knees that I did
not know why he wanted it."
For a moment I felt very harsh and
stern, but my woman's nature con-
quered. What were all the pictures
in the world compared with my little
sister's grief? I bent over her, and
wiped away the tears from her face.
" Don't say any more about it, Hes-
sie," I said ; " I'd rather not hear any
more. I know that you meant to do
me no wrong. It is with him that the
injustice lies. But, Hessie, I will only
ask you one question : Can you
do you think you ought to waste a
regret on such a person ?"
Hessie dried up her tears with more
resolution than I had ever seen her
show before, and answered :
" No, no, Grace dear ; I am cured
now."
And then she put her arms about
my neck, asking my pardon for all her
past wilful conduct ; and in one long
embrace all the estrangement was
swept away, and we two sisters were
restored to one another. Hessie went
off to get tea ready with a cheerful
step, and I to make the room cosy and
kiss my mother awake, when the fire
glowed and the pleasant meal was on
the table. We both sat by her with
bright faces, and told her all about the
pictures we could remember; all except
one.
IX.
I have outlived all that trouble about
the picture of " Enid," and many
troubles beside ; I have kissed mv
mother's dear face in her coffin. I
have won success, and I have won gold ;
and neither seem to me quite the boons
some hold them to be.
Hessie's early grief passed away like
a spring shower. She is now a happy
wife ; and I have at this moment by my
side a little gold-haired fairy thing, her
child. My dear sister's happiness is
secured ; her boat of life is safe at
anchor. Edward Vance's shadow only
crossed her path and passed away.
She never met him since the old days ;
I but once. His career has strangely
disappointed his friends.
For me, my life is calm and con-
tented. I think the healthy-spirited
always make for themselves happiness
out of whatever materials may be
around them ; and I find rich un-
wrought treasure on every side,whither-
soever I turn my eyes. My sister's
glad smile is a blessing on my life ;
and one rare joy is the bright-faced
little lisper at my side, who peers over
my shoulder with spiritual eyes, and
asks mysterious questions about my
work. And, standing always by my
side like an angel, bearing the wand of
power and the wings of peace, I have
my friend, my beautiful art. She fills
my days with purpose and my nights
with sweet rest and dreams. She
places in my hand* the means of do-
ing good to others. While illumining
my upward path, she seems to beckon
me higher and yet higher. Looking
ever in her dear eyes, I bless God for
the abundance of his gifts ; and I muse
serenely on the time when she, the in-
terpreter of the ideal here on earth,
will conduct me to the gates of eternal
beauty.
Imperial and Royal Authors.
323
From Once a Week.
IMPERIAL AND ROYAL AUTHORS.
BY S. BARING GOULD.
Is the present Emperor of the
French aware that in publishing his
Vie de Cesar, he is treading a beaten
path? that his predecessors on the
French throne have, from a remote
age, sought to unite the fame of au-
thorship with the glory of regal posi-
tion ? and is he aware of the fact, that
their efforts in this quarter have not
unfrequently been accounted dead fail-
ures ? Julius Cassar has already been
handled by one of them, and with poor
success, for Louis XIV., at the age of
sixteen, produced a translation of the
first book of the Commentaries of Caasar,
under the title Guerre des Swisses, tra-
duite dupremier livre des Commentaires
de Jules Cesar, par Louis XI V., Dieu-
Donne, roi de France et de Navarre.
This work, consisting of eighteen pages,
was printed at the royal press in folio,
1651.
Louis XIV., however, was not the
first French monarch to try his hand
upon Julius Caesar ; he had been pre-
ceded by Henry IV., who translated
the whole work, and did not give it up
after the first book. Will the present
Vie de Cesar reach a second volume ?
and, if it does, will it extend to a
fourth? Those who know best the
occupations of the imperial writer, say
that it might be rash to feel sure be-
yond the first volume, or to calculate
on more than a second. Let us
see whether there is much novelty in
the circumstance of a monarch becom-
ing an author. We shall only look
at the emperors of Rome and the
kings of France. We know well enough
that our own Alfred translated Boeth-
ius, Orosius, and Bede, and that Henry
VIII. won the title of "Defender of
the Faith" by his literary tilt with
Luther; and that James I. wrote
against tobacco ; and we are not dis-
posed to revive the dispute about the
Eikon Basilike.
Let us then turn to the Roman em-
perors after Caesar, who was an author
himself, or neither Henry IV., nor
Louis XIV., nor Louis Napoleon,
would have had much to say about
him.
Augustus, we are told by Suetonius,
composed several works, which he was
wont to read to a circle of friends.
Among these were, "Exhortations to
the Study of Philosophy," which we
have no doubt the select circle listened
to with possible edification, and proba-
ble ennui. He wrote likewise his own
memoirs in thirteen books, but he
never finished them, or brought them
beyond the Cantabrian war. His epi-
grams were written in his bath. He
commenced a tragedy upon Ajax, but,
little pleased with it, he destroyed it ;
and in answer to the select circle which
asked, " What had become of Ajax ?"
" Ah ! poor fellow !" replied the em-
peror, " he fell upon the sponge, and
perished ;" meaning that he had washed
the composition off his papyrus.
Tiberius, says the same author, com-
posed a lyric poem on the death of
Julius Caasar, but his style was full of
affectation and conceits.
Claudius suffered from the same
passion for becoming an author, and
composed several books of history, as
well as memoirs of his own life, and
these were read in public, for the
friendly circle was too narrow for his
ambition.
He also invented three letters, which
he supposed were necessary for the
perfection of the alphabet, and he
wrote a pamphlet on the subject, be-
fore assuming the purple. After hay-
324
Imperial and Royal Authors.
ing become emperor, he enforced their
use. He wrote also, in Greek, twenty
books of Tyrian, and eight of Cartha-
ginian history, which were read pub-
licly every year in Alexandria. Nero
composed verses, Domitian a treatise
on hair-dressing, Adrian his own life ;
Marcus Aurelius wrote his commen-
taries, which are lost, and his moral
reflections, and letters to Fronto, which
are still extant. Julian the Apostate
was the author of a curious work, the
" Misopogon, or Foe to the Beard," a
clever and witty squib directed against
the effeminate inhabitants of Antioch.
A few passages from this work will
not be out of place.
" I begin at my face, which is want-
ing in all that is agreeable, noble, and
good ; so I, morose and old, have
tacked on to it this long beard, to pun-
ish it for its ugliness. In this dense
beard perhaps little insects stroll, as
do beasts in a forest ; I leave them
alone. This beard constrains me to
eat and to drink with the utmost cir-
cumspection, or I should infallibly
make a mess of it. As good luck will
have it, I am not given to kissing, or
to receiving kisses, for a beard like
mine is inconvenient on that head, as
it does not allow the contact of lips. .
.... You say that you could twine
ropes out of my beard; try it, only
take care that the roughness of the
hair does not take the skin off your
.soft and delicate hands."
Valentinian I. is said to have emu-
lated Ausonius in licentious poetry.
Of the later emperors some have
obtained celebrity by their writings.
Leo VI., surnamed the Wise, was
the author of a very interesting and
precious treatise on the art of warfare.
He also composed some prophecies,
sufficiently obscure to make the Greeks
in after ages find them apply to vari-
ous events as they occurred. Constan-
tino VI. was also an eminent contribu-
tor to literature. This prince had been
early kept from public affairs by his
uncle Alexander, and his mother Zoe,
so that he had sought pleasure and
employment in study. After having
collected an enormous library, which
he threw open to the public, he em-
ployed both himself and numerous
scribes in making collections of ex-
tracts from the principal classic au-
thors. The most important of these,
and that to which he attached his own
name, consisted of a mass of choice
fragments, gathered into fifty-three
books. This vast work is lost, togeth-
er with many of the books cited, except
only two parts: one treating of em-
bassies, the other of virtues and vices.
Constantino also wrote a curious geo-
graphical account of the provinces of
the Greek empire, a treatise on the
administration of government, and an-
other on the ceremonies observed in
the Byzantine Court; a life of the
Emperor Basil, an account of the
famous image of Edessa, and a few
other trifles.
Let us now turn to the French mon-
archs, and we shall find that they be-
gan early to take the pen in hand ;
and, unfortunately, the very first royal
literary work in France was a blunder.
King Chilperic wrote a treatise on the
Trinity, under the impression that he
had a gift for theological definition,
and he signalized his error by assert-
ing that the word person should not be
used in speaking of the three members
of the Trinity. Having burned his
fingers by touching theology, the semi-
barbarian king attempted poetry with
like success. But his pretensions did
not end there. He added the Greek
letter u to the Latin alphabet, and
three characters of his own invention,
so as to introduce into that language
certain Teutonic sounds. " He sent
orders," writes Gregory of Tours,
" into every city of his kingdom, that
all children should be taught in this
manner, and that ancient written books
should be effaced, and rewritten in
the new style."
The great and wise Charlemagne,
perceiving the glories of his native
tongue, and the beauties of his national
poetry, carefully collected the Teutonic
national poems, and commenced a
grammar of the language. Robert H.
nperial and Royal Authors.
325
was not only a scholar, but a musician ;
he composed some of the Latin hymns
still in use in the Church, with their
accompanying melodies. His queen,
Constantia, seeing him engaged on his
sacred poetry, one day, in joke, asked
him to write something in memory of
her. He at once composed the hymn,
constantia martyrum, which the
queen, not understanding Latin, but
hearing her name occurring in the
first line, supposed to be a poem in
her honor.
Louis XI. is supposed to have con-
tributed to the Cent Nouvelles nouvelles,
which collection, however much credit
it may do him in a literary point of
view, is inexcusably wanting in de-
cency.
A volume of poems by Francis I.
exists in MS. in the Imperial Library.
It contains, among other interesting
matter, a prose letter, and another in
verse, written from his prison to one
of his mistresses. The king was bad
in his orthography, as may be judged
from the following portion of a let-
ter written by him to his mother
at the raising of the siege of Me-
zieres :
"Madame, tout asetkeure (a cette
heure),yn sy (ainsi) queje me vouloys
mettre o lyt (au lit), est aryve (ar-
rive) Laval, lequel m'a aporte la
sertenete (certitude) deu levemant du
syege de Mesyeres"
I presume a schoolboy would be
whipped if he wrote as bad a letter as
this king.
Louis XIII. had, says his epitaph,
" a hundred virtues of a valet, not one
of a master ;" but he could write son-
nets, and compose the music for them.
The best, perhaps, is that composed
on, or for, Madame de Hautefort,
" Tu crois, bean soleil !
Qu7i ton eclat rien n'est pareil ;
Mais quoi ! tu palis
Aupres d' Amaryllis,"
set to music which is charming. But
Louis XIII. was more of a barber,
gardener, pastrycook, and farmer, than
an author.
Louis XIV., beside his translation
of Caesar's Commentaries, Book I.,
composed Memoires historiques, poli-
tiques, et militaires ; but his writings
were not remarkable, as his education
had been so neglected by his mother
and Mazarin, that, according to La
Porte, his valet, he was not allowed to
have the history of France read to
him, even for the sake of sending him
to sleep.
Louis XV. wrote a little treatise on
the course of the rivers of Europe, and
printed it with his own hands. It con-
sisted of sixty-two pages, and con-
tained nothing which was not perfectly
well known before, as, for instance,
that the Thames ran into the North
Sea or German Ocean, and that the
Rhone actually fell into the Mediterra-
nean. In 1766 appeared a description
of the forest of Compiegne, and guide
to the forest, by Louis, afterward
Louis XVI., composed by the unfortu-
nate prince at the age of twelve.
Louis XVIII. wrote an account of
a journey from Paris to Coblentz,
which was published in 1823.
This work was full of inaccuracies
and mistakes, so that it became the
prey of critics.
Finally, Napoleon I. wrote much,
but not in the way of bookmaking,
though he began a history of Corsica,
which remained in MS. His writings
have been collected and published in
five volumes, under the title, (Ettvres
de Napoleon Bonaparte. 8vo. 1821.
326
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
From The Lamp.
HISTORY OF A BLIND DEAF-MUTE.
TRANSLATED FKOM THE FRENCH OF M. CARTON, HEAD OF THE INSTITUTE FOR THE
DEAF AND DUMB AT BRUGES, BY CECILIA CADDELL.
ANNA, the deaf, dumb, and blind
girl, whose story I am about to relate,
was born at Ostend, of poor but hon-
est parents, in the year 1818. She
was blind from her birth, but during
the first years of her infancy appeared
to have some sense of hearing. This,
unfortunately, soon vanished, leaving
her blind, deaf, and dumb ; one of the
three persons thus trebly afflicted ex-
isting at this moment in the province
of West Flanders. Losing both her
parents while still an infant, she was
brought up by her grandmother, who
received aid for the purpose from the
" Commission des Hospices" of the
town. To the good offices of these
gentlemen she is likewise indebted for
the education she has since received ;
for when I first proposed taking her
into my establishment, both her aunt
and her grandmother were most unwill-
ing to part with her, fearing, very
naturally, that strangers would never
give her the affectionate care which,
in her helpless condition, she so abun-
dantly required ; they only yielded
at last to the representations and en-
treaties of their charitable friends.
Their love for this poor child, who
could never have been anything but
an anxiety and expense to them, was
indeed most touching ; and they wept
bitterly when they parted from her;
declaring, in their simple but express-
ive language, that I was taking away
from them the blessing of their house.
They were soon satisfied, however,
that they had acted for the best ; and
having once convinced themselves of
her improvement both in health and
happiness, they never, to the day of
their death, ceased to rejoice at the
decision which they had come to in her
regard. "When Anna was first en-
trusted to my care, her relations, and
every one else who knew her, supposed
her to be an idiot, and this had been
their principal reason for opposing me
in my first efforts for her instruction.
Poor themselves and ignorant, and
earning their bread by the labor of
their own hands, they had had neither
time nor thought to bestow on the de-
velopment of this intellect, closed as it
was against all the more ordinary
methods of instruction ; and the child
had been left, of necessity, to her own
resources for occupation and amuse-
ment. Few, indeed, and trivial these
resources were ! Blind, and fearing
even to move without assistance ; deaf,
and incapable of hearing a syllable of
the conversation that was going on
around her ; dumb, and unable to com-
municate her most pressing wants
save by that unearthly and unwilling
cry which the deaf mutes are com-
pelled to resort to, like animals in the
moment of their utmost need, the
child had remained day after day
seated in the same corner of the
cottage. Knowing nothing .of the
bright sunshine, or the green field,
or the sweet smell of flowers ; nothing
of the sports of childhood or its tasks ;
night the same as day in her esti-
mation, excepting for its sleep ; winter
only distinguished from summer by
the sharper air without, and the in-
creased heat of the wood-piled fire
within no wonder that she seemed an
idiot. Her only amusement the
only thing approaching to occupation
which her friends had been able to
procure her consisted, at first, in a
string of glass beads. These Anna
amused herself by taking off and put-
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
327
ting on again at least twenty times a
day ; and this and the poor meals,
which she seemed to take without
appetite or pleasure, were the only
breaks in the twelve long hours of her
solitary days. Some charitable per-
son at last made her a present of a
doll; and with this doll she played,
after her own fashion, until she was
twenty years of age. She never, in
fact, lost her taste for it until she had
succeeded in learning to knit ; then it
was cast from her with disdain, and
she never afterward recurred to it for
amusement.
Notwithstanding her enforced inac-
tion, she managed to tear her clothes
continually. Perhaps, poor child, she
found some relief from the tedium of
her daily life in this semblance of an
occupation, for she had an insuperable
objection to changing her tattered
garments ; and it was a long time be-
fore we could induce her to do so with
a good grace. Once, however, accus-
tomed to the change, she seemed to
take pleasure in it, delighted in new
clothes, and used often to come of her
own accord to beg that the old ones
might be washed. There was nothing
very prepossessing in her external
appearance ; at first it was almost
repulsive. She was of the ordinary
height of a girl of her age ; but her
hands were small and thin, from want
of use, as those of a little child. When
ic first came to my establishment her
was bowed down on her neck
)in weakness ; she had sore eyes ;
face was covered with a cutaneous
iption ; she walked with difficulty,
id appeared to dislike the exertion
excessively. Afterward, care and good
feeding improved her very much. She
uilred strength; and the skin dis-
which had been her chief disfig-
urement entirely disappeared. I have
no intention of describing all that she
did and said (by signs), or all the
pains and trouble that she cost us in the
early months of her residence among
us. During that time, however, I
kept a journal of her conduct ; which,
as a history of her mental develop-
ment, is so curious, that I venture to
lay some extracts from it before my
readers, the remainder being reserved
for future publication.
I must begin by explaining my
ideas as to the proper method to be
pursued in instructing these unfortun-
ates. I try, in the first place, to put
myself in the place of a person deaf,
blind, and dumb ; and then ask myself,
" What do I know, what can I know,
in such a state ?" In my first course
of instruction, therefore, I make it a
rule never to give the word until cer-
tain that the thing which that word
expresses has been clearly understood.
In the case of Anna there was an
additional difficulty. Not only had
she no' preconceived idea of the use or
nature of a word, but her blindness
prevented her seeing the connection
between it and the substance it was
intended to represent. Nor would it
be sufficient for her full instruction
that she should learn by the touch to
distinguish one word from another ;
she would also require to be taught
the elements of which words were
themselves composed. If I began by
giving her words alone, she would
never have learned to distinguish let-
ters. If, on the other hand, I com-
menced with letters, without attaching
any especial idea to them, she would
have been disgusted, and have left off
at the second lesson. A letter, in fact,
would have been nothing but a letter
to her ; for there would be no means
of making her comprehend that it
was but the first step toward the know-
ledge I was desirous of imparting.
I resolved, therefore, neither to try
letters by themselves nor whole words
in the first lesson which I gave her.
It was in the Flemish language, of
course; but the method I pursued
would be equally applicable to any
other.
In order to give, at one and the
same moment, the double idea of a letter
and a word, I chose a letter which had
some resemblance to the form I in-
tended it to express, and gave it the
significance of an entire word. For
328
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
this purpose I fixed upon the letter 0,
and made her understand that this
letter signified mouth, in fact it is one
of the four letters which express the
word in Flemish mond, mouth. Af-
terward I took a double o(00), which
are the first letters in the Flemish, oog,
eye. One O, then, signified mouth ;
two meant eyes. The lesson was easy ;
she caught it in a moment ; and thus,
with two words and two ideas at-
tached to them, her dictionary was
commenced. It was quite possible, how-
ever, that aa these letters represented,
to a certain extent, the objects of
which they were the expression, she
might fall into the error of supposing
that all letters did the same ; and in
order to prevent this mistake, I im-
mediately added the letter R to her
collection.
This not only became a new acqui-
sition for her dictionary, but, by form-
ing with the two previous letters the
Flemish word oor (ear), it became an
easy transition between the natural
expression dependent on the form,
which she had already acquired, and
the arbitrary, dependent on the spell-
ing, which it was my object she should
acquire. Proceeding on this princi-
ple, and always taking care to com-
mence the lesson from a point already
known, we lessened the difficulties,
and made rapid progress. A cap, an
apron, a ribbon, or gown, always in-
terest the sex ; and, like any other
girl, Anna valued them extremely. I
took care likewise often to choose
words expressive of anything she liked,
especially to eat ; and it was by the
proper use of these words that she
first convinced me how completely
she had seized upon the meaning of
my lessons. Whenever she was de-
sirous of obtaining any little dainty,
she used to point to the word in her
collection; and of course it was given
to her immediately. Poor child ! her
joy, when she found she could really
make herself understood, was very
touching ; and her surprise was nearly
equal to her joy.
A person born blind does not nat-
urally make signs ; for a sign address-
es itself to the sight, and of the faculty
of sight they have no conception. A
sign in relief, however a sign which
they can distinguish by the touch, and
by means of which they can communi-
cate with their fellow-men must come
to these benighted intelligences like a
message of mercy from God himself.
We always gave Anna the object, in
order to make her comprehend the
word the substance, to explain the
substantive. One day, not long after
her arrival, her instructress gave her
the word egg, placing one at the same
time before her; and Anna immedi-
ately made signs that she wished to
eat it. She offered me at the same
moment a small piece of money, which
some one had given her, as if for the
purpose of buying the food. The bar-
gain was made at once ; and she ate
the egg, while I pocketed the money.
I quite expected she would try this
over again, for she had some money,
and was fond of eggs. The very next
day, in fact, she searched the word out
in her vocabulary, and brought it to
her instructress, with an air iiiat quite
explained her meaning. I placed an
egg before her ; she touched it-
touched the word ; coaxed <*nd patted
the egg ; and at last burst into a fit of
laughter, caused, no doubt, by pleasant
astonishment at having so easily ob-
tained her wish. I hoped and expect-
ed that she would propose to purchase,
for I was anxious to find out if she
had any real notion of the use of
money. My hopes were fulfilled, for
she offered at once her price of two
centimes, with the evident intention of
making a purchase. Much to her as-
tonishment, however, this time I took
both the money and the egg. At first
she laughed, evidently thinking that 1
was only joking. I gave her time to
comprehend that I was serious, and
that, having taken both, I meant to
keep them. She acquiesced at last with
regard to the egg ; it was mine, and I
had a right to keep it if I liked ; but
she was indignant that I did not re-
turn the money. She asked for it in
History of a Blind Deaf -Mute.
329
every way she was capable of ask-
ing, and grew at last both red and
angry at the delay. I had tried her
sufficiently. It was high time to prove
myself an honest man ; so I gave her
back her money, and she restored me
to her good graces. I was happy in-
deed to find so clear a sense of justice,
so complete a knowledge of the value
of " mine" and " thine," in a creature
so defective in her animal organiza-
tion.
Once in possession of a little stock
of words, Anna was never weary of
augmenting it, and she soon found out
a way of compelling us, almost, to sat-
isfy her wish. She would take the
hand of her mistress, and with it imi-
tate the action of writing, by making
points upon the paper with the finger.
If her wishes were complied with, she
was delighted; but if, to try her, the
mistress pretended to hesitate, then
Anna took the matter into her own
hands, and positively refused to do any-
thing else. Every other employment
suggested to her would be indignantly
rejected, and she would persist in ask-
ing over and over again for the word
she wanted, never resting or letting
any one else rest until she got it. The
nuns, of course, always ended by com-
plying with her desires ; and it would
be hard to say which felt most delight,
the blind girl, who had succeeded
in adding to her small stock of know-
ledge, or the religious, who by the aid
" Providence had enabled her to do
A mother who hears for the first
le the low stammering of her child
in alone form a conception of all one
feels at such a moment, for God is
very good ; and when he imposed
upon society the task of instructing
the ignorant, he attached an ineffable
delight to the accomplishment of that
duty.
When Anna knew how to read and
understand about forty substantives, I
taught her the manual alphabet, and
from that moment I could test her
knowledge with unfailing exactitude.
She first read the word with her fin-
gers, and then repeated it by means
of the dactology ; it was a lesson in
reading and writing both. She was
soon sufficiently advanced to venture
upon verbs. I began with the imper-
ative mood ; not only because it is the
simplest form of the verb, but also be-
cause I myself would have to use it in
giving her the lesson. She seized
with wonderful facility upon the rela-
tive positions of the substantive and
verb.
I always made her perform the ac-
tion signified by the verb which she
had learned, and thus the lesson be-
came quite an amusement to her.
However silly in appearance might
be the association between the verb
and substantive, she never failed to
apprehend it ; and when told to do
anything ridiculous or out of the com-
mon way, she enjoyed the fun, and
never failed to execute the commission
to the best of her ability. If I told
her to walk upon the table, she would
take off her shoes, climb up, and walk
cautiously upon it ; if told to eat the
chair, after a minute's hesitation as to
the best manner of complying with the
order, she would take it up and pre-
tend to devour it. One day she was
terribly embarrassed by some one
writing the following phrase : " Throw
your head on the floor." She read
the sentence over and over again to
make sure that she was not mistaken,
laughed very much, and then suddenly
growing serious, shook her head, as
much as to say, the thing was abs6-
lutely impossible. At last, however,
and as if to finish the business, she
took her head in both her hands, and
made a gesture, as if to fling it on the
floor. Having done this, she evidently
felt that nothing more could be ex-
pected from her, and showed herself
both pleased and proud at having un-
derstood the phrase, and found so easy
a method of getting out of the diffi-
culty.
She distinguished very readily be-
tween the verbs " to lay down" and
" to throw down," clearly comprehend-
ing that the one action was to be
330
History of a Blind Deaf-Mutc.
done with vivacity, the other with
caution ; and it was curious to watch
her perplexity when commanded to
throw down anything liable to be
broken. She knew well what would
be the consequence of the command,
and you could see the questioning that
went on in her own mind as to how it
could be accomplished with least dam-
age to the article in question. She
would begin by feeling all along the
ground, and trying to form an exact
idea of the distance it would have to
fall ; and then at last she would throw
it down with a mixture of care and
yet of caution, which showed she was
perfectly aware of the mischief she
was doing.
The moment she thoroughly under-
stood the imperative, we had only to
add her name or that of one of the
sisters to produce the indicative ; and
then, by changing Anna into I, she
passed easily to the pronouns, as
thus: "Strike the table;" "Anna
strikes the table ;" " I strike the ta-
ble." I had at first omitted the article ;
but I soon perceived my mistake. We
have no means of teaching a deaf-
mute the reason for preceding a sub-
stantive by an article ; and still more
impossible would it be to give any
plausible explanation of the distinction
between the genders. Habit does this
for each of us when we learn our
mother tongue ; and habit and fre-
quent repetition did it so well for
Anna, that now she rarely, if ever,
ntakes any mistake.
When she had advanced thus far, I
made her observe that by adding the
letters en, which constitute our Flemish
plural, several of the same sort of
substantives were intended to be
expressed ; and passing from this to
numbers, I gave her a lesson in nu-
meration. She readily seized upon
both ideas ; and constant practice soon
made her perfect in their application.
Verbs such asjeter, to throw down,
poser, to lay down, naturally introduced
the use of prepositions to express the
mode in which the verb acts upon the
substantive. This enabled me to make
various combinations with words known
to her already ; and I found it of great
use to place the same word in such
different positions in a phrase as to
alter entirely, or at least modify, the
meaning.
The last lesson which she received
was to make use of and understand the
meaning of the pronouns " my," "your,"
"our," and the conjunction "and."
We have also made her comprehend
the use and meaning of adjectives ex-
pressive of forms, as "square," "round,"
etc., as well as the physical and mental
state of being implied in the words
" good," " bad," " sick," " well," etc. She
makes such phrases as the following, and
reads them easily when they are given
to her in writing : " Give me my knit-
ting ;" " My work is on the table ;"
" My apron is square."
One last observation I must make
about the pronouns. The third person
singular or plural would have been
difficult to Anna, since, being blind, she
could not have distinguished whether
the action spoken of had been done by
one person or by several ; by " him,"
in fact, or by " they." The pronouns
which she can most readily compre-
hend are the first and second ; and to
these I generally confine her. For
"he" or "they" I have substituted
" one :" " One strikes the table."
Anna might have been taught the
others ; but she would often probably
have been mistaken in their applica-
tion, and would perhaps have ended
by supposing that there was no posi-
tive rule in their regard, and that they
might be used as it were at random.
People only learn willingly what
they can clearly comprehend ; and if
children dislike instruction, the fault is
almost always with the master. If the
latter would but bring his intelligence
to the level of his pupils, he might be
almost certain of their attention.
To sum up the whole, I will give the
order in which I taught her the differ-
ent parts of speech necessary for the
knowledge of a language. The sub-
stantive, because, being itself an object,
it falls more immediately beneath the
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
331
recognition of the senses ; the verb, be-
cause by the verb alone we speak, and
without it there could be no language ;
the preposition, because it indicates
the nature of the action expressed by
the verb ; and finally, the adjective and
the adverb. I had many reasons for
keeping back these two last to the end.
Neither of them is essential to a
phrase which can be complete without
them. Anna would have been much
retarded in her progress if I had
stopped to teach her the attributes of
words, when words themselves were
what she wanted. She could learn
language only by use and habit ; and
it was of the highest importance that
she should acquire that habit as speed-
ily as possible. I threw aside, there-
fore, without hesitation, all that could
embarrass her progress, and confined
myself, in the first instance, to such
things as it was absolutely essential
she should know, in order to be able to
converse at all. It may be asked why
I taught her to make phrases by means
of whole words, instead of giving her
the letters of the alphabet and teaching
her to make words themselves. The
result of the mode I did adopt must be
my answer. Anna has already a clear
idea of language ; all her acquisitions
in the way of words are classed in her
mind as in a dictionary, and ready to
come forth at a moment's notice. The
reason for this rapid progress is very
plain. It is far less troublesome to
take a whole word, and put it in the
matical order it ought to occupy,
an to be obliged to make the word
elf by means of separate letters,
he had need of all her attention to
the elements of a phrase ; and
would have been imprudent to weaken
at attention by directing it also to
elements of words. I divided dif-
ulties in order to overcome them :
lis was the secret of my method, and
the cause of its success. My lessons
were also almost or entirely an amuse-
ment to her ; and sometimes I com-
posed a phrase which she first read,
and acted afterward. Sometimes it
was I who performed the action, while
she gave me an account of what I had
done in writing.
It was a lesson at once in reading
and in writing, in hearing and in speak-
ing ; and the moment we had got thus
far, communication by means of lan-
guage was established between us. I
had given my lessons at first by words
or phrases written in a book ; but now,
to test more perfectly the knowledge
she had acquired, and to prevent her
reading becoming a mere matter of
form and guess-work, I cut all her
phrases into words, gummed them
upon cardboard, and threw them pell-
mell into a box, from which she had to
take out every separate word that she
required for a phrase. This new ex-
ercise vexed her very much at first ;
but if it was tedious, it was also sure.
By degrees she became accustomed to
it, and at last seemed to prefer it to
the book, probably because it admitted
of greater facilities for varying her
phrases. Nevertheless it was trouble-
some work ; and I was curious to see
if Anna would seek, of her own accord,
to arrange her words in such a way as
to avoid the trouble of hunting through
the whole mass for every separate one
she wanted. It seemed not unlikely,
for she was very ingenious ; and so, in.
fact, it happened.
From time to time I observed that
she put aside certain words, and kept
them separate from the others ; and it
was impossible to mistake her exulta-
tion when these selected words were
called for in her lesson. Of course I
saw them as she put them by ; and, in
order to encourage her, I managed to
introduce them pretty often into our
conversations. Acting also upon this
hint, I had a drawer divided into small
compartments placed in the table at
which she took her lessons. Each
compartment was intended for a sepa-
rate class of words, but she was per-
mitted to arrange them according to
her own ideas ; and the moment a
word had been examined and under-
stood, she placed it in the compartment
to which she imagined it belonged.
Nouns, pronouns, verbs, articles each
332
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
had their separate partition ; but I ob-
served, with delight, that when I gave
her the verb "to drink," instead of
placing it with the other verbs, she put
it at once into the compartment she
had destined for liquids. Having re-
marked that it was always employed
with these substantives, it naturally
struck her that its proper place would
be among them. To casual observers
this may seem but a trifling thing to
mention, but it was an act of reasoning;
and in their half-mutilated natures the
whole power of instruction hangs so
entirely on the capacity for passing by
an act of reason from one fact to an-
other, from the known to that which is
still unknown, that every indication
which a pupil gives of possessing such
capacity is hailed with delight by her
teacher as an assurance of further
progress. Without it he knows that
instruction would be impossible.
When Anna was first introduced
into my establishment, she evidently
comprehended that she had fallen
among strangers. She brought us her
poor playthings, and insisted on our
examining them attentively, for she
was a baby still; a baby of twenty
years of age indeed, but as anxious to
be caressed and as requiring of notice
as a child of two years old. When
led in the evening to her bedside, she
immediately began to undress herself,
and the next morning rose gaily, show-
ing herself much pleased with the good
bed in which she had passed the night.
She made a little inclination of the
head to the sister who waited on her,
as if to salute her. At breakfast we
observed that she ate with more clean-
liness and propriety than is usual
among the blind.
Her first regular lesson was to knit ;
and we found it far less difficult to
teach her the stitch itself than to ha-
bituate her to work steadily for a long
time together. She had evidently no
idea of making it the regular occupa-
tion of the day. She would begin by
knitting a little ; then she would undo
or tear up all that was already done ;
and this would happen regularly over
and over again at least twenty times a
day. It was weary work at first ; but
after a time we managed to turn this
dislike for continuous occupation into a
means of teaching her more important
things. The moment she threw aside
her work, we took it up, and pretended
to insist upon her continuing it ; and
then at last, when we saw that she was
quite vexed and wearied out by our
solicitations, we used to offer her her
letters. She would take them, and,
evidently to avoid further worry, begin
to study them ; but the letters, like the
knitting, were soon flung aside, and
then the work once more was put into
her hands. In this way, and while she
fancied she was only indulging in her
own caprices, we were advancing
steadily toward our object training
her to occupation, and giving her the
means of future communication with
her fellow-creatures. We also dis-
covered that it was quite possible to
pique her out of her idle habits ; for
one day in the earlier period of her
education, when she happened to be
more than usually idle and inattentive,
her mistress led her toward a class of
children busily employed in working,
and said to hej by signs, " These little
children work ; and you, who are twice
their size, do you wish to sit there doing
nothing?" From that time we had
less trouble with her ; and once she
had learned to knit well and easily,
this kind of work seemed to become a
positive necessity to her. She delight-
ed in feeling with her fingers the pro-
gress she was making, and the needles
were scarcely ever out of her hands.
When Sunday came, she asked as
usual for her knitting, and was terribly
disappointed when she found that it
was withheld. I took the opportunity
to give her an idea of time a very
important point in her future educa-
tion ; so I said to her, " You shall not
knit to-day ; but after having slept once
more to-morrow in fact the needles
shall be given to you again." I fore-
saw this to be an explanation that
would need repeating ; and according-
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
333
ly, the very next Sunday, she asked
again for her knitting, and was again
refused. She was vexed at first, but
grew calm directly I had assured her
she should have it " on the morrow."
Many weeks afterward, and when
she seemed quite to understand that
work on this day was forbidden, she
came with a very serious countenance
and demanded her knitting ; then burst-
ing into a fit of laughing, made signs
that she knew she was not to knit on
that day, but that to-morrow she should
have her work again. She obtained a
knowledge of the past and future much
sooner than she did of the present,
using the signs expressive of the two
first long before she made an attempt
even at the latter.
It was a matter of great importance
that she should understand them all ;
therefore I not only introduced them
over and over again in our conversa-
tions, in order to render her familiar
with them, but I watched her carefully
to see that she made a right use of
them in her communications witli her
companions. A circumstance at last
occurred which satisfied me that she
was perfect in the lesson. On the feast
of St. Aloysius Gonzaga she went with
the other children to a church where
the festival was being celebrated. On
her return she expressed her gratitude
for the pleasure she had received, and
the next morning I observed that she
told every one she met that " yester-
day she had been to such a church ;"
while the day afterward I perceived
that in telling the same story she made
the sign of "yesterday" twice over
a proof how perfectly she comprehend-
ed the nature and division of time.
For a long time after she began to re-
side with us, she never mentioned either
her grandmother or aunt, probably be-
cause she was so completely absorbed
by the lessons of her new existence as
to have no time to think of them.
Gradually, however, they came back
to her recollection, and then she spoke
of them with gratitude and affection.
She began also to compare her present
state with her past, evidently consider-
ing the change for the better in her
physical and mental being as due to
the care that has been bestowed on her
here. She has twenty little ways of
expressing her gratitude. "My face
was all over blotches," she says by
signs ; " I could neither write nor
walk ; now I can hold myself upright,
and I can read, and know how to knit."
This consciousness, however, does not
at all interfere with her affection for
her grandmother; and when the old
woman died she grieved for some time
bitterly. What idea does the word
" death" bring to the mind of this child?
I know not ; but when we told her
about her grandmother, her mistress
made her lie down on the floor, and
then reminded her of a child who had
died in the establishment about a year
before ; after which we explained to
her that the body would be laid in the
ground, and be seen upon earth no
more. She wept a great deal at first ;
but suddenly drying her tears knelt
down, making signs to her mistress
and companions that they should do
the same ; and, that there might be no
mistake about her meaning, she held
up her rosary, to show them they must
pray. She did not forget her poor
grandmother for a considerable time,
and every morning made it a point to
inquire from her companions if they
also had remembered her that day.
One of her aunts died about the same
time, leaving to Anna as a legacy a
portion of her wardrobe. Anna's at-
tention instantly became concentrated
upon this new acquisition, and gowns
and handkerchiefs underwent a minute
and searching examination. The
gowns pleased her exceedingly ; so
also did some woollen pelerines, which
she instantly observed must be intend-
ed for the winter. At that moment
she was a complete woman, with all a
woman's innate love of dress and de-
sire for ornamentation. "Are there
not also ear-rings ?" she asked, anxious-
ly ; and being answered in the nega-
tive, she expressed clearly, by her
gestures, that it was a pity : it was
quite a pity.
334
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
Anna soon came to understand that
I was her master, and she attached
herself in consequence more strongly
to me than to any one else, for she
perfectly appreciated the service she
has received. One day after a lesson,
at which I had kept her until she
thoroughly understood it, she showed
herself more than usually grateful.
She took my hand and kissed it re-
peatedly, gratitude and affection beam-
ing in her face, and then, drawing her
mistress toward her, she made her
write, " I love M. Carton." I, on my
part, was enchanted to find that she
thus, of her own accord, asked for
words to express the sentiments of
the heart ; and I felt not a little proud
of being the object by whom this
latent feeling had first been called in-
to expression. But if Anna loves me,
she also fears me. In the beginning
of her education, I was the only per-
son about her who had strength
enough to prevent her scratching or
kicking exercises to which she was
rather addicted when put in a passion.
She likewise knew that it was I who
imposed any penance on her, and that
when she was compelled to remain
without handkerchief or cap in the
schoolroom, it was to M. Carton she
was indebted for the humiliation. One
day, in a fit of anger, she tore her cap ;
and her mistress, as soon as she was
calm enough to understand her, re-
monstrated with her, telling her at
the same time that I should be in-
formed of her misdeeds. To escape
the punishment which she knew must
follow, she had recourse to the other
children, acknowledged her fault to
them, and begged them to kneel down
and join their hands, in order to ob-
tain her pardon. Not one of the chil-
dren, whether among the blind or deaf
mutes, misunderstood her signs, and
this was one of the actions of Anna
which astonished me the most. Some
one was foolish enough once to tell
her that I was going away for some
days, and she took advantage of the
chance to behave extremely bad. They
made the sign by which she under-
stands that they mean me, and by
which they generally contrived to
frighten her into submission; but it
was all in vain. She laughed in the
face of her mistress, and told her she
was quite aware that I should not be
back for three days. They have taken
good care ever since not to let her
know when I am absent, though it
probably would make no difference
now, for her character has completely
changed since those early days, and
it is six months at least since she has
indulged in anything like a fit of pas-
sion. After me, her greatest affection
is reserved for my friend, M. Cauwe.
She is quite delighted when he comes,
and feels his face all over to make
sure that it is he. If she has a new
dress, he must feel and remark it ; if
she learns a new phrase, or a new kind
of work, it must be shown to him im-
mediately, in order that she may re-
ceive his praise ; and if by any chance
his visit has been delayed, she is sure
to perceive it, and to inquire into the
cause of his absence.
Anna is also very fond of all the
younger deaf and dumb children. She
takes them on her knees, carries them
in her arms, pets and punishes them,
and adopts a general and motherly air of
kindness and protection toward them.
One of them the other day happened
to be in an exceedingly troublesome
and tormenting mood. Anna could
not keep her quiet, or prevent her
teasing ; and at last, rather than lose
her temper, and strike her, as she
would formerly have done, she left
her usual place, and went to sit at the
opposite side of the room. In fact,
she never now attempts to attack any
of her companions, though she does not
fail in some way or other to pay back
any provocation she has received. She
takes nothing belonging to others, but
attaches herself strongly to her own
possessions, and is particularly indig-
nant if they attempt to meddle with
her objects for instruction. One of
the blind children happened to take a
sheet of her writing in points, in order
to try and read it ; but Anna was no
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
335
sooner aware of the theft than she
angrily reclaimed it. The next day
the same child begged as a favor that
she would lend her a sheet, in order
to practise her reading; but Anna
curtly refused, observing, that yester-
day she had taken it without leave,
and that to-day she certainly should
not have it, even for the asking. Anna's
chief pet and charge among the little
children is a child, blind, and maimed
of one arm, called Eugenie. When
this little thing was coming first to the
establishment Anna was told of it, and
the expected day named for her arri-
val. She immediately set to work
and made all sorts of arrangements in
her own mind for the reception of the
new child. The mistress would, of
course, teach it to read ; but it would
have a seat beside Anna, and with the
companion whom she already had,
there would be three to walk and
amuse themselves together. It so hap-
pened that Eugenie did not arrive on
the expected day. Anna was quite
downcast in consequence ; and when
at last it did appear, it instantly be-
came the object of all her tenderest
petting and endearment. She led it
to its seat, tried to make it understand
all that it would have to do and learn,
and at last, when she touched its little
arm, and found that it was maimed, and
incapable of being used, she burst into
tears, and was for a long time inconsol-
able. I tried to find out the cause
of her grief, and in what she consid-
ered the greatness of the child's mis-
fortune to consist, and she immediately
ted my attention to the fact that
child would never be able to learn
knit. The power of occupation had
been such an inestimable boon to her-
self, that she naturally felt any inabil-
ity on that score to be the most intol-
erable misfortune that could befal a
human being. When we assured her
that Eugenie would be able to knit as
well and easily as she did herself, she
became calm. The next day, however,
she was discovered trying to knit with
both hands shut, as if they had been
maimed like the blind child's, and she
immediately made her mistress observe
that in such a state she could neither
knit, blow her nose, nor dress herself,
ending all by expressing the immense
happiness she felt at possessing the
free use of her hands. Providence
has provided an antidote to every mis-
fortune. The blind child pities the
deaf-mute, the deaf-mute sighs over
the blind, and the blind, deaf, and dumb
girl feels her heart filled with inex-
pressible compassion for one deprived
of the free use of her hands. Anna
kept her word, and took great care of
the little Eugenie. She placed herself
indeed somewhat in the position of a
mother to the child, watched over its
conduct, examined its work, and went
so far as occasionally to administer a
slight correction.
If the weather was cold, she never
went to bed herself without feeling
that Eugenie was well covered up, and
giving her her blessing ; a good deed
she always took care to make known
to me in the morning. When first the
little thing came it was rather refrac-
tory and disinclined to submit to rules,
and the mistress acquainted Anna with
the fact. " Does not she like to knit ?"
asked Anna. " It is not with that,"
answered the mistress, " but with her
reading lesson, that she will not take
pains." Anna immediately went over
to the child, to try and persuade her
to fulfil her duty. She took her hand,
laid it on the book, remained for at least
a quarter of an hour persuading and
encouraging her ; and then, perceiving
that she had begun to be really atten-
tive, bade her get up and ask pardon
of her mistress for her past disobedi-
ence.
Another day she examined the
child's knitting, and finding it badly
done, shook her head gravely, in sign
of disapprobation. She then took Eu-
genie's hand, made her feel with her
own fingers the long loose stitches she
had made ; and making her kneel
down in the middle of the room,
pinned the work to her back, with
threats of even more serious punish-
ment in the future. Just then the
336
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
mistress joined the class, and found
Eugenie in tears, and on her knees,
with her work pinned behind her.
" Eugenie," she asked, " what are you
doing there, and why do you cry?'*
" The deaf and dumb girl has punished
me because my knitting was badly
done," said the child ; " and she says,
when M. Carton comes in, he will
throw a glass of water in my face."
In order to prevent this terrible as-
sault, the mistress advised her to ask
pardon of Anna, which she immedi-
ately did ; but the latter felt it due to
the dignity of the situation to allow
herself to be entreated a long time be-
fore she consented to grant it.
But though Anna considered it a
part of her duty to punish Eugenie for
her idleness, she was always otherwise
very gentle to the child. In giving
her a lesson, her mistress, with a view
of testing her knowledge of the verb
in question, once bade her " strike
Eugenie." Anna behaved very pret-
tily on this occasion. Before she
would perform the act required, she
took the blind child's hand and laid
it on the letters, in order to show her
that if she struck her, it was not be-
cause she was angry with her, but
simply because that phrase had been
given to her as an exercise in language.
On another occasion one of the blind
children disturbed the arrangement of
her words in their separate cases, and
one or two of them were lost. Anna
wept bitterly; and not content with
doing everything in her own power
to discover the author of the mischief,
she asked her mistress to assist in her
researches. The guilty one was found
out at last, and, in the heat of the mo-
ment, Anna demanded that she should
be punished ; but yielding afterward
to the natural goodness of her heart,
she went herself and interceded for
the little criminal. " She is blind, like
myself," she said, by way of excuse ;
and then embraced her with great cor-
diality in token of forgiveness. From
that time, however, she became sus-
picious, and scarcely dared to leave
her place for fear of a similar misfor-
tune. Some one, seeing this, advised
her to keep her letters in her pocket.
" Very pleasant indeed !" she answered,
bursting into a fit of laughter ; " and a
nice way, certainly, of preventing con-
fusion ! No ; I will ask M. Carton
to give me a lock and key for my box,
and then no one can touch them with-
out my knowing it." This was ac-
cordingly done ; and the key once safe
in her pocket, Anna could leave her
property in perfect security that it
would not be injured or stolen in her
absence.
Anna likes dainty food, and is very
fond of fruit. I suspected, however,
when first she came, that she had not
an idea of the way in which it was
procured. She had been so shut up
in her old home, that nature was still
an unexplored page to her ; and blind,
deaf, and dumb as she was, it was only
through the fingers that even now this
poor child could ever be taught to read
and comprehend it. It is not difficult,
therefore, to imagine her astonishment
and joy at each new discovery of this
kind which she makes. One day I
led her to an apricot tree, and made
her feel and examine it all over. She
dislikes trees extremely, probably be-*
cause in her solitary excursions she
must have often hurt herself against
them. She obeyed me, however,
though very languidly and unwillingly
at first ; but I never saw such aston-
ishment on any face before as I did on
hers, when, after a short delay, I took
her hand and laid it on an apricot.
She clasped her hands delightedly to-
gether, then made me touch the fruit,
as if she expected that I also would
be astonished ; and then recommenced
her examination of the tree, returning
over and over again, with an expres-
sion of intense joy over all her person,
to the fruit she had so unexpectedly
discovered. I permitted her at last to
pull the fruit and eat it, and she kissed
my hand most affectionately, in token
of gratitude for the immense favor I
had conferred upon her. After class-
time she returned alone to the garden ;
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
337
and as I foresaw that the discovery of
the morning would not be sterile, but
that, once put on the track, she would
continue her explorations on her own
account, I watched her closely. So, in
fact, it happened.
She was no sooner in the garden
than she began carefully to examine
all the plants and trees around her,
and it was amusing beyond anything
to watch her making her way cautious-
ly among the cabbages, touching the
leaves and stems, and trying with great
care and prudence to discover if this
plant also produced apricots. I suf-
fered her to continue this exercise for
a little time in vain ; then coming to
the rescue, after making her compre-
hend that cabbages, though good in
themselves to be eaten, did not bear
apricots, I led her to various kinds of
fruit-trees growing in the garden. I
did not name any of them to her then,
for I knew that in time she would
learn to distinguish one from the other,
and she had still so much to discover
of nature and her ways, that I did not
like to delay her by dwelling on dis-
tinctions which were, comparatively
speaking, of little consequence to her
in that early stage of her education.
This little course of botany we con-
tinued throughout the year. She was
taught to observe the fall of the leaf,
encouraged to examine the tree when
entirely bereft of foliage, and when the
spring-buds began to swell she was
once more brought to touch them, and
made to understand that they were
about to burst again into leaf and
flowers. The moment the leaves were
visible she inquired of one of her com-
panions if the tree was going to bear
fruit likewise ; and received for an-
swer that it would certainly do so
whenever the weather should become
sufficiently warm. Satisfied with this
information, she waited some time with
patience ; but a few very warm days
chancing to occur in the month of May,
she reminded her companion of what
she had been told, and inquired eager-
ly if the fruit was at last come.
In this way, during all that summer,
23
she found constant amusement in watch-
ing the progress of the different fruit-
trees, and I found her one day exam-
ining a pear with great attention. She
had not met with one before, so it was
quite a discovery to her, and she begged
me to let her have it in order that she
might show it to her mistress and learn
its name. With all her love of fruit,
however, I must record it to the honor
of this poor child that she never at-
tempted to touch it without permission ;
and that having been guided once to a
tree by one of her deaf-mute compan-
ions, and incited to gather the fruit,
she made a very intelligible sign that
it must not be done without an order
from me. On another occasion I gave
her a bunch of currants and told her to
eat them > but the moment she touched
them she discovered that they were
not ripe, and made signs to me that
she " must wait for a few days longer,
and that then they would be good to
eat."
Her delicacy of touch is in fact sur-
prising. I have often effaced her let-
ters, and flattened them with my nail
until it seemed impossible to discover
even a trace of them, and yet with her
finger she has never failed in following
out the form. She often also finds
pins and small pieces of money, and
picks them up when walking. She is
very proud on these occasions, and
takes good care to inform any one who
comes near her of the fact. She is
very active now, and always ready to
go and look for any thing or person
that she wants ; and if she does not
succeed in finding them, she engages
one of her companions to aid her in the
search. She seemed indeed always to
suspect that we knew better than she
did what was passing around us ;
though it was probably some time be-
fore she asked herself what the nature
of her own deficiency might be. A
day came, however, upon which she
obtained some clearer knowledge on
the subject ; and this was the way it
happened.
She had dropped one of her knitting-
needles, and after a vain attempt to
338
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
find it for herself, she was obliged to
have recourse to her mistress, who im-
mediately picked it up and gave it
back to her. Anna appeared to reflect
earnestly for a moment, and then draw-
ing the sister toward her writing-table,
she wrote : " Theresa," naming one of
the pupils of the institution "Theresa
is deaf; Lucy is deaf; Jane is blind ;
I am blind and deaf; you are ;" and
then she presented her tablets to the
sister, in order that the latter might
explain to her the nature of that other
faculty which she possessed, and which
enabled her to find so easily anything
that was lost.
This was a problem which had evi-
dently occupied her for a long time ;
and with her head bent forward and
fingers ready to seize the slightest ges-
ture, Anna waited eagerly for the an-
swer by which she hoped the mystery
would be solved to her at last. In a
second or two the embarrassment of
the mistress was nearly equal to the
eagerness of the pupil ; but after a
minute's hesitation she, with great tact,
resolved to repeat the action which had
caused Anna's question. Making the
bMnd-mute walk down the room with
her, she desired her once more to drop
her needle and then to pick it up
again, after which she wrote upon the
board, " The needle falls ; you touch
the needle with your hand ; you pick
it up with your fingers." Anna read
these words with an air which seemed
to say, " I know all that already ; but
there must be something more ;" and
so there was.
Her mistress made her once more
drop her needle ; and then, just as
Anna was stooping to pick it up, she
dragged her, in spite of the poor girl's
resistance, so far from it that she
could not touch it either with her
hands or feet. " It is ever so far
away," Anna said, in her mute lan-
guage; and stooping down to the
floor, she stretched out her hand as far
as ever it would go in a vain attempt
to reach it. The sister waited until
she was a little pacified, and then
wrote: "The needle falls." Anna an-
swered : " Yes." " The needle is far
off/' the sister wrote again ; and Anna
replied : " Alas, it is." " Sister N.
cannot touch the needle with her
hand." " Nor I either," Anna wrote
in answer. " Sister N. can touch the
needle with her eyes." Then followed
a mimic scene, in which the thing ex-
pressed by words was put into action.
Anna understood at last ; but, evi-
dently in order to make certain that
she did, she desired the sister to
guide her hand once more to the fallen
needle. Her mistress complied with
her request, and Anna was convinced.
The experiment was repeated over and
over again. Anna threw her needle
into various places, and then asked the
sister if she could touch it without
stooping. " Yes," replied her mistress ;
" I touch the needle with my eyes."
" Can you pick it up with your eyes ?"
asked Anna. The sister made her
feel that her eyes were not fingers ;
and then once more picking up the
needle she gave it to Anna, to be sat-
isfied that she at last understood the
nature of the faculty which her in-
structress possessed and which was
wanting in herself.
From that tune she invariably made
a distinction between the blind chil-
dren and those who were merely deaf-
mutes. She had always hitherto been
ready enough to avenge herself on
any of her companions who struck her,
whether accidentally or on purpose.
Now if she found it was a blind child
who had done so, she would of her
own accord excuse her, saying, " She
is blind; she cannot touch me with
her eyes when I am at a distance
from her." In the same manner, if
she lost anything, she would ask the
first deaf-mute whom she met to help
her to look for it, while she never
attempted to seek a similar service
from any of the children whom she
knew to be blind. She showed her
knowledge of the difference between
the two classes most distinctly upon
one occasion, when her knitting hav-
ing got irretrievably out of order, she
communicated her perplexity to the
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
339
blind child at her side. The latter
wanted to take it from her in order to
arrange it; but Anna drew it back,
and, touching first the eyes of the
child and then her own, as if she
would have said, " You also are blind,
and can do no better than myself,"
she waited quietly until she could
give it to the mistress to disentangle
for her.
Anna delights in telling her com-
panions all her adventures, though
she takes care never to mention her
faults or their punishment. She will
acknowledge the former if taxed with
them, but she does not like to be
reminded either of the one or of
the other. "I have done my pen-
ance," she says: "it is past; you
must not speak of it any more." With
this exception she tells all that she
has done or intends to do ; and she is
enchanted beyond measure when she
can inform them that she has succeed-
ed in playing a trick on her mistress.
She will tell the story with infinite
glee, and always contrives exceedingly
well to put the thing in its most ridi-
culous light before them.
She was fond of milk, and observed,
or was told, one day that a cup of milk
had been given to a child who was
sick. The next morning, while in
chapel, she burst into tears. Her mis-
tress led her from the class, and asked
what was the matter. She coughed,
showed her tongue, held out her hand,
that the mistress might feel her pulse ;
in fact she was as ill as she could be,
and excessively thirsty. A cup of
milk was brought ; and the medicine
was so good, that five minutes after-
ward she managed to eat her break-
fast with an excellent appetite. Dur-
ing the recreation that followed, .she
took care to explain to her companions
the means by which she had procured
herself the milk. A few days after-
ward she recommenced the comedy,
and played it so well, that, thinking
she really was ill, her mistress desired
her to go to bed. This was more
than she wished for ; but she went up-
stairs, trusting, no doubt, that some-
thing would happen to extricate her
from the dilemma. Her mistress went
to see her ; and finding her sitting on
the side of the bed, asked why she
did not get into it, as she had been de-
sired. " Madame," said Anna, " it is
very cold, but I should get warm if
you would give me a cup of milk ;
that would cure me in no time ; and a
little bread and butter with it would
also do me good." The sister then
perceived how the case really stood,
and answered promptly, " If you will
get into bed you shall have the milk,
but not the bread and butter. If, on
the contrary, you prefer to go down-
stairs, you shall have the bread and
butter, but not the milk. "Which do
you choose?" "Both," quoth Anna.
But as both were not to be had, she
was obliged to content herself with
the amusement of telling her intended
trick to her companions, which she did
with many regrets that it had not been
successful.
But though Anna likes to tell all
these little schemes and adventures to
any one who will listen to her; and
though, if taxed with them by her
mistress, she is quite ready to ac-
knowledge them with a laugh, it is
far otherwise when the action itself
contains anything seriously contrary
to honesty or justice. In that case
she takes good care to be silent on the
subject ; and if silence is impossible,
she endeavors, in all manner of ways,
to explain it away or excuse it.
One day she entered the schoolroom
before any of the other pupils, and find-
ing that a piece of wire, belonging to the
pedal of the piano, was loose, she broke
it quite off, put it into her pocket, and
returned triumphantly to her place.
Her mistress, happening to be in the
room at the moment, saw the whole
affair, and placed herself in her way,
in order that Anna might know she
had been observed. She then asked
her what she had put in her pocket,
and Anna instantly replied that it was
her beads. Her mistress gave her to
understand that she was trying to de-
ceive her, and made her touch, as a
340
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
proof, the other end of the wire which
she had broken. She was evidently
confused, and became as red as fire,
but with marvellous adroitness man-
aged to let the wire slip out of her
pocket to the ground. She had, of
course, no idea that it would make a
noise in falling ; and fancying that she
had concealed the theft, continued
positively to deny it In order still
better to prove her innocence, she
then knelt down and began feeling all
over the floor, until she had found
the wire which she had dropped, and
holding it up in triumph, said, by signs,
" I will ask M. Carton to give it to
me that I may make it into a cross
for my beads."
In this way she is always being in-
genious in finding excuses for her
faults. Her mistress once complained
of her knitting, and she immediately
held up her needles, which were bent,
as if she would have said, " How is it
possible to knit with such needles as
these?" Another day, feeling more
idle than usual, and wishing to remain
in bed, she made them count her
pulse, and begged by signs that they
would send immediately for M. Verte,
the physician of the house. We knew
well it was only a trick to stay a little
longer in bed, and she was the first to ac-
knowledge it as soon as she had risen.
I like to watch her when she fancies
herself alone, as I then often find in
her most trivial actions a something
interesting or suggestive for her fu-
ture improvement. I discovered her
once alone in the class-room and bus-
ily engaged in examining every corner
of the desks. All at once she went
toward the black table on which the
deaf-mutes write their exercises, and
taking a piece of chalk, began to trace
lines upon it at random. I was curi-
ous to know what discovery she was
trying to make, and in a few minutes
I perceived it. As soon as she had
traced her lines, she passed her hands
over them to see if she could read
them. She was aware that her com-
panions read upon this board ; and as
she knew of no other method of read-
ing- than by letters in relief, she nat-
urally supposed that the lines she had
traced would be sufficiently raised to
enable her to do so. For a few min-
utes she continued thus trying to
follow with her finger the chalk-lines
she had made ; but finding consider-
able difficulty in doing so, she at last
returned to her book, compared the
letters in it with the lines on the board,
and evidently pronounced a verdict in
favor of the former. I could see, in fact,
that she was quite delighted with its
apparent superiority, and she never
attempted to write on the black-board
again.
She often makes signs that seem to
indicate an inexplicable knowledge of
things of which it is impossible she
can naturally have any real percep-
tion. She was born blind ; she can
look at the sun without blinking, and
the pupil of the eye is as opaque as
the skin. Nevertheless her mistress
happening to ask her one night why
she had left off her work, she answered
that it was too dark to work any-
longer, and that she must wait for a
light."* In chapel, also, she has evi-
dently impressions which she does not
receive elsewhere. She likes to go
there ; often asks to be permitted to do
so, and while in it always remains in
an attitude and with an expression of
face which would indicate a profound
consciousness of the presence of God.
One of her companions once told her
that I was ill. Anna perceived that
the child was crying : " I will not cry,"
she said immediately, " but I will
pray ;" and she actually did go down
on her kjiees, and remained in that
position for nearly a quarter of an
hour. She told me this herself, and
I was enchanted ; for who can doubt
that God held himself honored by the
supplicating attitude of his poor muti-
lated creature ? And yet what passes
in the mind of this child during the
moments which she spends in the atti-
tude of prayer ? What is her idea of
* She possibly may have learned the expression
from some of the deaf-mutes not blind. TB.
History of a Blind Deaf-Mute.
341
God ? What is the language of her
heart when she thus places herself in
solemn adoration in his presence?
What is, in fact, her prayer ? I know
not ; it is a mystery yet a mystery
which I trust she will some day find
words to explain to me herself. One
thing alone is certain ; there is that
in her heart and mind which has
not been placed there by man, and
which tells her there is a Father and a
God for her in heaven.
CONCLUSION.
Extract of a letter from M. Carton,
announcing the death of the blind
mute, Anna Timmermans, after a res-
idence of twenty-one years in his es-
tablishment at Bruges :
BRUGES, Sept. 26, 1859.
GENTLEMEN, I write to you in
deep affliction, for death hath this day
deprived me of my blind mute, Anna
Timmermans, whom you may remem-
ber to have seen at my establishment
last year.
She was just forty-three years of
age; and twenty-one of these had
been passed at my asylum. God has
taken her from this life to bestow
upon her a better, and his holy will be
done ! It was a great mercy to her,
but I shall regret her all my lifetime,
even while rejoicing at her present
happiness, and feeling most thankful
for that love and knowledge of Al-
mighty God to which, through all the
physical difficulties of her position, he
enabled her to attain. She loved him
indeed with all the nawete, and in-
voked him with the simple confidence
of a child ; and the last weeks of her
life were almost entirely devoted to
earnest entreaties that he would call
her to himself.
You are the first to whom I an-
nounce my loss, because of all those
persons who have visited my house,
you seem best to have comprehended
the painful position of a deaf-mute,
and the exquisite sensibility which
they are capable of feeling toward any
one who shows them sympathy and
affection. I have already described
Anna as she was when she came first
among us a girl twenty-one years
of age, with the stature of a woman
and the habits of a child. I need not
recall her to your remembrance as she
appeared to you last year, a woman
thoughtful beyond the common, and
endowed with such true knowledge of
God and of religion, that you deemed
it no indignity to ask her prayers, and
were pleased by her simple promise
never to forget you.
Thanks be to*God for his great
goodness toward his poor, afflicted
child ! She not only learned to know
him and to love him, but we were en-
abled by degrees to place her in still
closer communication with him, by
means of those sacraments which he
has appointed to convey grace to the
soul. The last confession which she
made previous to receiving extreme
unction reminds me of all the difficulty
we had long ago experienced in per-
suading her to make her first.
" It will soon be Easter," said one day
to her the sister appointed to prepare
her for this duty. " It will soon be
Easter, and then you and all of us
will have to go to confession."
" What is confession ?" asked Anna.
" It is to tell our sins to the priest,"
explained the sister ; " and to ask par-
don of them from God."
"But why should we do that?"
quoth Anna.
" Because," replied the sister, " God
himself has commanded us to confess
our sins. You will have to do it,
therefore, like the rest of us; and
when you go to confession, you must
say in your heart to God, * I am sorry
for my sins. Forgive me, O my God ;
and I promise I will sin no more.' "
"And what are the sins I must
confess ?" asked Anna. She was stand-
ing in the midst of her class, who had
all assembled to receive instruction, at
the moment when she put the ques-
tion.
" You have been in a passion," re-
plied the sister; "you must confess
342
History of 'a Blind Deaf-Mute.
that. You have broken M. Carton's
spectacles. You have torn the cap of
Sister So-and-so. You have scratched
one of the blind children ; and you
must mention all these things when
you go to confession."
"All these things are past and
gone," replied Anna, resolutely ; "when
I broke M. Carton's spectacles, I was
made, for my punishment, to kneel
down ; and," she continued, lightly pass-
ing one hand over the other, as if rub-
bing out something, " that was effaced.
When I tore Sister >o-and-so's cap, I
was not allowed any coffee ; and," re-
peating the action with her hands,
" that was effaced. When I scratched
the blind child, I went to bed without
supper ; and that was effaced. I will
not, therefore, confess any of these
things."
" But, Anna," replied the sister, " we
are all obliged to go to confession. I
am going myself, as well as you."
"Oui da! Have you, then, also,
been in a passion, -my sister ? Have
you broken M. Carton's spectacles,
torn our sister's cap, and scratched a
blind child?"
Anna asked these questions with
an immense air of triumph, and waited
the answer with a wicked smile, which
seemed to say she had put the sister
in a dilemma. Not one of the class
'misunderstood the little malice of her
questions. Indeed, the uncharitable
surmise as to the nature of their mis-
tress's conduct appeared so piquant to
all of them, that they unanimously
insisted on its receiving a reply. It is
not difficult, indeed, to imagine their
amusement, for .they were all daugh-
ters of Eve ; and, beside, the best of
children have an especial delight in
embarrassing their superiors. Alto-
gether it was a scene for a painter.
" I have not been in a passion ;
God forbid!" replied the poor sister,
gently. " And I have not scratched or
done injury to any one ; but I have
done so-and-so, and so-and-so." And
here, with the greatest ndivete and
humility, the sister mentioned some of
her own shortcomings. " I have done
so-and-so and so-and-so, and am going
to confess them ; for I know I have
sinned by doing these things; but I
hope God will pardon me, and give
me grace not to offend him again in
like manner."
When the children heard this hum-
ble confession, they one by one quietly
left the class, like those in the gospel,
beginning with the eldest ; but Anna,
even while acknowledging herself de-
feated, could not resist the small ven-
geance of giving the sister a lecture
on her peccadilloes.
"Remember, my sister, you are
never again to do so-and-so and so-
and-so. You must be very sorry, and
promise to be wiser another time. And
above all other things, you must go to
confession to obtain God's pardon."
" And you ?" asked the sister, as
her only answer to this grave exhor-
tation.
" And I also will go to confession,"
replied Anna, completely vanquished
at last by the tenderness and humility
of the good religious.
From that time, in fact, Anna
went regularly to confession ; and so
far from having any difficulty in per-
suading her to do so, she often re-
minded us herself when the time was
approaching for the performance of
that duty.
During the winter preceding her
death she grew weaker from day to day ;
and her loss of appetite, extreme emaci-
ation, and inability to exert herself, all
convinced us that we were about to
lose her. She herself often spoke
about dying, though for a long time
she would not permit any one else to
address her on the subject. If any of
the sisters even hinted at her danger,
she would grow quite pale, and turn
off the conversation ; and even when
she alluded of her own accord to the
symptoms that alarmed her, it seemed
as if, like many other invalids, she did
so in order to be reassured as to her
state. She became convinced at last,
however, that she could not recover,
and from that moment her life was
one uninterrupted act of resignation
History of a Hind Deaf-Mute.
343
to the will of God, submission to his
providence, and hope and confidence
in his mercy. These sentiments never
forsook her even for a moment. " I
suffer," she used to say, " I suffer a
great deal ; but Jesus suffered more ;"
and, embracing her crucifix, she would
renew all her good resolutions to suf-
fer patiently, and her earnest entreaties
for grace to do so.
Previous to receiving the last sacra-
ments, Anna disposed of everything be-
longing to her in favor of her compan-
ions, and then causing them all to be
brought to her bedside, she kissed each
one affectionately, and bade her adieu.
After that she refused to see any of
them again, seeking only the company
of the sisters, and of that one in par-
ticular who best understood the silent
language of the fingers. " Let us speak
a little," the poor sufferer would often
say, " of God and heaven ;" and then
would follow long and earnest conver-
sations full of faith and hope and love,
confidence in the mercies of Almighty
God, and gratitude for his goodness.
During these communications Anna
would become quite absorbed, as it
were, in the love of God ; her poor
face would brighten into an expression
of absolute beauty ; and she seemed
to lose all sense of present suffering
in her certain hope and expectation of
the joy that was about to come in on
her soul.
" A little more," she would often
say, when she fancied the conversation
was about to finish ; " speak to me a
little more of God. I love him and
he loves me. O my dear sister, will
you not also come soon to heaven, and
love him for evermore ?"
Her agony commenced on the morn-
ing of the 26th of September, and she
expired about noon, so quietly that
we scarce perceived the moment in
which she passed away (safe and hap-
py, as I trust) to the presence of her
God.
I recommend her to your good
prayers ; and I trust that she also will
sometimes think of us and pray for us
in heaven.
344 Twilight in the North.
From Macmillan's Magazine.
TWILIGHT IN THE NORTH.
"UNTIL THE DAY BREAK, AND THE SHADOWS FLEE AWAY."
OH the long northern twilight between the day and the night,
When the heat and the weariness of the world are ended quite ;
When the hills grow dim as dreams; and the crystal river seems
Like that River of Life from out the Throne where the blessed walk in white.
Oh the weird northern twilight, which is neither night nor day,
When the amber wake of the long-set sun still marks his western way ;
And but one great golden star in the deep blue east afar
Warns of sleep and dark and midnight of oblivion and decay.
Oh the calm northern twilight, when labor is all done,
And the birds in drowsy twitter have dropped silent one by one ;
And nothing stirs or sighs in mountains, waters, skies
Earth sleeps but her heart waketh, till the rising of the sun.
Oh the sweet, sweet twilight, just before the time of rest,
When the black clouds are driven away, and the stormy winds suppressed :
And the dead day smiles so bright, filling earth and heaven with light
You would think 'twas dawn come back again but the light is in the west.
Oh the grand solemn twilight, spreading peace from pole to pole I-
Ere the rains sweep o'er the hill-sides, and the waters rise and roll,
In the lull and the calm, come, O angel with the palm
lu the still northern twilight, Azrael, take my soul.
A Night, in a Glacier
345
From Chambers's Journal.
A NIGHT IN A GLACIER.
NOTHING is more common than to
hear the wish expressed among ordi-
nary tourists " to see Switzerland in
the whiter ;" and nothing is more dis-
appointing than 'its fulfilment. To see
Switzerland then is just what you
cannot do ; all that is visible is one
vast sheet of blinding snow, unrelieved
by a particle of color ; and the view is
not even grand it is simply monoto-
nous. However, in April, 1864, I
made the experiment of choosing that
month, instead of the conventional
August, for a mountaineering ramble ;
and having been weather-bound at least
half a dozen times, in various places,
found myself in the same miserable
predicament, at the hospice of the
Great St. Bernard. It was terribly
wearisome work. We had exhausted
all our small-talk, had discussed all
the celebrated passages of the Alps,
from that of Hannibal with his vinegar-
cruets to that of Macdonald with his
dragoons ; had worked the piano to
death by playing derisive waltzes ; had
elicited fearful wheezings from the har-
monium, and blundered inappropriate
marches on the organ when, early
on the third morning, two momentous
events occurred. In the first place,
the weather had become suddenly fine ;
and in the second, the news had arrived
that a party of Italian wood-carvers
had reached St. Remy, on their pas-
sage to the Rhone valley, and that two
of their number had left the main
body on the previous evening, avowing
their intention of making their way to
a little stone hut, which is used in
summer as a dairy for the supply of
the hospice, and passing the night
there. This hut, however, had been
visited that morning, and found to be
untenanted ; and as the traces of the
two wanderers had been obliterated by
the snow during the night, the mes-
senger had been sent forward to obtain
assistance in the search for them.
Though the unusually large fall of
snow in the winter of 1863-64 made
mountain-climbing singularly easy in
the past autumn (Mont Blanc was
ascended by more than seventy tourista
in the latter year), yet in the spring
the passes were rendered more than
usually difficult by the loose snow
which the sun had not yet been power-
ful enough to solidify by regelation.
Most travellers who cross in summer
must have noticed a line of stout posts
about ten or twelve feet high, which
are placed on the most elevated points
of the path, so that their summits,
which the snow rarely reaches, may
serve as landmarks in the winter ; but
at this time the posts were entirely
covered, and it was not without great
difficulty that the man who brought
the news had been able to find his way
to the Hospice. There was no time
to be lost. Abandoning their usual
costume for a dress more suited to do
battle with the elements, four of the
" fathers " were soon ready to start,
two of them shouldering knapsacks of
provisions, one bearing a stout rope,
and the fourth carrying an axe, with
which to cut steps, if necessary, in the
ice. Just as they were leaving, it was
discovered that the last-named im-
plement had a crack in its handle,
which would most probably cause it
to break short off when brought into
active service ; and as some delay
would be caused by fitting a fresh
handle, Pere Christophe, to whose
cordial politeness few travellers are not
indebted, came to ask for the loan of
my axe for the day. " Perhaps, how-
ever," he said, " as monsieur is used to
glacier expeditions, he would like to
accompany us in our search, and so to
carry his axe himself?" a proposal
346
A Night in a Glacier.
with which I eagerly closed, promising
that my preparations should not delay
them above five minutes.
The messenger had arrived at eight
in the morning ; and in less than half
an hour afterward, we were making
our way over the lake on the Italian
side of the pass. Two of the renowned
dogs were with us ; but their proceed-
ings did not confirm the idea which had
long ago been produced on my childish
mind by the well-known print of a St.
Bernard dog, with a bottle of wine and
a basket of food round its neck, scratch-
ing away the snow under which a way-
farer was supposed to lie buried. For
finding lost travellers, indeed, they are,
as I was assured by the monks, in no-
wise adapted ; their function, and a
most important one it is, is to find the
direct path up and down the pass, when
it is covered with snow, and in this duty
they are unrivalled. Fortunately, the
frosts had been very severe, so that we
were able to tramp cheerily over the
crisp snow, instead of having to under-
go the fatigue of sinking up to our
knees at every step. But probably
the poor fellows down below wished
that the frost had been lighter, and
our walk heavier. The scene was
grand in its wildness. Huge clouds
hung along the mountain-sides at our
feet, now whirling boisterously, now
creeping sullenly .along ; and rough
gusts of wind dashed the snow with
blinding coldness into our faces, and
produced on ears and nose a tingling
terribly suggestive of frost-bites. It
was unusual, M. Chiistophe said, for
the fathers themselves to go out in
search of travellers ; the latter gen-
erally waited at the house of refuge
near the Cantine, or that near St.
Rerriy, and a servant was sent down
with a dog to lead them up ; but in
cases like the present, where search
must be made in different directions,
it was of advantage to have three or
four people with local knowledge to
join in it. Beside, the expedition was .
a relief to the ordinary monotony of
convent life ; though the kindness of
English travellers had done much for
the comfort of the brethren, in supply-
ing them with musical instruments,
books, and similar means of recreation.
The circumstances under which the
Prince of "Wales sent them their piano
were curious enough. He had bought
one of the dogs, which, .being quite
young and very fat, was given into the
charge of a porter to carry down. The
man stupidly let it fall, and it was
killed on the spot. The prince (this
was some time ago) "burst into tears,
and was almost inconsolable ; but the
monks, on hearing of the loss, sent
another dog, which the prince received
while at Martigny ; and when he
reached Paris, he forwarded, as a royal
acknowledgment for the gift, one of
Erard's best piano-fortes, which has
been the great cheerer of their winter
evenings, and on which they set no
small store.
Pleasantly chatting after this fashion,
my friend beguiled the way to the
house of refuge, which we reached
before ten o'clock, and where we found
collected about five-and-twenty people,
waiting to be led up to the hospice.
Leaving them in charge of one of the
monks, we proceeded along the valley
where the vacherie of the hospice is
situated, toward the Col de la Fenetre,
in search of the man and woman who
were missing. It appeared that they
were natives of the Val de Lys, which
descends from Monte Rosa toward
Italy, and the inhabitants of which have,
from time immemorial, held themselves
aloof from all communication with their
neighbors, and have formed of their
little community a sort of nation
within a nation, to which a native of
Alagna or St. Martin would have no
more chance of being admitted by mar-
riage, than a reformer of the franchise
would of being elected a member of the
Carlton Club. So we discovered that
the two lost sheep, presuming on their
fortunate accident of birth, had been
sneering at the others as having been
"raised" in the country of cretins and
lean pigs, and had excited such a storm
of abuse about their ears, that, finding
themselves only two to twenty, they
A Night in a Glacier.
347
had beaten a retreat, and decided to
sleep at the cow-hut. At this we ar-
rived in about half an hour ; but it was
evident that it had not been tenanted
for some weeks by anything but mar-
mots, of which we saw a couple scud-
ding along with that awkward mixture
of scratch and shuffle which is their
ordinary mode of locomotion. From
here we each made casts, to use the
hunting phrase, in different directions,
especially trying places which lay on
the leeward side of rocks, and on which,
therefore, any tracks might not have
been effaced by the night's snow. A
diabolical yell, which was the result of
an attempt to imitate thejodel of the
Oberland guides, met with no human
response, but was taken up, as it seemed,
by a chorus of imps in the depths of
the mountain ; and by the multiplying
echoes so common in Switzerland was
carried on from crag to crag, till it ap-
peared to be lost only at the top of the
valley. We fixed on a point about a
mile off at which to reunite, as what
was snow in the lower part of the
valley would be ice higher up, and
would probably be crossed by crevasses,
among which it would be dangerous to
go singly, and without the protection
of the rope. Presently there came a
shout .from the extreme left of our
quartett, and we saw the young mar-
ronnier (that is, a half-fledged monk
or deacon) standing on the top of some
rocks, and indulging in various contor-
tions and gesticulations, which we in-
terpreted as a summons for our help ;
and when we reached him, he wanted
it badly enough, for right before him
were the objects of our search ; but
how to get at them was a problem
which required all our skill and all our
strength for its solution.
He had come to where the glacier
joined the rocks over which our course
had hitherto been, when his progress
was stopped by a bergschrund or deep
chasm between a nearly perpendicular
wall of rock on one side, and a wall of
ice on the other, inclined at an angle
of probably sixty-five degrees. On
reaching this, we could see the fugi-
tives about fifty feet below us, and
were relieved by the assurance that
they were neither of them seriously in-
jured, except by the cold, which had
made them unable to do anything to
extricate themselves. It was evident
that nothing could be done from the
side of the* rocks, so we made our way
as quickly-as-'poSsible along the side of
the bergschrund," to cross on to the
glacier. This involved a long detour;
but the bergschrund was too wide to
be jumped, and far too steep to be
scaled, while the insecurity of the
snow-bridges over it was apparent. At
last we found one that seemed solid,
and M. Christophe led the way upon
it boldly, but had scarcely reached the
middle, when it' suddenly broke down ;
and but for the rope that great pro-
tection of mountaineers he would
have had very little chance of seeing
the hospice again. As it was, I was
the chief sufferer, for I happened to
be second in line, and had my waist
(round which the rope was tied in a
slip-knot) reduced to wasp-like propor-
tions by the jerk' of a man of fourteen
stone falling in front, and the counter-
acting strain which my rear-rank man
forthwith put on behind. At last we
crossed, and hastily made our way to
the scene of action. I have estimated
the angle of the ice-wall at sixty-five
degrees, and tremendous as that incli-
nation is, I believe I have rather un-
derstated it. though, as my clinometer
was left behind, I could only compare
it mentally with the well-known ice-
wall on the Strahleck, which seemed
about fifteen degrees less. Our rope
was about ten feet too short to reach
the bottom, so the axe was brought
into requisition to cut steps for that
distance, and to carve out a ledge
which should give us secure hand-hold
as well. This done, we let down the
rope ; but the man's fingers were so
benumbed with the night's exposure,
that he was unable to tie it round his
wife ; and though she offered to attach
it to him first, he refused to be drawn
up until after her. This punctilio
seemed rather misplaced, as it involved
348
A Night in a Glacier.
the descent of one of our number ; but
you cannot argue with a man who has
spent the night in the heart of a glacier;
so the lightest of our party lost no time
in descending, which Avas only difficult
from the piercing cold that was begin-
ning to get the better of us, and which
was so benumbing, that cutting the
five-and-fifty steps for the descent was
a rather formidable task.
The appearance of the girl's face
she was scarcely more than a girl
was one to fix itself in the memory.
It was white almost as white as the
snow which had so nearly formed her
cold winding-sheet; stains of blood
were on the blue lips, which she had
involuntarily bitten through in that
night's agony. Her laTge Italian eyes
seemed fascinated by the wall of snow
at which she glared ; and even now,
when rescue was certain, she could
only burst into a flood of tears,
and repeatedly ejaculate "gerettet!"
(saved !) having again sunk into the
crouching position from which the.
question as to the rope had roused her.
The tears indeed gave relief to the
heart over which a shadow of a terrible
death had for long hours been brood-
ing. The shortness of our rope caused
the only difficulty in the ascent ; but
we managed to hew out a sort of stage
on the ice at which we could rest with
her, while the two younger monks
carried the rope to the top, and then
completed her restoration to the upper
day. The husband's ascent was rather
harder of achievement, as his chilled
limbs made him as helpless as a child
in arms, without reducing his weight
in the same proportion ; but after some
awkward slips, it was managed ; and
having refreshed the inner man, we
made our way painfully toward the
hospice, obliging the husband to walk,
in spite of the agony which it caused
him, as the only means of saving his
limbs. We then learned that on the
previous evening they had started for
the chalet, the situation of which was
well known to them, but had been com-
pletely enveloped in a cloud of thick
mist which had risen from the valley,
and had obscured their way ; that after
numerous turnings, they had decided,
just before darkness came on, to make
their way up the St. Bernard valley,
knowing that in time they must come
to the hospice, but that they had actu-
ally mistaken for it the valley leading
up to the Col de la Fenetre, which is
nearly at right angles to the other, and
had come upon the bergschrund at a
point where there was fortunately a
huge cornice of snow. On this they
must have unwittingly walked, as they
believed, for many yards, when it sud-
denly gave way with that terrible
rushing sound at which most explorers
of the great ice-world have shuddered
once or twice in their lived. Fortu-
nately, an immense mass of snow gave
way, and its bulk broke their fall, and
saved them from being dashed with
fatal violence against the rocks. They
were warmly clad, and had the courage
to keep in motion during nearly the
whole night, performing an evolution
corresponding to the goose-step of the
volunteers, as they dared not change
their ground in the darkness.
When the gray morning showed that
there was no possibility of their extri-
cating themselves, and the snow fell,
which they knew would hide their
track, the husband sank down in de-
spair, saying : " Nun bedeckt mich
mien Grabtuch" (Now my shroud is
covering me) and two hours of inac-
tion were sufficient to allow the cold
to seize his hands and feet. It was
curious to observe how, as we gleaned
the story from husband and wife, each
praised the other's endurance, and
depreciated his or her own. They had
only been married at Gressonnay St.
Giacomo four days before, and were
on their way to the celebrated wood-
carving manufactory at Freyburg. We
had nearly reached the hospice, having
had hard work in helping our friend
to walk, and in beating his fingers
smartly to restore circulation, when the
girl, who had refused our aid en route,
suddenly gave a shriek and fainted
away. The cause of this had not to
be sought for long. Our path had led
Constance Sherwood.
349
us close by the Morgue, in which, as
is well known, the rarity of the air
preserves the corpses so thoroughly
that they retain for years the appear-
ance of only recent death. There,
placed upright against the wall, is the
ghastly row ; and one figure that of a
woman with a child in her arms is
especially noticeable for having pre-
served not only the features, but even
the expression which marked the last
agony of despair. To see these, you
must generally wait some moments
before your eyes get accustomed to the
dim light in which they are ; but on
this occasion, the glare reflected from
the snow threw the whole interior of
the charnel-house into full view, and
the revulsion of feeling was too much
for the poor girl, who had so narrowly
escaped a similar fate. She was borne
into the hospice, and soon recovered ;
and on the following morning, both
were able to resume their journey,
though it was feared by the monks,
who had had large experience of frost-
bites, that one of the man's fingers
would be sacrificed. They were pro-
fuse in their gratitude, and left, deter-
mined that the superiority of the in-
habitants of the Val de Lys over all
other Piedmontese, Italians, and Sa-
voyards, was not best maintained by
spending a night in a bergschrund.
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEOKGIANA FULLERTON.
CHAPTER VI.
I WAS to travel, as had been ordered
for our mutual convenience and protec-
tion, with Mistress Ward, a gentle-
woman who resided some months in
our vicinity, and had heard mass in
our chapel on such rare occasions as
of late had occurred, when a priest was
at our house, and we had commodity
to give notice thereof to such as were
Catholic in the adjacent villages. We
had with us on the journey two serving-
men and a waiting-woman, who had
been my mother's chambermaid ; and
so accompanied, we set out on our way,
singing as we went, for greater safety,
the litanies of our Lady ; to whom we
did commend ourselves, as my father
had willed us to do, with many fervent
prayers. The gentlewoman to whose
charge I was committed was a lady of
singular zeal and discretion, as well as
great virtue; albeit, where religion
was not concerned, of an exceeding
timid disposition; which, to my no
small diversion then, and great shame
since, I took particular notice of on
this journey. Much talk had been
ministered in the county touching the
number of rogues and vagabonds which
infested the public roads, of which
sundry had been taken up and whipped
during the last months, in Lichfield,
Stafford, and other places. I did per-
ceive that good Mistress Ward glanced
uneasily as we rode along at every foot-
passenger or horseman that came in
sight. Albeit my heart was heavy,
and may be also that when the affections
are inclined to tears they be likewise
prone to laughter, I scarce could
restrain from smiling at these her fears
and the manner of her showing them.
"Mistress Constance," she said at
last, as we came to the foot of a steep
350
Constance Sherwood.
ascent, " methinks you have a great
heart concerning the dangers which
may befall us on the road, and that the
sight of a robber would move you not
one whit more than that of an honest
pedler or hawker, such as I take those
men to be who are mounting the hill in
advance of us. Doth it not seem to
you that the box which they do carry
betokens them to be such worthy per-
sons as I wish them to prove ?"
"Now surely," I answered, "good
Mistress Ward, 'tis my opinion that
they be not such honest knaves as you
do suppose. I perceive somewhat
I mislike in the shape of that box.
What an if it be framed to entice
travellers to their ruin by such dis-
plays and shows of rare ribbons and
gewgaws as may prove the means of
detaining them on the road, and a-
robbing of them in the end ?"
Mistress Ward laughed, and com-
mended my jesting, but was yet ill at
ease ; and, as a mischievous and
thoughtless creature, I did somewhat
excite and maintain her fears, in order
to set her on asking questions of our
attendants touching the perils of the
road, which led them to relate such
fearful stories of what they had seen
of this sort as served to increase her
apprehensions, and greatly to divert
me, who had not the like fears ; but
rather entertained myself with hers,
in a manner such as I have been since
ashamed to think of, who should have
kissed the ground on which she had
trodden.
The fairness of the sky, the beauty
of the fields and hedges, the motion of
the horse, stirred up my spirits ; albeit
my heart was at moments so brimful
of sorrow that 1 hated my tongue for
its wantonness, my eyes for their
curious gazing, and my fancy for its
eager thoughts anent London and the
new scenes I should behold there.
What mostly dwelt in them was the
hope to see my Lady Surrey, of whom
I had had of late but brief and scanty
tidings. The last letter I had from
her was writ at the time when the
Duke of Norfolk was for the second
time thrown in the Tower, which she
said was the greatest sorrow that had
befallen her since the death of my
Lady Mounteagle, which had happened
at his grace's house a few months back,
with all the assistance she desired
touching her religion. She had been
urged, my Lady Surrey said, by the
duke some time before to do something
contrary to her faith ; but though she
much esteemed and respected him, her
answer was so round and resolute that
he never mentioned the like to her any
more. Since then I had no more
tidings of her, who was dearer to me
than our brief acquaintance and the
slender tie of such correspondence as
had taken place between us might in
most cases warrant; but whether
owing to some congeniality of mind,
or to a presentiment of future friend-
ship, 'tis most certain my heart was
bound to her in an extraordinary man-
ner; so that she was the continual
theme of my thoughts and mirror of
my fancy.
The first night of our journey we
lay at a small inn, which was held by
persons Mistress Ward was acquainted
with, and by whom we were entertained
in a decent chamber, looking on unto
a little garden, and with as much com-
fort as the fashion of the place might
afford, and greater cleanliness than is
often to be found in larger hostelries.
After supper, being somewhat weary
with travel, but not yet inclined for
bed, and the evening fine, we sat out
of doors in a bower of eglantine near
to some bee-hives, of which our hostess
had a great store ; and methinks she
took example from them, for we could
see her through the window as busy in
the kitchen amongst her maids as the
queen-bee amidst her subjects. Mis-
tress Ward took occasion to observe,
as we watched one of these little com-
monwealths of nature, that she admired
how they do live, laboring and swarm-
ing, and gathering honey together so
neat and finely, that they abhor no-
thing so much as uncleanliness, drink-
ing pure and clear water, even the
dew-drops on the leaves and flowers,
Constance Sherwood.
351
and delighting in sweet music, which
if they hear but once out of tune they
fly out of sight.
" They live," she said, " under a
law, and use great reverence to their
elders. Every one hath his office ;
some trimming the honey, another
framing hives, another the combs.
When they go forth to work, they mark
the wind and the clouds, and whatso-
ever doth threaten their ruin ; and
having gathered, out of every flower,
honey, they return loaded in their
mouths and on their wings, whom they
that tarried at home receive readily,
easing their backs of their great
burthens with as great care as can be
thought of."
" Methinks," I answered, that if it
be as you say, Mistress Ward, the bees
be wiser than men."
At the which she smiled ; but withal,
sighing, made reply :
" One might have wished of late *
years rather to be a bee than such as
we see men sometimes to be. But,
Mistress Constance, if they are indeed
so wise and so happy, 'tis that they
are fixed in a condition in which they
must needs do the will of him who
created them ; and the like wisdom
and happiness in a far higher state we
may ourselves enjoy, if we do but
choose of our free will to live by the
same rule."
Then, after some further discourse
on the habits of these little citizens, I
inquired of Mistress Ward if she were
acquainted with mine aunt, Mistress
Congleton ; at the which question she
seemed surprised, and said,
"Methought, my dear, you had
known my condition in your aunt's
family, having been governess for
many years to her three daughters,
and only by reason of my sister's
sickness having stayed away from
them for some time."
At the which intelligence I greatly
rejoiced ; for the few hours we had rode
together, and our discourse that even-
ing, had wrought in me a liking for
this lady as great as could arise in so
short a period. But I minded me then
of my jests at her fears anent robbers,
and also of having been less dutiful in
my manners than I should have been
toward one who was like to be set
over me; and I likewise bethought
me this might be the cause that she
had spoken of the bees having a rev-
erence for their elders, and doubted if
I should crave her pardon for my want
of it. But, like many good thoughts
which we give not entertainment to by
reason that they be irksome, I changed
that intent for one which had in it
more of pleasantness, though less of
virtue. Kissing her, I said it was the
best news I had heard for a long time
that I should live in the same house
with her, and, as I hoped, under her
care and good government. And she
answered, that she was well pleased
with it too, and would be a good
Friend to me as long as she lived.
Then I asked her touching my cousins,
and of their sundry looks and qualities.
She answered, that the eldest, Kate,
was very fair, and said nothing further
concerning her. Polly, she told me,
was marvellous witty and very pleas-
ant, nd could give a quick answer,
full of entertaining conceits.
" And is she, then, not fair ?" I
asked.
" Neither fair nor foul," was her
reply ; " but well favored enough, and
has an excellent head."
" Then," I cried, letting my words
exceed good behavior, "I shall like
her better than the pretty fool her sis-
ter." For the which speech I received
the first, but not the last, chiding I ever
had from Mistress Ward for foolish
talking and pert behavior, which was
what I very well deserved. When
she had done speaking, I put my arm
round her neck for it put me in mind
of my mother ta be so gravely yet so
sweetly corrected and said, " Forgive
me, dear Mistress Ward, for my saucy
words, and tell me somewhat I beseech
you touching my youngest cousin, who
must be nearest to mine own age."
" She is no pearl to hang at one's
ear," quoth she, " yet so gifted with a
well-disposed mind that in her grace
352
Constance Sherwood.
seems almost to supersede nature.
Muriel is deformed in body, and slow-
in speech ; but in behavior so honest,
in prayer so devout, so noble in all her
dealings, that I never heard her speak
anything that either concerned not
good instruction or godly mirth."
" And doth she not care to be ugly ?"
I asked.
" So little doth she value beauty,"
quoth Mistress Ward, " save in the
admiring of it in others, that I have
known her to look into a glass and
smiling cry out, ' This face were fair if
it were turned and every feature the
opposite to what it is ;' and so jest
pleasantly at her own deformities, and
would have others do so too. Oh, she
is a rare treasure of goodness and
piety, and a true comfort to her
friends !"
With suchlike pleasant discourse*
we whiled away the time until going
to rest ; and next day were on horse-
back betimes on our way to Coventry,
where we were to lie that night at the
house of Mr. Page, a Catholic, albeit
not openly, by reason of the times.
This gentleman is for his hospitality so
much haunted, that no news stirs but
comes to his ears, and no gentlefolks
pass his door but have a cheerful wel-
come to his house ; and 'tis said no
music is so sweet to his ears as deserved
thanks. He vouchsafed much favor to
us, and by his merry speeches procured
us much entertainment, provoking me
to laughter thereby more than I de-
sired. He took us to see St. Mary's
Hall, which is a building which has
not its equal for magnificence in any
town I have seen, no, not even in
London. As we walked through the
streets he showed us a window in which
was an inscription, set up in the reign
of King Richard the Second, which
did run thus :
" I, Luriche, for the love of thee
Do make Coventry toll free."
And further on, the figure of Peeping
Tom of Coventry, that false knave I
was so angry with when my father
(ah, me ! how sharp and sudden was
the pain which went through my heart
as I called to mind the hours I was
wont to sit on his knee hearkening to
the like tales) told me the story of the
Lady Godiva, who won mercy for her
townsfolk by a ride which none had
dared to take but one so holy as her-
self. And, as I said before, being then
in a humor as prone to tears at one
moment as laughter at another, I fell
to weeping for the noble lady who had
been in so sore a strait that she must
needs have chosen between complying
with her savage lord's conditions or the
misery of her poor clients. When Mr.
Page noticed rny tears, which flowed
partly for myself and partly for one
who had been long dead, but yet lived
in the hearts of these citizens, he sought
to cheer me by the recital of the fair
and rare pageant which doth take place
every year in Coventry, and is of the
most admirable beauty, and such as is
* not witnessed in any other city in the
world. He said I should not weep if
I were to see it, which he very much
desired I should ; and he hoped he
might be then alive, and ride by my
side in the procession as my esquire ;
at the which I smiled, for the good
gentleman had a face and figure such
as would not grace a pageant, and
methought I might be ashamed some
years hence to have him for my knight ;
and I said, " Good Mr. Page, be the
shutters closed on those days as when
the Lady Godiva rode ?" at the which
he laughed, and answered,
" No ; and that for one Tom who
then peeped, there were a thousand
eyes to gaze on the show as it passed."
" Then if it please you, sir, when the
time comes," I said, " I would like to
look on and not to ride ;" and he re-
plied, it should be as I pleased ; and
with such merry discourse we spent
the time till supper was ready. And
afterward that good gentleman slack-
ened not his efforts in entertaining us ;
but related so many laughable stories,
and took so great notice of me, that I
was moved to answer him sometimes
in a manner too forward for my years.
He told us of the queen's visit to that
Constance Sherwood.
353
city, and that the mayor, who had
heard her grace's majesty considered
poets, and herself wrote verses, thought
to commend himself to her favor by
such rare rhymes as these, wherewith
he did greet her at her entrance into
the town :
" We, the men of Coventry,
Be pleased to see your majesty,
Good Lord ! how fair you be !"
at the which her highness made but an
instant's pause, and then straightway
replied,
" It pleaseth well her majesty
To see the men of Coventry.
Good Lord 1 what fools you be I"
" But," quoth Mr. Page, " the good
man was so well pleased that the
Queen had answered his compliment,
that 'tis said he has had her majesty's
speech framed, and hung up in his
parlor."
"Pity 'tis not in the town-hall," I
cried ; and he laughing commended
me for sharpness ; but Mistress Ward
said:
" A sharp tongue in a woman's head
was always a stinging weapon ; but in
a queen's she prayed God it might
never prove a murtherous one."
Which words somewhat checked our
merriment, for that they savored of
rebuke to me for forward speech, and
I ween awoke in Mr. Page thoughts
of a graver sort.
When we rode through the town
next day, he went with us for the space
of some miles, and then bade us fare-
well with singular courtesy, and pro-
fessions of good will and proffered
service if we should do him the good
at any time to remember his poor
house; which we told him he had
given us sufficient reason not to forget.
Toward evening, when the sun was
setting, we did see the towers of War-
wick Castle ; and I would fain have
discerned the one which doth bear the
name of the great earl who in a poor
pilgrim's garb slew the giant Colbrand,
and the cave 'neath Guy's Cliff where
he spent his last years in prayer.
But the light was declining as we rode
23
into Leamington, where we lay that
night, and darkness hid from us
that fair country, which methought
was a meet abode for such as would
lead a hermit's life.
The next day we had the longest ride
and the hottest sun we had yet met
with ; and at noon we halted to rest in
a thicket on the roadside, which we
made our pavilion, and from which our
eyes did feast themselves on a delight-
ful prospect. There were heights on
one side garnished with stately oaks,
and a meadow betwixt the road and
the hill enamelled with all sorts of
pleasing flowers, and stored with sheep,
which were feeding in sober security.
Mistress Ward, who was greatly tired
with the journey, fell asleep with her
head on her hand, and I pulled from
my pocket a volume with which Mr.
Page had gifted me at parting, and
which contained sundry tales anent
Amadis de Gaul, Huon de Bordeaux,
Palmerin of England, and suchlike
famous knights, which he said, as I
knew how to read, for which he greatly
commended my parents' care, I should
entertain myself with on the road. So,
one-half sitting, one-half lying on the
grass, I reclined in an easy posture,
with my head resting against the
trunk of a tree, pleasing my fancy with
the writers' conceits; but ever and
anon lifting my eyes to the blue sky
above ray head, seen through the green
branches, or fixed them on the quaint
patterns the quivering light drew on
the grass, or else on the valley refreshed
with a silver river, and the fair hills
beyond it. And as I read of knights
and ladies, and the many perils which
befel them, and passages of love
betwixt them, which was new to me,
and what I had not met with in any of
the books I had yet read, I fell into a
fit of musing, wondering if in London
the folks I should see would discourse
in the same fashion, and the gentle-
men have so much bravery and the
ladies so great beauty as those my
book treated of. And as I noticed it
was chiefly on the high-roads they did
come into such dangerous adventures,
354
Constance Sherwood.
I gazed as far as I could discern on
the one I had in view before me with
a foolish kind of desire for some rob-
bers to come and assail us, and then a
great nobleman or gallant esquire to
ride up and fall on them, and to deliver
us from a great peril, and may be to
be wounded in the encounter, and I to
bind up those wounds as from my
mother's teaching I knew how to do,
and then give thanks to the noble
gentleman in such courteous and well-
picked words as I could think of. But
for all my gazing I could naught per-
ceive save a wain slowly ascending the
hill loaden with corn, midst clouds of
dust, and some poorer sort of people,
who had been gleaning, and were
carrying sheaves on their heads. After
an hour Mistress Ward awoke from
her nap ; and methinks I had been
dozing also, for when she called to me,
and said it was time to eat somewhat,
and then get to horse, I cried out,
" Good sir, I wait your pleasure ;"
and rubbed my eyes to see her standing
before me in her riding-habit, and not
the gentleman whose wounds I had
been tending.
That night we slept at Northampton,
at Mistress Engerfield's house. She
was a cousin of Mr. Congleton's, and a
lady whose sweet affability and gravity
would have extorted reverence from
those that least loved her. She was
then very aged, and had been a nun in
King Henry's reign ; and, since her
convent had been despoiled, and the
religious driven out of it, having a
large fortune of her own, which she
inherited about that time, she made
her house a secret monastery, wherein
God was served in a religious manner
by such persons as the circumstances
of the time, and not their own desires,
had forced back into the world, and
who as yet had found no commodity
for passing beyond seas into coun-
tries where that manner of life is al-
lowed. They dressed in sober black,
and kept stated hours of prayer, and
went not abroad unless necessity com-
pelled them thereunto. When we
went into the dining-room, which I
noticed Mistress Engerfield called the
refectory, grace was said in Latin ; and
whilst we did eat one lady read out
loud out of a book, which methinks
was the life of a saint ; but the fatigue
of the journey, and the darkness of
the room, which was wainscotted with
oak-wood, so overpowered my senses
with drowsiness, that before the meal
was Qnded I had fallen asleep, which
was discovered, to my great confusion,
when the company rose from table.
But that good lady, in whose face was
so great a kindliness that I never saw
one to be compared with it in that re-
spect before or since, took me by the
hand and said, " Young eyes wax
heavy for lack of rest, and travellers
should have repose. Come to thy
chamber, sweet one, and, after com-
mending thyself by a brief prayer to
him who sleepeth not nor slumbereth,
and to her who is the Mother of the
motherless, get thee to bed and take
thy fill of the sleep thou hast so great
need of, and good angels will watch
near thee."
Oh, how I did weep then, partly
from fatigue, and partly from the dear
comfort her words did yield me, and,
kneeling, asked her blessing, as I had
been wont to do of my dear parents.
And she, whose countenance was full
of majesty, and withal of most attrac-
tive gentleness, which made me deem
her to be more than an ordinary
woman, and a great servant of God,
as indeed she was, raised me from the
ground, and herself assisted to get me
to bed, having first said my prayers by
her side, whose inflamed devotion, visi-
ble in her face, awakened in me a
greater fervor than I had hitherto ex-
perienced when performing this duty.
After I had slept heavily for the space
of two or three hours 1 awoke, as is
the wont of those who be over-fatigued,
and could not get to sleep again, so
that I heard the clock of a church
strike twelve ; and as the last stroke
fell on my ear, it was followed by a
sound of chanting, as if close unto my
chamber, which resembled what on
rare occasions I had heard performed
Constance Sherwood.
355
by two or three persons in our chapel ;
but here, with so full a concord of
voices, and so great melody and
sweetness, that methought, being at
that time of night and every one abed,
it must be the angels that were sing-
ing. But the next day, questioning
Mrs. Ward thereupon as of a strange
thing which had happened to me, she
said, the ladies in that house rose al-
ways at midnight, as they had been
used to do in their several convents,
to sing God's praises and give him
thanks, which was what they did vow
to do when they became religious.
Before we departed, Mistress Enger-
field took me into her own room, which
was small and plainly furnished, with
no other furniture in it but a bed, table,
and kneeling-stool, and against the
wall a large crucifix, and she bestowed
upon me a small book in French, titled
" The Spiritual Combat," which she
said was a treasuiy of pious riches,
which she counselled me by frequent
study to make my own ; and with many
prayers and blessings she then bade
us God-speed, and took leave of us.
Our last day's lodging on the road was
at Bedford ; and there being no Cath-
olics of note in that town wont to en-
tertain travellers, we halted at a quiet
hostelry, which was kept by very de-
cent people, who showed us much
civility ; and the landlady, after we
had supped, the evening being rainy
(for else she said we might have
walked through her means into the
fair grounds of the Abbey of Woburn,
which she thanked God was not now
a hive for drones, as it had once been,
but the seat of a worthy nobleman ;
which did more credit to the town, and
drew customers to the inn), brought us
for our entertainment a huge book,
which she said had as much godliness
in each of its pages as might serve to
convert as many Papists God save
the mark! as there were leaves in
the volume. My cheeks glowed like
fire when she thus spoke, and I looked
at Mistress Ward, wondering what she
would say. But she only bowed her
head, and made pretence to open the
book, which, when the good woman
was gone,
"Mistress Constance," quoth she,
" this is a book writ by Mr. Fox, the
Duke of Norfolk's old schoolmaster,
touching those he doth call martyrs,
who suffered for treason and for heresy
in the days of Queen Mary, God rest
her soul ! and if it ever did convert a
Papist, I do not say on his deathbed,
but at any time of his life, except it
was greatly for his own interest, I be
ready . . ."
" To be a martyr yourself, Mistress
Ward," I cried, with my ever too great
proneness to let my tongue loose from
restraint. The color rose in her cheek,
which was usually pale, and she said :
" Child, I was about to say, that in
the case I have named, I be ready to
forego the hope of that which I thank
God I be wise enough to desire, though
unworthy to obtain; but for which I
do pray each day that I live."
" Then would you not be afraid to
die on a scaffold," I asked, " or to be
hanged, Mistress Ward?"
" Not in a good cause," she said.
But before the words were out of
her mouth our landlady knocked at
the door, and said a gentleman was in
the house with his two sons, who asked
to pay their compliments to Mistress
Ward and the young lady under her
care. The name of this gentleman
was Rookwood, of Rookwood Hall in
Suffolk, and Mistress Ward desired
the landlady presently to bring them
in, for she had often met them at
my aunt's house, as she afterward
told me, and had great contentment
we should have such good company
under the same roof with us ; whom
when they came in she very pleasantly
received, and informed Mr. Rookwood
of my name and relationship to Mis-
tress Congleton ; which when he heard,
he asked if I was Mr. Henry Sher-
wood's daughter ; which being certi-
fied of, he saluted me, and said my
father was at one time, when both
were at college, the closest friend that
ever he had, and his esteem for him
was so great that he would be better
356
Constance Sherwood.
pleased with the news that he should
see him but once again, than if any
one was to give him a thousand
pounds. I told him my father often
spake of him with singular affection,
and that the letter I should write to
him from London would be more wel-
come than anything else could make
it, by the mention of the honor I had
had of his notice. Mistress Ward
then asked him what was the news in
London, from whence he had come
that morning. He answered that the
news was not so good as he would wish
it to be ; for that the queen's marriage
with monsieur was broke off, and the
King of France greatly incensed at
the favor M. de Montgomeri had ex-
perienced at her hands ; and that
when he had demanded he should be
given up, she had answered that she
did not see why she should be the
King of France's hangman ; which was
what his father had replied to her
sister, when she had made the like re-
quest anent some of her traitors who
had fled to France.
" Her majesty," he said, " was greatly
incensed against the Bishop of Ross,
and had determined to put him to
death ; but that she was dissuaded
from it by her council ; and that he
prayed God Catholics should not fare
worse now that Ridolfi's plot had been
discovered to declare her highness ille-
gitimate, and place the Queen of Scots
on the throne, which had moved her
to greater anger than even the rising
in the north.
"And touching the Duke of Nor-
folk," Mistress Ward did ask, " what
is like to befal him ?"
Mr. Rookwood said, "His grace
had been removed from the Tower to
his own house on account of the plague ;
but it is reported the queen is more
urgent against him than ever, and will
have his head in the end."
"If her majesty will not marry
monsieur," Mistress Ward said, "it
will fare worse with recusants."
Upon which one of the young gen-
tlemen cried out, " "Tis not her majesty
will not have him ; but monsieur will
not have her. My Lord of Oxford,
who is to marry my Lord Burleigh's
daughter, said yesterday at the tennis
court, that that matter of monsieur is
grieviously taken on her grace's part ;
but that my lord is of opinion that where
amity is so needful, her majesty should
stomach it ; and so she doth pretend to
break it off herself by reason of her
religious scruples."
At the which both brothers did laugh,
but Mr. Rookwood bade them have a
care how they did suffer their tongues
to wag anent her grace and such mat-
ters as her grace's marriage; which
although in the present company might
be without danger, was an ill habit,
which in these times was like to bring
divers persons into troubles.
" Hang it !" cried the eldest of his
sons, who was of a well-pleasing favor
and exceeding goodly figure ; " recus-
ants be always in trouble, whatsoever
they do ; both taxed for silence and
checked for speech, as the play hath
it. For good Mr. Weston was racked
for silence last week till he fainted, for
that he would not reveal what he had
heard in confession from one concerned
in Ridolfi's plot ; and as to my Lord
Morley, he hath been examined before
the council, touching his having said
he would go abroad poorly and would
return in glory, which he did speak
concerning his health ; but they would
have it meant treason."
" Methinks, Master Basil," said his
father, " thou art not like to be taxed
for silence ; unless indeed on the rack,
which the freedom of thy speech may
yet bring thee to, an thou hast not
more care of thy words. See now, thy
brother keeps his lips closed in modest
silence."
"Ay, as if butter would not melt in
his mouth," cried Basil, laughing.
And I then noticed the countenance
of the younger brother, who was fairer
and shorter by a head than Basil, and
had the most beautiful eyes imaginable,
and a high forehead betokening thought-
fulness. Mr. Rookwood drew his chair
further from the table, and conversed
in a low voice with Mrs. Ward, touch-
Constance Sherwood.
357
ing matters which I ween were of too
great import to be lightly treated of.
I heard the name of Mr. Felton men-
tioned in their discourse, and some-
what about the Pope's Bull, in the
affixing of which at the Bishop of Lon-
don's gate he had lent a hand ; but my
ears were not free to listen to them,
foif the young gentlemen began to en-
tertain me with divers accounts of the
shows in London ; which, as they were
some years older than myself, who was
then no better than a child, though tall
of mine age, I took as a great favor,
and answered them in the best way I
could. Basil spoke mostly of the
sights he had seen, and a fight be-
tween a lion and three dogs, in which
the dogs were victorious ; and Hubert
of books, which he said, for his part,
he had always a care to keep hand-
some and well bound.
"Ay," quoth his brother, "gilding
them and stringing them like the pray-
er-books of girls and gallants, which
are carried to church but for their out-
sides. I do hate a book with clasps,
'tis a trouble to open them."
K A trouble thou dost seldom take,"
quoth Hubert. " Thou art ready
enough to unclasp the book of thy
inward soul to whosoever will read in
it, and thy purse to whosoever begs or
borrows of thee ; but with such clasps
as shut in the various stores of thought
which have issued forth from men's
minds thou dost not often meddle."
" Beshrew me if I do ! The best
prayer-book I take to be a pair of
beads ; and the most entertaining read-
ing, the ' Rules for the Hunting of
Deer ;' which, by what I have heard
from Sir Roger Ashlon, my Lord Staf-
ford hath grievously transgressed by
assaulting Lord Lyttleton's keepers in
Teddesley Haye."
"What have you here?" Hubert
asked, glancing at Mr. Fox's Book of
Martyrs, and another which the land-'
lady had left on the table ; A profit-
able New Tear's Gift to all England.
" They are not mine," I answered,
" nor such as I do care to read ; but
this," I said, holding out Mr. Page's
gift, which I had in niy pocket, " is a
rare fund of entertainment and very
full of pleasant tales."
" But," quoth he, " you should read
the Marts & Arthur and the Seven
Champions of Christendom"
Which I said I should be glad to
do when I had the good chance to
meet with them. He said, " My cousin
Polly had a store of such pleasant vol-
umes, and would, no doubt, lend them
to me. She has such a sharp wit," he
added, " that she is ever exercising it
on herself or on others ; on herself by
the bettering of her mind through
reading ; and on others by such ap-
plications, of what she thus acquires as
leaves them no chance in discoursing
with her but to yield to her superior
knowledge."
" Methinks," I said, " if that be her
aim in reading, may be she will not
lend to others the means of sharpening
their wits to encounter hers."
At the which both of them laughed,
and Basil said he hoped I might prove
a match for Mistress Polly, who car-
ried herself too high, and despised such
as were slower of speech and less witty
than herself. " For my part," he cried,
" I am of opinion that too much read-
ing doth lead to too much thinking,
and too much thinking doth consume
the spirits ; and often it falls out that
while one thinks too much of his doing,
he leaves to do the effect of his think-
ing."
At the which Hubert smiled, and I
bethought myself that if Basil was no
book-worm neither was he a fool.
With such like discourse the evening
sped away, and Mr. Rookwood and
his sons took their leave with many
civilities and pleasant speeches, such
as gentlemen are wont to address to
ladies, and hopes expressed to meet
again in London, and good wishes for
the safe ending of our journey thither.
Ah, me ! 'tis passing strange to sit
here and write in this little chamber,
after so many years, of that first meet-
ing with those brothers, Basil and
Hubert ; to call to mind how they did
look and speak, and of the pretty kind
358
Constance Sherwood.
of natural affection there was betwixt
them in their manner to each other.
Ah, me! the old trick of sighing is
coming over me again, which I had
well-nigh corrected myself of, who have
more reason to give thanks than to
complain. Good Lord, what fools you
be ! sighing heart and watering eyes !
As great fools, I ween, as the Mayor
of Coventry, whose foolish rhymes do
keep running in my head.
The day following we came to Lon-
don, which being, as it were, the be-
ginning of a new life to me, I will
defer to speak of until I find myself,
after a night's rest and special prayers
unto that end, less heavy of heart than
at present.
CHAPTER VII.
UPON a sultry evening which did
follow an exceeding hot day, with no
clouds in the sky, and a great store of
dust on the road, we entered London,
that great fair of the whole world, as
some have titled it. When for many
years we do think of a place we have
not seen, a picture forms itself in the
mind as distinct as if the eye had taken
cognizance thereof, and a singular cu-
riosity attends the actual vision of what
the imagination hath so oft portrayed.
On this occasion my eyes were slow
servants to my desires, which longed
to embrace in the compass of one
glance the various objects they craved
to behold. Albeit the sky was cloud-
less above our heads, I feared it would
rain in London, by reason of a dark
vapor which did hang over it; but
Mistress Ward informed me that this
appearance was owing to the smoke of
sea-coal, of which so great a store is
used in the houses that the air is filled
with it. " And do those in London
always live in that smoke ?" I inquired,
not greatly contented to think it should
be so; but she said Mr. Congleton's
house was not in the city, but in a very
pleasant suburb outside of it, close unto
Holborn Hill and Ely Place, the bish-
op's palace, in whose garden the roses
were so plentiful that in June the air
is perfumed with their odor. I troubled
her not with further questions at that
time, being soon wholly taken up with
the new sights which then did meet us
at every step. So great a number of
gay horsemen, and litters carried by
footmen with fine liveries, and coaches
drawn by horses richly caparisoned and
men running alongside of them, and
withal so many carts, that I was con-
strained to give over the guiding of
mine own horse by reason of the con-
fusion which the noise of wheels and
men's cries and the rapid motion of so
many vehicles did cause in me, who
had never rode before in so great a
crowd.
At about six o'clock of the afternoon
we did reach Ely Place, and passing
by the bishop's palace stopped at the
gate of Mr. Congleton's house, which
doth stand somewhat retired from the
high-road, and the first sight of which
did greatly content me. It is built of
fair and strong stone, not affecting fine-
ness, but honorably representing a firm
stateliness, for it was handsome with-
out curiosity, and homely without neg-
ligence. At the front of it was a well-
arranged ground cunningly set with
trees, through which we rode to the
foot of the stairs, where we were met
by a gentleman dressed in a coat of
black satin and a quilted waistcoat,
with a white beaver in his hand, whom
I guessed to be my good uncle. He
shook Mistress Ward by the hand,
saluted me on both cheeks, and vowed
I was the precise counterpart of my
mother, who at my age, he said, was
the prettiest Lancashire witch that
ever he had looked upon. He seemed
to me not so old as I did suppose him
to be, lean of body and something low
of stature, with a long visage and a
little sharp beard upon the chin of a
brown color; a countenance not. very
grave, and, for his age, wanting the
authority of gray hairs. He conducted
me to mine aunt's chamber, who was
seated in an easy-chair near unto the
Avindow, with a cat upon her knees and
Constance Sherwood.
359
a tambour-frame before her. She oped
her arms and kissed me with great
affection, and I, sliding down, knelt at
her feet and prayed her to be a good
mother to me, which was what my
father had charged me to do when I
should come into her presence. She
raised me with her hand and made me sit
on a stool beside her, and stroking my
face gently, gazed upon it, and said it
put her in mind of both of my parents,
for that I had my father's brow and
eyes, and my mother's mouth and
dimpling smiles.
"Mr. Congleton," she cried, "you
do hear what this wench saith. I pray
you to bear it in mind, and how near
in blood she is to me, so that you may
show her favor when I am gone, which
may be sooner than you think for."
I looked up into her face greatly
concerned that she was like so soon to
die. Methought she had the semblance
of one in good health and a reasonable
good color in her cheeks, and I per-
ceived Mr. Congleton did smile as he
answered :
"I will show favor to thy pretty
niece, good Moll, I promise thee, be
thou alive or be thou dead ; but if the
leeches are to be credited, who do
affirm thou hast the best strength and
stomach of the twain, thou art more
like to bury me than I thee."
Upon which the good lady did sigh
deeply and cast up her eyes and lifted
up her hands as one grievously injured,
and he cried :
" Prithee, sweetheart, take it not
amiss, for beshrew me if I be not
willing to grant thee to be as diseased
as will pleasure thee, so that thou wilt
continue to eat and sleep as well as
thou dost at the present and so keep
thyself from dying."
Upon which she said that she did
admire how a man could have so much
cruelty as to jest and jeer at her ill-
health, but that she would spend no
more of her breath upon him; and
turning toward me she asked a store
of questions anent my father, whom
for many years she had not seen, and
touching the manner of my mother's
death, at the mention of which my
tears flowed afresh, which caused her
also to weep ; and calling for her wo-
men she bade one of them bring her
some hartshorn, for that sorrow, she
said, would occasion the vapors to rise
in her head, and the other she sent for
to fetch her case of trinkets, for that
she would wear the ring her brother
had presented her with some years
back, in which was a stone which doth
cure melancholy. When the case was
brought she displayed before my eyes
its rich contents, and gifted me with a
brooch set with turquoises, the wearing
of which, she said, doth often keep per-
sons from falling into divers sorts of
peril. Then presently kissing me she
said she felt fatigued, and would send
for her daughters to take charge of me;
who, when they came, embraced me
with exceeding great affection, and
carried me to what had been their
schoolroom and was now Mrs. Ward's
chamber, who no longer was their
governess, they said, but as a friend
abode in the house for to go abroad
with them, their mother being of so
delicate a constitution that she seldom
left her room. Next to this chamber
was a closet, wherein Kate said J
should lie, and as it is one I inhabited
for a long space of time, and the re-
membrance of which doth connect it-
self with very many events which, as
they did take place, I therein mused
on, and prayed or wept, or sometimes
laughed over in solitude, I will here
set down what it was like when first I
saw it.
The bed was in an alcove, closed in
the day by fair curtains of taffety;
and the walls, which were in wood, had
carvings above the door and over the
chimney of very dainty workmanship.
The floor was strewn with dried neatly-
cut rushes, and in the projecting space
where the window was, a table was set,
and two chairs with backs and seats
cunningly furnished with tapestry. In
another recess betwixt the alcove and
the chimney stood a praying stool and
a desk with a cushion for a book to lie
on. Ah, me ! how often has my head
3 GO
Constance Sherwood.
rested on that cushion and my knees
on that stool when my heart has been
too full to utter other prayers than a
" God ha' mercy on me !" which at
such times broke as a cry from an
overcharged breast. But, oh ! what a
vain pleasure I did take on that first
day in the bravery of this little cham-
ber, which Kate said was to be mine
own ! With what great contentment I
viewed each part of it, and looked out
of the window on the beds of flowers
which did form a mosaical floor in the
garden around the house, in the midst
of which was a fair pond whose shaking
crystal mirrored the shrubs which grew
about it, and a thicket beyond, which
did appear to me a place for pleasant-
ness and not unfit to flatter solitariness,
albeit so close unto the city. Beyond
were the bishop's grounds, and I could
smell the scent of roses coming thence
as the wind blew. I could have stood
there many hours gazing on this new
scene, but that my cousins brought me
down to sup with them in the garden,
which was not fairer in natural orna-
ments than in artificial inventions. The
table was set in a small banqueting-
house among certain pleasant trees
near to a pretty water-work ; and now
I had leisure to scan my cousins' faces
and compare what I did notice in them
with what Mistress Ward had said the
first night of our journey.
Kate, the eldest of the three, was in
sooth a very fair creature, proportioned
without any fault, and by nature en-
dowed with the most delightful colors ;
but there was a made countenance
about her mouth, between simpering
and smiling, and somewhat in her
bowed-down head which seemed to
languish with over-much idleness, and
an inviting look in her eyes as if they
would over-persuade those she spoke to,
which betokened a lack of those nobler
powers of the mind which are the
highest gifts of womanhood. Polly's
face fault-finding wits might scoff at as
too little for the rest of the body, her
features as not so well proportioned as
Kate's, and her skin somewhat browner
than doth consist with beauty ; but in
her eyes there was a cheerfulness as
if nature smiled in them, in her mouth
so pretty a demureness, and in her
countenance such a spark of wit that,
if it struck not with admiration, filled
with delight. No indifferent soul there
was which, if it resisted making her its
princess, would not long to have such
a playfellow. Muriel, the youngest of
these sisters, was deformed in shape,
sallow in hue, in speech, as Mistress
Ward had said, slow ; but withal in
her eyes, which were deep-set, there
was lacking neither the fire which be-
tokens intelligence, nor the sweetness
which commands affection, and some-
what in her plain face which, though
it may not be called beauty, had some
of its qualities. Methought it savored
more of heaven than earth. The ill-
shaped body seemed but a case for a
soul the fairness of which did shine
through the foul lineaments which en-
closed it. Albeit her lips opened but
seldom that evening, only twice or
thrice, and they were common words
she uttered and fraught with hesitation,
my heart did more incline toward her
than to the pretty Kate or the lively
Polly.
An hour before we retired to rest,
Mr. Congleton came into the garden,
and brought with him Mr. Swithin
Wells and Mr. Bryan Lacy, two gen-
tlemen who lived also in Holborn ; the
latter of which, Polly whispered in mine
ear, was her sister Kate's suitor. Talk
was ministered among them touch-
ing the queen's marriage with Mon-
sieur ; which, as Mr. Rookwood had
said, was broken off; but that day they
had heard that M. de la Motte had
proposed to her majesty the Due
d'Alen$on, who would be more com-
plying, he promised, touching religion
than his brother. She inquired of the
prince's age. and of his height ; to the
which he did answer, "About your
majesty's own height." But her high-
ness would not be so put off, and willed
the ambassador to write for the precise
measurement of the prince's stature.
" She will never marry," quoth Mr.
Wells, "but only amuse the French
Constance Sherwood.
361
court and her council with further
negotiations touching this new suitor,
as heretofore anent the archduke and
Monsieur. But I would to God her
majesty were well married, and to a
Catholic prince ; which would do us
more good than anything else which
can be thought of."
" What news did you hear, sir, of
Mr. Felton ?" Mistress Ward asked.
Upon which their countenances fell ;
and one of them answered that that
gentleman had been racked the day be-
fore, but steadily refused, though in
the extremity of torture, to name his
accomplices ; and would give her
majesty no title but that of the Pre-
tender; which they said was greatly
to be regretted, and what no other
Catholic had done. But when his
sentence was read to him, for that he
was to die on Friday, he drew from
his finger a ring, which had diamonds
in it, and was worth four hundred
pounds, and requested the Earl of
Sussex to give it to the queen, in
token that he bore her no ill-will or
malice, but rather the contrary.
Mr. Wells said he was a gentleman
of very great heart and noble disposi-
tion, but for his part he would as lief
this ring had been sold, and the money
bestowed on the poorer sort of prison-
ers in Newgate, than see it grace her
majesty's finger ; who would thus play
the hangman's part, who inherits the
spoils of such as he doth put to death.
But the others affirmed it was done in
a Christian manner, and so greatly to
be commended ; and that Mr. Felton,
albeit he was somewhat rash in his
actions, and by some titled Don Mag-
nifico, by reason of a certain bravery
in his style of dress and fashion of
speaking, which smacked of Monsieur
Traveller, was a right worthy gentle-
man, and his death a blow to his
friends, amongst whom there were
some, nevertheless, to be found who
did blame him for the act which had
brought him into trouble. Mistress
Ward cried, that such as fell into
trouble, be the cause ever so good, did
always find those who would blame
them. Mr. Lacy said, one should not
cast himself into danger wilfully, but
when occasion offered take it with pa-
tience. Polly replied, that some were
so prudent, occasions never came to
them. And then those two fell to dis-
puting, in a merry but withal sharp
fashion. As he did pick his words,
and used new-fangled terms, and she
spoke roundly and to the point, me-
thinks she was the nimblest in this
encounter of wit.
Meanwhile Mr. Wells asked Mr.
Congleton if he had had news from
the north, where much blood was spilt
since the rising ; and he apprehended
that his kinsmen in Richmondshire
should suffer under the last orders sent
to Sir George Bowes by my Lord
Sussex. But Mr. Congleton did min-
ister to him this comfort, that if they
were noted wealthy, and had freeholds,
it was the queen's special command-
ment they should not be executed, but
two hundred of the commoner sort to
lose their lives in each town ; which
was about one to each five.
" But none of note ?" quoth Mr.
Wells.
" None which can pay the worth of
their heads," Mr. Congleton replied.
" And who, then, doth price them ?"
asked Kate, in a languishing voice.
" Nay, sister," quoth Polly, " I war-
rant thee they do price themselves ; for
he that will not pay well for his head
must needs opine he hath a worthless
one."
Upon which Mr. Lacy said to Kate,
" One hundred angels would not pay
for thine, sweet Kate."
" Then she must needs be an arch-
angel, sir," quoth Polly, "if she be of
greater worth than one hundred an-
gels."
" Ah, me !" cried Kate, very earn-
estly, "I would I had but half one
hundred gold-pieces to buy me a gown
with!"
" Hast thou not gowns enough,
wench?" asked her father. " Me-
thought thou wert indifferently well
provided in that respect."
" Ah, but I would have, sir, such a
362
Constance Sherwood.
velvet suit as I did see some weeks
back at the Italian house in Cheapside,
where the ladies of the court do buy
their vestures. It had a border the
daintiest I ever beheld, all powdered
with gold and pearls. Ruffiano said it
was the rarest suit he had ever made ;
and he is the Queen of France's tailor,
which Sir Nicholas Throgmorton did
secretly entice away, by the queen's
desire, from that court to her own."
"And what fair nymph owns this
rare suit, sweetest Kate?" Mr. Lacy
asked. " I'll warrant none so fair that
it should become her, or rather that
she should become it, more than her
who doth covet it."
" I know not if she be fair or foul,"
quoth Kate, "but she is the Lady
Mary Howard, one of the maids of
honor of her majesty, and so may wear
what pleaseth her."
"By that token of the gold and
pearls," cried Mr. Wells, "I doubt not
but 'tis the very suit anent which the
court have been wagging their ton gues
for the last week ; and if it be so, indeed,
Mistress Kate, you have no need to
envy the poor lady that doth own it."
Kate protested she had not envied
her, and taxed Mr. "Wells with unkind-
ness that he did charge her with it ;
and for all he could say would not be
pacified, but kept casting up her eyes,
and the tears streaming down her
lovely cheeks. Upon which Mr. Lacy
cried :
" Sweet one, thou hast indeed no
cause to envy her or any one else,
howsoever rare or dainty their suits
may be ; for thy teeth are more beau-
teous than pearls, and thine hair more
bright than the purest gold, and thine
eyes more black and soft than the finest
velvet, which nature so made that we
might bear their wonderful shining,
which else had dazzled us :" and so
went on till her weeping was stayed,
and then Mr. Wells said :
" The lady who owned that rich
suit, which I did falsely and felo-
niously advance Mistress Kate did
envy, had not great or long com-
fort in its possession ; for it is very
well known at court, and hence bruited
in the city, what passed at Richmond
last week concerning this rare vesture.
It pleased not the queen, who thought
it did exceed her own. And one day
her majesty did send privately for it,
and put it on herself, and came forth
into the chamber among the ladies.
The kirtle and border was far too
short for her majesty's height, and she
asked every one how they liked her
new fancied suit. At length she asked
the owner herself if it was not made
too short and ill-becoming ; which the
poor lady did presently consent to.
Upon which her highness cried : ' Why,
then, if it become me not as being too
short, I am minded it shall never be-
come thee as being too fine, so it fitteth
neither well.' This sharp rebuke so
abashed the poor lady that she never
adorned her herewith any more."
" Ah," cried Mr. Congleton, laugh-
ing, " her majesty's bishops do come
by reproofs as well as her maids.
Have you heard how one Sunday, last
April, my Lord of London preached
to the queen's majesty, and seemed to
touch on the vanity of decking the
body too finely. Her grace told the
ladies after the sermon, that if the
bishop held more discourse on such
matters she would fit him for heaven,
but he should walk thither without a
staff and leave his mantle behind him."
"Nay," quoth Mr. Wells, "but if
she makes such as be Catholics taste
of the sharpness of the rack, and the
edge of the axe, she doth then treat
those of her own way of thinking with
the edge of her wit and the sharpness
of her tongue. 'Tis reported, Mr.
Congleton, I know not with what truth,
that a near neighbor of yours has been
served with a letter, by which a new
sheep is let into his pastures."
"What," cried Polly, "is Pecora
Campi to roam amidst the roses, and
go in and out at his pleasure through
the bishop's gate? The 'sweet lids'
have then danced away a large slice
of the Church's acres. But what, I
pray you, sir, did her majesty write ?"
" Even this," quoth her father, " I
Constance Sherwood.
363
had it from Sir Robert Arundell :
' Proud Prelate ! you know what you
were before I made you, and what you
are now. If you do not immediate-
ly comply with my request, I will un-
frock you, by God ! ELIZABETH R.' "
" Our good neighbor," saith Polly,
"must show a like patience with Job,
and cry out touching his bishopric,
*The queen did give it; the queen
doth take it away; the will of the
queen be done.' "
" He is like to be encroached upon
yet further by yon cunning Sir Chris-
topher," Mr. Wells said; "I'll war-
rant Ely Place will soon be Hatton
Garden."
"Well, for a neighbor," answered
Polly, " I'd as soon have the queen's
lids as her hedge-bishop, and her
sheep as her shepherd. 'Tis not all
for love of her sweet dancer her ma-
jesty doth despoil him. She never,
'tis said, hath forgiven him that he did
remonstrate with her for keeping a
crucifix and lighted tapers in her own
chapel, and that her fool, set on by
such as were of the same rnind with
him, did one day put them out."
In suchlike talk the time was spent ;
and when the gentlemen had taken
leave, we retired to rest; and being
greatly tired, I slept heavily, and had
many quaint dreams, in which past
scenes and present objects were cu-
riously blended with the tales I had
read on the journey, and the discourse
I had heard that evening. When I
awoke in the morning, my thoughts first
flew to my father, of whom I had a very
passionate desire to receive tidings.
When my waiting-woman entered, with
a letter in her hand, I foolishly did
fancy it came from him, which could
scarcely be, so soon after our coming
to town ; but I quickly discerned, by
the rose-colored string which it was
bounden with, and then the handwrit-
ing, that it was not from him, but
from her whom, next to him, I most
desired to hear from, to wit, the Count-
ess of Surrey. That sweet lady wrote
that she had an exceeding great de-
sire to see me, and would be more be-
holden to my aunt than she could
well express, if she would confer on
her so great a benefit as to permit me
to spend the day with her at the
Charter House, and she would send
her coach for to convey me there,
which should never have done her so
much good pleasure before as in that
service. And more to that effect, with
many kind and gracious words touch-
ing our previous meeting and corre-
spondence.
When I was dressed, I took her la-
dyship's letter to Mrs. Ward, who was
pleased to say she would herself ask
permission for me to wait upon that
noble lady; but that her ladyship
might not be at the -charge of sending
for me, she would herself, if my aunt
gave her license, carry me to the
Charter House, for that she was to
spend some hours that day with friends
in the city, and " it would greatly con-
tent her," she added, " to further the
expressed wish of the young countess,
whose grandmother, Lady Mounteagle,
and so many of her kinsfolk, were Cath-
olics, or at the least, good friends to such
as were so." My aunt did give leave
for me to go, as she mostly did to
whatsoever Mrs. Ward proposed, whom
she trusted entirely, with a singular
great affection, only bidding her to
pray that she might not die in her ab-
sence, for that she feared some peaches
she had eaten the day before had dis-
ordered her, and that she had heard of
one who had died of the plague some
weeks before in the Tower. Mrs. Ward
exhorted her to be of good cheer, and to
comfort herself both ways, for that the
air of Holborn was so good, the plague
was not likely to come into it, and that
the kernels of peaches being medicinal,
would rather prove an antidote to pes-
tilence than an occasion to it ; and left
her better satisfied, insomuch that she
sent for another dish of peaches for to
secure the benefit. Before I left, Kate
bade me note the fashion of the suit
my Lady Surrey did wear, and if she
had on her own hair, and if she dyed it,
and if she covered her bosom, or wore
4 plaits, and if her stomacher was straight
364
Constance Sherwood.
and broad, or formed a long waist, ex-
tending downward, and many more
points touching her attire, which I
cannot now call to mind. As I went
through the hall to the steps where
Mistress Ward was already standing,
Muriel came hurrying toward me,
with a faint color coming and going in
her sallow cheek, and twice she tried
to speak and failed. But when I kissed
her she put her lips close to my ear
and whispered,
" Sweet little cousin, there be in
London prisoners in a very bad plight,
in filthy dungeons, because of their
religion. The noble young Lady
Surrey hath a tender heart toward
such if she do but hear of them.
Prithee, sweet coz, move her to
send them relief in food, money, or
clothing."
Then Mistress Ward called to me to
hasten, and I ran away, but Muriel
stood at the window, and as we passed
she kissed her hand, in which was 4
gold angel, which my father had gifted
me with at parting.
" Mrs. Ward," I said, as we went
along, " my cousin Muriel is not fair,
and yet her face doth commend itself
to my fancy more than many fair ones
I have seen ; it is so kindly."
" I have even from her infancy
loved her," she answered, " and thus
much I will say of her, that many
have been titled saints who had not,
methinks, more virtue than I have no-
ticed in Muriel."
"Doth she herself visit the pris-
oners she spoke of ?"
" She and I do visit them and carry
them relief when we can by any means
prevail with the gaolers from compas-
sion or through bribing of them to ad-
mit us. But it is not always conven-
ient to let this be known, not even at
home, but I ween, Constance, as thou
wilt have me to call thee so, that Mu-
riel saw in thee for she has a won-
derful penetrative spirit that thou
dost know when to speak and when to
keep silence."
" And may I go with you to the
prisons ?" I asked with a hot feeling
in my heart, which I had not felt since
I had left home.
" Thou art far too young," she an-
swered. "But I will tell thee what
thou canst do. Thou mayst work and
beg for these good men, and not be
ashamed of so doing. None may
^visit them who have not made up
'their minds to die, if they should be
denounced for their charity."
" But Muriel is young," I answered.
(i Hath she so resolved ?"
" Muriel is young," was the reply ;
" but she is one in whom wisdom and
holiness have forestalled age. For two
years that she hath been my compan-
ion on such occasions, she has each
day prepared for martyrdom by such
devout exercises as strengthen the
soul at the approach of death."
"And Kate and Polly," I asked,
" are they privy to the dangers that you
do run, and have they no like am-
bition ?"
" Rather the contrary," she an-
swered ; " but neither they nor any one
else in the house is fully acquainted
with these secret errands save Mr.
Congleton, and he did for a long time
refuse his daughter license to go with
me, until at last, by prayers and tears,
she won him over to suffer it. But he
will never permit thee to do the like,
for that thy father hath intrusted thee
to his care for greater safety in these
troublesome times."
" Pish !" I cried pettishly, " safety
has a dull mean sound in it which
I mislike. I would I were mine own
mistress."
" Wish no such thing, Constance
Sherwood," was her grave answer.
" Wilfulness was never nurse to virtue,
but rather her foe ; nor ever did a re-
bellious spirit prove the herald of true
greatness. And now, mark my words.
Almighty God hath given thee a friend
far above thee in rank, and I doubt
not in merit also, but whose faith, if
report saith true, doth run great dan-
gers, and with few to advise her in
these evil days in which we live. Per-
adventure he hath appointed thee a
work in a palace as weighty as that of
Constance Sherwood.
365
others in a dungeon. Set thyself to it
with thy whole heart, and such prayers
as draw down blessings from above.
There be great need in these times to
bear in remembrance what the Lord
says, that he will be ashamed in hea-
ven before his angels of such as be
ashamed of him on earth. And many
there are, I greatly fear, who though
they be Catholics, do assist the here-
tics by their cowardice to suppress the
true religion in this land ; and I pray
to God this may never be our case.
Yet I would not have thee to be
rash in speech, using harsh words, or
needlessly rebuking others, which
would not become thy age, or be fit-
ting and modest in one of inferior
rank, but only where faith and con-
science be in question not to be afraid
to speak. And now God bless thee,
who should be an Esther in this house,
wherein so many true confessors of
Christ some years ago surrendered their
lives in great misery and torments,
rather than yield up their faith."
This she said as we stopped at the
gate of the Charter House, where one
of the serving-men of the Countess of
Surrey was waiting to conduct me to
her lodgings, having had orders to that
effect. She left me in his charge, and
I followed him across the square, and
through the cloisters and passages
which led to the gallery, where my
lady's chamber was situated. My
heart fluttered like a frightened caged
bird during that walk, for there was a
solemnity about the place such as
I had not been used to, and which
filled me with apprehension lest I
should be wanting in due respect where
so much state was carried on. But
when the door was opened at one end
of the gallery, and my sweet lady ran
out to meet me with a cry of joy, the
silly heart, like a caught bird, nestled
in her embrace, and my lips joined
themselves to hers in a fond manner,
as if not willing to part again, but by
fervent kisses supplying the place of
words, which were lacking, to express
the great mutual joy of that meeting,
until at last my lady raised her head,
and still holding my hands, cried out as
she gazed on my face :
" You are more welcome, sweet one,
than my poor words can say. I pray
you, doff your hat and mantle, and
come and sit by me, for 'tis a weary
while since we have met, and those are
gone from us who loved us then, and for
their sakes we must needs love one
another dearly, if our hearts did not of
themselves move us unto it, which
indeed they do, if I may judge of
yours, Mistress Constance, by mine
own."
Then we kissed again, and she passed
her arm around my neck with so many
graceful endearments, in which were
blended girlish simplicity and a youth-
ful yet matronly dignity, that I felt
that day the love which, methinks, up
to that time had had its seat mostly in
the fancy, take such root in mine heart,
that it never lost its hold on it.
At the first our tongues were some-
what tied by joy and lack of knowledge
how to begin to converse on the many
subjects whereon both desired to hear
the other speak, and the disuse of such
intercourse as maketh it easy to dis-
course on what the heart is full of.
Howsoever, Lady Surrey questioned
me touching my father, and what had
befallen us since my mother's death.
I told her that he had left his home,
and sent me to London by reason of
the present troubles ; but without men-
tion of what I did apprehend to be his
further intent. And she then said that
the concern she was in anent her good
father the Duke of Norfolk did cause
her to pity those who were also in
trouble.
" But his grace," I answered, " is, I
hope, in safety at present, and in his
own house?"
"In this house, indeed," she did
reply, "but a strait prisoner in Sir
Henry Neville's custody, and not
suffered to see his friends without her
majesty's especial permission. lie did
send ibr his son and me last evening,
having obtained leave for to see us,
which he had not done since the day
my lord and I were married again, by
366
Constance Sherwood.
his order, from the Tower, out of fear
lest our first marriage, being made
before Phil was quite twelve years old,
it should have been annulled by order
of the queen, or by some other means.
It grieved me much to notice how gray
his hair had grown, and that his eyes
lacked their wonted fire. When we
entered he was sitting in a chair,
leaning backward, with his head almost
over the back of it, looking at a candle
which burnt before him, and a letter in
his hand. He smiled when he saw us,
and said the greatest comfort he had
in the world was that we were now so
joined together that nothing could ever
part us. You see, Mistress Constance,"
she said, with a pretty blush and smile,
" I now do wear my wedding-ring be-
low the middle joint."
" And do you live alone with my
lord now in these grand chambers ?"
I said, looking round at the walls, which
were hung with rare tapestry and fine
pictures.
" Bess is with me," she answered,
" and so will remain I hope until she is
fourteen, when she will be married to
my Lord William, my lord's brother.
Oar Moll is likewise here, and was to
have wedded my Lord Thomas when
she did grow up ; but she is not like to
live, the physicians do say."
The sweet lady's eyes filled with
tears, but, as if unwilling to entertain
me with her griefs, she quickly changed
discourse, and spoke of my coming
unto London, and inquired if my aunt's
house were a pleasant one, and if she
was like to prove a good kinswoman
to me. I told her how comfortable
had been the manner of my reception,
and of my cousins' goodness to me ;
at the which she did express great
contentment, and would not be satisfied
until I had described each of them in
turn, and what good looks or what
good qualities they had ; which I could
the more easily do that the first could
be discerned even at first sight, and
touching the last, I had warrant from
Mrs. Ward's commendations, which
had more weight than my own speer-
ings, even if 1 had been a year and
not solely a day in their company.
She was vastly taken with what I
related to her of Muriel, and that she
did visit and relieve poor persons and
prisoners, and wished she had liberty
to do the like ; and with a lovely blush
and a modest confusion, as of one who
doth not willingly disclose her good
deeds, she told me all the time she
could spare she did employ in making
clothes for such as she could hear o^
and also salves and cordials (such as
she had learnt to compound from her
dear grandmother), and privately sent
them by her waiting-maid, who was a
young gentlewoman of good family,
who had lost her parents, and was
most excellently endowed with virtue
and piety.
" Come to my closet, Miss Con-
stance," she said, " and I doubt not but
we shall find Milicent at work, if so be she
has not gone abroad to-day on some
such errand of charity." Upon which
she led the way through a second
chamber, still more richly fitted up
than the first, into a smaller ope,
wherein, when she opened the door, I
saw a pretty living picture of two girls
at a table, busily engaged with a store
of bottles and herbs and ointments,
which were strewn upon it in great
abundance. One of them was a
young maid, who was measuring drops
into a phial, with a look so attentive
upon it as if that little bottle had been
the circle of her thoughts. She was
very fair and slim, and had a delicate
appearance, which minded me of a
snow-drop ; and indeed, by what my
lady said, she was a floweret which
had blossomed amidst the frosts and
cold winds of adversity. By her side
was the most gleesome wench, of not
more than eight years, I ever did set
eyes on ; of a fatness that at her age
was comely, and a face so full of wag-
gery and saucy mirth, that but to look
upon it drove away melancholy. She
was compounding in a cup a store of
various liquids, which she said did
cure shrewishness, and said she would
pour some into her nurse's night-
draught, to mend her of that disorder.
Constance Sherwood.
367
','Ah, Nan," she cried, as we en-
tered, " I'll help thee to a taste of this
rare medicine, for methinks thou art
somewhat shrewish also and not so
conformable to thy husband's will, my
lady, as a good wife should be. By
that same token that my lord willed to
take me behind him on his horse a
gay ride round the square, and, forsooth,
because I had not learnt my lesson,
thou didst shut me up to die of melan-
choly. Ah, me ! My mother had a
maid called Barbara
' Sing willow, willow, willow. 1
That is one of Phil's favorite songs.
Milicent, methinks I will call thee
Barbara, and thou shalt sing with me
' The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow ;
Her hand on her bosom,'
There, put thy hand in that fashion
' her head on her knee,'
Nay, prithee, thou must bend thy
head lower
' Sing willow, willow, willow.' "
" My lady," said the gentlewoman,
smiling, " I promise you I dare not
take upon me to fulfil my tasks with
credit to myself or your ladyship, if
Mistress Bess hath the run of this
room, and doth prepare cordials after
her fashion from your ladyship's
stores."
"Ah, Bess!" quoth my lady, shak-
ing her finger at the saucy one ; " I'll
deliver thee up to Mrs. Fawcett, who
will give thee a taste of the place of
correction ; and Phil is not here to-day
to beg thee off. And now, good Mili-
cent, prithee make a bundle of such
clothes as we have in hand, and such
comforts as be suitable to such as are
sick and in prison, for this sweet
young lady hath need of them for some
who be in that sad plight."
" And, my lady," quoth the gentle-
woman, "I would fain learn how to
dress wounds when the flesh is galled;
for I do sometimes meet with poor
men who do suffer in that way, and
would relieve them if I could."
" I know," I cried, " of a rare oint-
ment my mother used to make for
that sort of hurt ; and if my Lady
Surrey gives me license, I will remem-
ber you, mistress, with the receipt of it."
My lady, with a kindly smile and
expressed thanks, assented ; and when
we left the closet, I greatly commend-
ing the young gentlewoman's beauty,
she said that beauty in her was the
worst half of her merit.
" But, Mistress Constance," she
said, when we had returned to the
saloon, " I may not send her to such
poor men, and above all, priests, who
be in prison for their faith, as I hear,
to my great sorrow, there be so many at
this time, and who suffer great hard-
ships, more than can be easily believed,
for she is Protestant, and not through
conforming to the times, but so settled
in her way of thinking, and earnest
therein, having been brought up to it,
that she would not so much as open a
Catholic book or listen to' a word in
defence of papists."
"But how, then, doth she serve a
Catholic lady ?" I asked, with a beat-
ing heart ; and oh, with what a sad one
did hear her answer, for it was as- fol-
lows :
" Dear Constance, I must needs obey
those who have a right to command
me, such as his grace my good father
and my husband ; and they are both
very urgent and resolved that by all
means I shall conform to the times.
So I do go to Protestant service ; but
I use at home my prayers, as my
grandmother did teach me; and Phil
says them too, when I can get him to
say any."
"Then you do not hear mass," I
said, sorrowfully, " or confess your sins
to a priest ?"
"No," she answered, in a sad man-
ner ; " I once asked my Lady Lumley,
who is a good Catholic, if she could
procure I should see a priest with that
intent at Arundel House ; but she
turned pale as a sheet, and said that to
get any one to be reconciled who had
368
Constance Sherwood.
once conformed to the Protestant reli-
gion, was to run danger of death ; and
albeit for her own part she would not
refuse to die for so good a cause, she
dared not bring her father's gray hairs
to the block."
As we were holding this discourse
and she so intent in speaking, and I in
listening, that we had not heard the
door open Lord Surrey suddenly
stood before us. His height made
him more than a boy, and his face
would not allow him a man ; for the
rest, he was well-proportioned, and did
all things with so notable a grace, that
nature had stamped him with the mark
of true nobility. He made a slight
obeisance to me, and I noticed that his
cheek was flushed, and that he grasped
the handle of his sword with an anger
which took not away the sweetness of
his countenance, but gave it an amiable
sort of fierceness. Then, as if unable
to restrain himself, he burst forth,
" Nan, an order is come for his grace
to be forthwith removed to the
Tower, and I'll warrant that was
the cause he was suffered to see us
yesterday. God send it prove not a
final parting !"
"Is his grace gone?" cried the
countess, starting to her feet, and clasp-
ing her hands with a sorrowful ges-
ture.
" He goes even now," answered the
earl ; and both went to the window,
whence they could see the coach in
which the duke was for the third time
carried from his home to the last lodg-
ing he was to have on this earth. Oh,
what a sorrowful sight it was for those
young eyes which gazed on the sad
removal of the sole parent both had
left ! How her tears did flow silently
like a stream from a deep fount, and
his with wild bursts of grief, like the
gushings of a torrent over rocks ! His
head fell on her shoulder, and as she
threw her arms round him, her tears
wetted his hair. Methought then that
in the pensive tenderness of her down-
cast face there was somewhat of
motherly as well as of wifely affection.
She put her arm in his, and led him
from the room ; and I remained alone
for a short time entertaining myself
with sad thoughts anent these two
young noble creatures, who at so early
an age had become acquainted with
so much sorrow, and hoping that the
darkness which did beset the morning
of their lives might prove but as the
clouds which at times deface the sky be-
fore a 'brilliant sunshine doth take pos-
session of it, and dislodge these deceit-
ful harbingers, which do but heighten
in the end by contrast the resplendency
they did threaten to obscure.
[TO BE COKTINUBD.]
French Cochin China.
369
Prom Temple Bar.
FRENCH COCHIN CHINA.
BETWEEN India and the Chinese
empire lies the peninsula of Indo-
China, jutting out far into the Indian
Ocean. The south-eastern portion of
this peninsula is occupied by the em-
pire of Anam, of which the chief
maritime province is known to Euro-
peans as Cochin China, but to the
natives as Dang-trong, or the outer
kingdom. It is in lower Cochin China
that the French have succeeded in re-
cently establishing a military settle-
ment. In extent these new territorial
acquisitions of our somewhat ambitious
neighbors may be compared to Brit-
tany, though in no other respect can
any resemblance be detected. The
country is, in fact, a strictly alluvial
formation. Not only is it watered by
the Dong-nai and Saigon rivers, but it
also embraces the delta of the Mekong,
at the mouth of which noble stream the
Portuguese poet Camoens was ship-
wrecked in the year 1556, swimming
to the shore with his left hand, while
in his right he held above the waters
his manuscript copy of the Lusiad. It
is almost needless to add that a level
plain spreads far and wide, except
quite in the north, and that fevers
and dysentery prevail throughout the
greater part of the year. The climate
is certainly not a healthy one for Euro-
peans. The rainy season lasts from
April to December, during which the
inhabitants live in a vapor-bath. The
consequence is, that the French sol-
diers die off with such frightful rapidity
that it has been urgently recommended
that every regiment should be relieved
after two years' service. The authori-
ties, however, have lost no time in im-
proving the sanitary condition of the
new settlement. By means of native
labor large tracts of marsh-land have
been drained, and good roads made in
lieu of the shallow tidal canals which
24
previously constituted the sole channels
of traffic and mutual intercourse. For-
merly every villager owned a small
boat, in which he moved about from
place to place, taking with him his
small merchandise, or conveying home
to his family the proceeds of his mar-
keting. The town of Saigon itself is
estimated to contain one hundred thou-
sand inhabitants. The houses are
exceedingly mean, being constructed
either of wood or of palm-leaves
fastened together. Though situated
seventy miles inland, Ghia-din, as it is
called by the natives, is a very flourish-
ing port, and exhibits a very active
movement at all seasons of the year.
It is frequented by a large number of
Chinese vessels, and is now rising into
importance as the head of the French
possessions in the East. So far back,
indeed, as the ninth century Saigon
was noted for its muslin manufactures,
the fineness of which was such that an
entire dress could be drawn through
the circumference of a signet-ring.
Owing to the comparative absence of
noxious insects it is regarded by Eu-
ropeans as a not altogether unpleasant
residence.
The population of the empire of
Anam has been estimated at thirty
millions ; but on this point there are
not sufficient data to form a very
accurate opinion. But whatever may
be their exact number, the inhabitants
are derived from three sources. The
Anamites proper that is, the Cochin
Chinese and the Tonkinese are of a
Chinese origin ; while the people of
Gamboge are descended from Hindoo
ancestors ; and those in the interior
such as the Lao, Moi, and others
claim to be the sons of the soil, with
Malay blood flowing in their veins. Of
the early history of the Anamites few
authentic details have reached us, nor
370
French Cochin China,
are these of a nature to interest the
general reader. Although from an
early date European missionaries ap-
pear to have labored in their self-
denying task of converting these dis-
ciples of Buddhism to the purer tenets
of Christianity, it was not until the
latter part of the eighteenth century
that their influence was sensibly ap-
preciated. Even then they were in-
debted to an accident for the increased
importance they have since continued
to possess. Fleeing from a formidable
and partially successful insurrection,
the only survivor of the royal family
and heir to the throne afterward the
celebrated Ghia-loung took refuge in
the house of Father Pigneau, a French
missionary of unblemished life and
reputation. That worthy man bravely
afforded shelter not only to the fugi-
tive, but also to his wife, his sister,
and his son, and even encouraged him
to make a strenuous effort to recover
his rights. Foiled, however, for a
time by the superior forces of the
rebels, the prince and his faithful
counsellor were compelled to flee for
their lives to a small island in the
Gulf of Siam. Yielding to the advice
of the missionary, Ghia-loung now re-
solved to despatch an embassy to
France, in the hope of obtaining suf-
ficient assistance to place himself on
the throne of his ancestors. Accord-
ingly, in the year 1787, Father Pig-
neau, accompanied by the youthful son
of the unfortunate prince, proceeded to
Versailles, and actually prevailed upon
Louis XVI. to conclude an alliance,
offensive and defensive, with his royal
client. The terms of this treaty are
so far curious that they illustrate the
practical and realistic notion of an
"idea" which characterized the old
French monarchy quite as much as it
does the second Napoleonic empire.
Convinced of the justice of the Anam-
ite prince's claim to the crown, and
moved by a desire to afford him a sig-
nal mark of his friendship, as well as
of his love of justice, his most Chris-
tian majesty agreed to despatch imme-
diately to the coasts of Cochin China
a squadron consisting of four frigates,
conveying a land force of 1,200 foot-
soldiers, 200 artillerymen, and 250
Caffres, thoroughly equipped for ser-
vice, and supported by an efficient
field-battery. In return for or rather
in expectation of receiving this suc-
cor, the king of Cochin China surren-
dered the absolute ownership and sov-
ereignty of the islands of Hoi-nan and
Pulo Condor, together with a half-
share in the port of Touron, where the
French were authorized to establish
whatever works and factories they
might deem requisite for their safety
and commercial advantage. They
were further to enjoy the exclusive
privilege of trading with the Cochin
Chinese, and of introducing their mer-
chandise free of all charges and im-
posts. Neither was any trading vessel
or ship of war to be permitted to enter
any port on the Cochin China coast
save only under the French flag. And
in the event of his most Christian ma-
jesty becoming involved in hostilities
with any other power, whether Asiatic
or European, his faithful ally under-
took to fit out at his own expense both
naval and land forces to co-operate
with the French troops anywhere in
the Indian seas, but not beyond the
Moluccas or the Straits of Malacca.
In consideration of his services in ne-
gotiating this treaty, the ratifications
of which were to be exchanged within
twelve months at the latest, Father
Pigneau was raised to the dignity of
Bishop of Adran, and appointed am-
bassador extraordinary from the court
of Versailles to that of Cochin China.
The next step was to select a com-
mander for the projected expedition ;
and on the new prelate's urgent solici-
tation the king consented, though with
marked reluctance, to confer that dis-
tinction upon the Count de Conway, at
that time governor of the French
establishments in India. The selec-
tion proved an unfortunate one. Bishop
Pigneau had omitted one very import-
ant element from his calculation. He
had made no allowance for the disturb-
ing influences of an improper connec-
French Cochin China.
371
tion with a " lovely woman." He may
even have been ignorant of M. de
Conway's misplaced devotion to Mdme.
de Vienne. Be this as it may, on his
arrival at Pondicherry he refused to
wait upon that all-potent lady, and
offered her such slights that she became
his avowed and bitter enemy. It was
through her, indeed, that the expedition
was never organized, and that the king
of Cochin China was left to his own
resources to bring about his restora-
tion. This he at length accomplished,
and in some small degree by the aid
of a handful of volunteers whom the
Bishop of Adran had induced to ac-
company him to Saigon. A sincere
friendship appears to have existed
between the French prelate and the
Anamite prince, which terminated
only with the death of the former in the
last year of the eighteenth century.
But though Ghia-loung was fully sen-
sible of the advantages to be derived
from maintaining a friendly intercourse
with European nations, he was not
blind to the inconveniences likely to
arise from allowing the subjects of a
foreign power to form independent set-
tlements within his dominions. Feel-
ing that his end was at hand, the aged
monarch emphatically warned his son
not to allow the French to possess a
single inch of land in his territories ;
but at the same time advised him to
cultivate amicable relations with that
people. His. successor obeyed the
paternal counsels only in part. He
took care, indeed, to prevent the French
from settling permanently in his coun-
try ; but he went very much further,
for he actively persecuted the Christian
converts, and exerted himself to the
utmost to oppose the introduction of
western ideas and civilization. In
the year 1825 Min-mang for so was
this emperor called refused even to
receive a letter and presents forwarded
by Louis XVIII., and expressed his
determination to keep aloof from all
intercourse with European powers.
As Captain de Bougainville was
provided neither with instructions how
to act under such circumstances, nor
" with a sufficient force to compel the
acceptance of what was declined to be
taken with a good grace" we quote
from M. Leon de Rosny's Tableau de
Cochinchine, to which we are indebted
for the matter of this article he
formed the wise resolution of with-
drawing from those inhospitable shores.
But before he did so, he succeeded in
landing Father I^egereau, a French
priest who had devoted himself to the
work of making Christians of the
Anamites, whether they would or not.
No sooner did this unwelcome news
reach the ears of the monarch, than it
caused an edict to appear enjoining the
mandarins to exercise the utmost vigi-
lance in preventing the ingress of the
teachers of " the perverse religion of
the Europeans," which is described as
prejudicial to the rectitude and right-
mindedness of mankind. The doctrine
of the missionaries was further repre-
sented, in a petition said to have been
inspired by the emperor himself, as of
a nature to corrupt and seduce the
common people by abusing their cre-
dulity. They employ, it was said, the
fear of hell and eternal punishment to
terrify the timid ; while, to attract in-
dividuals of a different temperament,
they promise the enjoyment of heavenly
bliss as the reward of virtue. By de-
grees the ill-feeling entertained by the
emperor toward the missionaries grew
in intensity, until they became the
object of his bitter aversion ; and as
his subordinates, according to custom,
were anxious to recommend themselves
to favor by their demonstrative zeal,
it was not long before " the church of
Cochin China was enriched by the
crown of numerous martyrs." The
first of these martyrs was the Abbe
Gagelin,whowas strangled on the 17th
October, 1833; but then his offence
was twofold, for he had not only
preached the forbidden doctrines, but,
in contravention of the king's com-
mands, had quitted the town of Dong-
nai to do so. A very naive letter from
a missionary named Jacquard conveyed
to the abbe the tidings of his forth-
coming martyrdom. " Your sentence,"
372
French Cochin China.
he wrote, "has been irrevocably pro-
nounced. As soon as you have under-
gone the punishment of the cord, your
head will be cut off and sent into the
provinces in which you have preached
Christianity. Behold you, then, a
martyr! How fortunate you are!" To
this pious effusion the abbe replied
in a similar strain : " The news you
announce of my being irrevocably con-
demned to death penetrates my very
heart's core with joy. No ; I do not
hesitate to avow it, never did any news
give me so much pleasure."
In the following year another mis-
sionary was tortured to death, not
merely as a teacher of the new re-
ligion, but because he was found in the
company of some rebels who had seized
upon a fort. No other martyrdom
occurred after this until 1837, in which
year the Abbe Cornay was beheaded
and quartered, after being imprisoned
for three months ; and, in 1838, M.
Jacquard himself escaped by strangula-
tion from the insults and outrages to
which he had been for some time sub-
jected. Nor was it the missionaries
alone who shared the fate and emulated
the calm heroism of the early apostles.
The native neophytes were not a whit
less zealous to suffer in their Master's
cause, and to bear witness to the truth,
in death as in life. The common peo-
ple eagerly flocked to behold their ex-
ecution, not indeed to taunt and revile
the patient victims, but to secure some
relic, however trifling or otherwise dis-
gusting, and to dip their garments in
the still-flowing blood. Pagans and
Christians alike yielded to this super-
stition or veneration, while the soldiers
on duty drove a lucrative trade in sell-
ing to the scrambling crowd fragments
of the dress and person of the yet-
quivering martyr. Even the execu-
tioners are reported to have affirmed
that at the moment the head was
severed from the body a certain per-
fume exhaled from the gushing blood,
as if anticipating glorification in heaven.
M. de Rosny, however, frankly admits
that Min-mang was chiefly moved by
political considerations to persecute
the followers of the new religion,
whom he believed to be in league with
his worst enemies, especially after the
capture of a missionaiy in one of the
rebel forts. His policy, whatever may
have been its real springs, was adopted
by his son Thieou-tri, one of whose first
public acts was to command the gov-
ernors of provinces to track out the
Christians to their most secret asylums.
These orders were only too faithfully
obeyed. The French missionaries were
ferreted out of their lurking-places,
thrown into prison, and otherwise ill-
treated, throughout this reign, which
did not terminate before the end of
1847.
The new monarch, commonly known
as Tu-Duk, walked in the footsteps of his
father. An edict was issued almost imme-
diately after his accession to the throne,
commanding that every European mis-
sionary found in Anam should be
thrown into the sea with a rope round his
neck. And when the mandarins hesitat-
ed to execute such sanguinary orders, a
second edict appeared enjoining that
whosoever concealed in his house a
propagator of the Christian faith should
be cut in two and thrown into the river.
The fiendish work then began in ear-
nest. The sword of the executioner
was again called into request, and
several most estimable men suffered
death on the scaffold. At last even a
bishop, Monseigneur Diaz, experienced
the fate of his humbler brethren, on the
20th July, 1857 ; and as this prelate
happened to be a Spaniard, his death
was avenged by an allied Franco-
Spanish expedition, which resulted in
the conquest of Lower Cochin China,
and the cession of the provinces of
Saigon, Bien-hoa, and Myt-ho to the
French. Let us now see what manner
of men were these Anamites whom
the French, failing to convert, were
compelled, by their sense of spiritual
duty, to conquer and subjugate. M.
de Rosny shall continue to be our guide.
The people of Anam Proper are
evidently of Mongol extraction. Their
complexion is of a dark sallow hue,
varying from a dirty white to a yellowish
Cochin China.
373
olive color. In stature they are short,
but thickset, and remarkably active.
Their features are by no means beauti-
ful according to the European idea of
beauty. They have short square noses,
prominent cheek-bones, thin lips, and
small black eyes the eyeball being
rather yellow than white. Their teeth,
which are naturally of a pure white,
are stained almost black and otherwise
disfigured by the excessive use of betel-
nut. Their countenances are chiefly
marked by the breadth and height of
the cheek-bones, and are nearly of the
shape of a lozenge. The women are
better-looking, and decidedly more
graceful, than the men, even in the
lower classes, but both sexes are par-
ticularly cheerful and vivacious. The
upper classes, however, affect the
solemn air and grave deportment of
the Chinese, and are consequently much
less agreeable to strangers than are
the less-dignified orders. Corpulence
is considered a great beauty a fat
face and a protuberant stomach con-
stituting the ideal of an Adonis. Both
men and women wear their hair long,
but gathered up at the back of the
head in a knot. It is never cut save
in early youth, when it is all shaved off
with the exception of a small tuft on
the top of the crown. A close-cropped
head of hair, indeed, is looked upon as
a badge of infamy, and is one of the
distinguishing marks of a convicted
criminal. The beard is allowed to
grow naturally, but consists of little
more than a few scattered hairs at the
end of the chin ; the upper lip being as
scantily furnished. The nails should
be very long, thin, and sharp-pointed,
and by the women are usually stained
of a red color.
The Anamites dress themselves in
silk or cotton according to their means ;
but whatever the material, the form of
their garb is always the same. In ad-
dition to wide trousers fastened round
the waist by a silken girdle, they wear
a robe descending to the knees, and
occasionally a shorter one over that ;
both equally opening on the right side,
but closed by five or six buttons. The
men's sleeves are very wide, and so long
that they descend considerably lower
than the ends of the fingers. The
women, however, who hi other respects
dress precisely as do the men, have
their sleeves somewhat shorter, in order
to display their metal or pearl brace-
lets. The under-garment is generally
made of country cotton, but the upper
one, as worn by the higher classes, is
invariably of silk or flowered muslin,
of Chinese manufacture. Cotton trou- .
sers are often dyed brown, but even the
laboring population make use of silk
as much as possible. For mourning
garments cotton alone is employed,
white being the funereal color.
Out of doors men and women alike
wear varnished straw hats, upward of
two feet in diameter, fastened under the
chin, and very useful as a protection
against sun and rain, though somewhat
grotesque in appearance. Within doors
the women go bareheaded, not unfre-
quently allowing their fine black tresses
to hang loose down their backs almost
to the ground. Ear-rings, bracelets, and
rings on their fingers are favorite ob-
jects of female vanity ; but a modest
demeanor is a thing unknown ; a bold,
dashing manner being most admired by
the men. They are certainly not good-
looking ; but their natural gaiety and
liveliness amply compensate for the ab-
sence of personal charms.
Old men and persons of distinction
alone wear sandals, the people generally
preferring to go barefooted. A pair of
silken purses, or bags, to carry betel,
money, and tobacco, may be seen in
the hand, or hanging over the shoulder,
of every man and woman not actually
employed in hard labor. They are,
for the most part, of blue satin, and
sometimes richly embroidered. Like
their neighbors the Chinese, the An-
amites are scrupulous observers of
the distinctive insignia of rank, but
pay no regard to personal cleanliness.
Notwithstanding their frequent ablu-
tions, their clothes, their hair, then?
fingers and nails, are disgustingly filthy.
Even wealthy persons wear dirty cot-
ton dresses within doors, over which
374
French Cochin China.
they throw their smart silken robes
when they go out.
Taste is proverbially a matter beyond
dispute ; but it would be very hard for
any European to agree with an An-
amite as to what constituted a delicacy
and what an abomination. A Cochin
Chinese epicure delights, for instance,
in rotten eggs, and is especially fond of
them after they have been under a hen
for ten or twelve days. From stale fish,
again, he extracts his choicest sauce,
and feasts greedily upon meat in a state
of putrefaction. Vermin of all sorts is
highly appreciated. Crocodile's flesh
is also greatly prized ; though boiled
rice and a little fish fresh, smoked, or
salted are the ordinary food of the
poor. Among delicacies may be men-
tioned silk-worms fried in fat, ants and
ants' eggs, bees, insects, swallows'-nests,
and a large white worm found in de-
cayed wood; but no dainty is more
dearly relished than a still-born calf
served up whole in its skin and almost
raw. In the way of pastry the women
greatly affect leignets made of herbs,
sugar, and clay. Among the rich the
dishes are placed on low tables a foot
or two in height, round which the diners
seat themselves on the ground in the
attitude of tailors. Forks and spoons
are equally unknown, but chop-sticks
are used after the Chinese fashion. The
dinner usually begins, instead of ending,
with fruit and pastry. During the meal
nothing liquid is taken, but before sit-
ting down it is customary to take a gulp
or two of strong spirits distilled from
fermented rice, and after dinner several
small cups of tea are drunk by those
who can afford to do so. Cold or un-
adulterated water is thought unwhole-
some, and is therefore never taken by
itself. Betel-nut mixed with quicklime
is constantly chewed by both men and
women, and of late years the use of
opium has partially crept in.
The houses of the Anamites are
only one story high, and very low in
the roof. They are, in fact, mere halls,
the roof of which is usually supported
on bamboo pillars, on which are pasted
strips of many-colored paper inscribed
with Chinese proverbs. The roof
slopes rather sharply, and consists
of reed or straw. Neither windows
nor chimneys are seen. The smoke
escapes and the light enters by the door.
The walls are made of palm leaves,
though rich people often employ wood
for that purpose. In either case they
are filthily dirty and swarm with insects.
At the further end of the house is a
raised platform, which serves as a bed
for the entire family. The floor is of
earth, not unfrequently traversed by
channels hollowed out by the rain
which descends through the roof. In
every household one member remains
awake all night, to give the alarm in
case of thieves attempting to come in.
It is usual for the men to marry as
soon as they have the means to pur-
chase a wife. The price of such an
article varies, according to circum-
stances, from two to ten shillings,
though rich people will give as much
as twice or three times that sum for
anything out of the common run.
Polygamy is permitted by the laws ;
but practically it is a luxury confined
to the wealthy, and even with them
the first wife reigns supreme over the
household. The privilege of divorce
is reserved exclusively for the hus-
bands, who can put away a disagree-
able partner by breaking in twain a
copper coin or a piece of wood, in the
presence of a witness. Parents can-
not dispose of their daughters in marri-
age without their free consent. Pre-
vious to marriage the Cochin Chinese
are perfectly unrestrained; but as
chastity is nothing thought of, this is
not a matter of much moment. Infan-
ticide is punished as a crime, but not
so abortion. Adultery is a capital
offense. The guilty woman is trampled
to death under the feet of an elephant, .
while her lover is strangled or behead-
ed ; but these sentences are frequently
commuted into exile. Wives are not
locked up as in Mohammedan countries,
but with that exception they are quite
as badly treated, being altogether at
the mercy of their husbands. They
are, in truth, little better than slaves or
Cochin China.
375
sts of burden. It is they who build
the houses, who cultivate the ground,
who manufacture the clothes, who pre-
pare the food, who, in short, do every-
thing. They have nine lives, say their
ungrateful husbands, and can afford to
lose one without being the worse for it.
They are described as being less timid
than the men, more intelligent, more
gay, and quite ready to adapt them-
selves to the manners and customs of
their French rulers. The men, though
by no means destitute of strength and
courage, are lazy, indolent, and averse
to bodily exercise, and chiefly at home
in the petty intrigues of an almost re-
tail commerce.
Great importance is attached to the
funeral ceremonies. The dead are
interred not burnt, according to the
custom of neighboring nations and
much taste is displayed in their burial-
places. There is no more acceptable
present than a coffin, and thus it usual-
ly happens that one is provided years
before it can be turned to a proper
account. The deceased is clothed in
his choicest apparel, and in his coffin
is placed an abundant supply of what-
ever he is likely to want in the new
life upon which he has entered through
the portals of death. The obsequies
are generally deferred for six months,
or for even a whole year, in order to
give more time for the necessary pre-
parations. On such occasions friends
and relatives flock from afar to the
"funeral baked meats;" for a hand-
some banquet forms an essential part
of the otherwise melancholy details.
From twenty to thirty bearers convey
the corpse to its last abode, amid the
deafening discord of drums, cymbals,
and tom-toms. The procession moves
with slow and measured step, and on
the coffin is placed a shell filled with
water, which enables the master of the
ceremonies to ascertain that the coffin
is borne with becoming steadiness.
Mourning is worn for twenty-seven
months for a father, mother, or hus-
band; but only twelve months for a
wife. During this period it is for-
bidden to be present at any spectacle,
to attend any meeting, or to marry.
At various intervals after the interment,
offerings of eatables are presented to
the dead, but which are scrupulously
consumed by the offerers themselves.
Respect, bordering on reverence, is
shown to old age ; but then old people
are a rarity, few individuals attaining
to half a century. Sickness of all
kinds is rife, including "the whole
cohort of fevers." The want of clean-
liness is undoubtedly at the bottom of
most of the complaints from which the
natives suffer. The system of medicine
most in vogue is borrowed from the
Chinese. Every well-to-do family
maintains its own physician, who
physics all its members to their heart's
content. Doctors, however, agree no
more in Cochin China than in any
other region of the globe. There are
two schools of medicine the one em-
ploying nothing but stimulants, the
other adhering solely to refrigerants,
and both citing in favor of their re-
spective systems the most astounding
and well-nigh miraculous cures.
The rules of politeness and etiquette
are distinctly drawn and rigidly ob-
served. An inferior meeting a superior
prostrates himself at full length upon
the ground, and repeats the act' again
and again according to the amount of
deference he wishes to exhibit. To
address one by the title of great-grand-
father is to show the highest possible
respect, while grandfather, father, uncle,
and elder brother mark the downward
gradations from that supreme point.
There is, hi truth, somewhat too much
of veneering visible in all that pertains
to the private life and character of the
Anamites. Their moral code, based
on the precepts of Confucius, is irre-
proachable, but they seldom pause to
regulate their conduct after its whole-
some doctrines. Pleasure, indeed, is
more thought of than morality, and
gambling is a raging passion with all
classes. Cock-fighting, and even the
combats of red-fishes, fill them with
especial delight ; and when thoroughly
excited they will stake on any chance
their wives and children, and even
376
French Cochin China.
themselves. Music, dancing, and the-
atrical exhibitions are likewise much
to their taste, though the dancers are in-
variably women hired for the purpose.
The laws and police regulations are
for the most part wise and sensible, but
are more frequently neglected than
observed. Here, as in other Asiatic
countries, a gift in the hand perverteth
the wisdom of the wise, and thus only
the poor and the stingy need suffer for
their sins. For most offences the
bastinado is inflicted, but for heinous
crimes capital punishments are en-
forced. There is a sufficient variety
in the modes of execution. Sometimes
the criminal is sentenced to be stran-
gled ; at other time's he is decapitated,
or v trampled to death by an elephant,
or even hacked to pieces if his crime
has been in any way extraordinary.
For minor delinquencies recourse is
had to transportation in irons to a dis-
tant province, or to hard labor, such as
cutting grass for the emperor's ele-
phants.
Society is divided into two classes
the people and the mandarins. No-
bility is hereditary, but the son of a
mandarin of the first order ranks only
with the second until he has done
something to merit promotion to his
father's rank. In like manner the son
of a second-class mandarin belongs to
the third rank, and so on to the lowest
grade ; and there are nine of these
the highest two sitting in the imperial
council. But the most exalted honors
are open to the most humble. No
man is so low born as to despair of be-
coming one of the pillars of the empire.
The competition system prevails here
in its full vigor. Everything depends
upon the passing certain examinations ;
but for all that the mandarins are de-
scribed as oppressors of the poor, evil
advisers of the sovereign, addicted to
fraud, given up to their appetites,
wasting their tune in sensual and
frivolous pursuits, corrupt and venal
in the administration of justice.
The patrimony is distributed equally
among all the sons, whether legitimate
or otherwise, except that the eldest re-
ceives one-tenth of the entire property
in addition to his own share ; in return
for which he is expected to guard the
interests of the family, and above all
to look after his sisters, who cannot
marry without his consent. The daugh-
ters have no part in the inheritance
save in the absence of male heirs, but
in that case they are treated as if they
were sons. Through extreme poverty
children are often sold as slaves by
their parents. An insolvent debtor
likewise becomes the bondsman of his
creditor; and as the legal rate of in-
terest is thirty per cent., a debt rapidly
accumulates.
An Anamite hour is twice the
length of a European one, and the
night is divided into five watches. A
year consists of twelve lunar months ;
so that every two or three years it be-
comes necessary to add another month :
in nineteen years there are seventeen
of these intercalated months. The
lapse of time is marked by periods of
twelve years, five of which constitute a
"grand cycle;" but in historical nar-
ratives the dates are calculated from
the accession of the reigning monarch.
The year begins with the month of
February. The decimal system of
enumeration is the one adopted by the
Cochin Chinese.
The religion of the people is a super-
stitious Buddhism ; that of the lettered
classes a dormant belief in the moral
teachings of Confucius. Whatever
temples there are, are of a mean order,
and are served by an ignorant and ill-
paid priesthood. The malignant spirits
are propitiated by offerings of burnt
paper inscribed with prayers, of bundles
of sweet-scented wood, and of other
articles of trifling value ; the good
spirits are mostly neglected. Sincere
veneration, however, is shown to the
manes of deceased ancestors. The
priests take a vow of celibacy, to which
they occasionally adhere. They ab-
stain entirely from animal food, and
affect a yellow or red hue in their ap-
parel. After death their bodies are
burned, and not buried as is the case
with the laity.
ConsalvVs Memoirs.
377
The inhabitants of Cochin China are
naturally industrious, and possess con-
siderable skill as carpenters and up-
holsterers. They also work in iron
with some success, and display no
mean taste in their pottery. Their
cotton and silk manufactures are,
however, coarse and greatly inferior
to the Chinese. Their lackered boxes
are famous throughout the world, nor
are their filigree ornaments unworthy
of admiration. But though skilful and
intelligent as artisans, and abundantly
endowed with the faculty of imitation,
they are wretchedly deficient in imagi-
nation, and have no idea of invention.
This defect is perhaps of less conse-
quence now that they have the benefit
of receiving their impulses from .the
most inventive nation in the world.
Without doubt, their material pros-
perity will be largely augmented by
the French domination, nor have they
anything to lose in moral and social
respects. The conquest of Cochin
China may therefore be regarded as
an advantage to the people themselves ;
but how far it is likely to yield any
profit to the French is altogether an-
other question, and one which at present
we are not called upon to discuss. Suf-
ficient for the day is the evil thereof.
From The Dublin Review.
CONSALVTS MEMOIRS.
Memoires du Cardinal Consalvi, Sec-
retaire d'etat du Pape Pie VII.,
avec une Introduction et des Notes.
Par J. CRETINEAU-JOLY. 2 vols.
8vo. Paris: Plon. 1864.
M. Cre*tineau-Joly is a Vendean, and
there seems to be in his blood some-
thing of that pugnacious and warlike
quality which so distinguished his
forefathers. Each of his former pub-
lications betrays this combative pro-
pensity, and the introduction which
accompanies Cardinal Consalvi's Me-
moirs is worthy of its predecessors.
M. Cretineau-Joly is well known on
the continent by his " History of the
Jesuits" a work containing a consid-
erable amount of valuable information
concerning that celebrated and much
maligned order ; but, at the same time,
it may be considered in the light of an
Armstrong gun, which batters and re-
duces to dust the bastions of an enemy.
Indeed, it was ushered forth at the
very height of the warfare which raged
against the Church in France, a few
years previous to the downfall of
Louis Philippe. In 1858 the same
writer produced a brochure bearing
the following title, " The Church ver-
sus the Revolution," another broadside
fired against crowned revolutionists,
no less than against the sectarian
hordes of a Mazzini and a Garibaldi.
Hardly a year had elapsed when the
French emperor invaded Lombardy,
with what result the whole world is
aware. So M. Cretineau-Joly had
taken time by the forelock. And now,
again, he comes forth with these highly
interesting and authentic memoirs,
written by the cardinal and prime
minister of Pius VII. In every re-
spect they may be proclaimed the most
important, if not the most voluminous,
of the editor's publications. No one,
at the same time, will fail to perceive
that between the actual situation of
the Holy See and that which marked
its history in the eventful years be-
tween 1799 and 1811, there underlies a
startling similarity. Singularly enough,
the second half of the nineteenth cen-
378
Consalvi's Memoirs.
tury begins with the same picture of
violence, the same hypocrisy, the same
contempt of right by might, that char-
acterized the dawn of the present age.
On the one side, an all-powerful ruler,
intoxicated by success, backed by a
host of servile demagogues, and hardly
less servile, though royal infidels ; on
the other, a weak old man, backed by
a calm, deliberate, truly Christian ge-
nius both wielding no other weapons
but faith, hope, and charity both torn
from their home and judgment-seat by
the iron hand of revolutionary despot-
ism and yet both riding triumphant
over the seething waves, whilst the grim
corpses of their enemies are washed to
the shore, or startle the traveUer as he
comes suddenly upon them hi his wan-
derings through Russian wilds. Ay,
there she goes, that tiny ship of Peter's,
with a Pius at her helm ; now, as in
bygone days, with an Antonelli as a
commander much about the same
man as a Consalvi.
'Blow fair, thou breeze! She anchors ere the
dark.
Already doubled ie the cape our bay
Keceives that prow which proudly spurns the
spray.
How gloriously her gallant course she goes 1
Her white wings Hying never from her foes
She walks the waters tike a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife."
Setting aside metaphors and poetry,
these memoirs are certainly one of the
most remarkable instances of calm
self-possession and confidence in a
just cause that are to be met with
in any time or country. Here is a
man, and prime minister of a captive
sovereign, himself a prisoner, who un-
dertakes to write the history of the im-
portant events in which he had played
a most conspicuous part. He is closely
watched, and consequently obliged to
write by fits and starts ; he is deprived
of every source of documentary in-
formation, and consequently must trust
to his own memory. Will these hasty
yet truthful sheets escape his jailer's
eye ? He cannot tell. Will he ever
recover his liberty, be restored to his
dear master's bosom and confidence ?
He cannot tell : but nevertheless the
great cardinal for great he was uni-
versally acknowledged goes on bring-
ing forth certain facts, known to him-
self alone, and which throw more light
on the true character of the first Napo-
leon than the ponderous and garbled
evidence of a Thiers, or even the
more trustworthy pages of M. Ar-
taud, in his " Life of Pius VII." In-
deed, there are few comparisons of
higher interest than to open those two
works at the parts which refer to the
events narrated in these memoirs. A
labor of this kind, first originating in a
spirit of fair play, soon becomes a
labor of love, so strong is the contrast
between the worldly, scheming, track-
ling, infidel historian of the first em-
pire, and the unassuming and conscien-
tious, though bold and resolute cardi-
nal. One may safely say, that M.
Thiers would have never dreamt of
bearding the headstrong Bonaparte,
as Consalvi did on a memorable occa-
sion, which reminds us of those legates
of old, who daunted by their steady
looks and unruffled patience the burly
violence of a Richard, or unveiled the
cunning of a Frederic Hohenstaufen.
At the very outset of these memoirs,
the cardinal gives us their true and
solemn character. His last will, which
accompanies them, and may be consid-
ered as a sort of preface, contains the
following lines :
"My heir and trustee, as well as
those who may hereafter take charge
of my inheritance, are bound to bestow
the greatest care on my personal writ-
ings relative to the conclave held at
Venice in 1799 and 1800 ; to the con-
cordat of 1801 ; to the marriage of the
Emperor Napoleon with the Arch-
duchess Maria Louisa of Austria ; and,
lastly, to the papers on different peri-
ods of my life and ministry. These
five papers, some of which are nearly
finished, and the others in course of
preparation, are not to be published
before the death of those eminent per-
sonages who are mentioned therein. In
this way many disputes may be avoided,
for, though utterly unfounded, as my
own writings rest on truth alone, still
Consalvi's Memoirs.
379
they might injure that very truth, and
the interests of the Holy See, to which
I am desirous of leaving the means of
repelling any false attack published
hereafter on these matters.- These
memoirs on the conclave, the con-
cordat of 1801, the marriage, and the
ministry, belonging more especially to
the Holy Sec, and to the pontifical
government, my heir and trustee shall
present them to the reigning pontiff,
and beseech the Holy Father to pre-
serve them carefully within the arch-
ives of the Vatican. They may be of
use to the Holy See on many occa-
sions, but more particularly if any
future history be published of the
events which form the object of the
present writings, or if it should be-
come necessary to refute any false
statement. In regard to the memoirs
concerning the different periods of my
own life, as the extinction of my fam-
ily will leave behind me no one di-
rectly interested in the following pages,
they are to remain in the hands of my
heir and trustee, or in those of the suc-
cessive administrators of my fortune ;
or, again, they may be likewise handed
over to the archives of the Vatican, if
they be deemed worthy of preserva-
tion. My only desire is, that in case
of the biography of the cardinals be-
ing continued, my heir and executors
shall cause these memoirs to be known,
so that nothing may be published con-
trary to truth about myself; for I am
ambitious of maintaining immaculate
my own reputation a wish grounded
on the prescriptions of Scripture. As
for the truth of the facts brought for-
ward in my writings, I may make bold
to say, Deus scit quia non mentior"
Cardinal Consalvi was born at
Rome, of a noble family, in 1757, and
was the eldest of five children, two of
whom died at an early age. His father
bore the title of marquess, and his
mother, the Marchioness Claudia Car-
andini, was of Modenese origin.
The family itself, on the father's
side, had sprung up in Tuscany at
Pisa, though not under the same
name ; but emigrated about a centuiy
and a half ago to the Roman States,
where it expanded, and gradually grew
into political, or rather ecclesiastical
importance. Consalvi's forefathers still,
however, held in Tuscany some pro-
perty, to which he would have been
entitled had he felt disposed to dis-
pute the equity of certain Leopoldine
laws concerning trustees. But, with
characteristic disinterestedness the fu-
ture cardinal never gave the matter a
second thought.
" I never felt (says he) a passion for
riches ; beside, my resources, though
far from opulent, were sufficient for a
modest way of living, thanks to the in-
come arising out of the different offices
which I held successively. And thus
being lifted, by Divine Providence,
above vanity and ambition, I never
was tempted to prove that I was
descended from the Brunaccis and not
from the Consalvis, whenever envy or
ignorance represented me as belonging
to a stock unblessed with old nobility.
It would have been an easy matter to
dispel these imputations or errors.
Being fully convinced that the best
nobility springs from the heart and
from good deeds ; knowing, likewise,
that I was a genuine Brunacci and
not a Consalvi, I despised all such ru-
mors. . . . Nor did I alter my views
when the high position which I after-
ward attained afforded so many oppor-
tunities for putting an end to those
idle reports."
In the above passage we have al-
ready the whole man. During his
long and chequered life he never once
exposed himself to the charge of mak
ing his own fortune out of the numer-
ous and even honorable occasions
which would have tempted a less
exalted soul. It would be useless to
follow the young Consalvi through his
course of studies, which were brilliant,
and partly gone through under the eye
of Cardinal York, the last of a fated
race, who entertained for the future
minister an affectionate friendship
that never cooled until his death.
Hercules Consalvi had hardly fin-
ished his academical curriculum at
380
Consalvi's Memoirs.
Eome when he was called to the pre-
lature, in 1783, as reporter to the tri-
bunal of the Curia. His talents and
deep knowledge, though so young, in
canon and civil law, soon made him
conspicuous among his competitors.
In 1786, the Pope Pius VI. appointed
him Ponente del buono govemo, a
board, or congregation, charged with
giving its opinion on all municipal
questions. This promotion was due
to his merit, but the cardinal himself
confesses that it was a tardy one, not
on account of any neglect on the part
of the pontifical government, but
merely because he did not avail him-
self of favorable opportunities. " On
the one hand," observes he, " my own
disposition never inclined to ask for
favor, and still less to court the patron-
age of those placed in high positions ;
whilst, on the other hand, I had before
my eyes, in such respects, the fine ex-
ample of my own guardian, the Car-
dinal Negroni. . . . He was wont to
say, ' We never ought to ask for any-
thing ; we must never flatter to obtain
preferment ; but manage in such a
way as to overcome every obstacle,
through a most punctual fulfilment of
our duties, and the enjoyment of a
sound reputation.' To this piece of
advice I strictly adhered through life."
To those who are so prone to malign
the pomp and splendor of the Roman
prelature, it will be a matter of sur-
prise to learn that at this very time
the only benefice conferred upon Con-
salvi amounted to the paltry stipend
of 12 a year.
The Pope, however, who seems to
have been an excellent judge of true
merit, soon placed the young prelate
at the head of the hospital of San
Michele, the largest and most import-
ant in Borne. The establishment re-
quired a thorough reform ; and Con-
salvi soon worked wonders, being led
on by his own innate ardor, and by a
strong predilection for the manage-
ment of charitable institutions. But
he had hardly realized his intended
labor of reformation, when he was
superseded by another prelate. Pius
VL, in fact, did not wish Consalvi to
wear out his energies in the routine
of administrative bureaucracy. The
incident which led to his promotion is
so truly-characteristic of both person-
ages, that we cannot refrain from a
copious quotation :
" The sudden death of one of the
votanti di segnatura, or Supreme
Court of Cassation, made a vacancy
in that court. All my friends engaged
me not to lose a moment in applying
for it. I did not yield to their entreat-
ies, nor, indeed, did the Pope allow
me time for that purpose. The above
death had taken place on Maunday
Thursday. The very next morning,
though it was Good Friday, and the
sacred services of the day were about
to be solemnized ; though all the pub-
lic offices were closed, according to
custom, the Pope sent to the Secretary
of State an order to forward my imme-
diate appointment as votante di segna-
tura. As soon as it arrived, I has-
tened to the Pope to thank him. His
Holiness was not in the habit of re-
ceiving any one merely for the sake of
hearing expressions of gratitude ; still
less did I expect to be introduced on
such a day, when the Pope, after
attending at the holy function, had re-
tired to his apartments, with a view of
coming back for Tenebra, and was in
the very act of reciting Comph'n,
which was to be followed by his dinner.
"On learning that I was in the
antechamber, where he had previously
given orders that I should not be sent
away in case I should come, he admit-
ted me at once. After finishing Com-
plin in my presence, he addressed me
so kindly that I shall remember his
words as long as I live. * My dear
Monsignor,' said he, ' you are well
aware that we receive no one merely
to hear thanksgivings ; and yet we
have gone against our usual custom,
notwithstanding this busy day, and
though our dinner has just been served
up, in order that we may have the
pleasure of making you the present
communication. If you were not in-
cluded in the last promotion, it was be-
Consalvi's Memoirs*
381
cause we w<Te obliged to hand over to
another the post really destined to
yourself; and in doing so we felt as
much aggrieved as we are now de-
lighted to offer you immediately the
vacant charge of votante di segnatura.
We do it to show you the satisfaction
which you afford us by your conduct,
We took you away from an adminis-
trative station merely to place you on
higher ground.'
"The Holy Father then added a
few words concerning the opinion
which his kindness, and by no means
my own merit, suggested to him rela-
tively to my future career. Indeed,
the knowledge which I have of myself
would not allow me to transcribe those
words. He then continued as follows :
'What we now bestow upon you is
really not worth much, but I have
nothing else for the present. Take it,
however, as a positive pledge of what
I am disposed to do as soon as an op-
portunity offers.'
" It is easy to understand that after
such a speech, uttered in that easy,
affable, and yet majestic manner so
peculiar to Pius VI., I was at a loss
for expressions to answer him. I
could hardly stammer out, that after
the language he had just used about
my promotion language showing that
I had not incurred his disapproval by
my conduct at San Michele my
mind was quite at ease as to the future.
Indeed, I had no other ambition but
to please him, and to fulfil my duty in
any station he might think fit to confer
upon me.
" Here I was interrupted. ' I am
satisfied nay, highly satisfied' said
the Pope, ' by your behavior at San
Michele ; but I again say that I des-
tine you to other purposes. What I
promised formerly was sincere, but
still it was but empty words. This is
something matter of fact ; not much,
indeed, but yet better than words.
So don't refuse it ; and now be off, for,
you see, our dinner is getting cold, and
we must soon go back to chapel.' "
It would be doubtless congenial to
our feelings to dwell upon these touch-
ing details ; but we are already in the
year 1790, and the knell of the old
French monarchy is tolling. Let us
plunge, therefore, at once in medias
res, and skip over the eight interven-
ing years between the time which saw
Rome invaded by a revolutionary
army, the Pope torn from his throne,
and led a prisoner, first to Florence,
then to Valence, where he was to die
a martyr. On reading this part of the
memoirs, one is particularly struck
with the similarity which it presents
with the history of Piedmontese inva-
sion the same hypocrisy, the same
attempts at provoking to insurrection
the inhabitants at Rome, and, these
failing, the same recourse to violence.
The accidental death of General Du-
phot at last appears in its true colors,
but of course it supplied the Directory
with a pretence for seizing the Papal
States, an act of spoliation it had been
long preparing.* Thanks to the en-
ergy of Consalvi, to whom had been
entrusted the maintenance of public
order, previous to the entry of the
French troops into the capital, no in-
surrection took place ; but for that
very reason he was obnoxious to the
government of the invaders. After
the Pope's departure he was thrown
into prison, with the prospect of being
transported, together with many Ro-
man ecclesiastical and pontifical offi-
cers, to the fatal colony of Cayenne.
* As a proof of this, we may produce the secret
instructions forwarded, two months and a half
before the general's death and the Roman insur-
rection, by the French government to Joseph
Bonaparte, their plenipotentiary at Rome : u You
have two things to bear in mind : (1) To prevent
the King of Naples from coming to Rome ; (2)
To help, instead of opposing, the favorable dis-
positions of those who oelieve that it is time for
the Papal dominion to come to an end. In short,
you must encourage the impulse toward freedom
by which the people of Rome seems to be ani-
mated." Instructions like these ("observes, very
justly, M. Cretineau-Joly) could have no other
object but to lay a diplomatical snare, or to pro-
voke an insurrection. The fact is so clear that
Cacault, who succeeded to Joseph Bonaparte at
Rome, wrote in 1801 to the First Consul "You
know, quite as well as I do, the details of this
melancholy event. Nobody in Rome ordered
either to fire or to kill any one. General Duphot
was imprudent ; nay, more let us out with the
word he was guilty. There is a law of nations
at llomg not a whit less than elsewhere." The
admission does credit to the honest man who
contributed so largely to bring about the con-
cordat of 1801.
382
Consalvi's Memoirs.
To the honor of the French com-
mander it must be said, that he did
all in his power to defend the ener-
getic prelate against his contemptible
enemies, and to alleviate his captivity.
The Paris Directory had first banished
him to Civita Vecchia, and then al-
tered his destination to Naples. But
the Roman demagogues were deter-
mined upon wreaking their vengeance
on Consalvi:
"I had been detained (says he)
about four or five and twenty days,
when I was visited in my prison by
my dear brother Andrea, as well as by
my two friends, the Princes Chigi and
Teano. This piece of good fortune I
owed to the kind commander of the
fortress. They informed me that
they were bearers of both good and
bad news. I was at last to be trans-
ported, not, indeed, to Tuscany, but to
Naples, so that I might not join the
Pope. At the same time, it had been
ordained that I was to ride through
the streets of the city mounted on an
ass, escorted by policemen, and lashed
all along with a horsewhip. Many a
window under which I was to pass by
was already hired ; and our Jacobins,
as well as the wives of our consuls,
promised themselves much pleasure at
the sight of this execution. My
friends were quite amazed at my indif-
ference on receiving this last piece of
news, which, indeed, caused me but
little pain ; for I really considered it
rather as a source of triumph and
glory. On the contrary, I was deeply
vexed at not being able to proceed to
Tuscany, where I was BO desirous of
meeting the Pope."
The humanity of the French general
prevented the Roman demagogues
from carrying into execution the latter
part of the sentence ; but he remained
inflexible as to Consalvi's removal to
Naples. The latter had, therefore,
but to obey ; and started for his desti-
nation, in company with a band of
eighteen convicts, and several political
prisoners like .himself. After many
difficulties, arising out of Acton's tor-
tuous policy, he succeeded at length
in reaching Leghorn, where he had to
encounter obstacles of a different na-
ture. His very first step was to pro-
ceed to Florence, in hopes that the
Duke of Tuscany would facilitate his
access to the captive Pontiff, who was
detained in a neighboring Carthusian
monastery. But the jealous watchful-
ness of the French plenipotentiary
struck terror into the heart of the Tus-
can minister, who peremptorily refused
to have anything to do with the matter.
Consalvi was not, however, to be
daunted when on the path of duty;
he consequently set out on foot for the
Chartreuse, situated at about three
miles from Florence, and contrived his
visit so secretly that he baffled detec-
tion. On approaching the foot of the
hill, the faithful servant could hardly
repress his emotions. But let us hear
him in his own words :
" Every step which brought me
nearer to the Holy Father increased
the strong feelings that welled up from
my soul. The poverty and solitude of
the place, the sight of the two or three
unfortunates who attended him, brought
tears to my eyes. At last I was in-
troduced into his presence. O God!
what were my emotions at that mo-
ment; my heart throbbed almost to
breaking !
" Pius VI. was seated before a table,
a posture which concealed his weak-
ness, for he had almost lost the use of
his legs, and he could not move with-
out the help of two strong men. The
beauty and majesty of his features
were still the same as at Rome ; he
still inspired a deep veneration and a
most ardent attachment. I fell pros-
trate at his feet, which I bathed with
my tears ; I told him the difficulties I
had to encounter, and how ardently I
desired to remain with him, in order
to serve him, assist him in fact, share
his fate. I promised not to spare any
effort for the furtherance of this ob-
ject."
A full hour quickly fled in thus com-
muning with each other, and Consalvi
was obliged to take his leave. The
aged Pope foresaw that this prop of
Consalvi's Memoirs.
383
his declining and martyred life would
not be allowed him ; but still he clung
fondly to the idea, and when his faith-
ful adherent, on a second and last visit,
admitted that he had failed in every
endeavor to gain his end, and had even
been ordered out of the country, Pius
evinced a strong feeling of regret,
though no surprise. This farewell
visit is related in terms no less touch-
ing than the former :
" During this audience, which lasted
also a full hour, he bestowed upon me
the greatest marks of kindness, exhort-
ing me successively to practise resig-
nation, wisdom, and those acts of firm-
ness of which his own life and his
whole demeanor set such a fine ex-
ample. He appeared to me quite as
great, and even far greater, than when
he reigned at Rome. I besought him
to give me his blessing. He laid his
hands on my head, and, like the most
venerable among the patriarchs of old,
raising his eyes toward heaven, he
prayed unto the Lord, and blessed me,
with an attitude so resigned, so august,
so holy, so full of real tenderness, that
to the last day of my life the remem-
brance will remain graven on my heart
in indelible characters.
" When I retired, my eyes were
swimming with tears ; I was beside
myself with grief; and yet I felt boh
encouraged and re-assured by the in-
expressible calmness of my sovereign,
and the sweet serenity of his features.
It was indeed the greatness of a good
man struggling against misfortune."
Four-and-twenty hours afterward,
Consalvi was obliged to leave Florence
for Venice ; the Pope was hurried
through Alpine snows to Valence, in
Dauphine, where he died of his suffer-
ings on the 29th of August, 1799.
And what a time for the election of
a new pope ! Italy overrun by the
French revolutionary armies, Rome
in their possession, and ruled by a
horde of incendiary demagogues ; the
Russians, headed by Suwarow, pour-
ing into the Peninsula to oppose the
French ; whilst Austria, governed by
a Thugut, was watching her oppor-
tunity to get hold of the new Pope if
there should be a Pope and make
him the pliant tool of her ambition.
Nor let us forget that Bonaparte was
on his way back from Egypt, prepar-
ing to swoop down, eagle -like, on those
very Austrian possessions wherein the
conclave was to meet. And yet the
conclave did meet at Venice, on an
island of that famous republic, which
had so often defied the bans and inter-
dicts of the Roman pontiffs ; the car-
dinals hurried from their neighboring
cities or secret abodes, though with
views and intentions not perhaps ex-
actly in accordance with the solemnity
and urgency of the occasion. It is,
indeed, a curious picture of human
passions, though blended with higher
motives and purposes, that truthful
memoir drawn up by Consalvi on the
conclave of 1800, wherein he was un-
animously elected secretary to the as-
sembly. The election lasted more
than three long months, on account
of the two contending factions, headed
by Cardinal Herzan, on the part of
Austria, and by the celebrated Maury,
then Bishop of Montefiascone in the
Papal States. Consalvi, notwithstand-
ing his wonted moderation, boldly pro-
claims these divisions to have been
scandalous in such circumstances, and
animadverts severely on the intrigues
of the imperial court. And yet he
cannot help observing that, on such
occasions, the Sacred College seem led
on, little by little, as it were, by some
higher power, to sacrifice their own
private views and interests to the com-
mon weal of Christendom. So it was,
indeed, in the present juncture, thanks
to the extraordinary ability, to the
self-renouncement, prudence, and true
Catholic spirit displayed throughout
by the youthful secretary. The votes
were gradually won over to Cardinal
Chiaramonti, so well known afterward
by the name of Pius VII. Consalvi
had truly displayed a master-mind ;
and the new pontiff immediately show-
ed how highly he appreciated his merit,
by appointing him Secretary of State.
We can easily believe the surprise and
384
ConsalvPs Memoirs.
alarm of the new minister ; for doubt-
less his was no easy task. The Aus-
trians possessed nearly all the Papal
States, whilst the King of Naples held
Rome itself. The court of Vienna,
intent upon keeping at least the three
legations, which had recently been
wrested from the French, offered at
the same time to restore to the Pope
the remaining parts of his dominions.
To such a proposal the latter could
but oppose a flat denial, accompanied
by a firm resolution to return to Rome
without delay. The imperial negotia-
tor, Ghislieri, then reduced his de-
mands to the two legations of Bologna
and Ferrara ; but he met with no bet-
ter success. The spoliation of the
Holy See, as the reader may now
perceive, is after all an old story.
The Pope, indeed, went so far as to
write to the emperor a letter, in which
he formally demanded the restitution
of all his provinces. No notice what-
soever was taken of the Papal mis-
sive. At last, utterly worn out by
Austrian duplicity, Pius one day ad-
dressed Ghislieri in the following
terms : " Since the emperor refuses
obstinately a restitution, which both
religion and equity require, I really
do not see what new argument I can
produce to convince him. Let his
majesty take care, however, not to lay
by in his wardrobe any clothes belong-
ing, not to himself, but to the Church.
For not only will his majesty be un-
able to wear them, but most probably
they will pester with the grub his own
hereditary dominions, which may be
worm-eaten in a short time."
The Marquess Ghislieri hurried out
of the Papal presence in a rage, which
found vent when he met Consalvi.
" The new Pope," he exclaimed, " has
hardly donned his own clothes ; he is
not yet accustomed to his own craft,
and he talks of the Austrian wardrobe
being worm-eaten ! He knows but
little of our power ; it would require
thousands of moths to nibble it' to
dust." Two months after, the battle
of Marengo had been fought and won :
the legations, Lombardy, Venetia, the
hereditary German states, the capital
itself, had fallen a prey to the Corsi-
can conqueror ! Pius VII. had scarce-
ly set his foot on the shore of his own
dominions when the news of the fa-
mous defeat arrived : " Ah !" exclaim-
ed Ghislieri, a religious man, after all,
"I now see fulfilled the Pope's pre-
diction : our wardrobe has truly been
worm-eaten to tatters."
Pius VII. had but just returned to
Rome, in the midst of a delighted and
grateful population, when he received
the astounding news that the conqueror
of the Austrians was desirous of nego-
tiating with the Holy See for the resto-
ration of religion in France. Whilst
at Vercelli, Bonaparte hadmet with
Cardinal Martiniana, who was return-
ing from the conclave at Venice ? and
he expressed himself so clearly, so
pointedly, as to his future plans, that
both Consalvi and the Pope were taken
by surprise. Their approbation was
immediately given, and the Pope him-
self wrote to Martiniana : " You may
tell the First Consul that we will read-
ily enter into a negotiation tending to
an object so truly honorable, so con-
genial to our apostolical administration,
and so thoroughly conformable to our
own views."
The history of this celebrated treaty,
on which so much hangs in France
even in our own time, has been often
related, and yet many a detail of the
intricate negotiations which preceded
its conclusion had remained secret
until the publication of the present
memoirs. Three personages stand out
in strong relief on that occasion, each
with his individual character : Ca-
cault, the French ambassador at Rome,
Bonaparte, and Consalvi himself. Of
the second, little need be said ; but M.
Cacault is, we believe, hardly known
in England. He was a Breton by
birth, and, as such, had imbibed those
religious feelings which stamp so
strongly the most western province
of France. As a republican repre-
sentative of the Directory, he did all
in his power to avert from the Papal
See those evils and that invasion which
wlvi's Memoirs.
ended in the captivity of JPius VI.
When Napoleon's star was in the as-
cendant, M. Cacault quickly discover-
ed the depth and extent of his genius,
and thenceforward abetted his .plans.
At the same time, he was by no means
a flatterer, but ever plain-spoken to
bluntness. A time came, indeed, when
the greatest conqueror of modern times
found the noble-hearted Breton rather
too sincere, and consigned him to the
peaceful life of a seat in his new-
fangled senate. But that day was
yet to come. In 1801, M. Cacault
enjoyed the whole confidence of the
First Consul.
On leaving Bonaparte, the ambas-
sador heard him utter those famous
words, which have been so often
quoted : " Mind you treat the Pope
as if he had 200,000 men at his back.
Remember, also, that in October, 1796,
I wrote to you how much I wished to
save the Holy See, not to overthrow
it, and that both you and I entertained
the same feelings in this respect."
With credentials like these, M. Ca-
cault should have found it an easy
matter to negotiate with Rome ; but,
singularly enough, the conservative
government of Austria threw many an
obstacle in the way. The very idea
of a reconciliation between revolution-
ary France and the Papacy seems to
have disquieted M. de Thugut, and he
did all in his power to breed a feeling
of distrust, on the part of Rome at
least. The court of Naples was ani-
mated by the same policy ; and even
Bonaparte himself, at one time, ap-
peared to waver between the impulse
of his own good sense and the sug-
gestions of his infidel advisers. In
the eyes of M. Cacault, the Pope
stood too much on theological tenets
and opinions, when dealing with a vic-
torious adventurer. At any rate, mat-
ters soon grew from bad to worse. In
a fit of impatience, the consul ordered
his ambassador to leave Rome in five
days, if the concordat sent from Paris
was not signed at the expiration of
that short time.
At this critical juncture, the Breton
25
came to a determination so truly char-
acteristic of the man, that we must al-
low him to speak for himself. We
borrow the following narrative from
his secretary, M. Artaud:
" We are bound to obey our govern-
ment/' said he, addressing himself to
me ; " but then a government must be
guided by a head capable of under-
standing negotiations, by ministers ca-
pable of advising him properly, and
lastly, all must agree together. Every
government ought to have a plan, a
will, an aim of its own. But this is
' no easy matter with a new govern-
ment. Now, though in a secondary
station, I am really master of this
business ; but if we go on in Rome as
they are going on in Paris, nothing
can come otit of it but a sort of chaos.
.... It is fully understood that the
head of the state wished for a con-
cordat ; he wished for it so far back
as Tolentino, and even before, when
he called himself the best friend of the
Pope In fact, he has sent me
here to negotiate a concordat, and for
that purpose has given me in yourself
the prop I myself desired. But then
his ministers probably don't wish for a
concordat, and they have constant
access to his ear. Now the character
most easy to irritate and to deceive, is
that of a warrior, who as yet under-
derstands nothing about politics, and
is ever returning to military orders
and to the sword Shall we, like
two fools, leave Rome in this way be-
cause the despatch orders us to do so,
and give up France to irreligiosity a
word no less barbarous than the thing
itself? Shall we leave her to a sort
of spurious Catholicism, or that hybrid
system which advises the establish-
ment of a patriarch? God knows,
then, that the future destinies of the
First Consul will probably never be
fulfilled
" I am fond of Bonaparte, fond of
the general ; but this patch-work name
of a First Consul is hi itself ridiculous 1 ;
he borrowed it from Rome, where he
has never set his foot. But in my
eyes he is still nothing more than an
386
Consalvi's Memoirs.
Italian general. As for the fate of
this terrible general, it is now in my
hands more than in his own ; he is turn-
ing into a sort of Henry the Eighth,
flattering and scaring the Holy See by
turns ; but how many sources of true
glory will be dried up for him, if he
merely mimics Henry the Eighth!
The measure is full; nations now-a-
days will not allow their rulers to dis-
pose of them in regard to religious
matters. With concordats, on the
contrary, miracles may be wrought,
more especially by him, or if not by
him, supposing him to be unwise, by
France herself. Be sure, my dear
sir, that great deeds brought about at
the proper moment, and bearing fruit-
ful results, no matter by what genius
they are accomplished, are a wealthy
dowry for any country. In case of
embarrassments, that country may ward
off many an attack by pointing to its
history. France, with all her faults,
requires true grandeur. Our consul
jeopardizes all by this pistol-shot fired
in tune of peace, merely for the sake
of pleasing his generals whom he
loves, but whose soldierlike jokes he
fears, because he himself now and then
gives way to them. He thus breaks
off a negotiation which he wishes to
succeed, and goes on casting rotten
seed. What can really be a religious
concordat, that most solemn of all
human undertakings, if it is to be
signed in five days ? It reminds one
of the twelve hours granted by a gen-
eral to a besieged town, which can
hope for no succor."
The result of the above conversa-
tion on the part of M. Cacault was a
determination to quit Rome, but to
leave his secretary in that city, whilst
Consalvi himself was to set out imme-
diately for Paris, as the only means of
preventing a positive rupture between
the two courts, for Bonaparte had al-
ready both a court and courtiers. The
French minister was by no means
blind to the consequences of his bold-
ness in undertaking to correct the
false steps of his own government ; but,
to his credit be it said, the fear of those
consequences did not make him swerve
one minute from his purpose. His
very first step was, therefore, to request
an interview with Consalvi, and an
audience from the Pope. Oa meeting
the cardinal, he began by reading in
extenso the angry despatch which he
had received, not even omitting the
epithets " turbulent and guilty priest"
which the Consul applied to his emi-
nence. M. Cacault then resumed as
follows :
" There must be some misunder-
standing; the First Consul is unac-
quainted with your person, and still
more with your talents, your ability,
your precedents, your adroitness, and
your anxiety to terminate this busi-
ness. So you must start for Paris."
"When?" "To-morrow: you will
please him ; you are fit to understand
each other ; he will then learn to know
a statesmanlike cardinal, and you will
draw up the concordat together. But
if you don't go to Paris, I shall be
obliged to break off all intercourse
with you ; and there are yonder cer-
tain ministers, who advised the Di-
rectory to transport Pius VI. to
Guyana
" I again repeat it, you must go to
Paris, you will draw up the concordat
yourself nay more, you will dictate a
part of it, obtaining at the same tune
far better conditions than I could ever
do, fettered as I am by so many
shackles One word more : In
a place like this, where there is so
much gossipping, I can't allow you to
bear alone the responsibility of this
action. I consider it as something
truly grand ; but as it may turn out a
false step, to-morrow I must see the
Pope, and take the whole upon my
shoulders. I shall not bore the Pope,
having but a few words to tell him, in
order to fulfil the Consul's former in-
structions."
Consalvi, fired at the boldness of the
plan, hurried to the Pope, rather to
prepare him for this unforeseen separa-
tion than to ask for permission. When,
on the other hand, the French diplo-
matist was admitted to his presence,
Conscdvi's Memoirs.
387
he showed so much candor, such a true
spirit of Christian feeling, such a total
forgetfulness of self, that the pontiff
could not refrain from shedding tears,
and ended by breaking out into these
words: "Indeed, indeed, you are a
true friend, and we love you as we
loved our own mother. At this very
moment, we will retire to our oratory,
in order to implore God's blessing on
this journey, as well as for the success-
ful issue of an undertaking, which may
afford us some consolation in the midst
of so much affliction."
It was indeed a bereavement for the
Pope, who, having hardly ascended the
throne, was accustomed to consider
Consalvi as his main prop and right
hand in every affair of any import-
ance. He, however, readily consented
to the separation, and on the following
day the cardinal left Rome, accompa-
nied by M. Cacault, in an open carriage,
to show the gossipping Romans that no
real coolness existed between the two
governments. This, in fact, strength-
ened the hands of the Papal adminis-
tration, as reports were already rife
that a French army was about to
march once more into Rome, with a
view of restoring the republic.
At the distance of more than half
a century Consalvi's determination
scarcely seems an act of daring ; but,
at that period, it was considered in a
different light. "We must remember
that France had been for ten long
years the scene of anarchy and blood-
shed within, while she had proved the
terror of Europe on the field of battle.
She was but just emerging from that
anarchy, thanks to the iron grasp of a
fortunate soldier, who might yet, for
aught the world knew, turn out to be a
bloody tyrant quite as well as a saga-
cious ruler. For a priest, and still
more for a cardinal, to venture alone
of his own accord into the lair of those
beasts of prey, as they were then
termed, certainly showed an extraor-
dinary degree of moral courage, how-
ever M. Thiers may taunt Consalvi
with his fears. Those fears the Papal
minister did really entertain, as is
proved by a few unwary lines which
he addressed before his departure to
Acton at Naples, and which were be-
trayed to Bonaparte in Paris. But
then the cardinal, prompted by a strong
feeling of duty, overcame these appre-
hensions, which is more perhaps than
M. Thiers would vouch to have done
on a similar occasion, if we may judge
from the infidel spirit and intriguing
disposition that are conspicuous alike
throughout his own career and writ-
ings. Success, not principle, ever ap-
pears to be his leading star.
Once in Paris, Consalvi was not
long in conquering that position which
the keenness of his friend Cacault fore-
saw that he was destined to assume.
Bonaparte approved in every respect
the conduct of his ambassador at Rome,
appeared even flattered at being feared,
at first received the cardinal with af-
fected coolness, but little by little yielded
to better feelings, and ended by turning
into ridicule "that fool Acton, who
thought that he could stop the rush of
a torrent with cobwebs." To these
friendly dispositions soon succeeded
on both sides a sincere confidence, and
on one occasion the First Consul laugh-
ingly inquired of Consalvi whether he
was not considered as a priest-eater in
Italy; and then suddenly launched
into one of those splendid expositions
of his future plans, by which he en-
deavored to fascinate and charm those
he aimed at winning over to his own
views. In this sparkling conversation
the concordat held a foremost place.
Napoleon developed, just as he pleased,
opinions half Protestant, half Jansenist
in other words, exactly what he
wanted the concordat to be, and ex-
actly what Consalvi could not allow.
The contest between those two rival
spirits may well detain us a few
moments longer. And why not say
at once that by degrees the master-
genius of the age was obliged to modify
his own views, yielding, nolens volens,
as he himself admitted, to the graceful
bearing and sound good sense of the
man whose countrymen had named
him the Roman Syren ?
388
Consalvfs Memoirs.
We may gather from M. Thiers'
work that Consalvi had undertaken a
most arduous task. Paris itself must
have offered a strange sight to a Ro-
man cardinal in the very first year of
the piesent century. The churches
were still shut, and bore upon their
porches such inscriptions as savored
more of heathenism than of Christi-
anity. Wherever the legate's eye fell
he was sure to meet with a temple of
plenty, of fraternity, of liberty, of
trade, of abundance, and so forth.
And then when he went to court he
found a ruler disposed to break out
into the most violent fits of anger if
his will was disputed, whilst on every
hand he had to encounter a host of
scoffers and infidels, belonging to every
hue and grade. The army, the bench,
the schools, the savants, and the very
clergy, all vied in showing off Rome
as the hotbed of an obsolete supersti-
tion which it was high time to do
away with altogether. And when we
mention the clergy, we mean the re-
mains of that schismatic body which
had hailed the civil constitution so for-
mally condemned by the Holy See in
1791. They were active, intriguing,
influential, and had the ear of Bona-
parte himself. He was intent upon
distributing among them a portion of
the new sees about to be erected,
and it required all the firmness of
Consalvi to ward off this impending
danger. If we may believe M. Thiers,
many among them were by no means
of dissolute lives ; yet he cannot dis-
guise the fact that they were ambitious,
servile, and disposed to bend to every
caprice of the ruling power. But that
power was fully aware that the French
population had no confidence whatever
in their ministrations ; the non-jurors,
or priests who had unflinchingly re-
mained faithful to their duty, were, on
the contrary, sought out and held in
high esteem. In this strange society the
functions of Catholicism and the rites of
our religion were openly resumed by
believers, who attended them in back
streets, in by-ways, in dark warehouses,
whither some aged priest repaired at
dawn, after escaping but shortly before
from the dungeons of the Directory
or the scaffolds of the Revolutionary
Committee. The writer of these lines
has known more than one man who
was baptized at that period in a miser-
able garret by some ecclesiastic dis-
guised as a common laborer, before
the eyes of his parents, though with-
out any sponsors, for fear of detection.
That such men should turn round in
the streets of Paris and stare with
wonder at the sight of a cardinal pub-
licly making for the Tuileries in one
of the Consul's carriages is by no
means surprising ; but the fact in-
creases our admiration for the two
eminent statesmen who both cast such
a firm glance into the depths of
futurity.
Consalvi had only been a few hours
in Paris when he was summoned before
the First Consul, who sent him word
that " he was to show off as much of a
cardinal as possible." The able di-
plomatist was, however, not in the least
disposed to " show off," and contented
himself with wearing the indispensable-
insignia of his dignity. It will be well
to remember that, at the time we are
speaking of, no priest would have
ventured to put on the clerical costume
in the French capital. This first audi-
ence took place in public, in the midst
of all the high functionaries of the
state. On the cardinal approaching,
Bonaparte rose and said abruptly: "I
am aware of the object of your journey
to France. My will is, that the con-
ferences shall begin immediately. I
give you five days for the purpose, and
tell you beforehand that, if on the fifth
day the negotiations have not come to
a conclusion, you may return to Rome;
for, within my own mind, I have come
to a determination should such an event
take place."
" By sending his prime minister to
Paris (replied coolly the cardinal) His
Holiness proves at any rate the interest
he takes in the conclusion of a con-
cordat with the French government,
and I fully hope to terminate this
business in the time you have marked."
Consalvts Memoirs.
389
Apparently satisfied with this answer,
Bonaparte immediately broke forth
into one of those eloquent displays for
which he was remarkable the con-
cordat, the Holy See, the interests of
religion, the articles which had been
rejected by the Pope, all became, on
his part, the subject of a most vehement
and exhaustive speech, which was
silently listened to by the surrounding
audience.
One of the most amusing and almost
ludicrous instances of the Consul's ig-
norance in regard to religious matters
took place on this occasion. He bore
a bitter hatred to the Jesuits, and was
constantly harping on the subject. "I
am quite astounded and scandalized
(said he all of a sudden) that the Pope
should be allied to a non- Catholic
power like Russia, as is evident by the
restoration of the Jesuits in that coun-
try. Such a union ought surely to
wound and irritate a Catholic sove-
reign, since it contributes to please a
schismatical monarch."
" I must answer candidly (resumed
the cardinal) that your informations
are incorrect on this matter. Doubt-
less the Pope has deemed it advisable
not to refuse the request of the Russian
emperor for the restoration of the
Jesuits in his own states, but, at the
same time, His Holiness has shown no
less fatherly affection and deference for
the King of Spain, since an interval of
several months has elapsed between
Paul's request and the bull, which was
not sent before the court of Spain had
expressly stated that it would in no
way complain of the act."
When Bonaparte had fixed such a
short term for the conclusion of the
concordat, he fully intended that not a
single jot of his own plan should be
rejected by Rome. That plan, as we
have already observed, was half schis-
matic, and would have bound over the
French Church to the supreme will
and power of the ruling government.
But Consalvi showed himself equally
firm as to essentials, whilst he grace-
fully yielded to every demand of minor
importance. As to the wisdom of this
conduct, the present circumstances bear
ample testimony; for, had the cardi-
nal been less firm, what might not be
in 18 Go the painful situation of the
French episcopacy? But the nego-
tiations, instead of ending in five days,
were prolonged for more than three
weeks, during which the Abbe Bernier,
who represented his government, was
constantly starting new difficulties, and
threatening Consalvi with some new
outbreak of violence on the part of the
First Consul.
At last, toward the middle of July,
every difficulty being overcome, and
Bonaparte having formally promised
to accept every article of the concordat
as it had been agreed to at Rome,
nothing remained but to copy and sign
that famous treaty. The First Consul
was to give a grand dinner on the 14th
of July to foreigners of distinction, and
to men of high standing in the country.
His intention was to inform publicly
his guests of this happy event, and on
the 13th the Moniteur published the
following laconic piece of news : " Car-
dinal Consalvi has succeeded in the
object which brought him to Paris."
Bonaparte had selected his brother
Joseph, a councillor of state, and
Bernier to sign the deed, whilst on the
other side were Consalvi, Monsignor
Spina, and a theologian named Father
Caselli. But at the last moment there
occurred one of the most astounding
incidents contained in the history of
diplomacy. As it has never been men-
tioned in any memoirs or documents of
those tunes, we cannot do better than
let the cardinal relate it in his own
words :
" Toward four o'clock in the after-
noon, Bernier arrived with a roll of
paper, which he did not unfold, but
stated to be a copy of the concordat
that we were about to sign. "We took
our own with us, and set out all together
for the house of citizen Joseph, as was
the slang of the day, the brother to the
First Consul. He received me with
the utmost politeness. Though he had
been ambassador at Rome, I had not
been introduced to him, being yet but
390
Consalvi's Memoirs.
a prelate. During the few days I
passed in Paris, I had not met him on
a formal visit which I paid him, for he
often resided in the country. This
was, therefore, the first time we saw
each other. After the usual compli-
ments, he bade us to sit down round a
table, adding : l We shall have soon
done, having but to sign the compact,
as all is concluded.'
" On being seated round the table,
the question arose who should sign
first. Joseph Bonaparte claimed the
right as brother to the head of the
government. I observed with great
mildness and firmness, that both as a
cardinal and a legate of the Holy
See, I could not consent to assume
the second rank in signing; beside,
under the old regime in France, as
weU as everywhere else, the cardinals
enjoyed a right of precedence, which I
could not give up, not indeed from any
personal motive, but on account of the
dignity with which I was invested. It
is but due to Joseph to state, that after
a momentary hesitation, he yielded
with very good grace, and begged of
me to sign first. He himself was to
come after, followed by the prelate
Spina, Councillor Cretet, Father Ca-
selli, and the Abbe* Bernier.
" We set to work at once, and I had
taken up the pen, when to my great
surprise the Abbe Bernier presented to
me his copy, with the view of making
me sign it without examining its con-
tents. On casting my eyes upon it in
order to ascertain its identity with my
own copy, I perceived that this eccle-
siastical treaty was not the one agreed
to by the respective commissioners,
not the one adopted by the First Con-
sul himself, but another totally differ-
ent ! The difference existing at the
very first outset induced me to exam-
ine the whole with the most scrupulous
attention, and I soon found out that
this copy contained the draught which
the Pope had refused to accept without
his correction, the very refusal that
had provoked an order to the French
agent to leave Rome ; nay more, that
this self-same draught was modified in
many respects by the insertion of cer-
tain clauses, previously declared to be
inacceptable even before it had been
sent to Rome.
" A proceeding of this character, so
truly incredible, and yet so real, which
I shall not venture to qualify for the
fact speaks sufficiently for itself a
proceeding of this kind literally para-
lyzed my hand. I expressed my as-
tonishment, declaring positively that
on no condition could I give my ap-
proval to such a deed. The First
Consul's brother did not appear less
surprised than myself, pretending not
to understand the matter. The First
Consul, he added, had assured him that,
everything being agreed to, nothing
remained but to sign. As for himself,
he had just come up from the country,
where he was busy with Count Coben-
zel about the affairs of Austria, being
called upon merely for the formality
of signing the treaty. Concerning the
matter itself, he absolutely knew noth-
ing about it."
Cardinal Consalvi, even when writ-
ing the above lines, does not seem to
doubt Joseph's sincerity, nor that of
Councillor Cretet, who affirmed his
own innocence in terms equally strong.
The latter could hardly believe his
own eyes, when the legate pointed out
to hun the glaring discrepancies be-
tween both copies. The Pope's min-
ister then turning suddenly to Bernier :
"Nobody better than yourself," said
he, " can attest the truth of what I
affirm ; I am highly astonished at the
studied silence which you maintain,
and I must therefore call upon you
positively to communicate to us what
you must know so pertinently."
" Then, with an air of confusion and
an embarrassed countenance, he fal-
tered out that doubtless my language
was but too true, and that he would
not deny the difference of the docu-
ments now proposed for our signatures.
' But the First Consul has so ordained,'
continued he, ' telling me that as long
as no signature has been given, one is
always at liberty to make any altera-
tion. So he requires these alterations,
salvi's Memoirs.
391
after duly considering the
whole matter, he is not satisfied with
the previous stipulations.' "
The doctrine was so contrary to all
precedents, that Consalvi had no diffi-
culty in convincing his auditors of its
futility. He moreover maintained his
ground steadfastly, and refused to make
any further concession contrary to his
duties. They cajoled him, they threat-
ened him with the violence and " fury"
of the omnipotent Consul ; he remained
unshaken. Joseph entreated him at
least to go over the same ground once
more, following the Papal copy, and
to this the cardinal consented, firmly
resolved not to give up one single point
of importance, but to modify such ex-
pressions as might induce Bonaparte
to accept the original treaty. So these
six men sat down again at five o'clock
in the afternoon to discuss the whole
question. The discussion was labori-
ous, precise, searching, and heated on
both sides. It lasted nineteen long
hours, without interruption, without
rest, without food, without even send-
ing away the servants or the carriages,
as will often happen when people hope
to conclude at every minute some im-
portant business. On one article alone
they could never agree, and it was
specially reserved to the Pope's own
decision. It was twelve o'clock the
next day before they came to a con-
clusion. But would the First Consul
adopt this plan ? Would he not break
all bounds, on finding his duplicity dis-
covered, and himself balked by the
cardinal's firmness? Joseph hurried
to the Tuileries, in order to lay the
whole before his imperious brother,
and in less than one hour came back,
his features evidently showing the grief
of his soul. Says Consalvi :
" He told us that the First Consul
had broken forth into the greatest
fury on being apprised of what had
taken place. In his fit of anger he
had torn to pieces the concordat we
had drawn up among us ; but at last,
yielding to Joseph's entreaties and
arguments, he had promised, though
with the most extreme repugnance, to
accept every article we had agreed to,
except the one we had reserved, and
about which he was no less inflexible
than irritated. The First Consul, added
Joseph, had closed the interview by
telling him to inform me that he (Bo-
naparte) was decided upon maintain-
ing this article as it was expressed in
Bernier's copy : consequently I had
but two ways before me : either to
adopt this article just as it was in the
concordat, or to give up the negotia-
tions. As for him, he had made up
his mind to announce either the signa-
ture or the rupture of the affair at the
grand dinner he was to give on that
day.
" The reader will easily imagine
our consternation at this message. We
had yet three hours until five o'clock,
the tune appointed for the dinner, at
which we were all to attend. I really
am unable to repeat all the Consul's
brother and the two other commission-
ers said, to conquer my resistance. The
picture of the consequences likely to
ensue upon the rupture was indeed of
the darkest color; they gave me to
understand that I alone should become
responsible for those evils in the face
of France and Europe, as well as to
my own sovereign and Rome. I should
be accused of an unreasonable stiffness,
and of having brought on the results
of such a refusal. I felt a death-like
anguish, on conjuring up before my
eyes the realization of these prophe-
cies, and I was if I may be allowed
such words like unto the man of sor-
row. But my duty won the victory :
thanks to heaven, I did not betray it.
I persisted in my refusal during the
two hours of this contest, and the ne-
gotiation was broken off.
" Such was the ending of this sad
debate, which had lasted four-and-
twenty hours, having begun at four
o'clock on the preceding day, and closed
toward the same hour of this unfortu-
nate one. Our bodily sufferings were
doubtless very great, but they were
nothing when compared to our moral
anxiety, which rose to such a pitch
that one must really have undergone
392
Consalvi's Memoirs.
such tortures to form an idea of
them.
" I was condemned and this was
indeed a most cruel circumstance at
such a moment to appear in an hour
after at the famous banquet. I was
bound to front in public the very first
shock of that headstrong anger which
the General Bonaparte would feel on
being apprised by his brother of the
rupture.
" We hastened back to our hotel, in
order to make a few rapid prepara-
tions, and then hurried all three to the
Tuileries. We had hardly entered
the saloon where the First Consul
was standing a saloon filled with
a crowd of magistrates, officers, state
grandees, ministers, ambassadors, and
illustrious foreigners, who had been
invited to the dinner when we were
greeted in a way which may easily be
imagined, as he had already seen his
brother. As soon as he perceived me,
he exclaimed, his face flushed with
anger, and in a loud and indignant
tone:
" l Well, Monsieur le Cardinal, you
have had your fling ; you have broken
off: be it so ! I don't stand in need
of Rome. I will act for myself. I
don't stand in need of the Pope. If
Henry the Eighth, who had not one-
twentieth part of my power, was ena-
bled to change the religion of his coun-
try, and to succeed in his plans, far
better shall I know how to do it,
and to will it. By changing the re-
ligion in France, I shall change it
throughout the best part of Europe-
everywhere, in fact, where my power
is felt. Rome will soon perceive her
own faults ; she will rue them, but it
will then be too late. You may take
your leave; it is the best thing you
can do. You have willed a rupture :
be it so ! When do you intend setting
out?'
" 'After dinner, general/ replied I,
with the greatest calmness.
" These few words acted as an elec-
tric shock on the First Consul. He
stared at me for a few minutes ; and,
taking advantage of his surprise, I re-
plied to his vehement outbreak, that I
neither could nor would go beyond my
instructions on matters which were
positively opposed to the maxims of
the Holy See."
Here the Consul interrupted Con-
salvi, though in a milder tone, to tell
him that he insisted upon having the
concordat signed according to his own
views, or not at all. " Well, then," re-
torted the cardinal, "in that form I
neither shall nor will ever subscribe to
it; no never." " And that is the very
reason," cried out Bonaparte, " why I
tell you that you are bent upon break-
ing off, and why Rome will shed tears
of blood on this rupture."
What a scene ! and how finely the
bold, calm demeanor of the Pope's
legate shows in strong relief against
that dark, passionate, and ominous,
though intelligent face of Napoleon
Bonaparte ! What a splendid subject
for a painter, and how it calls up at
once to our mind those barbaric chief-
tains of old, fit enough to wield the
sword fit enough even to lay the
snares of a savage, but unable to cope
with the spiritual strength of a Chris-
tian bishop, and utterly cowed by the
meek sedateness of some missionary
monk, just wafted over from the shores
of Ireland ! Write the seventh, or the
thirteenth, instead of the nineteenth
century, and say if the incident would
be clothed in different colors ; for, in
fact, what was Bonaparte himself but
the Hohenstaufen of his age a strange
mixture of real grandeur, of seething
passions, and of mean, crafty, fox-like
cunning ?
The French editor of these memoirs
very justly observes that some vestige
of the above scene must still exist in
the documents of the Imperial arch-
ives, and expresses the wish that the
charge of duplicity so terribly brought
home to the first Bonaparte may be
properly sifted and repelled. Of the
existence of such information we have
scarcely any doubt, but we hardly be-
lieve that the select committee, headed
by Prince Napoleon, who have al-
ready so unscrupulously tampered with
7onsalvi's Memoirs.
393
the correspondence of the great founder
of the present dynasty, will ever rebut
the accusation, or even take notice of
the narrative. And yet it bears the
stamp of truth in every line, so prone
was Napoleon to those fits of anger,
which he sometimes used, Thiers him-
self admits it, as tools for his policy,
and to serve his end.
After all, the First Consul was glad
to escape from the consequences of
his own violence, since, on the per-
sonal interference of the Austrian
ambassador, he again consented that
the conferences should be renewed.
The two cardinal points on which, in
the eyes of Rome, the whole fabric of
the concordat rested, were the free-
dom and publicity of the Catholic wor-
ship. Without these two essential
conditions, the Pope and his minis-
ters deemed that the Church obtained
no compensation for the numerous
sacrifices which she consented to un-
dergo in other respects. The French
government, on the contrary, admit-
ted that freedom and publicity, only
so far as they were allowed to other
forms of worship, and saddled the ar-
ticle with the following rider : " The
public worship shall be free, as long
as it conforms to the police regula-
tions." Such was the final difficulty
against which Consalvi maintained a
most obstinate opposition, and it must
be admitted that his grounds were of
a very serious nature. Taught by the
experience of other times and coun-
tries, he considered the obnoxious con-
dition as a bold attempt to enslave
the Church by subjecting her to the
secular power. On the flimsy pretext
of acting as the protector and defender
of the Church, a government was ena-
bled to lord it over her, and cripple
her best endeavors for the fulfilment
of her divine mission. If such had
been the case, even under the old
French monarchy, notwithstanding the
strong Catholic dispositions of the
Bourbon sovereigns in general, as well
as iii the times of a Joseph II. and a
Leopold of Tuscany, what greater
changes were to be feared on the part
of the revolutionary powers, which
now swayed over France? The car-
dinal readily admitted that, in the
present state of the country, it might
be proper for the government to 're-
strict on certain occasions the publicity
of the Catholic worship, for the very
sake of protecting its followers against
the outbreaks of popular frenzy ; but
why lay down such a sweeping and
such an elastic rule ? " With a clause
of this kind," said the legate, " the
police, or rather the government, will
be enabled to lay their hands on
everything, and may subject all to
their own will and discretion, whilst
the Church, constantly fettered by the
words, ' As long as it conforms/ will
have no right even to complain." To
these arguments the Consul constantly
replied, " Well, if the Pope can't ac-
cept such an indefinite and mild re-
striction, let him omit the article, and
give up publicity of worship alto-
gether." As a curious specimen of
sincerity and candor, we must observe
that Consalvi was not even allowed to
consult with his own court, nor to
send a courier, the French govern-
ment refusing to supply him with the
necessary passports. So much for the
international privileges of ambassa-
dors. Who can be astonished that
the Papal minister should feel but
little confidence in the good faith of
those he had to deal with ?
Their attitude, indeed, seems to
have strengthened his own unbending
firmness. In the course of these ever-
lasting debates, he clenched the sub-
ject in the following terms: "Either
you are sincere in maintaining that
the government is obliged to impose a
restriction upon the publicity of the re-
ligious worship, being impelled there-
unto by the necessity of upholding the
public peace and order, and in that
case the government cannot and ought
not to hesitate as to asserting the fact
in the article itself; or the govern-
ment does not wish it to be so ex-
pressed ; and in that case they show
their bad faith, as also that the only
object of the aforesaid restriction is
394
Consalvi's Memoirs.
the enslavement of the Church to their
own will."
The commissioners found nothing
to reply to this dilemma ; for, in fact,
Consalvi only asked that the reserve
itself should be laid down as a temporary
restriction. At last they yielded, de-
spairing of ever overcoming, on this sub-
ject, their unflinching and powerful
antagonist. The concordat, duly
signed and authenticated, was sent up
for approval to the First Consul, who,
after another fit of anger, gave his
consent ; but, as Consalvi himself pre-
sumes, from that hour he resolved to
annul the intrinsic and most beneficial
effects of the concordat by those cele-
brated organic articles which are even
at this moment a bone of contention
between the French clergy and the
Imperial government.
It is, indeed, a most remarkable fact
that the same man who imperiously
prescribed that the concordat should
be drawn up and signed in the course
of five days, allowed a full year to
elapse before he published it and
sent the official ratifications to Rome.
When he did fulfil these formalities, he
coupled them with the promulgation
of those famous laws which, in reality,
tended to cut off all free communica-
tion between the Holy See and the
Gallican clergy, and to spread through-
out Europe the false belief that the
Pope himself had concurred in the
adoption of these obnoxious measures.
In vain did Pius VII. protest against
them in vain, at a later period, was
he induced to crown the emperor in
Paris, in hopes of obtaining the fulfil-
ment of his own promises. Napoleon
turned a deaf ear to the most touch-
ing importunities. On considering
the whole of his conduct, it is hardly
possible to refrain from concluding
that Bonaparte ever looked upon the
Pope's supremacy and power as an
appendage and satellite of his own
paramount omnipotence. Viewed by
this light, many of his acts in latter
years will appear at least consistent,
though by no means justifiable on any
principle whatsoever. Is there not
often a certain consistency in madness ?
And if so in ordinary life, why not in
the freaks and starts of despotism?
And again, is not despotism itself
madness in disguise ?
But why indulge in our own specu-
lations and surmises, when we have
before us positive evidence that in
1801, as well as ten years afterward,
Napoleon entertained and maintained
a plan for arrogating to himself both
the spiritual and temporal power?
The examples set by Henry VIIL,
Albert of Brandenburg, and Peter I.
of Russia, were ever before his eyes,
blinding his own innate good sense,
and exerting a sort of ominous fasci-
nation over his best impulses. The
reader has doubtless heard of, if not
perused, those wonderful pages in
which the fallen giant whiled away
his tedious hours at St. Helena, pre-
tending to write his own history, but
in reality veiling truth under fiction,
and endeavoring to palm upon the
world certain far-fetched views of be-
nevolence or civilization, which he
never dreamt of whilst he was on the
throne. Still, that strange Memorial
of St. Helena often contains many a
startling proof of candor, as if the
mask suddenly fell, and revealed to
our astonished gaze the inner man.
Among such passages, none perhaps
are so remarkable as those referring
to the concordat and to the religious
difficulties of later years. One day
Napoleon dictated to General Mon-
tholon these lines, which so strongly
justify Consalvi's fears and opposi-
tion :
<; When I seized the helm, I already
held the most precise and definite
ideas on all those principles which
cement together the social body. I
fully weighed the importance of relig-
ion on that head I was convinced
and had resolved to restore it. But
one can hardly realize the difficulties
I had to contend with when about to
bring back Catholicism. I should
have been readily supported had I un-
furled the Protestant standard. This
feeling went so far that, in the coun-
Consalvi's Memoirs.
395
cil of state, where I met with the
strongest oppositioa against the con-
cordat, many a man tactily determined
to plot its destruction. ' Well/ used
they to say, ' let us turn Protestants
at once, and then we may wash our
hands of the business.' It is, indeed,
quite true that, in the midst of so
much confusion and so many errors, I
was at liberty to choose between Ca-
tholicism and Protestantism ; and still
truer that everything favored the lat-
ter. But, beside my own personal
bias inclining toward my national re-
ligion, I had most weighty reasons to
decide otherwise. I should thus have
created in France two great parties of
equal strength, though I was deter-
mined to do away with every party
whatsoever ; I should have conjured
up all the frenzy of religious warfare,
whilst the enlightenment of the age
and my own will aimed at crushing it
altogether. By their mutual strife
these two parties would have torn
France asunder, and made her a slave
to Europe, whilst my ambition was to
make her its mistress. Through Ca-
tholicism I was far surer of attaining
all my great objects. At home, the ma-
jority absorbed the minority, which I
was disposed to treat with so much
equity that any difference between
both would soon disappear; abroad,
Catholicism kept me on good terms
with the Pope. Beside, thanks to
my own influence and to our forces in
Italy, I did not despair, sooner or
later, by some means or other, to ob-
tain the direction and guidance of the
Pope ; and then what a new source of
influence I what a lever to act upon
public opinion, and to govern the
world!"
A few moments after the emperor
resumed :
" Francis I. had a capital opportu-
nity to embrace Protestantism, and to
become its acknowledged head through-
out Europe. His rival, Charles V.,
resolutely sided with Rome, because
he considered this the best way to sub-
ject Europe. This alone should have
induced Francis to defend European
independence. Instead of that, he left
a reality to run after a shadow, follow-
ing up his pitiful quarrels in Italy,
allying himself with the Pope, and
burning the reformers in Paris.
" Had Francis I. embraced Luther-
anism, which is so favorable to the
royal supremacy, he would have
spared France those dreadful convul-
sions which were afterward brought
on by the Calvinists, whose republican
organization was so near ruining both
the throne and our fine monarchy.
Unfortunately, Francis was unable to
understand anything of the kind. As
to his scruples, they are quite out
of the question, since this self-same
man made an alliance with the Turks,
whom he introduced among us. Oh,
those stupid times ! Oh, that feudal in-
tellect ! After all, Francis I. was but
a tilting king a drawing-room dandy
a would-be giant, but a real pigmy."
It is scarce necessary to add, that
at the time Napoleon is speaking of he
was an unbeliever, though a lurking
respect for his national religion still
lingered at the bottom of his heart.
But then, how fully does he admit that
religion was but a tool of his ambition !
How openly does he confess his plan
to get hold of the Pope by some means
or other! How glaringly true must
now appear in our eyes that narrative
of Consalvi's in which he exposes the
mean trick that Napoleon endeavored
to play upon his vigilance ! Lastly,
how faithfully does the emperor ad-
here to the plans secretly laid within the
dark mind of the First Consul ! For,
as if to leave no doubt as to the fulfil-
ment of those plans, he related to
Montholon the most minute details of
what took place during the Pope's
captivity at Fontainebleau :
"The English," said Napoleon,
"plotted an escape for him from
Savona ; the very thing I could have
wished for. I had him brought to
Fontainebleau, where his misfortunes
were to end, and his splendor to
be restored. All my grand views had
been thus fulfilled under disguise and
in secrecy. I had so managed that
396
Consalvi's Memoirs.
success was infallible, even without an
effort. Indeed, the Pope adopted the
famous concordat of Fontainebleau,
notwithstanding my reverses in Rus-
sia. But how far different had I
returned triumphant and victorious !
So at last I had obtained the long-
wished-for separation of the spiritual
and temporal powers ; whilst their
confusion is so fatal to the former,
by causing trouble and disorder within
society in the name of him who ought
to become a centre of union and har-
mony. Henceforward I intended to
place the Pope on a pinnacle ; we
would not even have regretted his
temporal power, for I would have
made an idol of him, and he would
have dwelt close to me. Paris should
have become the capital of the Christian
world, and I would have governed the
spiritual as well as the political world.
By this means I should have been en-
abled to strengthen the federative
portions of the empire, and to main-
tain peace in such parts as were
beyond its limits. I should have had
my religious sessions, just the same
as my legislative sessions : my councils
would have represented, all Christen-
dom, and the popes would have
merely acted as their presidents. I
should myself have opened their as-
semblies, approved and promulgated
their decrees, as was the case under
Constantino and Charlemagne. In
fact, if the emperors lost this kind of
supremacy, it was because they al-
lowed the spiritual ruler to reside at a
distance from them ; and those rulers
took advantage of this act of weakness,
or this result of the times, to escape
from the prince's government, and
even to overrule it."
What words of ours could add to
the bold significance of these ? How
the proud spirit of the despot towers
even within his prison ! and how little
had he profited by the bitter lessons of
experience! Never before, do we
believe, since the advent of Christian-
ity, did any king or conqueror profess
such a barefaced contempt for the
deepest feelings of a Christian soul
the freedom of his spiritual being!
This pretended liberation from the
court of Rome, this religious govern-
ment concentrated within the hands of
the sovereign, became, indeed, at one
time, the constant object of Napoleon's
thoughts and meditations :
" England, Russia, Sweden, a large
part of Germany (was he wont to say),
are in possession of it ; Venice and
Naples enjoyed it in former times. In-
deed, there is no doing without it, for
otherwise a nation is ever and anon
wounded in its peace, in its dignity, in
its independence. But then such an
undertaking is most arduous ; at every
attempt I was beset with new dangers ;
and, once thoroughly embarked in it,
the nation would have abandoned me.
More than once I tried to awaken
public opinion ; but all was in vain,
and I was obliged to acknowledge that
the people would not follow me."
On reading these last words, who
will not remember Cacault's apo-
thegm, uttered in 1801 : " Nations
novy-a-days will not allow their rulers
to dispose of them in regard to relig-
ious matters."
We hope that the reader will not ac-
cuse us of prolixity for having related
rather fully the negotiations which
proceeded the concordat of 1801.
Hitherto the main facts of this import-
ant event have been gleaned from
French sources of information. No
voice had been raised, we believe, on
the part of Rome, and no one, it must
be admitted, had a better right to speak
of that celebrated treaty than the man
who contributed so largely, so exclu-
sively, we might almost say, to its
final adoption. And then, throughout
the whole of his simple and unpretend-
ing, yet clear and spirited memoirs,
the great cardinal reads us a grand
lesson, which may be felt and under-
stood by every human soul. During
the perusal of these two volumes, we
have ever before our eyes the struggle
of right against might, of duty against
tyranny, of a true Christian soul
against the truckling, shuffling, in-
triguing spirit of the world. Ever
Hymn by Mary, Queen of Scots.
397
and anon, this able, firm, and yet
amiable diplomatist allows some ex-
pression to escape him which shows
that his heart and soul are elsewhere,
that his beacon is on high, and that he
views everything and all things in this
nether world from the light of the gos-
pel. And this, perhaps, is the very
reason why, throughout a long career
of such numerous difficulties and dan-
gers, he moved serene, undaunted, un-
blemished in his honor, proclaimed
wisest amongst the wise, until kings,
princes, warriors, and statesmen, Prot-
estants anc| Catholics, counted his
friendship and esteem of priceless value.
From Once a Week.
HYMN BY MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
O Domine Deus, speravi in te !
O care mi Jesu, nunc libera me !
In dura catena, in misera pcena,
Desidero te ;
Languendo, gemendo et genuflectendo,
Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me !
(TRANSLATION.)
O Lord, O my God, I have hoped but in thee ;
Jesu, my dearest, now liberate me :
In hard chains, in fierce pains,
1 am longing for thee :
Languishing, groaning and bending the knee,
I adore, I implore thou wouldst liberate me !
ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
From The Lamp.
MANY YEARS AGO AT UPFIELD.
IN the last decade of the last century,
Upfield was a very healthy, pretty,
prosperous town in Suffolk. Its centre
was a green ; undulating, irregular, and
from four to five acres in area. Round
it were laborers' cottages, a forge, the
inn, the veterinary surgeon's house, the
doctor's, the vicarage, and the Grey
House, each with land proportioned to
its character. A little, very little way
off, was the church ; belonging anciently
to a Carthusian monastery, of which
some ruins still existed ; and beyond
that, but within a quarter of a mile of
Upfield, was Edward's Hall, the fine
baronial residence of the Scharder-
lovves, who had owned it since the reign
of Henry IV., and never forsaken the
Catholic faith. Upfield was eloquent
about the past, as well as actually
charming. The church, early English,
was little injured exteriorly. Inside it
reminded one of a nun compelled to
wear a masquerade dress. The beau-
tiful arches and lofty roof had defied
time and the vulgar rage of vicious
fanaticism ; so had the pavement, rich
in slabs imploring humbly prayers for
the repose of the dead who lay under
it; but devotion and taste mourned
over the changed use of the sacred
building, and the characteristics there-
of; for instance, a singing-gallery in
the western end, with the royal arms
done in red and gilded plaster, fastened
to it ; high deal pews for the mass of
the congregation, and the squire's
praying-made-comfortable one within
the carved oak screen in the south
transept, where had been the chapel of
the Blessed Sacrament.
The Grey House was low, rambling,
picturesque ; the beau-ideal of a happy,
hospitable old English home. It had
been built by instalments, at distant
intervals ; and had derived its name
from a Lord Grey, of Codnoure, who
had formerly possessed lands in the
neighborhood. At the time whence
this story starts, it had been for a hund-
red years or more in the family of the
Wickhams, who claimed to be descended
collaterally from William of Wyke-
ham whether they were or not, had
never been discussed, and therefore
never formally established ; nor did any
one in the neighborhood, except Mr.
Scharderlowe and his family, know
that a former Wickham had bartered
his religion for a wealthy Protestant
wife, and allowed her to bring up their
children in her own way. In January,
1790, George Wickham, the head of
the family, died at the Grey House, of
inflammation of the lungs, in his forty-
second year, and no one was ever
more regretted. A kinder-hearted
man had never breathed. His attach-
ments had been warm and numerous ;
he had helped every one whom he
could help, been peculiarly gentle to
the poor and his dependents, hated no-
thing but wickedness, and believed in
that only when it was impossible to be
blind to it. " Poor dear Mr. Wickham,"
said Mrs. Scharderlowe, when her hus-
band told her the news ; " I'm heartily
sorry. I always thought he would be-
come a Catholic he was so liberal in
all his feelings ; only the last time we
met, conversation taking that turn I
forget why he said it was too bad
that we could not worship God as we
pleased, without suffering for it ; and
that he was ashamed of Englishmen
who forgot that their noblest laws were
made, and their most glorious victories
won, in Catholic times. What a loss
he will be to Upfield and his family !"
Yes," returned her husband, " that
poor pretty little widow is about as
helpless and ignorant of the world as
possible; she never had occasion to
think of anything but how to make
{any Tears Ago at Upfield.
happy, which I believe she did ;
they were a particularly united family.
I hope he made a will ; but I think it
is likely he did not ; his illness was
short and painful, and previously to it
no one ever had a fairer prospect of
long life than he had."
Mr. Wickham's funeral was talked
of in Upfield and the neighborhood
many years afterward. Mr. Scharder-
lowe sent his carriage; the county
member, and persons of every class,
attended. The clergyman from an ad-
jacent parish, who had been requested
to perform the burial-service, because
the vicar, Mr. Wickham's nephew, felt
unequal to it, burst into tears, and had
to pause some minutes to recover him-
self. The widow fainted ; and her
eldest son Robert, a youth in his nine-
teenth year, tried to jump into the
vault when his father's coffin was
lowered.
There was a will, made during Mr.
Wickham's last illness, and the vicar
was sole executor and trustee, with a
legacy of 500. There was ample pro-
vision for the younger children ; and
Robert was, when of age, to succeed to
a brewery, which his father had started
many years previously, and which was
the most lucrative in the county. He
was to learn its management from
James Deane, the confidential clerk,
whose salary was to be raised, and to
whom 100 was left in token of Mr.
Wickham's appreciation of his ser-
vices. The Grey House, and every-
thing in it, with 200 a year, was to be
Mrs. Wickham's, and at her disposal
at death.
The brewery was half a mile from
Upfield ; Mr. Wickham had built it
where it would not injure the prospect,
and Deane had a pretty cottage at-
tached to it, where he, a widower, lived
with his sister and only child, a daugh-
ter. He was a Catholic, son of a
former steward of Mr. Scharderlowe's,
and extremely attached to Mr. Wick-
ham, who had taken him when a boy
into the brewery, and advanced him
steadily. He was a well-principled,
intelligent man, who had improved
himself by taking lessons in geography,
grammar, and algebra, as the opportu-
nities offered; and he was, from his
position, well-known in the neighbor-
hood. He told his sister that he feared
that Mr. Wickham's death was only
the beginning of trouble for his family ;
for he distrusted Mr. William, the vicar.
" It isn't that he's a dishonorable man,
Lizzy ; but it isn't likely that a crack
shot, a bold rider after the hounds, a
gentleman who is as fond of a ball as
anyone, and who takes no trouble about
his own affairs, will do justice to a dead
man's, though I don't doubt he means it
now."
" But what harm can he do, James ?"
"Why, he can ruin the younger
children. Everything except the
brewery and what is left to Mrs. Wick-
ham is as much in his power as it was
in his uncle's. I doubt if the poor dear
gentleman wouldn't have arranged dif-
ferently if he'd had longer time : it's an
awful lesson to be always prepared for
death ; I'm sure I thought Mr. Wick-
ham might live to be a hundred. No
doubt pain and sorrow confused his
mind, and anyhow it was natural that
he should trust his own relations."
"He had better have trusted you,
James."
"That was not to be expected,
Lizzy, and I mightn't have been fit
for it. There's plenty on my hands.
It is a large, increasing business, and
I have to teach it to Mr. Robert ; and
one can't tell how he'll take to it ; I've
been afraid he would be unsteady, but
he has taken his father's death to
heart uncommonly, and I hope he'll
try to be as good a man."
About this time people had begun
to remark that Polly Deane, then in
her fifteenth year, was growing up a
remarkably pretty girl; she was an
old established pet of the Wickhams ;
her mother had been the daughter of
a tenant, and- so great a favorite that
when she married Deane, the wedding
was celebrated at the Grey House.
When, two years later, she was dying
of fever, Mr. and Mrs. Wickham prom-
ised to watch over her child. All that
400
Many Years Ago at Upfield.
they undertook they carried out gen-
erously, and Polly lived as much with
them as with Aunt Lizzie, who did
her part toward her well loving her
fondly, keeping her fresh, healthy, and
merry, checking her quick temper,
teaching her her prayers, and taking
her often to Mr. Scharderlowe's, to
get his chaplain's Father Armand's
blessing ; and when she was old
enough, to mass and the sacraments.
The fact of the Wickhams having no
daughter increased their tenderness
for her, and her father was delighted
and flattered by Mrs. Wickham's watch-
fulness over her dress and manner,
and Mr. Wickham's care for her ed-
ucation ; it was the best that could be
had in Upfield, and good enough to
make her as charming as she need be.
She did plain sewing extremely well,
and some quaint embroidery of hideous
designs in wool and floss silks; she
had worked a cat in tent-stitch, and a
parrot of unknown species in cross ;
her sampler was believed to be the
finest in the county; she could read
aloud very pleasantly, spell wonder-
fully, write a clear, stiff hand, which
one might decipher without glasses at
eighty; she could not have gone up
for honors in grammar, but she talked
very prettily ; she had never had oc-
casion to write a letter; as to geogra-
phy, she believed that the world was
round, for her father and Mr. Wick-
ham said so, and she had heard that
Captain Cook had been round it ; but
only that she was ashamed, she would
have liked to ask some one how it
could be, and how it was found out ;
it was such a contradiction of observa-
tion, if only because of the sea ; she
had never seen the sea, but she be-
lieved in it, and could understand water
remaining on level ground ; there was
the horse-pond, for instance, but that
thousands of miles of roaring, angry,
deep water should hold on to a round
world was too much for her. You
could not puzzle her in the multiplica-
tionrtable, but she did not take kindly
to weights and measures. She had
learned no history, her father could
not get a Catholic to teach her, and
would trust no one else, but she had
picked up a few facts and notions;
for instance, she had heard of Alfred
the Great and his lanterns; of St.
Edward the Confessor, and that he
made good laws ; of King Charles I.,
and those wicked men she fancied
Guy Fawkes was one of them had
cut his head off; when he lived she
was not sure, and she hoped Mr.
Wickham would never ask her, for
she should not like to say that she did
not know, and she was sometimes
afraid that he would when he talked
of Carlo's being a King Charles span-
iel. It was puzzling, because she re-
membered Carlo a puppy, and she
was sure that the king's name had
been George ever since she was born.
She had an exquisite ear for music,
and a voice of great promise. Mr.
Wickham was passionately fond of
music, and therefore, appreciating pe-
culiarly this talent of Polly's, had en-
gaged a good master from the county-
town to teach her to play on the
piano. She had profited well by his
instructions, and only a few days before
Mr. Wickham was taken ill, she had
played the accompaniment when he
sang " From the white-blossomed thorn
my dear Chloe requested," " O lady
fair," and " Oh life is a river, and man
is the boat ;" and he had patted her
head and kissed her, and asked her
for the " Slow movement in Arta-
xerxes" and " The harmonious Black-
smith," and she was so glad she
had played them without one mistake.
Of course she danced, and made cakes
arid pastry, beauty -washes, elder-wine,
and various preserves and salves ;
knitted her father's stockings and her
aunt's mittens, and read a romance
whenever she could get one, but that
was very rarely.
The vicar made, at any rate, a
good start, fulfilling his uncle's in-
structions exactly ; apprenticed his
second son, Alfred, to the College of
Surgeons that was the most liberal
way in those days of entering the
medical profession and placed him
Many Tears Ago at UpfalcL
401
board with an old family friend,
an opulent practitioner. The third
son was articled to an eminent attor-
ney; the others were sent to school.
The void made by the death of those
even most important and most fond-
ly loved is soon filled up external-
ly ; how otherwise could justice be
done to the living ? The widow ac-
quiesced in the separation from her
children ; it was her husband's plan,
and for their advantage. She was
sure she could not long survive him ;
she might even be sinful enough to
wish to die, but for her sons' sakes,
she was so utterly lonely. They loved
her truly, the darlings ; but they could
not understand her, never would, un-
less which God hi his great mercy
forbid they ever came to suffer as
she suffered. To lose such a hus-
band! so manly, yet so tender and
thoughtful. She had always looked
forward to his nursing her in her last
illness, and receiving her last breath.
He would have grieved for her truly,
she was sure of that; but he could
have borne it better ; he would have
been of more use to the boys. Thus
she mused often, weeping plentifully ;
but she never denied that she had
many consolations. No one could have
suited her better than Polly, and she
was never more than a day or two
absent from her. They were alike in
character simple, self-sacrificing, and
affectionate in an uncommon degree.
Polly's caresses seldom failed to arouse
her; the gentle girl felt how much
more she could have done had Mrs.
Wickham been accessible to the com-
fort in which her own, the dear old
faith, abounded ; and prayed daily
that it might soon be hers, and did
her best. She never attempted direct
consolation, but interested the mourner
in some trifle, or coaxed her into con-
versation or employment. Sometimes
she really could not arrange some ob-
stinate flowers ; sometimes her work
was all wrong, and no one but Mrs.
Wickham could show her how to put
it right, and Mary Hodge's baby ought
to have the garment that evening.
26
Once, when all her ingenuity failed,
she was actually delighted by Betty's
running in with her darling kitten,
wet to the skin, just saved out of the
water-butt ; Mrs. Wickham dried her
eyes, and pitied it, and watched Polly
wiping it, and arranging a cushion in-
side the fender for it; and at last
smiled at the endearing nonsense she
talked, and told her she was more
than a mother to it.
Robert was quite steady; regular
at the brewery, pleasant at home. Of
course it would have been dull for
him without Polly : her youth, beauty,
and sisterly at-homeness made a glow
in the dear old house. Did he or
his mother ever calculate on what
was likely to come of that near com-
panionship ? No : their actual life en-
grossed them. He first drew his
mother to look on while he and Polly
played cribbage or backgammon, and
then to play herself a little. He took
in the Gentleman's Magazine, and
showed her the curious old prints, and
read the odds and ends of news aloud.
Music was unendurable to her for
some months ; but she conquered her-
self by degrees, and came to enjoy it.
Then Robert and Polly sang every
evening, she playing the accompani-
ments. Summer brought the boys
home for holidays, and that did good.
When the anniversary of the father's
death came round, its melancholy as-
sociations pressed evidently on the
widow, and she spent the greater por-
tion of the day in her room ; but she
was resigned, and better than those
who watched her lovingly expected
her to be.
The great feature of those Christ-
mas holidays was Alfred's return in
an altered character. He had left
Upfield a lout the despair of his
mother and the maids ; who were the
more provoked, because he was unde-
niably the handsomest of the family.
To keep him clean, or make him put
on his clothes properly, had been im-
possible. He had credit for talent;
for, when sufficiently excited, he wrote
what were deemed wonderfully pretty
402
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
verses, and he was quick at repartee
and sarcasm ; but he had been in per-
petual disgrace at school, and silent
and awkward sulky as a bear, his
brothers called him at home. He
made a great sensation on the first
evening of his return from London :
he was fluent in conversation, per-
fectly well dressed, and chief marvel
had clean, carefully-shaped nails.
Polly smiled, wondered, and said to
herself that he was really very hand-
some, and sang beautifully. All the
Wickhams sang, but none of them,
she thought, could be compared to him.
The change was not agreeable to
Robert, and he showed it ; grumbled
in an undertone about fops ; and asked
his brother if he could play cricket or
quoits, or skate, or take a five-barred
gate, or shoot snipe.
Alfred yawned, and replied :
" My dear Bob, don't you remember
that I was never fond of trouble?
Those rough amusements are very
well for country gentlemen and farm-
ers ; and I give them up to them with
all my heart. As to skating, you none
of you know anything about it ; you
should see the gentlemen, and elegant
ladies too, cutting out flowers, and
other complicated figures, on the Ser-
pentine."
Then addressing himself to his mo-
ther and Polly Robert's countenance
lowering as he observed the innocent
girl's natural interest in such-topics he
talked about the last drawing-room and
the fashionable plays. He had seen The
School for Scandal and The Haunted
Tower, at Drury Lane ; Othello and The
Conscious Lovers, at Covent Garden,
and he recited really well some of
the tender passages in Othello. Next he
described the lying-in-state of the Duke
of Cumberland ; the trial and execu-
tion of Jobbins and Lowe for arson ;
the recent storms, which had not
touched Upfield, but had been terrible
elsewhere chimneys killing people in
their beds, the lightning flowing like a
stream of fluid from a glasshouse. And
no one interrupted him, till Robert
said, savagely :
That fellow will talk us all deaf."
"Not this time, Bob: you and I
will sing * Love in thine eyes' no\v. I
know Polly will play for us."
They did it ; Alfred directing the
sentiment to her, so as to make her
feel shy and uncomfortable, and his
brother vowing inwardly that "he'd
give that puppy a good thrashing be-
fore he went back to London, if he
didn't mind what he was about."
Alfred had seen a good deal of
what country folk call "finery" in
London ; but he declared that break-
fast at home was unrivalled, partic-
ularly in winter. There was the su-
perb fire of coal and oak blocks,
throwing a glow on the massive fam-
ily plate and fine, spotless damask:
such a silver urn and teapot were not
often seen. Further, the young gen-
tleman inherited a family predilection
for an abundant show of viands ; liked
to see as was usual at an everyday
breakfast there a ham just cut, a
cold turkey, round of beef, and delicate
clear honey, with other sweet things,
for which his mother's housekeeping
was famed. This was not all. The
room formed one side of a light angle
in the picturesque old house, and from
two sides of the table one could see a
magnificent pyrocanthus, the contrast
between its scarlet berries and the ta-
ble-cloth positively delicious.
Robert and Alfred lingered one
morning after the rest of the family
had left this room. Alfred was con-
sidering that it might ba possible to
enjoy life in the country ; Robert was
watching him, half-curiously, half-jeal-
ously : he did not believe that his
brother was handsomer than himself;
but he detested the ease of manner
and ready wit that gave him ascend-
ancy disproportioned to his years. He
threw himself back in a large arm-
chair, stretched his legs, and said:
" I'm not sure that I don't envy you,
Bob, after all."
"Your condescension is great cer-
tainly. Have you been all this time
finding out that it is a good thing to be
George Wickham's eldest son ?"
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
403
"Ah, yes! eldest son. Well, it's
a comfort for the younger ones that
there's no superior merit in being born
first. But I'm not going to philoso-
phize ; it's too much trouble, and not
your line. But, really, to breakfast
here every morning in all this splendid
comfort, the prettiest and gentlest of
mothers pressing you to eat and drink
more than is good for you ; and that
lovely fairy, Polly that perfect Hebe
flitting about is more than even an
eldest son ought to enjoy. How sorry
you will be next year, when you come
of age, unless " and he looked search-
ingly, through half-closed eyes, at
Bob.
" Why, pray ? And unless what ?"
" Only that I conclude you will then
set up a house of your own, unless
as it is evident my mother could not
part from pretty Polly unless you
arrange to live here, and marry our
pet."
Strange flushings and palenesses
passed over Robert's face, and he
had to master a choking in his throat
and heaving of his chest before he
spoke. He had never had his hidden
feelings put into words before he had
not even any definite intention about
the young girl whom his eye followed
stealthily every where, and whose voice,
the rustling of whose dress even, was
music to him. He only knew that he
should throttle any one who laid a fin-
ger on her. He had not guessed that
any one connected him with her, even
in thought ; and now here was all that
was most secret and sacred in his heart
dragged out, and held mockingly before
him by a boy two years younger than
himself. It seemed to him hours in-
stead of seconds before he spoke, and
his voice had the passionate tremulous-
ness which betrays great interior tu-
mult ; he was sure that he should say
something he would rather not say,
but conscious every moment's delay
gave an advantage to his abhorred
tormentor. Without raising his eyes,
he said hoarsely, "The Wickhams
are proud they don't make low
marriages."
" Upon my word, Bob," returned his
brother patronizingly, " I respect you ;
I did not give you credit for so much
good sense. The girl's a perfect beauty,
no doubt. What a sensation she'd make
in London ! But, after all, she's our
servant's daughter, and old Molly
Brown's grandchild. Then, again,
that unlucky religion of hers ! The
Scharderlowes throw a respectability
over it here, for they are well-born
and wealthy, but anywhere else it
would be extremely awkward for you.
I confess I had a motive for sounding
you. Farmer Briggs's eldest son hint-
ed to me yesterday that he should be
happy to lay West Hill at Polly's
feet."
" He 's an insolent rascal !" said
Robert furiously.
" My dearest Bob, why ? The poor
fellow has eyes, and uses them ; and
one would not wish our Hebe to be an
old maid."
"I say," reiterated Robert, deadly
pale, and stamping, " he's an insolent
rascal ; and if I catch him coming to
this house I'll tell him so. A rustic
boor like that to hint at marrying a
girl who has always been my parents'
pet, and is my mother's favorite com-
panion "
He stopped abruptly; and his broth-
er, who was a perfect mimic, continued
in precisely his tone, " And is so dear
to Robert Wickham, that he will not
hear her name coupled with another
man's "
He had gone too far ; Robert's in-
dignation boiled over he sprang at
him and before he had time to stir,
struck him a blow between the eyes,
which brought sparks from them, and
blood from his nose. A crash and
struggle followed, which Polly heard.
She ran to the room, anticipating noth-
ing more than that some of the large
dogs, privileged to roam about the
house, were quarrelling over the cold
meat. Amazed, beyond all power of
words, she stood silent and very pale.
Then, feeling, young as she was, in-
stinctive womanly power over the dis-
graced young men, and holding herself
404
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
so erect that she looked a head taller
than usual, she said, coldly and firmly,
" I am ashamed of you !"
By that time they were ashamed of
themselves. Alfred, covering his dis-
figured face with his handkerchief, left
the room slowly. Robert, who had re-
ceived no visible hurt, threw up a sash,
jumped out, and when he turned to
shut the window, looked earnestly and
sadly at Polly, so as to bring a strange
unwelcome sensation to her heart.
There was an awkwardness at din-
ner that day. Polly had removed the
traces of the fray, and kept her coun-
sel ; but Alfred's features defied con-
cealment. He stayed in his room with
raw beef on them, and mutton-broth
and barley-water for his regimen. His
mother and Betty could get nothing
out of him but that Bob was a fool,
and had licked him for teasing him.
He was by no means given to repent-
ance ; but his bruises, and a message
from the vicar, desiring to see him
early next morning, led him to the
conclusion that he had better have
"kept his tongue within his teeth."
He was sufficiently humbled to re-
ceive silently unusually severe re-
proofs from his guardian, who had
informed him that he had sent for him
in order to avoid the risk of paining
his excellent mother. It was not only
that he knew all that Betty could tell
of "the row" between the brothers,
and that he denounced the "ruffian-
liness" of "brawling in a widowed
mother's house," but that Mr. Kemp,
in whose house in London he lived, had
inclosed bills of disgraceful amount, in
a letter complaining that Alfred's taste
for pleasure threatened to be his ruin ;
and regretting that justice to his own
family compelled him to decline retain-
ing him as an inmate after the ap-
proaching midsummer. The young
man's unusual power of pleasing, he
said, made his example peculiarly dan-
gerous.
" And now," said the vicar, " I ask
you if your heart is not touched by the
thought of the pain that this letter
would give your dead father, were he
living; and if you could bear your
mother to know it? It is only for
her sake that I spare you. I will beg
Mr. Kemp to retract his resolution to
dismiss you, if you become steadier,
and I shall charge him to let it be
known that I will not pay any bills
that exceed the limit of your very
handsome allowance : and I warn you
that my natural easiness and indolence
shall not prevent my being severe if
you require it. As to the affair yes-
terday, I shall not inquire into it ; but
I warn you that the recurrence of any-
thing so disgraceful shall prevent your
spending your vacations at home ; and
I am sorry to say to one of my good
uncle's sons, that I am glad he must
return to town the day after to-mor-
row."
Alfred was surprised and alarmed,
and made professions of penitence, and
promises of amendment.
There was a visible change thence-
forward in Robert. He became more
manly in his bearing ; and variable hi
his manner to Polly, saying even at
times very sharp things to her. The
sweet-tempered girl gave no provoca-
tion, and felt no resentment ; but hid
sometimes a tear. She did not like to
displease any one whom Mrs. Wick-
ham loved. Robert attended to busi-
ness, took his proper place in society,
and was popular; and she felt it a
relief when he was out, and she had
not to play for him. It was within
three months of his twenty-first birth-
day, when, on one of the frequent
occasions of his dining with the vicar,
that gentleman asked him what were
his plans. He replied that he hadn't
any.
"But, my dear boy, my authority
over you is near its end, and so is
your enforced residence with your
mother. It is time to think where you
will live."
" I don't think my mother will turn
me out."
" No ; but as her allowance for you
ceases with your minority, you must,
in fairness to her, either contribute to
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
405
the household income, or get a home
of your own."
"I don't anticipate any difficulty
about it."
"Merton Paddocks is to be let,"
continued William. " It is a nice little
place, and suitable to you in many
ways. If you let it slip, you may
regret it. Your marrying is to be
calculated on, and in that event your
living with your mother might not be
agreeable to all parties."
" I don't think of marrying."
" Oh, nonsense ! every man's turn
comes ; and why should you escape ?"
" As you escaped, perhaps."
" Me ! one old bachelor in a family
is enough in two generations ; and my
case may not be obstinate. I'm not
actually too old."
"May I ask whom you think of
elevating to the vicarage ?" asked
Robert, laughing; but there was a
pause which, he could not imagine
why, made him uncomfortable, before
his cousin said :
" I have thought of Polly do you
forbid the banns ?"
The room seemed turning round with
Kobert ; but he swallowed a glass of
wine hastily, and said, as carelessly as
he could, " That child !"
" Child ! I don't know she's seven-
teen, and I'm thirty -two the difference
there was between your parents' ages
when they married ; and Polly is two
years older than your mother was
then."
" Perhaps I'm no judge of the mat-
ter, William, but as you have broached
the subject, excuse me if I ask if you
have any notion that Polly is attached
to you."
" None whatever; but any man can
marry any woman provided he have a
fair field and no favor. What has
really kept me doubtful has been a
distinct difficulty about pretty Polly's
birth. It is awkward ; and the Wick-
hams have always been sensitive on
such points ; but I've nearly resolved
to sacrifice pride to Polly's charms.
Her beauty and grace would adorn
any position; and as soon as my
guardianship, and consequent business
relations with her father, ceases, I
shall probably ask my aunt's consent
and blessing. It will be great promo-
tion for her pet, and insure her having
her near her for life. Meanwhile,
Bob, I rely on your silence."
" Certainly."
Poor Robert ! Here was one of
his own family seeing no difficulty
about marrying the girl of whom he
had spoken as beneath himself! an-
other man talking with assurance of
being Polly's husband as soon as he
thought fit ! while he, who had been
domesticated with her from her infancy
had never dared to give her a playful
kiss since they had ceased to be
children had never ventured on the
least demonstration of the fondness
that tormented him for expression.
He made an excuse to go home early ;
walked in the shrubbery, wretched and
irresolute, till midnight; went to his
room, threw himself undressed on the
bed, had some uneasy sleep, rose early,
walked again, and appeared at break-
fast haggard and irritable. His mother
observed it, and was distressed. He
had sat up too late, he said ; and, for
once, William's wine was bad. He
would not go to the brewery that day ;
but, if she liked, he would drive her
and Polly in the phaeton to Larchton,
and they could give Betty a treat by
taking her. She was always glad to
visit her native place, and he knew
she had not been there for a long time.
His mother was willing. Larchton
was a two hours' drive ; and they put
up the horses there.
Mrs. Wickham and Betty went to see
some old people ; and Robert proposed
to Polly to take a walk. She re-
membered afterward that she had had
an unusual feeling about that walk.
They had often walked together before,
as a brother and sister might.
For the first time, however, Robert
said, "Take my arm, Polly."
She took it; and they proceeded
in silence in the fields for some min-
utes.
Then he said abruptly, "Do you
406
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
ever think of getting married, Pol-
ly?"
" No," she replied with an innocent
laugh; "what would Mrs. Wickham
do without me ?"
" And do you expect never to love
any one better than my mother ?"
"I really don't think it would be
possible."
" But, Polly, you're not a child.
You know there's a different love the
love my father had for my mother."
" I have never thought about it,"
she said carelessly.
Her manner gave him courage ; it
was so easy and unconscious. Taking
the little hand that was on his arm,
and holding it so firmly that he could
not feel her effort to withdraw it, he
went on : " Polly, I made an excuse to
come here that I might talk to you
without interruption. The love that
my father had for my mother, I have for
you. I cannot tell when it began ; but
I first knew how strong it was when
Alfred came home first from London.
I was madly jealous of him because he
was forward and I was bashful. Do
you remember the morning you found
us fighting in the breakfast-parlor?
He had provoked me so much by some-
thing that he said about you, that I
could not help striking him. I don't
know what I might have done if you
hadn't come in then ; and I've never
been happy since. I've been irritable,
and sometimes, I know, cross and dis-
agreeable. Something occurred last
night which I can't tell you now I
may another time which made me
wretched ; and I made up my mind this
morning to put myself out of suspense,
and ask you, Polly, to be my wife."
He had been too full of his story to
look at her while he was speaking, but
he looked then eagerly for her answer.
He could not read the lovely counte-
nance which new and various feelings
made different from anything he had
ever seen. The soft eyelids down, the
lashes moist, the lips trembling, the
flush so deep that it would have spoiled
a less delicate skin. She was surprised
to find how much he loved her ; grate-
ful to him ; sorry she had made him
unhappy, and believed him ill-tempered.
Then came a rapid thought of how
handsome he was ; but, sweeping every-
thing away, perplexity followed. What
would Mrs. Wickham and her father
wish her to do ? What would Father
Armand say ?
Robert could not guess all this ; and
there was almost agony in his voice
as he said, " Oh, Polly, Polly, do speak
to me !"
She made a great effort, and replied,
" I don't know what to say, or what I
ought to do!"
" Say, at any rate, that you don't dis-
like me."
" Oh, no !" she said readily, almost
laughing to think that he could suppose
that possible.
"One thing more, Polly; do you
prefer any one else ?"
She hesitated a minute, for her quick
wit told her that the question involved
a great deal ; but she answered firmly,
though shyly, " No ; I do not."
Distrustful as he had been of his
power to please her, this was enough
for the time to make him almost beside
himself with delight.
He said " God bless you !" heartily ;
and was silent awhile because he could
not command his voice. He resumed,
" As to your ' ought to do,' don't say
anything to any one till I've spoken to
my mother. We'll go and look for her
now." He talked a great deal of non-
sense on the way, and Polly said very
little then, or during the drive. She
was ashamed to look at Mrs. Wickham,
and was glad that her attention was
drawn from her to Robert. He " touched
up" the young horses so wildly, that
she declared he should never drive her
again, if he did not behave better.
Directly they got home, he told her that
he wanted to speak to her that moment
alone; and he poured out his story.
Such an old, old story ! So like what
her own dead and buried George had
told her long, long ago. She stand in
the way of an innocent love, and be-
tween two of the creatures dearest to
her on earth ! She would be very glad
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
407
to have Polly as a daughter she loved
her as one. As to pride and such non-
sense, people who had loved and lost,
as she had, knew all its profound folly.
Polly's beauty and goodness might
make any husband proud, any home
happy. As to William, tlfere was no
injustice done him. In the first place,
she was sure that Polly could never be
brought to think of him as a husband.
She looked on him as quite an old man
he was getting very bald ; and in the
next place, if he had had any real love
for her, he could not have spoken so
coolly and confidently of winning her.
Robert said that the last observation
was corroborated by his own expe-
rience, and that his mother was a re-
markably sensible woman. Thereup-
on she smiled, and kissed and blessed
him, and advised him to go directly and
tell the simple truth to the vicar.
Polly, meanwhile, sat alone in her
pretty bedroom her face buried in her
hands, her rich golden hair unbound
and falling loosely over her shoulders,
dreading to go down to dinner. Not
that she was ashamed of dear, dear
Mrs. Wickham. No; she could throw
her arms around her neck and hide her
face there, and make her a confidante
without any fear of being repulsed ;
but how could she look at Robert, much
less speak to him ? and of course the
servant would see and understand all
about it. She wished she might stay
in her room. If she had but a head-
ache ! but she was really perfectly well ;
and false excuses she never dreamed of
making. Kobert would be talking to
her again as he had talked in the fields.
Really, really she did not know what
to say to him. Indeed she had never
thought of getting married. She had
looked forward to living between the
Grey House and her father's, beloved
and welcome in both ; adding to his
and Mrs. Wickham's happiness more
and more as they grew older and wanted
greater care. Why could not this go
on, with only the difference that Robert
should never be displeased with her ?
That had made her unhappy. She did
like him very much ; better than any
one, next to her father and Mrs. Wick-
ham ; better than good old Aunt Lizzy.
He was very handsome, and sang well,
and so attentive to his mother; and
ever since his father's death he had been
quite fond of home. How could he
ever have supposed that she preferred
any one else ? But as to being his
wife he was a Protestant. How she
should feel his never going to mass with
her, his thinking confession useless, his
not believing in the dear Lord in the
Blessed Sacrament! She had often
felt it hard that conversation about
these things must be avoided in the
dear Grey House, and that her friends
there, fond as they were of her, wished
her religion different. If she married
Robert, it would be worse, for she
should love him. better than any one
on earth then ; her anxiety about his
salvation would be so great as to make
her quite wretched, and he might not
like her to talk to him about it. From
her earliest childhood, she prayed for
the conversion of the Wickhams. She
began by saying one Hail Mary daily
for the intention ; and since she had
been older, she had said many novenas,
and offered many communions for it.
She really did not think her father
would give his consent ; and Father
Armand would at any rate look grave
and sad. She had heard him tell
pitiful stories of the unhappiness that
had come of mixed marriages among
persons whom he knew. She did feel
truly unhappy. She walked to her
window ; she could see thence dear
venerable Edward's Hall, and knew
exactly where the chapel was. She
knelt down, fixing her eyes there, and
her heart on her divine Lord in the
tabernacle, and asked him that, for the
love of his blessed mother, he would
help and direct her, and convert her
friends.
Robert had not expected to feel it
formidable to tell his story to his
cousin, and he was equally grieved and
surprised by the way in which he re-
ceived it. Pie changed countenance
so that he looked ten years older;
walked rapidly up and down the room ;
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
threw himself into a great chair, and
buried his face in his hands; asked
Robert to ring; ordered sherry, and
drank several glasses. Robert, utterly
mystified, was trying to say some-
thing soothing, when he interrupted
him.
" My dear fellow, I'm not simply
love-sick ; but circumstances, which I
will explain another time, do make
this a terrible shock to me. I have
been such a fool ! To any one but
myself, your falling in love with Polly
would have seemed the most natural
thing in the world ; but I was blinded,
stultified, as men who have never
mind now go away I'm not fit to
talk I will call or write to you to-
morrow. Blame you ! Certainly not.
Give my love to your mother and
Polly. God bless you all !"
Next morning early came a note
stating that he was going from home
for a few days ; and that if he did not
return, he would explain himself fully
in the following week. %
Worthy of a peerage as Polly
Deane seemed to Robert, he could
not be ignorant that to marry him was
great promotion for her ; and though
delicacy in her regard, and real respect
for her father, made him ask his con-
sent with the utmost deference, he felt
that this was a mere matter of good
manners.
Mr. Deane was visibly gratified ;
said that he could never have expected
a proposal so complimentary to his
child, though he might be pardoned for
saying that he thought any one might
be proud of her. His obligations to
the Wickham family were of many
years' standing ; in fact, he owed every-
thing to Mr. Wickham. He could
never, making all due allowance for
Polly's beauty and goodness, express
how honored he felt himself and her on
that occasion; but and he made a
long pause in evident difficulty how to
express himself; and Robert was mute
with surprise and alarm.
" But is it possible, Mr. Robert, that
Mrs. Wickham and you don't see one
very great objection?"
" In the name of heaven, what is it ?"
gasped Robert.
" Why, surely, sir, the dear child's
religion."
" Now is it possible, Deane, that you
think we would ever interfere with
that ? Have we ever done so by word,
or look, or deed, in all the years we've
known you ? Have not you, ever
since you came into this business, been
free to observe your holy days in your
own way ? Have we not always been
ready- even when my mother's spirits
were at the lowest to spare Polly to
go to mass or confession ? I am really
hurt, and feel that we don't deserve
this ?"
" It is all true, Mr. Robert, and the
Lord reward you, as he will ; but don't
you see it might be different I don't
say that it would ; but I'm bound to
do my best for my girl's soul no less
than her body if she was your wife,
and so completely in your power?
There's no doubt that a young man in
love will promise anything, and mean
to keep his word too; but ours is a
despised religion (God be praised for
it !') ; it is one among many signs that it
is the true one ; and you might come
to be ashamed that one so near and
dear to you belonged to it, and that
would breed great unhappiness. Then,
again, you might have children, and I
should not dare give my consent to
their being reared Protestants. Per-
haps, if some ancestor of yours had
been firm in such a case as this, you
and yours might be still of the old
faith.'*
" I'm sure, as far as I'm concerned,
Deane, I wish we were. No one will
go to heaven, if Polly doesn't ; and the
religion that would take her there can't
be bad for any one. She might make
a Catholic of me."
" God grant it, sir ; but don't you
see that I must not act on chance ? If
the child was breaking her heart for
you, and " smiling " it's not come to
that yet, I could not let her risk her
soul, and perhaps her children's souls."
" Look here, Mr. Deane : I'm quite
ready to give you a written promise
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
409
that I will never interfere in any way
with Polly's practising her religion,
and that all her children boys as well
as girls shall be brought up in it ;
and I'm sure my mother will make no
difficulty."
" You cannot say more, Mr. Robert ;
but still, if you please, I will take a
week to think the matter over, and
talk about it to Father Armand and
Polly, and for that time I think she'd
better come home. She must feel
awkward in the same house with you
under present circumstances. Will
you give my respects to Mrs. Wick-
ham, and say that I will call for the
child this evening ?"
Numerous, and all wide of the truth,
were Mrs. Wickham's and Robert's
conjectures respecting the vicar.
They began even to consider whether
he had ever shown any symptoms of
insanity, and were thankful to know
that it was not hereditary in the family.
The week stipulated for by Mr.
Deane passed; and after consulting
Father Armand and Mr. Scharderlowe,
he agreed to give his consent to Polly's
marrying Robert at the end of a year,
if he were then equally willing to
bind himself by a written promise to
respect her faith, and have his chil-
dren brought up in it. They said they
thought that the kind, liberal, honorable
character of the Wickhams being con-
sidered, and having been proved in
all their conduct to the Deanes, and
the difficulty of Catholic marrying
Catholic (which was far,yr greater in
England then than it is now) being
weighed, tne case was as hopeful as a
mixed marriage could be.
Robert grumbled about the delay,
every one else approved of it.
mother thought a man young to
even at twenty-two; and the
me seemed to Polly none too long for
becoming accustomed to new feelings
and new prospects.
Two days after all this was arranged
came the vicar's anxiously-expected
letter, dated Scarborough. It said :
" MY DEAR ROBERT, The punish-
ment of my youthful sins and follies,
which has been pursuing me for years,
has at last fallen so heavily upon me,
that I feel inclined to cry out, like
Cain, that it is greater than I can
bear. Try to believe, as you read my
humiliating confession, that the bitter-
est portion of my suffering is the fact
that I have injured my uncle's family ;
and that I shall regret my pangs less
if they prove a useful warning to you
and your brothers. I can hardly re-
member when I was not in debt. Be-
fore I was eight years old I owed
pence continually for fruits, sweets,
toys. I suffered torture for fear of
detection while these trifles were
owing, but directly they were paid, I
began a fresh score. At school I bor-
rowed money of every one who would
lend it, and had a bill at every shop
to which a boy would be attracted.
The misery I continued to endure
while I could not pay was always for-
gotten directly I had paid ; and I was
in the same difficulty over and over
again. I must own, moreover, that I
was absolutely without excuse. I
had as much money and indulgence
of every kind as any boy of my age
and position. I went to the university.
My allowance was liberal, but my
debts became tremendous. I gave end-
less wine-parties ; drove to London
frequently; entered into all its plea-
sures, made expensive presents,
bought horses, and betted; and was
of course done; finally, I got into
the hands of Jews. It is singular
that my father never suspected my
delinquencies, and that I was wonder-
fully helped by circumstances. I was
young when I succeeded to the living
and a large amount of ready money.
All was swallowed up in the dreadful
gulf that my unprincipled extrava-
gance had made. Year after year
the greater portion of my income has
gone in payment of exorbitant interest.
Your dear father's legacy went that
way ; and my infamous creditors, hav- ,
ing ascertained that his will placed
a great deal in my power, threatened
me with exposure which would have
410
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
been fatal to a man in my position
till I had pacified them with thousands
not my own with, in fact, a consid-
erable portion of your brothers' inherit-
ance.
" At first I stifled my conscience by
representing to myself that being re-
leased from pressure which had
worried me for years, I should have a
clear head for business ; and recover,
by judicious speculation, the sums that
I had appropriated as I hoped but
for a time. I have speculated unfortu-
nately, and made matters infinitely
worse ; for whereas my previous cred-
itors were rapacious rascals to whom,
in justice, nothing was due, my pres-
ent ones are the helpless children of
my warm-hearted, trustful, dead uncle.
" By this time old Smith is, I sup-
pose, dead, and you are aware of his
will as singular as all we know of
his life but he is necessary to my
story. A day or two before I told
you that I thought of marrying Polly
he sent for me, said that he felt him-
self breaking, and wished me to wit-
ness his will, and be aware of its pur-
port, that it might not be said, when he
was gone, that he had acted at the
priest's instigation. He said that at
that moment no one knew he was a
Catholic, that he had led a godless life
for years, but he meant to make his
peace with God before he died. He
had no relations who had any claim
on him ; he had left 100 to Mr.
Armand for religious uses, and the
rest of his money nearly 20,000
to Polly. I thought the man mad,
and humored him. He understood
me, and said so ; told me that existence
had ceased to be more than endurable
when, twenty years ago, he entered
Upfield a stranger ; and that therefore
he had confined himself to the necessa-
ries of life, and been glad to be be-
lieved poor. That he had thought of
leaving his money to a hospital ; but
that Polly had become so like the
only woman he had ever loved and
whom he had lost by death that
he had grown to feel very fatherly to-
ward her ; and his intention to make
her his heiress had been decided by
a little fact very characteristic of
Polly. She was walking with your
mother one very windy day, when he
was out for nearly the last tune, and
his hat blew off. He was too infirm
to follow it, and every one but Polly
was too lazy or too much amused to
do so. She ran for it, and brought it
to him with a kindness which seems
to have thoroughly melted him. If
he be still living, this must not be
mentioned; but, as I said before, I
think it is impossible. It is an old
saying that 'drowning men catch at
straws.' Oppressed as I was by hope-
less remorse, I caught at the notion
that I would marry Polly. Her father,
I thought, would be pleased with her
elevation. I did not anticipate any
difficulty in making such a gentle
creature love me. I intended to do
my utmost to make her life happy ;
and I knew that she would give up
anything to do good to your family. I
calculated that, living moderately, my
income would be ample, and that I
could appropriate Polly's fortune to re-
paying what I had misused, and still
without wronging her for that, as
my wife, she would have advantages
far beyond her father's expectations.
How all this scheming is defeated, you
know. The only reparation now in
my power, I make willingly. Deduct-
ing a curate's stipend and eighty pounds
a year for myself, I will furnish you
with full powers to receive the residue
of my income, and apply it to your
brothers' use. I will appoint Deane
guardian in my stead, and furnish
him with all necessary documents. If
I live and I pray that I may live for
that object your brothers will not
suffer ultimately. I have made my
will, and left them whatever property
I may possess when I die. I have,
you know, expectations from the Heath-
cotes.
" There is, I hope, some guarantee
for my reform in the willingness with
which I accept my punishment. I am
glad that, with luxurious tastes, I must
exist on very narrow means for years ;
Many Years Ago at Upfield.
411
that with sturdy English prejudices I
must live among foreigners. I had
not courage to make my shameful
confession verbally, or to see any of
you afterward. I cross hence to Ham-
burg to-morrow. My further course
is undecided, but I will write to you ;
and Hangham and Hunt, Fleet street,
will forward letters to me. Think of
all I have lost, of all I have suffered
secretly, for years, of my dreary pros-
pects, and try to be merciful to your mis-
erable cousin, WILLIAM WICKHAM."
Polly had returned to the Grey
House. Mrs, AVickham fretted, and
Robert to be candid was disagree-
able in her absence. Shy and con-
scious though she felt, she was quite
willing to go back. Her father was
never at home till the evening not
always then. Aunt Lizzie wanted no
help or cheering up, and Polly's hap-
piness depended mainly on her being
necessary to some one. There is,
moreover, no denying that, differently
educated as she had been, her aunt's
habits and notions were not hers ; and
I could not say positively that she did
not miss Robert, and admit to herself
that it was pleasant to expect him at
certain times, and to spend a good
deal of time in his society. When the
vicar's letter arrived, she was at the
breakfast-table, doing the duties of
president deftly and satisfactorily, as
she did everything housewifely ge-
nius as she was.
"What a long affair!" exclaimed
Robert, as he glanced at the letter.
" What can he have to say ? I can't
wait to read it now ; I must be off to
the brewery. Here, my mother, you
take it, and tell me all about it when
I come back."
She put it in her pocket, remember-
ing that Polly was concerned in it,
and not liking to read it before her
without mentioning its purport. The
thoughtful, methodical damsel soon de-
parted for an hour's duty among birds
and flowers, and then the thunderbolt
fell on poor Mrs. Wickham. Her
darling younger sons were not only
fatherless, but almost dependent on
their brother. She was no woman of
business ; but she guessed that there
would not be more than 300 a year
to come from the vicar, when the de-
ductions he mentioned had been made.
She could of course spare 100. What
did she want with money ? This would
meet all the expenses of education,
supposing the vicar lived and if he
died ! In any case there was no capital
to start her sons in their professions;
and, unluckily, Alfred, who would want
it first, had never been a favorite of
Robert's. His assumption of superior-
ity and his sarcasm had nettled him
extremely ; and he dropped expres-
sions occasionally which showed he had
not forgiven him. But Robert would
be very well able to help. Even sup-
posing that as she hoped he would
he did marry Polly, and have a family,
his brothers would be off his hands be-
fore his children became expensive.
If the story about poor old Mr. Smith
proved true, he would be a rich man.
Polly would of course do something
handsome for her father and aunt, and
yet have a large fortune. That inci-
dent about the hat Mrs. Wickham re-
membered perfectly ; the poor old man
looked enraptured when, lovelier even
than usual, glowing from her running
and good-nature, she gave it to him. It
was, however, very wonderful. How
much had happened in quiet Upfield
during the last two years i Then she
began to pity the vicar heartily; to
make excuses for him, and forgive
him. The sacrifices he made proved
the sincerity of his repentance : hoW"
miserable he would be for years, poor
and lonely in a foreign land! In
those days anywhere " abroad" seemed
to simple inland folk something terri-
ble. He might get yellow fever, or
the plague. She believed them to be
imminent anywhere out of the British
Isles. She must talk to Polly, and
have her for a staunch ally before
Robert came home. He had not his
father's noble impulsiveness, but he was
just and honorable, and she and Polly
could do a great deal with him. Of
412
Many Tears Ago at Upjield.
course she should omit telling her about
the vicar's having thought of marrying
her, and the story about old Smith.
One fact would be painful to her ; the
other might be untrue.
The two guileless creatures agreed
fully that Robert must be worked upon
to forgive his cousin, and do all that
was necessary for his brothers. They
were so radiant with hope and charity
that their countenances struck Robert
peculiarly when he returned, and he
said he saw plainly that they had good
news to tell him. It was an awkward
beginning : his mother feared that the
contrary character of her intelligence
would displease him the more, and said
timidly, " You had really better read
William's letter yourself, my dear
boy; he tells his story much better
than I can."
The rush of events at Upfield
seemed, for a few days, overpowering
to those whom it concerned ; and those
whom it concerned not were very
much excited. There was the vicar
gone no one knew wherefore or
whither, or for how long ; and a curate
with a wife and seven children had
taken possession of his trim bachelor's
hall. Then there was Mr. Smith, noi
very old, probably not more than fifty,
dead. And he had turned out to be a
rich man ! why who could have guessed
it ? He had appeared one day at the
inn, as suddenly as if he had dropped
from the clouds had evidently come
a long way afoot had no luggage but
a valise ; and was altogether so equi-
vocal-looking that Mr. Mogg, the vete-
rinary surgeon, would not take him as
a lodger without his paying six months'
rent in advance. He had paid his way
regularly, certainly; but no one could
have supposed that he had anything
to spare. He would never talk of his
affairs except to say that he had out-
lived all his near relations, and been a
great deal in foreign parts. People had
suggested that he might be an escaped
felon, a man resuscitated after hanging,
a deserter, a Jew. On the strength of
the last notion Mr. Mogg tested him
with roast pig ; and he liked it.
Then he never went to church. To
be sure he was not the only person in
Upfield of whom that might be said ;
but no one guessed that he was a
papist. They had, at last, no proof
that he was ; but it was understood,
though not formally acknowledged, that
the librarian at Edward's Hall was a
Catholic priest, and that persons of his
communion could and did benefit by
his ministrations. Such things were
winked at, in spite of penal enactments,
in the case of some Catholics of high
social standing, like Mr. Scharder-
lowe.
Now this librarian, Mr. Armand,
had been sent for by Mr. Smith when
he was taken ill, .had visited him fre-
quently, and been with him when he
died. No doubt he was a papist.
That might be the reason he left
his money to Polly Deane. "Well,
well! what luck some people had!
Upfield wouldn't be surprised if Robert
Wickham married her ; and the neigh-
borhood supposed it must call upon
her, whether he did or not. It won-
dered if Mr. and Mrs. Wickham had
known all along of Mr. Smith's in-
tention ; it wouldn't be surprised ;
there was something odd in the way
they had educated the girl, and takeu
her out of her sphere. But, after all,
Mrs. Pogram said, she mightn't like
Robert Wickham; and with such a
fortune as hers, she could afford to
please herself. Mrs. Pogram's own
sons were decidedly finer young men,
had more dash, and were in the army-
every one knew that girls liked red
coats. Lancaster would be coming
home soon, on leave. She would call
at once ; let others do as they pleased.
Deane was a highly-respectable man,
and no one could be ashamed of his
daughter.
A year later there was a large
family-gathering at the Grey House at
dinner, and Mrs. Wickham presided.
Her grief had settled into a placid,
subdued character, which, with the
weeds, gave a kind of moonlight tone
to her appearance, and became her so
Many Tears Ago at Upfield.
413
well that no one could wish to see her
ever otherwise.
Robert and Polly, man and wife,
had returned that day from a bridal
excursion to the English lakes. The
younger brothers were assembled to
meet them. Aunt Heathcote was
there with her ear-trumpet ; and queer-
tempered Mrs. Trumball, all smiles.
Mr. Deane, of the firm of Wickham
and Deane, urbane in shorts, black-silk
stockings, and silver knee and shoe
buckles, was a father of whom the
lovely bride felt proud, as she did too
of Aunt Lizzie; who looked as if she
had worn silks and laces, and kept her
soft white large hands in mittens all
her life. Deep in every one's heart
was the memory of warm-hearted,
generous George Wickham, gone for
ever from those whose meeting there,
and in their mutual relations, he would
have made more joyous ; but no one
named him, for no one could have done
it then and there in a voice which
would not have been thick with emo-
tion. Tears must have followed any
mention of him; and who would
have caused their flow at such a happy
gathering? Every one knew what
every one was feeling and what a long
pause meant, which Robert broke by
saying with a sigh, " Well, I do wish
that poor dear William were here ; I
am so happy that I wish every one
else was ; and I hate to think of him,
hospitable, affectionate creature, drag-
ging out his days among fat phlegmatic
Dutch boors, without a single soul to
speak to." Polly, at his side, con-
trived to give him, under the table, a
little squeeze expressive of the fullest
approbation.
" I'm glad you. have forgiven him,
Bob," said his mother.
"Well, really, mother, it was but
natural that I should be savage at first.
Men can't be quite as tender-hearted
as women, I suppose ; and they see the
consequences of pecuniary frailties
more clearly, and suffer more from
them, than they do; but I must be a
brute if, happy as I am, I didn't wish
well to everybody, especially to that
good fellow. Now don't cry,
Her father observed that there were
great excuses for the vicar, and that
every one must admit that he had
done his utmost to make reparation.
" Yes," said Alfred, with mock
gravity. It was his delight to puzzle
Aunt Lizzie ; she never could make
out whether he were joking or oracu-
lar. " I have learned wisdom through
the rudiments of a painful experience ;
and, steady reformed man of mature
years as I find myself, I pronounce
that William might have done much
worse."
" Shall I write and urge him to
come back ?" asked Robert.
" Do ! do ! do !" resounded in various
voices all around the table.
" Very well ; I'm more than willing.
Polly told me confidentially a few days
ago that she had no turn for extrava-
gance ; and I feel so domestic and
moderate, that I fancy we may man-
age to provide for the fine young
family that William's indiscretions
have thrown on our hands, though he
will be able to give less help than if he
remained at Rotterdam."
"Mr. Ridlem's stipend would be
saved, you know, Bob."
" Not exactly, mother. William
couldn't live at home as he lives now ;
that would be painful to us and impos-
sible for him."
"True; I forgot that."
" It is difficult for me to put in a
word," said Alfred, " because I've been
a great expense to Bob, and he hasn't
done with me yet; in fact I've no
right to make a suggestion ; but it is
my full intention to reimburse him one
of these days. I shouldn't have said
so, only the chance of helping to bring
William back"
"You're a good fellow, Alfred; I
believe you ; and must confess that I
have found you less trouble than I ex-
pected."
The result of the consultation was a
letter to the vicar, signed by every one
present, entreating him to return forth-
with ; a letter over which he cried like
414
A Lost Chapter of Church History Recovered.
a girl. It brought him back speedily,
a wiser and not a sadder man. He
said indeed that, though down among
the dykes, he had never been so happy
as since he made all square with his
conscience.
To follow the affairs of Upfield and
the Wickhams further would involve a
series of stories. It must suffice to
say that Robert's marriage turned out
really well ; and that from the day of
her betrothal, the dearest wish of
Polly's heart was gratified; for he,
unasked, joined her and the other
stragglers who the laws notwith-
standing made their way on Sun-
days and holidays to a side-en-
trance in venerable old Edward's
Hall, and were admitted to mass
in the little well-loved chapel; Mr.
Armand the librarian, identical with
Father Armand the priest, thank-
ing God devoutly for the addition to
the fold.
From The Month.
A LOST CHAPTER OF CHURCH HISTORY RECOVERED.
BY JAMES SPENCER NORTHCOTE, D.D.
IP we set before a skilful professor
of comparative anatomy a few bones
dug out of the bowels of the earth, he
will re-construct for us the whole form
of the animal to which they belonged ;
and it sometimes happens that these
theoretical constructions are singularly
justified by later discoveries. It is
the province of an archseologian to at-
tempt something of the same kind.
A historian transcribes for our use
annals more or less fully composed
and faithfully transmitted by his pre-
decessors. He may have to gather
his materials from various sources ;
he must distinguish the true from the
false ; and he gives shape, consistency,
and life to the whole ; but, for the
most part at least, he has little to sup-
ply that is new from any resources of
his own. The archceologian, on the
contrary, if he be really a man of
learning and science, and not a mere
collector of old curiosities, aims at dis-
covering and restoring annals that are
lost, by means of a careful and intelli-
gent use of every fragment of most
heterogeneous materials that happens
to come across him. And there is
certainly nobody in the present age
whose talent and industry in this
branch of learning, so far at least as
Christian archaeology is concerned, can
at all compare with that of Cavaliere
G. B. de Rossi. For more than twenty
years he has devoted himself to the
study of the Roman catacombs, and at
length we begin to enter upon the fruit
of his labors. He has just published
(by order of the Pope, and at the ex-
pense, we believe, of the Commission
of Sacred Archaeology, instituted by his
Holiness in 1851) the first volume of
Roma Sotteranea; a magnificent vol-
ume, splendidly illustrated, and full of
new and varied information. An ab-
stract of its contents would hardly be
suitable to our pages ; but none, we
think, can fail to be interested in what
we may venture to call the first chap-
ter of the History of the Catacombs
a chapter that had certainly never be-
fore been written, even if it had been
attempted.
All earlier authors upon subterra-
nean Rome, so far as our experience
goes, whilst describing fully, and it
may be illustrating with considerable
learning, the catacombs as they now
exist, and all the monuments they
A Lost Chapter of Church History* Recovered.
415
contain, have been content to pass
over with a few words of apology and
conjecture the question of their origin
and early history. They have told us
that the Jewish residents in Rome had
burial-places of a similar character ;
and they have shown how natural and
probable it was that the first Ro-
man Christians, unwilling to burn
their dead in pagan fashion, should
have imitated the practices of the an-
cient people of God. When pressed
to explain how so gigantic a work, as
the Roman catacombs undoubtedly
are, could have been carried on by the
Christians under the very feet of their
bitter persecutors, yet without their
knowledge, they have pointed to the
rare instance of a cemetery entered by
a staircase hidden within the recesses
of a sand-pit ; they have guessed that
here or there some Christian patrician,
some senator or his wife, may have
given up a garden or a vineyard for
use as a burial-ground ; and then they
have passed on to the much easier
task of enumerating the subterranean
chapels, tracing the intricacies of the
galleries, or describing the paintings,
sculptures, and inscriptions. The work
of De Rossi is of a very differ-
ent character. It begins ab ovo,
and proceeds scientifically. It shows
not only how these wonderful ceme-
teries may have been made, but also
as far as is practicable, and a great
deal further than nine-tenths even of
the most learned archasologians ever
supposed to be practicable how and
when each cemetery really was made.
From the few scattered bones, so to
speak, which lay buried, and for the
most part broken, partly in the depths of
the catacombs themselves, partly in the
Acts of the Martyrs, the Liber Pontifi-
calis, and a few other records of ec-
clesiastical history, he has reconstruct-
ed with consummate skill the complete
skeleton, if we should not rather say
has reproduced the whole body, and
set it full of life and vigor before us.
Not that he has indulged in hasty con-
jectures, or given unlimited scope to a
lively imagination; far from it. On
the contrary, we fear many of his less
learned readers will be disposed to find
fault with the slow and deliberate, al-
most ponderous, method of his progress,
and to grow impatient under the mass
of minute criticisms with which some
of his pages are filled, and by which
he insists upon justifying each step
that he takes. Indeed, we have some
scruple at presenting our readers with
the sum and substance of his argu-
ment, divested of all these piecesjustifi-
calives, as our neighbors would call
them, lest they should suspect us of in-
venting rather than describing. How-
ever, we think it is too precious a page
of Church history to be lost, and we
therefore proceed to publish it, only
premising that nobody must pretend
to judge of its truth merely from the
naked abstract of it which we propose
to give, but that all who are really in-
terested in the study should examine
for themselves in detail the whole mass
of evidence by which, in De Rossi's
pages, it is supported, most of which
is new, and all newly applied.
To tell our story correctly, it is ne-
cessary we should step back into pagan
times, and first take a peep at their
laws and usages in the matter of buri-
als. No classical scholar need be
told how strictly prohibited by old Ro-
man law was all intra-mural interment.
Indeed every traveller knows that all
the 'great roads leading into Rome
were once lined on either side with
sepulchral monuments, many of which
still remain ; and the letters inscribed
upon them tell us how many feet of
frontage, and how many feet at the
back (into the field), belonged to each
monument, [IN. FR. P. so many. IN.
AG. P. so many. Infronte, peium .
In agro, pedum .] M. de Rossi (the
brother- of our author) has published a
very interesting plan of one of these
monuments with all its dependencies,
as represented on an ancient marble
slab dug up on the Via Lavicana. On
this slab, not only are the usual
measurements of frontage and depth
carefully recorded, but also the private
or public roads which crossed the prop-
416
A Lost Chapter of Church History Recovered.
erty, the gardens and vineyards of
which it consisted, the swampy land
on which grew nothing but reeds (it is
called Harundinetum), and the ditch
by which, on one side at least, it was
bounded. Unfortunately the slab is
not perfect, so that we cannot tell the
exact measurement of the whole.
Enough, however, remains to show
that the property altogether was not
less than twelve Roman Jugera, or
nearly 350,000 square feet ; and other
inscriptions are extant, specifying an
amount of property almost equal to
this as belonging to a single monu-
ment (e.g. ffuic monumento cedunt agri
puri jugera decent). The necessity
for so large an assignment of property
to a single tomb was not so much the
vastness of the mausoleum to be erect-
ed, as because certain funeral rites
were to be celebrated there year by
year, on the anniversary of the death,
and at other times ; sacrifices to be
offered, feasts to be given, etc. ; and for
these purposes exedrce were provided,
or semi-circular recesses, furnished
with sofas and all things necessary for
the convenience of guests. A house
also (custodia) was often added, in
which a person should always live to
look after the monument, for whose
support these gardens, vineyards, or
other hereditaments were set apart as
a perpetual endowment. It only re-
mains to add, that upon all these an-
cient monuments may be found these
letters, or something equivalent to
them,H.M.H.EX.T.N.S. (ffocmonu-
mentum hceredes ex testamento ne
sequatur) ; in other words, " This tomb
and all that belongs to it is sacred;
henceforth it can neither be bought
nor sold ; it does not descend to my
heirs with the rest of my property ; but
must ever be retained inviolate for the
purpose to which I have destined it,
viz., as a place of sepulchre for my-
self and my family," or certain speci-
fied members only of the family ; or,
in some rare instances, others also ex-
tern to the family. The same sacred
character which attached to the monu-
ments themselves belonged also to the
area in which they stood, the hypogeum
or subterranean chamber, which not
unfrequently was formed beneath
them ; but it is a question whether it
extended to the houses or other pos-
sessions attached to them.
Nor were these monuments confined
to the noblest and wealthiest citizens.
Even in the absence of all direct evi-
dence upon the subject, we should have
found it hard to believe that any but
the very meanest of the slaves were
buried (or rather were thrown without
any burial at all) into those open pits
(puticoli) of which Horace and others
have told us. And in fact, a multitude
of testimonies have come down to us
of the existence, both in republican
and imperial Rome, of a number of
colleges, as they were called, or cor-
porations (clubs or confraternities, as
we should more probably call them),
whose members were associated, partly
in honor of some particular deity, but
far more with a view to mutual assist-
ance for the performance of the just
funeral rites. Inscriptions which are
still extant testify to nearly fourscore
of these collegia, each consisting of the
members of a different trade or pro-
fession. There are the masons and
carpenters, soldiers and sailors, bakers
and cooks, corn-merchants and wine-
merchants, hunters and fishermen,
goldsmiths and blacksmiths, dealers in
drugs and carders of wool, boatmen
and divers, doctors and bankers, scribes
and musicians in a word, it would be
hard to say what trade or employment
is not here represented. Not, however,
that this is the only bond of fellow-
ship upon which such confraternities
were built ; sometimes, indeed general-
ly, the members were united, as we
have already said, in the worship of
some deity ; they were cultores Jovis,
or Herculis, or Apollinis et Diana;
sometimes they merely took the title of
some deceased benefactor whose mem-
ory they desired to honor ; e. g. cultores
statuarum et clipeorum L. Abulli Dex-
tri ; and sometimes the only bond of
union seems to have been service in
the same house or family. A long
A Lost Chapter of Church History Recovered.
417
and curious inscription belonging to
one of these colleges, consisting main-
ly of slaves, and erected in honor of
Diana and Antinous, and for the
burial of the dead, in the year 133 of
our era, reveals a number of most in-
teresting particulars as to its internal
organization, which are worth repeat-
ing in this place. So much was to be
paid at entrance, and a keg of good
wine beside, and then so much a
month afterward ; for every member
who has regularly paid up his contri-
bution, so much to be allowed for his
funeral, of which a certain proportion
to be distributed amongst those who
assist ; if a member dies at a distance
of more than twenty miles from Rome,
three members are to be sent to fetch
the body, and so much is to be allowed
them for travelling expenses ; if the
master (of the slave) will not give
up the body, he is nevertheless to re-
ceive all the funeral rites ; he is to be
buried in effigy ; if any of the mem-
bers, being a slave, receives his free-
dom, he owes the college an amphora
of good wine; he who is elected
president (magister), must inaugurate
his accession to office by giving a
supper to all the members ; six times
a year the members dine together in
honor of Diana, Antinous, and the
patron of the college, and the allow-
ance of bread and of wine on these occa-
sions is specified ; so much to every mess
of four ; no complaints or disputed ques-
tions may be mooted at these festivals,
" to the end that our feasts may be
merry and glad;" finally, whoever
wishes to enter this confraternity is
requested to study all the rules first
before he enters, lest he afterward
grumble or leave a dispute as a legacy
to his heir.
We are afraid we have gone into
the details of this ancient burial club
more than was strictly necessary for
our purpose ; but we have been insen-
sibly drawn on by their extremely in-
teresting character, reminding us (as
the Count de Champagny, from whom
we have taken them, most justly re-
marks) both of the ancient Christian
27
Agapce, or love-feasts, and (we may
add) the mediseval guilds. This, how-
ever, suggests a train of thought which
we must not be tempted to pursue. De
Rossi has been more self-denying on
the subject; he confines himself to a
brief mention of the existence of the
clubs, refers us to other authors for an
account of them, and then calls our
attention to this very singular, and for
our purpose most important fact con-
cerning them : viz., that at a time when
institutions of this kind had been made
a cover for political combinations and
conspiracies, or at least when the em-
perors suspected and feared such an
abuse of them, and therefore rigorously
suppressed them, nevertheless an ex-
ception was expressly made in favor
of those which consisted of "poorer
members of society, who met together
every month to make a small contribu-
tion toward the expenses of their
funeral;" and then he puts side by
side with this law the words of Ter-
tullian in his Apology, written about
the very same time, where he speaks
of the Chri&tians contributing every
month, or when and as each can and
chooses, a certain sum to be spent on
feeding and burying the poor. The
identity of language in the two pas-
sages, when thus brought into juxta-
position, is very striking ; and we sup-
pose that most of our readers will now
recognize the bearing of all we have
hitherto been saying upon the history
of the Christian catacombs, from which
we have seemed to be wandering so ,
far.
We have already said that one of
the first questions which persons are
inclined to ask when they either visit,
or begin to study, the catacombs, is
this : How was so vast a work ever
accomplished without the knowledge
and against the will of the local author-
ities? And we answer (in part at
least), as the Royal Scientific Society
should have answered King Charles
the Second's famous question about
the live fish and the dead fish in the
tub of water, " Are you quite sure of
your facts? Don't call upon us to
418
A Lost Chapter of Chinch History Recovered.
find the reason of a problem which,
after all, only exists perhaps in your own
imagination." And so in truth it is.
The arguments of the Cavaliere de
Rossi have satisfied us that the Chris-
tians of the first ages were under no
necessity of having recourse to extra-
ordinary means of secrecy with refer-
ence to the burial of their dead; it
was quite possible for them to have
cemeteries on every side of Rome,
under the protection of the ordinary
laws and practices of their pagan
neighbors.
But is not this to revolutionize the
whole history of these wonderful ex-
cavations ? We cannot help it, if it be
so; it is at least one of those revolu-
tions which are generally accepted as
justifiable, and certainly are approved
in their consequences ; for when it is
complete, everything finds its proper
place ; books and grave-stones, the
cemeteries and their ancient historians,
every witness concerned gives its own
independent testimony, all in harmony
with one another, and with the presumed
facts of the case. Let us see how the
early history of the catacombs runs,
when reconstructed according to this
new theory. The first Christian cem-
eteries were made in ground given for
that very purpose by some wealthier
member of the community, and secured
to it in perpetuity in accordance with
the laws of the country. There was
nothing to prevent the erection of a
public monument in the area thus se-
cured, and the excavation of chambers
and galleries beneath. And history tells
us of several of the most ancient cata-
combs that they had their origin from
this very circumstance, that some
pious Christian, generally a Roman
matron of noble rank, buried the relics
of some famous martyr on her own
property (in prcedio suo.)
The oldest memorial we have about
the tomb of St. Peter himself is this,
that Anacletus " memoriam construxit
B. Petri, and places where the bishops
(of Rome) should be buried;" and
this language is far more intelligible
and correct, if spoken of some public
tomb, than of an obscure subterranean
grave ; memoria, or cetta memorise, be-
ing the classical designation of such
tombs. How much more appropriate
also does the language of Caius the
presbyter, preserved to us by Eusebius,
now appear, wherein he speaks (in the
days of Zephyrinus) of the trophies of
the apostles being to be seen at the
Vatican and on the Ostian way ? Ter-
tullian, too, speaks of the bodies of the
martyrs lying in mausoleums and mon-
uments, awaiting the general resurrec-
tion. From the same writer we learn
that the area of the Christian burials
were known to and were sacrilegiously
attacked by the enraged heathens in
the very first years of the third century ;
and quite recently there has reached
us from this same writer's country a
most valuable inscription, discovered
among the ruins of a Roman building,
not far from the walls of the ancient
Caesarea of Mauritania, which runs in
this wise : " Euelpius, a worshipper of
the word (cultor Verbi ; mark the word,
and call to mind the cultoresJovis,etc.'),
has given this area for sepulchres, and
has built a cetta at his own cost. He
left this memoria to the holy church.
Hail, brethren : Euelpius, with a pure
and simple heart, salutes you, born of
the Holy Spirit." It is true that this
inscription, as we now have it, is not
the original stone ; it is expressly added
at the foot of the tablet, that Ecclesia
fratrum has restored this titulus at a
period subsequent to the persecution
during which the original had been
destroyed ; but both the sense and the
words forbid us to suppose that any
change had been made in the language
of the epitaph, to which we cannot as-
sign a date later than the middle of the
third century. But, finally, and above
all, let us descend into the catacombs
themselves, and put them to the ques-
tion. Michael Stephen de Rossi, the con-
stant companion of his brother's studies,
having invented some new mechanical
contrivance for taking plans of subter-
ranean excavations,* has made exact
* It was highly commended and received a prize
at the International Exhibition of 1SW2.
A Lost Chapter of Church History Recovered.
419
plans of several catacombs, not only of
each level (or floor, so to speak) with-
in itself, but also in its relations to the
superficial soil, and in the relations of
the several floors one with another.
A specimen of these is set before us by
meaqs of different colors or tints, rep-
resenting the galleries of the different
levels, in the map of the cemetery of
St. Callixtus, which accompanies this
volume ; and a careful study of this
map is sufficient to demonstrate that
the vast net-work of paths in this fa-
mous cemetery originally consisted of
several smaller cemeteries, confined
each within strict and narrow limits,
and that they were only united at some
later, though still very ancient period.
For it cannot have been without rea-
son that the subterranean galleries
should have doubled and re-doubled
upon themselves within the limits of a
certain well-defined area ; that they
should never have overstepped a cer-
tain boundary-line in this or that direc-
tion, though the nature of the soil and
every other consideration would have
seemed to invite them to proceed ;
that they should have been suddenly
interrupted by a flight of steps, pene-
trating more deeply into the bowels of
the earth, and there been reproduced
exactly upon the same scale and with-
in the same limits. These facts can
only be fully appreciated by an actual
examination of the map, where they
speak for themselves ; but even those
who have not this advantage will
scarcely call in question the conclusion
that is drawn from them, when they
call to mind how exactly it coincides
with all the ancient testimonies we have
already adduced on the subject, and
when they learn the singular and most
interesting fact, that the Cav. de Rossi
has been able in more than one instance,
by means of the sepulchral inscriptions,
to identify the noble family by whom
the site of the cemetery was originally
granted.
It will be of course understood that
we have been speaking of the earliest
ages of the Church's history, and that
we are far from denying that there
were other periods during which se-
crecy was an essential condition of the
Christian cemeteries ; on the contrary,
did our space allow, we could show
what parts of the catacombs belonged
to the one period, and what to the
other, and what are the essential char-
acteristics of each. We might unfold
also, with considerable minuteness, the
economy of these cemeteries, even dur-
ing the ages of persecution ; under
whose management they were admin-
istered, whether they were parochial
or otherwise, together with many other
highly interesting particulars. But we
have already exceeded the limits as-
signed us, and we hope that those of
our readers who wish to know more
on the subject will take care to possess
themselves of the book from which we
have drawn our information, that so
funds may not be wanting for the com-
pletion of so useful a work. Nothing
but a deficiency of funds, in the present
condition of the pontifical treasury,
hinders the immediate issue of other
volumes of this and its kindred work,
the Inscriptiones Christiana, by the
same author. He announces his in-
tention to bring out the volumes of
Roma Sotterranea and of the Inscrip-
tions alternately, for they mutually ex-
plain and illustrate one another, and
are in fact parts of the same whole ;
and the public has been long impatient
for the volume which is promised next,
viz., the ancient inscriptions which il-
lustrate Christian dogma.
420
MisceUany.
MISCELLANY.
ART.
Domestic. The fortieth annual exhi
bition of the National Academy of De-
sign was opened to the public on the
evening of April 27th, under circum-
stances which may well mark an era in
the history of that institution. After
drifting from place to place through
forty long years, now deficient in funds,
and now in danger of losing public
sympathy or support, sometimes unable
to carry out its specific purposes, and
almost always cramped for space, or
otherwise perplexed in the details of its
public exhibitions, the Academy, like
Noah's ark, long buffetted by waves
and driven by tempests, finds a resting
place, not on Mount Ararat, but at the
corner of Fourth avenue and Twenty-
third street. And as the " world's gray
fathers," after their troubled voyage, re-
garded with infinite satisfaction terra fir-
ma and the blue sky, so doubtless the old-
er of the academicians, those who have
accompanied the institution in all its
wanderings, are doubtless both pleased
and amazed to find themselves arrived
at a goodly haven with secure anchor-
age. To drop the figure, the Academy
is now permanently established in an
attractive and convenient building, well
situated in a central locality, and bids
fair to enter upon a career of usefulness
far beyond the results of its previous
experience.
The new building has been for so
long a time completed externally, that
its merits have been canvassed with
every shade of opinion, from enthusiastic
commendation to quite as decided disap-
probation. The majority of critics, hav-
ing their reputation at stake, are afraid
to hazard an opinion, and prudently re-
main neutral, until some authoritative
decision shall be made. As an archi-
tectural effort it may be called an experi-
ment, on which account it presents per-
haps as many claims to critical notice
as the works of art which adorn its
walls. The style, singularly enough, is
assigned to no special era or coun-
try, but is described to be of " that re-
vived Gothic, now the dominant style
in England, which combines those
features of the different schools of ar-
chitecture of the Middle Ages which
are most appropriate to our nineteenth-
century buildings," which means prob-
ably that the building is of an eclectic
Gothic pattern. All modern styles
since the renaissance may be said to be
eclectic, whether founded on antique or
mediaeval models, and the building in
question differs from other Gothic edi-
fices, of more familiar aspect to us,
chiefly in form, external decoration, and
the arrangement of its component parts.
In the American mind Gothic architec-
ture is associated chiefly wjth ecclesias-
tical structures and is popularly sup-
posed to be subject to no fixed laws,
beyond an adherence to the irregular
and picturesque. Given a cruciform
ground-plan, a pointed spire, steep roof,
narrow arched windows, buttresses, and
pinnacles ad libitum, and you have as
good a Gothic building as the public
taste can appreciate. Here, however, is
a nearly square building, covering an
area of eighty by about a hundred feet,
which is neither a church nor a college,
and is without steep roof, spire, but-
tresses, or pinnacles. The public evi-
dently do not fathom the mystery at
present, and those whose praise of the
new Academy borders on the extrava-
gant, are perhaps as much astray in
their adherence to the omne ignotum pro
magnifico principle as those wiseacres
who tell you knowingly that the archi-
tect has tried to palm off upon us a pal-
pable imitation of the doge's palace in
Venice. If the latter class of critics
will refresh their memory a little, or
consult any good print of Venetian ar-
chitecture, they will find about as much
resemblance between the two buildings
as exists between the old Custom House
in Wall street and the Parthenon. The
plain fact is that we are so unused to
Gothic architecture, applied to secular
purposes, and to any other forms of it
than the ecclesiastical, as to be without
sufficient data to form a correct idea of
the present edifice. And yet, such is j
the conceit of criticism, that thousands
of persons pronounce their judgment
upon it with as much confidence as
they would upon a trivial matter per- ;
fectly familiar to them. These may
yet find that hasty opinions are danger-
ous.
The Academy, as has been hinted
above, is of rectangular shape, having
three stories, of which the first is de-
voted to the life school and the school
of design, the second to the library, re-
ception rooms, council room, and simi-
lar apartments, and the third to the ex-
hibition galleries, five in number, with
which at present we have specially to
deal. The main entrance to the build-
ing is on Twenty-third street. Passing
up a double flight of marble steps and
through a magnificent Gothic portal
into a vestibule, the visitor next enters
the great hall, in the centre of which
commences a broad stairway, consisting
at first of a double flight of steps, and
ultimately of a single flight, leading to
the level of the exhibition floor. Run-
ning all around the open space on this
story caused by the stairway is a cor-
ridor, two sides of which, parallel with
the stairway, comprise a double arcade,
supported on columns of variegated and
polished marble, the capitals of which,
of white marble, are hereafter to be
sculptured in delicate leaf-and-flower
work from nature. Opening from this
corridor are the exhibition rooms, which
also communicate with each other, and
of which the largest is thirty by seventy-
six feet, and the smallest, used as a gal-
lery of sculpture, is twenty-one feet
square. These are all lighted by sky-
lights, and are intended for the pur-
poses of the annual exhibitions. In the
corridor surrounding the stairway are
to be hung the works of art belonging
to the Academy, although at present its
walls are covered with pictures con-
tributed to this year's exhibition. The
several rooms described "are well -lighted,
and though smaller perhaps than the
large outlay upon the building might
have led the public to expect, seem ex-
cellently adapted for their purposes.
The largest of them is a model exhibi-
tion gallery in respect to proportions
and light, and all are tastefully finished
and pannelled with walnut from floor
to ceiling. Throughout the building
the same costly and durable style pre-
vails, the wood-work being of oak and
walnut, and the vestibules floored with
mosaic of tiles.
So much for the interior, against which
no serious complaint has been uttered.
Externally the walls of the basement
421
story are of gray marble relieved by
bands of graywacke, those of the story
above of white marble with similar
bands, while the uppermost story is of
white marble with checker-work pat-
tern of oblong gray blocks, laid stair-
fashion. The whole is surmounted by
a rich arcaded cornice of white marble.
The double flight of white marble steps
on Twenty-third street, leading to the
main entrance, is, perhaps, the most
marked feature of the building, at once
graceful, rich, and substantial, and may
lairly challenge comparison with any
similar structure of like pattern in the
country. Under the platform is a triple
arcade, inclosing a drinking-fountain,
and profusely decorated with sculpture,
and from the upper landing springs the
great arched Gothic portal, large enough
almost for the entrance to a cathedral.
On either side of this are two columns
of red Vermont marble with white
marble capitals and bases, on which
rests a broad archivolt enriched with
sculpture and varied by voussoirs, al-
ternately white and gray. The tym-
panum above the door is to be filled
with an elaborate mosaic of colored tile
work. The basement windows, on
Fourth avenue, are double, with seg-
mental arches, each pair of which is
supported in the middle on a clustered
column with rich carved capital and
base. All the other windows in the
building have pointed arches, and the
archivolts of those in the first story are
decorated like that of the doorway. In
the place of windows on the gallery
floor are circular openings for ventila-
tion, filled with elaborate tracery. The
building was designed by Mr. P. B.
Wight, and erected at a cost of over
two hundred thousand dollars.
Without attempting to inquire wheth-
er this or that portion of the building
is correctly designed, or even whether
the whole is entirely satisfactory, or the
reverse, we may say that in the opinion
of most persons the external flight of
steps and the entrance are too large and
elaborate for the building, reminding
one of those remarkable edifices for
banking or other public purposes occa-
sionally to be seen in this city, which
are all portico, as if the main structure
had walked away, or had not been con-
sidered of sufficient importance to be
added to the entrance. It is partly
owing to this defect, and partly to the
insufficient area on which it is built,
422
Miscellany.
that the Academy seems wanting in
height and depth, and therefore devoid
of just proportions has in fact an un-
mistakable dumpy look. Many an
architect before Mr. Wight has been
prevented by want of space from effec-
tively developing ideas intrinsically
good, and perhaps the severest criticism
that can be pronounced against him in
the present instance is that ambition
has led him to attempt what his better
judgment might have taught him was
impossible. " Cut your coat according
to your cloth," is a maxim of which
the applicability is not yet exhausted.
Again, the obtrusive ugliness of the
skylights, rising clear above the sculp-
tured cornices, can hardly fail to offend
the eye, and suggests the idea of an en-
cumbered or even an overloaded roof.
If to these defects be added the curious
optical delusion by which the gray
marble checker-work on the upper story
appears uneven and awry, and which
denotes' a radical error in design, we
believe we have mentioned the chief
features of the building which even
those who profess to admire it unite in
condemning. The objection that the
building is of unusual form and ap-
pearance, and out of keeping with the
styles of architecture in vogue with us,
is not worthy of serious consideration.
Having said so much in depreciation
of the Academy, we must also say that
it conveys on the whole an elegant, ar-
tistic, and even cheerful impression to
the mind, relieving, with its beautiful
contrasts of white and gray and slate,
the sombre blocks of red or brown
buildings which surround it, and actu-
ally lightening up the rather prosaic
quarter in which it stands. Too much
praise cannot be accorded to the archi-
tect for the combinations of color which
he has infused into his design ; and,
granting that in this respect he has
committed some errors of detail, they
are trilling in comparison with the good
effects which will probably result from
the future employment of this means of
embellishment. What if the idea, im-
perfectly embodied in this experimental
building, should in the end compass
the overthrow of that taste which leads
us to build gloomy piles of brown
houses, overlaid with tawdry ornamen-
tation, and pronounce them beautiful ?
When such an innovation is attempted
and finds even a moderate degree of
favor, there is hope that the era of
architectural coldness and poverty may
yet pass away. The carving profusely
distributed on both the exterior and in-
terior of the building, and of which,
we are told, " the flowers and leaves of
our woods have furnished the models," is
for the most part exquisite in design and
execution. Here, at least, is naturalist-
ic art, against which the sticklers for
idealism can offer no objection, so beau-
tiful and appropriate are the designs,
and so suggestive of the necessity of
going back to nature for inspiration.
If the new Academy possessed no other
merit than this, it would nevertheless
subserve a useful purpose in the devel-
opment of taste.
Having devoted so much space to the
building, we can only allude generally
to the contents of its galleries, of which
we propose to speak more at length in a
future notice. The exhibition, though
inferior to those of some years in the
number, exceeds them all in the quality
of its pictures, and presents on the
whole a creditable and encouraging
view of the progress of American art.
If the capacity of the galleries is not so
great as was expected, there is on the
other hand less danger that the eye will
be offended by a long array of unsight-
ly works, and we may probably bid
good-bye to the monstrosities of com-
position and color which the Academy
was formerly compelled to receive, in
order to eke out its annual exhibitions.
Such has been the increase in the num-
ber of our resident artists of late years,
that but a limited number of pictures,
and those consequently their best efforts,
can henceforth be contributed by each.
This fact alone will ensure a constantly
increasing improvement to succeeding
exhibitions. As usual, landscape pre-
dominates, with every variety of treat-
ment and motive, from Academic gener-
alization and pure naturalism down to
Pre-Raphaelitism and hopeful though
somewhat imperfect attempts at ideal
sentiment. Portraiture and genre are
also well represented, with a fair pro-
portion of animal, flower, and still-life
pieces, and of the numerous family of
miscellaneous subjects which defy classi-
fication. History is even less affected
than usual, the dramatic episodes of the
great rebellion failing to suggest sub-
jects to our painters other than those of
an indirect or merely probable charac-
ter. So far as the present exhibition
may be supposed to afford an indica-
Miscellany.
423
tion, " high art," and particularly that
branch of it which illustrates sacred
history, is defunct among us a circum-
stance which those who have witnessed
previous efforts by contemporary Ameri-
can painters in that department will not
perhaps regret. The pictures are gen-
erally hung with judgment, and in a
spirit of fairness which ought to satisfy,
though it will not probably in every in-
stance, the demands of exhibitors. And
it may be added that they appear to
good effect, and are daily admired,
using the word in its derived as well as
its more common sense, by throngs of
visitors.
Church, the landscape painter, has re-
cently gone to the West Indies, with the
intention of passing the summer in the
mountain region of Jamaica, where he
will doubtless find abundant materials
for study. He leaves behind a large
unfinished work of great promise, " The
Rainbow in the Tropics," and some
completed ones of less dimensions.
Augero, an Italian artist, has recently
completed for a church in Boston a pic-
ture of St. Andrew bearing the cross, of
which a contemporary says : " Mr. Au-
gero has departed from the traditional
types that have descended to him, and
has treated the picture in a manner en-
tirely his own. The head of the saint
is finely handled, and, without being
too much spiritualized, has sufficient of
the ideal to give it value both as a
church picture and a work of art. In
general arrangement and color the work
is especially to be admired." This ar-
tist is said to have received quite a
number of commissions for ecclesiasti-
cal decoration.
Palmer is completing a bust of Wash-
ington Irving, which has been pro-
nounced by the friends of the latter a
successful likeness.
An essay on Gustave Dore", by B. P.
G. Hamilton, will soon be published by
Leypoldt of Philadelphia.
The spring exhibition of the Pennsyl-
vania Academy of Fine Arts is now
open in Philadelphia. The collections
are said to be large and to represent all
departments of painting.
Foreign. The Exhibition of the So-
ciety of British Artists and the General
Exhibition of Water Color Drawings
opened in London in the latter part of
April. The former contains more than
a thousand pictures, few of which, it is
said, rise above the most common aver-
age of picture-making, while the great-
er part fall below it. " There is some-
thing very depressing," says the Reader,
" about such a large display of com-
monplace art. It is almost painful to
have the fact forced upon one's mind,
that the thought and labor represented
in all these pictures is misapplied, if
not wasted ; for to this conclusion we
must come, if we bring the display in
Suffolk street to the test of comparison
with any real work of art. A fine pic-
ture by Landseer or Millais would out-
weigh, in intrinsic value, the whole col-
lection. Denude the Royal Academy
exhibition of the works of Landseer,
Millais, Philip, and other of its most
accomplished contributors, and subtract
from it at the same time the works of
promise which lend to it so great an in-
terest, and we should have a second
Suffolk street exhibition, characterized
by a similar dead level of mediocrity
and insipidity ; for neither highly ac-
complished work nor sign of promise
is to be seen in this the forty-second an-
nual exhibition of the Society of British
Artists." From which it would appear
that contemporary art in England gives
no remarkable promise.
A large collection of the late John
Leech's sketches, etc., was lately sold in
London. It comprised the original de-
signs for the political cartoons and pic-
tures of life and character which have
appeared in Punch during the last twen-
ty years ; the designs for the " Ingoldsby
Legends," " Jorrock's Hunt," "Ask Mam-
ma," "Mr. Facey Romford's Hounds,"
and other sporting novels, and several
pictures in oil. The prices ran very
high, the net result being 4,089.
The collection of paintings and water
color drawings by the best modern
British artists, formed by Mr. John
Knowles, of Manchester, was recently
disposed of in London at very hand-
some prices. The chief attraction was
Rosa Bonheur's "Muleteers Crossing the
Pyrenees," which brought 2,000 guineas.
The collection realized 21,750.
Preparations are making to remove
the cartoons of Raphael from Hampton
Court to the new north fire-proof gallery
in the South Kensington Museum, for-
merly occupied by the British pictures
of the National Gallery.
The Great Pourtales sale has closed
424
Miscellany.
after lasting upward of a month and real-
izing a sum total of nearly three millions
of francs. A Paris paper states that, con-
sidering the interest of the sums expend-
ed in forming the collection as money
lost, the sale will give a profit on the out-
lay of a million and a half of francs, or
about a hundred per cent. a notable
illustration of the mania for picture
buying now prevailing in Europe. The
owner died ten years ago, leaving direc-
tions that the collection should not be
sold until 1864, for which his heirs and
representatives are doubtless properly
grateful. The following will give an
idea of the prices fetched by the best
pictures : Campagne, Ph. de : The
Marriage of the Virgin, formerly the
altar-piece of the chapel of the Palais
Royal, sold for 43,500f. Hals, Francis :
An unknown portrait of a man ; his left
hand leaning on his hip and touching the
handle of his sword, 51,000f. Rembrandt :
Portrait of a Burgomaster, 34,500f.
By the same : Portrait of a veteran sol-
dier seated at a table, 27,000f. Murillo :
The Triumph of the Eucharist ; with the
words " In finem dilexit eos," 67,500f. ;
bought for the Louvre. By the same :
The Virgin bending over the infant
Christ, whom she presses to her bosom,
18,000f. By the same: St. Joseph hold-
ing the infant Christ by the hand,
15,000f. Velasquez : The Orlando Mu-
erto, a bare-headed warrior, in a black
cuirass, lying dead in a grotto strewn
with human bones, his right hand on his
breast,his left on the guard of his sword ;
from the roof of the grotto hangs a
lamp, in which the flame is flickering,
37,000f. Albert Durer : A pen drawing,
representing Samson, of colossal size,
routing the Philistines with the jaw-
bone of an ass, 4,500f. A portrait by
Antonelli di Messina, bought years ago
in 'Florence by Pourtalea for 1,500,
and appraised in his inventory at 20,-
OOOf., was sold to the Louvre, where
it now hangs in the salon carre, for
113,000f.
Gustave Dore" is announced to have
undertaken to illustrate Shakespeare
and the Bible.
The sale of the Due de Moray's gal-
lery of paintings will take place in June.
It contains six Meissoniers, which cost,
at the utmost, not above 60,000 francs,
but which will now probably fetch more
than double that price.
A picture by Ribera, representing St.
Luke taking the likeness of the Virgin,
was sold recently in Paris for 21,000"f.
French landscape art has lost one of
its chief illustrators in the person of
Constant Troyon, who died in the latter
part of March, aged about fifty-two.
He has been called the creator of the
modern French school of landscape, and
delighted in cheerful aspects of nature,
which he rendered with masterly skill.
Rural life, with its pleasing accessories
of winding streams, picturesque low
banks, groups of cattle, and shady ham-
lets, formed the favorite subjects of his
pencil ; and though his style was not
always exact, he succeeded in infusing
an unusual degree of physical life into
his pictures, without ever degenerating
into mere naturalism. As a colorist he
excelled all contemporary animal and
landscape painters, and used his brush
with a freedom rivalling that of Dela-
croix. He died insane, and is said to
have left a fortune of 1,200,000 francs.
Some of his pictures are owned in New
York.
A painting by Murillo, from the col-
lection of the late Marquis Aguado,
representing the death of Santa Clara,
has been sold to the Royal Gallery of
Madrid for 75,000 francs.
New Publications.
425
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
THE CORRELATION AND CONSERVATION
OP FORCES : A SERIES OF EXPOSI-
TIONS, by Prof. Grove, Prof. Helm-
holtz, Dr. Mayer, Dr. Faraday, Prof.
Liebig, and Dr. Carpenter. With an
Introduction and brief Biographical
Notices of the chief Promoters of the
new views. By Edward L. You-
mans, M.D. 12mo., pp. xlii., 438.
New York : D. Appleton & Company.
Keligious writers have repeatedly
deplored the materialistic tendency of
modern scientific research, and in many
cases, no doubt, the complaint is a just
one. But we must not forget that the
bad tendency is in the philosophical
system which is sought to be built upon
the facts of discovery, not in the facts
themselves. Every development, of
truth, every fresh unveiling of the mech-
anism of the universe, must of necessity
redound to the greater glory of God.
And it seems to us that no scientific theo-
ry which has been broached for many
years speaks more gloriously of the
disposing and over-ruling hand of an
all-wise Creator than the one to which
the volume now before us is devoted.
If there could be any place for compar-
ison in speaking of the exercise of om-
nipotence, we might say that the new
view of the nature and mode of action
of the physical forces represents creation
as a far more marvellous act than the
old one did.
We speak of the correlation and con-
servation of force as a "new" theory
because it is only lately that it has
attracted much attention beyond the
higher scientific circles, and indeed it
would perhaps be going too far to say
that it is yet firmly established. It
has been developing however for a
number of years, and the most distin-
guished experts in physical science
have for some time accepted it with
remarkable unanimity. In the book
whose title we have given above, Dr.
Yournans has brought together eight of
the most valuable essays in which the
theory has been maintained or explained
by its founders and chief supporters.
He has made his selection with excel-
lent judgment, and prefixed to the
whole a clear and well-written introduc-
tion, by the aid of which any reader of
ordinary education will be able to ap-
preciate what follows. The longest and
most important essay is that by Profes-
sor Grove on " The Correlation of Phys-
ical Forces."
Force is defined by Professor Grove
as that active principle inseparable
from matter which induces its various
changes. In other words, it is the
agent or producer of change or motion.
The modifications of this general agent
heat, light, electricity, magnetism,
chemical affinity, gravity, cohesive at-
traction, etc. are called the physical
forces. In many cases, where one of
these is excited all the others are set in
motion : thus when sulphuret of anti-
mony is electrified, at the moment of
electrization it becomes magnetic; at
the same time it is heated; if the heat
is raised to a certain intensity, light is
produced; the compound is decomposed,
and chemical action is thereby brought
into play; and so on. Moreover, we
cannot magnetize a body without elec-
trizing it, and vice-versa. This neces-
sary reciprocal production is what is
understood by the term " correlation of
forces" or in other words, we may say
that any one of the natural forces may
be converted into another mode of
force, and may be reproduced by the
same force. A striking example of the
conversion of heat into electricity is
furnished by an experiment of Seebeck's.
Two dissimilar metals are brought to-
gether and heated at the point of con-
tact. A current of electricity flows
through the metals, having a definite
direction according to the metals em-
ployed ; continues as long as an increas-
ing temperature is pervading the metals ;
ceases when the temperature is station-
ary; and flows backward when the
heat begins to decrease. The immedi-
ate convertibility of heat into light is
not yet established beyond question,
although these two forces exhibit many
curious analogies with each other.
But heat through the medium of elec-
tricity may easily be turned into light,
chemical affinity, magnetism, etc. Elec-
tricity directly produces heat, as in the
ignited wire, the electric spark, and the
426
New Publications.
voltaic arc. The last-named phenom-
enon the flame which plays between
the terminal points of a powerful voltaic
battery produces the most intense
heat with which we are acquainted ; so
intense, in fact, that it cannot be meas-
ured, as every sort of matter is dissi-
pated by it. For instance, it actually
distils or volatilizes iron, a metal which
by ordinary means is fusible only at a
very high temperature. The voltaic
arc also produces the most intense light
that we know of. Instances of the
conversion of electricity into magnetism
and chemical action are familiar to
everybody. The reciprocal relations of
light with other modes of force are
thus far very imperfectly known. Pro-
fessor Grove however describes an ' ex-
periment by which light is made to
produce simultaneously chemical action,
electricity, magnetism, heat, and motion.
The conversion of light into chemical
force in photography is another exempli-
fication of the law of correlation, and
Bunsen and Roscoe have experiment-
ally shown that certain rays of light are
extinguished or absorbed in doing
chemical work. A familiar example of
the change of light into heat is seen in
the phenomena of what is termed the
absorption of light. Place different
colored pieces of cloth on snow exposed
to sunshine : black will absorb the
most light, and will also develop the
most heat, as may be seen by its sinking
deepest in the snow ; white, which ab-
sorbs little or no light, will not sink at
all.
The evolution of one force or mode
of force into another has naturally in-
duced many to regard all the different
natural agencies as reducible to unity,
and much ingenuity has been expend-
ed on the question which force is the
efficient cause of all the others. One
says electricity, another chemical action,
another gravity. Professor Grove be-
lieves that all are wrong : each mode of
force may produce the others, and none
can be produced except by some other
as an anterior force. We can no more
determine which is the efficient cause
than we can determine whether the
chicken is the cause of the egg, or the
egg the cause of the chicken. The
tendency of recent researches how-
ever is toward the conclusion that
all the physical forces are simply modes
of motion ; that as, in the case of fric-
tion, the gross or palpable motion
which is arrested by the contact of
another body, is subdivided into mole-
cular motions or vibrations (or as Helm-
holtz expresses it, peculiar shivering
motions of the ultimate particles of
bodies), which motions are only heat or
electricity, as the case may be ; so the other
affections are only matter moved or
molecularly agitated in certain definite
directions. The identity of motion
with heat was established in the last
century by our countryman, Count Rum-
ford, and has lately been beautifully il-
lustrated by Professor Tyndall in his
charming lectures on " Heat considered
as a Mode of Motion." Dr. Mayer, of
Heilbronn, and Mr. Joule, of Manchester,
independently of each other, established
the exact ratio between heat and motive
power, showing that a quantity of heat
sufficient to raise one pound of water
one degree Fahrenheit in temperature 19
able to raise to the height of one foot a
weight of 772 pounds ; and conversely,
that a weight of 772 pounds falling
from a height of one foot evolves
enough heat to raise the temperature of
a pound of water one degree. That is,
this quantity of force, expressed as 772
" foot-pounds," is to be regarded as the
mechanical equivalent of 1 of temper-
ature. Professor Grove considers at
some length the identity of motion with
other forms of force, especally electricity
and magnetism, and alludes briefly to
the inevitable consequence of this theory,
that the different forces must bear an
exact quantitative relation to each other.
" The great problem which remains to
be solved," he says, " in regard to the
correlation of physical forces, is this
establishment of their equivalents of
power, or their measurable relation to a
given standard."
The doctrine of the conservation or
persistence of force seems to flow nat-
urally from what has been said above.
It means simply that force is never de-
stroyed : when it ceases to exist in one
form it only passes into another. Power
or energy, like matter, is neither cre-
ated nor annihilated : " Though ever
changing form, its total quantity in the
universe remains constant and unaltera-
ble. Every manifestation of force must
have come from a pre-existing equiva-
lent force, and must give rise to a sub-
sequent and equal amount of some
other force. When, therefore, a force
or effect appears, we are not at liberty
to assume that it was self-originated, or
New Publications.
427
came from nothing ; when it disappears
we are forbidden to conclude that it is
annihilated : we must search and find
whence it came and whither itflias
gone; that is, what produced it, and
what effect it has itself produced." (In-
troduction, p. xiii.) This branch of the
subject will be found clearly and con-
cisely treated in Professor Faraday's
paper on " The Conservation of Force"
(pp. 359-383).
Dr. Carpenter carries the new theory
into the higher realms of nature, and
shows the applicability of the principle
of correlation and conservation to the
vital phenomena of growth and devel-
opment. " These forces," he says, " are
generated in living bodies by the trans-
formation of the light, heat, and chemi-
cal action supplied by the world around,
and are given back to it again, either
during their life, or after its cessation,
chiefly in motion and heat, but also, to
a less degree, in light and electricity."
Vital force is that power by virtue of
which a germ endowed with life is de-
veloped into an organization of a type
resembling that of its parents, and
which subsequently maintains that or-
ganism in its integrity. The prevalent
opinion until lately has been that this
force is inherent in the germ, which has
been supposed to derive from its parent
not merely its material substance, but a
germ-force, in virtue of which it develops
and maintains itself, beside imparting
a fraction of the same force to each of
its descendants. In this view of the
question, the aggregate of all the germ-
forces appertaining to the descendants,
however numerous, of a common pa-
rentage, must have existed in the orig-
inal progenitors. Take the case of the
successive viviparous broods of Aphides,
which (it has been calculated) would
amount in the tenth brood to the bulk
of Jive hundred millions of stout men : a
germ-force capable of organizing this
vast mass of living structure must have
been shut up in the single individual,
weighing perhaps the 1-1 000th of a grain,
from which the first brood was evolved !
So, too, in Adam must have been con-
centrated the germ-force of every indi-
vidual of the human race, from the cre-
ation to the end of the world. This,
says Dr. Carpenter, is a complete reduc-
tio ad ahsurdum. According to his the-
ory, the germ supplies not the force,
but the directive agency. The vital
force of an animal or a plant is supplied
by the same physical agencies which
we have considered above.
Dr. Youmans in his introduction is
disposed to push this part of the sub-
ject yet further, and to identify phy-
sical Avith intellectual force ; but into
this dangerous region it is unnecessary
to follow him.
Some of the explanations of natural
phenomena which are drawn as corolla-
ries from the new theory of forces are in
the highest degree curious and beauti-
ful. Many of our readers will find Dr.
Mayer's paper " On Celestial Dynamics"
one of the most interesting portions of
the book. He applies the principle of
the convertibility of heat and motion
to the question of the origin of the
sun's heat, which he ascribes to the fall
of asteroids upon the sun's surface.
That an immense number of cosmical
bodies are moving through the heavens
and streaming toward the solar surface,
is well known to all physicists. Now
it is calculated that a single asteroid
falling into the sun generates from
4,600 to 9,200 times as much heat as
would be generated by the combus-
tion of an equal mass of coal, and the
mass of matter which in the form of as-
teroids falls into the sun every minute
is from two to four hundred thousand
billions of pounds ! The enormous heat
which must be evolved by such a bom-
bardment is almost inconceivable.
REAL AND IDEAL. By John W. Montclair.
12mo., pp. 119. Philadelphia: Fred-
erick Leypoldt. New York : Hurd &
Houghton.
This is a dainty little volume of
poems, partly translated from the Ger-
man, partly the offspring of the native
muse. They are simple, unpretending,
and as a general thing melodious. The
author probably has not aspired to a
very high place in the temple of fame ;
without the ambition to produce any-
thing very striking or very original, he
has been satisfied with the endeavor
which he pithily expresses in his " Pro-
logue :"
" Clearer to think what others thought
before
Keenly to feel tli' afflictions of our race
Better to say what others oft have said "
and if he does not always think clearer
and speak better than those in whose
footsteps he treads, there is at all events
that in his verse which promises better
428
New Publications.
things after more practice. His faults
are chiefly those of carelessness and in-
experience. His metaphors are supera-
bundant, and sometimes incongruous.
He has a good ear for rhythm ; but we
often find him tripping in his prosody.
Often too the requirements of the metre
lead him to eke out a line with exple-
tives, or weaken it with unnecessary
epithets.
But we can commend the book for
its healthy tone. Mr. Montclair has no
tendency toward the morbid psycho-
logical school of poetry. He delights
rather in the contemplation of nature,
and in moralizing on the life and as-
pirations of man. In neither does he
discover much that is new ; but the
natural beauties which he sings are
those of which we do not easily tire, and
his moral reflections are just though they
may not be profound. For the matter
of his translations he has chosen some of
the simplest and shortest of the German
legendary ballads. Several of them are
rendered with considerable neatness and
delicacy. The following version of a
ballad to which attention has been par-
ticularly called of late, is a favorable
specimen of Mr. Montclair's powers :
" Above the stars are twinkling
The moon is shining bright
And the dead they ride by night.
" ' My love, wilt ope thy window ?
I cannot long remain,
And may not come again.
" ' The cock already crows
Tells of the dawning day,
And warns me far away.
" ' My journey distant lies ;
Afar with thee, my bride,
A hundred leagues we'll ride.
" ' In Hungary's fair land
I've found a tranquil spot,
A little garden plot.
" ' And there, within the green,
A little cottage rests,
Befitting bridal guests.'
" ' Oh, thou hast lingered long ;
Beloved, welcome here
Lead on, I'll never fear.'
" ' So, wrap my mantle 'round ;
The moon will be our guide,
And quick by night we'll ride.'
" ' When will our journey end ?
For heavy grows my sight,
And lonely is the night.'
" ' Yon gate leads to our home :
Our bridal tour is done
My purpose now is won.
" ' Dismount we from our steed ;
Here lay thy aching head
This tomb's our bridal bed.
" ' Now art thou truly mine :
I rode away thy breath
Thou art the bride of death ! ' "
FAITH, THE VICTORY; on A COMPRE-
HENSIVE VIEW OF THE PRINCIPAL
DOCTRINES OP THE CHRISTIAN RELIG-
ION. By Rt. Rev. John McGill, D.D.,
Bishop of Richmond. 12mo., pp. viii.,
336. Richmond: J. W. Randolph.
This work is a curiosity as a specimen
of the literature of the late " Confederate
States of America," and of course its
typography and general execution are
plain and unpretending. The work
itself is the production of a prelate of
high character and reputation for his
thorough theological erudition and
ability as a writer, and as a clear
logical expounder of Catholic doctrine.
It is written in a very systematic and
exact manner; the style is terse, the
treatment of topics brief but compre-
hensive ; and yet, so lucid are the state-
ments and so simple the language, that
it is throughout intelligible to the ordi-
nary reader, and in great part so to any
one of good common sense who can
read English and is able to understand
a plain, simple treatise on religious
doctrine. It may be characterized as
an elementary treatise on theology for
the laity, and as such is adapted to be
very useful to Catholics, and also to
those non-Catholics who retain the
doctrine of the old orthodox Protestant
tradition. The right reverend author
is throughout careful to discriminate
between the defined doctrine of the
Church and the teaching of theologians,
and is extremely cautious in expounding
his opinion on those topics which are
controverted between the different
schools. The authority of the Catholic
Church is established by the usual
plain and irresistible deductions from the
premises admitted by those who fully
accept Christianity as a divine revela-
tion and the Scripture as the infallible
word of God. The dogmas of the
New Publications.
429
Catholic faith are stated in the plain
ordinary language of the Church, with
some account of the principal methods
of explaining difficulties in vogue
among theologians, and with proofs de-
rived from Scriptures and tradition.
The stress of the entire argument rests
principally on the evidence that the
Catholic dogmas have been revealed by
God and clearly deduced by the infalli-
ble authority of the Church, conse-
quently must be believed as certain
truths. The line of fracture, where that
fragment of Christianity called orthodox
Protestantism was broken off from the
integral system of Christian doctrine at
the Reformation, is distinctly traced,
and orthodox Protestants are shown
that they are logically compelled to
complete their own belief by becoming
Cathol ics. The old Protestant tradition
has a far more extensive sway in the
southern states than among ourselves,
and this excellent treatise will no
doubt be the means of bringing num-
bers of those who are well-disposed, and
need only to be taught what the re-
vealed doctrines of Christianity really
are, into the bosom of the Church. In
this section of the United States, the
greater portion of those who are willing
to examine the evidences of the Catholic
religion have floated far away from their
old land-marks. In order to reach
their minds, it is necessary to present
the rational arguments which will solve
their difficulties much more fully than
is done in this treatise, and to interpret
for them ecclesiastical and theological
formulas in which divine truths are
embodied in language which is intel-
ligible to their Intellect in its present
state. They are either extreme ration-
alists or moderate rationalists ; that is,
they either reject the supernatural
revelation entirely, or admit only so
much of it as can be proved to them to
be true on grounds of pure reason.
Hence, we are obliged to begin with
the intrinsic evidence of the truth and
reasonableness of the Catholic faith,
before we can bring the force of extrin-
sic revelation by the authority of the
Church to bear upon their mind.
We welcome the present of this treat-
ise from the Bishop of Richmond for
another reason, as well as for its intrin-
sic value. It is a sign of the renewal
of that ecclesiastical intercourse with
our brethren of the southern states
which has so long been interrupted.
And, in conclusion, we desire to call
particular attention to the ensuing ex-
tract, as an evidence of the falsehood of
the charge which our enemies are at
present disposed to make against the
Catholic Church of " sanctioning some
of the worst enormities of slavery :"
" And here we would take occasion to de-
plore the conduct of the civil government
in this country, regarding the matrimo-
nial contract of slaves, which, though the
rulers profess Christianity, is completely
ignored even as a civil contract, and left
entirely to the caprice of owners, who
frequently without scruple or hesitation,
and for the sake of interest or gain, part
man and wife. , separate parents from their
children, and treat the matrimonial union
among them as if it were really no more
than the chance association of unreasoning
animals. Often, also, some of these mar-
riages are indissoluble by the sacramental
bond, as well as by the original design of
the Creator, and by the action of Christian
proprietors and the neglect of a Christian
government, these separated parties are
subjected to the temptation to form crimi-
nal and forbidden alliances, from which
frequency, custom, and the condition of
servitude have removed, in the public
view, the shame and stigma which they
possess before God, and according to the
maxims of the gospel. Christian proprie-
tors will know and tolerate these alliances
in their slaves, even when made without
any formality, and where they are aware
that one or both is under the obligation of
other ties.
" It is not certain that the present dread-
ful calamities which afflict the country
are not the scourge of God, chiefly for this
sin, among the many that provoke his
anger, in our people. He is not likely to
leave long unpunished in a nation the
palpable and flagrant contempt of his holy
laws, such as is evinced in this neglect or
refusal to respect in slaves the holiness,
the unity, and the indissolubility of mar-
riage. It would appear that by the pres-
ent convulsions his providence is prepar-
ing for them at least a recognition of those
rights as immortal beings which are re-
quired forthe observance of the paramount
laws of God. And if citizens desire to see
the nation prosper and enjoy the blessing
of God, let all unite to procure from the
civil government, for the slaves, that their
marriages be esteemed as God intends, and
not be dealt with in future as they have
been hitherto.
MATER ADMIRABLTS ; OR, FIRST FIFTEEN
YEARS OF MARY IMMACULATE. By Rev.
Alfred Monnin, author of " The Life of
430
New Publications.
the Cure" d'Ars." Translated from the
French by the Sisters of Charity,
Mount St. Vincent, K Y. 12mo.,
pp. 535. New York : James B. Kirker.
On the wall of a corridor in the con-
vent of Trinitd del Monti, at Rome, there
is a fresco representing the Blessed Vir-
gin, Mater admirdbilis, at the age of fif-
teen. She is depicted spinning flax
within the precincts of the temple, with
her work-basket and an open book be-
side her. The picture was painted some
twenty years ago by a young postulant of
the community of Ladies of the Sacred
Heart, to whom the Trinitd belongs. It
is not said that it is in any way remark-
able as a work of art ; but it has acquired
a celebrity among pious Catholics second
to that of hardly any picture in the
world. Since the year 1846, when the
Holy Father gave his solemn blessing
to the picture, remarking that "it was
a pious thought to represent the most
Holy Virgin at an age when she seemed
to have been forgotten," signal favors
have repeatedly been bestowed upon
persons who have prayed before it.
The Rev. Mr. Blampin, a missionary
from Oceanica, recovered his voice at
the feet of the Mater admirdbilis, in 1846,
after having been deprived of it for
twenty-one months. In a transport of
gratitude he obtained permission to say
mass before the fresco, and from that
day the corridor became a real sanctu-
ary. A great number of miraculous
cures were reported as having been
wrought there, and multitudes of sin-
ners who came out of mere curiosity to
gaze upon a picture of which so much
had been said, were converted by an
instantaneous infusion of divine grace.
In 1849 Pope Pius IX., by an apostolic
brief, granted permission for the cele-
bration of the festival of the Mater ad-
mirdbilis on the 20th of October, and
enriched the sanctuary with indulgences.
In 1854, by a second rescript, he con-
firmed an indulgence of three hundred
days, which he had previously granted
verbally to all the faithful who should
recite three Hail Maries before this holy
painting, adding the invocation, Mater
admirdbilis, ora pro nobis ; and in the
following year the indulgences were ex-
tended to the entire order of the Sacred
Heart. The devotion to the "Mother
most admirable" spread rapidly, and
copies of the painting at the Trinitd
were soon to be found in various parts
of Europe and America. There is one
in the Convent of the Sacred Heart at
Manhattan ville, N. Y., from which the
frontispiece to the volume before us has
been engraved. " I admit," says Father
Monnin, speaking of the original, u that
of all the different ways by which art
has represented this Virgin by excel-
lence, there is not one which better
corresponds with the beau ideal which,
as a priest, I had loved to form in my
mind. Like the chaste Madonnas of
the most fervent ages those of Beato
in particular this Madonna of the Lily
makes one feel and understand that its
designer had prayed before painting it,
and that her imagination, fed by faith
and the love of God, has delineated the
most holy virgin child by interior lights
derived from her meditations. By means
of a constant communion with things
divine, the disciples of Fiesole have suc-
ceeded in placing themselves as so many
mediums between the Creator and the
creature, by transmitting a ray of that
eternal light amidst which they live;
we may say that Mater admirdbilis is of
the school of Fra Angelico, although
several centuries have elapsed since his
time. There is, as it were, the image of
a pure soul preserved ever from all stain,
sent into the world to be joined to a
perfect and immaculate body, and to
become, in this twofold perfection and
puritj r , the ineffable instrument of our
salvation ! It is thus the prophet de-
served to see her, brilliantly resplendent
with grace and innocence, with the
clearness of eternal light, and the splen-
dor of eternal or perpetual virginity.
The ineffable peace which took posses-
sion of me, made me understand that
beauty of which St. Thomas speaks, the
sight whereof purifies the senses. . . .
There in the wall, within a
niche contiguous to the great church of
the monastery, is the most holy Virgin,
painted in fresco at full size
The pilgrim looks in surprise, and very
soon feels as if the air around this fair
flower of the field and lily of the valley
were embalmed with the perfumes of
silence and recollection. He sees her
occupied in simply spinning flax ; near
her, on the right, is a distaff resting
upon a slender standard, and on the left
a lily rising out of a crystal vase, and
bending its flexible stalk toward Mary.
.... Absorbed in her meditation, the
most holy child has suspended her work ;
her shuttle, become motionless, falls from
her hand, while her left hand still holds
New Publications.
431
a light thread which remains joined to
the flax in the distaff; one foot of this
most holy winner rests upon a stool,
near which lies an open book, spread
out on a work-basket, filled with shut-
tles and skeins. The features of the
youthful Mary express a purity in which
there is nothing of earth ; her counte-
nance is modestly tinged, the ringlets
of her golden hair are just perceptible
through the wavings. of a transparent
veil which covers her neck; her pure
virginal brow, slender figure, and deli-
cate limbs give her a youthful appear-
ance, full of grace and truthfulness. It
is truly the Virgin of virgins ; it is truly
Mary, and Mary at an age when but
few works of art have sought to repre-
sent her."
The little chapel was soon decorated
with votive offerings from all parts of
the world. It became a venerated shrine,
and few devout travellers now leave
Rome without having prayed at it.
The " archives of Mater admirdbilis^
preserved at the Trinitd, contain records
of the conversions, vocations, and cures
effected at this consecrated spot; and
these, together wit'i some devotional
writings composed by the pupils of the
convent, form the groundwork of Father
Monnin's book. The matter is arranged
in such a way that the work may be
used for the devotions of the month of
May. It is divided into thirty-one chap-
ters, or " days," each of which contains
a meditation having special reference
either to some virtue indicated by the
picture, or to Ma*y's childhood ; this is
followed by an appropriate prayer, and
a narrative taken from the archives.
Having explained the purpose of
Father Monnin's book, we do not know
that we need say more by way of recom-
mending it. Whatever tends to foster
love and veneration for the Blessed Vir-
gin must commend itself strongly to
every pious Catholic ; and in the new
devotion, which is here explained and
illustrated, there is something so beau-
tiful and touching, that we believe it
has only to be known in this country to
be embraced with the same eager affec-
tion as in Europe.
The external appearance of the vol-
ume is very attractive. We hail with
great pleasure the improvement in taste
and liberality evinced by the manu-
facture of such books as Kirker's "Mater
Admirabilis" and O'Shea's edition of
Dr. Curnmings's "Spiritual Progress."
There is no sufficient reason why Catho-
lics should not print and bind books as
well as other people.
THE LOVE OP RELIGIOUS PERFECTION;
on, How TO AWAKEN, INCREASE, AND
PRESERVE IT IN THE RELIGIOUS SOUL.
By Father Joseph Bayma, of the So-
ciety of Jesus. Translated from the
Latin by a Member of the same So-
ciety. 24mo., pp. 254. Baltimore :
John Murphy & Company.
The style and method of this little
treatise are modelled upon those of
" The Imitation of Christ." The style
is clear and severely simple, not above
the plainest comprehension, and not
without attraction for those who are
somewhat fastidious in literary matters.
Father Bayma professes in his preface
to have disregarded all ornaments of
composition, having written his little
book not so much for the edification of
others as for the profit of his own soul.
Our readers can readily understand that
it is for that very reason all the more
searching in its ^mental examinations
and practical in its precepts. Father
Bayma divides his work into three
books. The first treats of the motives
which should urge us toward religious
perfection ; the second, of the means by
which perfection is most easily obtained ;
and the third, of the virtues in which it
consists. The chapters are short, and
broken up into verses, and open where
we will, we find something to turn our
thoughts toward God. Nor must it be
supposed that, because the book was
written by a religious for his own in-
struction, it contains only those more
difficult counsels of perfection which
few people in the world are found
strong enough to follow. Like its pro-
totype, "The Imitation of Christ" is a
work for all classes for the easy-going
Christian no less than for the saint.
Here is an extract from the chapter on
"The Choice and Perfection of Vir-
tues ;" we choose it because it illus-
trates how well even those passages
which are directly addressed to relig-
ious persons are adapted to the use of
persons in the world :
"1. So long as we are weighed down by
our mortal flesh, we cannot acquire the
perfection of all virtues ; and therefore,
we have need of selection that we may
not labor in vain.
" Choose then a virtue to practise, until,
432
New Publications.
by the assistance of God, thou become
most perfect in it.
" Some virtues are continually called for
in our daily actions, and are necessary
for all ; and therefore, should be acquired
with particular industry.
" The more thou shalt make progress in
meekness, patience, modesty, temperance,
humility, and others, that come into more
frequent use, the sooner wilt thou become
holy.
" 2. Some seek after virtues which have
a greater appearance of nobility, and are
reckoned amongst men to be more glorious.
" They instruct with pleasure, but it must
be in famous churches, and to a large as-
sembly of noble and learned men.
" They visit the sick with pleasure, and
hear confessions, but only of those that
are conspicuous for riches or honors.
" See that thou set not a high value upon
these things : it is more perfect and safer to
imitate Christ our Lord, and to go about
villages, than to hunt for the praise of
eloquence and learning in cities.
" It is more useful to thee to visit and
console the poor and the rude, than the
rich and noble, who, moreover, are less
prepared to listen to and obey thy words.
" 3. Some are content with the virtues
that agree with their natural inclinations ;
because they seem easier, and require not
any, or a less violent struggle.
"But when they have need of self-denial
and mortification, they have not the cour-
age to practise virtue ; but they lose heart,
turn faint-hearted, and think it is best to
spare themselves.
" Do thou follow them not, for they that
are such make no progress, but rather fall
away from the way of perfection, because
they follow not the teaching and example
of Christ.
" For it was not those who spare them-
selves, and fear the hardship of the strug-
gle, whom Christ declared blessed, but
those that mourn, and fight manfully for
justice sake."
LA MERE DE DIEU. From the Italian of
Father Alphonse Capecelatro, of the
Oratory of Naples. 24mo., pp. 180.
Philadelphia : Peter F. Cunningham.
New York : D. & J. Sadlier & Com-
pany.
Why not say " The Mother of God ?"
And why should Father Capecelatro,
being an Italian, figure with the French
name of Alphonse ? If we cannot have
the title of the book in English, at
least let us have it in Italian the
language in which it was written
not in French.
But despite the bad taste displayed
on the title-page, this is a very good
little book. It exhales a genuine aroma
of piety ; it is written with great sim-
plicity ; and it is devoted to a subject
which is dear to all of us. It is sup-
posed to be addressed by a Tuscan
priest to his sister. The first part
treats of the respect to which the Blessed
Virgin is entitled; the second traces
her life, principally in the pages of
the Holy Scriptures; and the third is
devoted to an exhibition of the marks
of veneration which she has received
from the Church since the rery begin-
ning of Christianity. " It is charmingly,
almost plaintively sweet," says Father
Gratry, of the Oratory of Paris. " It is
written as a prayer, not as a book ; it is
learned and affectionate, religious and
instructive."
COUNT LESLIE ; OR, THE TRIUMPH OP
FILIAL PIETY. A Catholic Tale.
From the French. 24mo., pp. 108.
PHILIP HARTLEY ; OR, A BOY'S TRIALS
AND TRIUMPHS. A Tale for Young
People. By the author of " The Con-
fessors of Connaught." 24mo., pp. 122.
THE CHILDREN OF THE VALLEY ; OR,THE
GHOST OF THE RUINS. Translated
from the French. 24mo., pp. 123.
MAY CARLETON'S STORY ; OR,THE CATHO-
LIC MAIDEN'S CROSS. THE MILLER'S
DAUGHTER. Catholic Tales. 24mo.,
pp. 115.
COTTAGE EVENING TALES FOR YOUNG-
PEOPLE. Compiled by the author of
" Grace Morton." 24mo., pp. 126.
Philadelphia : Peter F. Cunningham.
New York : D. & J. Sadlier & Com-
pany.
The above five volumes are portions
of Cunningham's " Young Catholic's
Library." They seem to have an excel-
lent moral tendency, and as a general
thing are well written better written,
we believe, than the majority of tales in-
tended, as these are, for sodality and
Sunday-school libraries. The first men-
tioned, however, " Count Leslie," is not
rendered into irreproachable English.
What respect can we expect children to
entertain for the English grammar if
our school libraries give them such cruel
sentences to read as the following : "It
was this young man, and him, only, who
knew the cause of his mother's sadness ?"
With this exception we can honestly
recommend so much as we have seen of
the Young Catholic's Library to public
favor. Mr. Cunningham has other vol-
umes in preparation.
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD
VOL. I., NO. 4. JULY, 1865.
THE TRUTH OF SUPPOSED LEGENDS AND FABLES.
BY H. E. CARDINAL WISEMAN.*
THE subject of the address which I
am about to deliver is as follows :
Events and things which have been
considered legendary, or even fabu-
lous, have been proved by further
research to be historical and true.
Before coming directly to the sub-
ject upon which I wish to occupy your
attention, I will give a little account
of a very extraordinary discovery
which may throw some light upon the
general character and tendency of
our investigation. In the year 1775
Pius VI. laid the foundation of the
sacristy of St. Peter's. Of course, as
is the case whenever the ground is
turned up in Rome, a number of in-
scriptions came to light ; these were
carefully put aside, and formed the
lining, if I may so say, of the corridor
which unites the sacristy with the
church. It was observed, however,
that a great many of these inscriptions
referred to the same subject, and a
subject which was totally unknown to
antiquarians : they all spoke of certain
Arval Brethren Fratres Arvales.
Some were mere fragments, others
were entire inscriptions.
These, to the number of sixty-seven,
were carefully put together and illus-
* Prom "Essays on Religion and Literature.
By Various Writers." Edited by H. E. Manning,
B.D. London; Longman, Green & Co. 1865.
28
trated by the then librarian of the Vati-
can, Mgr. Marini. It was an age when
in Rome antiquarian learning abounded.
There were many, perhaps, who could
have undertaken the task, but it nat-
urally belonged to him as being at-
tached to the church near which the
inscriptions were found. He put the
fragments together, collated them one
with another, and with the entire
inscriptions. He procured copies at
least, when he could not examine the
originals, of such other slight fragments
as seemed to have reference to the
subject, the key having now been
found, and the result was two quarto
volumes,* giving us the entire history,
constitution, and ritual of this singular
fraternity. Before this perio' two
brief notices in Varro, one passage in
Pliny, and allusions in two later
writers, Minutius Felix and Fulgen-
tius, were all that was known concern-
ing it, One merely told the origin of
it from the time of the kings, and the
others only stated that it had something
to do with questions about land ; and
there the matter ended. Now, out of
this. ignorance, out of this darkness,
there springs, through the researches
of Mgr. Marini, perhaps the most
* Atti e Monumenti dei Fmtelli Arvali*
Mgr. Mariui. 2 torn. Roma, 1795.
434
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
complete account or history that we
have of any institution of antiquity.
So complete was the work, in fact,
that only two inscriptions relating to
this subject have been found since ;
one by Melchiorri, who undertook to
write an appendix to the work; and
the other in 1855 in excavating the
Dominican garden at Santa Sabina,
which indeed threw great light upon
the subject. From these inscriptions
we learn that this was one of the most
powerful bodies of augurs or priests in
Rome. Yet neither Pliny, nor Livy,
nor Cicero, when expressly enumerat-
ing all the classes of augurs, ever al-
ludes to them. Now, we know how
they were elected. On one tablet is
an order of Claudius to elect a new
member, so to fill up their number of
twelve, in consequence of the death of
one. They wrote every year, and pub-
lished, at least put up in their gardens,
a full and minute account of all the
sacrifices and the feasts celebrated by
them. They were allied to the impe-
rial family, and all the great families
in Rome took part in their assem-
blies. They had a sacred grove, the
site of which was perfectly unknown
until the last inscription, found in 1855,
revealed it. It was out of Porta
Portese, on the road to the English
vineyard at La Magliana. There they
had sacrifices to the Dea Dia, whose
name occurs nowhere else among all
the writers on ancient mythology. It
is supposed to be Ceres. They had
magnificent sacrifices at the beginning
of the year. There are tablets which
say where the meetings will be held,
whether at the house of the rector or
pro-rector, leaving the date in blank,
to be filled in the course of the year.
We are told who were at the meetings,
especially who among the youths from
the first families four of whom acted
somewhat as acolytes ; and we are told
how they were dressed, which of their
two dresses they wore. Then there is
a most minute ritual given. We are
told how each victim was slain ; how
the brethren took off the toga praetexta,
their crowns and golden ears of corn,
then put them on again, and examined
the entrails of the sacrifices ; all as
minutely detailed as the rubrics of any
office of unction and coronation could
possibly be. Then we are told how
many baskets of fruit they carried
away, and what distribution there was
of sweetmeats at the end, every one
taking a certain quantity. All this is
recorded, and with it their song in
barbarous Oscan or early Etruscan,
perfectly unintelligible, in which their
acclamations were made. So that now
we know perfectly everything about
them. I may mention as an interest-
ing fact, that Marini's own copy of his
work on the Arval Brethren, two
quarto volumes, having their margins
covered with notes for a second edition,
which was never published, and filled
with slips of paper with annotations
and new inscriptions of other sorts,
which he subsequently found, is now
in the library at Oscott.
What do I wish to draw from this
account ? It is that history may have
remained silent upon points which it
seems impossible, in the multiplicity of
writers that have been preserved to us,
should not have cropped out, not have
been mentioned in some way, not even
have been made known to us through
innumerable anterior discoveries. One
fortunate circumstance brought to light
the whole history of this body. How
unfair, then, is it, on the reticence of
history, at once to condemn anything,
or to say, " We should have heard of it ;
writers who ought to have told us
would not have concealed it from us."
For a circumstance may arise which
will bring out the whole history of a
thing, and make that plain and clear
before us which has been scouted
completely by others, or of which we
have been kept in the completest ig-
norance.
I could illustrate this by several
other examples which I have collected
together, but I foresee that I shall not
get anything like through the subject
I propose to myself. But here is one
such instance bearing on Scripture
truth. It was said by infidel writers
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
435
of the last century, " How is it that
there could have been such a remark-
able occurrence as the massacre of the
Innocents without a single profane
historian ever mentioning it Jose-
phus, if no one else ? " Of course the
answer was, "We do not know why,
except that we might give plausible
reasons why it should not have been
noticed." That is all we need say. It
is our duty to accept the fact. We
must not reject things because we can-
not find corroboration of them all at
once. We may have to wait with
patience ; the world has had to wait
centuries even before some doubted
truth has come out clearly.
I. The subject which I wish to bring
before you is one of those which, per-
haps beyond any other, may be said to
be considered thoroughly legendary,
and even perhaps worse: it is the
history of St. Ursula and her eleven
thousand companions, virgins and
martyrs. At first sight it may appear
bold to undertake a vindication of that
narrative, or to bring it within the
compass of history by detaching from
it what has been embellishment, what
has been perhaps even wilful inven-
tion, and bringing out in its perfect
completeness a history corroborated
on all sides by every variety of re-
search. Such, however, is the object
at which I aim to-day ; other instances
may occupy us afterward.
It has, in fact, been treated as
fabulous by Protestants, beginning
with the Centuriators of Magdeburg
down to the present time. There is
hardly any story more sneered at than
this, that an English lady, with eleven
thousand companions, all virgins,
should have met with martyrdom at
Cologne, and should have even gone to
Rome on their journey by some route
which is very difficult to comprehend ;
for they are always represented in
ships. Hence the whole thing has
been treated as a fable. But the
more refined Germanism of later times
takes what is perhaps meant to be a
mitigated view, and treats it as a
myth, that is, a sort of mythological
tale. Thus the writer of a late work,*
entitled the History, or fable, of
St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand
Virgins, printed in Hanover, in 1854,
considers that St. Ursula is the ancient
German goddess Rehalennia, and ex-
plains the history by the mythology of
that ancient divinity.
But let us come to Catholics. A
great number have been staggered
completely by this history, and have
said, " It is incredible ; it is impossible
to believe it ; we must reject it : what
foundation is there for it?" Some
have tried to search one out ; and per-
haps one of the most ingenious explan-
ations, though the most devoid of any
foundation, is that which Sirmondus
and Valesiusf and several other
Catholics have brought forward that
there were only two saints, St. Ursula
and St. Undecimilla, and that this last
has been turned into the eleven thou-
sand. This name Undecimilla has
nowhere been found ; there have been
some like it, but that name is not
known. The explanation is the purest
conjecture, and has now been complete-
ly rejected. But still many find it
very difficult to accept the history. If
they were interrogated, and required
to answer distinctly the question,
"What do you think about St. Ursula ?"
there are very few who would venture
to face the question and say, " I believe
there is a foundation for it in truth."
For that is all one might be expected
to say about a matter which has come
down to us through ages, probably
with additions. "I believe the sub-
stance of it ; it has been so altered by
time as to reach us clogged with diffi-
culties ; still I believe there were
martyrs in great number who had come
from England that were martyred at
Cologne." But there are few who
like to talk about it : most say it is a
legendary story. Even Butler only
gives about two pages of history. He
rejects the explanation which I have
* Die Sage von der heilige Ursula und den,
11,000 Jungfrauen. Von Oskar Schade. Hano-
ver, 1854.
t Acta, Sanct* Bolland, Oct. torn. is. p. 144.
436
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
just mentioned; but he throws the
whole narrative into the shade, and
passes it over with one of those little
sermons which he gives us, to make
up for not knowing much about a
saint ; so that his readers are left quite
in the dark.
Then unfortunately while many
Catholics have been inclined to look at
it as more legendary than historical,
they have been badly served by those
who have undertaken the defence or
explanation of the event. There may
be many here who have gone into
what is called the golden chamber in
the church of St. Ursula at Cologne,
and have seen that multitude of skulls
and bones that line the walls, and have
been inclined to give an incredulous
shrug and to say, " How could these
martyrs have been got together?
where did they come from ? how do
we know they were martyrs ? "
We generally content ourselves with
looking at such things through the
eyes of Mr. Murray's traveller who
tells us about them. Accordingly we
look round at these startling objects,
and say, "It is very singular; it is
very extraordinary." But there is very
little awe, very little devotion felt by us ;
while, to a good native of Cologne, it
is the most venerable, sacred, and holy
place almost in Christendom. He
prays earnestly to the virgins of Co-
logne, and considers that they are his
powerful patrons and intercessors.
However, little has been done to
help us. Works have been published
in favor of the truth of this history,
but then they have run into excess.
The most celebrated of all is one by a
Jesuit named Crombach, who was led
to compose it by Bebius, another
learned Jesuit, whose papers were un-
fortunately burned in a conflagration
at the college in Cologne. Crombach
in 1647 published two large volumes
entitled "St. Ursula vindicata" In
them he has included an immense
variety of things. He has accepted
with scarce any discrimination works
that are entitled to little or no credit
contradictory works ; he has mingled
them all up ; and he insists upon the
story or the history being true with all
details. The consequence is that the
work has been very much thrown aside,
or severely attacked.
Yet it is acknowledged that it con-
tains a great deal of valuable informa-
tion, together with an immense quan-
tity of documents which may be made
good use of when properly examined,
when the chaff is separated from the
wheat. On the whole, however, it has
not been favorable to the cause of the
martyrs.
Now, however, there has appeared
such a vindication, such a wonderful
re-examination of the whole history,
as it is impossible to resist. It is im-
possible to read the account of St. Ur-
sula given in the 9th volume for Oc-
tober of the Bollandists. published in
1858, without being perfectly amazed
at the quantity of real knowledge that
has been gained upon the subject, and
still more at the powerful manner in
which this knowledge has been han-
dled ; an erudition which, merely
glancing over the pages and notes, re-
minds us of the scholars of three hun-
dred years ago, in whom we have often
wondered at the learning which they
brought to bear on any one point.
This treatise occupies from page
73 to 303, 230 pages of closely
printed folio in two columns. I ac-
knowledge that it is not quite a recrea-
tion to read it, but still it is very well
worth reading. All documents are
printed at full length. Now, it so
happened, that just after the volume
had come out, I was at Brussels, and
called at the library of the Bollandists,
and had a most interesting conversation
with Father Victor de Buck, the
author of this history. He gave me
an interesting outline of what he had
been enabled to do. He told rne that
when they came to October 21, and he
had to write a life of St. Ursula and
her companions, his provincial wrote
to him from Cologne and said, " Take
care what you say, for the people are
tremendously alarmed lest you should
knock down all their traditions, and I
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
437
do not know what will be the case if
you do." He replied, " Don't be at
all afraid ; I shall confirm every point,
and I am sure they will be pleased
with what I have to say." He was
kind enough to put down in a letter
the chief points of his vindication for
me ; but I have lost it, and so there
was nothing left but to read through
the whole of this great work. But,
beside, a very excellent compendium
has appeared, which takes pretty near-
ly the same view on every point, and
approves of everything the author has
said ; indeed some points are perhaps
put more popularly in it, though the
history is reduced to a much smaller
compass. I have the work before me.
It is entitled, " St. Ursula and her
Companions : A Critical, Historical
Monograph. By John Hubert Kessel.
Cologne, 1863." It is a work which
is not too long to be translated and
made known. What I have to say,
after having gone through this preli-
minary matter, is, that I lay claim to
nothing whatever beyond having been
diligent, and having endeavored to
grasp all the points in question, and
reduce them to a moderate compass.
I have changed the order altogether,
taking that which seems to me most
suitable to the subject, and co-ordinat-
ing the different parts and facts so as
to make it popularly intelligible. In
this I have the satisfaction to find that
in a chapter at the end of the book, in
which the history is summed up, ex-
actly the same order is taken which I
have adopted here. It will not be ne-
cessary to give a reference for every
assertion that I shall have occasion to
make ; but I may say that I have the
page carefully noted where the subject
is fully drawn out and illustrated.
Now, let me first of all give, in a
brief sketch, what Father de Buck
considers the real history, which has
been wrapt up in such a quantity of
legendary matter that which comes
out from the different documents laid
before us, as the kernel or the nucleus
of the history, as Kessel calls it. He
supposes that this army of martyrs, as
we may well call them, was composed
of two different bodies : a body of vir-
gins who happened, under circumstan-
ces which I shall describe to you, to
be at Cologne, and a boly of the in-
habitants, citizens of Cologne, and
others, very probably many English
and other virgins who had there sought
safety. It may be asked how came
these English to be there? About
the year 446 the Britons began to be
immensely annoyed by the incursions
of the Picts and Scots, which led to
their calling in (after the manner of
the old fable, about the man calling
in the dogs to hunt the hare in his
garden) the Anglo-Saxons, who in re-
turn took possession of the country ;
and the inhabitants that they did
not exterminate they made serfs.
At this period we know the English
were put to sad straits. Having so
long lain quiet and undisturbed under
the Roman dominion, they had almost
lost their natural valor, and were un-
able to defend themselves. There was,
therefore, a natural tendency to emi-
grate and get away. They had already
done this before; for as De Buck
shows, with extraordinary erudition,
the occupation of Brittany or Armorica
was a quiet emigration from England,
which sought the continent, and also
established colonies in Holland and
Batavia, and by that means obtained
a peace which they could not have at
home. We have a very interesting
document upon this subject. The cel-
ebrated senator Aetius was at that
time governor of Gaul ; the Britons
sent to him for help, and this is one
passage of a most touching letter
which has been preserved by Gildas :
" Repellunt nos barbari ad mare, re-
pcllit nos mare ad barbaros ; oriuntur
duo genera funerum; aut jugulamur
aut mergimur."* They were tossed
backward and forward by the sea to
the barbarians, and by the barbarians
to the sea; when they fell upon the
barbarians they were cut to pieces,
and when they were driven into the
* Gildas de Excidio Britannia, pars i., cap.
svii. Ed. Migne : Patrologia, torn. Ixix., p. 342.
438
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
sea "mergimur" we go to the bot-
tom. It does not mean that they ran
into the sea, but that they went
to their ships, and many of them
perished in the sea by shipwreck or
by sinking " aut jugulamur aut mer-
gimur." That shows that the English
were leaving England to go to the
continent. I am only giving you the
web of the history, without its proofs ;
but I quote this passage to show it is
not at all unlikely that at that moment,
when they were in a manner straitened
between the barbarians of the north
and those coming upon them in the
south, a great many of them went out
of the country, and that especially
being Christians they would wend
their way to Catholic countries. Re-
ligious and other persons of a like
character, we know, in every invasion
of barbarians, were the first to suffer
a double martyrdom. This is a sup-
position, therefore, about which there
is no improbability, that a certain num-
ber, I do not say how many, of Chris-
tian ladies of good family, some of
them, perhaps, royal, got over to Ba-
tavia or Holland (where there have
been always traditions and names of
places in confirmation of this), and
made their way to Cologne, which was
a capital and a seat of the Roman
government, a Christian city, and in
every probability considered a strong-
hold, both on account of its immense
fortifications, and on account of the
river.
Well, then comes the history, very
difficult indeed to reconcile, of a pil-
grimage to Rome, which it is said they
made ; but let us suppose that instead
of the whole of them a certain number
of them might go there. It is not at all
improbable that at that time, as De
Buck observes, a deputation, or a cer-
tain number of citizens and others, did
go to Rome to obtain assistance there,
as their only hope against the inva-
sion, which I shall describe just now.
There is no great difficulty in suppos-
ing this ; and assuming that some of
the English virgins also went, that
would be a foundation for the great
legendary history, I might say the fab-
ulous history, which has been built
upon it. Now, there is a strong con-
firmation of such a thing being done.
St. Gregory of Tours* mentions that
at this very time Bishop Servatius
did go to Rome to pray the Apostles
Sts. Peter and Paul to protect his
country and city against the coming
invasion, and he saw no other hope of
safety. He must have passed through
Cologne exactly at that time, and,
therefore, there is nothing absurd
or improbable in supposing that some
inhabitants of Cologne went with him
as a deputation to Rome, and that
some of the English virgins may
have accompanied them. In the year
following, Attila, the scourge of God,
the most cruel of all the leaders
of barbaric tribes who invaded the
Roman empire, was marching along
the Rhine with the known view of in-
vading Gaul, and not only invading it,
but, as he said, of completely conquer-
ing and destroying it ; for his maxim
was, " Where Attila sets his foot no
more grass shall ever grow" nothing
but destruction and devastation. I
will say a little more about the Huns
later. In the meantime we leave them,
in 450, on their way to cross the
Rhine, with the intention of invading
and occupying France. Attila united
great cunning with his barbarity ; he
pretended to the Goths that he was
coming to help them against the Ro-
mans, and to the Romans that he was
going to help them to expel the Goths.
By that means he paralyzed both for
a time, until it was too well seen that
he was the enemy of all. It is most
probable, knowing the character as we
shall see just now of the Huns, that
the inhabitants of the neighboring
towns would seek refuge in the capi-
tal, and that all living in the country
would get within the strong walls
of cities. We have important con-
firmation, at this very time, in the
history of St. Genevieve,f who was
* S. Greg. Turon., Hist. Franc., lib. ii., cap. v.
Ed. Migne : Patrologia. torn. Ixviii.. pp. 197, 570.
t Vid. Tillemont, Hist, des Emp., vi. p. 131.
Acta Sanct. Boll., Jan. tom. i. iu vit. S. Genovevae.
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
439
a virgin living out in the country,
but who, upon the approach of the
Huns, hastened, we are told, imme-
diately to seek safety in Paris, and
was there the means of saving the
city, by exhorting the inhabitants to
build up walls, to close their gates,
and to fight. This they did, and so
saved themselves. That is just an
example. When it is known that
throughout his march Attila destroyed
every city, committing incredible bar-
barities (ruins of some of the places
remaining to this day), not sparing
man, woman, or child, it is more than
probable that there would be a great
conflux and influx to the city of Co-
logne, where the Roman government
still kept its seat, and where, of course,
there was something like order, al-
though we have unfortunate proofs, in
the works of Salvianus,* that the mor-
ality of the city had become so very
corrupt that it deserved great chas-
tisement. However, so far all is cohe-
rent. In 451, after Attila had gone
to France, and had been completely
defeated, he made his way back, greatly
exasperated, burning and destroying
everything in his way, sparing no one.
Then he appeared before Cologne ;
and this is the invasion in which it is
supposed the martyrdom took place.
Having given you what the Bol-
landist considers the historical thread,
every part of which can be confirmed
and made most probable, I will now,
before going into proofs of the narra-
tive, direct your attention for a few
minutes to what we may call the le-
gendary parts of the history. "When
we speak of legends we must not con-
found them with fables, that is, with
pure inventions. We must not suppose
that people sat down to write a lie un-
der the idea that they were edifying
the Church or anybody. There have
been such cases, no doubt ; for Ter-
tullian mentions the delinquency of a
person's writing false acts of St. Paul,
and being suspended from his office
of priest in consequence. Such follies
* De GubernationeDei, Ed. Baluzii, Paris, 1864,
pp. 140, 141.
have happened in all times. We have
had many instances in our own day of
attempts at forging documents, and
committing the worst of social crimes ;
but old legends as we have them, and
even the false acts as they were called,
were no doubt written without any in-
tention of actually deceiving, or of
passing off what was spurious for gen-
uine. The person who first suggested
this was a man certainly no friend of
Catholics, Le Clerc, better known by
his literary name of Clericus ; who
observes that school exercises were
sometimes drawn from martyrdoms, as
in our day from a classical subject, as
Juvenal says of Hannibal :
" I demens et saevas curre per Alpes
tit pueris placeas et declamatio Has."
Not that students professed to write a
real history, but they gave wonderful
descriptions of deeds of valor and mar-
vellous events which had never oc-
curred, and were never intended to be
believed. In the same way, at a time
when nothing but a religious subject
could create interest, that sort of com-
position came to be applied to acts of
saints and martyrs ; so that many
books and narratives which we have
of that description may be thus ac-
counted for. It is much like our his-
torical novels, or the historical plays
of Shakespeare, for instance. Nobody
imagines that their authors wished to
pass them off for history, but they did
not contradict history ; they kept to
history, so that you may find it in
them ; and you might almost write a
history from some of those books
which are called historical works of
fiction. In early times such composi-
tions were of a religious character.
Then came times of greater ignorance,
and those works came to be regarded
as true historical accounts. But, are
we to reject them on that ground alto-
gether? Are we to say, any more
than we should with regard to the fic-
titious works of which I have just
spoken, that there is no truth in them?
We should proceed in the same way
as people do who seek for gold. A
440
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
man goes to a gold-field, and tries
to obtain gold from auriferous sand.
Now suppose he took a sieve full, and
said at once, "It's all rubbish," and
threw it away; he might go on for
a long time and never get a grain of
gold. But if he knows how to set to
work, if he washes what he obtains,
picks out grain by grain, and puts by,
he gets a small hoard of real genuine
gold ; and nobody denies that when,
many such supplies are put together
they make a treasure of sterling metal.
So it is with these legendary accounts.
They are never altogether falsehoods
I will not say never, but rarely.
Whenever they have an air of history
about them, the chances are that, by
examining and sifting them well, we
may get out a certain amount of real
and solid material for history.
The legendary works upon these
virgins are numerous and begin early.
The first is one which I shall call, as
all our writers do, by its first words,
" Regnante Domino." This is an ac-
count of traditions, evidently written
between the ninth and eleventh cen-
turies. It is impossible to determine
more closely than this. But we know
that it cannot have been written ear-
lier than the ninth century, nor later
than the eleventh. It contains a long
history of these virgins while in Eng-
land, who they were, and what they
were; of a certain marriage contract
that was made with the father of St.
Ursula, a very powerful king ; how it
was arranged that she should have
eleven companions, and each of these
a thousand followers ; how they should
embark for three years and amuse
themselves with nautical exercises ;
how the ships went to the other side
of the channel. It is an absurd story
and full of fable, but there are three
or four most important points in it.
Geoffrey of Monmouth comes next.
He gives another history, totally dif-
ferent from that of the " Regnante
Domino ;" but retains two or three
points of identity. His is evidently a
British tradition, which, of course, it is
most important to compare with the
German one ; and we shall find how
singularly they agree. Then, after
these, come a number of legends called
Passiones, long accounts filled with
a variety of incongruous particulars
which may be safely put aside ; but
in the same way germs or remnants
of something good, which have been
thus preserved, are found in them all,
and when brought together may give
us some valuable results. We next
meet with what is more difficult to
explain the supposed revelations of
St. Elizabeth of Schonau, and of
Blessed Hermann of Steinfeld. It
is not for us to enter into the discussion,
which is a very subtle one, of how per-
sons who are saints really canonized
and field in immense veneration one
of them, Hermann, singularly so can
be supposed to have been allowed to
follow their own imaginations on some
points, while at the same time there
seems no doubt that they lived in an
almost ecstatic state. This question
is gone into fully; and the best au-
thorities are quoted by the Bollandist.
It would require a long discussion, and
it would not be to our purpose, to pur-
sue it further. These supposed rev-
elations are rejected altogether. Now
we come to positive forgeries, consist-
ing of inscriptions, or of engraved
stones with legends carved upon them.
One of these mentions a pope who
never existed, and also a bishop of
Milan who never lived, beside a num-
ber of other imaginary people. From
the texture and state of these inscrip-
tions there can be no doubt whatever
that they are absolute forgeries, and
the author of them is pretty well dis-
covered. He was a sacristan of the
name of Theodorus. In order to en-
hance the glory of these virgins, they
are represented, as you see in legend-
ary pictures, as being in a ship accom-
panied by a pope, bishops, abbots, and
persons of high dignity, who are sup-
posed to have come from Rome with
them. All this we discard, making
out what we can from the sounder
traditions.
And this is the result. There are
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
441
two or three points on which, whether
we take the English or the German
traditions, all are agreed. First, we
have that a great many of these vir-
gins were English : that the Germans
all agree upon ; the earliest historical
documents say the same. Secondly,
that they were martyred by the Huns :
that we are told both by the English
and the German writers. It is singu-
lar that they should agree on such a
point as this ; and you will see how
I do not say corroborated, but abso-
lutely proved it is. The third fact is,
that there was a tremendous slaughter
at the time, a singular slaughter of
people committed at Cologne by these
Huns. This comes out from all the
legendary histories, which agree upon
this point, and we can hardly know
how they should do so except through
separate traditions ; for they evidently
have nothing else in common. Their
separate narratives we may reject as
legendary.
Thus we come to an investigation
of the true history, and see how it is
proved. And first I must put before
you what I may call the foundation-
stone of the whole history on which it
is based the inscription now kept in
the church of St. Ursula. It had re-
mained very much neglected, though
it had been given by different authors,
until, when the Bollandists were going
to write their history, they took three
casts of it ; one they gave to the arch-
bishop of Cologne, another they kept
for themselves; the third I cannot
say what became of it, but I think it
went to Rome, having been taken by
De Rossi. I could not afford to have
a cast brought here, but I have had a
most accurate tracing made of it.
Those of you who are judges of
graphic character will see the nature
of the letters ; they are capital, or un-
cial letters. First, you may ask what
is the age of this inscription ? It is
pretty well agreed that it cannot be
later than the year 500 that would
be fifty years after that assigned to
the martyrdom of the virgins. De
Buck, who is really almost hypercrit-
ical in rejecting, says he does not see
a single objection to the genuineness
of this inscription. There is not a
trace of Lombard or later character
about it; it is purely Roman. The
union of some of the letters is just
what we find about that time in Ro-
man inscriptions. It is then, as nearly
as one can judge, of the age I have
mentioned about the year 500. De
Rossi, passing through Cologne three
or four years ago, examined it and
pronounced it to be genuine, and said
it could not be of a later period than
that. Dr. Enner, a layman of Cologne,
when writing his " History of Cologne,"
could not bring himself to believe that
the inscription was so old, and he sent
an exact copy in plaster (perhaps that
was the third) to Professor Ritschl,
the well-known editor of Plautus, and
a Protestant, at Bonn. I have a copy
of the Professor's letter here, in which
he says that he has minutely examined
the inscription, and that he cannot see
anything in it to make it more modern
than the date assigned to it, and that
it contains peculiarities which no forger
would ever hit upon, such as the
double i, and other forms. He says,
" I am not sufficiently acquainted with
the history of St. Ursula to connect it
in any way ; but I have no hesitation
in saying that the inscription cannot
be later than the beginning of the
sixth century ;" which, you see, takes
us back very nearly to the time when
the martyrdom is supposed to have
occurred. Then I may mention that
the very inscription is copied in the
next historical document that we have,
as being already in the church. This
is the translation of the inscription, of
which I present an exact copy :
" Clematius came from the East ;
he was terrified by fiery visions, and
by the great majesty and the holiness
of these virgins, and, according to a
vow that he made, he rebuilt at his
own expense, on his own land, this
basilica." Then follows a commina-
tion at the end, which is not unusual
in such cases. Now, every expression
here is to be found in inscriptions of
442
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
35fe3ra*a
XP-
uj^r-
PSau
tM3
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
443
the time. For instance, " de proprio ;"
" votum ;" " loco suo" (sometimes it is
"loco empto"), meaning of course
land which one made his own, or
which was his own before. There had
been then a basilica not the church
that now exists, but a basilica at the
tombs where these saints were buried,
which we shall have to describe later.
He rebuilt the basilica fifty years after
the martyrdom, destroyed no doubt
during the constant incursions of bar-
barians. It was probably a very small
one ; for we know that at Rome every
entrance to the tombs of martyrs had its
basilica. De Rossi has been successful
in finding one or two. One was built by
St. Damasus, who wrote: "Not daring
to put my ashes among so many mar-
tyrs, I have built this basilica for my-
self, my mother and sister ;" and there
are three niches at the end for three
sarcophagi. It is universally allowed
that there never was a catacomb with-
out its basilica. In fact, in that of
Pope St. Alexander, and Sts. Evanti-
us and Theodulus, found lately, there
is a basilica completely standing, and
the bodies of these saints were found
one under the altar and the others
near it. Then from the basilica you
go into the catacomb. So that nothing
is more natural than that in the place
where these martyrs were buried,
Clematius should rebuild their ba-
silica. After this monument we pro-
ceed to the next genuine document,
though one of a later date, and by
an unknown author the " Sermo in
Natali." This, there is no doubt, was
written between the years 751 and
839 ; and I will give the ingenious
argument by which this date is proved.
But first it quotes the inscription I
have read, with the exception of the
threat at the end ; in the second place
it mentions that the virgins were prob-
ably Britons that it was not certain,
but the general opinion was that they
had come from Britain ; thirdly, it at-
tributes the martyrdom to the Huns ;
fourthly, it insinuates what is of great
importance in filling up the history, that
it is by no means to be supposed that they
were all virgins, but that many were
widows and married people. The rea-
son for fixing the earliest date at 751
is, that it quotes Bede's Ecclesiastical
History, which was written in that
year, giving apparently his account of
the conversion of Lucius ; though one
cannot say that it is certainly a copy
from Bede, because Bede himself
copied from more ancient books, and
both may have drawn from the same
source. Then it could not have been
written after 839 for two reasons. In
834 there was a tremendous incursion
of other barbarians of Normans ; and
it is plain from our book that there
had been no such invasion when it was
written ; nothing was known of it, be-
cause the writer speaks of countries,
particularly Holland, as being flour-
ishing, which were completely de-
stroyed by them. There is also this
singular circumstance. In speaking
of the great devotion to the virgins
in Batavia, the writer states that this
happened at a time when Batavia was
an island formed by the two branches
of the Rhine. Now in 839 an inunda-
tion completely destroyed it, one of the
horns or arms being entirely obliterat-
ed. Therefore that gives us a cer-
tain compass within which the book
was written. The author himself was
a native of Cologne for in referring
to the inhabitants he once or twice
speaks of " us" and he would there-
fore be familiar with the traditions
of the people. He says there was
no written history at that time ;
he defends the traditions, and shows
how natural it was that the people
should have kept them. I ought to
mention that he calls the head of the
band of martyrs Pinnosa. He says,
" She is called in her own country
Vinosa, in ours Pinnosa ;" and there
is evidence that this was the name
first given to the leader; how, by
what transformation, it came to be St.
Ursula, we cannot tell ; it is certain that
up to that time hers was not the name
of the leader. Afterward Pinnosa ap-
pears on the list, but not as the chief,
St. Ursula being the prominent name.
444
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
After that period there comes a
mass of historical proofs that one can
have no difficulty about. From 852
there are an immense number of
diplomas giving grants of land to the
nuns of the monastery of St. Ursula,
at her place of burial. There is no
doubt of the existence of that church,
from other documents. Then the mar-
tyrologies repeat the whole tradition
again and again. Thus, then, we fill
up that gap of four hundred years
(from A.D. 400 to A.D. 800). There
is the inscription ; there is the " Ser-
mo in Natali," which quotes it, and
gives old traditions ; and afterward
there are diplomas and other testimo-
nies which are abundant.
We now proceed to compare the
whole tradition with history, with
known history, for after all this is our
chief business. When we possess a tra-
dition of a country and people, we ask,
" What confirmation, what corrobora-
tion, have we ? what does history tell
us?" Let us then see what history
does tell. It tells us, in the first place,
that in the year 450 Attila was known
to be coming to invade and take pos-
session of Gaul, having been ejected
from Italy. His army is said by con-
temporary writers to have been com-
posed of 700,000 men. It was a hos-
tile emigration. They brought their
women and children in carts, as the
Huns always used to do, and they of
course marched but slowly. They
went along both sides of the Danube,
and got at length into France. De
Buck, by a most interesting series of
proofs, makes it almost as evident as
anything can be that they crossed
over at Coblentz, therefore not coming
near Cologne. They entered, as I
have said, into Gaul, destroying every-
thing in their march. Some of their
barbarities and massacres are almost
incredible. After devastating nearly
the whole of the country, they besieged
Orleans. The inhabitants having been
encouraged to resist, at last succeeded
in obtaining certain terms; that is,
Attila and his chiefs went into the
city and took what they liked, but left
the city standing. After this they
were pursued by the general whom I
have mentioned Aetius, a Gaul, but
who got together all the troops he
could, Goths, Visigoths, Franks, and
others, who saw what the design of
these horrible barbarians was.
A most tremendous battle was now
fought, that of Catalaunia (Chalons-
sur-Marne), in which contemporary
historians tell us 300,000 men were
left on the field; but that number
has been reduced to 200,000. Such
battles, thank God! we seldom hear
of no\v-a-days. Attila, routed, imme-
diately took to flight, and got clear
away from his pursuers. He went
through Belgium, destroying city after
city, leaving nothing standing, and
massacring the people in the most
barbarous way.
Here comes the most difficult knot
of the whole history. Authors agree
that Attila now made his way into
Thuringia, that is to the heart of Ger-
many ; he must therefore be supposed
to have got clear over the Rhine, and
marched a long way through the coun-
try. On this subject De Buck has
one of the most exquisite and beauti-
ful geographical investigations, I should
think, that have ever appeared. He
proves, so that you can no more doubt
it than you can doubt my having this
paper before me, that there was
Thuringia which lay on this side of
the Rhine ; he proves it by a series
documents taken from mediaeval writ-
ers, and from inscriptions, that there
was a Thuringia which stretched from
Louvain to the Rhine. Indeed, it is
impossible to conceive how Attila
could have got, as by a leap, into the
very midst of Germany. He traces
the natural course of march (which
you can follow by any map), taking the
cities destroyed as landmarks, and
brings him to this province ; and when
there,there was no possible way of cross-
ing the Rhine but by Cologne ; there was
the only bridge, the only military pass
of any sort. So there can be no doubt
that the Huns, exasperated by their
tremendous losses, and by being driven
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
445
out of Gaul, which they intended to
occupy, having revenged themselves
as they went on, were obliged to go
through Cologne ; and if you calculate
the date of the victory, and consider
the country through which Attila
passed, destroying everything as he
went, you bring him almost to a cer-
tainty to Cologne about the 21st of
October, nearly the day of the martyr-
dom. The " Regnante Domino," which
attributes the martyrdom to the Huns,
corroborates all this account, which is
the result of a most painstaking exam-
ination, extending over many pages.
Next we come to another important
point. Why attribute this massacre
to the Huns ? Because there was no
other invasion and passage of savages
except that one. It accords, then,
both with geographical and chronolog-
ical facts. We have the martyrs at
Cologne at the very time when these
barbarians came.
But we must needs say something
about the Huns. There is no ques-
tion that the Huns were the most
frightful, cruel, and licentious barbar-
ians that ever invaded the Roman
empire. They were not of a northern
race, Germans or Scandinavians ; they
were, no doubt, Mongols or Tartars ;
they came from Tarfcary, from Scythia,
and settled on the Caspian sea ; they
then moved on to the mouths of the
Danube, and again to Hungary, and
rolled on in this way toward the richer
countries of the west. There are
several authors of that period Jor-
nandes, Procopius, and others who
describe them to us.* They tell us
that when they were infants their mo-
thers bound down their noses, and
flattened them in such a way that they
should not come beyond the cheek-
bones ; that their eyes were so sunk
that they looked like two caverns;
that they scarified all the lower part
of the face with hot irons when young,
so that no hair could grow ; that they
had no beard, and were more hideous
than demons ; that they wore no dress
* Ammiaaua Marcellinus, lib. xxi., cap. ii.
except a shirt fabricated by the women
in the carts in which they entirely
lived; it was never changed, but was
worn till it dropped off, under a man-
tle made entirely of wild-rat skins.
Their chaussure consisted of kid skins
round their legs, with most extraordi-
nary shoes or sandals, which had no
shape whatever, and did riot adapt
themselves to the form; the conse-
quence was that they could not walk,
and they fought entirely on their
wretched horses. They had no cuisine
except between the saddle and the
back of the horse, where they put their
steaks and softened them a little before
eating; but as to drink, they could
take any amount of it. With regard
to their morality it cannot be described.
The writers of that age tell us that no
Roman woman would allow herself to
be seen by a Hun. They were licen-
tious to a degree, and they carried off
all the women they could into captiv-
ity ; probably they destroyed a great
many ; which was their custom when
they became a burden to them. These,
then, were the sort of savages that
reached Cologne.
They had another peculiarity ; of
all the hordes of savages that invaded
the Roman empire, they are the only
ones that used the bow and arrow.
The Germans hardly made any use of
the bow, except a few men who mixed
in the ranks ; as a body their execu-
tion was with the sword, the lance,
and the pike. The use of the bow
was distinctly Tartar, or Scythian.
Then we are told that their aim from
horseback was infallible; that when
flying from a foe they could turn
round and shoot with perfect facility ;
that they rode equally well astride or
seated sideways like a woman ; in
fact that they flew and turned just
like the Parthians and Scythians from
whom they were descended. In this
great battle of Catalaunia they either
lost heart or steadiness, and they
could not fire upon their enemies, so
that they were pursued and tremen-
dously routed. That their mode of
fighting was by the bow and arrow, you
446
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
will see in the representations given in
the beautiful shrine at Hamelink, where
the martyrs are fired into by the barbar-
ians with bows and arrows. Let us see
what this has to do with our question.
The "Regnante Domino," which we
have mentioned as legendary, gives a
most beautiful description of the mode
of dealing with the bodies. The writer
says that when the inhabitants saw
that the enemy were gone they came
out, and in a field they found this
great number of virgins lying on the
ground. They collected their blood,
got sarcophagi, or made graves, and
put them in; "and there they lay, as
they were placed," the writer says,
"as any one can tell who has seen
them," evidently suggesting that he
had seen them. Now, in the year
1640, on July 2, Papebroch, an au-
thority beyond all question, and Crom-
bach, whose word may be relied on
as that of a most excellent and holy
man, were at the opening of the tombs.
From all tradition this was no doubt
the place of the stone of Clematius ;
there has always been a convent
there; and you remember that part
of the inscription which threatens
eternal punishment to those who should
bury any but virgins there. It is now
called " St. Ursula's Acker," a sort of
sacred field where the basilica was.
Here they were buried, and so they
remained undisturbed except by some
translations of the middle ages, which
do not concern us. In 1640 there was
a formal exhumation, and eye-wit-
nesses tell us what they saw. A nun-
cio came afterward to verify the facts.
I will give you the account of how
these bodies were found. Many of
them were in graves, in rows, but
each body separate, there being a
space of a foot between them. In other
places there were stone sarcophagi in
which they were laid separately.
Then Crombach describes that there
were some large fosses, sixty feet long,
eight feet deep, and sixteen wide, con-
taming a large number of bodies.
They were placed in a row with a
space between them ; at their feet was
another row ; then a quantity of earth
was thrown on, and another row
was placed, and so on, until you
came to the fourth. Every skeleton
in the three rows was entire, and they
all looked toward the east. They had
their arms crossed upon their bosoms,
and almost every one had a vessel
containing blood, or sand tinged with
blood. The fourth, or upper stratum,
consisted of disjointed bones, and with
these also there were vessels contain-
ing blood or colored sand. In this
way, the writer says, he saw a hundred
bodies. Then there was this remark-
able circumstance about their clothes.
Eutychianus,* the pope, had published
a decree that no body of a martyr was
ever to be buried without having a
dalmatic put upon it ; and clothes in
abundance were found upon these
bodies.
Another important discovery was,
that immense quantities of arrows
were found mingled with the bones ;
some sticking in the skull, others in
the breast, others in the arms right
in the bones. So it was clear that all
these bodies had been put to death by
means of arrows, and there was no
other tribe but the Huns which made
use of the arrow as its instrument of
death. I may add that there were
no signs of burning, or of any heathen
burial about them. This also is most
important. I have said that there
had been other exhumations in the
eleventh and twelfth centuries. There
are pictures of these, and there are
sarcophagi preserved in which bodies
were found. These are laid in exactly
the same manner as others were found
in 1640. Crombach says the Avhole
had been done most scientifically, that
the distances were all arranged by
measure, so that there was not a
quarter of a foot difference anywhere.
Now, I ask, could these bodies have
been put there in consequence of a
plague, or an earthquake, or any event
of that kind ? Putting aside the arrows
found in immense quantities, and the
* Acta SS. Bolland. Octob., torn, ix., p. 139.
Constant. Mom. Pwit. Epist. Paris, 1731, p. 299.
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
447
vessels containing blood, we know
that when people die in a plague to
the number of hundreds, a foss is made,
and they are thrown in, and there is
an end of them. This could not have
been a common cemetery. It contained
nothing but the bodies of these women
(I will speak of their physical charac-
teristics later), all laid in studied order,
with great care, and with such pecu-
liarities, and all evidently buried at
the same time. After reading all this,
may we not exclaim with St. Ambrose,
" We have found the signs of martyr-
dom," and with St. Gaudentius, "What
can you desire more to show that they
were all martyred ?" * And who does
not see here confirmed the history of
Clematius ? Comparing the whole with
traditions, both English and German,
it seems to me that you have as much
proof as you can reasonably require.
Having given you concisely the facts
and corroborations of history, let me
now proceed to answer objections.
And, first there is the question,
Were all these martyrs ? Well, if they
were to be tried by the rules estab-
lished very justly in the modern
Church, it would no doubt be difficult
to say ; because how can you prove that
each of these women laid down her
life voluntarily for Christ ? The tradi-
tion of Cologne is that they would not
sacrifice their virtue to those heathens,
and that they were surrounded and
shot. But in those times a wider
meaning was sometimes attached to
the word " martyr." There were what
are called martyres improprie dicti,
where there could not be the same
kind of evidence as in the case 'of
others ; or martyres latiore sensu. A
person was called a martyr when he
was put to death without his will being
consulted, as in the case of our own
St. Edmund, and in the case of St.
Wenceslaus, who was put to death with-
out being interrogated as to whether he
would remain a Christian or not, and
many others. De Buck shows that
* S. Ambros., class, i., epist. xxii Ed Ben
torn, iii., p. 927. S. Gaud., Serm. in Dedic. SS.
XL. Martyr, ap. Migne, torn, xx., col. 963.
there was nothing more common. We
have the remarkable case of the The-
ban legion another instance of a large
number of men being surrounded and
cut down by soldiers without being
questioned as to whether they were in
a state of grace, or whether they were
prepared to die. The deed was done
in odium religionis, by people who
merely looked to the gratification of
their own passions and their desire
for revenge. In those days the ques-
tion of such persons being martyrs
would be a very simple one, if it were
known that they were killed by the
Huns in hatred, as was supposed, of
their virginity and because of their
resistance. We have in martyrologies
the account of Nicomedia and its twelve
thousand martyrs. De Buck supposes
that the number included all the mar-
tyrs of the persecution. And the 6,700
of the Theban legion are explained in
the same way.
The next question is, Were these
persons all virgins ? Who can know ?
It is quite certain that even married
persons, when martyred, had sometimes
the title of virgins given to them. Many
instances are supplied by the martyrol-
ogies and offices. St. Sabina,* for
instance, is called a virgin martyr,
though she was a married person. It
was considered that martyrdom raised
all women to a higher degree of excel-
lence. There are some curious ques-
tions, too, arising, which would not
very well do for a discussion here. It
is, however, sufficiently proved that
when there was a great number of vir-
gins, and others were mixed with them,
the nobler title was given to all. Just
as, if you have a great many martyrs
and some confessors united, the title
of martyrs is applied to all, as they
are included in one office, each sharing
in the glory of martyrdom. The
" Sermo in Natali" expressly tells us
that it was not supposed at its early
period that all were virgins, but that
there were ladies of all ranks and
children amongst them. Indeed, some
remains of children were found.
* Acta SS. Bolland. Octob., torn, ix., p. 143.
448
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
Then comes the question, Were
there eleven thousand ? Certainly not
as all one company. It is supposed,
and there appears nothing unreasona-
ble in it, that when once the rage of
the Huns was excited they would givte
way to an indiscriminate massacre,
and that the eleven thousand most
probably included persons who had
sought refuge, perhaps their own cap-
tives, and probably a great number of
the inhabitants of the city.
But does it not seem a frightful num-
ber of persons to be massacred ? Not
by the Huns. In the year 436 these
same Huns slaughtered at once in
Burgundy 30,000 men. They were
of the same race, the same family of
men, as Tamerlane, who had 70,000
heads cut off in Ispahan. And the
Turks, when they took the island
of Chios, reduced the population of
120,000 to 8,000. So that those
slaughters, which to us seem so fearful,
are not to be considered in the same
light when occurring in those times.
"We have a frightful example in the
case of Theodosius and the inhabitants
of Thessalonica. It is said that 15,000
persons were put to death in the thea-
tre for a simple insult. The most mod-
erate calculation is that by St. Ambrose,
who gives the number as 7,000. Hu-
man life, of course, was not then re-
garded as by us, especially by men
who devastated whole cities and burned
them to the ground. Hence the diffi-
culty as to the number of persons, in-
cluding among them not merely the fol-
lowers of St. Ursula, but the bulk of
the female inhabitants, is explained.
Another question arises, Were they
English, or were there English amongst
them? That is answered unhesitat-
ingly, Yes. All the traditions, Eng-
lish and German, agree that these
ladies had come from England and
sought refuge.
I have mentioned the facilities for
emigration, and the way in which
many went out of the country ; so that
there would be nothing wonderful in a
certain number of British women being
at Cologne at that time. Now there
is this curious fact illustrating the sub-
ject, Very lately the Golden Cham-
ber, as it is called, adjoining the church,
where the chief remains are deposited,
was visited by Dr. Braubach and Dr.
Gortz of Cologne, Dr. Buschhausen of
Ratingen, and others, who examined
the skulls and pronounced them to be
Celtic, not German. The Celtic char-
acteristics, as given by Blumenbach
ana 1 other writers, are quite distinct
the chin falls back considerably, the
skull is very long, and the vertex of
the head goes far behind quite dis-
tinct from the Romans or Germans.
Moreover, with the exception of
ten or fifteen out of from eighty to a
hundred, they were all the bodies of
females. Now all the writers all
that I have seen at least say that
there could not have been an emigra-
tion of some hundreds of women with-
out some men, some persons to guard
them, and these would be with them
and would share their martyrdom.
Then, in the next place, they were all
young people, there was no sign of
their having died of a plague or any
other casualty, but they appeared to
be strong, healthy young women ;
which of course, as far as we can judge,
verifies the narrative to the utmost,
I now leave you to judge how very
different historical research has made
this legend, as it is called, appear, and
how much we have a right to regard
it in a devotional spirit, as the inhabi-
tants of Germany certainly do. I do
not say that there have not been many
exaggerations, false relics, and stories ;
but critical investigation enables us to
put all these aside, and to sift their
evidence. But certainly we have a
strong historical verification of what
has been considered until within the
last few years as legendary, not only
by real discoveries which have come
to light, but also by a right use of evi-
dence which before had been over-
looked and neglected.
The whole of what I have said re-
lates to events. But my subject em-
braces " events and things." The latter
part remains untouched, and I have
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
449
yet to show how things or objects
which have been looked upon as fab-
ulous have been proved to be real and
genuine.
II. I proceed, therefore, to objects
which have been, or may be, easily
misrepresented, as if asserted to be
what they are not, and involving an
imputation of imposture on the part of
those who propose them to the notice
or veneration of Catholics.
I will begin with a rather singular
example, but one which, I trust, will
verify the assertion 'which I have
made ; and if time permits, I will mul-
tiply the examples by giving two or
three other instances.
I do not know whether any of you
in your foreign travels have visited
the cathedral of Chartres ; I have not
seen it myself, but I believe that it is
one of the most noble, most majestic,
and most inspiring of all Gothic build-
ings on the continent. The French
always speak of it as combining the
great effects of a mediaeval church,
more perhaps than any other in their
country ; and as my address will re-
late to that cathedral, I think it is
necessary to give a little preliminary
account of it ; at the same time warn-
ing you that I do not by any means
intend to plunge into the depths of the
singular mystery in which the origin
of that cathedral is involved. It takes
its rise from a Druidical cavern which
was for some time the only church or
cathedral. Over that the Christians
for the town was early converted to
Christianity built a church, of course
modest, and simple, and poor, as the
early churches of the Christians were ;
but in this was preserved, with the
greatest jealousy, and with the deep-
est devotion, what was called a Druid-
ical image of Our Lady, which was
always kept in the crypt, for it was
over the crypt that the church was
built, It was said to have existed there
before the building of the church ; but
into that part of the history it is not
necessary to enter. In the year 1020
this poor old church was struck by
lightning, was set on fire, and entirely
consumed. The bishop at that time
was one of the most remarkable men
in the French Church Fulbert, who
has left us a full account of what was
done in his time there. He immedi-
ately set to work to build another
church, proposing that it should be
perfectly magnificent according to all
the ideas of the age ; and to enable him
to do so, he had recourse to our mod-
ern practice of collecting money on all
sides. Among others Canute, king of
England and Denmark, and Richard,
duke of Normandy, and almost all the
sovereigns of the north contributed
largely. The result was the begin-
ning of a very magnificent church.
The singularity of the building was
this, that everybody labored with his
hands, not only men, but women, not
only the poor, but the noble. These
furnished with their own hands pro-
visions or whatever was necessary for
the workmen. However, after Ful-
bert's death, like most undertakings of
that class, the work became more lan-
guid ; and before it was completed
(that was in 1094), the building, in
which there was a great quantity of
wood used, was again burnt to the
ground. Well, this time it was deter-
mined that there should be a splendid
church, such as had never been seen
before ; and here, again, that same
plan of working with their hands was
adopted to an extent which, as stated
in an account given us by Haymon
and one or two others, seems incredi-
ble. The laborers relieved one another
day and night, lighting up the whole
place with torches ; provisions were
abundantly furnished to all the work-
men without their having to move
from their places. In fact, the writer
says that you might see noblemen, not
a few, but hundreds and thousands,
dragging carts or drawing materials
and provisions ; in fact, not resting
until, in 1160, seventy years after the
destruction, the church was consecrat-
ed; and there it remains, the grand
cathedral church of Chartres at this
day.
Now, it may be asked, what was
450
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
there which most particularly made
Chartres a place of such great devo-
tion, and so attached the inhabitants
to its cathedral that they thus sacri-
ficed their ease and comfort so many
years to build a church worthy of their
object ? It was a relic a relic which
had existed for several hundred years
at that time in the church, which made
it a place of pilgrimage, and which was
considered most venerable. What was
this relic ? The name which it has al-
ways borne in the mouths of the sim-
ple, honest, and devoted people of
Chartres and its neighborhood, and
in fact of all France, is La Chemise
de la Sainte Vierge that is, a tunic
which was supposed and believed to
have been worn by the Blessed Vir-
gin, her under-clothing, and was of
course considered most venerable from
having been in contact with her pure
virginal flesh. However, you may
suppose that you require strong proof
of such a relic at all, and you will re-
member that my object is to show how
things which may have been doubtful,
and perhaps considered almost incredi-
ble, have received great proof and
elucidation by research. I do not
pretend to say that in all respects
you can prove the relic : the research
to which I allude is modern, but it
may guide us back, may confirm a
tradition, may give us strong reasons
in its favor, showing that it has not
been received without good ground,
though it may not be able to penetrate
the darkness which sometimes sur-
rounds the beginning of anything in
very remote antiquity. I am not
going, then, to prove the relic, but I
am going to show you the grounds on
which it had been accepted, and then
come to the modern verification of it.
The history is this. A Byzantine
writer of the fourteenth century, Ni-
cephorus Calixtus,* tells us that this
very relic was in the possession of per-
sons in Judaea, to whom it was left by
our Blessed Lady before her death;
that it fell, in the course of time, into
the hands of a Jew in Galilee ; that
two patricians of Constantinople, Gal-
bius and Candidus, traced it ? purchased
it, and took it to Constantinople, where,
considering themselves in possession of
a great treasure, they concealed it, and
would not let it be known (this was in
the middle of the fifth century) ; that
the Emperor Leo, in consequence of
the miracles which were wrought, and
by which this relic was discovered, in
spite of those who possessed it, imme-
diately entered into negotiations, ob-
tained it, and built a splendid church
in Constantinople expressly to keep it ;
and that the church so built was con-
sidered as the safety, the palladium as
it were, of the city of Constantinople.
He mentions another fact which is im-
portant ; that is, that there were at
that time in Constantinople three
other churches, each built expressly
for the preservation of one relic of
our Lady. I mention these facts for
this purpose : there is a very prevalent
idea, I believe among Catholics as well
as certainly among Protestants, that
what may be called the great tide of
relics came into Europe through the
crusades ; that the poor ignorant cru-
saders, who were more able to handle
a sword than to use their discretion,
were imposed upon, and bought any-
thing that was offered to them at any
price, and so deluged Europe with
spurious and false relics. Now, you
will observe, that all that I have been
relating is referred to an age quite an-
terior to the crusades, or to any move-
ment of the west into the east. It is
true that Nicephorus Calixtus is a
comparatively modern writer, but he
could bear testimony to churches that
were existing, and tell by whom they
were built. The mere writer of a
hand-book can trace out the history of
a church or any other public monu-
ment which is before the eyes of all :
but he was not of that character : he
was a historian, and he tells us that
there were* three churches in Con-
stantinople, just as we might say that
* Hist. Eccles., lib. xv., cap. xxiv.
* Hist. Ecdes., lib. xv., cap. xxv., xxvi.
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
451
in Rome there is the church of Santa
Croce, built by Constantine to preserve
the relics of the cross. Nobody can
doubt that the church was built for
the relic, that the relic was deposited
there, and that earth from the Holy
Land was put into its chapel. Monu-
ments like that preserve their own his-
tory. Therefore, when this writer tells
us that these churches existed from
that period, we can hardly doubt that
he could arrive at a knowledge of such
facts ; and at any rate it removes the
impression that these wonderful relics
were merely the sweepings, as it were,
of Palestine during a fervent and pious
but at the same time ignorant and un-
enlightened age.
Thus, we get the history so far.
Now, we know that there was no one
who valued relics to such an extent as
Charlemagne. We see, by Aix-la-
Chapelle and other places, what ex-
ceedingly curious relics he collected.
I am not here to defend them individ-
ually, because I do not know their his-
tory ; nor is it to our purpose. He
was in close correspondence with the
east, from which he received large
presents ; for it was very well known
what he valued most. There was a
particular reason for this. The Em-
press Irene at that time (Charlemagne
died in 814) wished to have his daugh-
ter Rothrude in marriage for her son
Porphyrogenitus, and later offered her
own hand to himself.
Many relics existed at the time of
this correspondence; and as presents
are now made of Arab horses and
China services, so were they then
made of relics, which, if true, mon-
archs preferred to anything else. Now,
there is every reason to suppose that
among the presents sent by Irene to
Charlemagne was this veil or tunic.*
There is in the cathedral of Chartres
a window expressly commemorating
the passage of this relic from the east
to Chartres. Secondly, the relic, as
you will see later, was, up to a few
years ago, wrapped in a veil of gauze,
* See note at p. 455.
which was entirely covered with By-
zantine work in gold and in silk, which
had never been taken off; and it was
wrapped up in it till the last time it
was verified. We have every reason
to suppose that it had come from Con-
stantinople, and that it was delivered
at Chartres in that covering. In the
third place, it is historical there is
no question about it, for all chronicles
and authorities agree upon the point
that Charles the Bald, the grandson
of Charlemagne, being obliged to leave
Aix-la-Chapelle, in consequence of go-
ing to settle in France, which was the
portion of the empire allotted to him,
took the relic away, and deposited it
in the cathedral of Chartres. So that,
as far as we can trace a transaction of
this sort, there seems to be as much
evidence as would be accepted in re-
spect to the transmission of any object
of a profane character from one coun-
try to another. There is the corre-
spondence of the workmanship ; there
are the records of the place ; and there
is the fact that the relics were brought
from Aix-la-Chapelle, where Charle-
magne had collected so many relics
that he had received from Constanti-
nople. Mabillon, who certainly is an
authority in matters of ecclesiastical
history, says it would be the greatest
rashness to deny the genuineness of
this relic. "Who will presume to
deny that it is real and genuine ?"
This is in a letter to the bishop of
Blois, in which he is expressly treat-
ing the subject of discerning true relics.
Everything so far, therefore, helps to
give authenticity to this extraordinary
relic which made Chartres a place of
immense pilgrimage.
Bringing it down so far, we may
ask, what was the common, and we
may say the vulgar, opinion of the
people regarding it ? It had never
been opened, and was never seen until
the end of the last century. The con-
sequence was, that it was called by the
name I have mentioned. It was repre-
sented as a sort of tunic. It was the
custom to make tunics of that form,
which were laid upon the shrine and
452
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables,
worn in devotion ; they were sent spe-
cially to ladies of great rank, and were
so held in veneration that it was the
rule, that if any person going to fight
a duel had on one of these chemisettes,
as they were called, he must take it
off; as it was supposed his rival had
not fair play so long as he carried it
upon him. In giving an account of
the building I forgot to mention the
wonderful miracles in connection with
the relic there, which are believed by
everybody to have taken place. It is
even on record that the Chevalier sans
peur et sans reproche went to Chartres
pour sefaire enchemiser before he went
to war.
In 1712, we find that the relic was
in a cedar case richly ornamented with
gold and jewels the original case in
which it had arrived. The wood being
worm-eaten and crumbling, it was
thought proper to remove and clean
it, and put it in some better place.
The cedar case had no opening by
which it could in any way be ex-
amined, and the bishop of the time,
Mgr. de Merinville, proposed to open
it. He chose a jury of the most re-
spectable inhabitants of the town, cler-
gy and laity, to assist. The box was
unclosed, and the relic was found wrap-
ped up, as I have said, in the veil of
Byzantine work. The veil was not
unclosed, so that they did not see the
relic itself. The debris of the box was
swept away, and the relic, as it was,
was put into a silver case that had been
prepared ; this was locked up, and
then deposited in a larger shrine dis-
tinct from all the other relics. The
proces verbal still exists in the ar-
chives of Chartres giving an account
of all that took place, from which the
account I have given you is taken.
Infidelity was then spreading in
France, and, as you may know, a
great deal of ridicule was thrown on
this relic. It was said that such a
garment was not worn in those days,
that the system of dress was quite dif-
ferent, and that it was absurd to im-
agine any article like this. Now, as
no one had seen the relic, there was
no way of answering these reproaches.
In 1793, three commissioners came
from the French government, went
into the sacristy, and imperiously de-
sired to look at the relic ; it was very
richly enshrined, and they intended to
carry it off. The shrine was brought
to them, as the proces verbal of the
second examination relates, when they
seemed to be seized with a certain
awe, and said, " We will not touch it ;
let it be opened by priests." Two
priests were ordered to open the box,
and they did so. These men had come
prepared to have a good laugh, and
scoffing at this wonderful relic. For
antiquarians had been saying that such
inward clothing was not known so ear-
ly as the first century, but that instead
a long veil used to be wrapped round
the body.
Well, they found a long piece of
cloth four and a half ells in length
exactly what had been said should be
the proper garment. The commission-
ers were startled and amazed, and said,
" It is clear that this is not the relic the
people have imagined; perhaps it is
all an imposture." They then cut off
a considerable piece and sent it to
the Abbe Barthelemy, author of the
" Travels of Anacharsis " and mem-
ber of the Institute a man who had
made the customs and usages of an-
tiquity his study; they did not tell
him where it came from, but desired
him to give an opinion of what it
might be. He returned this answer :
that it must be about 2,000 years old,
and that from the description given
him it appeared to be exactly like
what the ladies in the East wear at
this day, and always have worn that
is, a veil which went over the head,
across the chest, and then involved the
whole body, being the first dress worn.
I ask, could a verification be more com-
plete than this ? And, recollect, it
comes entirely from enemies. It was
not the bishop or clergy that sought it.
The relic was in the hands of those
three infidel commissioners, who sent
a portion to Paris without saying or
giving any hint of what it was (they
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
453
wanted to make out that the whole
was an imposture), and the answer
was returned which I have mentioned,
and which is contained in the proces
in the archives of the episcopal palace
at Chartres. If any one wants to read
the whole history, I refer him to a most
interesting book just published by the
cure of St. Sulpice (Abbe Hamon),
entitled " Notre Dame de France, ou
Histoire du Culte de la Sainte Vierge
en France." The first volume, the
only one out, contains the history of
the dioceses of the province of Paris.
I will proceed to a second popular
charge, and it is one the opportunity
of easily verifying which may never
occur again. It refers to the head of
St. John the Baptist, or, shall I say, to
the three heads of St. John the Bap-
tist? Because, if you read English
travellers of the old stamp, like For-
syth, you will find that they make
coarse jokes about it. Forsyth, I
think, says something about Cerberus ;
but more gravely it has been said, that
St. John must have had three heads
one being at Amiens, one at Genoa,
and another at Rome ; that at each
place they are equally positive in their
claims ; and that there is no way of
explaining this but by supposing that
St. John was a triceps.
When we speak of a body you can
easily imagine that one piece may be
in one place, another in another, a third
elsewhere, and so on. That is the
common way in which we say that the
bodies of saints are multiplied ; because
the Church considers that the place
which contains the head or one of the
larger limbs of a saint, or the part in
which, if a martyr, he was killed or
received his death-wound, has the right
of keeping his festival and honoring
him just as if it had the whole body.
Therefore, in cathedrals and places
where festivals are held in honor of
a particular saint, where they have
relics, which have perhaps been sealed
up for years, and never examined,
they often speak as if they have the
entire body. This is a common prac-
tice, and if I had time I might give
you an interesting exemplification of
it.* Suffice it to say, that according
to . travellers there are three heads of
Si. John. Now as I have said, a body
can be divided, but you can hardly
imagine this to be the case with a
head.
A very interesting old English trav-
eller Sir John Mandeville went into
the East very early, and returned in
1366 ; soon after which, almost as soon
as any books were published, his trav-
els appeared. He is a very well-
known writer. Of course you must
not expect that accuracy in his works
which a person would now exhibit
who has books at his command and
all the conveniences for travelling.
He was not a profound scholar: he
believes almost whatever is told him,
so what we must do is to let him guide
us as well as he can, and endeavor to
judge how far he is right. I will read
you an extract, then, from Sir John
Mandeville :f
" From thence we go up to Samaria,
which is now called Sebaste ; it is the
chief city of that country. There was
wont to be the head of St. John the
Baptist inclosed in the wall ; but the
Emperor Theodosius had it drawn out,
and found it wrapped in a little cloth,
all bloody ; and so he carried it to Con-
stantinople ; and the hinder part of the
head is still at Constantinople ; and the
fore part of the head to under the chin,
under the church of St. Silvester, where
are nuns ; and it is yet all broiled, as
though it were half burnt ; for the
Emperor Julian above mentioned, of
his wickedness and malice, burned
that part with the other bones, as may
still be seen ; and this thing hath been
proved both by popes and emperors.
And the jaws beneath which hold to
the chin, and a part of the ashes, and
the platter on which the head was laid
when it was smitten off, are at Genoa ;
and the Genoese make a great feast
in honor of it, and so do the Saracens
also. And some men say that the
* Since published in The Month, " Story of a
French Officer. 1 ' [See CATH. WORLD, No. 1.]
t " Travels," chap, ix., p. 182. Ed. Bohn.
454
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
head of St. John is at Amiens in
Picardy; and other men say that it
is the head of St. John the bishop.
I know not which is correct, but God
knows ; but however men worship it,
the blessed St. John is satisfied."
This is a true Catholic sentiment.
Right or wrong, all mean to honor St.
John, and there is an end of it. We
could not expect a traveller going
through the country like Sir John,
not visiting every place, but hearing
one thing from one and another from
another, to tell us the exact full truth.
But we have here two very important
points gained. First, we have the
singular fact of the division of the
head at all. We occasionally hear of
the head of a saint being at a particu-
lar place, but seldom of a part of a
head being in one place and a part
in another. Here we have an unpre-
judiced traveller going into the East;
he comes to the place where the head
of St. John used to be kept, and he
finds there the tradition that it was
divided into three parts, one of which
was at Constantinople, one at Genoa,
and another at Rome. Then he adds,
" Other people say that the head is at
Amiens." So much Sir John Mande-
ville further informs us : he mentions
the places where it was reported the
head was, telling us that it was divided
into three.
This is a statement worthy of being
verified. It was made a long time
ago, and yet the tradition remains the
same. It was as well believed in the
thirteenth century in the East, at Se-
baste, as it is in Europe at the present
moment.
The church of S. Silvestro in Capite,
which many of you remember, is a
small church on the east side of the
Corso, entered by a sort of vestibule :
it has an atrium or court, with arches
round, and dwellings for the chaplains ;
the outer gates can be shut at night so
as to prevent completely any access to
the church. The rest is an immense
building, belonging to the nuns, run-
ning out toward the Propaganda.
When the republicans in the late in-
vasion got hold of Rome, the first
thing, of course, which they did was
to turn out the monks and nuns right
and left, to make barracks; and the
poor nuns of S. Silvestro were or-
dered to move. The head of St. John
is in a shrine which looks very bril-
liant, but is poor in reality. I think
it is exposed high beyond the altar,
and the nuns kept it in jealous custody
in their house. The republicans sent
away the nuns in the middle of the
night, at ten or eleven o'clock, just as
they were, with what clothes they could
get made into bundles : there were car-
riages at the door to send them off to
some other convent, without the slight-
est warning or notice. The poor crea-
tures were ordered to take up their
abode in the convent of St. Puden-
tiana. The only thing they thought
of was their relic, and that they car-
ried with them. The good nuns re-
ceived them though late at night, and
did what they could to give them good
cheer ; they gave up one of their dor-
mitories to them, putting themselves to
immense inconvenience.
When the French came to Rome,
they found S. Silvestro so useful a
building for public purposes that they
continued to hold it, but permitted the
nuns to occupy some rooms near the
church. I was in Rome while they
were still at my titular church, and
went to visit the nuns attached to it.
Their guests asked, " Would you not
like to see our relic of St. John ?" I
said, " Certainly I should ; perhaps I
shall never have another opportunity."
I do not suppose it had been out of
their house for hundreds of years.
There is a chapel within the convent
which the nuns of St. Pudentiana
consider a sacred oratory, having a
miraculous picture there, to which
they are much attached ; and in this
they kept the shrine. On examination
I found that there was no part of the
head except the back. It is said in
the extract I have read to you that
the front part of the head is at Rome;
but it is the back of the skull merely ;
the rest is filled up with some stuffing
The Truth of Supposed Legends and Fables.
455
and silk over it. The nuns have but
a third of the head ; and the assertion
that they pretend to possess the head,
which travellers make, is clearly false.
I can say from my own ocular inspec-
tion that it is but the third part the
back part, which is the most interest-
ing, because there the stroke of mar-
tyrdom fell. I was certainly glad of
this fortunate opportunity of verifying
the relic.
Some time afterward I was at Am-
iens. I was very intimate with the
late bishop, and spent some days with
him. One day he said to me, " Would
you wish to see our head of St. John?"
" Yes," I replied, " I should much de-
sire it." "Well," he said, "we will
wait till the afternoon; then I will
have the gates of the cathedral
closed, that we may examine it at
leisure."
We dined early, and went into the
chapel of the Blessed Sacrament,
where the relic was exposed, with
candles. After saying prayers, it was
brought, and I had it in my hands ; it
was nothing but the mask, the middle
and back portions being totally want-
ing. You could almost trace the ex-
pression and character of the counte-
nance in the bony structure. It was
of the same size and color as the por-
tion which I had seen at St. Puden-
tiana ; but the remarkable thing about
it is that there are stiletto marks in
the face. We are told by Fathers,
that Herodias stabbed the head with
a bodkin when she got it into her
hand, and here are the marks of such
an operation visible. You could al-
most say that you had seen him as he
was alive. I have not seen the third
fragment, but I can hardly doubt that
it is a portion of the same head, and
that it would comprise the parts, the
chin and the jaw, because there is no
lower jaw in the front part, which is a
mere mask. The only other claimant
is Genoa, and its relic I have not seen.
But this is exactly the portion allotted
by Mandeville to that city. I have,
however, had the satisfaction of per-
sonally verifying two of the relics,
each of which comprises a third part
of the head, leaving for the other re-
mainder exactly the place which our
old traveller allots to it.
*** Mr. Cashel Hoey, one of our learned con-
tributors, has kindly furnished me with a most
interesting corroboration of this account. It ia
an extract from the Revue Archeologique, new
series, Jan. 1861, p. 36, in a paper by M. Louis
Moland, entitled u Charlemagne a Constantino-^
pie," etc., giving an account of a MS. in the
library of the Arsenal, anterior to the thirteenth
century.
The following is the account of the relic which
the emperor is stated to have brought from Con-
stantinople to Aix-la-Chapelle :
"Li empereres prist les saintuaires tot en dis-
ant ses orisons, si les mist en eskerpes (echarpes)
totes de drap de soie et si les enportamolt sainte-
ment avoec lui trosqu Ais la Capele en I'eglise
Nostre Dame qu'il avoit ediflie. La fu establis
par 1'apostolie (Le Pape) et par les archevesques
et les evesques as pelerins h grans pardons, qui
por Deu i venoient. Oies une partie des reliques.
que li empereres ot aportees : il i fu la moities
de la cororje dont Nostre Sires fu corones des
poignans espines. Et si i ot des claus dont
Nostre Sires fu atachies en la crois al jor que li
Jui le crucifierent. Et si i ot de la vraie crois
uue pieche et del suaire Nostre Segnor, o le che-
mise Nostre Dame"
456
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
From The Month.
MADAME SWETCHINE AND HER SALON.
THE salons of Paris form a distinct-
ive feature of French society. No-
where else is the same thing exactly
to be found. Frenchwomen have a
peculiar gift for conversation, due in a
great measure to their graceful lan-
guage, with its delicate shades of ex-
pression. We are prone to smile at
French sentimentality, or to apply
their own word verbiage, prefacing it
with unmeaning. But when the epi-
thet does truly fit, it is because the
real thing has been abused, not because
it does not exist. Conversation in
France is cultivated as an art, just the
same as epistolary style : both form an
important branch of female education.
When the soil is bad, the attempt at
culture only betrays more clearly
native poverty ; in other words, a
mind of little thought or taste becomes
ridiculous in straining after the ex-
pression of what it can neither con-
ceive nor feel. But when a well-
informed and cultivated intelligence
blossoms into keen appreciation of the
beautiful, no language so delicately as
French conveys minute shades of
thought and feeling. 'Tis not repeti-
tion, then, but variety ; and when such
an instrument is handled with feminine
tact, perfection in its kind is achieved.
No wonder that salons are exclusively
French from the days of Julie de Ram-
bouillet down to Madame Recamier.
No wonder at the influence exercised
by a woman who really has a salon.
Few, very few, arrive at this result.
Thousands may receive ; hundreds
glitter in the gay world of fashion, re-
nowned for beauty, wit, good dressing,
or good parties ; two or three at most
in a century are the presiding spirits
of their social circles, and that is what
constitutes having a salon. No one
quality alone will do it ; a combination
is required ; not always the same, but
one or two together, whichsoever, at-
tracting sympathy and producing influ-
ence. Influence the effect, not the
quality itself can never be absent.
Strangers settling in Paris have had
their salon ; but we do not know that
they could transport it with them to
any other atmosphere. Beside Ma-
dame Recamier whose rare beauty,
joined to her goodness and her tact,
helped to form her salon two other
women in our day, or just before it, have
been the leading stars of their circles.
Others, no doubt, there are; but the
names of these three have escaped be-
yond Paris. Strange to say, two are
foreigners, and both of these Russians.
Except, however, as regards country
and influence, no comparison can of
course be established between the
Princess Lieven and Madame Swet-
chine. One sought and gained a politi-
cal object ; the other accepted circum-
stances, and found them fame.
Madame Swetchine was already
thirty-four years of age when she ar-
rived in Paris. She had no beauty,
and no pretensions to wit ; indeed, her
timidity was such that her expressions
were always obscure when she began
to speak ; and it was only by degrees,
as she went on, that she gathered con-
fidence, and then her language flowed
with ease, betraying, rather than fully
revealing, the deep current of thought
beneath. Still her advantages were
many. As regards outward circum-
stances, she possessed good birth and
high position ; her manners were such
as the early culture of a polished court
bestows ; she was accustomed to wield
a large fortune, and to hold a promi-
nent place in the social world. These
were advantages that might be fairly
set against the absence of beauty,
wondrous as is that charm : beside,
her. person was not unpleasing. Though
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
457
small, she was graceful in her motions ;
despite little blue eyes, rather irregu-
lar, and a nose of Calmuck form, her
face wore a soft kindly expression that
attracted sympathy. Her complexion
was remarkably fresh and clear.
But Madame Swetchine possessed
innate qualities of heart and mind of
the rarest description, that only un-
folded themselves gradually the more
closely she could be observed. Unlike
mankind in general, the better she was
known, the more was she beloved and
admired. Her intelligence of richly-
varied powers had been carefully cul-
tivated; what she acquired in youth,
with the aid of masters, had been since
matured by her own unceasing study,
and by reading of the most widely-dis-
cursive character. Not only was she
familiar with ancient and modern liter-
atures, perusing them in their originals,
but she also conversed fluently in all the
languages of Europe. Her imagina-
tion, enthusiastic and wild almost, as
belongs to the north, successfully
sought for outpourings, both in music
and painting. By a strange combina-
tion, no natural quality of mind was
more remarkable in Madame Swet-
chine than her good sense : the only
feature that shone above it was her
eminent gift of piety.
But virtues, and particularly relig-
ious virtues, proceed from the heart
quite as much as from the intelligence;
often, indeed, far more especially.
Madame Swetchine possessed the
warmest feelings, a nature both loving
and expansive. As daughter, wife,
and friend she evinced rare devotion ;
but the sentiment and thought that
most filled heart and mind was un-
doubtedly her love for God.
What a rich assemblage of qualities
is here ! how strange that they should
go to make up a Parisian woman of
fashion ! Such, however, in its most
usual acceptation, Madame Swetchine
never was : she never mingled in the
light brilliant world ; but she did form
the centre of attraction to a large cir-
cle she had her salon.
General Swetchine, deeply wounded
by the emperor, who lent too ready
credence to unfounded reports whis-
pered against so faithful a subject,
would not stoop to justify himself,
but quitted Russia in disgust, accom-
panied by his wife. When they reach-
ed Paris, in the spring of 1816, Louis
XVIII. was on the throne of France.
Madame Swetchine found now restored
to their high positions those friends of
her youth whom as exiles she had
known and loved at St. Petersburg.
Her place was naturally amongst them ;
new intimacies were soon added to the
old. The Duchesse de Duras, author-
ess of Ourika, and friend of Madame
de Stae'l, gained a strong hold on her
affections. Yet it did not seem at first
as if Madame Swetchine were destined
to so much influence in French society.
Modesty made her reserved. Madame
de Stae'l had been invited to meet her
at a small dinner-party ; and Madame
Swetchine, though seated opposite, was
intimidated, and allowed the meal to
pass over without speaking or scarcely
raising her eyes. Afterward Madame
de Stae'l came up and said, "I had
been told that you desired my ac-
quaintance ; was I misinformed ?"
" By no means," was the reply ; " but
it is customary for royalty to speak
first." Such was the homage she paid
to genius.
At first it had seemed uncertain how
long General and Madame Swetchine
might remain absent from Russia ; but
after the lapse of a few years they took
up their definite residence in Paris.
Their hotel, Rue St. Dominique, was
hired on a long lease, and fitted up as
a permanent abode. They sent for
their pictures and other articles from
St. Petersburg. The general oc-
cupied the ground-floor ; Madame
Swetchine took the rooms above.
Her apartments consisted of a salon
and a library commanding an exten-
sive view of gardens. Here it was
that her friends used to assemble ;
not many at a time, but successively.
She never gave soirees, and her din-
ner-parties consisted of a few intimates
round a small table. Her hours for
458
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
reception were every day from three
till six, and then from nine till mid-
night. Debarred by her health from
paying visits, she contented herself
with receiving in this manner; and
for thirty years a continuous stream
of persons was for ever passing on
through her rooms. She had not
sought to form it ; but there was her
salon, and one of a peculiar character.
Two features distinguished it: the
religious tone that prevailed, and the
absence of party spirit. Madame
Swetchine herself was eminently re-
ligious, and she had a large way of
viewing all things. Her influence,
though partly moral and intellectual,
was ever chiefly religious; and she
gave that presiding characteristic to
the atmosphere around. So long as
faith and morality were not attacked,
all other points she considered second-
ary, and admitted the widest diversity
of opinion on them. Her own views
on all subjects were firmly held, and
she expressed them with freedom.
There could be no mistake about it.
In religion she was a strict Catholic,
and in philosophy Christian ; in poli-
tics she preferred a liberal monarchy;
but far from seeking to give that color
to her salon, she would not allow any
friend holding the same views to try
to impose them on others. This was
equally the case in matters of art and
taste ; she tolerated nothing exclusive ;
but the principle is much more difficult
to be followed out when applied to poli-
tics, which involve interests of such
magnitude, appealing to all the pas-
sions, and especially in such an ex-
citable atmosphere as that of Paris.
Nothing better shows Madame Swet-
chine's tact and gentleness of temper
than her intimacies with men of such
different stamps, and the way in which
she made them to a certain extent
amalgamate. But the above qualities
would have failed to do it, had their
spring been a worldly one ; hers
flowed truly from the Christian char-
ity with which her whole soul was
full. In this she and her salon were
unique.
She lived to see two great revolu-
tions in France : the one of 1830, and
that which substituted the republic for
Louis Philippe, ending with the em-
pire. Members of all these regimes
were among her visitors. Ministers
of state under the Restoration, those
who embraced the Orleans cause, men
belonging to the republican govern-
ment, ambassadors from most of the
foreign courts in Europe ; all these in
turn enjoyed her conversation, some
her esteem or affection, according to
the degrees of intimacy and sympathy.
Her own feelings, as well as convic-
tions, lay with legitimists ; but others
were no less welcomed, and some of
various parties were highly valued.
True, however, to religion, she never
gave her friendship to men not devoted
to the interests of the Church. Her
great object was to do good to souls,
but in a quiet, unostentatious, womanly
way ; gently leading to virtue, never
inculcating it. This of course became
more exclusively her province as she
grew older.
She was truly liberal in all her sen-
timents ; not assuredly from indiffer-
ence, but through a large philosophy
of spirit that allowed for diversities of
opinion in all things not essential. At
the same time her own convictions were
unflinchingly avowed, as well as her
ideas and tastes in smaller matters.
The men with whom she was most
intimate have all more or less been
known to fame, and are eminent also
for their religious spirit. We might
begin a list with Monsieur de Maistre
at St. Petersburg, when she was but
twenty-five ; then following her to
Paris, see her make acquaintance with
his friend Monsieur de Bonald ; exer-
cise maternal influence over MM. de
Falloux, de Montalembert, and Lacor-
daire ; and finally wind up with Donoso
Cortes, the Marquis de Valdegamas,
Prince Albert de Broglie, and Alexis
de Tocqueville.
Each one of the distinguished per-
sonages above has figured prominently
on the great stage, more or less re-
nowned in politics and letters, and al-
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
459
ways holding a high moral character.
It may seem fastidious to recall their
titles to fame. In our day, when all
are acquainted with continental litera-
ture, who is not familiar with the witty
author of the Soirees de St.Petersbourg,
although it be permitted somewhat to
ignore the rather dry philosophical
works of his friend de Bonald ? Mon-
sieur de Falloux, with filial love, has
raised a monument to Madame Swet-
chine that will endure beside his life of
Pope Pius V., and jointly with the re-
membrance of his political integrity.
Who that has followed the late history
of Europe does not know Donoso
Cortes, the great orator, whose famous
three discourses in the Spanish cham-
bers instantaneously reached so far
and wide, whose written style is the
very music of that rich Castilian idiom,
and whose liberal political views kept
pace with his large Catholic heart?
Soeur Rosalie and Madame Swetchine
together soothed his dying hours. The
author of La Democratic en Amerique
has been indiscreetly praised, but none
can deny his ability, Prince Albert de
Broglie, doctrinaire in his views, still
advocates with talent the cause of re-
ligion and of constitutional monarchy.
These two latter were among the latest
acquisitions to Madame Swetchine's
salon.
MM. de Montalembert and de Fal-
loux Avere like her sons ; she knew
them from their early manhood, called
them by their Christian names, loved
and counselled them as any mother
might. But if her influence over them
was so salutary, we 'cannot help ad-
miring most the unswerving attach-
ment of these young men to her ; Ma-
dame Swetchine's letters show her ex-
postulating with Comte de Montalem-
bert, then little past twenty, and en-
deavoring to convince him he is wrong.
He will not yield ; but acknowledges
afterward the justness of her views,
and allows now these letters to be pub-
lished. Alfred de Falloux is the son
sent for when danger seems impending ;
he tends her dying couch in that same
salon where he had so often and for so
many years walked with her conversing ;
to him she confides her papers and last
wishes.
The celebrated Pere Lacordaire was
very dear to her ; and she certainly
acted the part of a mother toward him.
Monsieur de Montalembert presented
him to her when Abbe Lacordaire was
but twenty-eight, and quite unknown.
His genius which she immediately
discerned and his ardent soul in-
terested her wonderfully. Soon after
he became connected, through Abbe de
Lamennais, with the journal L'Avenir;
by his own generous and oft-repeated
avowal she kept him from any deviation
at this trying moment. " You appeared
to me as the angel of the Lord," writes
he, " to a soul floating between life and
death, between earth and heaven."
Nor was this the only time. Her let-
ters show her following him with breath-
less interest through his chequered
career, and assuring him of her warm
undying friendship, "so long as he re-
mains faithful to God and his Church."
And this was a beautiful affection,
whichever side we view it. For more
than twenty years it lasted ; that is, for
the rest of her life. The ardent young
man is seen with the erratic impulses
of his glowing intellect, yet docile to
the motherly admonitions of his old
friend ; and by degrees, as time mellows
him somewhat though it never could
subdue nature altogether he sinks in-
to a calmer strain, still asking advice,
and taking it, with language more re-
spectful, though not a whit less tender.
Madame Swetchine brought to bear on
him a species of idolatry ; she admired
his genius to excess, and loved his fine
nature as any doting parent might ;
but these sentiments never rendered
her blind to his faults ; and she con-
stantly blended reproof with admiration,
while strenuously endeavoring to keep
him ever in the most perfect path. She
had the satisfaction of seeing him, ere
she departed this life, safely anchored
in a religious order, and the Dominicans
fairly re-established in France ; one of
her pre-occupations on her death-bed,
after bidding him adieu, was to secure
460
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
that his letters should be one day given
to the public. For thus she knew he
would be better appreciated.
Other names of men well-known in
the Parisian world of letters, or for their
deeds of charity, might here be added
as having adorned IIQT jsalon. There
was the Vicomte de Melun, connected
with every good work (literary or
other) in the French capital ; and her
two relatives, Prince Augustin Gali tzin
and Prince (afterward Pere) Gagarin.
The former still writes ; the latter, erst
a gay man of fashion and then meta-
morphosed into a zealous Jesuit, is now
devoting his missionary labors to Syria.
And lastly may be named one who,
though he never mingled in the world
of her salon, yet visited Madame
Swetchine and esteemed her greatly.
Pere de Ravignan presided at one time
in her house over meetings of charitable
ladies, who were afterward united with
the Enfants de Marie at the convent of
the Sacre Coeur.
Nor were her friendships exclusively
confined to men. Madame Swetchine
had not that foible into which many su-
perior women fall of affecting to de-
spise their own sex ; and which always
shows that they innately, unconsciously
often, separate their individual selves
from all the rest of womankind as alone
superior to it. Hers was a larger
view : she loved souls ; and " souls, "
says one of her aphorisms, " have
neither age nor sex." When shall we
in general begin to live here as we are
to do for ever hereafter ?
She had had her early friendships
in Russia, and most passionate they
were ; too girlish in their romantic
enthusiasm, too wordily tender in ex-
pression ; but time mellowed these af-
fections, without wearing them out.
The two principal women-friends of
her youth in Russia, after her sister,
were Roxandre Stourdja, a Greek by
birth, afterward Comtesse Edlinz, and
the Comtesse de Nesselrode. Both of
these in later years visited her Paris
salon. But she also formed several
new French intimacies. Her grief for
the loss of Madame de Duras, when
death deprived her of that friend, was
a little softened by her warm sympa-
thy for the two daughters left, Mes-
dames de Rauzan and de la Roche-
jacquelain. If she saw most of the
former, the latter had for Madame
Swetchine a second tie through her
early marriage with a grandson of the
Princesse de Tarente, whom Madame
Swetchine had so revered in her girl-
ish days at St. Petersburg. Both
the Duchesse de Rauzan and Com-
tesse de la Rochejacquelain were very
beautiful; and Madame Swetchine
dearly loved beauty, especially when
combined, as in them, with grace and
elegance, cleverness and piety. For
both the sisters were remarkable : one
had more fascinating softness united
with good sense ; the other was more
witty and brilliant. The last country-
house visited by Madame Swetchine
shortly before her death was the cha-
teau de Fleury, belonging to Madame
de la Rochejacquelain, where we
read that she loved to find still me-
mentos of the Princesse de Tarente.
Madame Swetchine was very inti-
mate with Madame Recamier, her fel-
low-star as leader of a contemporary
salon. She greatly prized her worth.
Another friend much loved was the
Comtesse de Gontant Biron, in youth
eminent for her beauty, and always
for her many virtues. Among younger
women distinguished by Madame
Swetchine were Mrs. Craven, nee la
Ferronaye ; the Princess Wittgen-
stein, lovely as clever, a Russian by
birth, and a convert to the Catholic
Church ; and quite at the last period,
the Duchess of Hamilton.
She was always partial to youth,
taking a warm interest in anything
that might minister to the welfare or
pleasures of that age. Thus she liked
the young women of her acquaintance
to be well dressed, and would admire
their taste or try to improve it, even
in that respect, with perfectly motherly
solicitude. Those going to balls fre-
quently stopped on th^ir way to show
their toilettes to Madame Swetchine ;
and not seldom, too, they would re-
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
461
turn in the morning to ask advice
on graver matters, or to display the
progress of their children. The good
Madame Swetchine did to persons of
the world by quiet friendly counsel is
incalculable ; she never spared the
truth when she thought it could be of
use, and as she had great perspicacity,
she was not often deceived. Beside,
her natural penetration became yet
keener, not only by long experience,
but also by the numerous confidences
she received from the many souls in a
measure laid bare before her. M. de
Falloux has well said that she " pos-
sessed the science of souls, as savants
do that of bodies." However one
might be pained at what she said, it
was impossible to feel wounded ; her
manner was so kind, and her rectitude
of intention so evident. And thus did
she render her salon useful : living in
public, as it might appear, surrounded
chiefly by the great ones of earth, her
thought was yet ever with God, and
she positively worked for him day by
day without even quitting those few
rooms. Nay, so completely is Ma-
dame Swetchine identified with her
salon for those who knew her through
any part of the thirty years spent in
Paris, that it is difficult for our idea to
separate her from it.
Even materially speaking she sel-
left it. With a simplicity that
ms strange indeed to our English
notions, she caused her little iron bed-
stead to be set up every night in one
of her reception-rooms ; each morning
it was doubled up again and consigned
to a closet. During her last illness it
was just the same ; she lay in her
salon, the only difference being that
then the bed remained permanently.
Not an iota else was changed in the
aspect of her apartment ; no table was
near the sick-couch with glass or cup
ready to hand ; what she wanted in
this way she signed for to a deaf-and-
dumb attendant, Parisse, whose grate-
ful eyes were ever fixed upon her bene-
factress, to divine or anticipate what
might be wished. And there, too, she
died.
j
seen
To us with our exclusive family
feelings, or indeed to the general hu-
man sentiment that courts the utmost
privacy for that solemn closing scene,
there is something which jars in the
account of Madame Swetchine's last
days on earth. Doubtless all "the con-
solations of religion were there to hal-
low her dying moments ; she continued
to the last to devote long hours to
prayer ; and by an enviable privilege
she possessed a domestic chapel blessed
with the perpetual presence of the
Blessed Sacrament ; but what strikes
us strangely is, that her salon had
chanced to remain open while extreme
unction was being administered ; and
so, as it was her usual reception hour,
the few friends in Paris at that season
(Septembe 1 ') continued to drop in one
by one, and kneeling, each new-comer
behind the other, prayed with and
for her. Those last visitors were
Pere Chocarn, prior of the Dominicans ;
Pere Gagarin ; Mesdames Fredro, de
Meyendorf, and Craven ; Messieurs
de Broglie, de Falloux, de Melun, and
Zermolof. But the strange feeling we
cannot help experiencing must be rea-
soned with. Her salon and her friends
were to Madame Swetchine home and
family.
And now it might seem that no-
thing more could be said of her;
but, in truth, a very small portion
has yet been expressed. Beside the
six hours devoted to reception, the
day counted eighteen more. There
were religious duties to be performed,
and home duties no less imperative ;
there were the poor to be visited, and
there were the claims of study, which
Madame Swetchine never neglected
up to the latest period of existence.
All these calls upon her time were
recognized by conscience, and there-
fore duly responded to. Madame Swet-
chine was, of course, an early riser ;
by eight or nine o'clock she had heard
mass, visited her poor, and was ready
to commence the business of the day.
After breakfast, an hour or two were
devoted to General Swetchine, who
liked her to read to him. During the
462
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
last fifteen years of his life, and his
death only preceded hers seven years,
he had become so deaf as to enjoy
general society but little ; but he would
not allow her to give up her recep-
tions on that account, as she wished
to do. The rest of the morning was
employed in study with strictly closed
doors, only opened to cases of misfor-
tune, and these Madame Swetchine
never considered as intrusions. Her
confidential servant knew it well,
and did not scruple to disturb her
when real want or sorrow begged for
admittance. Her persevering love of
study is well illustrated by her own
assurance, but a few months before
her death, that even then she never
sat down to her writing-table without
"feeling her heart beat with joy." She
advised Mrs. Craven always to reserve
a few morning hours for study, saying
the quality of time was different at
that period of day.
Several hours in the evening were
again spent with the general. At mid-
night, when all visitors departed, Ma-
dame Swetchine retired to rest; but
her repose never lasted much beyond
two in the morning. Painful infirmi-
ties made her suffer all day long, and
at night debarred her from sleep. Mo-
tion alone brought comparative ease,
and therefore it was that, with intimate
friends, she carried on conversation
walking up and down her rooms. At
night, suffocation increased, as also a
nervous kind of excitement. It was
at these hours, during the intervals
snatched from pain, that she mostly
composed the writings which M. de
Falloux has given to the world. No
wonder that they bear the impress of
the cross ; nor can we marvel that
she speaks feelingly and scientifically
of resignation, for good need had she
to practise that. Such were usually
her twenty-four hours in Paris.
If we look back to the past, religion
had not always been the guiding prin-
ciple with Madame Swetchine. Her
father, M. Soymonof, was a disciple of
Voltaire, and he brought her up with-
out any pious training. She never
even repeated morning or evening
prayers ; simply attended the imperial
chapel as a matter of course. But
Voltaire did not excite her admiration ;
his infidelity was too cold, his immor-
ality too coarse ; it was Rousseau who
charmed her. His passionate language
pleased her imagination, and the pages
of La Nouvelle Heloise were almost
entirely transcribed, to be again and
again dwelt on. She could not detect
the sophistry beneath. But the first
deep sorrow of her youth taught her
prayer, and brought her to the feet of
God, never to abandon him. M. Soy-
monof was suddenly snatched from his
children by death, and Madame Swet-
chine, in the anguish of this bereave-
ment, turned to heaven for help and
consolation. Another sorrow, the na-
ture of which we ignore, overtook her
at this period; and, to use her own
expression, she "threw herself then
into the arms of God with such enthu-
siasm as naught else ever awakened."
The first effect was to render her a
fervent adherent of Russian ortho-
doxy; but her mind was too philo-
sophic to rest long satisfied with half
conclusions. She was struck with the
piety of French Catholics at St. Pe-
tersburg ; especially the modest merit
of the Chevalier d'Augard won her
highest esteem. Finally, after much
voluminous study, and despite the re-
sistance her rebellious spirit loved to
oppose to what she at first called M.
de Maistre's "dogmatic absolutism,"
she entered the Catholic Church.
The absurd idea that religion ren-
ders the heart cold has been too often
refuted to need any comment here.
But it may be said that Madame
Swetcliine affords another example of
how much devotion, by purifying hu-
man feeling, intensifies it also. God
had given her a loving nature; and as
her piety deepens with years, so does
her tender affection for family ties, for
friends, country, and finally for all the
poor, suffering, helpless ones of earth.
Her first great attachment was for her
father, and so her first great sorrow
was at his loss; for thus intimately
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
463
are love and pain ever conjoined in
this world. Another deep affection of
childhood and early youth, extending
through life, was for her sister. Ma-
dame Swetchine was quite a mother
to this child, ten years her junior.
When she married, she still kept her
with her ; and when the young sister
also married, becoming the wife of
Prince Gagarin, Madame Swetchine
became a mother also to the five boys
who were successively brought into
the world. " They are all my neph-
ews," would she say; "but the two
eldest are especially my children."
And well did they respond to the feel-
ings of their aunt, scarcely separating
her from their own parent. When she
shut herself up for study, it was their
amusement to try and get her out to
play with them ; if she remained deaf
to entreaties, the little boys would be-
siege her door, making deafening noises
with their playthings, until she mostly
yielded and let them in. A very short
time before her death, when Madame
Swetchine could hardly sit or speak,
she assembled a large family party of
young nephews and nieces, with their
preceptors and governesses, to dine at
her house, and was greatly diverted
with their innocent mirth.
There is something disappointing in
Madame Swetchine's marriage. The
favor enjoyed by Monsieur Soymonof
at court, her own position as maid-of-
honor to the Empress Marie, her birth,
fortune, extreme youth, and many in-
dividual qualifications, all alike ren-
dered her a fitting match for any man
in the empire. She certainly could
have chosen. Several asked her hand.
Amongst them was Count Strogonof,
young, rich, noble, and talented. But
Monsieur Soymonof preferred his own
friend General Swetchine ; and Sophie,
we are told, accepted with affectionate
deference her father's choice. The
general was twenty-five years her
senior, and though a fine military-look-
ing man, with noble soldier-like feel-
ings, scrupulously honorable, and with
much to win esteem, yet he does not
appear the sort of person suited to her
ardent enthusiastic temperament. He
possessed qualities fitted to command
the respect of a young wife ; but not
exactly those that win her to admira-
tion and love. Wherever honor was
not concerned, he lapsed into his natur-
al apathy : neither intellect nor imag-
ination were by any means on a par
with hers. And the girl of seventeen
who prematurely linked her fate with
his was full of romance : nurtured as
she had been by a fond ill-judging
father, with Rousseau to guide her
opening thought, her early dreams
probably had fed on some chivalrous
St. Preux with whom to course the
stream of life. Perhaps she was
dreaming of wedding some stern mili-
tary personification of the same. What
an awakening there must have been !
Was this the second deep sorrow that
clouded her nineteenth summer ? Was
there a struggle then ? Then did she
" fling herself into the arms of God "
victorious.
There is no clue to trace aught of
this save that which guides to the usual
windings of the human heart. Madame
Swetchine was far too nice in her sense
of duty, and far too delicate in feeling,
to allow any such admissions to escape.
The devotion of a life-time was
given unreservedly to General Swet-
chine. She never knew the happiness
of .becoming a mother, the tie that
would of all others have been dearest
to her heart. But the general had
bestowed paternal affection on a young
girl called Nadme Staeline, and Ma-
dame Swetchine also generously in-
sisted on adopting her. Nadine, wel-
comed to their roof, was treated by
Madame Swetchine like her own child.
Her attentions to the general con-
tinued unremitting. When he quitted
Russia, she accompanied him to Paris ;
when he was summoned to return,
though condemned to banishment from
St. Petersburg and Moscow, she pro-
fited by the respite gained to go alone
in her old age and infirmity to plead
his cause herself with the emperor.
Nor did she complain of the illness in
Russia that followed such fatigue, for
464
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
her suit was granted. Still less did
she regret the yet more serious mal-
ady that overtook her on returning to
Paris with the glad tidings that brought
such relief to his declining years. He
lived to the age of ninety-two, and her
grief at his loss was intense. Then
indeed it was the long companion of a
life-time that was taken from her ; and
we all know the tender attachment
that strengthens with years between
two persons who pass them together,
and mutually esteem each other.
The general, on his part, always
showed Madame Swetchine affection
that had gradually become mixed up
with a species of veneration. Though
he never thwarted her religious views,
he did not himself embrace them ; he
liked to see her Catholic friends, even
priests, and especially Pere de Ravig-
nan ; but remained satisfied with the
Greek Church. Beside her duties as
a wife, we have seen Madame Swet-
chine embrace those of a mother to-
ward young Nadine. She never slack-
ened in them until Nadine by her
marriage ceased to require their exer-
cise. Then she contrived to gratify
her maternal instincts by undertaking
the charge of Helene de Nesselrode,
the daughter of her friend, just aged
fourteen, and whose health demanded
a warmer climate than that of Russia.
Nor did she give her up till Helene
married.
Faithful to all the sentiments she
experienced, and warm in her friend-
ships, Madame Swetchine's most en-
thusiastic attachment appears to have
been for Mademoiselle Stourdja. It
dated from her early married life, and
continued through the whole of exist-
ence. At first it well-nigh provokes
a smile to see how, scarcely parted for
a few hours from her friend, she rushes
to her pen, that it may express the
pangs of separation. But girlhood has
not passed over, ere thought, reason,
duty, figure largely in the letters of
Madame Swetchine. Her correspond-
ence was extensive, and portrays her-
self just as she appeared in daily life
a wise, gentle, and affectionate friend
or counsellor, as circumstances might
dictate. Nowhere does this show
her to greater advantage than in the
letters too few, unfortunately that
we possess from Madame Swetchine
to Pere Lacordaire. The difference
between the two minds is striking.
Her good sense and exquisite judg-
ment contrast with his fiery impetu-
osity of thought and feeling ; it is evi-
dent that her soul moves in the serene
atmosphere of near union with God ;
while he, the religious of already some
years' standing, is yet battling with
strong human torrents. How gently
she calls him up a higher path, never
forgetting her womanhood nor his
priestly character. His tone becomes
much more religious ; with rare can-
dor and simplicity he sees and owns
past imperfections.
Patriotism was one of her ardent
sentiments, and she considered the feel-
ing as a duty incumbent on women no
less than men : of course, conduct was
to be in accordance. Like many Rus-
sians, love of country centred for her
in devotion to the sovereign ; and of
this her letters afford curious exempli-
fication. She calls Alexander " the
hero of humanity/' and, after enumer-
ating his many perfections, rejoices
that this young sage is our emperor !
When her husband was harshly sum-
moned back to Russia, that the disgrace
of exile from court might be inflicted,
she exclaims : " God knows that I
have never uttered a word of complaint
against my sovereigns, nor so much as
blamed them in heart !" Strange loy-
alty this to our modern western no-
tions !
Her tender charity toward the poor
began to show itself at an .early age.
At twenty-five in St. Petersburg she
was already the soul of all good works
there : nor did she content herself with
merely giving alms, nor even with seek-
ing to promote moral improvement;
her ingenious kindness displayed itself
also in endeavouring to procure pleas-
ure or innocent amusements. She took
flowers to those she visited, or tried to
adorn their rooms with pictures. The
Madame Swetchine and her Salon.
465
friendless deaf-and-dumb girl whom
she had adopted became her constant
attendant ; and Madame Swetchine
bore with her violence of temper until
the defect was partly overcome.
She undertook the charge of a poor
boy at Vichy, because his many mala-
dies and their repulsive nature ren-
dered him an object almost of disgust.
Each summer that she returned
there, he was among the first to greet
her, sure of the kindest welcome.
For years all his wants were supplied
at her expense ; and when he died,
she said he had now become her ben-
efactor.
To know Madame Swetchine thor-
oughly, her writings must be read.
They were never meant for publica-
tion, but are either self-communings, or
thoughts poured out before God. Some
of her aphorisms are touchingly deli-
cate in sentiment.
** Loving hearts are like paupers ;
they live on what is given them."
" Our alms form our sole riches,
and what we withhold constitutes our
real poverty."
Her prayers and meditations may be
used with advantage for spiritual read-
ing. Her unfinished treatise on Old
Age is very beautiful ; but more ex-
quisite still is that more complete one
on Resignation. Any passage chos-
en at random would show elevated
thought.
" The first degree of submission pro-
duces respectful acquiescence to God's
will; then this sentiment becomes
transformed into a pious and sincere
acceptation full of confidence ; until
confidence itself gradually acquires a
filial character."
" Faith," she says, " makes resigna-
tion reasonable, and hope renders it
easy."
" The love of God draws us away
from our long love of self."
" Patience is so near to resignation,
that it often seems one and the same
thing."
She acknowledges that the hard-
est trials of resignation are found in
those misfortunes irreparable here on
earth. Such are death, old age, phy-
sical infirmity, loss of worldly honor,
final impenitence. But the death of
those we love, she says, may be deeply
mourned in the midst of resignation ;
and our own certain death affords not
only a counterbalance to such afflic-
tion, but also to the other evils of life.
Old age is a halt between the world
overcome, and eternity about to begin.
Physical infirmities make us live in
the atmosphere of the gospel beati-
tudes ; we are then truly the poor
ones of Christ, or rather poverty itself.
The world sometimes forgets, but
never pardons ; what matters, provid-
ed virtue remain unscathed, or that it
be restored through repentance ?
" Suffering teaches us how to suffer ;
suffering teaches us how to live; suf-
fering teaches us how to die."
And here we take our leave of this
remarkable woman, who offers such a
bright example to pur generation.
466
Recent Irish Poetry.
From The Dublin Review.
RECENT IRISH POETRY.
Lays of the Western Gael and other
Poems. By SAMUEL FERGUSON.
London : Bell & Daldy. 18(55.
Poems. By SPERANZA (LADY
WILDE). Dublin: Duffy. 1864.
Laurence Bloomjield in Ireland. A
modern Poem. By WILLIAM ALL-
INGHAM. London : Macmillan &
Co. 1864.
Inisfail, a Lyrical Chronicle of Ireland.
By AUBREY DE VERE. Dublin:
Duffy. 1864.
IN the palmy days of Young Ireland,
its writers and speakers were particu-
larly prone to the quotation of that
strange saying of Fletcher of Saltoun :
"If a man were permitted to make
all the ballads, he need not care who
should make the laws of a country."
It has been the destiny of Young Ire-
land to make and to administer the
laws of other countries than that for
which its hot youth hoped to legislate.
But it has certainly left Ireland a
legacy of excellent ballads. A glance
at the fortunes of some of the more
prominent members of this brilliant
but ill-fated party, as they present
themselves to view at this moment,
suggests curious contrasts and strange
reflections. Mr. Gavan Duffy, who
was assuredly the source of its noblest
and wisest inspirations, after having
within ten years occupied high office
in three Victorian ministries, and
laid the impress of his organizing
genius deep on the constitutional
foundations of that most rising of the
Australian states, is on his way
home from Melbourne for a brief Euro-
pean vacation. Mr. John Mitchel,* who
represented the more violent and rev-
olutionary section of Young Ireland,
* Our American readers need hardly be re-
minded that some of the biographical state-
ments which follow are very wide of the truth.
-Bo. C. W.
was, before the American war com-
menced, editor of the Richmond Enquir-
er, one of the most extreme organs of
secession, and afterward visited Paris
with the hope of inducing the Empe-
ror Napoleon to invade Ireland ; but
since the war was declared, he has re-
sumed his post at Richmond some-
times writing articles that are sup-
posed more particularly to forecast
President Davis's policy ; sometimes
serving in the ranks of General Lee's
army as the driver of an ambulance
wagon. His eldest son fired the first
shot that struck Fort Sumter, and
afterward was himself struck at the
heart in its command by a northern
bullet. Mitchel's favorite lieutenant,
Devin Reilly^on the other hand, died
in office at Washington, and his illness
was attributed at the time to over-
fatigue in one of the earliest of those
great electioneering contests in which
the supremacy of Mr. Lincoln finally
came to be established over Mr. Ste-
phen Douglas, " the little giant of the
west," and the only man, in Mr. Reilly's
ardent conviction, who could have
saved the American Union. Mr.
D'Arcy Me Gee, whose character bore
to that of Devin Reilly about the same
relation as Mr. Duffy's did to that of
Mr. Mitchel, is at present a leading
member of the executive council of
Canada, and (the Duke of Newcastle
was of opinion) the ablest statesman
of British America ; in proof of which
it may suffice to say, that the project
of the Canadian confederation was in
a great degree originated and elabo-
rated by him. The handsome young
orator, whose fiery eloquence surpassed
in its influence on an Irish audience in
the Rotunda even the most brilliant
effects of Sheil at the old Catholic As-
sociation, is now to be recognized in a
bronzed and war-worn soldier, under
Recent Irish Poetry.
467
the style and title of Major- General
Thomas Francis Meagher, of the United
States army, commanding a division,
which, after Sherman commenced his
marvellous march on Savannah, was
sent forward to hold the southern sec-
tion of Tennessee, and was last heard
of in camp at Chattanooga. One of
this orator's favorite disciples, Eugene
O'Reilly, holds an equivalent rank ;
but his line of service has lain not in
America, but in Asia his allegiance
is not to the President Abraham Lin-
coln, but to the Sultan Abdul Aziz ; he is
known to all true believers under the
style of O'Reilly Bey, one of the ear-
liest of the Christian officers who took
rank under the Hatti Hamayoun ; and
his sword's avenging justice was freely
felt among the Mohammedan mob who
horrified Christendom five years ago
by the massacres of Syria. What re-
gion of the earth is not full of the labors
of this party, sect, and school of all
the Irish talents, of whom may well be
sung the antique Milesian elegy, to
which their prophet and guide gave
words that complain " they have left
but few heirs of their company?"* The
rabid violence and the underbred vul-
garity of style which belong to so many
of the Irish Nationalist party of the
present day, are all unlike even the
errors of Young Ireland. That party,
though it tragically failed in fulfilling
its hopes at home, has at all events
justified its ambition abroad ; and it
was always and everywhere singularly
true to its ideas. Scattered as it is,
broken, and often apparently divided
against itself, its members have not
failed to yield loyal, valiant, and sig-
nal service to whatever cause they es-
poused or country they adopted. Its
poets have had a principal hand in
framing the constitutions of states mani-
festly destined to future greatness. Its
orators have led forlorn hopes against
fearful odds; and, whether in the
marshes of the Chickahominy or in
* As truagh gan oidir "n-a. bh-farradk liter-
ally, " What a pity that there is no heir of their
company." See the "Lament for the Milesians,"
in " The Poems of Thomas Davis." Dublin :
Duffy.
Syrian defiles, have not known how to
show their backs to the enemy. It
would be easy to trace over a far wider
range the fortunes of its members since
the great emigration that scattered them
in the years that followed their catas-
trophe in '48. It is possible any day
to find a Young Irelander, who at a
more or less brief period after Ballin-
garry abiit, evasit, erupit, in the red
baggy breeches of the Zouave, or in
judicial crimson and ermine at the anti-
podes ; in the black robe of a Passion-
ist father or the silk gown of a queen's
counsel ; surveying a railroad in Da-
kotah, or organizing brigands in Sicily ;
helping in some subordinate way the
Emperor Maximilian to found the
Mexican empire, or on the high road
to make himself a Yellow Button at
Peking. As for American generals
north and south, and colonial law-
givers east and west, their names are
legion and the legion's name very
much begins with Mac or 0'. May
they make war and law to good ad-
vantage ! It was not given to them to
make either for Ireland ; but, if Fletcher
of Saltoun was a wise man in his gene-
ration, they in theirs have left their
country a far more precious heritage.
Irish poetry certainly existed before
Young Ireland, and was even con-
sidered, like oratory, to be a quality
naturally and easily indigenous to the
Irish genius. Moore had not unworth-
ily sustained the reputation of his
country in an age of great poets ; and
it was Moore's own avowed belief that
his " Irish Melodies" were the very
flowering of his inspiration, and were
indeed alone warranted to preserve his
fame to future ages. But neither
Moore, nor any other poet of Irish
birth, had attempted to give to the
Irish that poetry " racy of the soil,"
wherein every image and syllable
smacks of their own native nationality,
which Burns and Scott, and a host of
minor poets, had created for the Scotch.
This is the work which Young Ireland
deliberately and avowedly attempted,
and in which it has assuredly succeeded.
When the effort was first made, it is
468
Recent Irish Poetry.
told that several of the writers who
afterward wrote what, in its order of
ballad poetry, is unexcelled in the
language and notably Mr. Davis
were quite unaware of any possession
of the poetic faculty, and took to the
task as a boy takes to his tale of Latin
spondees and dactyls at college. But
the stream was in the rock, and when
the rock was tapped the stream flowed.
In the course of less than a year " The
Spirit of the Nation'' was published, in
which, with much undeniable rubbish,
there appeared a number of ballads
and songs that won the admiration of
all good critics ; and to which the far
more important testimony of their popu-
lar acceptance is still given in the form
of continuously recurring and increas-
ing editions. A Scotch publisher
Mr. Griffin, of Glasgow ten years
ago had heard such accounts of this
curious flood-tide of Irish verse, that
he thought it might be a safe specula-
tion to try whether, despite its politics,
it might not make its w r ay in the Brit-
ish market. The edition was very soon
exhausted, and the book is now, we
believe, out of print. These facts are
of even more value than the high
opinion which so experienced and ac-
complished a critic as Lord Jeffrey ex-
pressed about the same time of the
poetic gifts of Davis and Duffy ; for
by universal consent the test of sale
loses all its vulgarity when applied to
that most ethereal compound of the
human intellect, poetry. The poet is
born, and not made, according to
Horace ; but in so far as he is made
anything by man, it is by process of
universal suffrage over the counter.
Gradual, growing, general recognition,
testified by many editions, at last, in
the course of thirty years, establishes
the irrefragable position of a Tenny-
son ; against which a Tupper, long
struggling, in the end finds his level,
and lines trunks.
Much of the poetry of this time
was, consciously or unconsciously, mi-
metic mainly of Sir Walter Scott
and of Lord Macaulay, whose " Lays
of Ancient Home" had recently been
published. Scott, indeed, more dis-
tinctly suggested the elements out of
which the Young Ireland poetry grew.
Burns wrote in a peculiar provincial
dialect, and with the exception of a few
glorious lyrics, which will occur to every
reader's recollection, he wrote for a
district and for a class. But in Scott's
mind all the elements of the Scottish
nationality were equally confluent and
homogeneous the Highlander, the
Lowlander, and the Islander ; the Celt,
the Saxon, and the Dane ; the laird,
the presbyter, and the peasant ; and
his imagination equally vivified all
times from those of the Varangians
at Constantinople to those of the Ja-
cobites at Culloden. But in Ireland
there was no formed dialect like the
Lowland Scotch, with a settled voca-
bulary and a concrete form. The lan-
guage of the peasantry in many parts
of the country was the same sort of
base English that a foreigner speaks
scanty in its range of words, ill-articu-
lated and aspirated, loose in the use of
the liquid letters, formed according to
alien idioms, and flavored with alien
expletives. The language of the best
of the ballads of the peasantry was that
of a period in which the people still
thought in Irish, and expressed them-
selves in broken English, uttered with
the deep and somewhat guttural tones
of the Celt, and garnished now and
then with the more racy epithets, or en-
dearments, or shibboleths, of their na-
tive speech. For a time the example
of Lord Macaulay's ballad poetry pre-
vailed, with its long rolling metre, its
picturesque nomenclature, its contrasts
rather rhetorical than poetical. It was
possible to describe that decisive charge
of the Irish brigade at Fontenoy,
which Mr. Carlyle treats as a mere
myth, in strains which instantly sug-
gest those of the " Battle of Ivry."
And so did Davis in a very memora-
ble ballad ; but the likeness was mainly
in the measure, and Lord Macaulay
had no copyright in lines of fourteen feet.
The poem itself was Irish to the manor
born; and, it might be pleaded, was
only as like the verse of Lord Macau-
Recent Irish Poetry.
469
lay as the prose of Lord Macaulay is
like the prose of Edmund Burke. Be-
yond this task-work, however, which,
although very ingeniously and fluently
done, was still as much task-work as
college themes, there arose a difficulty
and a hope. Was it possible to trans-
fuse the peculiar spirit of the Irish
native poetry into the English tongue ?
The researches of the Archaeological
Society were at this time rapidly disen-
tombing the long-hidden historical and
poetical treasures of the Irish lan-
guage. Many of these had been trans-
lated by . Clarence Mangan, in a style
which did not pretend to be literally
faithful, but which so expanded, illus-
trated, and harmonized the original
that the poem, while losing none of its
idiosyncrasy, gained in every quality
of grace, freedom, and force. The
rich, the sometimes redundant array of
epithets, the mobile, passionate transi-
tions, the tender and melancholy spirit
of veneration for a vanishing civiliza-
tion, for perishing houses, scattering
clans, and a persecuted Church some
even of the more graceful of the idioms
and more musical of the metres might
surely be naturalized in the English
language ; and so an Irish poetical
dialect be absolutely invented in the
middle of the nineteenth century. It
was known how an Irish peasant spoke
broken English, and put it into rhyme
that did not want a strange wild
melody, that was to more finished and
scholarly verse as the flavor of poteen
is to the flavor of Burgundy. But how
would an Irish bard, drawing his inspi-
ration from the primeval Ossianic
sources, and thinking in the true ecs-
tatic spirit of the Irish muse, speak, if
he were condemned to speak, in the
speech of the Saxon ? This was the
bold conception ; and no one who is
familiar with the poetry of Ireland dur-
ing the last twenty years, will deny
that it has been in great part fulfilled.
The poet to whom its execution is
especially due can hardly be called a
Young Irelander in the political sense
of the word. But Young Ireland was
a literary school as well as a political
sect ; and any one who remembers, or
may read, Mr. Ferguson's wonderful
" Lament for Thomas Davis," which it
is to be greatly regretted he has not
included in the present edition of his
poems, will recognize the strong elec-
tive affinities which attached him to
their action and influence. As it is,
this volume is by far the most remark-
able recent contribution of the Irish
poetical genius to English literature.
Mr. Ferguson has accomplished the
problem of conveying the absolute
spirit of Irish poetry into English verse,
and he has done so under the most dif-
ficult conceivable conditions for he
prefers a certain simple and un luxu-
riant structure in the plan of his poems,
and he uses in their composition the
most strictly Saxon words he can find.
But all the accessories and figures, and
still more a certain weird melody in
the rhythm that reminds the ear of the
wild grace of the native music, indicate
at every turn what Mr. Froude has
half-reproachfully called " the subtle
spell of the Irish mind." It is not sur-
prising to find even careful and accom-
plished English critics unable to reach
to the essential meaning of this poetry,
which, to many, evidently appears as
bald as the style of Burns first seemed
to southron eyes when he became the
fashion at Edinburgh eighty years ago.
And yet to master the dialect of Burns
is at least as difficult as to master the
dialect of Chaucer, while Mr. Fergu-
son rarely uses a word that would not
be passed by Swift or Defoe. Before
one of the most beautiful, simple, and
graceful of his la-er poems a recent
critic paused, evidently dismayed by
the introduction, of which, however,
not willing to dispute the beauty, he
quoted a few lines. It was an old Irish
legend, versified with surpassing grace
and spirit, of which this is the argu-
ment. Fergus MacRoy, king of Ul-
ster in the old pagan times, was a
very good king of his kind. He loved
his people and they loved him. He
was handsome, and strong, and tall.
He bore himself well in war and in the
chase. He drank with discretion.
470
JRecent Irish Poetry.
Nevertheless his life had two troubles.
He did not love the law ; and he did
love a widow. To listen as chief
justiciary to the causes, of which a
constant crop sprang up at Emania,
tares and corn thickly set together,
troubled him sorely. To make verses
to the widow, on the other hand, came
as easy as sipping usquebaugh or
metheglin. He proposed, and though a
king was refused ; but not discouraged,
pressed his suit again and again. And
at last Nessa the fair yielded, but she
made a condition that her son Conor
should sit on the judgment-seat daily
by his stepfather's side.. This easily
agreed, Nessa became queen, while,
as Fergus tells the tale :
While in council and debate
Conor daily by me sate ;
Modest was his mien in sooth,
Beautiful the studious youth,
Questioning with eager gaze,
All the reasons and the ways
In the which, and why because,
Kings administer the laws.
In this wise a year passed, the youth
diligently observant, with faculties
ripening and brightening as his
majesty's grew more consciously rusty
and slow ; and then a crisis came,
which Mr. Ferguson describes in verses
of which it is hard to say whether they
best deserve the coif or the laurel, for
in every line there is the sharp wit of
the lawyer as well as the vivid fancy
of the poet :
Till upon a day in court
Rose a plea of weightier sort,
Tangled as a briery thicket
Were the rights and wrongs intricate
Which the litigants disputed,
Challenged, mooted, and confuted,
Till when all the plea was ended
Isaught at all I comprehended.
Scorning an affected show
Of the thing I did not know,
Yet my own defect to hide,
I said, " Boy judge, thou decide."
Conor with unalter'd mien,
In a clear sweet voice serene,
Took in hand the tangled skein,
And began to make if plain.
As a sheep-dog sorts his cattle,
As a king arrays his battle,
So the facts on either side
He did marshal and divide.
Every branching side-dispute
Traced he downward to the root
Of the strife's main stem, and there
Laid the ground of difference bare.
Then to scope of either cause,
Set the compass of the laws,
This adopting, that rejecting,
Reasons to a head collecting,
As a charging cohort goes
Through and over scatter'd foes,
So, from point to point he brought
Onward still the weight of thought
Through all error and confusion,
Till he set the clear conclusion,
Standing like a king alone,
All things adverse overthrown,
And gave judgment clear and sound :-
Praises filled the hall around ;
Yea, the man that lost the cause
Hardly could withhold applause.
In these exquisite verses, the lan-
guage is as strict to the point as if it
were taken from Mr. Smith's " Action
at Law ;" but the reader will remark
how every figure reminds him, and yet
not in any mere mimetic fashion, of
the spirit and illustrations of the Os-
sianic poetry. Nevertheless each word
taken by itself is simple Saxon. Its
Celtic character only runs like a vein
through the poem, but it colors and
saturates it through and through.
The greatest of Mr. Ferguson's
poems, however, is undoubtedly " The
Welshmen of Tirawley," a ballad
which, we do not fear to say, is unsur-
passed in the English language, or
perhaps in even the Spanish. Its epic
proportion and integrity, the vivid pic-
turesqueness of its phraseology, its
wild and original metre, its extraordin-
ary realization of the laws and cus-
toms of an Irish clan's daily life, the
stern brevity of its general narrative,
and the richness of its figures, though
all barbaric pearl and gold, give it a
pre-eminent place among ballads.
Scott would have devoted three vol-
umes to the story, were it not for the
difficulty of telling some of its incidents.
Mr. Ferguson exhibits no little skill in
the way that he hurries his readers
past what he could not altogether omit.
For the facts upon which the ballad is
founded are simply horrible, and they
are historically true.
After the time of Strongbow, seve-
ral Welsh families who had followed
his flag settled in Connaught. Among
Recent Irish Poetry.
471
these "kindly Britons" of Tirawley,
were the Walshes or Wallises, the
Heils (a quibus MacHale, and, possi-
bly, that most perfect instance of the
Hibernis ipsis ffibemior, the arch-
bishop of Tuam) ; also the Lynotts
and the Barretts, with whom we are
at present more particularly concerned.
These last claimed descent from the
high steward of the manor of Game-
lot, and their end is a story fit for the
Round Table. The great toparch of
the territory was the Mac William
Burke, as the Irish called the head of
the de Burgos, descended from William
FitzAdelm de Burgo, conqueror of
Connaught, and therein commonly
called William Conquer of whom the
Marquis of Clanricarde is the present
lineal representative ; being to Con-
naught even still somewhat as the Mac-
Callummore is to Argyle, more es-
pecially when he happens to be in the
cabinet, and to have the patronage of
the post-office. Now the Lynotts were
subject to the Barretts, and the Bar-
retts were subject to the Burkes. But
when the Barretts' bailiff, Scorna Boy,
came to collect the Lynotts' taxes, he
so demeaned himself that the whole
clan rose as one man, even as Jack
Cade, and slew him. Whereupon the
vengeful Barretts gave to all mankind
among the Lynott clan a terrible choice
of which one alternative was blind-
ness ; and the bearded men were all of
their own preference blinded, and led
to the river Duvowen, and told to walk
over the stepping stones of Clochan-
na-n'all; and they all stumbled into
the flood and were drowned, except
old Emon Lynott, of Garranard
whom accordingly the Barretts brought
back and blinded over again, by run-
ning needles through his eyeballs.
But with prompt-projected footsteps, sure as ever,
Emon Lyuott again crossed the river,
Though Duvowen was rising fast,
And the shaking stones o'ercast,
By cold floods boiling past ;
Yet you never,
Emon Lynott,
Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.
But turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood
And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood
" Oh, ye foolish sons of Wattin,
Small amends are these you've gotten,
For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,
I am good
For vengeance 1"
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man.
Bears the fortunes of himself and hia clan,
But in the manly mind
These darken'd orbs behind,
That your needles could never find,
Though they ran
Through my heartstrings.
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
But little your women's needles do I reck,
For the night from heaven never fell so black,
But Tirawley and abroad
From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod,
I could walk it, every sod,
Path and track,
Ford and togher,
Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley !
And so leaving "loud-shriek-echoing
Garranard," the Lynott, with his wife
and seven children, abandons his home,
and takes refuge in Glen Nephin,
where, in the course of a year, a son is
born to him, whom he dedicates from
the first breath to his vengeance. He
trains this boy with assiduous care to
all the accomplishments of a Celtic
cavalier ;
And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength
and size,
Made him perfect in each manly exercise,
The salmon in the flood,
The dun deer in the wood,
The eagle in the cloud,
To surprise,
On Ben Nephin,
Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.
With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the
bow,
With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,
He taught him from year to year,
And trained him, without a peer,
For a perfect cavalier,
Hoping so
Far his forethought
For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
And when mounted on his proud-bounding steed,
Enion Oge sat a cavalier indeed ;
Like the ear upon the wheat,
When the winds in autumn beat
On the bending stems his seat ;
And the speed
Of his courser
Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley !
Fifteen years have passed and the
youth is perfected in all the accomplish-
ments of sport and war, and the Lynott
thinks it is time to return to the world
and work out the scheme of his ven-
geance. So the father and son quit
their mountain solitude, and journey
southward to the bailey of Castlebar ;
and in a few fine touches the picture
of Mac William's grandeur, as it strikes
472
Recent Irish Poetry.
the boy's wondering eyes, rises before
us ; the stone house, strong and great,
and the horse-host at the gate and their
captain in armor, and the beautiful
JBantierna by his side with her little
pearl of a daughter. Who should this
be but the mighty Mac William ! Into
his presence ride the Lynotts ; and,
after salutations, the old man declares
his business. He has come to claim,
as gossip-law allows, the fosterage of
Mac William's son. Ever since Wil-
liam Conquer's time, his race were
wont to place a Mac William Oge in
the charge of a Briton of Tirawley ;
and the young Lynott was a pledge
for his father's capacity in such tute-
lage. When Mac William saw the
young Lynott ride, run, and shoot, he
said he would give the spoil of a county
to have his son so accomplished. When
Lady Mac William heard him speak,
and scanned his fresh and hardy air,
she said she would give a purse of red
gold that her Tibbot had such a nurse
as had reared the young Briton. The
custom was allowed. The young Mac-
William was sent under the guidance
of old Lynott into Tirawley, and Emon
Oge remained as a hostage in Castle-
bar. So back to Garranard, no longer
the " loud-shriek-echoing," old Lynott
returns
So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,
Like a lord of the country with his guard,
Came the Lynott before them all,
Once again o'er Clochan-ua-n'all,
Steady-striding, erect, and tall,
And his ward
On his shoulders ;
To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
And then the young Tibbot was
taught all manner of feats of body, to
swim, to shoot, to gallop, to wrestle, to
fence, and to run, until he grew up as
deft and as tough as Emon Oge. But
he was taught other lessons as well,
which were not in the bond of his fos-
ter-father.
The lesson of hell he taught him in heart and
mind ;
For to what desire soever he inclined,
Of anger, lust, or pride,
He had it gratified,
Till he ranged the circle wide
Of a blind
Self-indulgence,
Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.
Shame and rage track his passage,
till one night the young Barretts of the
Bac fell upon him at Cornassack and
slew him. His body was borne to Cas-
tlebar. The Brehons were summoned
to judgment ; and over the bier of Mac-
William Oge began the plea for an
eric to be imposed upon the Barretts
for their crime ; and the Brehons de-
creed the mulct, and Lynott's share of
it was nine ploughlands and nine score
of cattle. And now the ultimate hour
of the blind old man's vengeance had
come, not to be sated with land and
kine. " Rejoice," he cried, " in your
ploughlands and your cattle, which I
renounce throughout Tirawley." But,
expert in all the rules and customs of
the clans, he asks the Brehons, Is it
not the law that the foster-father may,
if he please, applot the short eric ? And
they say it is so. Whereupon, formally
rejecting his own share of the mulct,
he makes his award that the land of
the Barretts shall be equally divided
on every side with the Burkes, and
that MacWilliam shall have a seat in
every Barrett's hall, a stall in every
Barrett's stable, and needful grooming
from every hosteler for every Burke
who shall ride throughout Tirawley for
ever. And then, in a speech full of
barbaric sublimity and tragic concen-
tration of passion, he confesses "the
patient search and vigil long" of his
vengeance. It is almost unjust to
break the closely-wrought chain of this
speech by a single quotation, and we
have been already unduly tempted to
extract from this extraordinary poem;
but, perhaps, this one verse may be
separated from the rest as containing
the very culmination of the old man's
hideous rase.
I take not your ej
Mine and ours : I would have you daily look
On one another's eyes,
When the strangers tyrannize
By your hearths, and blushes rise
That ye brook
Without vengeance
The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout
Tirawley.
Another moment and he has done.
" Father and son," says MacWilliam,
Recent Irish Poetry.
473
"hang them high!" and old Lynott
they hanged forthwith ; but young
Lynott had eloped with Mac William's
daughter to Scotland, and there changed
his name to Edmund Lindsay. The
judgment of the short eric was, how-
ever, held good ; and the Burkes rode
rough-shod over the Barretts, until, as
Mr. Ferguson, almost verbally versify-
ing the Chronicle of Duald Mac Fir-
bis, says :
Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,
And his valiant Bible-guided
Free heretics of Clan London
Coming in, in their succession,
Rootea out both Burke and Barrett ;
a process of eviction which Mr. Fergu-
son, not merely for the sake of poetical
justice, but out of the invincible igno-
rance of pure puritanical Protestantism,
appears on the whole very highly to
approve.
This ballad is indeed unique in its
order: no Irish ballad approaches its
wild sublimity and the thoroughness of
detail with which it is conceived and
executed. The only Irish narrative
ballad which can bear a general com-
parison with it is Mr. Florence Mac-
Carthy's " Foray of Con O'Donnell,"
a poem as perfect in its historical reality,
in the aptness of all its figures, illus-
trations, and feats of phrase to a purely
Celtic ideal, and which even surpasses
" The Welshmen" in a certain easy and
lissome grace of melody, that falls on
the ear like the delicately drawn notes
of Carolan's music. But this grace is
disdained by the grim and compressed
character which animates every line of
Mr. Ferguson's ballad. His other
works, fine of fancy and ripe of phrase
as they are, fall far below it, " The
Tain-Quest" does not on the whole en-
thral the reader, or magnetize the
memory. "The Healing of Conall
Carnach," and " The Burial of King
Cormac" are poems that will hold their
place in many future Books of Irish
Ballads ; they are unusually spirited
versifications of passages from the more
heroic period of early Irish history ;
but excepting occasional lines, they
only appear to be the versifications of
already written legends. The ballad
of Grace O'Malley, commonly called
Grana Uaile, may be advantageously
contrasted with these, and it contains
some verses of singular power as, for
example, where the poet denies the
imputation of piracy against this lady
who loved to roam the high seas under
her own commission
But no : 'twas not for sordid spoil
Of barque or sea-board borough,
She plough'd with unfatiguing toil
The fluent-rolling furrow ;
Delighting on the broad-back'd deep
feel the quivering galley
and sweep
" Aideen's Grave" is a poem of a
different kind, full of an exquisite mel-
ancholy grace; and where Ossian is
supposed to apostrophise his future imi-
tator, it is as if he thought after the
manner of the Fenians, but was withal
master of every symphony of the En-
glish tongue :
Imperfect in an alien speech
When wandering here some child of chance,
Through pangs of keen delight shall reach.
The gift of utterance,
To speak the air, the sky to speak,
The freshness of the hill to tell,
Who roaming bare Ben Edar's peak,
And Aideen's briery dell,
And gazing on the Cromlech vast,
And on the mountain and the sea,
Shall catch communion with the past,
And mix himself with me.
There are lines in this poem that a
little remind us of Gray, as
At Gavra, when by Oscar's side
She rode the ridge of war ;
and again in the " Farewell to Deirdre"
there is something in the cast and
rhythm of the poem, rather than in any
individual word or line, that recalls
Scott's " Farewell to North Maven."
But to say so is not to hit blots. Mr.
Ferguson's is beyond question the most
thoroughly original vein of poetry that
any Irish bard of late days has wrought
out ; and in laying down this volume
we can only regret that the specimens
he has thought worthy of collection
are so few in comparison not merely
with what he might have done, but
with what he actually has done. For
474
Recent Irish Poetry.
this modesty, let us hope that the
prompt penance of a second and en-
larged edition may atone.
We have said that though Mr. Fer-
guson could hardly be called a Young
Irelander in politics, all the elective af-
finities of his genius tended toward that
school of thought. But Lady Wilde,
then known if she wrote prose as Mr.
John Fanshawe Ellis, and if she wrote
verse as Speranza, had an extraordin-
ary influence on all the intellectual and
political activities of Young Ireland.
It was a favorite phantasy of that
time, when Lamartine's book was in-
toxicating all Young Europe with the
idea of a grand coming revolutionary
epopoeia, and the atrocities of socialism
in France and Mazzinianism in Italy
had not yet horrified all Christendom,
to find the model men for a modern
Plutarch in the ranks of the Girondists.
Notably Meagher was supposed to be
gifted with all the qualities of Verg-
niaud, and Speranza to have more
than the genius of Madame Roland.
But when we come to real compari-
sons of character, the parallel easily
gives way. If Smith O'Brien was like
any Frenchman of the first revolution,
it was Lafayette. Mitchel had in cer-
tain respects a suspicious resemblance
to the earlier and milder phases of
Robespierre's peculiar intellectual
idiosyncrasy. The base of Carnot's
character was that faculty for organi-
zation which was the mainspring of
Gavan Duffy's various and powerful
genius. The parallel was, even so far
as it went, intrinsically unjust. La-
martine's glowing imagination gave to
the Girondists a grandeur largely ideal.
It is fair to say that Meagher's oratory
was on the whole of a higher order
than Vergniaud's ; and certainly Ma-
dame Roland, great as may have been
the influence of her character and her
conversation, has left us no example
of her talent that will bear comparison
with Lady Wilde's poems or prose.
These poems, however, if full jus-
tice is to be done to them, ought to be
read from first to last with a running
commentary in the memory from the
history of those few tragic years whose
episodes they in a manner mark. One
poem is a mournfully passionate appeal
to O'Connell against the alliance with
the Whigs, which was charged as one
of the causes of the secession. Another
is a ballad of the famine, with lights
as ghastly as ever glowed in the im-
agination of Euripides or Dante, and
founded on horrors such as Greek or
Italian never witnessed. There is then
a picture of " the young patriot lead-
er" which an artist would charac-
terize as a decidedly idealized portrait
of Meagher that American general
who has since proved his title to be
called " of the sword." Again, a gloomy
series of images recalls to us the awful
state of the country the corpses that
were buried without coffins, and the
men and women that walked the roads
more like corpses than living creatures,
spectres and skeletons at once ; the
little children out of whose sunken eyes
the very tears were dried, and over
whose bare little bones the hideous fur
of famine had begun to grow ; the
cholera cart, with its load of helpless
huddled humanity, on its way to the
hospital; the emigrant ship sending
back its woeful wail of farewell from
swarming poop to stern in the offing ;
and, far as the eye could search the
land, the blackened potato-fields, filling
all the air with the fetid odors of de-
cay. Again and again such pictures
are contrasted with passionate lyrics
full of rebellious fire, urging the peo-
ple to die, if die they must, by the
sword rather than by hunger and
sometimes, too, with an angry, unrea-
sonable, readily-forgiven reproach to
the priesthood, who bore with sufth
noble fortitude and self-immolating
charity the very cross of all the crosses
of that terrible time.
It is a curious fact, and reminds one
of the myth of Achilles' heel, that
O'Connell, who marched among his
myriad foes like one clad in panoply
of mail from head to foot, with a sort
of inexpugnable vigor and endurance,
not to be wounded, not to be stunned,
with his buckler ready for every
Recent Irish Poetry.
475
thrust, and a blow for every blow that
rained on his casque, was weak as a
child under the influence of verse.
Any one who may count over the
number of times his favorite quo-
tations, such as the lines begin-
ning " Hereditary bondsmen " from
" Cliilde Harold " for example, crop
up in the course of his speeches, will
be inclined to say that his fondness for
poetry was almost preposterous. It
was always tempting him, indeed, into
dangerous ways for while his prose
preached "the ethereal principles of
moral force," and the tenet that " no
political amelioration is worth the
shedding of a single drop of human
blood," his favorite quotations were
strictly in favor of fighting. The
" hereditary bondsmen " were to
" strike the blow ; " and the Irish
are a nation only too well disposed
to interpret such a precept literally.
Moore's melodies were always at the
tip of his tongue ; and Moore's " Slave
eo lowly " is indignantly urged not to
pine in his chains, but to raise the
green flag forthwith, and do or die.
Some verses of O' Council's own, of
which he was at least equally fond,
Oh Erin ! shall it e'er be mine
To see thy sons in battle line ?
It was not altogether politic, especially
when Young Ireland was gaining the
ascendant, to use such quotations hab-
itually ; but the temptation seems to
have been irresistible. So, on the
other hand, may be conceived his
excessive sensitiveness to anything
sounding like a reproach that reached
him through the vehicle of verse.
When Brougham or Stanley or Peel
struck their hardest, they got in re-
turn rather more than they gave
when the whole House of Commons
tried to stifle his voice, over all the
din Mr. Speaker heard himself with
(horror called upon to stop this "beast-
ly bellowing." But when Moore
jwrote those lines so cruelly touch-
ing, so terribly caustic " The dream
)f those days," which appeared hi the
last number of the Melodies, the Lib-
erator was, it is said, so deeply affect-
ed that he shed tears. So again, these
lines of Speranza, which appeared in
the Nation at the time of the se-
cession, stung him to the very
heart :
Gone from us dead to ns he whom we wor-
shipped so 1
Low lies the altar we raised to his name ;
Madly his own hand hath shattered and laid it
low
Madly his own breath hath blasted his fame.
He whose proud bosom once raged with human-
ity.
He whose broad forehead was circled with
might ;
Sunk to a time-serving, driveling inanity
God 1 why not spare our loved country the
sight?
Was it the gold of the stranger that tempted
him ?
Ah ! we'd have pledged to him body and soul
Toiled for him fought for him starved for him
died for him
Smiled though our graves were the steps to
hi s goal.
Breathed he one word in his deep, earnest whis-
pering ?
Wealth, crown, and kingdom were laid at his
feet ;
Raised he his right hand, the millions would
round him cling
Hush ! 'tis the Sassenach ally you greet.
It is a curious and, indeed, a very
touching trait in O' Council's character
that an imputation conveyed in this
form had a power to wound him
which all the articles of the morning
papers and all the speeches of the
evening debates had not. This re-
doubtable master of every weapon of
invective, whose weighty words some-
times fell on his adversary like one of
Ossian's Titans hurling boulders, or
again burst into a motley cascade of
quip, and crank, and chaff, and wild,
rampant ridicule, that (sometimes
rather coarse and personal) was at its
best, to other rhetoric, as the music of
an Irish jig is to all other music,
nevertheless had his Achilles' tendon.
The man who loved to call himself
" the best abused man in the universe"
was as weak before the enemy who at-
tacked him according to the rules of
prosody as if he lived in the age when
every Celt in Kerry piously believed
that a man, if the metre were only
made sufficiently acrid, might be
rhymed to death, in the same manner
476
Recent Irish Poetry.
as an ancestor of Lord Derby was,
according to the Four Masters.*
Lady Wilde's verse has not at all
the same distinctively Celtic character
as Mr. Ferguson's. He aspires to be
Kindly Irish of the Irish,
Neither Saxon nor Italian ;
and his choice inspirations come from
the life of the clans. Speranza's verse,
so far as it has a specially Irish char-
acter, is of the most ancient type of
that character. It is full of oriental
figures and illustrations. It is, when it
is most Irish, rather cognate to Persian
and Hebrew ways of thinking, forms
of metaphor, redundance of expres-
sion in its tendency to adjuration, in
its habit of apostrophe, in its very pe-
culiar and powerful but monotonous
rhythm, which seems to pulsate on the
ear with the even, strident stroke of a
Hindoo drum. Where this peculiar
poetry at all adapts itself to the vogue
of the modern muse, it is easy to see
that Miss Barrett had very great in-
fluence in determining the mere man-
ner of Lady Wilde's genius. When
in the midst of one very powerful
poem, " The Voice of the Poor," these
lines come in
When the human rests upon the human,
All grief is light ;
But who lends one kind glance to illumine
Our life-long night ?
The air around is ringing with their laughter
God has only made the rich to smile,
But we in our rags, and want, and woe we fol-
low after,
Weeping the while.
we are tempted to note an uncon-
* "John Stanley came to Ireland as the king
of England's viceroy a man who gave neither
toleration nor sanctuary to ecclesiastics, laymen,
or literary men ; but all with whom he came in
contact he subjected to cold, hardship, and fam-
ine ; and he it was who plundered Niall, the son
of Hugh O'Higgin, at Uisneach of Meath ; but
Henry D' Alton plundered James Tuite and the
king's people, and gave to the O'Higgins a cow
in lieu of each cow of which they had been
plundered, and afterward escorted them into
Connaught. The O'lliggins, on account of Niall,
then satirized John Stanley, who only lived live
weeks after the satirizing, having died from the
venom of their satires. This was the second in-
stance of the poetical influence of Niall O'Hig-
gin's satires, the first having been the Clan Con-
way turning gray the night they plundered Niall
at Clodoin, and the second the death of John
Stanley." Annals of tfie Four Masters. A.D.
1414.
scious homage to the author of " Au-
rora Leigh." But the character of
Lady Wilde's verse is far more colored
by the range of her studies than by the
influence of any special style. The
general reader, who may not breathe
at ease the political atmosphere of the
earlier part of this volume, will pause
with pleasure to observe the spirit,
grace, and fidelity of the translations
which succeed. They are from almost
every language in Europe, whether of
Latin or Teutonic origin, French,
Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, German,
Swedish, Danish, and Russian. Among
these may be mentioned in particular
two hymns of Savonarola, which are
rendered so exquisitely that one is
tempted to suggest that the " Carmina
SeduliiJ with much more of the ancient
Irish hymnology, are as yet untrans-
lated into the tongue now used in Ire-
land. It is a work peculiarly adapted
to her genius. The first quality of
Lady Wilde's poetry is that lyrical
power of which the hymn is the fines
development; and her most strikh
poems are those which assume
character of the older and more
lar form of ode.
The readers of Mr. William All-
ingham's early writings were in gen-
eral gratefully surprised when it was
announced that he was the author of a
very remarkable poem, of the order of
eclogue, which appeared by parts in
Fraser's Magazine in 1863. His ear-
lier poems, chiefly songs and verse of
society, were pleasing from a certain
airy grace and lightness ; but on the
whole their style was thin and jejune.
Of late, his faculties have evidently
mellowed very rapidly, and his lan-
guage has become more animated, more
concentrated, and more sustained.
" Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland" has
had, as it were, a triple success the
success of a pamphlet, the success of a
novel of Irish life, and its own more
proper and legitimate success, as a
regular pastoral, skilfully conceived,
carefully executed, in which the flow
of thought is sustained at a very even,
if not a very lofty level throughout,
Recent Irish Poetry.
477
and whose language is on the whole
admirably harmonized, full of happy
allusional effects, of quaint, minute,
picturesque delineation, and of a cer-
tain graceful and easy energy. Mr.
Gladstone has quoted some of its lines
in a speech on the budget as an excuse
for maintaining the duty on whisky;
and he is not the only Englishman who
has derived from its perusal an unex-
pected insight into some of the more per-
plexing problems of Irish life. Cer-
tainly, Mr. Allingham's views of Irish
society, when he touches on questions
of religion and politics, are not our
views. He is an Ulster Protestant by
religion, and an advanced liberal (we
take it) in politics. But making those
allowances, it must be admitted that he
shows the poet's many-sided sympathet-
ic mind in every page of this very re-
markable poem. " It is," as he fairly
says, "free from personalities, and
neither of an orange nor a green com-
plexion ; but it is Irish in phraseology,
character, and local color with as
little use as might be of a corrupt dia-
lect, and with no deference at all to the
stage traditions of Paddyism." It is
divided into twelve chapters, and it is
written in pleasantly modulated penta-
meters.
The story is of the life of a young
squire, who was on the point of declar-
ing himself a Young Irelander in his
youth. His guardian, to cut the folly
short, sent him incontinently to Cam-
bridge, thence to the continent. He
returns to Ireland in his twenty-sixth
year, and finds the population deci-
mated by the famine, and agitated by
agrarian conspiracy, The neighboring
gentry are bent, as conacre has ceased
to pay, on supplanting the population
by cattle. The population suppurates
into secret societies. Laurence Bloom-
field, long revolving the difficulties of
his lot, and abhorring pretty equally
the crimes of each class against the
other determined, moreover, to be
neither exterminator, demagogue, nor
absentee resolves to live among the
people of his estate like a modern patri-
arch, and see what patience, kindness,
a good understanding, and enlightened
management may be able to effect. He
extinguishes the Ribbon lodge, fastens
his tenantry by eo/iitable leases to the
glebe, and gradually finds in the man-
agement of his estate a career of easy,
pleasant, and even prosperous power.
In the course of ten years, Lisnamoy
has become an Irish Arcadia, and Mr.
Allingham's honest muse rises accord-
ingly to sing a hero even more memo-
rable in his way than the Man of
Ross.
Bloomfield first promulgates his
peculiar views of territorial adminis-
tration at a dinner of his landlord
neighbors in Lisnamoy House, where
the wholesale eviction of the tenantry
of a large neighboring district is pro-
posed on the plea that
" This country sorely needs
A quicker clearance of its human weeds ;
But still the proper system is begun,
And forty holdings we shall change to one."
Bloomfield his inexperience much confessed,
Doubts if the large dispeopled farms be best,
Best in a wide sense, best for all the world
(At this expression sundry lips were curl'd),
" I wish but know not how each peasant's hand
Might work, nay, hope to win, a share of land ;
For ownership, however small it be,
Breeds diligence, content, and loyalty,
And tirelessly compels the rudest field,
Inch after inch, its very most to yield.
Wealth might its true prerogatives retain ;
And no man lose, and all men greatly gain."
It is from the ill-concealed contempt
of his class for such thoughts as these,
that Bloomfield's resolution to remain
in Ireland and administer his own
estate arises.
The story, as it is evolved, presents
some charming sketches of character.
Hardly even Carleton has delineated
so admirably the nature and habits of
the Irish peasant family as Mr. All-
ingham has done in his picture of the
Dorans. How easy and natural, for
example, is the portrait of Bridget
Doran :
Mild oval face, a freckle here and there,
Clear eyes, broad forehead, dark abundant hair,
Pure placid look that show'd a gentle nature,
Firm, unperplex'd, were hers ; the maiden's
stature
Graceful arose, and strong, to middle height,
With fair round arms, and footstep free and
light ;
She was not showy, she was always neat
In every gesture, native and complete,
478
Recent Irish Poetry.
Disliking noise, yet neither dull nor slack,
Could throw a rustic banter briskly back,
Reserved but ready, innocently shrewd,
In brief, a charming flower of womanhood.
The occasional sketches of Irish
scenery are also very vividly outlined.
This of Lough Braccan is not perhaps
the best, but it is the most easily de-
tached from the text :
Among those mountain skirts a league away,
Lough Braccan spread, with many a silver bay
And islet green ; a dark cliff, tall and bold,
Half-muffled in its cloak of ivy old,
Bastioned the southern brink, beside a glen,
Where birch and hazel hid the badger's den,
And through the moist ferna and firm hollies
play'd
apid r
A rapid rivulet, from light to shade.
Above the glen, and wood, and cliff, was seen,
Majestically simple and serene,
Like some great soul above the various crowd,
A purple mountain-top, at times in cloud
Or mist, as in celestial veils of thought,
Abstracted heavenward.
We may give another specimen of
Mr. Allingham's power of delineation,
which shows that he has studied Irish
country life as well as Irish scenery
and Irish physiognomy.
Mud hovels fringe the "fair green" of this
town,
A spot misnamed, at every season brown,
O'erspread with countless man and beast to-day,
Which bellow, squeak, and shout, bleat, bray,
and neigh.
The "jobbers " there each more or less a rogue,
Noisy or smooth, with each his various brogue,
Cool, wiry Dublin, Connaught's golden mouth,
Blunt northern, plaintive sing-song of the
south,
Feel cattle's ribs, or jaws of horses try.
For truth, since men's are very sure to lie,
And shun, with parrying blow and practised
heed,
The rushing horns, the wildly prancing steed.
The moistened penny greets with sounding
smack
The rugged palm, which smites the greeting
back;
Oaths fly, the bargain like a quarrel burns,
And oft the buyer turns, and oft returns :
Now mingle Sassenach and Gaelic tongue ;
On either side are slow concessions wrung ;
An anxious audience interfere ; at last
The sale is closed, and whisky binds it fast,
In case of quilting upon oziers bent,
With many an ancient patch and breezy rent.
This is as true a picture in its way
as Mdlle. Rosa Bonheur's " Horse-
fair."
Mr. Aubrey de Vere's Inisfail "
comes last on our list, but certainly
not least in our estimation. No poet
of Young Ireland has like him seized
and breathed the spirit of his country's
Catholic nationality, its virginal purity
of faith, its invincible patience of hope,
and all the gentle sweetness of its char- ,
ity. Young Ireland rather studied the
martial muse, and that with an avowed
purpose. " The Irish harp," said Da-
vis, " too much loves to weep. Let us,
while our strength is great and our
hopes high, cultivate its bolder strains,
its raging and rejoicing ; or if we weep,
let it be like men whose eyes are lifted
though their tears fall." Mr. de Vere
has tried every mood of the native
lyre, and proved himself master of all.
His " Inisfail " is a ballad chronicle of
Ireland, such as Young Ireland would
have thought to be a worthy result of
all its talents, and such as, in fact, Mr.
Duffy at one time proposed. But it
must be said that its heroic ballads
are not equal to those of Young Ire-
land. Some one said of a very fin-
ished, but occasionally frigid, Irish
speaker, fifteen years ago, that he
spoke like " Sheil with the chill on."
A few of Mr. de Vere's ballads have
the same effect of " Young Ireland
with the chill on." They want the
verve, the glow, the energy, the reso-
nance, which belong to the best ballads
of "The Spirit of the Nation." Of
the writers of that time, Mr. D'Arcy
McGee is perhaps, on the whole, the
most kindred genius to his. Mr. de
Vere has an insight into all the periods
of Irish history in their most poetical
expression which Mr. McGee alone of
his comrades seems to have equally
possessed. Indeed, if Mr. Me Gee's
poems were all collected and chrono-
logically arranged as it is to be hoped
they may be some day soon it would
be found that he had unconsciously
and desultorily traversed very nearly
the same complete extent of ground that
Mr. de Vere has systematically and de-
liberately gone over. But though no
one has written more nobly of the dimly
glorious Celtic ages, and many of his
battle-ballads are instinct with life, and
wonderfully picturesque, it is easy to
see that Mr. McGee's best desire was
to follow the footsteps of the early
saints, and the Via Dolorosa of the
period of the penal laws. These,
Recent Irish Poetry.
479
too, are the passages over which Mr.
de Vere's genius most loves to
brood, and his prevailing view of Ire-
land is the supernatural view of her
destiny to carry the cross and spread
the faith. Young Ireland wrote its
bold, brilliant ballads as a part of the
education of the new nationality that
it believed was growing up, and des-
tined to take possession of the island
"a nationality that," to use Davis's
words again, " must contain and repre-
sent all the races of Ireland. It must
not be Celtic ; it must not be Saxon ;
it must be Irish. The Brehon law
and the maxims of Westminster, the
cloudy and lightning genius of the
Gael, the placid strength of the Saxon,
the marshalling insight of the Nor-
man ; a literature which shall exhibit
in combination the passions and idioms
of all, and which shall equally express
our mind, in its romantic, its religious,
its forensic, and its practical tenden-
cies. Finally, a native government,
which shall know and rule by the
might and right of all, yet yield to the
arrogance of none. ; these aro the
components of such a nationality."
And such was the dream that seemed
an easy eventuality twenty years ago.
But Mr. de Vere writes after the fa-
mine and in view of the exodus.
His mind goes from the present to the
past by ages of sorrow of sorrow,
nevertheless, illumined, nurtured, and
sustained by divine faith and the liv-
ing presence of the Church. So in
the most beautiful poem of this vol-
ume, he sees the whole Irish race car-
rying an inner spiritual life through
all their tribulation in the guise of a
great religious order of which Eng-
land is the foundress, and the rules are
written in the statute-book. We can-
not select a better specimen of the
thorough Catholic tone of Mr. de
Vere's genius, and of the vivid power
and finished grace of his poetry, than
this:
There is an order by a northern sea
Far in the west, of rule and life more strict
Than that which Basil rear'd in Galilee,
In Egypt Paul, in Umbria Benedict.
Discalced it walks ; a stony land of tombs,
A strange Petraea of late days, it treads !
Within its court no high-tossed censer fumes ;
The night-rain beats its cells, the wind its beds.
Before its eyes no brass-bound, blazon'd tome
Reflects the splendor of a lamp high hung :
Knowledge is banish'd from her earliest home
Like wealth : it whispers psalms that once it
sung.
It is not bound by the vow celibate,
Lest, through its ceasing, anguish too might
cease ;
In sorrow it brings forth ; and death and fate
Watch at life's gate, and tithe the unripe in-
crease.
It wears not the Franciscan's sheltering gown ;
The cord that binds it is the strangers chain ;
Scarce seen for scorn, in fields of old renown
It breaks the clod ; another reaps the grain.
Year after year it fasts ; each third or fourth
So fasts that common fasts to it are feast;
Then of its brethren many in the earth
Are laid unrequiem'd like the mountain beast.
Where are its cloisters ? Where the felon sleeps I
Where its novitiate ? Where the last wolf died !
From sea to sea its vigil long it keeps
Stern foundress ! is its rule not mortified ?
Thou that hast laid so many an order waste,
A nation is thine order ! It was thine
Wide as a realm that order's seed to cast,
And undispeused sustain its discipline !
It is another curious illustration of
the ffibernis ipsis Hibernior that a de
Vere, who is, moreover, " of the caste
of Vere de Vere," should have so in-
timate a comprehension of the Celtic
spirit as is often shown in these poems,
especially in the use of those allego-
ries which are so characteristic of the
period of persecution, and in some of
his metres that appear to be instinct
with the very melody of the oldest Ir-
ish music. Here, indeed, we seem to
taste, in a certain vague and dreamy
sensation, which the mere murmur of
such verses even without strict refer-
ence to the words produces, all the
charm of which that ancient poetry
might have been capable, if it were
still cultivated in a language of living
civilization. Several of these poems,
if translated into Irish verse, would
probably pass back without the change
of an idiom so completely Celtic is
the whole conception of the language.
The dirges, for example, appear on a
first reading to be only English ver-
sions of Irish poems belonging to the
time of the Jacobites and the Brigade
until, as we examine more care-
fully, we observe that the allegory is
480
Recent Irish Poetry.
wrought out with all the finish of more
modern art, and that the metaphors
are brought into a more just inter-de-
pendence than the native bard usually
thought necessary.
The tenderness that approaches to
a sort of worship of Ireland under the
poetical personification of a mother
wailing for her children, again and
again breaks out in Mr. de Vere's
verse ; and in all the range of Irish
poetry it is nowhere more exquisitely
expressed. The solemn beauty of the
following verses is like that of some of
those earliest of the melodies, whose
long lines, with their curious rippling
rhythm, were evidently meant for re-
citation as well as for musical effect :
In the night, in the night, O my country, the
stream calls out from afar ;
So swells thy voice through the ages, sonorous
and vast ;
In the night, in the night, O my country, clear
flashes the star:
So flashes on me thy face through the gloom of
the past.
I sleep not ; I watch : in blows the wind ice-
wiug'd and ice-fingered :
My forehead it cools and slakes the fire in my
breast ;
Though it sighs o'er the plains where oft thine
exiles look'd back, and long lingered,
And the graves where thy famish'd lie dumb
and thine outcasts find rest.
Hardly less sad, but in so different
a spirit as to afford a contrast that
brings us to a fair measure of the va-
riety of Mr. de Vere's powers, is a
poem of the days of the brigade. The
wife of one of the soldiers who fol-
lowed Sarsfield to France after the ca-
pitulation of Limerick, and entered the
Irish brigade of Louis XIV., is sup-
posed, sitting by the banks of the Shan-
non, to speak :
River that through this purple plain
Toilest (once redder) to the main,
Go, kiss for me the banks of Seine 1
Tell him I loved, and love for aye,
That his I am though far away
More his than on tfie marriage-day.
Tell him thy flowers for him I twine
When first the slow sad mornings shine
In thy dim glass ; for he is mine.
Tell him when evening's tearful light
Bathes those dark towers on Aughrim's height,
There where he fought, in heart^I fight.
A freeman's banner o'er him waves !
So be it 1 I but tend the graves
Where freemen sleep whose sons are slaves.
Tell him I nurse his noble race,
Nor weep save o'er one sleeping face
Wherein those looks of his I trace.
For him my beads I count when falls
Moonbeam or shower at intervals
Upon our buru'd and blacken'd walls :
And bless him ! bless the bold brigade-
May God go with them, horse and blade,
For faith's defense, and Ireland's aid !
Here the abrupt transition of tone
in the last verse from the subdued
melancholy of those which precede it
is very fine and very Irish. One can
fancy the widowed wife, in all her des-
olation, starting, even from her beads,
as she thinks of Lord Clare's dra-
goons coming down on the enemy with
their " Viva la for Ireland's wrong ! "
Twenty years have now passed
since " The Spirit of the Nation " gave
some glimpses of the mine of poetry
then latent in the Irish mind. In
1845 Mr. Gavan Duffy published his
" Ballad Poetry of Ireland" a book
which had the largest sale of any
published in Ireland since the unioi
and probably the widest influence.
Upon this common and neutral ground
Orange-man and Ribbon-man,
Tory, and Nationalist, were perfoi
brought into harmonious contact ; ar
" The Boyne Water" lost half its vin
as a political psalm when it was em-
balmed side by side with the " Wild
Geese " or " Willy Reilly." Behind
the produce of his own immediate pe-
riod, Mr. Duffy, in arranging his ma-
terials, could only find a few ballads
by Moore, a few by Gerald Griffin,
a few by Banim, Callanan, Furlong,
and Drennan, that could be accounted
legitimate ballad poetry. The rest was
fast cropping up while he was actually
compiling his collection, under the hot
breath of the National movement, in a
lavish and luxuriant growth. This im-
pulse seems to have spent itself some
years ago. Anything of real merit in
the way of Irish poetry does not now
appear in periodical literature more than
once or twice in a year ; and Mr. Thomas
Irwin is the only recent writer whose
verse may fairly be named in the same
breath with that which we have now
noticed. A rich grace and finish of
Recent Irish Poetry.
481
expression, a most quaint and delicate
humor, and a fine-poised aptness of
phrase, distinguish his poetry, which
is more according to the taste that
Mr. Tennyson has established in Eng-
land than that of any Irish writer of
the day.
Irish poetry seems now, therefore,
to have passed into a new and more
advanced stage of development. Here
are four volumes, by four separate
writers, of poems, old and new all
published within a year; and all, we
believe, decidedly successful, and in
satisfactory course of sale. Mr. Flor-
ence MacCarthy's poems had pre-
viously gone through several editions,
and won enduring fame perhaps more
widely spread in America than even
at home, on account of a quality some-
what kindred to the peculiar genius
of the best American poets, and espe-
cially Longfellow, Poe, and Irving,
that the reader will readily recognize
in his finely-finished and most melo-
dious verse. Nor should we omit to
mention, in cataloguing the library of
recent Irish poets, " The Monks of
Kilcrea," a long romantic poem in the
style of "The Lady of the Lake,"
which contains many a passage that
Scott might own, but of which the
writer remains unknown. Thus Irish
national poetry is accumulating, as it
were, in strata. Mr. Duffy set on the
title-page of his Ballad Poetry " the
Irish motto, Bolg an dana, which not
all his readers clearly understood ; but
which, to all who did, seemed extremely
appropriate at the time. " This man,"
say the Four Masters, speaking of a
great bard of the fifteenth century, "was
called the Bolg an dana, which signi-
fies that he was a common budget of
poetry." And this was all that Mr.
Duffy's Ballad Poetry professed to be.
But what was only a budget of desul-
tory jetsam and flotsam in 1845 is
taking the shape of a solid literature
in 1865 ; and those twenty golden
years have at all events been well
filled with ranks of rhyme.
81
482
Constance Sherwood.
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
CHAPTER VIII.
After I had been musing a little
while, Mistress Bess ran into the
room, and cried to some one behind
her :
"Nan's friend is here, and she is
mine too, for we all played in a garden
with her when I was little. Prithee,
come and see her." Then turning to
me, but yet holding the handle of the
door, she said : " Will is so unmannerly,
I be ashamed of him. He will not so
much as show himself."
" Then, prithee, come alone," I an-
swered. Upon which she came and
sat on my knee, with her arm round
my neck, and whispered in mine ear :
" Moll is very sick to-day ; will you
not see her, Mistress Sherwood ?"
" Yea, if so be I have license," I
answered ; and she, taking me by the
hand, offered to lead me up the stairs
to the room where she lay. I, follow-
ing her, came to the door of the cham-
ber, but would not enter till Bess
fetched the nurse, who was the same
had been at Sherwood Hall, and who,
knowing my name, was glad to see me,
and with a curtsey invited me in.
White as a lily was the little face rest-
ing on a pillow, with its blue eyes
half shut, and a store of golden hair
about it, which minded me of the
glories round angels' heads in my
mother's missal.
"Sweet lamb!" quoth the nurse,
as I stooped to kiss the pale forehead.
" She be too good for this world. Oft-
times she doth babble in her sleep of
heaven, and angels, and saints, and a
wreath of white roses wherewith a
bright lady will crown her."
" Kiss my lips," the . sick child
softly whispered, as I bent over her bed.
Which when I did, she asked, " What
is your name? I mind your face."
When I answered, " Constance Sher-
wood," she smiled, as if remembering
where we had met. " I heard my
grandam calling me last night," she
said ; " I be going to her soon." Then
a fit of pain came on, and I had to
leave her. She did go from this world
a few days after ; and the nurse then
told me her last words had been
"Jesu! Mary!"
That day I did converse again alone
with my Lady Surrey after dinner,
and walked in the garden ; and when
we came in, before I left, she gave
me a purse with some gold pieces in it,
which the earl her husband willed to
bestow on Catholics in prison for their
faith. For she said he had so tender
and compassionate a spirit, that if he
did but hear of one in distress he
would never rest until he had relieved
him ; and out of the affection he had
for Mr. Martin, who was one while
his tutor, he was favorably inclined
toward Catholics, albeit himself re-
solved to conform to the queen's re-
ligion. When Mistress Ward came
for me, the countess would have her
shown into her chamber, and would
not be contented without she ordered
her coach to carry us back to Holborn,
that we might take with us the clothes
and cordials which she did bestow
upon us for our poor clients. She
begged Mrs. Ward's prayers for his
grace, that he might soon be set at lib-
erty ; for she said hi a pretty manner,
"It must needs be that Almighty God
takes most heed of the prayers of
Constance Sherwood.
483
such as visit him in his affliction in
the person of poor prisoners ; and she
hoped one day to be free to do so her-
self." Then she questioned of the
wants of those Mistress Ward had at
that time knowledge of; and when she
heard in what sore plight they stood,
it did move her to so great compas-
sion, that she declared it would be now
one of her chiefest cares and pleasures
in life to provide conveniences for
them. And she besought Mistress
Ward to be a good friend to her with
mine aunt, and procure her to permit
of my frequent visits to Howard House,
as the Charter House is now often
called : which would be the greatest
good she could do her ; and that she
would be most glad also if she herself
would likewise favor her sometimes
with her company; which, "if it be
not for mine own sake, Mistress
Ward," she sweetly said, " let it be
for his sake who, in the person of his
afflicted priests, doth need assistance."
When we reached home, we hid
what we had brought under our man-
tles, and then in Mistress Ward's
chamber, where Muriel followed us.
When the door was shut we displayed
these jewelled stores before her pleased
eyes, which did beam with joy at the
sight.
"Ah, Muriel," cried Mistress
Ward, " we have found an Esther in a
palace ; and I pray to God there may
be other such in this town we ken not of,
who in secret do yet bear affection to the
ancient faith."
Muriel said in her slow way : " We
must needs go to the Clink to-morrow ;
for there is there a priest whose flesh
has fallen off his feet by reason of his
long stay in a pestered and infected
dungeon. Mr. Roper told my father
of him, and he says the gaoler will let
us in if he be reasonably dealt with."
" We will essay your ointment,
Mistress Sherwood," said Mistress
Ward, " if so be you can make it in
time."
*' I care not if I sit up all night," I
cried, " if any one will buy me the
herbs I have need of for the com-
pounding thereof." Which Muriel
said she would prevail on one of the
servants to do.
The bell did then ring for supper ;
and when we were all seated, Kate
was urgent with me for to tell her how
my Lady Surrey was dressed ; which
I declared to her as follows : " She
had on a brown juste au corps em-
broidered, with puffed sleeves, and
petticoat braided of a deeper nuance ;
and on her head a lace cap, and a lace
handkerchief on her bosom."
"And, prithee, what jewels had she
on, sweet coz ?"
"A long double chain of gold and
a brooch of pearls," I answered.
" And his grace of Norfolk is once
more removed to the Tower," said Mr.
Congleton sorrowfully. "'Tis like to
kill him soon, and so save her majesty's
ministers the pains to bring him to the
block. His physician, Dr. Rhuenbeck,
says he is afflicted with the dropsy."
Polly said she had been to visit the
Countess of Northumberland, who was
so grievously afflicted at her husband's
death, that it was feared she would fall
sick of grief if she had not company to
divert her from her sad thoughts.
" Which I warrant none could effect
so well as thee, wench," her father
said ; " for, beshrew me, if thou wouldst
not make a man laugh on his way to
the scaffold with thy mad talk. And
was the poor lady of better cheer for
thy company ?"
" Yea, for mine," Polly answered ;
"or else for M. de la Motte's, who
came in to pay his devoirs to her, for
the first time, I take it, since her lord's
death. And after his first speech,
which caused her to weep a little, he
did carry on so brisk a discourse as I
never noticed any but a Frenchman
able to do. And she was not the worst
pleased with it that the cunning gen-
tleman did interweave it with anec-
dotes of the queen's majesty ; which,
albeit he related them with gravity,
did carry somewhat of ridicule in them.
Such as of her grace's dancing on Sun-
day before last at Lord Northampton's
wedding, and calling him to witness
484
Constance Sherwood.
her paces, so that he might let mon-
sieur know how high and disposedly
she danced ; so that he would not have
had cause to complain, in case he had
married her, that she was a boiteuse,
as had been maliciously reported of
her by the friends of the Queen of
Scots. And also how, some days since,
she had flamed out in great choler
when he went to visit her at Hampton
Court ; and told him, so loud that all
her ladies and officers could hear her
discourse, that Lord North had let her
know the queen-mother and the Duke
of Guise had dressed up a buffoon in
an English fashion, and called him a
Milor du Nord ; and that two female
dwarfs had been likewise dressed up
in that queen's chamber, and invited
to mimic her, the queen of England,
with great derision and mockery. ' I
did assure her/ M. de la Motte said,
' with my hand on my heart, and such
an aggrieved visage, that she must
needs have accepted my words as true,
that Milor North had mistaken the
whole intent of what he had witnessed,
from his great ignorance of the French
tongue, which did render him a bad
interpreter between princes ; for that
the queen-mother did never cease to
praise her English majesty's beauty to
her son, and all her good qualities,
which greatly appeased her grace,
who desired to be excused if she, like-
wise out of ignorance of the French
language, had said aught unbecoming
touching the queen-mother.' "Pis a
rare dish of fun, fit to set before a king,
to hear this Monsieur Ambassador
speak of the queen when none are
present but such as make an idol of
her, as some do." ^
" For my part," said her father,
when she paused in her speech, "I
mislike men with double visages and
double tongues; and methinks this
monseer hath both, and withal a rare
art for what courtiers do call diplo-
macy, and plain men lying. His
speeches to her majesty be so fulsome
in her praise, as I have heard some
say who are at court, and his flattery
so palpable, that they have been
ashamed to hear it; but behind her
back he doth disclose her failings with
an admirable slyness."
If he be sly," answered Polly, " I'll
warrant he finds his match in her
majesty."
" Yea," cried Kate, " even as poor
Madge Arundell experienced to her
cost."
" Ay," quoth Polly, " she catcheth
many poor fish, who little know what
snare is laid for them."
" And how did her highness catch
Mistress Arundell ?" I asked.
" In this way, coz," quoth Polly :
" she doth often ask the ladies round
her chamber, * If they love to think of
marriage ?' and the wise ones do con-
ceal well their liking thereunto, know-
ing the queen's judgment in the matter.
But pretty, simple Madge Arundell, not
knowing so deeply as her fellows, was
asked one day hereof, and said, ' She
had thought much about marriage, if
her father did consent to the man she
loved.' 'You seem honest, i' fait
said the queen ; * I will sue for you
your father.' At which the dam
was well pleased; and when
father, Sir Robert Arundell, came
court, the queen questioned him
his daughter's marriage, and pres
him to give consent if the match were
discreet. Sir Robert, much astonished,
said, l He never had heard his daugh-
ter had liking to any man ; but he
would give his free consent to what
was most pleasing to her highness's
will and consent/ ' Then I will do
the rest,' saith the queen. Poor
Madge was called in, and told by the
queen that her father had given his
free consent. ( Then,' replied the
simple one, 'I shall be happy, an' it
please your grace.' t So thou shalt ;
but not to be a fool and marry,' said
the queen. * I have his consent given
to me, and I vow thou shalt never get
it in thy possession. So go-to about
thy business. I see thou art a bold
one to own thy foolishness so readily.' "
" Ah me !" cried Kate, " I be glad
not to be a maid to her majesty ; for 1 1
would not know how to answer her i
Constance Sherwood.
485
grace if she should ask me a like ques-
tion ; for if it be bold to say one hath
a reasonable desire to be married, I
must needs be bold then, for I would
not for two thousand pounds break Mr.
Lacy's heart ; and he saith he will die
if I do not marry him. But, Polly,
thou wouldst never be at a loss to an-
swer her majesty."
"No more than Pace her fool,"
quoth Polly, " who, when she said, as
he entered the room, ' Now we shall
hear of our faults,' cried out, * Where
is the use of speaking of what all the
town doth talk of?'"
"The fool should have been
whipped," Mistress Ward said.
"For his wisdom, or for his folly,
good Mistress Ward?" asked Polly.
" If for wisdom, 'tis hard to beat a
man for being wise. If for folly, to
whip a fool for that he doth follow his
calling, and as I be the licensed fool in
this house which I do take to be the
highest exercise of wit in these days,
when all is turned upside down I do
wish you all good-night, and to be no
wiser than is good for your healths,
j and no more foolish than suffices to
lighten the heart;" and so laughing
she ran away, and Kate said in a la-
mentable voice,
" I would I were foolish, if it light-
ens the heart."
" Content thee, good Kate," I said ;
but in so low a voice none did hear.
And she went on,
" Mr. Lacy is gone to Yorkshire for
three weeks, which doth make me
more sad than can be thought of."
I smiled ; but Muriel, who had not
yet oped her lips whilst the others
were talking, rising, kissed her sister,
and said, " Thou wilt have, sweet one,
so great a contentment in his letters as
will give thee patience to bear the loss
of his good company."
At the which Kate brightened a
little. To live with Muriel was a
preachment, as I have often had occa-
sion since to find.
On the first Sunday I was at Lon-
don, we heard mass at the Portuguese
ambassador's house, whither many
Catholics of his acquaintance resorted
for that purpose from our side of the
city. In the afternoon a gentleman,
who had travelled day and night from
Staffordshire on some urgent business,
brought me a letter from my father,
writ only four days before it came to
hand, and about a week after my de-
parture from home. It was as follows :
"MlNE OWN DEAR CHILD, The
bearer of this letter hath promised to
do me the good service to deliver it to
thee as soon as he shall reach London ;
which, as he did intend to travel day
and night, I compute will be no later
than the end of this week, or on Sun-
day at the furthest. And for this his
civility I do stand greatly indebted to
him ; for in these straitened times 'tis
no easy matter to get letters conveyed
from one part of the kingdom to another
without danger of discovering that
which for the present should rather be
concealed. I received notice two days
ago from Mistress Ward's sister of
your good journey and arrival at Lon-
don ; and I thank God, my very good
child, that he has had thee in his holy
keeping and bestowed thee under the
roof of my good sister and brother ; so
that, with a mind at ease in respect to
thee, my dear sole earthly treasure, I
may be free to follow whatever course
his providence may appoint to me,
who, albeit unworthy, do aspire to
leave all things to follow him. And
indeed he hath already, at the outset
of my wanderings, sweetly disposed
events in such wise that chance hath
proved, as it were, the servant of his
providence ; and, when I did least
look for it, by a divine ordination fur-
nished me, who so short a time back
parted from a dear child, with the com-
pany of one who doth stand to me in
lieu of her who, by reason of her ten-
der sex and age, I am compelled to
send from me. For being necessita-
ted, for the preservation of my life, to
make seldom any long stay in one
place, I had need of a youth to ride
with me on those frequent journeys,
and keep me company in such places
486
Constance Sherwood.
as I may withdraw unto for quietness
and study. So being in Stafford some-
few days back, I inquired of the mas-
ter of the inn where I did lay for one
night, if it were not possible to get in
that city a youth to serve me as a
page, whom I said I would maintain
as a gentleman if he had learning,
nurture, and behavior becoming such
a person. He said his son, who was
a schoolmaster, had a youth for a
pupil who carried virtue in his very
countenance ; but that he was the
child of a widow, who, he much feared,
would not easily be persuaded to part
from him. Thereupon I expressed a
great desire to have a sight of this
youth and charged him to deal with
his master so that he should be sent to
my lodgings ; which, when he came
there, lo and behold, I perceived with
no small amazement that he was no
other than Edmund Genings, who
straightway ran into my arms, and
with much ado restrained himself from
weeping, so greatly was he moved
with conflicting passions of present joy
and recollected sorrow at this our un-
looked-for meeting; and truly mine
own contentment therein was in no
wise less than his. He told me that
his mother's poverty increasing, she
had moved from Lichfield, where it
was more bitter to her, by reason of
the affluence in which she had before
lived in that city, to Stafford, where
none did know them ; and she dwelt
in a mean lodging in a poor sort of
manner. And whereas he had desired
to accept the offer of a stranger, with
a view to relieve his mother from the
burden of his support, and maybe yield
her some assistance in her straits, he
now passionately coveted to throw his
fortune with mine, and to be entered
as a page in my service. But though
she had been willing before, from ne-
cessity, albeit averse by inclination, to
part with him, when she knew me it
seemed awhile impossible to gain her
consent. Methinks she was privy to
Edmund's secret good opinion of Cath-
olic religion, and feared, if he should
live with me, the effect thereof would
follow. But her necessities were so
sharp, and likewise her regrets that he
should lack opportunities for his fur-
ther advance in learning, which she
herself was unable to supply, that at
length by long entreaty he prevailed
on her to give him license for that
which his heart did prompt him to de-
sire for his own sake and hers. And
when she had given this consent, but
not before, lest it should appear I did
seek to bribe her by such offers to so
much condescension as she then
evinced, I proposed to assist her hi
any way she wished to the bettering of
her fortunes, and said I would do as
much whether she suffered her son to
abide with me or no: which did
greatly work with her to conceive a
more favorable opinion of me than
she had heretofore held, and to be con-
tented he should remain in my service,
as he himself so greatly desired. After
some further discourse, it was resolved
that I should furnish her with
much money as would pay her de
and carry her to La Rochelle, whe
her youngest son was with her bro
who albeit he had met with g
losses, would nevertheless, she felt
sured, assist her in her need. T
has Edmund become to me less a
than a pupil, less a servant than a son.
I will keep a watchful eye over his
actions, whom I already perceive to
be tractable, capable, willing to learn,
and altogether such as his early years
did promise he should be. I thank
God, who has given me so great a
comfort in the midst of so great trials,
and to this youth in me a father rather
than a master, who will ever deal with
him in an honorable and loving man-
ner, both in respect to his own deserts
and to her merits, whose prayers have,
I doubt not, procured this admirable
result of what was in no wise designed,
but by God's providence fell out of
the asking a simple question in an inn
and of a stranger.
" And now, mine only and very dear
child, I commend thee to God's holy
keeping ; and I beseech thee to be as
mindful of thy duty to him as thou
Constance Sherwood.
487
jn (and most especially of late)
of thine to me ; and imprint in thy
heart those words of holy writ, ' Not
to fear those that kill the body, but
cannot destroy the soul ;' but withal,
in whatever is just and reasonable,
and not clearly against Catholic re-
ligion, to observe a most exact obe-
dience to such as stand to thee at
present in place of thy unworthy
father, and who, moreover, are of such
virtue and piety as I doubt not would
move them rather to give thee an ex-
ample how to suffer the loss of all
things for Christ his sake than to
offend him by a contrary disposition.
I do write to my good brother by the
same convenience to yield him and
my sister humble thanks for their
great kindness to me in thee, and send
this written in haste ; for I fear I shall
not often have means hereafter. There-
fore I desire Almighty God to protect,
bless, and establish thee. So in haste,
and in visceribus Christi, adieu."
The lively joy I received from this
letter was greater than I can rehearse,
for I had now no longer before my
eyes the sorrowful vision of my dear
father with none to tend and comfort
him in his wanderings ; and no less
was my contentment that Edmund, my
dearly-loved playmate, was now with-
in reach of his good instructions, and
free to follow that which I was per-
suaded his conscience had been prompt-
ing him to seek since he had attained
the age of reason.
I note not down in this history the
many visits I paid to the Charter
House that autumn, except to notice
the growing care Lady Surrey did take
to supply the needs of prisoners and
poor people, and how this brought her
into frequent occasions of discourse
with Mistress Ward and Muriel, who
nevertheless, as I also had care to ob-
serve, kept these interviews secret,
which might have caused suspicion in
those who, albeit Catholic, were ill-
disposed to adventure the loss of worldly
advantages by the profession of what
Protestants do term perverse and open
papistry. Kate and Polly were of this
way of thinking prudence was ever
the word with them when talk of re-
ligion was ministered in their presence ;
and they would not keep as much as a
prayer-book in their chambers for fear
of evil results. They were sometimes
very urgent with their father for to
suffer them to attend Protestant ser-
vice, which they said would not hinder
them from hearing mass at convenient
times, and saying such prayers as they
listed ; and Polly the more so that a
young gentleman of good birth and
high breeding, who conformed to the
times, had become a suitor for her hand,
and was very strenuous with her on
the necessity of such compliance, which
nevertheless her father would not
allow of. Much company came to the
house, both Protestant and Catholic ;
for my aunt, who was sick at other
times, did greatly mend toward the
evening. When I was first in London
for some weeks, she kept me with her
at such times in the parlor, and en-
couraged me to discourse with the vis-
itors ; for she said I had a forwardness
and vivacity of speech which, if prac-
tised in conversation, would in time
obtain for me as great a reputation of
wit as Polly ever enjoyed. I was no-
thing loth to study in this new school,
and not slow to improve in it. At the
same time I gave myself greatly to the
reading of such books as I found in
my cousins' chambers ; amongst which
were some M. de la Motte had lent to
Polly, marvellous witty and entertain-
ing, such as Les Nouvelles de la Reine
de Navarre and the Cents Histoires
tragiques ; and others done in English
out, of French by Mr. Thomas Fortes-
cue ; and a poem, writ by one Mr.
Edmund Spenser, very beautiful, and
which did so much bewitch me, that I
was wont to rise in the night to read
it by the light of the moon at my case-
ment window ; and the Morte d" Arthur,
which Mr. Hubert Rookwood had
willed me to read, whom I met at Bed-
ford, and which so filled my head with
fantastic images and imagined scenes,
that I did, as it were, fall in love with
488
Constance Sherwood.
Sir Launcelot, and would blush if his
name were but mentioned, and wax as
angry if his fame were questioned
as if he had been a living man, and I
in a foolish manner fond of him.
This continued for some little time,
and methinks, had it proceeded further,
I should have received much damage
from a mode of life with so little of
discipline in it, and so great incite-
ments to faults and follies which my
nature was prone to, but which my
conscience secretly reproved. And
among the many reasons I have to be
thankful to Mistress "Ward, that never-
to-be-forgotten' friend, whose care re-
strained me in these dangerous courses,
partly by compulsion through means
of her influence with my aunt and her
husband, and partly by such admoni-
tions and counsel as she favored me
with, I reckon amongst the greatest
that, at an age when the will is weak,
albeit the impulses be good, she lent a
helping hand to the superior part of
my soul to surmount the evil tenden-
cies which bad example on the one
hand, and weak indulgence on the
other, fostered in me, whose virtuous
inclinations had been, up to that time,
hedged in by the strong safeguards of
parental watchfulness. She procured
that I should not tarry, save for brief
and scanty spaces of time, in my aunt's
parlor when she had visitors, and so
contrived that it should be when she
herself was present, who, by wholesome
checks and studied separation from the
rest of the company, reduced my for-
wardness with just restraints such as
became my age. And when she dis-
covered what books I read, oh, with
what fervent and strenuous speech she
drove into my soul the edge of a salu-
tary remorse ; with what tearful eyes
and pleading voice she brought before
me the memory of my mother's care
and my father's love, which had ever
kept me from drinking such empoisoned
draughts from the well-springs of cor-
ruption which in our days books of en-
tertainment too often prove, and if not
altogether bad, yet be such as vitiate
the palate and destroy the appetite for
higher and purer kinds of mental sus-
tenance. Sharp was her correction,
but withal so seasoned with tender-
ness, and a grief the keenness of which
I could discern was heightened by the
thought that my two elder cousins
(one tune her pupils) should be so
drawn aside by the world and its
pleasures as to forget their pious hab-
its, and minister to others the means
of such injury as their own souls had
sustained, that every word she uttered
seemed to sink into my heart as if writ
with a pen of fire ; and mostly when
she thus concluded her discourse :
" There hath been times, Constance,
when men, yea and women also, might
play the fool for a while, without so
great danger as now, and dally with
idle folly like children who do sport on
a smooth lawn nigh to a running
stream, under their parents' eyes, who,
if their feet do but slip, are prompt to
retrieve them. But such days are
gone by for the Catholics of this lar
I would have thee to bear in
that 'tis no common virtue no con-
venient religion faces the rack, th(
dungeon, and the rope ; that wantoi
tales and light verses are no viatic
for a journey beset with such perils.
And thou thou least of all whose
gentle mother, as thou well knowest,
died of a broken heart from the fear
to betray her faith thou, whose father
doth even now gird himself for a fight,
where to win is to die on a scaffold
shouldst scorn to omit such prepara-
tion as may befit thee to live, if it so
please God, or to die, if such be his
will, a true member of his holy Catho-
lic Church. O Constance, it doth
grieve me to the heart that thou
shouldst so much as once have risen
from thy bed at night to feed thy mind
with the vain words of profane writers,
in place of nurturing thy soul by such
reasonable exercises and means as God,
through the teaching of his Church,
doth provide for the spiritual growth
of his children, and by prayer and pen-
ance make ready for coming conflicts.
Bethink thee of the many holy priests,
yea and laymen also, who be in uneasy
Constance Sherwood.
489
dungeons at this time, lying on filthy
straw, with chains on their bruised
limbs, but lately racked and tormented
for their religion, whilst thou didst
offend God by such wanton conduct.
Count up the times thou hast thus
offended ; and so many times rise in
the night, my good child, and say the
psalm 'Miserere,' through which we
do especially entreat forgiveness for
our sins."
I cast myself in her arms, and with
many bitter tears lamented my folly ;
and did promise her then, and, I thank
God, ever after did keep that promise,
whilst I abode under the same roof
with her, to read no books but such as
she should warrant me to peruse.
Some days after she procured Mr.
Congleton's consent, who also went
with us, to carry me to the Marshalsea,
whither she had free access at that
time by reason of her acquaintanceship
with the gaoler's wife, who, when a
maid, had been a servant in her family,
and who, having been once Catholic,
did willingly assist such prisoners as
came there for their religion. There
we saw Mr. Hart, who hath been this
long while confined in a dark cell, with
nothing but boards to lie on till Mistress
Ward gave him a counterpane, which
she concealed under her shawl, and the
gaoler was prevailed on by his wife not
to take from him. He was cruelly tor-
tured some time since, and condemned
to die on the same day as Mr. Luke Kir-
by and some others on a like charge, that
he did deny the queen's supremacy in
spiritual matters ; but he was taken off
the sledge and returned to prison. He
did take it very quietly and patiently ;
and when Mr. Congleton expressed a
hope he might soon be released from
prison, he smiled and said :
"My good friend, my crosses are
light and easy ; and the being deprived
of all earthly comfort affords a heavenly
joy, which maketh my prison happy,
my confinement merciful, my solitude
full of blessings. To God, therefore,
be all praise, honor, and glory, for so un-
speakable a benefit bestowed upon his
poor, wretched, and unworthy servant."
So did he comfort those who were
more grieved for him than he for him-
self; and each in turn we did confess ;
and after I had disburdened my con-
science in such wise that he perceived
the temper of my mind, and where to
apply remedies to the dangers the na-
ture of which his clearsightedness did
foresee, he thus addressed me :
" The world, my dear daughter,
soon begins to seem insipid, and all its
pleasures grow bitter as gall ; all the
fine shows and delights it affords ap-
pear empty and good for nothing to
such as have tasted the happiness of
conversing with Christ, though it be
amidst torments and tribulations, yea
and in the near approach of death it-
self. This joy so penetrates the soul,
so elevates the spirit, so changes the
affections, that a prison seems not a
prison but a paradise, death a goal long
time desired, and the torments which
do accompany it jewels of great price.
Take with thee these words, which be
the greatest treasure and the rarest
lesson for these times : < He that loveth
his life in this world shall lose it, and
he that hateth it shall find it ;' and re-
member the devil is always upon the
watch. Be you also watchful. Pray
you for me. I have a great confidence
that we shall see one another in heaven,
if you keep inviolable the word you
have given to God to be true to his
Catholic Church and obedient to its
precepts, and he gives me the grace to
attain unto that same blessed end."
These words, like the sower's seed,
fell into a field where thorns oftentimes
threatened to choke their effect; but
persecution, when it arose, consumed
the thorns as with fire, and the plant,
which would have withered in stony
ground, bore fruit in a prepared soil.
As we left the prison, it did happen
that, passing by the gaoler's lodge, I
saw him sitting at a table drinking ale
with one whose back was to the door.
A suspicion came over me, the most
unlikely in the world, for it was against
all credibility, and I had not seen so
much as that person's face ; but in the
shape of his head and the manner of
490
Constance Sherwood.
his sitting, but for a moment observed,
there was a resemblance to Edmund
Genings, the thought of which I could
not shake off. When we were walk-
ing home, Mr. Congleton said Mr.
Hart had told him that a short time
back a gentleman had been seized,
and committed to close confinement,
whom he believed, though he had not
attained to the certainty thereof, to be
Mr. Willisden ; and if it were so, that
much trouble might ensue to maif^
recusants, by reason of that gentleman
having dealt in matters of great im-
portance to such persons touching
lands and other affairs whereby their
fortunes and maybe their lives might
be compromised. On hearing of this,
I straightway conceived a sudden fear
lest it should be my father and not Mr.
Willisden was confined in that prison ;
and the impression I had received
touching the youth who was at table
with the gaoler grew so strong in con-
sequence, that all sorts of fears founded
thereon ran through my mind, for I
had often heard how persons did de-
ceive recusants by feigning themselves
to be their friends, and then did de-
nounce them to the council, and pro-
cured their arrest and oftentimes their
condemnation by distorting and false
swearing touching the speech they
held with them. One Eliot in partic-
ular, who was a man of great modesty
and ingenuity of countenance, so as
to defy suspicion (but a very wicked
man in more ways than one, as has
been since proved), who pretended to
be Catholic, and when he did suspect
any to be a Jesuit, or a seminary priest,
or only a recusant, he would straight-
way enter into discourse with him, and
in an artful manner cause him to betray
himself; whereupon he was not slow
to throw off the mask, whereby several
had been already brought to the rope.
And albeit I would not credit that
Edmund should be such a one, the
evil of the times was so great that my
heart did misgive me concerning him,
if indeed he was the youth whom I
had espied on such familiar terms with
that ruffianly gaoler. I had no rest
for some days, lacking the means to
discover the truth of that suspicion;
for Mrs. Ward, to whom I did impart
it, dared not adventure again that
week to the Marshalsea, by reason of
the gaoler's wife having charged her
not to come frequently, for that her
husband had suddenly suspected her
to be a recusant, and would by no means
allow of her visits to the prisoners ;
but that when he was drunk she could
sometimes herself get his keys and let
her in, but not too often. Mr. Congle-
ton would have it the prisoner must be
Mr. Willisden and no other, and took
no heed of my fears, which he said had
no reasonable grounds, as I had not so
much as seen the features of the youth
I took to be my father's page. But I
could by no means be satisfied, and
wept very much ; and I mind me how,
in the midst of my tears that evening,
my eyes fell on the frontispiece of a
volume of the Morte d* Arthur which
had been loosened when the book was
in my chamber, and in which was
picture of Sir Launcelot, the pres<
mirror of my fancy. I had pinned it
my curtain, and jewelled it as a
ure and fund of foolish musings, ev<
after yielding up, with promise
read no more therein, the book w]
had once held it. And thus were
kept alive the fantastic imaginings
wherewith I clothed a creature con-
ceived in a writer's brain, whose nobil-
ity was the offspring of his thoughts
and the continual entertainment of
mine own. But, oh, how just did I
now find the words of a virtuous friend,
and how childish my folly, when the
true sharp edge of present fear dis-
persed these vapory clouds, even as
the keen blast of a north wind doth
drive away a noxious mist! The
sight of the dismal dungeon that day
visited, the pallid features of that true
confessor therein immured, his soul-
piercing words, and the apprehensions
which were wringing my heart ban-
ished of a sudden an idle dream en-
gendered by vain readings and vainer
musings, and Sir Launcelot held hence-
forward no higher, or not so high, a
Constance Sherwood.
491
place in my esteem as the good Sir
Guy of Warwick, or the brave Hector
de Valence.
A day or two after, my Lady Surrey
sent her coach for me ; and I found her
in her dressing-room seated on a couch
with her waiting- women and Mistress
Milicent around her, who were display-
ing a great store of rich suits and jew-
els and such-like gear drawn from
wardrobes and closets, the doors of
which were thrown open, and little
Mistress Bess was on tiptoe on a stool
afore a mirror with a diamond neck-
lace on, ribbons flaring about her head,
and a fan of ostrich-feathers in her
hand.
" Ah, sweet one,'' said my lady, when
I came in, "thou must needs be sur-
prised at this show of bravery, which
ill consorts with the mourning of our
present garb or the grief of our hearts ;
but, i' faith, Constance, strange things
do come to pass, and such as I would
fain hinder if I could."
"Make ready thine ears for great
news, good Constance," cried Bess,
running toward me encumbered with
her finery, and tumbling over sundry
pieces of head-gear in her way, to the
waking-woman's no small discomfiture.
" The queen's majesty doth visit upon
next Sunday the Earl and Countess of
Surrey; and as her highness cannot
endure the sight of dool, they and their
household must needs put it off and
array themselves in their costliest
suits ; and Nan is to put on her choic-
est jewels, and my Lady Bess must be
grand too, to salute the queen."
" Hush, Bessy," said my lady ; and
leading me into the adjoining chamber,
" 'tis hard," quoth she, holding my hand
in hers, " 'tis hard when his grace is
in the Tower and in disgrace with her
majesty, and only six weeks since our
Moll died, that she must needs visit
this house, where there be none to en-
tertain her highness but his grace's
poor children ; 'tis hard, Constance, to
be constrained to kiss the hand which
threatens his life who gave my lord
his, and mostly to smile at the queen's
jesting, which my Lord Arundel saith
we must of all things take heed to ob-
serve, for that she as little can endure
dool in the face as in the dress."
A few tears fell from those sweet
eyes upon my hand, which she still
held, and I said, " Comfort you, my
sweet lady. It must needs be that her
majesty doth intend favor to his grace
through this visit. Her highness would
never be minded to do so much honor
to the children if she did not purpose
mercy to the father."
" I would fain believe it were so,"
said the countess, thoughtfully ; "but
my Lord Arundel and my Lady Lum-
ley hold not, I fear, the same opinion.
And I do hear from them that his grace
is much troubled thereat, and hath writ-
ten to the Earl of Leicester and my
Lord Burleigh to lament the queen's
determination to visit his son, who is
not of age to receive her."*
" And doth my Lord of Surrey take
the matter to heart ?"
" My lord's disposition doth incline
him to conceive hope where others see
reason to fear," she replied. " He
saith he is glad her majesty should
come to this house, and that he will
take occasion to petition her grace to
release his father from the Tower ;
and he hath drawn up an address to
that effect, which is marvellous well
expressed ; and, since 'tis written, he
makes no more doubt that her majesty
will accede to it than if the upshot was
not yet to come, but already past. And
he hath set himself with a skill beyond
his years, and altogether wonderful in
one so young, to prepare all things for
the queen's reception ; so that when
his grandfather did depute my Lord
Berkeley and my Lady Lumley to as-
sist us (he himself being too sick to go
out of his house) in the ordering of the
collation in the banqueting-room, and
the music wherewith to greet her high-
ness on her arrival, as well as the cere-
monial to be observed during her visit,
they did find that my lord had so dis-
* Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series,
1547 to 1580: "Duke of Norfolk to the Earl of
Leicester and Lord Burleigh ; laments the
queen's determination to visit his Bon's house,
who is not of age to receive her."
492
Constance Sherwood.
posedly and with so great taste or-
dained the rules to be observed, and
the proper setting forth of all things,
that little remained for them to do.
And he will have me to be richly
dressed, and to put on the jewels which
were his mother's, which, since her
death, have not been worn by the two
Duchesses of Norfolk which did suc-
ceed her. Ah me, Mistress Constance,
I often wish my lord and I had been
born far from the court, in some quiet
country place, where there are no
queens to entertain, and no plots which
do bring nobles into so great dangers."
" Alack," I cried, " dear lady, 'tis
not the highest in the land that be
alone to suffer. Their troubles do
stand forth in men's eyes ; and when
a noble head is imperilled all the world
doth know of it ; but blood is spilt in
this land, and torments endured, which
no pen doth chronicle, and of which
scant mention is made in palaces."
" There is a passion in thy speech,"
my lady said, " which betrayeth a se-
cret uneasiness of heart. Hast thou
had ill news, my Constance ?"
" No news, " I answered, " but that
which my fears do invent and whis-
per;" and then I related to her the
cause of my disturbance, which she
sought to allay by kind words, which
nevertheless failed to comfort me.
Before I left she did propose I should
come to the Charter House on the
morning of the queen's visit, and bring
Mistress AYard and my cousins also, as
it would pleasure them to stand in the
gallery and witness the entertainment,
and albeit my heart was heavy, me-
thought it was an occasion not to be
overpast to feast my eyes with the
sight of majesty, and to behold that
great queen who doth hold in her
hands her subjects' lives, and who, if
she do but nod, like the god of the
heathen which books do speak of, such
terrible effects ensue, greater than can
be thought of; and so I gave my lady
mine humble thanks, and also for that
she did gift ms with a dainty hat and
a well-embroidered suit to wear on that
day ; which, when Kate saw, she fell
into a wonderful admiration of the pat-
tern, and did set about to get it copied
afore the day of the royal visit to
Howard House. As I returned to
Holborn in my lady's coach there was
a great crowd in the Cornhill, and the
passage for a while arrested by the
number of persons on their way to
what is now called the Royal Ex-
change, which her majesty was to visit
in the evening. I sat very quietly with
mine eyes fixed on the foot-passengers,
not so much looking at their faces as
watching their passage, which, like
the running of a river, did seem end-
less. But at last it somewhat slack-
ened, and the coach moved on, when,
at the corner of a street, nigh unto a
lamp over a shop, which did throw a
light on his face, I beheld Edmund
Genings. Oh, how my heart did beat,
and with what a loud cry I did call to
the running footmen to stop ! But the
noise of the street was so great they
did not hear me, and I saw him turn
and pursue his way down another
street toward the river. My good
uncle, when he heard I had verily seen
my father's new page in the city, gave
more heed to my suspicions, and did
promise to go himself unto the Mar-
shalsea on the next day, and seek to
verify the name of the prisoner Mr.
Hart had made mention of.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Modern Falconry.
From The Cornhill Magazine.
MODERN FALCONRY.
493
HUNTING and hawking were, as
every one knows, the great sports of
our forefathers. Angling was but lit-
tle understood before the time of Wal-
ton and Cotton, and not thoroughly
even by those great masters them-
selves. In the olden time, the bow
and arrow, being scarcely adapted for
fowling, were used almost exclusively
against large game, such as deer ; the
crossbow was perhaps not a very
efficient weapon ; and the art of shoot-
ing flying with a fowling-piece may be
said to be of recent invention. It is
true that, a couple of hundred years
ago, men (the sportsmen of those days)
might have been seen, armed with a
match-lock, or some such wonderful con-
trivance, crawling toward a covey of
basking partridges, with the intention
of shooting them on the ground ; and
Dame Juliana Berners, who wrote
upon falconry in the middle of the
fifteenth century, invented a fly-rod of
such excessive weight that the strong-
est salmon-fisher in these days would
be unwilling to wield it. But this
was sorry work, and we can well
understand that, of itself, it was very
far from satisfying a sport-loving
people. They still held by the old
sports. Hunting and hawking were
in their glory when what we now
call "shooting" and "fishing" were
scarcely understood at all. Deer were
in abundance, and so was other game,
especially if we consider the few
people privileged to kill it. In those
days, though not in these, the most
sportsmanlike way was the most profit-
able ; and more quarry could be taken
with dogs and hawks than in any other,
and perhaps less legitimate, manner.
Hunting we retain, as our great and
national sport, though circumstances,
rather than choice, have led to our ex-
changing the stag for the fox. But
falconry, the great sport of chivalry,
once the national sport of these islands,
has been permitted so nearly to die out
that but few people are aware of its
existence amongst us. That it does
still live, however, though under a
cloud, to what extent and in what
manner it is carried out, it is the pur-
port of this paper to show.
The causes of the decrease, and
almost the loss, of this sport are
obvious enough. Amongst the chief
are, the present enclosed state of the
country; the perfection or what is
almost perfection of modern gunnery,
and of the marksman's skill, and the
desire to make large bags. Add to
these, perhaps, the trouble and ex-
pense attendant upon keeping hawks.
But the links have at no time abso-
lutely been broken which, in England,
unite falconry in the time of Ethelbert
to falconry of the present day. Lord
Orford and Colonel Thornton took
them up and strengthened them at the
end of the last, and the beginning of
the present, century. Later still, the
Loo Club in Holland saved falconry
from extinction in England, because
its English members brought their fal-
cons to this country, and flew them
here. The Barrs, first-rate Scotch
falconers, and John Pells, of Norfolk,
helped the course by training and sell-
ing hawks ; and a work entitled " Fal-
conry in the British Isles," published in
1855, together with some chapters
which appeared rather later in one of
the leading sporting newspapers (and
were afterward collected in a vol-
ume), served to create or encourage a
love for falconry.
It was said that the present Duke
of St. Albans, the grand falconer,
would take to the sport con amore,
and not as a mere form ; but thia is
very far indeed from being the case.
494
Modern Falconry.
The Maharajah Dhuleep Singh was
perhaps the most considerable falconer
of the present day ; and last season
but one he killed 119 grouse with his
young hawks ; but he has lately given
up the greater part of his hawking es-
tablishment. In Ireland there are
some good falcons, flown occasionally
at herons, and frequently, and with
great success, at other quarry ; many
officers in the army are falconers ;
and, in the wilds of Cheshire, there
lives a poor gentleman who has flown
hawks for fifteen years, and contrives,
through the courtesy of his friends, to
make a bag on the moors with his fa-
mous grouse-hawk " The Princess,"
and one or two others.
Those who have been accustomed
to regard falconry as entirely a thing
of the past, and the secret of hawk-
training as utterly lost as that of
Stonehenge or the Pyramids, will be
surprised to hear that there are, at the
present time, hawks in England of
such proved excellence, that it is im-
possible to conceive even princes in
the olden time, notwithstanding the
monstrous prices they are said to have
paid for some falcons, ever possessing
better. When a peregrine falcon will
" wait on," as it is called, at the height
of a hundred or a hundred and fifty
yards above her master, as he beats
the moors for her, and, when the birds
rise, chase them with almost the speed
of an arrow ; when she is sure to kill,
unless the grouse escapes in cover ;
when she will not attempt to " carry "
her game, even should a dog run by
her, and when she is ready to fly two
or three times in one morning it can
easily be imagined, even by those who
know nothing of falconry, that she has
reached excellence.
And so, in heron-hawking. If a
cast of falcons, unhooded at a quarter
of a mile from a passing heron (espe-
cially a " light " heron, i. e., a heron
going to feed, and therefore not
weighted), capture him in a wind, and
after a two-mile flight, it is difficult to
suppose, cceteris paribus, that any
hawks could possibly be superior to
them. And, as such hawks as we
have described exist, the inevitable
conclusion is, that where falconry is
really understood, it is understood as
well as it ever was ; or, in other
words, that modern falconry, as far as
the perfection of individual hawks is
concerned, is equal to ancient.
Our forefathers, excellent falconers
as they were, chose to make a won-
derful mystery of their craft ; and
when they did publish a book on the
subject of their great sport, its directions
could only avail the gentry of those
exclusive times. In examining these
books, one is sometimes almost tempted
to doubt whether the writers really of-
fered the whole of their contents in a
spirit of good faith ; at any rate, some
of the advice is very startling to mod-
ern ears ; and no sane man of the pre-
sent day would dream of following it.
Perhaps the reader would like an ex-
tract. Here, then, is a recipe for a
sick hawk, extracted from The Gen-
tleman's Recreation, published 1677:
"Take germander, pelamountain, ba-
sil, grummel-seed, and broom-flowers,
of each half an ounce ; hyssop, sassa-
fras, polypodium, and horse-mints, of
each a quarter of an ounce, and the
like of nutmegs ; cubebs, borage, mum-
my, mugwort, sage, and the four kinds
of mirobolans, of each half an ounce ;
of aloes soccotrine the fifth part of an
ounce, and of saffron one whole ounce.
To be put into a hen's gut, tied at both
ends." What was supposed to be the
effect of this marvellous mixture, it is
somewhat hard to divine ; but our
modern pharmacopoeia would be con-
tent with a little rhubarb and a few
peppercorns. With regard to food, we
are told, in the same work, that cock's
flesh is proper for falcons that are
" melancholick ;" and that " phleg-
matick" birds are to be treated in
a different way possibly fed on
pullets. Were this paper intended
as a notice of ancient, instead of mod-
ern falconry, we might multiply instan-
ces to show the extreme faddiness of
the old falconers.
Simply to tame a hawk is excessively
Modern Falconry.
495
easy. To train it, up to a certain
point, is not at all difficult. But it re-
quires an old and practised hand to
produce a bird of first-rate excellence.
The modern routine of training the
peregrine falcon is shortly as follows :
Young birds are procured, generally
from Scotland, either just before they
can fly, or just after. They are placed
in some straw, on a platform, in an out-
house, which ought to open to the
southeast. They are furnished each
with a large bell (the size of a very
small walnut) for the leg ; and each
with a couple of Jessies (short straps
of leather) for both legs. If they are
unable to fly, the door of the coach-
house (or whatever the outhouse may
be) should be left open ; but if they
have tolerable use of their wings, it will
be necessary to close it for the first few
days. They are fed twice a day with
beefsteak changed, occasionally, for
rabbit, rook, or pigeon ; and, if the
birds are very young, the food must be
cut up small ; but it is improper to take
them from the nest until the feathers
have shown themselves thoroughly
through the white down. A lure is
then used. This instrument need be
nothing more than a forked and some-
what heavy piece of wood (sometimes
covered with leather), to which is fast-
ened a strap and a couple of pigeons'
wings. To this meat is tied ; and the
young hawks are encouraged to fly
down from their platform, at the stated
feeding times, to take their meals from
it, the falconer either loudly whistling
or shouting to them the while. Pres-
ently, and as they become acquainted
with the lures, they are permitted to
fly at large for a fortnight or three
weeks; and, if the feeding-times be
kept, the lures well furnished with food,
and the shout or whistle employed, the
hawks will certainly return when they
are due ; unless, indeed, they have been
injured or destroyed when from home,
by accident or malice. This flying at
liberty is termed "flying at hack."
When the young hawks show any dis-
position to prey for themselves (though
the heavy bells are intended slightly to
delay this), they are taken up from
" hack," either with a small net, or with
the hand. They are then taught to
wear the hood, and are carried on the
fist. In a few days they are sufficiently
tame to be trusted at large, and may be
flown at young grouse or pigeons, the
heavy bells having been changed for
the lightest procurable. At this period
great pains are taken by the falconer to
prevent his bird " carrying " her game ;
for it is obvious that, were the hawk to
move when he approached her, he would
be subject constantly to the greatest
trouble and disappointment. The tales
told hi books about hawks bringing
quarry to their master are absurd ; the
falconer must go to his hawk. Such is
a sketch of the training in modern times
of the eyas or young bird. Wild-
caught hawks, however, called "hag-
gards," are occasionally used. These,
though excellent for herons and rooks,
are not good for game-hawking, as it is
difficult to make them " wait on " about
the falconer, and all game must be
flown from the air, and not from the
hood ; i. e., by a hawk from her pitch,
and not from the fist of her master.
Haggards, of course, are never flown
at " hack." The tiercel, or male per-
egrine, is excellent for partridges and
pigeons ; but the female bird only can
have a chance with herons, and is to be
preferred also for grouse and rooks.
W^e have in this country several
trained goshawks, which are flown at
rabbits; also sometimes at hares and
pheasants. The merlin, too, is occa-
sionally trained: the present writer
flew these beautiful little birds at larks
for years ; but gave them up in 1857,
and confined himself entirely to pere-
grines and goshawks. The sparrow-
hawk, the wildest of hawks, is some-
times used for small birds. The hobby
is hardly to be procured. The Iceland
and Greenland falcons are prized, but
are rarely met with.
These large birds are called gerfal-
cons ; and, when very white, and good
in the field, fetched extravagant prices
in the old times. They may now some-
times be procured untrained for 5 or
49G
Modern Falconry.
6 each ; but the peregrine is large
enough for the game of this country.
It may be interesting to know, in
something like detail, what a flight at
game, rooks, pigeons, or magpies is like
how it is conducted, and to what extent
the sagacity of hawks may be devel-
oped. To this end, we will give a
sketch or two of what is being done
now, and what will be done in the game
season.
At this season of the year, and in
this country, falconers are obliged to be
content with rook, pigeon, or magpie
flying. Such quarry is flown " out of
the hood," and not from the air ; i. e^
the hawk, instead of " waiting on " over
the falconer in expectation of quarry
being sprung, is unhooded as it rises,
and is cast off from the fist. At least
the only exception to this is when pig-
eons are thrown from the hand in order
to teach a hawk to " wait on."
It will be understood that, in the fol-
lowing description, the peregrine is
supposed to be used, for a long-winged
hawk is necessary for the flights about
to be described, and the merlin is too
small to be depended upon for anything
larger than a black-bird, or a young
partridge ; though the best females are
good for pigeons.
Let us go out to-day, then, and try to
kill a rook or two on the neighboring
common. The hawks are in good con-
dition ; not indeed as fat as though
they were put up to moult, but with
plenty of flesh and muscle, and wind
kept good by almost daily exercise. We
have a haggard tiercel and a haggard
falcon ; also two eyas falcons ; all are
up to their work and have been well
entered to rooks. We shall not trouble
ourselves to take out the cadge to-day,
for our party is quite strong enough to
carry the hawks on the fist. Only two
of us are mounted, a lady and a gentle-
man ; the rest will run. The lady
would carry the little tiercel, but she
is afraid lest she should make a blun-
der in unhooding him, as her mare is
rather fresh this morning ; but her com-
panion, who has flown many a hawk,
willingly takes charge of him.
We are well on the common now;
and lo ! a black mass on the ground
there, with a few black spots floating
over. Hark to the distant " caw !" A
clerical meeting. " Let us give them
a bishop, then," says the bearer of the
tiercel, which is called by that name.
The wind is from them to us. The
horseman and his companion canter on-
ward ; we follow at a slow run. The
horses approach the flock ; the black
mass becomes disturbed and rises ; the
" bishop " is thrown off with a shout of
" Hoo, ha ! ha !" and rushes amongst
his clergy with even more than epis-
copal energy. There is full enough
wind ; the rooks are soon into it, and
ringing up in a compact body with a
pace which, for them, is very good.
His lordship, too, is mounting : he rose
in a straight line the moment he left the
fist, but he is now making a large circle
to get above his quarry. He has
reached them, but he does not grapple
with the first bird he comes near, though
he seems exceedingly close to it. But
there is something so thoroughly sys-
tematic in his movements, something
which so suggests a long and deadly
experience, that even the uninitiated of
the party feel certain that he is doing
the right thing. He is nearly above
them. A rook has left the flock the
very worst thing he could possibly do
for his own sake: he has saved the
bishop the trouble of selection. He
makes for some trees in the distance,
but it is inconceivable that he can reach
them. There ! and there ! Now again !
He is clutched at the third stoop, and
both birds, in a deadly embrace, flap
and twist to the ground together. The
rest are high in the air, and a long way
off.
It must not be considered that this
tiercel did not dash at once into the
whole flock because he was afraid to do
so. He had no fear whatever ; but
nature or experience taught him that a
stoop from above was worth half-a-
dozen attempts to fly level and grapple.
" It's poor work after all," said one
of the party, who had run for it not-
withstanding ; " these brutes can't fly,
Modern Falconry.
497
and it's almost an insult to a first-rate
hawk to unhood him at such quarry.
Even the hawks don't fly with the same
dash that one sees when a strong pigeon
is on the wing. Beside, it's spoiling
the eyases for game-hawking ; when
they ought to be ' waiting on' over
grouse, they will be starting after the
first rook that passes."
" My good fellow," answered an-
other, " you must hawk rooks now, or
be content with pigeons, unless you can
find magpies (we will try that pres-
ently) : there are no herons anywhere
near (and I don't know that the eyases
would fly them if there were) ; and, as
for flying a house-pigeon, which has
been brought to the field in a basket,
though I grant the goodness of the
flight, I don't see the sport. If we
could find wood-pigeons far enough
from trees, I should like that. As for
the game next season, there are not
many rooks on the moors ; and, as
these falcons would fly rooks even if
they had not seen them for a year, I
don't think we are losing much by what
we are doing. It is exercise at any rate ;
and, beside, I assure you that I have
seen an old cock-rook, in a wind like
this, live for a mile, before one of the
best falcons in the world, where there
was not a single tree to shelter him."
We are compelled to go some dis-
:ance before we can see a black feather ;
'or rooks, once frightened, are very
careful ; or rather, we should have been
so compelled had it not happened that
an old carrion-crow, perhaps led near
lie spot by curiosity, is seen passing at
;he distance of about two hundred yards.
The passage-falcon is instantly unhood-
ed and cast off ; and, as we are now in
the neighborhood of a few scattered
trees, it takes ten minutes to kill him ;
and a short time, too, for he has " treed"
himself some eight or ten times in spite
of our efforts to make him take the
open.
Our time is short to-day ; but let us
get a magpie, if possible, 'before we go
home. Our fair companion is fully as
anxious for the sport as we are. Only
a mile off there is a nice country;
32
large grass fields, small fences, with a
bush here and there. We have reached
it. A magpie has flown from the top
of that single tree in the hedgerow, and
is skimming down the field. Off with
the young falcons : wait till the first
sees him; now unhood the second.
Ah ! he sees them, and flies along the
side of the hedge. Let us ride and run !
Get him out of cover as fast as possible,
while the hawks "wait on" above.
Pray, sir, jump the fence a little lower
down, and help to get him out from the
other side. Hoo-ha-ha ! there he goes.
Well stooped, " Vengeance," and nearly-
clutched, " Guinevere," but he has
reached the tree in the hedgerow, and
is moving his long tail about in the
most absurd manner. A good smack
of the whip, and he is off again. And
so we go on for a quarter of an hour,
riding, running, shouting, till " Guine-
vere " clutches him just as he is about
to enter a clump of trees. Who-
whoop !
Such is rook-hawking and magpie-
hawking. In an open plain, and on
a tolerably still day, a great number of
rooks may be killed with good hawks.
Either eyas or passage-falcons may be
used. Last year, one hundred and
fifty-two rooks and two carrion-crows
were killed by some officers, on the finest
place for rook-flying in England, with
some passage-hawks and two eyases.
In 1863, ninety rooks were killed, near
the same spot, with eyases. Tiercels
are better than falcons for magpie-
hawking, as they are unquestionably
quicker amongst hedgerows, and can
turn in a smaller compass. One tiercel
has been known to kill eight magpies
in a day ; but this is extraordinary
work.
To prevent confusion, it may be as
well to mention here that the term
" haggard" and " passage-hawk" both
mean a wild-caught hawk ; while
" eyas" signifies a bird taken from the
nest or eyrie.
Heron-hawking requires an open
country, with a heronry in the neigh-
borhood. The quarry is flown at gene-
rally by passage-hawks ; but a few
498
Modern Falconry.
very good eyases have been found
equal to the flight.
Game-hawking is conducted in the
following manner: Let us suppose,
in the first instance, that the falconer
is living in the immediate neighbor-
hood of grouse-moors, and that he
wishes, on some fine morning at the
end of October or the beginning of
November, to show his friend a flight
or two at grouse, without going very
far for the sport. The old pointer
is summoned ; " The Princess," an
eyas falcon in the second plumage, is
hooded ; and the walk is commenced.
Now, very early in the season on
the moors, and through the whole
of September with partridges, it is
better to wait for a point before the
hawk is cast oft, for this saves time,
and you know that you have game
under you ; but at that period of the
season which we have named, grouse
rise t&e moment man or dog is seen,
and you would have a bad chance in-
deed were you to fly your hawk out
of the hood (*. <?., from the fist) at
them. The best way is to keep your
dog to heel, not to talk, and, just before
you show yourself in some likely place,
to throw up the falcon. When she has
reached her pitch, which she will soon
do, hurry the dog on, run, clap your
hands, and get the birds up as soon as
may be.
The hill is ascended, " The Princess"
is at her pitch where she would re-
main, following her master and " Shot"
the pointer, for ten minutes if necessary.
Some minutes pass : an old cock-grouse,
put up by a shepherd-dog, rises a
couple of hundred yards off. Hoo-ha-
ha-ha ! " The Princess" vanishes from
her post, more rapidly than the knights
in " Ivanhoe" left theirs. She does not
droop or fly near the ground (she has
had too much experience for that) , but
almost rises as she shoots off after him.
Had he risen under her, she would
have cut him over ; but this is a dif-
ferent affair. They are soon out of
sight down the hill ; but a marker has
been placed that way. " I think she
has killed him, sir," he shouts pre-
sently; "but it's a long way. No,
she's coming back ; she must have put
him into cover." Up and down hill,
it would take us twenty minutes to get
there ; and see ! she is over our heads,
" waiting on" again, and telling us, as
well as she can, to spring another. A
point! how is that ? only that there
are some more which dare not rise
because they have seen her. " Hi in,
' Shot ! ' ' Again the falconer's shout
startles his friend ; again " The Prin-
cess" passes through the air like an
arrow. " All right this time, sir," cries
the marker ; " I see her with it under
yon wall." She has scarcely begun to
eat the head as we reach her. One
more flight. She is lifted on the grouse ;
the leash is passed through the jesses,
and then she is hooded. Let us rest
for ten minutes. Again, she is " wait-
ing on," again she flies ; but this time,
though we see the flight for three-
quarters of a mile, the birds top a hill,
and we are an hour in finding them.
The grouse, however, is fit for cooking
even then ; only the head, neck, and
some of the back have vanished : it is
plucked nearly as well as though it had
been in the hands of a cook. That
will do, and very good sport, too, con-
sidering we had but one hawk. Let
us now feed her up on beef, and hood
her.
In the very early part of the season,
with grouse, and commonly with part-
ridges, it is usual (as we have hinted)
to wait for a point ; the hawk is then
cast off, and the birds are sprung when
she has reached her pitch.
Goshawks, which may be occasionally
procured from the Regent's Park
Zoological Gardens, or directly from
Sweden or Germany, are considered
by some falconers to be difficult birds
to manage. That they are sulkily dis-
posed is certain ; but in hands accus-
tomed to them, and when they are con-
stantly at work, they are exceedingly
trustworthy, even affectionate, and will
take as many as eight or ten rabbits in a
day. They are short-winged hawks,
and have no chance with anything
faster than a rising pheasant ; they are
Modern Falconry.
499
excellent for rabbits, and a few large
ones will sometimes hold a hare. In
modern practice they are never hooded,
except in travelling, and are always
flown from the fist, or from some tree
in which they may have perched after
an unsuccessful flight.
There are probably, in these islands,
about fifteen practical falconers, three
or four of whom are professional ; of
the latter, John Pells and the Barrs
are well worthy of mention.
John Pells was born at Lowestoft
in 1815, and went, when he was thir-
teen, with his father to Valkneswaard
to take passage-hawks for the Didling-
ton Subscription Club ; so that he was
very soon in harness. The elder Pells
commenced his career at the age of
eleven, and was in every respect a
perfect falconer ; he was presented by
Napoleon I. with a falconer's bag,
which is now in possession of the Duke
of Leeds. He died in 1838. The pre-
sent John Pells has had all possible
advantages in his calling, and has made
every use of them. He was falconer
to the Duke of Leeds, to Mr. O'Keeffe,
to Mr. E. C. Newcome, to the late
Duke of St. Albans, and now attends
to the hawks which the present duke
is bound, either by etiquette or neces-
sity, to maintain. Pells also sells
trained hawks, and gives lessons in
the art of falconry. He was at one
time an exceedingly active man, and
spent six months in Iceland, catching
Iceland falcons. After enduring a
good deal of cold and fatigue, he brought
fifteen of these birds to Brandon, in
Norfolk, in November, 1845. He is
now too stout and too gouty for strong
exercise, but his experience is very
aluable.
Too much can hardly be said in
raise of John and Robert Barr
brothers). Their father, a game-
eeper in Scotland, taught Jhem, in a
igh way, the rudiments of falconry,
fhey are now, and have been for a
ong time, most accomplished falconers,
hen in the employment of the In-
prince Dhuleep Singh, John Barr
as sent to India to learn the Indian
system of falconry. There is some
notion now of his being placed at the
head of a hawking club about to be es-
tablished in Paris; and English fal-
conry might well be proud of such a
representative. Beside the Pells and
the Barrs, we have PaulMollen, Gibbs,
and Bots and one or two more all
good.
In consequence of the great rage for
game-preserving which obtains in the
present day, it does not seem unlikely
that the peregrine falcon may, in time,
be as thoroughly exterminated in Scot-
land and Ireland as the goshawk has
already been. At present, however,
falconers find no difficulty in procuring
these birds, if they are willing to pay
for them. In a selfish point of view,
therefore, they have nothing of which
to complain. But it might become a
question, at least of conscience, whether
mankind have the right, though they
possibly may have the power, of blot-
ting out from the face of creation so
long as there is no danger to human
life and limb any conspicuous type of
strength or of beauty. The kingfisher
is sought to be exterminated on our
rivers, the eagle and the falcon on our
hills ; and it is brought forward in justi-
fication of this slaughter at least it is
brought forward in effect that the
sportsman's bag and the angler's creel
are of much more importance than the
wonderful works of God. To all that
is selfish in these strict preservers of
fish and of game it may be opposed that
part of the food of the kingfisher con-
sists in minnows ; that the fry of trout
and salmon, when not confined in breed-
ing-boxes, are rarely procured by this
bird, which constantly feeds upon the
larvae of the Dytiscce and LilelMce,
the real foes of the fry ; that the pere-
grine falcon, though she undoubtedly
kills very many healthy grouse, purges
the moors of diseased ones, and drives
away the egg-stealing birds. And to
all that is generous in these martinets
of preservation it may be submitted
that true sport has other elements than
those of acquisition and slaughter ; that
the pleasure of a ramble on the hills
500
All-Hallow Eoe; or, The Test of Futurity.
or by the river is sadly dashed if fisher near the angler's rod, is as
you have struck out some of the lively and as well worth relating as
beauty of the landscape ; and that the fall of an extra grouse to the gun,
the incident of a flight made by or the addition of another trout to the
a wild hawk, or the flash of a king- basket.
From The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.
BY ROBERT CURTIS.
CHAPTER I.
I COULD have wished that the inci-
dents which I am about to describe in
the following tale had taken place in
some locality with a less Celtic, and to
English tongues a more pronounce-
able, namo than Boher-na-Milthiogue.
I had at first commenced the tale with
the word itself, thus : " Boher-na-
Milthiogue, though in a wild and re-
mote part of Ireland," etc. But I
was afraid that, should an English
reader take up and open the book, he
would at the very first word slap it
together again between the palms of
his hands, saying, " Oh, that is quite
enough for me !" Now, as my Eng-
lish readers have done me vastly good
service on former occasions, I should
be sorry to frighten them at the outset
of this new tale ; and I have therefore
endeavored to lead them quietly into
it. With my Irish friends no such
circumlocution would have been neces-
sary. Perhaps, if I dissever and ex-
plain the word, it may enable even my
English readers in some degree to ap-
proach a successful attempt at its pro-
nunciation. I am aware, however, of
the difficulty they experience in this
respect, and that their attempts at
some of our easiest names of Irish
places are really laughable laugh-
able, at least, to our Celtic familiarity
with the correct sound.
Boher is the Irish for " bridge," and
milthiogue for a " midge ;" Boher-na-
Milthiogue, " the midge's bridge."
There now, if my English friends
cannot yet pronounce the word prop-
erly, which I still doubt, they can at
least understand what it means. It
were idle, I fear to hope, that they can
see any beauty in it; and yet that
it is beautiful there can be no Celtic
doubt whatever.
Perhaps it might have been well to
have written thus far in the shape of
a preface ; but as nobody nowadays
reads prefaces, the matter would have
been as bad as ever. I shall therefore
continue now as I had intended to
have commenced at first.
Boher-na-Milthiogue, though in a
wild and remote part of Ireland, is not
without a certain degree of natural
and romantic beauty, suiting well the
features of the scene in which it lies.
Towering above a fertile and well-
cultivated plain frown and smile the
brother and sister mountains of Slieve-
dhu and Slieve-bawn, the solid ma-
sonry of whose massive and perpen-
dicular precipices was built by no hu-
man architect. The ponderous and
scowling rocks of Slieve-dhu, the
brother, are dark and indistinct; while,
separated from it by a narrow and
abrupt ravine, those of Slieve-bawn,
the sister, are of a whitish spotted
gray, contrasting cheerfully with those
of her gloomy brother.
There is generally a story in Ire-
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
501
land about mountains or rivers or old
ruins which present any peculiarity of
shape or feature. Now it is an un-
doubted fact, which any tourist can
satisfy himself of, that although from
sixty to a hundred yards asunder,
there are huge bumps upon the side of
Slieve-bawn, corresponding to which
in every respect as to size and shape
are cavities precisely opposite them in
the side of Slieve-dhu. The story in
this case is, that although formerly
the mountains w^re, like a loving
brother and sister, clasped in each
other's arms, they quarrelled one dark
night (I believe about the cause of
thunder), when Slieve-dhu in a pas-
sion struck his sister a blow in the
face, and staggered her back to where
she now stands, too far for the possi-
bility of reconciliation ; and that she,
knowing the superiority of her per-
sonal appearance, stands her ground,
as a proud contrast to her savage and
unfeeling relative.
Deep straight gullies, worn by the
winter floods, mark the sides of both
mountains in:o compartments, the pro-
portion and regularity of which might
almost be a matter of surprise, looking
like huge stripes down the white dress
of Slieve-bawn, while down that of
Slieve-dhu they might be compared to
black and purple plaid.
" Far to the north," in the bosom of
the minor hills, lies a glittering lake
glittering when the sun shines ; dark,
sombre, and almost imperceptible when
the clouds prevail.
The origin of the beautiful name in
which the spot itself rejoices I believe
to be this; but why do I say "be-
lieve ?" It is a self-evident and well-
known fact.
Along the base of Slieve-bawn
there runs a narrow roadeen, turning
almost at right angles through the ra-
vine already mentioned, and leading
to the flat and populous portion of the
country on the other side of the moun-
tains, and cutting the journey, for any
person requiring to go there, into the
sixteenth of the distance by the. main
road. In this instance the proverb
would not be fulfilled, that " the long-
est way round was the shortest way
home." Across one of the winter-tor-
rent beds which runs down the moun-
tain side, almost at the entrance of the
ravine, is a rough-built rustic bridge,
at a considerable elevation from the
road below. To those approaching it
from the lower level, it forms a con-
spicuous and exceedingly picturesque
object, looking not unlike a sort of
castellated defence to the mouth of
the narrow pass between the moun-
tains.
This bridge, toward sunset upon a
summer's evening, presents a very cu-
rious and (except in that spot) an un-
usual sight. Whether it arises from
any peculiarity of the herbage in the
vicinity, or the fissures in the moun-
tains, or the crevices in the bridge it-
self, as calculated to engender them,
it would be hard to say ; but it would
be impossible for any arithmetician to
compute at the roughest guess the
millions, the billions of small midges
which dance in the sunbeams immedi-
ately above and around the bridge, but
in no other spot for miles within view.
The singularity of their movements,
and the peculiarity of their distribu-
tion in the air, cannot fail to attract
the observation of the most careless
beholder. In separate and distinct
batches of some hundreds of millions
each, they rise in almost solid masses
until they are lost sight of, as they at-
tain the level of the heathered brow
of the mountain behind them, becom-
ing visible again as they descend into
the bright sunshine that lies upon the
white rocks of Slieve-bawn. In no
instance can you perceive individual
or scattered midges ; each batch is
connected and distinct in itself, some-
times oval, sometimes almost square,
but most frequently in a perfectly
round ball. No two of these batches
rise or fall at the same moment. I
was fortunate enough to see them my-
self upon more than one occasion in
high perfection. They reminded me
of large balls thrown up and caught
successively by some distinguished
502
All-Hattow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
acrobat. During the performance, a
tiny little sharp whir of music fills the
atmosphere, which would almost set
you to sleep as you sit on the battle-
ment of the bridge watching and won-
dering.
By what law of creation, or what
instinct of nature, or, if by neither, by
what union of sympathy the move-
ments of these milthiogues are gov-
erned for I am certain there are mil-
lions of them at the same work in the
same spot this fine summer's evening
would be a curious and proper study
for an entomologist; but I have no
time here to do more than describe
the facts, were I even competent to
enter into the inquiry. Fancy say
fifty millions of midges in a round
ball, so arranged that, under no sud-
denness or intricacy of movement, any
one touches another. There is no
saying amongst them, " Keep out of
my way, and don't be pushin? me," as
Larry. Doolan says.
So far, the thing in itself appears
miraculous; but when we come to
consider that their motions, upward
to a certain point, and downward to
another, are simultaneous, that the
slightest turn of their wings is collec-
tively instantaneous, rendering them
at one moment like a black target, and
another turn rendering them almost
invisible, all their movements being as
if guided by a single will we are not
only lost in wonder, but we are per-
fectly unable to account for or compre-
hend it. I have often been surprised,
and so, no doubt, may many of my
readers have been, at the regularity of
the evolutions of a flock of stares in
the air, where every twist and turn of
a few thousand pairs of wings seemed
as if moved by some connecting wire ;
but even this fact, surprising as it is,
sinks into insignificance when coin-
pared with the movements of these
milthiogues.
But putting all these inquiries and
considerations aside, the simple facts
recorded have been the origin of
the name with which this tale com-
mences.
CHAPTER II.
WINIFRED CAVANA was an only
daughter, indeed an only child. Her
father, old Ned Cavana of Rathcash,
had been always a thrifty and indus-
trious man. During the many years
he had been able to attend to business
and he was an experienced farmer
he had realized a sum of money,
which, in his rank of life and by his
less prosperous neighbors, would be
called " unbounded wealth," but which,
divested of that envious exaggeration,
was really a comfortable independence
for his declining years, and would one
of those days be a handsome inheri-
tance for his handsome daughter.
Not that Ned Cavana intended to
huxter the whole of it up, so that she
should not enjoy any of it until its
possession might serve to lighten her
grief for his death no ; should Win-
ny marry some "likely boy," of
whom her father 1 could in every re-
spect approve, she should have six
hundred pounds, R.M.D. ; and at his
death by which time Ned hoped
some of his grandchildren would make
the residue more necessary she
should have all that he was able to
demise, which was no paltry matter.
In the meantime they would live hap-
pily and comfortable, not niggardly.
With this view a distant one, he
still hoped before him, and know-
ing that he had already sown a good
crop, and reaped a sufficient harvest
to live liberally, die peacefully, and be
berrid dacentfy, he had set a great
portion of his land upon a lease dur-
ing his own life, at the termination of
which it was to revert to his son-in-
law, of whose existence, long before
that time, he could have no doubt, and
for whose name a blank had been left
in his will, to be filled up in due time
before he died, or, failing that event
not his death, but a son-in-law it
was left solely to his daughter Wini-
fred.
Winny Cavana was, beyond doubt
or question, a very handsome girl
and she knew it. She knew, too,
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
503
that she was " a catch ;" the only one
in that side of the country ; and no
person wondered at the many admir-
ers she could boast of, though it was
a thing she was never known to do;
nor did she wonder at it herself.
Without her six hundred pounds,
Winny could have had scores of
" bachelors ;" and it was not very sur-
prising if she was hard to be pleased.
Indeed, had Winny Cavana been pen-
niless, it is possible she would have
had a greater number of open admir-
ers, for her reputed wealth kept many
a faint heart at a distance. It was
not to be wondered at either, if a
wealthy country beauty had the name
of a coquette, whether she deserved
it or not ; nor was it to be expected
that she could give unmixed satisfac-
tion to each of her admirers ; and we
all know what censoriousness unsuc-
cessful admiration is likely to cause in
a disappointed heart.
Amongst all those who were said to
have entered for the prize of Winny 's
heart, Thomas Murdock was the favor
ite not with herself, but the neigh-
bors. At all events he was the " likely
boy" whom Winny's father had in his
eye as a husband for his daughter;
and in writing his will, he had lifted
his pen from the paper at the blank al-
ready mentioned, and written the name
Thomas Murdock in the air, so that,
in case matters turned out as he wished
and anticipated, it would fit in to a
nicety.
The townlands of Rathcash and
Rathcashmore, upon which the Cava-
nas and Murdocks lived, was rather a
thickly populated district, and they
had some well-to-do neighbors, beside
many who were not quite so well-to-do,
but were yet decent and respectable.
There were the Boyds, the Beattys,
and the Brennans, with the Cahils, the
Cartys, and the Clearys beyond them ;
the Doyles, the Dempseys, and the Do-
lans not far off; with the Mulveys,
the Mooneys, and the Morans quite
close. The people seemed to live in
alphabetical batches in that district, as
if for the convenience of the county
cess-collector and his book. Many
others lived still further off, but not so
far (in Ireland) as not to be called
neighbors.
Kate Mulvey, one of the nearest
neighbors, was a great friend and com-
panion of Winny's. If Kate had six
hundred pounds she could easily have
rivalled Winny's good looks, but she
had not six hundred pence ; and not-
withstanding her magnificent eyes, her
white teeth, and her glossy brown hair,
she could not look within miles as high
into the clouds as Winny could. Still
Kate had her admirers, some of whom
even Winny's fondest glance, with all
her money, could not betray into
treachery. But it so happened that
the person at whom she had thrown
her cap had not (as yet, at least) picked
it up.
CHAPTER m.
IT was toward the end of October,
1826. There had been an early spring,
and the crops had been got in favora-
bly, and in good time. There had been
" a wet and a windy May ;" a warm,
bright summer had succeeded it ; and
the harvest had been now all gathered
in, except the potatoes, which were in
rapid progress of being dug and pitted.
It was a great day for Ireland, let the
advocates for " breadstuff's" say what
they will, before the blight and yellow
meal had either of them become familiar
with the poor. There were the Cork
reds and the cups, the benefits and the
Brown's fancies, for half nothing in
every direction, beside many other
sorts of potatoes, bulging up the sur-
face of the ridges there were no
drills in those days ; mehils in almost
every field, with their coats off at the
digging-in.
" Bill, don't lane on that boy on the
ridge wid you; he's not much more
nor a gossoon; give him a start of
you."
" Gossoon aniow ; be gorra, he's as
smart a chap on the face of a ridge as
the best of us, Tom."
504
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
" Ay ; but don't take it out of him
too soon, Bill."
" Work away, boys," said the gos-
soon in question ; " I'll engage I'll
shoulder my loy at the end of the ridge
as soon as some of ye that's spaking."
" It was wan word for the gossoon,
as he calls him, an' two for himself,
Bill," chimed in the man on the next
ridge. " Don't hurry Tom Nolan ; his
feet's sore afther all he danced with
Nelly Gaffeny last night."
Here there was a loud and general
laugh at poor Tom Nolan's expense,
and the pickers women and girls, with
handkerchiefs tied over their heads
looked up with one accord, annoyed
that they were too far off to hear the
joke. It was well for one of them that
they had not heard it, for Nelly Gaf-
feny was amongst them.
"It's many a day, Pat, since you
seen the likes of them turned out of a
ridge."
" They bate the world."
" They bang Banagher ; and Ban-
agher, they say "
" Whist, Larry ; don't be dhrawing
that chap down at all."
" I seen but wan betther the year,"
said Tim Meaney.
" I say you didn't, nor the sorra take
the betther, nor so good."
Arra, didn't I? I say I did
though."
" Where, avic ma cree ?"
Beyant at Tony Kilroy's."
"Ay, ay ; Tony always had a pet
acre on the side of the hill toward the
sun. He has the best bit of land in
the parish."
" You may say that, Micky, with
your own purty mouth. I led his
mehil, come this hollintide will be three
years ; an' there wasn't a man of forty
of us but turned out eight stone of cup
off every ten yards a a' four-split ridge.
Devil a the like of them I ever seen
afore or since."
" Lumpers you mane, Andy ; wasn't
I there?"
" Is it you, Darby ? no, nor the sorra
take the foot ; we all know where you
were that same year."
" Down in the lower part of Cavan,
Phil. In throth, it wasn't cup potatoes
was throublin' him that time ; but cups
and saucers. He dhrank a power of
tay that harvest, boys."
Here there was another loud laugh,
and the women with the handkerchiefs
upon their heads looked up again.
" Well, I brought her home dacent,
boys ; an ' what can ye say to her ? "
"Be gor, nothing, Darby avic, but
that she's an iligant purty crathur, and
a credit to them that owns her, an'
them that reared her."
"The sorra word of lie in that,"
echoed every man in the mehil.
Thus the merry chat and laugh
went on in every potato-field. The
women, finding that they had too much
to do to enable them to keep close to
the men, and that they were losing the
fun, of course got up a chat for them-
selves, and took good care to have some
loud and hearty laughs, which made
the men in their turn look up, and lean
upon their loys.
Everything about Rathcash aud
Rathcashmore was prosperous and
happy, and the farmers were cheerful
and open-hearted.
" That's grand weather, glory be to
God, Ned, for the time of year,"
said Mick Murdock to his neighbor
Cavana, who was leaning, with his
arms folded, on a field-gate near the
mearing of their two farms. The
farms lay alongside of each other one
in the town-land of Rathcash, and the
other in Rathcashmore.
" Couldn't be bet, Mick. I'm- up-
ward of forty years stannin' in this
spot, an' I never seen the batin' of it."
"Be gorra, you have a right to be
tired, Ned; that's a long stannin'."
" The sorra tired, Mick a wochal.
You know very well what I mane, an'
you needn't be so sharp. I'd never be
tired of the same spot."
" Them's a good score of calves,
Ned ; God bless you an' them ! " said
Mick, making up for his sharpness.
" An' you too, Mick. They are a
fine lot of calves, an' all reared since
Candlemas."
Alt-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
505
" There's no denying, Ned, but you
med the most of that bit of land of
yours."
" 'Tis about the same as your own,
Mick ; an' I think you med as good a
fist of yours. "
"Well, maybe so, indeed; but I
doubt it is going into worse hands than
what yours will, Ned."
"Why that, Mick?"
" Ah, that Tom of mine is a wild
extravagant hero. He doesn't know
much about the value of money, and
never paid any attention to farming
business, only what he was obliged to
pick up from being with me. He
thinks he'll be rich enough when I'm
in my clay, without much work. An'
so he will, Ned, so far as that goes ;
but it's only of book-larnin' an* horse-
racin* an' coorsin' he's thinkin', by way
of being a sort of gentleman one of
those days ; but he'll find to his cost,
in the lather end, that there's more
wantin' to grow good crops than
'The Farmer's Calendar of Opera-
tions. ' "
"He's young, Mick, an' no doubt
he'll mend. I hope you don't dis-
courage him. "
"Not at all, Ned. The book-
larnin 's all well enough, as far as it
goes, if he'd put the practice along
with it, an' be studdy."
" So he will, Mick. His wild-oats
will soon be all sown, an' then you'll
see what a chap he'll be."
" Faix, I'd rather see him sowing
a crop of yallow Aberdeens, Ned, next
June ; an' maybe it's what it's at the
Curragh of Kildare he'll be, as I can
hear. My advice to him is to get
married to some dacent nice girl, that
id take the wildness out of him, and
lay himself down to business. You
know, Ned, he'll have every penny
and stick I have in the world ; and
the lease of my houlding in Rathcash-
more is as good as an estate at the
rent I pay. If he'd give up his me-
andherin', and take a dacent liking to
them that's fit for him, I'd set him up
all at wanst, an' not be keeping him
out of it until I was dead an' berrid."
The above was not a bad feeler, nor
was it badly put by old Mick Murdock
to his neighbor. "Them that's fit
for him" could hardly be mistaken;
yet there was a certain degree of dis-
paragement of his own son calculated
to conceal his object. It elicited no-
thing, however, but a long thoughtful
silence upon old Ned Cavana's part,
which Mick was not slow to interpret,
and did not wish to interrupt. At
last Ned stood up from the gate, and
smoothing down the sleeves of his
coat, as if he supposed they had con-
tracted some dust, he observed, " I'm
afear'd, Mick, you're puttin' the cart
before the horse ; come until I show
you a few ridges of red apples I'm
diggin' out to-day. You'd think I
actially got them carted in, an' threune
them upon the ridges : the like of
them I never seen. "
And the two old men walked down
the lane together.
But Mick Murdock's feeler was not
forgotten by either of them. Mick
was as well pleased perhaps better
that no further discussion took place
upon the subject at the time. He
knew Ned Cavana was not a man to
commit himself to a hasty opinion upon
any matter, much less upon one of
such importance as was so plainly
suggested by his observations.
Ned Cavana, too, brooded over the
conversation in silence, determined to
throw out a feeler of his own to his
daughter.
Ned had himself more than once
contemplated the possibility as well
as the prudence of a match between
Tom Murdock and his daughter.
The union, not of themselves alone,
but of the two farms, would almost
make a gentleman of the person hold-
ing them. Both farms were held upon
unusually long leases, and at less than
one-third of their value. If joined,
there could be no doubt but, with the
careful and industrious management
of an experienced man, they would
turn in a clear income of between five
and six hundred a year ; quite suffi-
cient in that part of the world to en-
506
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
title a person of even tolerably good
education to look up to the grand-jury
list and a " justice of the pace/'
The only question with Ned Cavana
was, Did Tom Murdock possess the
attributes required for success in all or
any of the above respects ? Ned, al-
though he had taken his part with his
father, feared not. Ay, there was an-
other question, Was Winny inclined
for him ? He feared not also.
The other old man had not forgotten
the feeler he had thrown out either, nor
the thoughtful silence with which it had
been received ; for Mick Murdock
could not believe that a man of Ned
Cavana's penetration had misunder-
stood him. Indeed, he was inclined to
think that the same matter might have
originated in Ned's own mind, from
some words he had once or twice
dropped about poor Winny's prospects
when he was gone, and the suspense it
would be to him if she were not settled in
life before that day ; " snaffled perhaps
by some good-for-nothing, extravagant
fortune-hunter, with a handsome face,
when she had no one to look after her."
There was but one word in the above
which Mick thought could be justly
applied to Tom; "extravagant" he
undoubtedly was, but he was neither
handsome at least not handsome
enough to be called so as a matter of
course nor was he good-for-nothing.
He was a well-educated sharp fellow,
if he would only lay himself down to
business. He was not a fortune-hunter,
for he did not require it ; but idleness
and extravagance might make him one
in the end. Yet old Mick was by no
means certain that the propriety of a
match between these only and rich
children had not suggested itself to his
neighbor Ned as well as to himself.
He hoped that if Tom had a " dacent
hankerrin' afther" any one, it was for
Winny Cavana ; but, like her father,
he doubted if the girl herself was in-
clined for him. He knew that she was
proud and self-willed. He was deter-
mined, however, to follow the matter
up, and throw out another feeler upon
the subject to his son.
CHAPTER IV.
IT was now the 25th of October, just
six days from All-Hallow Eve. Mick
would ask a few of the neighbors to
burn nuts and eat apples, and then,
perhaps, he might find out how the
wind blew.
" Tom," said he to his son, " I believe
this is a good year for nuts."
" Well, father, I met a couple of chaps
ere yesterday with their pockets full of
fine brown shellers, coming from Clonard
Wood."
" I dare say they are not all gone
yet, Tom ; an' I wish you would set
them to get us a few pockets full, and
we would ask a few of the neighbors
here to burn them on All-Hallow
Eve."
" That's easy done, father ; I can
get three or four quarts by to-morrow
night. Those two very chaps would
be glad to earn a few pence for them ;
they wanted me to buy what they had ;
and if I knew your intentions at the
time, I should have done so ; but it's
not too late. Who do you intend to ask,
father ?"
" Why, old Cavana and his daughter,
of course, and the Mulveys ; in short,
you know, all the neighbors. I won't
leave any of them out, Tom. The
Cavanas, you know, are all as wan as
ourselves, livin' at the doore with us ;
and they're much like us too, Tom, in
many respects. Old Ned is rich, an*
has but one child a very fine girl.
I'm old, an' as rich as what Ned is, and
I have but one child ; I'll say though
you're to the fore, Tom a very fine
young man."
Old Mick paused. He wanted to see
if his son's intelligence was on the alert.
It must have been very dull indeed had
it failed to perceive what his father was
driving at ; but he was silent.
" That Winny Cavana is a very fine
girl, Tom," he continued ; " and I often
wonder that a handsome young fellow
like you doesn't make more of her.
She'll have six hundred pounds fortune,
as round as a hoop ; beside, whoever
gets her will fall in for that farm at her
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
507
father's death. There's ninety-nine
years of it, Tom, just like our own."
" She's a conceited proud piece of
goods, father ; and I suspect she would
rather give her six hundred pounds to
some skauhawn than to a man of sub-
stance like me."
" Maybe not now. Did you ever
thry?"
" No, father, I never did. People
don't often hold their face up to the
hail."
" Na-bockleish, Tom, she'd do a grate
dale for her father, for you know she
must owe everything to him ; an' if she
vexes him he can cut her out of her
six hundred pounds, and lave the in-
terest in his farm to any one he likes ;
and I know what he thinks about you,
Tom."
" Ay, and he's so fond of that one
that she can twist him round her finger.
Wait now, father, until you see if I'm
not up to every twist and turn of the
pair of them."
" But you never seem to spake to
her or mind her at all, Tom ; and I
know, when I was your age, I always
found that the girls liked the man best
that looked afther them most. I'm
purty sure too, Tom, that there's no
one afore you there."
"I'm not so sure of that, father.
But I'll tell you what it is : I have not
been either blind or idle on what you
are talking about ; but up to this mo-
ment she seems to scorn me, father ;
there's the truth for you. And as for
there being no one before me, all I can
say is that she manages, somehow or
other, to come out of the chapel-door
every Sunday at the same moment with
that whelp, Edward Lennon, from the
mountain ; Emon-a-knock, as they call
Mm, and as I have heard her call him
herself. Rathcash chapel is not in his
parish at all, and I don't know what
brings him there."
"Is it that poor penniless pauper,
depending on his day's labor? Ah,
Tom, she's too proud for that."
" Yes, that very fellow ; and there's
no getting a word with her where he
is."
" Well, Tom, all I can say is this,
an' it's to my own son I'm sayin' it
that if you let that fellow pick up that
fine girl with her six hundred pounds
and fall into that rich farm, an' you
livin' at the doore with her, you're not
worth staggering-bob broth, with all
your book-larnin' an' good looks, to say
nothin' of your manners, Tom avic."
And he left him, saying to himself,
" He may put that in his pocket to bal-
ance his knife."
Thus ended what old Murdock com-
menced as a feeler, but which became
very plain speaking in the end. But
the All-Hallow Eve party was to come
off all the same.
A word or two now of comparison,
or perhaps, more properly speaking, of
contrast, between these two aspirants
to Winny Cavana's favor, though young
Lennon was still more hopeless than
the other, from his position.
Thomas Murdock was more conspic-
uous for the manliness of his person
than for the beauties of his mind or the
amiability of his disposition. Although
manifestly well-looking in a group, take
him singly, and he could not be called
very handsome. There was a suspicious
fidgetiness about his green-spotted eyes,
as if he feared you could read his
thoughts ; and at times, if vexed or op-
posed, a dark scowl upon his heavy
brow indicated that these thoughts were
not always amiable. This unpleasing
peculiarity of expression marred the
good looks which the shape of his face
and the fit of his curly black whiskers
unquestionably gave him. In form he
was fully six feet high, and beautifully
made. At nineteen years of age he had
mastered not only all the learning which
could be attained at a neighboring
national school, but had actually mas-
tered the master himself in more ways
than one, and was considered by the
eighty-four youngsters whom he had
outstripped as a prodigy of valor as
well as learning. But Tom turned his
schooling to a bad account ; it was too
superficial, and served more to set his
head astray than to correct his heart ;
and there were some respectable per-
508
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
sons in the neighborhood who were not
free from doubts that he had already
become a parish-patriot, and joined the
Ribbon Society. He was high and
overbearing toward his equals, harsh
and unkind to his inferiors, while he
was cringing and sycophantic toward
his superiors. There was nothing
manly or straightforward, nothing in-
genuous or affectionate, about him. In
fact, if ever a man's temper and dis-
position justified the opinion that he had
" the two ways " in him, they were those
of Thomas Murdock. His father was
a rich farmer, whose land joined that
of old Ned Cavana, of whom he was a
contemporary in years, and with whom
he had kept pace in industry and
wealth.
Thomas Murdock was an only son,
as Winny Cavana was an only daugh-
ter, and the two old men were of the
same mind now as regarded the future
lot of their children.
A few words now of Edward Len-
non, and we can get on.
He was the eldest of five in the fam-
ily. They lived upon the mountain-
side in the parish of Shanvilla, about
two " short miles " from the Cavanas
and Murdocks. His father and mother
were both alive. They were respect-
able so far as character and conduct
can make people respectable who are
unquestionably poor. Their marriage
was what has been sarcastically, but
perhaps not inaptly, called by an English
newspaper a "potato marriage ;" that
is but no, it will not bear explanation.
The result, however, after many years'
struggling, may be stated. The Len-
nons had lived, and were still living, in
a small thatched house upon the side
of a mountain, with about four acres of
reclaimed ground. It had been re-
claimed gradually by the father and
his two sons for Emon had a younger
brother and they paid little or no rent
for it. The second son and eldest
daughter were now at service, " doin'
for theirselves ;" and those at home
consisted of the father, the mother, the
eldest son, and two younger daughters,
mere children. For the house and
garden they paid a small rent, which
"a slip of a pig" was always ready to
realize in sufficient time ; while a couple
of goats, staggering through the furze,
yoked together by the necks, gave milk
to the family.
Edward, though not so well-looking
as to the actual cut of his features, nor
so tall by an inch and a half, as our
friend Murdock, was far more agreeable
to look upon. There was a confident
good-nature in his countenance which
assured you of its reality, and the hon-
esty of his heart. His figure, from his
well-shaped head, which was beautifully
set upon his shoulders, to his small,
well-turned feet, was faultless. In dis-
position and character young Lennon
was a full distance before the man to
whom he was a secret rival, while in
talent and learning he had nothing to
fear by a comparison. He had com-
menced his education when a mere
gossoon at a poor-school with " his turf
an' his read-a-ma-daisy," and as he
progressed from A-b-e-1, bel, a man's
name ; A-b-l-e, ble, Able, powerful,
strong, until finally he could spell
Antitrinitarian pat, he then cut the
concern, and was promoted by his par-
ish-priest " of whom more anon," as
they say to Rathcash national school,
where he soon stood in the class beside
Tom Murdock, and ere a week had
passed he "took him down a peg."
This, added to his supposed presump-
tuous thoughts in the quarter which
Tom had considered almost his exclu-
sive right, sowed the seed of hatred in
Murdock's heart against Lennon. which
one day might bear a heavy crop.
That young Lennon was devotedly
but secretly attached to Winny Cavana
there was no doubt whatever in his
own mind, and there were few who did
not agree with him, although he had
" never told his love ;" and as we Irish
have leave to say, there was still less
that his love was more disinterested
than that of his richer rival. There
was another point upon which there
was still less doubt than either, and
that was that Winny Cavana's heart
secretly leaned to " Emon-a-knock," as
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
509
young Lennon was familiarly called by
all those who knew and loved him. One
exception existed to this cordial recog-
nition of Emon's good qualities, and
that was, as may be anticipated, by
Thomas Murdock, who always called
him " that Lennon," and on one occa-
sion, as we have seen, substituted the
word " whelp."
Winny, however, kept her secret in
this matter to herself. She knew her
father would go " tanterin' tearin' mad,
if he suspected such a thing." She
conscientiously endeavored to hide her
preference from young Lennon himself,
knowing that it would only get them
both into trouble. Beside, he had
never (yet) shown a decided preference
for her above Kate Mulvey. Whether
she succeeeded in her endeavors is
another question ; women seldom fail
where they are in earnest.
It is not considered amongst the
class of Irish to which our dramatis
persona belong as any undue familiar-
ity, upon even a very short acquaint-
ance, for the young persons of both
the sexes to call each other by their
Christian names. It is the admitted
custom of the country, and Winny
Cavana, rich and proud as she was,
made no exception to the general rule.
She even went further, and sometimes
called young Lennon by his pet name.
As regarded Tom Murdock, although
she could have wished it otherwise, she
would not make herself particular by
acting differently. The first three let-
ters of his name, coupled with the scowl
she had more than once detected on
his countenance, sounded unpleasantly
upon her ear, Mur-dock. She always
thought people were going to say mur-
der before the " dock " was out. She
never could think well of him ; and al-
though she called him Tom, it was
more to be in keeping with the habit
of the country, and as a refuge from
the other name, than from a friendly
feeling.
These were the materials upon which
the two old men had to work, to bring
about a union of their landed interests
and their only children.
CHAPTER V.
THE invitations for All-Hallow Eve
were forthwith issued in person by old
Murdock, who went from house to house
in his Sunday clothes, and asked all
the respectable neighbors in the politest
manner. Edward Lennon, although
he could scarcely be called a neighbor,
and moreover was not considered as
" belonging to their set," was neverthe-
less asked to be of the party. Old
Murdock had his reasons for asking him ;
although, to tell the truth, he and his son
had a difference of opinion upon the
subject. Tom thought to " put a spoke
in his wheel," but was overruled by the
old man, who said it would look as if
they were afraid to bring him and Winny
Cavana together; that it was much
better to let the young fellow see at
once that he had no chance, which
would no doubt be an easy matter on
that night : " it was betther to humiliate
him at wanst."
Tom was ashamed not to acquiesce,
but wished nevertheless that he might
have had his own way. Edward Len-
non lived too far from the Murdocks
for the old man to go there specifically
upon the mission of invitation ; and the
moment this difficulty was hinted by
his father, Tom, who was not in the
habit of making such offers, was ready
at once to " go over to Shanvilla, and
save his father the walk : he would de-
liver the message."
There was an anxiety in Tom's
manner which betrayed itself; and old
Mick was not the man to miss a thing
of the kind.
" No, Tom a wochal" he observed,
" I won't put such a thramp upon you.
Sure I'll see him a Sunda' ; he always
comes to our chapel."
" Fitter for him stick to his own,"
said Tom.
" It answers well this turn, at all
events," replied the old man.
Upon -the following Sunday he was
as good as his word. He watched
young Lennon coming out of the cha-
pel, and asked him, with more cordial-
510
All-HaUow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
ity than Tom, who happened to be by,
approved of.
Had nothing else been necessary to
secure an acceptance, the fact of Tom
Murdock being present would have
been sufficient. The look which he
caught from under the rim of Tom's
hat roused Lennon's pride, and he ac-
cepted the old man's invitation with
unhesitating civility. Lennon on this,
as on all Sunday occasions, " was
dressed in all his best ;" and that look
seemed to say, " I wonder where that
fellow got them clothes, and if they're
paid for :" he understood the look very
well. But the clothed were paid for,
perhaps, too, more promptly than
Tom's own ; and a better fitting suit,
from top to toe, was not to be met
with in the whole parish. A " Caro-
line hat," smooth and new, set a wee
taste jauntily upon his well-shaped
head ; a shirt like the drifted snow,
loose at the throat, but buttoned down
the breast with tiny blue buttons round
as sweet-pea seeds ; a bright plaid
waistcoat, with ditto buttons to match,
but a size larger ; a pair of " spic-an'-
span " knee-breeches of fine kersey-
mere, with unexceptionable steel but-
tons and blue silk-ribbon strings, tied
to perfection at the knee ; while
closely-fitting lamb's-wool long stock-
ings showed off the shape of a pair of
legs which, for symmetry, looked as
if they had been turned in a lathe.
Of his feet I have already spoken ;
and on this occasion they did not belie
what I said.
Old Mick desired Edward Lennon
" to bring Phil M'Dermot the smith's
son with him. He was a fine young
man, a good dancer, and had mended
a couple of ploughs for him in first-
rate style, an' very raisonable, for the
winther plowing."
Tom Murdock did not want for fine
clothes, of course. Two or three suits
were at his command; and as this
was Sunday, he had one of his best on.
It was " given up to him " by most of
the girls that he was the handsomest
and best-dressed man in the parish of
Rathcash, and some would have added
Shan villa ; yet he now felt, as he stole
envious glances at young Lennon, that
his case with Winny Cavana might
not be altogether a " walk over."
All Tom's comparisons and metaphors
had reference to horse-racing.
This little incident, however, cut
young Lennon out of his usual few
words with Winny ; for, as a girl with
a well-regulated mind, she could not
venture to dawdle on the road until
old Murdock had done speaking to
Emon : she knew that would be re-
marked. She had never happened to
see old Murdock speaking to Emon
before, and her secret wonder now
was " Could it be possible that he
was asking Edward Lennon for All-
Hallow Eve?" '
Quite possible, Winny ; but you
scarcely have time to find out before
you meet him there, for another Sun-
day will not intervene before the
party.
CHAPTER VI.
THE last day of October came round
apace, and about six o'clock in the
evening the company began to arrive
at old Mick Murdoch's. Winny Cav-
ana and her father took their time.
They were near enough to make their
entree at any moment; and Winny
had some idea, like her betters, that it
was not genteel to be the first. She
now delayed, however, to the other ex-
treme, and kept her father waiting, un-
der the pretence that she was finishing
her toilet, until, on their arrival, they
found all the guests assembled. Win-
ny flaunted in, leaning upon her fa-
ther's arm, " the admired of all admir-
ers." Not being very learned in the
mysteries of the toilet, I shall not
attempt to describe the dresses of the
girls upon this occasion, nor the elabo-
rate manner in which their heads were
set out, oiled, and bedizened to an
amazing extent, while the roses above
their left ears seemed to have been all
culled from the same tree.
Altogether there were about sixteen
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
511
young persons, pretty equally divided
as to boys and girls, beside some
and some only of their fathers and
mothers. Soon after the arrival of
Ned Cavana and his daughter, who
were the guests of the evening, supper
was announced, and there was a gen-
eral move into the " large parlor,"
where a long table was set out with a
snow-white cloth, where plates (if not
covers) were laid for at least twenty-
four. In the middle of the table stood
a smoking dish of calcannon, which
appeared to defy them, and as many
more ; while at either end was a rak-
ing pot of tea, surrounded with cups
and saucers innumerable, with pyra-
mids of cut bread-and-butter nearly an
inch thick.
The company having taken their
seats, it was announced by the host
that there were "two goold weddin'-
rings in the calcannon ;" but where-
abouts, of course, no one could tell.
He had borrowed them from two of
the married women present, and was
bound to restore them ; so he begged
of his young friends, for his sake as
well as their own, to be careful not to
swallow them. It was too well known
what was to be the lot of the happy
finders before that day twelvemonth
for him to say anything upon that part
of the subject. He would request of
Mrs. Moran, who had seen more All-
Hallow Eves than any woman there
present he meant no offence to help
the calcannon.
After this little introduction, Mrs.
Moran, who by previous arrangement
was sitting opposite the savory vol-
cano, distributed it with unquestionable
impartiality. It was a well-known
rule on all such occasions that no one
commenced until all were helped, when
a signal was given, and a simultaneous
pluoge of spoons took place.
Another rule was that all the mar-
ried persons should content themselves
with tea and bread-and-butter, in order
that none of them might possibly rob
the youngsters of their chance of the
ring. Upon this occasion, however,
this restriction had been neatly obviat-
ed by Mrs. Moran's experience in such
matters ; and there was a knock-oge of
the same delicious food without any ring,
which she called " the married dish."
The tea was handed up and down from
each end of the table until it met in
the middle, and for some time there
was a silent onslaught on the calcan-
non, washed down now and then by a
copious draught of tea.
"I have it! I have it!" shouted
Phil M'Dermott, taking it from between
his teeth and holding it up, while his
cheeks deepened three shades nearer to
the color of the rose in Kate Mulvey's
hair, nearly opposite.
" A lucky man," observed Mrs. Mo-
ran, methodically, who seemed to be
mistress of the mysteries. " Now for
the lucky girl ; and lucky everybody
will say she must be."
The words were scarcely finished
when Kate Mulvey coughed as if she
were choking ; but pulling the other
ring from her mouth, she soon recov-
ered herself, declaring that she had
nearly swallowed it. .
Matters, as Mrs. Moran thought, had
so far gone quite right, and a hearty
quizzing the young couple got ; but, to
tell the truth, one of them did not seem
to be particularly satisfied with the re-
sult. The attack upon the calcannon
from this point waxed very weak, for
the charm was broken, and the tea and
bread-and-butter came into play. Ap-
ples and nuts were now laid down in
abundance, and the young girls might
be seen picking a couple of pairs of
nice nuts out of those on the plate, as
nearly as fancy might suggest, to match
the figures of those whom they were
intended to represent upon the bar of
the grate. Almost as if by magic a
regiment of nuts in pairs were seen
smoking, and some of them stirring and
purring on the flat bar at the bottom of
the grate, which had been swept, and
the fire brightened up, for the purpose.
Of course Mrs. Moran insisted upon
openly putting down Phil M'Dermott
and Kate Mulvey of the rings ; for in
general there is a secrecy observed as
to who the nuts are, in order to save
512
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
the constant girl from a laugh at the
fickleness of her bachelor, should he go
off in a shot from her side, and vice
versa. And here the mistress of the
mysteries was not at fault. Kate Mul-
vey, without either smoking or getting
red at one end (which was a good sign),
went oif like the report of a pistol, and
was actually heard striking against the
door as if to get out. There was a gen-
eral laugh at Mrs. Moran's expense,
who was told that it was a strong
proof in favor of putting the pairs down
secretly.
But Mrs. Moran was too experienc-
ed a mistress of her position to be tak-
en aback, and quietly said, " Not at all,
my dears. I have three times to burn
them, if he does not follow her ; but he
has three minutes to do so."
As she spoke there was another
shot. Phil M'Dermott could not stand
the heat by himself, and was off to the
door after Kate Mulvey.
This was a crowning triumph to
Mrs. Moran, who quietly put back
the second pair of nuts which she had
just selected for another test of the
same couple, and remarked that "it
was all right now."
The couples, generally speaking,
seemed to answer the expectations of
their respective match-makers better
than perhaps the results in real life
might subsequently justify. It is not
to be supposed that on this occasion
Tom Murdock and Winny Cavana did
not find a place upon the bar of the
grate. But as Winny had given no
encouragement to any one to put her
down with him, and as the mistress
of the mysteries alone could claim a
right to do so openly, as in the case
of the rings, their place, with the re-
sult, could be known only to those
who put them down, and perhaps a
confidant.
There were a few pops occasion-
ally, calling forth exclamations of
"The good-for-nothing fellow!" or
" The fickle lass ! " while some burned
into bright balls the admiration of
all the true and constant lovers pres-
ent.
The next portion of the mysteries
were three plates, placed in a row
upon the table ; one contained earth,
another water, and the third a gold
ring. This was, by some, considered
rather a nervous test of futurity, and
some objections were whispered by
the timid amongst them. The fearless
and enthusiastic, however, clamored
that nothing should be left out, and a
handkerchief to blind the adventurers
was produced. The mystery was this :
a young person was taken outside the
door, and there blindfolded; he, or
she, was then led in again, and placed
opposite to the plates, sufficiently near
to touch them ; when told that " all
was right, " he, with his fore-finger
pointed, placed it upon one of the
plates. That with the earth symbolled
forth sudden, or perhaps violent, death ;
that with the water, emigration or ship-
wreck ; while that with the ring, of
course a wedding and domestic happi-
ness.
Young people were not generally
averse to subject themselves to this
ordeal, as in nine cases out of ten they
managed either to be previously ac-
quainted with the position of the plates,
or, having been blindfolded by their
own bachelor, to have a peep-hole
clown by the corner of their nose, which
enabled them to secure the most grat-
ifying result of the three.
With this usual course before his
mind, Tom Murdock, as junior host,
presented himself for the test, hoping
that Winny Cavana, whom he had
asked to do so, would blindfold him.
But in this instance he had presumed
too far ; and while she hesitated to
comply, the mistress of the mysteries
came to her relief.
" No, no, Tom, " she said, folding the
handkerchief; "that is my business,
and I'll transfer it to no one ; come
outside with me. "
Tom was ashamed to draw back,
and retired with Mrs. Moran to the
hall. He soon returned, led in by her,
with a handkerchief tied tightly over
his eyes ; there was no peep-hole by
the side of his nose, let him hold back
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
513
his head as he might, Mrs. Moran took
care of that. Having been placed
near the table, he was told that he
was exactly opposite the plates. He
pointed out his fore-finger, and threw
back his head as much as possible, as
if considering, but in fact to try if he
could get a peep at the plates ; but it
was no use. Mrs. Moran had ren-
dered his temporary blindness cruelly
secure. At length his hand descended,
and he placed his finger into the mid-
dle of the earth.
" Pshaw," said he, pulling the hand-
kerchief off his eyes, " it is all humbug !
Let Lennon try it."
" Certainly, certainly," ran from
one to the other. It might have been
remarked, however, if any one had
been observing, that Winny Cavana
had not spoken.
Young Lennon then retired to the
hall with Mrs. Moran, and was soon
led in tightly blindfolded, for the young
man was no more to her than the
other ; beside, she was strictly honor-
able. The plates had been re-ar-
ranged by Tom Murdock himself,
which most people remarked, as it was
some time before he was satisfied with
their position. Lennon was then
placed, as Tom had been, and told that
"all was right." There was some
nervousness in more hearts than one
as he pointed his finger and brought
down his hand. He also placed his
finger in the centre of the plate with
the earth, and pulled the handkerchief
from his eyes.
" Now, you see, " said Tom, " others
can fail as well as me ; " and he seemed
greatly pleased that young Lennon had
been as unsuccessful as himself.
A murmur of dissatisfaction now
ran through the girls. The two favor-
ites had been unfortunate in their at-
tempts at divination, and there was one
young girl there who, when she saw
Emon-a-knock's finger fall on the plate
with the earth, felt as if a weight had
been tied round her heart. It was
unanimously agreed by the elderly
women present, Mrs. Moran amongst
the number, that these tests had turned
out directly contrary to what the cir-
cumstances of the locality, and the
characters of the individuals, would in-
dicate as probable, and the whole pro-
cess was ridiculed as false and unpro-
phetic. " Time will tell, jewel, " said
one old croaking crone.
A loud burst of laughter from the
kitchen at this moment told that the
servant-boys and girls, who had also
been invited, were not idle. The
matches having been all either clenched
or broken off in the parlor, and
the test of the plates, as it' by mutual
consent, having been declared unsatis-
factory, old Murdock thought it a good
opportunity to move an adjournment
of the whole party, to see the fun in the
kitchen, which was seconded by Mrs.
Moran, and carried nem. con.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
514
A City of Women.
Translated from Etudes Beligieusea, Historiques, et Litteraires, par des Peres de la Compagnie de
Jesus.
A CITY OF WOMEN.
THE ANCIENT BEGLTNAGE OP GHENT.
BY THE KEY. A. NAMPON, S. J.
ACCORDING to some authors, St.
Begghe, daughter of Pepin, Duke of
Brabant, and sister of St. Gertrude,
must have given her name to those
pious assemblages of Christian virgins
and widows called from very remote
tunes beguinages.
These holy women, united under the
protection and the rule of St. Begghe,
had nothing in common except the name
with those Beguines whose errors were
condemned by the council of Vienne.
Beguinages exist at Ghent, Antwerp,
Mechlin, Alost, Louvain, Bruges, etc.,
etc. The rule is not in all places the
same, but everywhere these pious es-
tablishments are places of refuge open
to devout women, wherein they may
sanctify themselves by prayer, labor,
and retirement from the distractions of
the world.
Let us transport ourselves to the
capital of Flanders. From the centre
of that tumultuous city, in which indus-
try, commerce, activity, and pleasure
reign supreme, are separated two other
smaller towns of venerable aspect
closed to the world, destitute of shops,
coaches, public criers, and all modern
inventions. These two towns are the
Great and the Little Beguinage.
These places are delightful oases,
wherein you breathe a pure air, where, in
the noonday of the nineteenth century,
you find the simplicity of the faith and
customs of antiquity. They are surround-
ed, as they were five or six centuries
ago, by a ditch and a wall ; you enter
them by a single gate carefully closed
at night, and not less carefully watched
all day. This gate, surmounted by the
cross, was formerly protected by a draw-
bridge.
As soon as you have passed through
this gateway, you are forcibly struck
with the calm and pious atmosphere of
this peaceful city, and with the grave
and edifying looks of its female inhab-
itants. I say female inhabitants, for
no man has ever dwelt in this enclosure.
The priests who serve the beguinages
only enter to fulfil their sacred offices,
and have no place therein save the pul-
pit, the altar, and the confessional. The
dress of the inmates is not elegant,
but it is in strict conformity with the
model traced in their thirteenth century
rule.
All the streets, which are at right
angles, are named after saints. The
houses are also distinguished by the
names, and frequently by the statue,
of some saint, under whose protection
they are placed ; thus you may read,
gate of St. Martha, gate of St. Mary-
Magdalen, etc., etc.
The houses, which are whitewashed
annually, display in their furniture, as
in their construction, no other luxury
but a charming cleanliness. They are
of two kinds, convents and hermitages.
The convents are inhabited by com-
munities, each governed by a superior.
The hermitages, which resemble very
much the dwellings of the Carthusians,
consist of two or three bed-rooms, a
parlor, a kitchen, and a small garden.
Prominent among the convents is the
dwelling of the superior-general, called
Grande Dame, who has charge of the
infirmary, and who is conservator of the
documents,traditions and pictures,which
date from five or six centuries ago. Last-
ly, in the midst of this peaceful city rises
the house of God, a large church, very
commodious and clean, surrounded by a
A City of Women.
515
cemetery, in conformity with an ancient
custom, which all the beguinages, how-
ever, have not been able to retain.
The object of these societies is very
clearly stated in a paragraph of the
rule of the beguinage of Notre Dame
du Pre', founded at Ghent in 1234.
We retain the old style :
" Louis, Count of Flanders, of Nev-
ers, and of Rethel, etc., etc., to all pres-
ent and to come makes known, that
Dame Jane, and Margaret, her sister
of happy memory, who were success-
ively Countesses of Flanders and of
Hainault (as we are,* by the grace of
God), having remarked that in the
Flemish territory there were a great
number of women, who, from their con-
dition in life and that of their parents,
were unable to find a fitting match ; ob-
serving that honorable persons, the
daughters of nobles and burgesses, who
desired to live in a state of chastity,
could not all enter into convents of
women, by reason of their too great
number, or for want of means ; re-
marking, moreover, that many young
ladies of noble extraction and others
had fallen into a state of decadence, so
that they were reduced to mendicity, or
to a painful existence, to the dishonor
of their families, unless they could be
provided for in a discreet and becoming
manner ; incited by God, and with the
advice, knowledge, and consent of sev-
eral bishops and other persons of prob-
ity, the aforesaid countesses founded, in
several cities of Flanders, establish-
ments with spacious dwellings and
lands, called beguinages, where noble
young ladies and children of good
families were received, to live therein
chastely in community, with or without
vows,withouthumiliation to themselves
)r their famipes, and where they might,
)y applying themselves to reasonable
^or, procure their food and clothing.
They founded among others a beguin-
age in our city of Ghent, called the
beguinage of Notre Dame du Pre, en-
closed by the river Scheldt, and by
* This bull is in the original French ; " Comt-
ses f de Flandre et de Hainault, comme nous
ami, par la grace de Dieu."
walls. In the centre is a church, a
cemetery, and a hospital for infirm or
invalid beguines, the whole given by
the before-mentioned princesses, etc."
Those young persons who desire to
be admitted to the beguinage must
first become postulants, and afterward
make their noviciate in the convents or
communities. They remain there even
after their profession up to thirty years
of age. Thus are they protected during
the most stormy period of life by the
watchfulness of their superior and their
companions, by prayer and labor in
common. Later they can enjoy without
danger a larger measure of freedom.
They then live two or three together in
one of the hermitages, where they pass
their time in exercises of prayer and la-
bor, to which the early years of their
cenobitical life have accustomed them.
"The great beguinage at Ghent,"
says M. Chantrel, " contains four hund-
red smallhouses,eighteen common halls,
one large and one small church. There
are sometimes as many as seven hund-
red beguines assembled in the church.
The assembly of these pious women, in
their ancient Flemish black dresses, and
white bonnets, is very solemn and im-
pressive. The novices are distinguished
by their dress. Those who have recent-
ly taken the veil have their heads encir-
cled by a crown.
" The beguines admit within their en-
closure, as boarders, persons of the gen-
tler sex, of every age and condition, who
find in these establishments an asylum
for the inexperience of youth, or a calm
and peaceful sojourn where those who
are tired of the world may pass their
days without any other rule than that
of a Christian life. In the great be-
guinage at Ghent there are nearly two
hundred secular boarders, who live
either privately or in community with
the nuns."
Among the novices of the great be-
guinage at Ghent there lived, fifteen
years ago, a Mile, de Soubiran, the
niece of a former vicar of Carcassonne.
For twenty years this worthy ecclesi-
astic had communed with Almighty
God, in incessant prayers, to obtain an
516
A City of Women.
answer to this question: "Would
it be a useful work to introduce, or
rather to resuscitate, beguinages in
France?"
Monseigneur de la Bouillerie, whose
eloquence and zeal for good works have
made him famous, interpreted in a fa-
vorable sense the signs furnished by a
concurrence of providential circum-
stances ; and a small establishment
was opened twelve years ago, in a
suburb of Castelnaudary, under the
direction of the Abbe* de Soubiran.
Since 1856, it has had its postulants,
novices, and professed sisters.
The buildings of the new beguinage
were too small and poor. This defect
was remedied by a great fire which
consumed them, and compelled their
reconstruction on a larger plan, and
with better materials than the planks
and bricks of the original buildings.
There is doubtless a vast distance
between this feeble beginning and the
extensive beguinage in Belgium, which
so many centuries have enlarged and
brought to perfection. But Mile, de
Soubiran and her first companions
brought with them from Flanders the
old traditions, with the spirit of fervor
and of poverty and humble labor. The
trials which they have undergone have
only improved their work. They are
happy in the blessing of their bishop,
and his alms would not be wanting in
case of need.
The Castelnaudary beguinage is al-
ready fruitful. A second establish-
ment is forming at Toulouse, on the
Calvary road. Those of our readers
who are acquainted with the capital of
Languedoc know the situation of that
road, but all Christians have long since
learnt that the road to Calvary is the
way of salvation.
Suffice it for the present that we
notice the existence of these two es-
tablishments. We shall have at a
future tune to narrate their progress
and development.
The Dream of Gerontius. 517
From The Month.
THE DREAM OF GERONTIUS.
BY JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, D.D.
I-
GERONTIUS.
JESTT, MARIA I am near to death,
And thou art calling me ; I know it now.
Not by the token of this faltering breath,
This chill at heart, this dampness on my brow,
(Jesu, have mercy ! Mary, pray for me !)
'Tis this new feeling, never felt before,
(Be with me, Lord, in my extremity !)
That I am going, that I am no more.
'Tis this strange innermost abandonment,
(Lover of souls ! great God ! I look to thee,)
This emptying out of each constituent
And natural force, by which I come to be.
Pray for me, O my friends ; a visitant
Is knocking his dire summons at my door,
The like of whom, to scare me and to daunt,
Has never, never come to me before.
'Tis death, loving friends, your prayers ! 'tis he 1 ....
As though my very being had given way,
As though I was no more a substance now,
And could fall back on naught to be my stay,
(Help, loving Lord ! Thou my sole refuge, thou,)
And turn no whither, but must needs decay
And drop from out this universal frame
Into that shapeless, scopeless, blank abyss,
That utter nothingness, of which I came :
This is it that has come to pass in me ;
O horror ! this it is, my dearest, this ;
So pray for me, my friends, who have not strength to pray.
ASSISTANTS.
Kyrie ele'ison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.
Holy Mary, pray for him.
All holy angels, pray for him.
Choirs of the righteous, pray for him.
Holy Abraham, pray for him.
St. John Baptist, St. Joseph, pray for him.
St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Andrew, St. John,
All apostles, all evangelists, pray for him.
All holy disciples of the Lord, pray for him.
All holy innocents, pray for him.
All holy martyrs, all holy confessors,
All holy hermits, all holy virgins,
All ye saints of God, pray for him.
618 The Dream of Gerontius.
GERONTIUS.
Bouse thee, my fainting soul, and play the man ;
And through such waning span
Of life and thought as still has to be trod,
Prepare to meet thy God.
And while the storm of that bewilderment
Is for a season spent,
And, ere afresh the ruin on thee fall,
Use well the interval.
ASSISTANTS.
Be merciful, be gracious ; spare him, Lord.
Be merciful, be gracious ; Lord, deliver him.
From the sins that are passed ;
From thy frown and thine ire ;
From the perils of dying ;
From any complying
With sin, or denying
His God, or relying
On self, at the last ;
From the nethermost fire ;
From all that is evil ;
From power of the devil ;
Thy servant deliver,
For once and for ever.
By thy birth, and by thy cross,
Rescue him from endless loss ;
By thy death and burial,
Save him from a final fall ;
By thy rising from the tomb,
By thy mounting up above,
By the Spirit's gracious love,
Save him in the day of doom.
GERONTIUS.
Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus,
De profundis oro te,
Miserere, judex meus,
Parce mihi, Domine.
Firmly I believe and truly
God is Three, and God is One ;
And I next acknowledge duly
Manhood taken by the Son.
And I trust and hope most fully
In that manhood crucified ;
And each thought and deed unruly
Do to death, as he has died.
Simply to his grace and wholly
Light and life and strength belong,
And I love supremely, solely,
Him the holy, him the strong.
The Dream of Gerontius. 519
Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus,
De profundis oro te,
Miserere, judex meus,
Parce mihi, Domine.
And I hold in veneration,
For the love of him alone,
Holy Church, as his creation.
And her teachings, as his own.
And I take with joy whatever
Now besets me, pain or fear,
And with a strong will I sever
All the ties which bind me here.
Adoration aye be given,
With and through the angelic host,
To the God of earth and heaven,
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus,
De profundis oro te,
Miserere, judex meus,
Mortis in discrimine.
I can no more ; for now it comes again,
That sense of ruin, which is worse than pain,
That masterful negation and collapse
Of all that makes me man ; as though I bent
Over the dizzy brink
Of some sheer infinite descent ;
Or worse, as though
Down, down for ever I was falling through
The solid framework of created things,
And needs must sink and sink
Into the vast abyss. And, crueller still,
A fierce and restless fright begins to fill
The mansion of my soul. And, worse and worse,
Some bodily form of ill
Floats on the wind, with many a loathsome curse
Tainting the hallowed air, and laughs and flaps
Its hideous wings,
And makes me wild with horror and dismay.
O Jesu, help ! pray for me, Mary, pray !
Some angel, Jesu ! such as came to thee
In thine own agony
Mary, pray for me. Joseph, pray for me. Mary, pray for me.
ASSISTANTS.
Rescue him, O Lord, in this his evil hour,
As of old so many by thy gracious power : Amen.
Enoch and Elias from the common doom ; Amen.
Noe from the waters in a saving home ; Amen.
Abraham from th' abounding guilt of heathenesse ; Amen.
Job from all his multiform and fell distress ; Amen.
Isaac, when his father's knife was raised to slay ; Amen.
Lot from burning Sodom on its judgment-day ; Amen.
520 The Dream of Gerontius.
Moses from the land of bondage and despair ; Amen.
Daniel from the hungry lions in their lair ; Amen.
And the children three amid the furnace-flame ; Amen.
Chaste Susanna from the slander and the shame ; Amen.
David from Golia and the wrath of Saul ; Amen.
And the two apostles from their prison-thrall ; Amen.
Thecla from her torments ; Amen :
so, to show thy power,
Rescue this thy servant in his evil hour.
GERONTIUS.
Novissima hora est ; and I fain would sleep.
The pain has wearied me. . . . Into thy hands,
Lord, into thy hands
THE PRIEST.
Proficiscere, anima Christiana de hoc mundo !
Go forth upon thy journey, Christian soul !
Go from this world ! Go, in the name of God,
The omnipotent Father, who created thee !
Go, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord,
Son of the Living God, who bled for thee !
Go, in the name of th' Holy Spirit, who
Hath been poured out on thee ! Go, in the name
Of angels and archangels ; in the name
Of thrones and dominations ; in the name
Of princedoms and of powers ; and in the name
Of cherubim and seraphim, go forth !
Go, in the name of patriarchs and prophets ;
And of apostles and evangelists,
Of martyrs and confessors ; in the name
Of holy monks and hermits ; in the name
Of holy virgins ; and all saints of God,
Both men and women, go ! Go on thy course ;
And may thy place to-day be found in peace,
And may thy dwelling be the holy mount
Of Sion : through the same, through Christ, our Lord.
2.
SOUL OP GERONTIUS.
1 went to sleep ; and now I am refreshed.
A strange refreshment : for I feel in me
An inexpressive lightness, and a sense
Of freedom, as I were at length myself,
And ne'er had been before. How still it is !
I hear no more the busy beat of time,
No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse ;
Nor does one moment differ from the next.
I had a dream ; yes : some one softly said
" He's gone ;" and then a sigh went round the room.
And then I surely heard a priestly voice
Cry " Subvenite ;" and they knelt in prayer.
The Dream of Gerontius. 521
I seem to hear him still ; but thin and low,
And fainter and more faint the accents come,
As at an ever-widening interval.
Ah! whence is this? What is this severance?
This silence pours a solitariness
Into the very essence of my soul ;
And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet,
Hath something too of sternness and of pain.
For it drives back my thoughts upon their spring
By a strange introversion, and perforce
I now begin to feed upon myself,
Because I have naught else to feed upon.
Am I alive or dead ? I am not dead,
But in the body still ; for I possess
A sort of confidence, which clings to me,
That each particular organ holds its place
As heretofore, combining with the rest
Into one symmetry, that wraps me round,
And makes me man ; and surely I could move,
Did I but will it, every part of me.
And yet I cannot to my sense bring home,
By very trial, that I have the power.
'Tis strange ; I cannot stir a hand or foot,
I cannot make my fingers or my lips
By mutual pressure witness each to each,
Nor by the eyelid's instantaneous stroke
Assure myself I have a body still.
Nor do I know my very attitude,
Nor if I stand, or lie, or sit, or kneel.
So much I know, not knowing how I know,
That the vast universe, where I have dwelt,
Is quitting me, or I am quitting it.
Or I or it is rushing on the wings
Of light or lightning on an onward course,
And we e'en now are million miles apart.
Yet . . is this peremptory severance
Wrought out in lengthy measurements of space,
Which grow and multiply by speed and time ?
Or am I traversing infinity
By endless subdivision, hurrying back
From finite toward infinitesimal,
Thus dying out of the expanded world ?
Another marvel ; some one has me fast
Within his ample palm ; 'tis not a grasp
Such as they use on earth, but all around
Over the surface of my subtle being,
As though I were a sphere, and capable
To be accosted thus, a uniform
And gentle pressure tells me I am not
Self-moving, but borne forward on my way.
And hark ! I hear a singing ; yet hi sooth
522 The Dream of Gerontius.
I cannot of that music rightly say
Whether I hear or touch or taste the tones.
Oh what a heart-subduing melody !
ANGEL.
My work is done,
My task is o er,
And so I come,
Taking it home,
For the crown is won.
Alleluia,
For evermore.
My Father gave
In charge to me
This child of earth
E'en from its birth,
To serve and save,
Alleluia,
And saved is he.
This child of clay
To me was given,
To rear and train
By sorrow and pain
In the narrow way,
Alleluia,
From earth to heaven.
SOUL.
It is a member of that family
Of wondrous beings, who, ere the worlds were made,
Millions of ages back, have stood around
The throne of God : he never has known sin ;
But through those cycles all but infinite,
Has had a strong and pure celestial life,
And bore to gaze on th' unveiled face of God,
And drank from the eternal fount of truth,
And served him with a keen ecstatic love.
Hark ! he begins again.
ANGEL.
Lord, how wonderful in depth and height,
But most in man, how wonderful thou art !
With what a love, what soft persuasive might,
Victorious o'er the stubborn fleshly heart,
Thy tale complete of saints thou dost provide,
To fill the throne which angels lost through pride !
He lay a grovelling babe upon the ground,
Polluted in the blood of his first sire,
The Dream of Gerontius. 523
With his whole essence shattered and unsound,
And, coiled around his heart, a demon dire,
Which was not of his nature, but had skill
To bind and form his opening mind to ill.
Then was I sent from heaven to set right
The balance in his soul of truth and sin,
And I have waged a long relentless fight,
Rssolved that death-environed spirit to win,
Which from its fallen state, when all was lost,
Had been repurchased at so dread a cost.
Oh what a shifting parti-colored scene
Of hope and fear, of triumph and dismay,
Of recklessness and penitence, has been
The history of that dreary, lifelong fray !
And oh the grace, to nerve him and to lead,
How patient, prompt, and lavish at his need !
man, strange composite of heaven and earth !
Majesty dwarfed to baseness ! fragrant flower
Running to poisonous seed ! and seeming worth
Cloaking corruption ! weakness mastering power !
Who never art so near to crime and shame,
As when thou hast achieved some deed of name ;
How should ethereal natures comprehend
A thing made up of spirit and of clay,
Were we not tasked to nurse it and to tend,
Linked one to one throughout its mortal day ?
More than the seraph in his height of place,
The angel-guardian knows and loves the ransomed race.
SOUL.
Now know I surely that I am at length
Out of the body : had I part with earth,
1 never could have drunk those accents in,
And not have worshipped as a god the voice
That was so musical ; but now I am
So whole of heart, so calm, so self-possessed,
With such a full content, and with a sense
So apprehensive and discriminant,
As no temptation can intoxicate.
Nor have I even terror at the thought
That I am clasped by such a saintliness.
ANGEL.
All praise to him, at whose sublime decree
The last are first, the first become the last ;
By whom the suppliant prisoner is set free,
By whom proud first-borns from their thrones are cast ;
Who raises Mary to be queen of heaven,
While Lucifer is left, condemned and unforgiven.
524 The Dream of Gerontius.
3.
SOUL.
I will address him. Mighty one, my Lord,
My guardian spirit, all hail !
ANGEL.
All hail, my child !
My child and brother, hail ! what wouldest thou ?
SOUL.
I would have nothing but to speak with thee
For speaking's sake. I wish to hold with thee
Conscious communion ; though I fain would know
A maze of things, were it but meet to ask,
And not a curiousness.
ANGEL.
You cannot now
Cherish a wish which ought not to be wished.
SOUL.
Then I will speak. I ever had believed
That on the moment when the struggling soul
Quitted its mortal case, forthwith it fell
Under the awful presence of its God,
There to be judged and sent to its own place.
"What lets me now from going to my Lord ?
ANGEL.
Thou art not let ; but with extremest speed
Art hurrying to the just and holy Judge :
For scarcely art thou disembodied yet.
Divide a moment, as men measure time,
Into its million-million-millionth part,
Yet even less than that the interval
Since thou didst leave the body ; and the priest
Cried " Subvenite," and they fell to prayer ;
Nay, scarcely yet have they begun to pray.
For spirits and men by different standards mete
The less and greater in the flow of time.
By sun and moon, primeval ordinances
By stars which rise and set harmoniously-
By the recurring seasons, and the swing,
This way and that, of the suspended rod
Precise and punctual, men divide the hours,
Equal, continuous, for their common use.
Not so with us in th' immaterial world ;
But intervals in their succession
The Dream of Gerontius.
Are measured by the living thought alone,
And grow or wane with its intensity.
And time is not a common property ;
But what is long is short, and swift is slow,
And near is distant, as received and grasped
By this mind and by that, and every one
Is standard of his own chronology.
And memory lacks its natural resting-points,
Of years, and centuries, and periods.
It is thy very energy of thought
Which keeps thee from thy God.
SOUL.
Dear angel, say,
Why have I now no fear at meeting him ?
Along my earthly life, the thought of death
And judgment was to me most terrible.
I had it aye before me, and I saw
The Judge severe e'en in the crucifix.
Now that the hour is come, my fear is fled ;
And at this balance of my destiny,
Now close upon me, I can forward look
With a serenest joy.
ANGEL.
It is because
Then thou didst fear, that now thou dost not fear.
Thou hast forestalled the agony, and so
For thee the bitterness of death is passed
Also, because already in thy soul
The judgment is begun. That day of doom,
One and the same for the collected world
That solemn consummation for all flesh,
Is, in the case of each, anticipate
Upon his death ; and, as the last great day
In the particular judgment is rehearsed,
So now too, ere thou comest to the throne,
A presage falls upon thee, as a ray
Straight from the Judge, expressive of thy lot.
That calm and joy uprising in thy soul
Is first-fruit to thee of thy recompense,
And heaven begun.
4.
SOUL.
But hark ! upon my sense
Comes a fierce hubbub, which would make me fear,
Could I be frighted.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
525
526
Extinct Species.
From The St.
EXTINCT
THE study of geology teaches us
that our planet, has undergone many
successive physical revolutions, the
crust of it being made up of layer upon
layer, after the manner of the succes-
sive peels of an onion. Each of these
successive depositions constitutes the
tomb of animal forms that have lived
and passed away. Now it is a fresh-
water or a marine shell that the ex-
ploratory geologist discloses ; now the
skeleton, or parts of a skeleton, from
the evidence of which a comparative
anatomist can reproduce, by model or
picture, the exact forms. Occasionally
science has to build up her presentment
of animals that were, from the scanty
evidence of their mere footfalls. As
the poacher is guided to the timid hare,
crouching in her seat, by the vestiges
of her footprints on the snow, so the
geologist can in many cases arrive at
tolerably certain conclasions relative
to the size and aspect of an extinct ani-
mal by the evidence of footsteps on
now solid rock. And if it be demanded
how it happens that now solid rocks
can bear the traces of such soft impres-
sions, the reply is simple. There evi-
dently was a time when these rocks,
now so hard and solid, were mere ag-
glomerations of plastic matter, com-
parable for consistence to ordinary
clay. It needs not even the weight
of a footfall to impress material of
temper so soft as this. The plashes of
rain are distinctly visible upon many
rocks now hard, and which have only
acquired their consistence with the
lapse of countless ages.
The geologist's notion of the word
" recent" comprehends a span of time
of beginning so remote that the oldest
records of human history fade to insig-
nificance by comparison. Since this
world of ours acquired its final surface
settlement, so to speak, numerous
species have become extinct. The
process of exhaustion has gone steadily
on. It has been determined by various
causes, some readily explicable, others
involved in doubt. It is a matter well
established, for example, that all
northern Asia was at one time, not
geologically remote, overrun by herds
of mammoth creatures which, as to
size, dwarf the largest elephants now
existing; and which, among other
points distinguishing them from modern
elephants, were, unlike these, covered
by a crop of long hair. Very much of
the ivory manufactured in Russia con-
sists of the tusks of these now extinct
mammoths, untombed from time to
time.
Tilesius declares his belief that
mammoth skeletons still left in north-
ern Russia exceed in number all the
elephants now existing upon the globe.
Doubtless the process of mammoth ex-
tinction was very gradual, and ex-
tended over aa enormous space of time.
This circumstance is indicated by the
varying condition in which the tusks
and teeth are found. Whereas the
gelatine, or soft animal matter, of many
specimens remains, imparting one of
the characteristics necessary to the
being of ivory, other specimens have
lost this material, and mineral sub-
stances, infiltrating, have taken its
place. The gem turquoise is pretty
generally conceded to be nothing else
than the fossilized tooth of some ex-
tinct animal probably the mammoth.
Curiosity of speculation prompts the
mind to imagine to itself the time when
the last of these gigantic animals suc-
cumbed to influences that were finally
destined to sweep them all from the
earth. Had men come upon the scene
when they roamed their native wilds ?
"Were those wilds the same as now as
to climate and vegetable growths?
Extinct Species.
527
Testimony is mute. Time silently un-
veils the sepulchred remains, leaving
fancy to expatiate as she will on a
topic wholly beyond the scope of mortal
intelligence.
Inasmuch as bones and tusks of the
mammoth are dug up in enormous
quantities over tracts now almost bare
of trees, and scanty as to other vege-
tation, certain naturalists have assumed
that in times coeval with mammoth or
mastodonic life the vegetation of these
regions must have been richer than
now, otherwise how could such troops
of enormous beasts have gained their
sustenance ?
On this point Sir Charles Lyell bids
us not to be too confident affirmatively.
He remarks that luxuriance of vege-
table growth is not seen at the time
being to correspond with the prevalence
of the associated fauna. The northern
island of the New Zealand group, at
the period when Europeans first set
foot there, was mostly covered by a
luxuriant growth of forest trees, of
shrubs and grasses. Admirably adapt-
ed to the being of herbivorous animals,
the land Avas wholly devoid of the same.
Brazilian forests offer another case in
illustration ; a stronger case than the
wilds of New Zealand, inasmuch as the
climate may be assumed as more con-
genial to the development of animal
life. Nowhere on earth does nature
teem with an equal amount of vege-
table luxuriance ; yet Brazilian forests
ire remarkable for almost the total ab-
sence of large animals. Perhaps no
Dresent tract is so densely endowed
with animal life as that of South Africa,
a region where sterility is the prevail-
"ng characteristic ; where forest trees
IYQ rare and other vegetation scant ; '
where water, too, is infrequent.
Present examples, such as these,
should make a naturalist hesitate before
coming to the conclusion that Siberian
wilds, even as now, were wholly incom-
patible with the existence and support
of troops of mammoths or mastodons.
Speculating now as to the latest time
of the existence of mastodons in Si-
beria, a circumstance has to be noted
that would seem to countenance the
belief in the existence of it up to a not
very remote period of historic times.
In the year 1843, the season being
warmer than usual, a mass of Siberian
ice thawed, and, in thawing, untombed
one of these animals, perfect in all re-
spects, even to the skin and hair. The
flesh of this creature furnished repast
to wolves and bears, so little altera-
tion had it undergone. Another mas-
todon was disentombed on the Tas,
between the Obi and Yenesei, near the
arctic circle, about lat. 66 30' N., with
some parts of its flesh in so perfect a
state that the bulb of the eye now exists
preserved in the Moscow museum.
Another adult carcass, accompanied by
an individual of the same species, was
found in 1843, in lat. 75 15' N., near
the river Taimyr, the flesh being de-
cayed. Associated with it, Middendorf
observed the trunk of a larch tree
(Pinus larix), the same wood that now
grows in the same neighborhood abun-
dantly.
It is no part of our intention to dis-
cuss the causes of mammoth extinction.
This result has assuredly not been
caused by any onslaught of the de-
stroyer man. The Siberian wilds are
scantily populated now, and it has
never been suggested that at any an-
terior period their human denizens
were more plentiful. Nature often
establishes the balance of her organic
life through a series of agencies so ab-
strusely refined, and acting, beside,
over so long a period, that they alto-
gether escape man's cognizance. The
believer in the God of nature's adapta-
tion of means to ends will see no reason
to make an exception in animal species
to what is demonstrated by examples
in so many other cases to be a general
law. The dogma, that no general
law is without exceptions, though one
to which implicit credence has been
given, may nevertheless be devoid of
the universality commonly imputed.
On the contrary, the application of this
dogma may extend over a very narrow
field ; may be only referable to the
codifications, artificial and wholly con-
528
Extinct Species.
ventional, which mankind for their
convenience establish, and under a false
impression elevate to the position of
laws. If logical proof in syllogistic
form be demanded as to the proposi-
tion that laws established by .nature
have no exceptions, the fulfilment of
demand would not be possible ; inas-
much as human reason is too impotent
for grasping, and too restricted in its
energies for investigating, the multifa-
rious issues which the discussion of
such a thesis would involve. As com-
ing events, however, are said by the
poet to cast their shadows in advance,
so, as heralds and harbingers of truths
beyond logical proof, come beliefs,
faiths, even moral convictions. Of this
sort is the assurance of the balance
established by nature at each passing
epoch of being in the world.
The naturalist is impressed with the
firm belief that the number of animal
species existing on the earth, and the
number of individuals in each species,
are balanced and apportioned in some
way and by some mysterious co-rela-
tion to the needs of the universe.
Some presumptive testimony in
favor of this belief is afforded by the
discussion, barely yet concluded, rela-
tive to the effect of small bird destruc-
tion. Without any more elaborate
reasoning on this topic than follows
necessarily as the result of newspaper
reading, the general concession will be
made by any one of unbiassed mind,
that if small bird destruction could be
enacted to its exhaustive limits if
every small bird could be destroyed
the aggregate of vitality thus disposed
of would be balanced through the in-
crease of other organisms. Insect life
would teem and multiply to an extent
proportionate with the removal of an
anterior restraining cause.
The nature of the topic on which we
are engaged does not force upon us the
question whether such proportionate
increase of insect life be advantageous
or disadvantageous. What we are
wholly concerned in placing in evi-
dence is the balance kept up between
vital organisms of different species by
nature. Nor is the balance of vitality
established between different animal
species. It also may be traced, and
even more distinctly, between the veg-
etable and animal kingdoms ; each
regarded in its entirety. Vegetables
can only grow by the assimilation of
an element (carbon) which animals
evolve by respiration, as being a poison.
Consideration of this fact well-nigh
forces the conclusion upon the mind
if, indeed, the conclusion be not inevit-
able that if through any vast cata-
clysm animated life were to become
suddenly extinct throughout the world,
vegetable life would languish until the
last traces of atmospheric carbon had
become exhausted, and then perish.
In maintenance of her vital balance
through the operation of some occult
law, it often happens that animals that
have ceased to be " obviously useful,"
as taking part in a general economy
around them, are seen to die out.
Whilst wolves and elks roamed over
Ireland the magnificent Irish wolf-dog
was common. With the disappear-
ance of wolves the breed of wolf-dogs
languished, and has ultimately become
extinct. As a matter of zoological
curiosity many an Irish gentleman
would have desired to perpetuate this
gigantic and interesting race of dogs ;
but the operation, the tendency to vital
equilibrium has been over-strong to be
contravened the race of Irish wolf-
dogs has fleeted away. Speaking now
of the huge Siberian mammoths, from
which we diverged, of these faith in
nature's balanced adaptation assures
us that they died out so soon as they
ceased to be necessary as a compensa-
tion to some unknown force in the vital
economy.
Spans and periods of time, such as
those comprehended by the human
mind, and compared with the normal
period of individual human existence,
dwindle to nothingness when attempted
to be made the units of measurement in
calculations involving the duration of
species. Perhaps the data are not
available for enabling the most careful
investigator to come to an approximate
Extinct Species.
529
conclusion as to the number of years
that must elapse before the race of
existing elephants, African and Indian,
will become extinct, departing from the
earth as mammoths have departed.
The time, however, must inevitably
arrive for that consummation under the
rule of the present course of things.
Without forest for shade and sus-
tenance the race of wild elephants
cannot exist; and, inasmuch as ele-
phants never breed in captivity, each
tame elephant having been once re-
claimed from the forests, it follows,
from the consideration of inevitable
results, that sooner or later, but some
day, nevertheless, one of two possible
issues must be consummated either
that man shall cease to go on subduing
the earth, cutting down forests and
bringing the land into cultivation, or
else elephants must become extinct.
Who can entertain a doubt as to the
alternative issue ? Man has gone on
conquering and to conquer from the
time he came upon the scene. Ani-
mals, save those he can domesticate,
have gone on fleeting and fleeting
away. It is most probable, neverthe-
less, that one proportionate aggregate
of vitality has at every period been
maintained.
The most marked examples of the
passing away of animal species within
periods of time, in some cases not very
remote, pronounced of even in a his-
torical sense, is seen in the record of
certain gigantic birds. The largest
individuals of the feathered tribes now
extant are ostriches ; but the time was
hen these plumed denizens of the
Sahara were small indeed by compari-
on with existing species. Some idea
the bulk of the epiornis an extinct
pecies may be gathered from a
iparison of the bulk of one of its
with that of other birds. Accord-
ng to M. Isidore Geoffroy, who some
ime since presented one of these eggs
the French Academy of Sciences,
e capacity of it was no less than
gat litres and three-fourths. This
ould prove it to be about six times
.e size of the ostrich's egg, 148 times
34
that of an ordinary fowl, and no less
than 50,000 times the size of the egg
of the humming-bird. The egg exhi-
bited was one of very few that have
been discovered ; hence nothing tends
to the belief that it was one of the
largest. The first knowledge of the
existence of this gigantic bird was
acquired in 1851. The sole remains
of the species hitherto found are some
egg-shells and a few bones. These
suffice, however, for an ideal reproduc-
tion of the creature under the synthet-
ical treatment of comparative anatomy.
The epiornis inhabited Madagascar.
The creature's height could not have
been less than from nine to twelve feet,
and the preservation of its remains is
such as to warrant the belief in its
comparatively recent existence.
Of a structure as large as the epi-
ornis, probably larger, though differing
from the latter in certain anatomical
particulars, according to the belief of
Professor Owen, is a certain New
Zealand giant bird, called by him the
dinornis. As in the case of the Mad-
agascar bird, the evidence relating to
this is very recent. Some few years
ago an English gentleman received
from a relative settled in New Zealand
some fragments of large bones that
had belonged to some creature of spe-
cies undetermined. He sent them to
Professor Owen for examination, and
was not a little surprised at the as-
surance that the bones in question,
although seemingly having belonged
to an animal as large as an ox, were
actually those of a bird. The com-
parative anatomist was guided in
coming to this conclusion by a certain
cancellated structure possessed by the
bony fragments, a characteristic of the
bones of birds. For a time Professor
Owen's dictum was received with hesi-
tation, not to say disbelief, on the part
of some people. The subsequent find-
ing of more remains, eggs as well as
bones, soon justified the naturalist's
verdict, however. Not the slightest
doubt remains now upon the mind of
any zoologist relative to the past exist-
ence of the dinornis; nay, the im-
530
Extinct Species.
pression prevails that this feathered
monster may be living in some of the
more inaccessible parts of the southern
island of New Zealand at the present
time. Be that as it may, the dinornis
can only have become extinct recently,
even using this word in a historical
sense, as the folio whig testimony will
make manifest :
A sort of mummification prevailed
amongst the Maories until Christianity
had gained ground amongst them. The
process was not exactly similar to that
by which Egyptian mummies were
formed, but resembled it, nevertheless,
in the particular of desiccation.
Smoking was the exact process fol-
lowed ; and smoked Maori heads are
common enough in naturalists' mu-
seums. In a general way Maori
heads alone were smoked, certain
principles of food economy prompting
a more utilitarian treatment for entire
bodies. Nevertheless, as a mark of
particular respect to some important
chief now and then, affectionate survi-
vors exempted his corpse from the
oven, and smoking it entire, set it up
amongst the Maori lares and penates
as an ornament. This explanation is
not altogether par parenthese, for it
brings me to the point of narrating
some evidence favorable to the opinion
that the dinornis cannot have been
extinct in New Zealand even at a re-
cent historical period. Not long ago
the body of a Maori was found in a
certain remote crypt, and resting on
one hand was an egg of this bird giant.
Contemplate now the bearings of the
testimony. The Maori race is not in-
digenous to New Zealand, but arrived
there by migration from Hawai. Not
alone do the records of the two groups
of Pacific islands in question advert to
such migration, but certain radical co-
incidences of language lend confirma-
tion. It is further a matter of tradition
that the migration took placo about
three hundred years ago. Now, even
if the recently discovered specimen of
Maori mummy art had been executed
on the very first advent of the race,
the period elapsed would be, historically
speaking, recent. The laws of chance,
however, are adverse to any such as-
sumption ; and, moreover, the degree
of civilization if the expression may
be used implied by the dedication of
an entire human body to an aesthetic
purpose, instead of devoting it to one
of common utility could only have
been achieved after a certain lapse of
time.
According to Professor Owen, there
must have been many species of di-
nornis. The largest individuals of one
species, according to him, could not
have been less than four yards high.
According to the same naturalist,
moreover, these birds were not re-
markable by their size alone ; they had,
he avers, certain peculiarities of form
establishing a link between them and
the cassowary and apteryx : the latter
a curious bird still found in New Zea-
land, but very rare nevertheless.
Of colossal dimensions as were the
dinornis and epiornis, the size of both
sinks into insignificance by comparison
with another giant bird, traces of which,
and only traces, are discoverable in
North America, at the epoch when the
deposit of the conchylian stage of
Massachusetts was yet soft enough to
yield under the feet of creatures step-
ping upon its surface. Footsteps,
indeed, are the only traces left of these
giant birds, and they are found side by
side with the imprints of drops of rain
which fell on the yielding surface in
those early times. Mostly the foot-
marks only correspond with three toes,
but occasionally there are traces of a
fourth a toe comparable to a thumb,
only directed forward, not backward.
Marks of claws are occasionally found.
Every trace and lineament of the Mas-
sachusetts bird is marvellously excep-
tional. The feet must have been no
less than fifteen inches long, without
reckoning the hinder claw, the length
of which alone is two inches. The
width mus t have been ten inches. The
intervals between these footmarks
correspond evidently with the stride of
the monster, which got over the ground
by covering successive stages of from
Extinct Species.
531
four to five feet ! When we consider
that the stride of an ostrich is no more
than from ten to twelve inches, the ap-
plication of this record will be obvious.
Here closes the testimony already re-
vealed in respect of this bird, except
we also refer to it which is apocry-
phal certain coprolites or excremen-
titious matters found in the same
formation.
For the preceding facts naturalists
are indebted to the investigations of
Mr. Hitchcock. The evidence ad-
duced leaves no place for doubt as to
the previous existence of a giant bird
to which the traces are referable.
Naturalists, however, were slow to
come to this conclusion ; so extraor-
dinary did it seem that a bird should
have lived at a period so remote as
that when these geological forma-
tions were deposited. To gain some
idea of the antiquity of that formation,
one has only to remember that the
conchylian stage is only the fifth in
the order of time of the twenty-eight
stages of which, according to Alcide
D'Orbigny, the crust of the earth is
made up, from the period of primitive
rocks to the present date. However,
many recent facts have tended to
prove that several animals, mammali-
ans and saurians amongst others, are
far more ancient than had been im-
agined; after which evidence these
giant bird footprints have lost much
of the improbability which once
seemed to attach to them.
Pass we on now to the traces of an-
other very curious bird, the existence
of which has been demonstrated by
Professor Owen, according to whom
the creature must have lived at the
epoch of the schists of Sobenhofen.
The name given by Professor Owen
to this curious extinct bird is archeop-
'x. Its peculiarities are so numer-
that for some time naturalists
oubted whether it should be consider-
a reptile or a bird ; between which
wo there exist numerous points of
: milarity. And now, whilst dealing
ith bird-giants, it would be wrong
to make some reference to a dis-
covery made in 1855, at Bas Meudon,
of certain osseous remains, referable
to a bird that must have attained the
dimensions of a horse ; that floated on
water like a swan, and poised itself
at roost upon one leg. Monsieur Con-
stant Prevost, the naturalist who has
most studied the bird, gave to it the
name of gastornis Parisiensis. The
bony remains of this creature were
found in the tertiary formation in a
conglomerate associated with chalk,
which refers the gastornis to a date
more remote than any yet accorded to
any other bird.
From a bare record of facts contem-
plate we now our planet as it must
have been when inhabited by the
monstrous birds and reptiles and quad-
rupeds which preceded the advent of
man. These were times when animat-
ed forms attained dimensions which
are now wholly exceptional. That
may be described as the age when
physical and physiological forces were
dominant, as the force of moral agency
dominates over the present, and is des-
tined, as appearances tend to prove, to
rule even more fully hereafter. Might
it not seem that in nature an economy
is recognizable similar to the economy
of human existence ? Can we not re-
cognize an antagonism between the de-
velopment of brute force and of the
quality of mind? Would it not even
seem that nature could not at one and
the same time develop mental and
corporeal giants ? The physiological
reign has only declined to prepare the
advent of moral ascendancy. Giant
bodies seem fading from the earth,
and giant spirits commencing to rule.
Humanity is progressive ; is not its
progression made manifest by these
zoological revelations? The first
bone traces of human beings range
back to an epoch posterior to the mon-
strous quadrupeds entombed in the
diluvium. Hereafter giants, probably,
will only be seen in the moral world,
grosser corporeal giant forms having
become extinct. The physical gi-
gantesque is not yet indeed banished
from the earth, but the period of its
532
Extinct Species.
banishment would seem to be at
hand.
The probability is that all the great
birds to which reference has been
made were, like the ostrich, incapa-
ble of flight. This defect, when con-
templated from the point of view sug-
gested by modern classifications,
seems one of the most remarkable
aberrations of nature of which we have
cognizance. For a bird to be de-
prived of what seems the most essen-
tial characteristic of bird-life to be
banished from the region that we
have come to regard as the speci-
al domain of bird-life bound to
the earth, forced to mingle with
quadrupeds seems to the mind the
completest of all possible departures
from established type.
Thoughts such as these result from
our artificial systems and classifica-
tions. Apart from these, the condi-
tions of giant walking birds that were,
and to a limited extent are, will be
found to harmonize well with sur-
rounding conditions. Suppose we take
the case of the ostrich for example ;
this bird being the chief living repre-
sentative of giant bird-life remaining
to us from the past. In the ostrich,
then, do we view a creature so per-
fectly adapted to conditions which sur-
round it that no need falls short and
no quality is in excess. A complete
bird in most anatomical characteris-
tics, it borrows others from another
type. The sum of the vital elements
which normally, had the ostrich been
like flying birds, should have gone to
endow the wings, has been directed to-
ward the legs and feet, and thereupon
concentrated. Bird qualities and
beast qualities have mingled, and, as
we now perceive, have harmonized.
If to the ostrich flying is denied if it
can only travel on foot, yet is it an ex-
cellent pedestrian. A quality of which
it has been deprived we now find to
have been transmuted .into another
quality the ostrich has found its
equivalent.
Reflecting thus, we cease to pity the
ostrich ; we begin to see that nature
has been supremely wise, our classifi-
cations only having led us into error.
A new thought dawns upon our appre-
hension ; instead of longer regarding
the ostrich as furnishing an example
of nature's bird-creative power gone
astray, we come to look upon this crea-
ture as designed upon the type of or-
dinary walking animals, and having
some bird characteristics added. As-
suredly this point of view is better than
the other ; for whereas the first reveals
nature to us through the distorting
medium of an abstraction, the other
shows us nature herself. It is not a
matter of complete certainty that the
bird-type, as naturalists explain and de-
fine it in their systems, exists ; but there
can be no doubt as to the existence of
the ostrich. In this mode of expres-
sion there is nothing paradoxical ; and
doubtless, when we come to reflect upon
it, the case will not fail to seem a little
strange that we are so commonly in
the habit of testing the inequalities of
beings by reference to systems, instead
of following the opposite course, viz.,
that of testing the value and complete-
ness of systems by reference to the
qualities of individuals they embrace.
Naturalists invent a system and make
it their touchstone of truth ; whereas
the real touchstone would be the crea-
ture systematized. The ostrich simply
goes to prove that the zoological types
imagined by naturalists are endowed
with less of the absolute than philoso-
phers in their pride of science had im-
agined. Animal types are not the
strangers to each other that artificial
classifications would make them ap-
pear.
Nor is flexibility of bird-type only
manifested by the examples wherein a
bird acquires characteristics of quadru-
peds and other walking animals. Wings
may even become metamorphosed into
a sort of fins, thus establishing a con-
nection between bird-life and fish-life.
This occurs in the manchot, a bird not
less aquatic in its habits than the seal
of flying and walking almost equally
incapable a bird the natural locomo-
tive condition of which is to be plunged
Extinct Species.
533
in water up to the neck. Assuredly
nothing can be more absurd than the
attempt to recognize, in these ambigu-
ous organizations, so many attempts of
nature to pass from one type to an-
other.
No matter what religious system
one may have adopted, or what philo-
sophical code: the interpretation of
nature (according to which she is re-
presented as making essays trying
experiments) is alike inadmissible.
Neither God omniscient, nor nature
infallible, can be assumed by the phil-
osopher as trying experiments. There
are, indeed, no essays in nature but
degrees transitions. Wherefore these
transitions ? is a question that brings
philosophy to bay, and demonstrates
her weakness. It is a question that
cannot be pondered too deeply. There-
in lies the germ of some great mys-
tery.
Reverting to bird-giants, past and
present, it is assuredly incorrect to as-
sume, as certain naturalists have as-
sumed, that flying would have been
incompatible with their bulk. There
exist birds of prey, of whose bodies
the specific gravity does not differ
much from that of the ostrich, and are
powerful in flight nevertheless. Then
another class of facts rises up in oppo-
sition to the hypothesis, that mere
grandeur of dimensions is the limit to
winged flying. Neither the apteryx
nor the manchot fly any more than
the ostrich. Neither is a large bird,
nor, relatively to size, a heavy bird.
As regards the epiornis, the position
is not universally acceded to by natu-
ralists that the creature was like the
ostrich, the apteryx, and cassowary,
a mere walking bird. An Italian na-
turalist, Signor Bianconi, has noted a
certain peculiarity in the metatarsal
bones of the creature which induces
him to refer it to the category of
winged birds of prey. If this hypo-
thesis be tenable, then a sort of giant
vulture the epiornis would have been :
one in whose imposing presence the
condor of the Andes would have
dwindled to the dimensions of a buz-
zard. Further, if Signor Bianconi's
assumption hold good, then may we
not have done amiss in banishing the
" roc " to the realms of fiction ? Old
Marco Polo, writing in the thirteenth
century, described the roc circumstan-
tially, and the account has been long
considered as either a fiction or a mis-
take. Signor Bianconi, coming to the
rescue of his fellow-countryman, thinks
that the Italian traveller may have
actually described a giant bird of prey
extant at the time when he wrote, but
which has now become extinct.
A notice of extinct birds would be in-
complete without reference to the dodo,
the very existence of which had been
lately questioned; so completely has
it fleeted away from the earth. Messrs.
Broderip, Strickland, and Melville,
however, have amply vindicated the
dodo's claim to be regarded a former
denizen of the world we live in. The
dodo was first seen by the Dutch when
they landed on the Isle of France, at
that time uninhabited, immediately sub-
sequent to the doubling of Cape Horn
by the Portuguese. These birds were
described as having no wings, but in
the place of them three or four black
feathers. Where the tail should be,
there grew instead four or five curling
plumes of a grayish color. In their
stomachs they were said to have com-
monly a stone as big as a fist, and
hard as the gray Bentemer stone.
The boat's crew of the Jacob Van
Neck called them Walgh-vogels (sur-
feit birds), because they could not
cook them or make them tender, or
because they were able to get so many
turtle-doves, which had a much more
pleasant flavor, so that they took a
disgust to these birds. Likewise, it is
said that three or four of these birds
were enough to afford a whole ship's
company one full meal. Indeed, the
sailors salted down some of them, and
carried them on the voyage.
Many descriptions of the dodo were
given by naturalists after the com-
mencement of the seventeenth centu-
ry ; and the British Museum contains
a painting said to have been copied
534
Extinct Species.
from a living individual. Underneath
the painting is a leg still finely pre-
served ; and in respect of this leg na-
turalists are agreed that it cannot be-
long to any existing species. The dodo
must have been a curious bird, if Mr.
Strickland's notion of him be correct ;
and Professor Reinhardt, of Copenha-
gen, holds a similar opinion. The do-
do, these naturalists affirm, was a vul-
ture-like dove a sort of ugly giant
pigeon but with beak and claws like
a vulture. He had companions or
neighbors, at least, not dissimilar in
nature. Thus a bird called the soli-
taire inhabited the small island of
Roderigues, three hundred miles east
of the Mauritius. Man has extermi-
nated the solitaire, as well as other
birds nearly allied, formerly denizens
of the Isle of Bourbon.
The dodo will be seen no more ;
the race has fleeted away. Among
birds, the emeu, the cassowary, and
the apteryx are species rapidly van-
ishing ; amongst quadrupeds, the kan-
garoo the platypus : others slow-
ly, but not less surely. After a while
they will be gone from the earth whol-
ly, as bears, wolves, mammoths, and
hyenas have gone from our own isl-
and. The JBos primigenius, or great
wild bull, was common in Germany
when Julius Caesar flourished. The
race has become wholly extinct, if, in-
deed, not incorporated with the breed
of large tame oxen of northern Eu-
rope. The urus would have become
extinct but for the care taken by
Russian emperors to preserve a
remnant in Lithuanian forests. The
beaver built his mud huts along the
Saone and Rhone up to the last few
generations of man ; and when Hanni-
bal passed through Gaul on his way
to Italy, beavers in Gaul were com-
mon. Thus have animals migrated
or died out, passed away, but the bal-
ance of life has been preserved. Man
has gone on conquering : now exter-
minating, now subjecting. Save the
fishes of the sea and the birds of the
air, the time will perhaps come when
creatures will have to choose between
subjection and death. Ostriches
would seem to be reserved for the first
alternative, seeing that in South Afri-
ca, in southern France, and Italy,
these birds have lately been bred,
domiciled into tame fowls, in behalf of
their feathers. Very profitable would
ostrich farming seem to be. These
giant birds want no food but grass,
and the yearly feather yield of each
adult ostrich realizes about twenty-
five pounds sterling.
A Dinner by Mistake.
535
From Chainbera's Journal.
A DINNER BY MISTAKE.
"ONLY one poun'-ten a week, sir,
and no extras ; and I may say you
won't find such cheap airy lodgings
anywhere else in the place; not to
speak of the sea-view ;" and the bus-
tling landlady threw open the door of
the tiny sitting-room with an air which
would have become a Belgravian
lackey. It certainly was a cosy, sun-
ny little apartment, with just such a
view of the sea, and of nothing else
whatsoever, as is the delight of an in-
land heart, I was revolving in my
mind how to make terms on one most
important point, when she again broke
forth : " I can assure you, sir, I could
have let these same rooms again and
again in the last two days, if I had
not given my promise to Mrs. Johnson
that she should have them next Fri-
day fortnight, and I would never go
from my word, sir never ! though
this month is our harvest, and it's
hard for me to have the rooms stand-
ing empty. As I told my niece only
yesterday, I won't let forward again,
not to please anybody, for it don't
answer, and it worrits me out of my
life. And I'm sure, sir, if you like to
come for the fortnight, I'll do my ut-
most to make you comfortable ; and I
always have given satisfaction; and
you could not get nicer rooms no-
where."
" No," said I, taking advantage of
her pause for breath ; " these are very
nice. I I suppose you don't object
to smoking?"
The good woman's face assumed a
severe expression, though I detected a
comical twinkle in her eye. " Why,
sir, we always do say but if it's only
a cigar, and not one of them nasty
pipes "
I smiled: "To tell the truth, it
generally is a pipe."
"Is it now? Well, sir, if you
please, we won't say anything about it
now. We have a lady-lodger up-
stairs, and if she should complain, I
can but say that it is against my rules,
and that I'll mention it to you. And
so, sir, if you please, I'll go now, and
see to your portmanteau being taken
up ;" and thereupon she vanished,
leaving me in sole possession.
I threw my bag and rug on to the
sofa, pushed a slippery horsehair arm-
chair up to the window, and sat down
to rest and inhale the sea-breezes with
a certain satisfaction at being in har-
bor. As I before remarked, the pros-
pect was in the strictest sense of the
words a sea-view. Far away to east
and west stretched the blue ocean;
and besside it, I could see only a steep
grass-bank just beneath my window,
with a broad shingly path running at
its base, evidently designed for an es-
planade, though no human form was
visible thereon. Away to the right, I
just caught a glimpse of shelving
beach, dotted with fishermen's boats ;
and of a long wooden jetty, with half-
a-dozen figures slowly pacing from
end to end, while the dismal screech-
ing of a brass band told of an attempt
at music more ambitious than success-
ful. It was not a lively look-out for a
solitary man, and I half wished my-
self back in my mother's comfortable
house at Brompton. However, I was
in for it now ; and I could but try how
far a fortnight of open air and exer-
cise would recruit my wasted strength.
I had been reading really hard at Ox-
ford through the last term, and my
very unusual industry had been fol-
lowed by a languor and weariness
which so awakened my dear mother's
solicitude that she never rested till
she had persuaded Dr. Busby to pre-
scribe sea-air and a total separation
from my books. She could not come
536
A Dinner by Mistake.
with me, as she longed to do, kind
soul ! but she packed my properties,
and gave endless instructions as to
diet, all of which I had forgotten be-
fore I had accomplished the first mile
of my journey. I don't know why I
came to that out-of-the-way watering-
place, except that I was too languid
to have a will of my own, or to care
for the noisy life of country-houses
full of sportsmen. So, on the follow-
ing morning, behold me in gray travel-
ling suit and wide-awake, strolling
along the beach, watching the pretty
bathers as they dipped their heads
under water, and then reappeared,
shaking the dripping tresses from
their eyes. Then there were the
fishermen, brawny, bare-legged Go-
liahs, setting forth on their day's toil,
and launching their boats with such
shouts and cries as, to the uninitiated,
might indicate some direful calamity.
The beach was alive now, for the
whole visiting population, such as it
was, seemed to have turned out this
bright September morning, and were
scattered about, sketching, working,
and chattering. I scanned each group,
envying them their merry laughter
and gay talk, and half hoping to re-
cognize some familiar face among
those lazy lounging youths and sun-
burned damsels ; but my quest was
fruitless, and I pursued my lonely
way apart.
Really, though, the little place im-
proved upon acquaintance. There
were fine bold cliffs, just precipitous
enough to make a scramble to the top
almost irresistible ; there were long
stretches of yellow sand and shallow
pools glittering in the sunlight ; and
there was a breeze coming straight
from the north pole, which quickened
my blood, and brought the color into
my sallow cheeks, even as I drank it
in. I bathed, I walked, I climbed, I
made friends with the boatmen, and
got them to take me out in their fish-
ing-smacks ; but still, with returning
vigor, I began to crave not a little for
some converse with more congenial
spirits than these honest tars and my
loquacious landlady. I inscribed my
name on the big board at the library ;
I did all that man could do to make
my existence known, but nearly a
week passed away, and still my fel-
low-creatures held aloof. I had been
out for the whole of one windy after-
noon tossing on the waves, watching
the lobster-fishing, and came in at sun-
set tolerably drenched with spray, and
with a terrific appetite. As I opened
the door of my little sitting-room, I
beheld most welcome sight the
white dinner-cloth, and lying upon it
a card a large, highly-glazed, most
unmistakable visiting-card. With
eager curiosity, I snatched it up, but
curiosity changed to amazement when
I read the name, " Sir Philip Hether-
ton, Grantham Park." Sir Philip
Hetherton ! Why, in the name of all
that's incomprehensible, should he call
on me ? I had never even heard his
name ; I knew no more of him than
of the man in the moon. Could he
be some country magnate who made
it a duty to cultivate the acquaintance
of every visitor to Linbeach ? If so,
he must have a hard tune of it, even
in this little unfrequented region. My
impatience could not be restrained till
Mrs. Plumb's natural arrival with the
chops ; and an energetic pull at the
bell brought her at once courtesying
and smiling.
" I suppose," began I, holding the
card with assumed carelessness be-
tween my finger and thumb " I sup-
pose this gentleman, Sir Philip Hether-
ton, called here to-day?"
" Oh yes, sir, this afternoon ; not an
hour ago."
" He inquired for me ?"
" Yes, sir ; he asked particularly
for young Mr. Olifant, and said he
was very sorry to miss you. He's a
very pleasant-spoken gentleman, is Sir
Philip."
" Ah, I see. Is he often in Lin-
beach ? Does he know many people
living in the place ?"
" Well, I don't think he has many
friends here, sir ; at least, I never un-
derstood so ; but he owns some of the
A Dinner by Mistake.
537
houses in the town, and he is very-
kind to the poor. No one is ever
turned away empty-handed from his
door, and I've a right to say so, sir,
for my brother's widow lives in one of
the lodges at Grantham. He put her
into it when her husband was drowned
at sea, and he's been a good friend to
her ever since."
All this was not what I wanted to
find out, but I had learned by experi-
ence that Mrs. Plumb's tongue must
have its swing. I now mildly brought
her back to the point : " Does he see
anything of the visitors ? "
"Not to my knowledge, sir. He
sometimes rides in of an afternoon, for
Grantham is only four miles from
Linbeach ; but I don't think he ever
stays long."
So it was not apparently an eccent-
ric instance of universal friendliness,
but a special mark of honor paid to
me. It grew more and more mysteri-
ous. However, there was nothing to
be gained by pumping Mrs. Plumb
further ; and as I was discreetly mind-
! ed to keep my own counsel, I dis-
1 missed her. But meditating long and
deeply over my solitary dinner, I
came at length to the unwelcome con-
clusion, that Sir Philip Hetherton
| must have been laboring under some
strange delusion, and that I should
see and hear no more of him. I was
rather in the habit of priding myself
on my judgment and discrimination ;
but in this instance they were certainly
at fault, for within three days, I met
him face to face. I was strolling
slowly along one of the shady country
lanes which led inland between corn-
fields and hedge-rows, when I encoun-
tered a portly, gray-haired gentleman,
mounted on an iron-gray cob, and trot-
ing soberly toward Linbeach. He
urveyed me so inquisitively out of
is merry blue eyes, that the thought
rossed me, could this be the veritable
>ir Philip ? I smiled at my own vi-
id imagination ; but I must confess
hat before I had proceeded another
alf mile, I faced round, and returned
o Linbeach for more briskly than I
had left it. I had scarcely stepped in-
to Mrs. Plumb's passage, when that
pers.onage herself met me open-
mouthed, with a pencil-note in her
hand. " Oh, Mr. Oliphant, I wish you
had come in rather sooner. Sir Phi-
lip has been here again, and as he
could not see you, he wrote this note,
for he had not time to wait. I was
quite vexed that it should happen so."
Evidently the good woman was fully
impressed with the dignity o f the event,
and not a little flattered at the honor
paid to her lodger. I opened the
note, and it contained oh marvel of
marvels ! an invitation to dinner for
the following day, coupled with many
warm expressions of regard for my
family, and regrets at having been
hitherto unable to see me.
I told Sir Philip that I thought you
had only gone down to the beach, sir ;
but he laughed, and said he should not
know you if he met you. I suppose
you don't know him, do you, sir?"
Mrs. Plumb added insinuatingly.
" No. " said I ; thinking within my-
self that the baronet need not have
been quite so communicative. How-
ever, this confession of his, at any
rate, threw same light upon the sub-
ject, and suggested a solution. He
might have known my father or mo-
ther. Of course, indeed, he must have
known them, or somebody belonging
to me. His own apparent confidence
began to infect me, and I wrote off an
elaborate and gracefully-worded ac-
ceptance ; and then sat down to my
pipe, and a complacent contemplation
of all the benefits that might accrue to
me through his most praiseworthy cor-
diality. " After all, " I reflected, 'tis
no matter where one goes ; friends are
sure to turn up everywhere ; " and
thereon arose visions of partridge-
shooting in the dewy mornings, to be
followed by pleasant little dinners with
my host and a bevy of lovely daugh-
ters. But on the morrow certain mis-
givings revisited me, and I came to
the conclusion that it would only be
the civil thing to ride over to Gran-
tham in the afternoon, and get through
538
A Dinner by Mistake.
the first introductions and explanations
before appearing there as a guest.
Accordingly, I hired a long-legged,
broken-winded hack, the only one to
be got for love or money, and set
forth upon my way. It was a fruitless
journey ; the fatal " not at home "
greeted my ears, and I could only
drop a card, turn the Roman nose of
my gallant steed toward home, and
resign myself to my fate.
Seven o'clock was the hour named
for dinner, and I had intended to be
particularly punctual, but misfortunes
crowded thick upon me. The first
white tie that came to hand was a
miserable failure. My favorite curl
would not be adjusted becomingly
upon my brow ; and the wretched don-
key-boy who had solemnly promised
to bring the basket-carriage punctually
to the door, did not appear till ten
minutes after the time. Last of all,
when I had descended " got up" to per-
fection, and was on the point of start-
ing, I discovered that I was minus
gloves, and the little maid-of-all-work
had to be sent fleeing off to the corner
shop, where haberdashery and grocery
were picturesquely combined. So it
fell out that, despite hard driving, it
was several minutes past the hour
when we drew up under the portico at
Grantham. I had no time to compose
my nerves or prepare my opening ad-
dress. A gorgeously-arrayed flunkie
appeared at the hall-door; a solemn
butler, behind, waved me on to the
guidance of another beplushed and be-
powdered individual ; and before I
fully realized my position, I stood in a
brilliantly-lighted drawing-room, full
of people, and heard my name pro-
claimed in stentorian tones. The next
moment, the florid gentleman whom I
had encountered on the previous day
came forward with outstretched hands
and a beaming face, and a perfect tor-
rent of welcomes burst upon me.
" Glad to see you at last, Mr. Oli-
fant, very glad to see you ; I began to
think there was a fate against our
meeting. Let me introduce you.
Lady Hetherton my daughter my
son Fred. Come this way, this
way."
And I was hurried along helpless
as an infant in the jovial baronet's
hands. How could I I appeal to
any reasonable being how could I
stand stock-still, and, under the eyes of
all that company, cross-examine my
host as to the why and wherefore of his
hospitality ? It will be owned, I think,
that in what afterward occurred I was
not wholly to blame. Lady Hether-
ton was a quiet well-bred woman, with
a mild face and soft voice ; she greeted
me with a certain sleepy warmth, and
after a few placid commonplaces, re-
sumed her conversation with the el-
derly lady by her side, and left me to
the care of her son, a bright, frank
young Harrovian, with whom I speed-
ily made friends. Really it was very
pleasant to drop in this way into the
centre of a genial circle, and I found
my spirits rising fast as we talked to-
gether, con amore, of cricket, boating,
hunting. A fresh arrival, however,
soon disturbed the party, and, directly
afterward, dinner was announced.
Sir Philip, who had been busily en-
gaged in welcoming the last comers,
led off a stately dame upon his arm,
and we followed in procession, a de-
mure young daughter of the house be-
ing assigned to me. We were slowly
making our way round the dining-room,
when, just as we passed the end of the
table, Sir Philip turned and laid his
hand upon my shoulder.
" I have scarcely had time for a
word yet," he said ; " but how are they
all in Yorkshire ?"
I don't know what answer I gave;
some one from behind begged leave
to pass, and I was borne on ut-
terly bewildered. Yorkshire ! what
had I to do with Yorkshire ? And
then, all at once, the appalling truth
burst on me like a thunder-clap I
was the wrong man ! Yes ; now I re-
called a certain Captain Olifant, whom
I bad once met at a mess-dinner, and i
who, as I had then heard, belonged to
an old Yorkshire family. We could
count no sort of kinship with them
A Dinner by Mistake.
539
but here I was, for some inexplicable
reason, assumed as one of them, per-
haps as the eldest son and heir of their
broad acres, and regaled accordingly.
My situation was sufficiently unpleas-
ant, and in the first impulse of dis-
may, I made a dash at a central seat
where I might be as far as possible
from both host and hostess. But my
manoeuvre failed. Lady Hethert on's
soft tones were all too audible as she
said : " Mr. Olifant, perhaps you will
come up here ; the post of honor ;" and
of danger too, in my case ; but there
was no help for it, and I went. As I
unfolded my napkin, striving hard for
a cool and easy demeanor, I mentally
surveyed my position, and decided on
my tactics. I could not and would
not there and then declare myself an
embodied mistake ; I must trust to
chance and my own wits to cany me
through the evening, and leave my ex-
planations for another season. Alas !
my trials full soon began. "We had
hardly been seated three minutes,
when Lady Hetherton turned to me.
" We were so very glad you were
able to come to-night, Mr. Olifant ;
Sir Philip had quite set his heart upon
seeing you here. It is such a great
pleasure to him to revive an old friend-
ship ; and he was saying that he had
almost lost sight of your family."
I murmured something not very
coherent about distance and active
life.
" Ah, yes, country gentlemen have
so much to do that they really are great-
ly tied at home. I think, though, that
I once had the pleasure of meeting a
sister of yours in town Margaret her
name was, and she was suffering from
| some affection of the spine. I hope she
| is better now ? "
" Much better, thank you." And
I then, in the faint hope of turning the
I conversation, I asked if they were of-
ten in town.
"Not so often as I should wish.
Sir Philip has a great dislike to Lon-
lon ; but I always enjoy it, for one
leets everybody there. By-the-by,
Olifant, the Fordes must be near
neighbors of yours. I am sure I have
heard them speak of Calveston."
I did not dare to say they were not,
lest inquiries should follow which
might betray my extreme ignorance of
Yorkshire geography in general, and
the locality of Calveston in particu-
lar; so I chose the lesser peril, and
answered cheerfully ; " Oh yes, quite
near within an easy walk of us."
" What charming people they are ! "
said Lady Hetherton, growing almost
enthusiastic. "The two eldest girls
were staying here last spring, and we
all lost our hearts to them, they were
so bright and pleasant ; and Katie,
too, is growing so very pretty. She
isn't out yet, is she ? "
" No ; I fancy she is to be presented
next year," I responded, reflecting that
while I was about it I might as well
do it thoroughly. " She ought to make
a sensation."
" Ah, then," said Lady Hetherton
eagerly, "you agree with me about her
beauty."
" Oh, entirely. I expect she will be
quite the belle of our country balls."
And then, in the same breath, I turned
to the shy Miss Hetherton beside me,
and startled her by an abrupt inquiry
whether she liked balls. She must
have thought, at any rate, that I liked
talking, for her timid, orthodox reply
was scarcely uttered, before I plied
her with fresh questions, and deluged
her with a flood of varied eloquence.
Races, archery, .croquet, Switzerland,
Paris, Garibaldi, the American war,
Miiller's capture, and Tennyson's new
poem, all played their part in turn.
For why ? Was I not aware that Lady
Hetherton's conversation with the sol-
emn old archdeacon opposite flagged
from time to time, and that, at every
lull, she looked toward me, as though
concocting fresh means of torture.
But I gained the day ; and at length,
with secret exultation, watched the la-
dies slowly defiling from the room.
Poor innocent ! I little knew what was
impending. The last voluminous bkirt
had scarcely disappeared, when Sir
Philip left his chair, and advancing
540
A Dinner by Mistake.
up the table, glass in hand, seated
himself in his wife's place at my el-
bow. I tried to believe that he might
intend to devote himself to the arch-
deacon, but that good gentleman was
more than half inclined to nod, and my
left-hand neighbor was deep in a geo-
logical discussion ; so I sat on, spell-
bound, like the sparrow beneath the
awful shadow of the hawk. Certainly,
there was not much outward resem-
blance between that bird of prey and
Sir Philip's comely, smiling visage,
as he leaned forward, and said cheer-
ily : " Well, now, I want to hear all
about them."
It was not an encouraging begin-
ning for me, but I had committed my-
self with Lady Hetherton too far for a
retreat. Like Cortes, I had burned
my ships. Before I had framed my
answer, the baronet proceeded : "I
don't know any of you young ones,
but your father and I were fast friends
once upon a time. Many's the lark
we've had together at Harrow, ay, and
at Oxford too ; for he was a wild-spir-
ited fellow then, was Harry Olifant,
though, I daresay, he has settled down
into a sober country squire long ago."
It was plain that Sir Philip liked to
hear himself talk, and my courage re-
vived.
" "Why, yes," I said ; " years and
cares do work great changes in most
men; I daresay you would hardly
know him now."
" I daresay not. But he is well,
and as good a shot as in the old Ox-
ford days ? "
" Just as good. He is never hap-
pier than among his turnips." And
then I shuddered at my own audacity,
as I pictured my veritable parent, a
hard-worked barrister, long since dead,
and with about as much notion of fir-
ing a gun as one of his own briefs.
" Quite right, quite right," exclaimed
Sir Philip energetically , " and we can
find you some fair sport here, my boy,
though the birds are wild this year.
Come over as often as you like while
you are at Linbeach ; or, better still,
come and slay here."
I thanked him, and explained that I
was staying at Linbeach for the sea-
air, and that I must be in town in a
few days.
" I'm sorry for that. We ought to
have found you out sooner ; but I only
chanced to see your name at the li-
brary last Friday. And so you are at
Merton ? "
"Yes, I'm at Merton," said I, feel-
ing it quite refreshing to speak the
truth.
"Ah, I'm glad your father's stuck
to the old college ; you could not be at
a better one. That boy of mine is
wild for soldiering, or I should have
sent him there."
The mystery stood revealed. I had
recorded my name on the visitors'
board as H. Olifant, Merton College,
Oxford ; and by a strange coincidence,
Sir Philip's former friend had be-
longed to the same college, and owned
the same initial. The coincidence was
indeed so complete, that it had evidently
never dawned upon the baronet that I
could be other than the son of his old
chum. He sat now sipping his wine,
with almost a sad expression on his
honest face.
"Ah, my lad," he said presently,
"when you come to my age, you'll
look back to your old college and your
old friends as I do now. But what
was I going to ask you ? Oh, I re-
member. Have you seen any of the
Fordes lately?"
I glanced round despairingly at the
geologists, but they were lost to every-
thing except blue lias and old red
sandstone, and there was no hope of
effecting a diversion in that quarter.
" Well, no not very lately," I re-
sponded slowly, as though trying to
recall the exact date when I last had
that felicity. "To tell the truth, I
don't go down into those parts so often
as I ought to do."
" There's a family for you ! " Sir
Philip went on triumphantly ; " how
well they are doing. That young '
George Forde will distinguish himself j
one of these days, or I'm much mis-
taken ; and Willie, too do you know
A Dinner ty Mistake.
541
whether he has passed for Woolwich
yet?"
I could not say that I did, but the
good baronet's confidence in Forde ge-
nius was as satisfactory as certainty.
"He's sure to pass, quite sure;
never knew such clever lads ; and as
for beauty that little Katie" But
here the slumbering archdeacon came
to my aid by waking up with a terrific
start and a loud " Eh ! what ! time
to join the ladies."
There was a general stir, and I con-
trived to make my escape to the draw-
ing-room. If I could only have es-
caped altogether ; but it was not yet
half-past nine. The tall footmen and
severe butler were lounging in the hall,
and I felt convinced that if I pleaded
illness, Sir Philip would lay violent
hands on me, and insist on my spend-
ing the night there. After all, the
worst was over, and in the crowded
drawing-room, I might with slight dex-
terity avoid all shoals and quicksands.
So I ensconced myself in a low chair,
guarded by a big table on one side, and
on the other by a comfortable mother-
ly-looking woman in crimson satin, to
whom I made myself agreeable. We
got on very well together, and I
breathed and chatted freely in the de-
lightful persuasion that she at least
knew no more of the Fordes than I did.
But my malignant star was in the as-
cendant. I was in the midst of a glow-
| ing description of the charms of a read-
j ing-party at the lakes, when Sir Phi-
| lip again assailed me : " Well, Mrs.
Sullivan," he said, addressing my com-
panion, " have you been asking after
your little favorite ? "
"My little favorite?" repeated
Mrs. Sullivan inquiringly.
She did not know whom he meant,
but I did ; I knew quite well.
"Katie Forde, I mean; the little
black-eyed girl who used to go into
such ecstasies over your roses and
ferns you have not forgotten her yet,
have you?"
No, unluckily for me, Mrs. Sullivan
had not forgotten her. I was charged
with a string of the fond, unmeaning
messages which ladies love to ex-
change ; and it was only by emphatically
declaring that I should not be in York-
shire for many months, that I escaped
being made the bearer of sundry cu-
rious roots and bulbs to the fair
Katharine.
But Sir Philip soon interrupted us :
" There's a cousin of yours in the next
room, Mr. Olifant," he said,* evidently
thinking that he was making a most
agreeable anouncement : " she would
like to see you, if you will let me take
you to her."
I heard and trembled. A cousin.
Oh, the Fordes were nothing to this !
Why did people have cousins; and
why, oh why, should every imaginable
evil befal me on this disastrous even-
ing ! Such were my agonized re-
flections while with unwilling steps I
followed my host to execution. He
led me to a young lady who was se-
renely examining some prints. "I
have brought him to you, Miss Hun-
ter ; here's your cousin, Mr. Olifant."
She looked at me, but there was no
recognition in her eyes. How could
there be, indeed, when we had never
met before ! What would she do
next ? What she did do was to hold
out her hand with a good-humored
smile, and at the same time Sir Philip
observed complacently: "You don't
know one another, you know." Not
know one another ; of course we didn't;
but I could have hugged him for telling
me so ; and in the joy of my reprieve,
I devoted myself readily to my sup-
posed cousin, a bright, pleasant girl,
happily as benighted regarding her
real relatives as I was about my im-
aginary ones. The minutes slipped
fast away, the hands of the clock
pointed at ten, the guests were begin-
ning to depart, and I was congratulat-
ing myself that the ordeal was safely
passed, when, happening to turn my
head, I saw Sir Philip once more ad-
vancing upon me, holding in his hand
a photograph book. My doom was
sealed ! My relentless persecutor was
resolved to expose me, and with dia-
bolical craft had planned the certain
542
A Dinner by Mistake.
means. Horrible visions of public dis-
grace, forcible ejection, nay, even of
the pump itself, floated before my
dizzy brain, while on he came nearer
and ever nearer. "There!" he ex-
claimed, stopping just in front of me,
and holding out the ill-omened book
" There ! you can tell me who that is,
can't you ? "
It was a baby a baby of a year
old, sitting on a cushion, with a rattle
in its hand, and it was of course un-
like any creature I had ever beheld.
" Hm, haw," murmured I, contemplat-
ing it in utter desperation; "children
are so much alike that really
but" as a brilliant idea suddenly
flashed on me: "surely it must be a
Forde!"
"Of course it is," and Sir Philip
clapped me on the back in a transport
of delight. " I thought you would re-
cognize it. Capital! isn't it? The
little thing must be exactly like its
mother ; and I fancy I see a look of
Willie in it too. "
I could endure no more. Another
such victory would be almost worse
than a defeat ; and while " my cousin"
was rhapsodizing over the infantine
charms so touchingly portrayed, I
started up, took an abrupt farewell of
my host, and despite his vehement re-
monstrances, went off in search of
Lady Hetherton, and beat a success-
ful retreat. As I stepped out into
the portico, the pony -trap which I had
ordered drove up to the door, and
jumping in, I rattled away toward
Linbeach, exhausted in body and mind,
yet relieved to feel that each succeed-
ing moment found me further and fur-
ther from the precincts of Grantham.
Not till I was snugly seated in the
arm-chair in Mrs. Plumb's parlor,
watching the blue smoke-wreaths
wafted up from my best beloved pipe
not till then could I believe that I
was thoroughly safe, and begin to re-
view calmly the events of the evening.
And now arose the very embarrassing
inquiry : What was next to be done ?
Sir Philip's parting words had been
an energetic exhortation to come over
and shoot, the next day, or, in fact,
whenever I pleased. " We can't give
you the grouse of your native moors,"
he said as a final thrust, "but we can
find you some partridges, I hope;"
and I had agreed with a hypocritical
smile, while internally resolving that
no mortal power should take me to
Grantham again. Of one thing there
could be no doubt an explanation
was due to the kind-hearted baronet,
and it must be given. Of course I
might have stolen off from Linbeach
still undiscovered, but I dismissed the
notion instantly. I had gone far
enough already too far, Sir Philip
might not unnaturally think. No ; I
must write to him, and it had best
be done at once. " Heigh-ho," I sighed,
as I rummaged out ink and paper, and
sat down to the great work ; " so ends
my solitary friendship at Linbeach."
It took me a long time to concoct the
epistle, but it was accomplished at
last. In terms which I would fain
hope were melting and persuasive, I
described my birth and parentage, re-
lated how I had only discovered my
mistaken identity after my arrival at
Grantham, and made a full apology
for having then, in my embarrassment,
perpetuated the delusion. I wound up
by the following eloquent and dignified
words: "Of course, I can have no
claim whatever to continue an acquain-
tance so formed, and I can only tender
my grateful thanks for the warm hos-
pitality of which I have accidentally
been the recipient." The letter was
sealed and sent, and I was left to
speculate how it might be received.
Would Sir Philip vouchsafe a reply,
or would he treat me with silent con-
tempt ? I could fancy him capable of
a very tolerable degree of anger, in
spite of his bonhomie, and I blushed
up to my brows when I pictured quiet
Lady Hetherton recalling my remarks
about Miss Katie Forde. The second
day's post came in and brought me no- !
thing ; and now I began to be seized
with a nervous dread of encountering
any of the Grantham Park party by
chance, and this dread grew so un-
Noatis Arks.
543
pleasant that I determined to cut short
my visit, and return to town at once.
My resolution was no sooner made
than acted on. I packed my portman-
teau, settled accounts with Mrs. Plumb,
and went off to take my place by the
next morning's coach. Coming hast-
ily out of the booking-office in the
dusk, I almost ran against somebody
standing by the door. It was Sir
Philip, and I stepped hastily back;
but he recognized me at once, and held
out his hand with a hearty laugh.
" Ah, Mr. Olifant, is it you ? I was on
my way to your lodgings, so we'll walk
together ;" and not noticing my con-
fusion, he linked his arm in mine, and
continued : " I got your letter last even-
ing, when I came in from a long day's
shooting, and very much amazed I
was, that I must own. I did not an-
swer it at once, for I was half-dead
with walking, and, beside, I always
like talking better than writing,
So now I have come to tell you that I
think you've behaved like an honest
man and a gentleman in writing that
letter; and I'm very glad to have
made your acquaintance, though you
are not Harry Olifant's son. As for
the mistake, why, 'twas my own fault
for taking it for granted you must be
the man I fancied you. My lady is
just the least bit vexed that we should
have made such geese of ourselves;
but come over and shoot to-morrow,
and we'll give you a quiet dinner and
a bed in your own proper person ;
and she will be very glad to see you.
Mind I expect you."
After all my resolutions, I did go
to Grantham on the following day ; and
my dinner by mistake was the pre-
cursor of a most pleasant acquaintance,
which became in time a warm and
lasting friendship.
From All the Year Round.
NOAH'S ARKS.
IN Kew Gardens is a seldom-visited
collection of all the kinds of wood
which we have ever heard of, accom-
panied by specimens of various articles
customarily made of those woods in
the countries of their growth. Tools, im-
plements, small articles of furniture, mu-
sical instruments, sabots and wooden-
shoes, boot-trees and shoe-lasts, bows
and arrows, planes, saw-handles all
are here, and thousands of other things
which it would take a very long sum-
mer day indeed even to glance at.
The fine display of colonial woods,
which were built up into fanciful tro-
phies at the International Exhibition
of eighteen hundred and sixty-two,
has been transferred to one of these
museums ; and a noble collection it
makes.
We know comparatively little in
England of the minor uses of wood.
"We use wood enough in building
houses and railway structures ; our
carriage-builders and wheelwrights cut
up and fashion a great deal more ; and
our cabinet-makers know how to stock
our rooms with furniture, from three-
legged stools up to costly cabinets ; but
implements and minor articles are less
extensively made of wood in England
than in foreign countries partly be-
cause our forests are becoming thinned,
and partly because iron and iron-work
are so abundant and cheap. In Amer-
ica, matters are very different. There
are thousands of square miles of forest
which belong to no one in particular,
and the wood of which may be claimed
by those who are at the trouble of fell-
544
Noah's Aries.
ing the trees. Nay, a backwoodsman
would be very glad to effect a clearing
on such terms as these, seeing that the
trees encumber the ground on which
he wishes to grow corn crops.
The wood, when the trees have been
felled and converted into boards and
planks, is applied to almost countless
purposes of use. Of use, we say ; for
the Americans are too bustling a
people to Devote much time to the fab-
ricating of ornaments ; they prefer to
buy these ready made from Britishers
and other Europeans. Pails, bowls,
washing-machines, wringing-machines,
knife-cleaning boards, neat light vehi-
cles, neat light furniture, dairy vessels,
kitchen utensils, all are made by the
Americans of clean, tidy-looking wood,
and are sold at very low prices. Ma-
chinery is used to a large extent in
this turnery and wood-ware : the man-
ufacturers not having the fear of strikes
before their eyes, use machines just
where they think this kind of aid is
likely to be most serviceable. The way
in which they get a little bowl out of a
big bowl, and this out of a bigger, and
this out of a bigger still, is a notable
example of economy in workmanship.
On the continent of Europe the wood-
workers are mostly handicraftsmen,
who niggle away at their little bits of
wood without much aid from ma-
chinery. Witness the briar-root pipes
of St. Claude. Smart young fellows
who sport this kind of smoking-bowl
in England, neither know nor care for
the fact that it comes from a secluded
spot in the Jura mountains. Men
and women, boys and girls, earn from
threepence to four shillings a day in
various little bits of carved and turned
work ; but the crack wages are paid
to the briar-root pipe-makers. Eng-
land imports many more than she
smokes, and sends off the rest to Am-
erica. M. Audiganne says that "in
those monster armies which have
sprung up so suddenly on the soil of
the great republic, there is scarcely a
soldier but has his St. Claude briar-
root pipe in his pocket." The truth is,
that, unlike cutties and meerschaums,
and other clay and earthen pipes,
these briar-root productions are very
strong, and will bear a great deal of
knocking about. The same French
writer says that when his countrymen
came here to see our International
Exhibition, some of them bought and
carried home specimens of these pipes
as English curiosities : not aware that
the little French town of St. Claude
was the place of their production.
In Germany the wood-work, so far
as English importers know anything
of it, is mostly in the form of small
trinkets and toys for children. The
production of these is immense. In
the Tyrol, and near the Thuringian
Forest, in the middle states of the ill-
organized confederacy, and wherever
forests abound, there the peasants
spend much of their time in making
toys. In the Tyrol, for example, there
is a valley called the Grodnerthal,
about twenty miles long, in which the
rough climate and barren soil will not
suffice to grow corn for the inhabitants,
who are rather numerous. Shut out
from the agricultural labor customary
in other districts, the people earn their
bread chiefly by wood carving. They
make toys of numberless kinds (in which
Noah's Ark animals are very predom-
inant) of the soft wood of the Siberian
pine known to the Germans as zie-
belnusskiefer. The tree is of slow
growth, found on the higher slopes of
the valley, but now becoming scarce,
owing to the improvidence of the peas-
ants in cutting down the forests with-
out saving or planting others to suc-
ceed them. For a hundred years and
more the peasants have been carvers.
Nearly every cottage is a workshop.
All the occupants, male and female,
down to very young children, seat
themselves round a table, and fashion
their little bits of wood. They use
twenty or thirty different kinds of
tools, under the magic of which the
wood is transformed into a dog, a lion,
a man, or what not. Agents represent
these carvers in various cities of Eu-
rope, to dispose of the wares ; but they
nearly all find their way back again
Noah's Arks.
545
to their native valleys, to spend their
earnings in peace.
Many of the specimens shown at
the Kew museums are more elaborate
than those which could be produced
wholly by hand. A turning-lathe of
some power must have been needed.
Indeed, the manner in which these
zoological productions are fabricated
is exceedingly curious, and is little
likely to be anticipated by ordinary
observers. Who, for instance, would
imagine for a moment that a wooden
horse, elephant, or tiger, or any other
member of the Noah's Ark family,
could be turned in a lathe, like a ball,
bowl, or bedpost ? How could ^ the
turner's cutting tool, while the p'iece
of wood is rotating in the lathe, make
the head stick out in the front, and the
ears at the top, and the tail in the
rear, and the leg* underneath ? And
how could the animal be made longer
than he is high, and higher than he is
broad ? And how could all the ins
and outs, the tips and downs, the swell-
ings and sinkings, be produced by a
manipulation which only seem* suita-
ble for circular objects ? These ques-
tions are all fair ones, and deserve a
fair answer. The articles, then, are
not fully made in the lathe ; they are
brought to the state of flat pieces, the
outline or contour of which bears an
approximate resemblance to the profile
of an animal. These flat pieces are
in themselves a puzzle ; for it is diffi-
cult to see how the lathe can have
had anything to do with their produc-
tion. The truth is, the wood is first
turned into rings. Say that a horse
three inches long is to be fabricated.
A block of soft pine wood is prepared,
and cut into a slab three inches thick,
y perhaps fifteen inches in diameter ;
he grain running in the direction of
he thickness. Out of this circular
lab a circular piece is cut from the
ter, possibly six inches in diameter,
caving the slab in the form of a ring,
" e an extra thick india-rubber elastic
d. While this ring is in the lathe,
he turner applies his chisels and
ges to it in every part, on the outer
35
edge, on the inner edge, and on both
sides. All sorts of curves are made,
now deep, now shallow ; now convex,
now concave ; now with single curva-
ture, now with double. A looker-on
could hardly by any possibility guess
what these curvings and twistings have
to do with each other, for the ring is
still a ring, and nothing else ; but the
cunning workman has got it all in his
mind's eye. When the turning is fin-
ished, the ring is bisected or cut across,
not into two slices, but into two seg-
ments or semicircular pieces. Looking
at either end of either piece, lo ! there is
the profile of a horse without a tail,
certainly, but a respectably good horse
in other respects. The secret is now
divulged. The turner, while the ring
or annulus is in the lathe a Saturn's
ring without a Saturn turns the outer
edge into the profile of the top of the
head and the back of a horse, the one
flat surface into the profile of the chest
and the fore legs, and the other flat
surface into the profile of the hind
quarters and hind legs, and the inner
edge of the ring into the profile of the
belly, and the deep recess between the
fore and hind legs. The curvatures
are really very well done, for the
workmen have good models to copy
from, and long practice gives them
accuracy of hand and eye.
An endless ring of tailless horses
has been produced, doubtless the
most important part of the affair ; but
there is much ingenuity yet to be
shown in developing from this ab-
stract ring a certain number of single,
concrete, individual, proper Noah's
Ark horses, with proper Noah's Ark
tails. The ring is chopped or sawn up
into a great many pieces. Each piece
is thicker at one end than the other,
because the outer diameter of the ring
was necessarily greater than the inner ;
but with this allowance each piece
may be considered flat. The thick
end is the head of the horse, the thin
end the hind quarter ; one projecting
piece represents the position and pro-
file of the fore legs, but they are not
separated ; and similarly of the hind
546
Noah's Arks.
legs. Now is the time for the carver
to set to work. He takes the piece of
wood in hand, equalizes the thickness
where needful, and pares off the sharp
edges. He separates into two ears
the little projecting piece which juts out
from the head, separates into two pairs
of legs the two projecting pieces which
jut out from the body, and makes a
respectable pair of eyes, with nostrils
and mouth of proper thorough-bred
character; he jags the back of the
neck in the proper way to form a
mane, and makes, not a tail, but a
little recess to which a tail may com-
fortably be glued. The tail is a sep-
arate affair. An endless ring of horses'
tails is first turned in a lathe. A much
smaller slab, smaller in diameter and
in thickness than the other, is cut into
an annulus or ring ; and this ring is
turned by tools on both edges and
both sides. When bisected, each end
of each half of the ring exhibits the
profile of a horse's tail ; and when cut
up into small bits, each bit has the
wherewithal in it for fashioning one
tail. After the carver has done his
work, each horse receives its proper
tail ; and they are all proper long tails
too, such as nature may be supposed
to have made, and not the clipped and
cropped affairs which farriers and
grooms produce.
This continuous ring system is car-
ried faithfully through the whole
Noah's Ark family. One big slab is
for an endless ring of elephants ; an-
other of appropriate size for camels ;
others for lions, leopards, wolves, foxes,
dogs, donkeys, ducks, and all the rest.
Sometimes the ears are so shaped as
not very conveniently to be produced
in the same ring as the other part of
the animal ; in this case an endless
ring of ears is made, and chopped up
into twice as many ears as there are
animals. Elephant's trunks stick out
in a way that would perplex the
turner somewhat ; he therefore makes
an endless ring of trunks, chops it up,
and hands over the pieces to the car-
ver to be fashioned into as many
trunks as there are elephants. In
some instances, where the animal is
rather a bullet-headed sort of an indi-
vidual, the head is turned in a lathe
separately, and glued on to the head-
less body. If a carnivorous animal
has a tail very much like that of one
of the graminivorous sort, the carver
says nothing about it, but makes the
same endless ring of tails serve both ;
or they may belong to the same order
but different families as, for instance,
the camel and the cow, which are pre-
sented by these Noah's Ark people
with tails cut from the same endless
ring. Other toys are made in the
same way. Those eternal soldiers
which German boys are always sup-
posed to love so much, as if there were
no end of Schleswig-Holsteins for
them to conquer, are if made of wood
(for tin soldiers are also immensely in
request) turned separately in a lathe,
so far as their martial frames admit
of this mode of shaping ; but the mus-
kets and some other portions are made
on the endless ring system. All this
may be seen very well at Kew ; for
there are the blocks of soft pine, the slabs
cut from them (with the grain of the
wood in the direction of the thickness),
the rings turned from the slabs, the
turnings and curvatures of the rings,
the profile of an animal seen at each
end, the slices cut from each ring, the
animal fashioned from each slice, the
ring of tails, the separate tails for each
ring, the animal properly tailed in all
its glory, and a painted specimen or
two to show the finished form in
which the loving couples go into
the ark pigs not so much small-
er than elephants as they ought to
be, but piggishly shaped neverthe-
less.
All the English toy-makers agree,
with one accord, that we cannot for an
instant compete with the Germans and
Tyrolese in the fabrication of such ar-
ticles, price for price. "We have not
made it a large and important branch of
handicraft ; and our workmen have not
studied natural history with sufficient
assiduity to give the proper distinctive
forms to the animals. The more elab-
NoaKs Arks.
547
orate productions such as the baby-
dolls which can say " mamma," and
make their chests heave like any sen-
timental damsels are of French, rather
than German manufacture, and are not
so much wooden productions as com-
binations of many different materials.
Papier-mache, moulded into form, is
becoming very useful in the doll and
animal trade ; while india-rubber and
gutta-percha are doing wonders. The
real Noah's Ark work, however, is
thoroughly German, and is specially
connected with wood-working. Some
of the more delicate and elaborate
specimens of carving such as the
groups for chimney-piece ornaments,
honored by the protection of glass
shades are made of lime-tree or lin-
den-wood, by the peasants of Oberam-
mergau, in the mountain parts of Ba-
varia. There were specimens of these
kinds of work at our two exhibitions
which could not have been produced in
England at thrice the price ; our good
carvers are few, and their services are
in request at good wages for mediaeval
church-work. We should be curious
to know what an English carver would
require to be paid for a half-guinea
Bavarian group now before us a
Tyrolese mountaineer seated on a rock,
his rifle resting on his arm, the studded
nails in his climbing shoes, a dead
chamois at his feet, his wife leaning
her hand lightly on his shoulder, his
thumb pointing over his shoulder to
denote the quarter where he had shot
the chamois, his wooden bowl of por-
ridge held on his left knee, the easy fit
and flow of the garments of both man
and woman all artistically grouped
and nicely cut, and looking clean and
white in linden-wood. No English
carver would dream of such a thing at
such a price. However, these are not
the most important of the productions
of the peasant carvers, commercially
speaking ; like as our Mintons and
Copelands make more money by every-
day crockery than by beautiful Parian
statuettes, so do the German toy-makers
look to the Noah's Ark class of pro-
ductions as their main stay in the mar-
ket, rather than to more elegant and
artistic works.
548
William Shakespeare.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
BY CARDINAL WISEMAN.
[!N the autumn of last year a com-
munication was made to his eminence
the late Cardinal Wiseman by H. Bence
Jones, Esq., M.D., as Secretary of the
Royal Institution of Great Biitain, re-
questing hun to deliver a lecture before
that society. The cardinal, with the
prompt kindness usual to him, at once
assented. The Shakespeare Tercen-
tenary seemed to prescribe the subject,
which his eminence therefore selected.
The following pages were dictated
by him in the last weeks of his life.
The latter part was taken down in the
beginning of January ; the earlier part
was dictated on Saturday the four-
teenth of that month. It was his last
intellectual exertion, and it overtaxed
his failing strength.
The Rev. Dr. Clifford, chaplain to
the Hospital of St. John and St. Eliza-
beth, who acted as his amanuensis,
states, from the lips of his eminence,
that the matter contained in these
pages is the beginning and the ending of
what he intended to deliver. We have,
therefore, only a fragment of a whole
which was never completed except in
the author's mind.]
There have been some men in the
world's history and they are neces-
sarily few who by their deaths have
deprived mankind of the power to do
justice to their merits, in those partic-
ular spheres of excellence in which
they had been pre-eminent. When the
" immortal" Raphael for the last time
laid down his palette, still moist with
the brilliant colors which he had spread
upon his unfinished masterpiece, des-
tined to be exposed to admiration above
his bier, he left none behind him who
could worthily depict and transmit to
us his beautiful lineaments : so that pos-
terity has had to seek in his own paint-
ings, among the guards at a sepulchre,
or among the youthful disciples in an
ancient school, some figure which may
be considered as representing himself.
When his mighty rival, Michelan-
gelo, cast down that massive chisel
which no one after him was worthy or
able to wield, none survived him who
could venture to repeat in marble the
rugged grandeur of his countenance j
but we imagine that we can trace in
the head of some unfinished satyr, or
in the sublime countenance of his
Moses, the natural or the idealized type
from which he drew his stern and
noble inspirations.
And, to turn to another great art,
when Mozart closed his last uncomplet-
ed score, and laid him down to pass
from the regions of earthly to those of
heavenly music, which none had so
closely approached as he, the science
over which he ruled could find no
strains in which worthily to mourn
him except his own, and was compelled
to sing for the first time his own mar-
velous requiem at his funeral.*
No less can it be said that when
the pen dropped from Shakespeare's
hand, when his last mortal illness mas-
tered the strength of even his genius,
the world was left powerless to de-
scribe in writing his noble and unrival-
led characteristics. Hence we turn
back upon himself, and endeavor to
draw from his own works the only true
records of his genius and his mind.|
* The same may be said of the celebrated !
Cimarosa.
t Even in his lifetime this seems to have been
foreseen. In 1664, in an epigram addressed to
''Master William Shakespeare," and first publish-,
ed by Mr. Halliwell, occurred the following lines :
''Besides in places thy wit windes likeMseander.j
When (whence) needy new composers borrow,
more
Thence (than) Terence doth from Plautus 01,
Menander,
But to praise thee aright I want thy store. !
Then let thine owne words thine owne wort.
upraise
And help t' adorne thee with deserved bales. ,
Halliweirs Life of Shakespeare, p. 160.
William Shakespeare.
549
We apply to him phrases which he
has uttered of others ; we believe that
he must have involuntarily described
himself, when he says,
" Take him all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again ;"
or that he must even consciously have
given a reflection of himself when he
so richly represents to us " the poet's
eye in a fine phrenzy rolling." (" Mid-
summer-Night's Dream," act v., scene
10
But in fact, considering that the
character of a man is like that which
he describes, " as compounded of many
simples extracted from many objects"
("As You Like It," act iv., scene 1),
we naturally seek for those qualities
which enter into his composition ; we
look for them in his own pages ; we
endeavor to cull from every part of
his works such attributions of great
and noble qualities to his characters,
and unite them so as to form what we
believe is his truest portrait. In truth,
no other author has perhaps existed who
has so completely reflected himself in his
works as Shakespeare. For, as artists
will tell us that every great master
has more or less reproduced in his
works characteristics to be found in
; himself, this is far more true of our
: greatest dramatist, whose genius,
I whose mind, whose heart, and whose
I entire soul live and breathe in every
page and every line of his imperishable
works. Indeed, as in these there is in-
finitely greater variety, and conse-
quently greater versatility of power
necessary to produce it, so must the
amount of elements which enter into
is composition represent changeable
et blending qualities beyond what the
most finished master in any other art
an be supposed to have possessed.
The positive and directly applicable
tiaterials which we possess for con-
tracting a biography of this our
greatest writer, are more scanty than
lave been collected to illustrate the life
>f many an inferior author. His con-
emporaries, his friends, perhaps ad-
nirers, have left us but few anecdotes
of his life, and have recorded but few
traits of either his appearance or his
character. Those who immediately
succeeded him seem to have taken but
little pains to collect early traditions
concerning him, while yet they must
have been fresh in the recollections of
his fellow-countrymen, and still more
of his fellow-townsmen.*
It appears as though they were
scarcely conscious of the great and
brilliant luminary of English literature
which was shining still, or had but late-
ly passed away ; and as though they
could not anticipate either the admira-
tion which was to succeed their duller
perceptions of his unapproachable gran-
deur, or the eager desire which this
would generate of knowing even the
smallest details of its rise, its appear-
ance, its departure. For by the biog-
raphy of Shakespeare one cannot un-
derstand the records of what he bought,
of what he sold, or the recital of those
acts which only confound him with the
common mass which surrounded him,
and make him appear as the worthy
burgess or the thrifty merchant; though
even about the ordinary commonplace
portions of his life such uncertainty ex-
ists, that doubts have been thrown on
the very genuineness of that house
which he is supposed to have inhabited.
Now, it is the characteristic individ-
ualizing quality, actions, and mode of
executing his works, to whatever class
of excellence he may belong, that we
long to be familiar with in order to say
that we know the man. What matters
it to us that he paid so many marks or
* As evidence of this neglect we may cite the
" Journal " of the Kev. John Ward, Tncurabent of
Stratford-upon-Avon, to which he was appointed
in 1(502. This diary, which has been published
by Doctor Severn. ' from the original MSS.," pre-
served in the library of the Medical Society of
London, contains but two pages relating to Shake-
speare, and those contain but scanty and unsatis-
factory notices. I will quote only two sentences :
" Remember to peruse Shakespeare's Plays
bee much versed in them, that I may not bee ig-
norant in that matter, whether Dr. Heyliu does
well, in reckoning up the dramatick poets which
have been famous in England, to omit Shake-
speare" (p. 184). Shakespeare's daughter was
still alive when this was written, as appears from
the sentence that immediately follows : it seems
to us wonderful that so soon after the poet's death
a shrewd and clever clergyman and physician (for
Mr. Ward was both) should have known so little
about his celebrated townsman's works or life.
550
William Shakespeare.
shillings to purchase a homestead in
Stratford-upon-Avon ? The simple au-
tograph of his name is now worth all
the sums that he thus expended. One
single line of one of his dramas, writ-
ten in his own hand, would be worth to
his admirers all the sums which are
known to have passed between him and
others. What has become of the good-
ly folios which must have once existed
written in his own hand ? Where are
the books annotated or even scratched
by his pen, from which he drew the sub-
jects and sometimes the substance of
his dramas ? What vandalism destroyed
the first, or dispersed the second of
these valuable treasures ? How is it that
we know nothing of his method of com-
position ? Was it in solitude and sacred
seclusion, self-imprisoned for hours be-
yond the reach of the turmoil of the
street or the domestic sounds of home ?
Or were his unrivalled works produced
in scraps of time and fugitive moments,
even perhaps in the waiting-room of
the theatre, or the brawling or jovial
sounds of the tavern ?
Was he silent, thoughtful, while his
fertile brain was seething and heaving
in the fermentation of his glorious con-
ceptions ; so that men should have said
" Hush ! Shakespeare is at work with
some new and mighty imaginings!"
or wore he always that light and care-
less spirit which often belongs to the
spontaneous facility of genius ; so that
his comrades may have wondered when,
and where, and how his grave charac-
ters, his solemn scenes, his fearful
catastrophes, and his sublime maxims
of original wisdom, were conceived,
planned, matured, and finally written
down, to rule for ever the world of let-
ters ? Almost the only fact connected
with his literary life which has come
down to us is one which has been re-
corded, perhaps with jealousy, certainly
with ill-temper, by his friend Ben Jon-
son that he wrote with overhaste, and
hardly ever erased a line, though it
would have been better had he done so
with many.
This almost total absence of all ex-
ternal information, this drying-up of the
ordinary channels of personal history,
forces us to seek for the character and
the very life of Shakespeare in his own
works. But how difficult, in analyzing
the complex constitution of such a man's
principles, motives, passions, and affec-
tions, to discriminate between what he
has drawn for himself, and what he has
created by the force of his imagination.
Dealing habitually with fictions, some-
times in their noblest, sometimes in
their vilest forms here gross and even
savage, there refined and sometimes
ethereal, how shall we discover what
portions of them were copied from the
glass which he held before himself, what
from the magic mirrors across which
flitted illusive or fanciful imagery ? The
work seems hopeless. It is not like
that of the printer, who, from a chaotic
heap of seemingly unmeaning lead,
draws out letter after letter, and so dis-
poses them that they shall make sense-
ful and even brilliant lines. It is more
like the hopeless labor of one who, from
the fragments of a tesselated pavement,
should try to draw the elegant and ex-
quisitely tinted figure which once it
bore.
This difficulty of appreciating, and
still more of delineating, the character
of our great poet, makes him, without
perhaps an exception, the most difficult
literary theme in English letters.
How to reduce the subject to a lec-
ture seems indeed a literal paradox.
But when to this difficulty is added
that of an impossible compression into
narrow limits of the widest and vastest
compass ever embraced by any one
man's genius, it must appear an excess
of rashness in any-one to presume that
he can do justice to the subject on
which I am addressing you.
It seems, therefore, hardly wonder-
ful that even the last year, dedicated
naturally to the tercentenary commem-
oration of William Shakespeare, should
have passed over without any public
eulogy of his greatness in this our
metropolis. It seemed, indeed, as if j
the magnitude of that one man's genius '
was too oppressive for this generation. |
It was not, I believe, an undervaluing (
William Shakespeare.
551
of his merits which produced the frus-
tration of efforts, and the disappoint-
ment of expectations, that seemed to
put to rout and confusion, or rather to
paralyze, the exertions so strenuously
commenced to mark the year as a
great epoch in England's literary his-
tory. I believe, on the contrary, that
the dimensions of Shakespeare had
grown so immeasurably in the estima-
tion of his fellow-countrymen, that the
proportions of his genius to all that
had followed him, and all that sur-
round us, had grown so enormously in
the judgment and feeling of the coun-
try, from the nobleman to the workman,
that the genius of the man oppressed
us, and made us feel that all our mul-
tiplied resources of art and speech were
unequal to his worthy commemoration.
No plan proposed for this purpose
seemed adequate to attain it. Nothing
solid and permanent that could either
come up to his merits or to our aspira-
tions seemed to be within the grasp
either of the arts or of the wealth of
our country. The year has passed
away, and Shakspeare remains without
any monument, except that which, by
his wonderful writings, he has raised
for himself. Even the research after
a site fit for the erection of a monu-
ment to him, in the city of squares, of
gardens, and of parks, seemed only to
work perplexity and hopelessness.
Presumptuous as it may appear, the
claim to connect myself with that ex-
pired and extinct movement is my only
apology for my appearing before you.
If, a year after its time, I take upon
myself the eulogy of Shakespeare, if I
appear to come forward as with a
funeral oration, to give him, in a man-
ner, posthumous glory, it is because
my work has dropped out of its place,
and not because I have inopportunely
misplaced it. In the course of the last
year, it was proposed to me, both di-
rectly and indirectly, to deliver a
lecture on Shakespeare. I was bold
enough to yield my assent, and thus
felt that I had contracted an obligation
to the memory of the bard, as well as
to those who thought that my sharing
what was done for his honor would
possess any value. A task undertaken
becomes a duty unfulfilled. When,
therefore, it was proposed to me to
perform my portion of the homage
which I considered due to him, though
it was to be a month too late, I felt it
would be cowardice to shrink from its
performance.
For in truth the undertaking required
some courage; and to retire before its
difficulties might be stigmatized as a
dastardly timidity. It is a work of
courage at any time and in any place
to undertake a lecture upon Shake-
speare, more in fact than to venture on
the delivery of a series. The latter
gives scope for the thousand things
which one would wish to say it
affords ample space for apposite illus-
tration and it enables one to enrich
the subject with the innumerable and
inimitable beauties that are flung like
gems or flowers over every page of his
magnificent works. But in the midst
of public, or rather universal, celebra-
tion of a national and secular festival
in his honor, in the presence probably
of the most finished literary characters
in this highly-educated country, still
more certainly before numbers of those
whom the nation acknowledges as
deeply read in the works of our poet
as the most accomplished critic of any
age has been in the writings of the
classics men who have introduced
into our literature a class-name that
of " Shakespearian scholars" to have
ventured to speak on this great theme
might seem to have required, not
courage, but temerity. Why, it might
have been justly asked, do none of
those who have consumed their lives
in the study of him, not page by page,
but line by line, who have pressed his
sweet fruits between their lips till they
have absorbed all their lusciousness,
who have made his words their study,
his thoughts their meditation, why
does not one at least among them
stand forward now, and leave for pos-
terity the record of his matured obser-
vation? Perhaps I may assign the
reason which I have before, that they
552
William Shakespeare.
know, too, the unapproachable gran-
duer of the theme, and the rare powers
which are required to grasp and to
hold it.
Be it so ; but at any rate, if in the
presence of others so much more ca-
pable it would have been rash to speak,
to express one's thoughts, when there
is no competition, may be pardonable
at least.
And yet, when everybody else is
silent, it may be very naturally asked,
Have I a single claim to put forward
upon your attention and indulgence?
I think I may have one ; though I fear
that when I mention it, it may be con-
sidered either a paradox or a refuta-
tion of my pretensions. My claim,
then, to be heard and borne with is
this that I have never in my life seen
Shakespeare acted ; I have never
heard his eloquent speeches declaimed
by gifted performers ; I have not lis-
tened to his noble poetry as uttered by
the kings or queens of tragedy ; I have
not witnessed his grand, richly-con-
certed scenes endowed with life by the
graceful gestures, the classical attitudes,
the contrasting emotions, and the
pointed emphasis of those who in mod-
ern times may be considered to have
even added to that which his genius
produced ; I know nothing of the origi-
nal and striking readings or renderings
of particular passages by masters of
mimic art; I know him only on his
flat page, as he is represented in
immovable, featureless, unemotional
type.
Nor am I acquainted with him sur-
rounded, perhaps sometimes sustained,
but, at any rate, worthily adorned and
enhanced in accessory beauty, by the
magic illusion of scenic decorations,
the splendid pageantry which he sim-
ply hints at, but which, I believe, has
been now realized to its most ideal
exactness and richness banquets,
tournaments, and battles, with the
almost deceptive accuracy of costume
and of architecture. When I hear of
all these additional ornaments hung
around his noble works, the impression
which they make upon my mind creates
a deeper sense of amazement and ad-
miration, how dramas written for the
" Globe " Theatre, wretchedly lighted,
incapable of grandeur even from want
of space, and without those mechanical
and artistical resources which belong
to a later age, should be capable of
bearing all this additional weight of
lustre and magnificence without its
being necessary to alter a word, still
less a passage, from their original de-
livery.* This exhibits the nicely-bal-
anced point of excellence which is
equally poised between simplicity and
gorgeousness ; which can retain its
power and beauty, whether stript to
its barest form or loaded with exuber-
ant appurtenances.
After having said thus much of my
own probably unenvied position, I
think I shall not be wrong in assuming
that none of Shakespeare's enthusiatic
admirers, one of whom I profess my-
self to be, and that few of my audience,
are in this exceptional position. They
will probably consider this a disadvan-
tage on my side ; and to some extent
I must acknowledge it for Shake-
speare wrote to be acted, and not to be
read.
But, on the other hand, is it not
something to have approached this
wonderful man, and to have communed
with him in silence and in solitude,
face to face, alone with him alone ; to
have read and studied and meditated
on him in early youth, without gloss
or commentary, or preface or glossary?
For such was my good or evil fortune ;
not during the still hours of night, but
during that stiller portion of an Italian
* The chorus which serves as a prologue to
"King Henry V.," shows how Shakespeare's
own mind keenly felt the deficiencies of his
time, and almost anticipatingly wrote for the ef-
fects which a future age might supply :
" But pardon, gentles all,
This flat unraised spirit that hath dar'd,
On this unworthy scaffold, to bring forth
So great an object. Can this cock-pit hold
The vasty fields of France ? Or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts ;
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And make imaginary puissance :
Think, when we talk of horses, that ye see them
Printing their proud hoofs i 1 the receiving earth;
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our
kings."
William Shakespeare.
553
afternoon, when silence is deeper than
in the night, under a bright and sultry
sun when all are at rest, all around
you hushed to the very footsteps in a
well-peopled house, except the un-
quelled murmuring of a fountain be-
neath orange trees, which mingled thus
the most delicate of fragrance with the
most soothing of sounds, both stealing
together through the half-closed win-
dows of wide and lofty corridors. Is
there not more of that reverence and
that relish which constitute the classi-
cal taste to be derived from the con-
centration of thought and feelings
which the perusal of the simple un-
marred and unoverlaid text produces ;
when you can ponder on a verse, can
linger over a word, can repeat mental-
ly and even orally with your own de-
liberation and your own emphasis,
whenever dignity, beauty, or wisdom
invite you to pause, or compel you to
ruminate ?
In fact, were you desired to give
your judgment on the refreshing water
of a pure fountain, you would not care
to taste it from a richly -jewelled and
delicately-chased cup ; you would not
consent to have it mingled with the
choicest wine, nor flavored by a single
drop of the most exquisite essence ;
you would not have it chilled with ice,
or gently attempered by warmth. No,
you would choose the most transpar-
ent crystal vessel, however homely ;
you would fill at the very cleft of the
rock from which it bubbles fresh and
bright, and drink it yet sparkling, and
beading with its own air-pearls the
walls of the goblet. Nay, is not an
opposite course that which the poet
liimself censures as " wasteful, ridicu-
lous excess ? "
I " To gild refined gold, to paint the lily ;
I To throw a perfume on tlje violet.
)r with a taper light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to varnieh."
("King John" act iv., scene 2.)
You will easily understand, from
long and almost apologetic pre-
imble, in the first place, that I take it
for granted that I am addressing an
ludience which is not assembled to re-
ceive elementary or new information
concerning England's greatest poet.
On the contrary, I believe myself to
stand before many who are able to
judge, rather than merely accept, my
opinions, and in the presence of an as-
sembly exclusively composed of his ad-
mirers, thoroughly conversant with his
works. A further consequence is this,
that my lecture will not consist of ex-
tracts still less of recitations of any
of those beautiful passages which oc-
cur in every play of Shakespeare.
The most celebrated of these are pre-
sent to the mind of every English
scholar, from his school-boy days to
his maturer studies.
II.
It would be superfluous for a lectur-
er on Shakespeare to put to himself
the question, What place do you in-
tend to give to the subject of your dis-
course in the literature of England or
of Europe ? Whatever difference of
opinion may exist elsewhere, I be-
lieve that in this country only one
answer will be given. Among our
native writers no one questions that
Shakespeare is supremely pre-eminent,
and most of us will probably assign
him as lofty a position in the whole
range of modern European literature.
Perhaps no other nation possesses
among its writers any one name to
which there is no rival claim, nor
even an approximation of equality, to
make a balance against it. Were we
to imagine in England a Walhalla
erected to contain the effigies of great
men, and were one especial hall to
contain those of our most eminent
dramatists, it must needs be so con-
structed as to have one central niche.
Were a similar structure prepared in
France, it would be natural to place
in equal prominence at least two fig-
ures, or, in classical language, two dif-
ferent muses of Tragedy and of Com-
edy would have to be separately re-
presented. But in England, assign
what place we may to those who have
excelled in either branch in mimic art,
554
William Shakespeare.
the highest excellence in both would
be found centered in one man; and
from him on either side would have to
range the successful cultivators of the
drama.
But this claim to so undisputed an
elevation does not rest upon his merits
only in this field of our literature.
Shakespeare has established his claim
to the noblest position in English litera-
ture on a wider and more solid basis
than the mere composition of skilful
plays could deserve. As the great
master of our language, as almost its
regenerator, quite its refiner as the
author whose use of a word stamps it
with the mark of purest English coin-
age whose employment of a phrase
makes it household and proverbial
whose sententious sayings, flowing
without effort from his mind, seem al-
most sacred, and are quoted as axioms
or maxims indisputable as the ora-
tor whose speeches, not only apt, but
natural to the lips from which they is-
sue, are more eloquent than the dis-
courses of senators or finished public
speakers as the poet whose notes are
richer, more wondrously varied than
those of the greatest professed bards
as the writer who has run through
the most varied ways and to the great-
est extent through every department
of literature and learning, through the
history of many nations, their domes-
tic manners, their characteristics, and
even their personal distinctives, and
who seems to have visited every part
of nature, to have intuitively studied
the heavens and the earth as the man,
in fine, who has shown himself sup-
reme in so many things, superiority in
any one of which gains reputation in
life and glory after death, he is pre-
eminent above all, and beyond the
reach of envy or jealousy.
And if no other nation can show us
another man whose head rises above
all their other men of letters, as
Shakespeare does over ours, they
cannot pretend, by the accumulation
of separated excellences, to put in
competition with him a type rather
than a realization of possible worth.
Until, therefore, some other writer can
be produced, no matter from what
nation, who unites in himself person-
ally these gifts of our bard in an
equally sublime degree, his stature
overtops them all, wherever born and
however celebrated.
The question, however, may be
raised, Is he so securely placed upon
his pedestal that a rival may not one
day thrust him from it ? is he so se-
cure upon his throne that a rebel may
not usurp it ? To these interrogations
I answer unhesitatingly, Yes.
In the first place, there have only
been two poets in the world before
Shakespeare who have attained the
same position with him. Each came
at the moment which closed the volume
of the period past and opened that of
a new epoch. Of what preceded Ho-
mer we can know but little ; the songs
by bards or rhapsodists had, no doubt,
preceded him, and prepared the way
for the first and greatest epic. This,
it is acknowledged, has never been
surpassed; it became the standard of
language, the steadfast rule of versifi-
cation, and the model of poetical com-
position. His supremacy, once at-
tained, was shaken by no competition ;
it was as well assured after a hundred
years as it has been by thousands.
Dante again stood between the rem-
nants of the old Roman civilization
and the construction of a new and
Christian system of arts and letters.
He, too, consolidated the floating frag-
ments of an indefinite language, and
with them built and thence himself
fitted and adorned that stately vessel
which bears him through all the re-
gions of life and of death, of glory, of
trial, and of perdition.
A word found in Dante is classical
to the Italian ear; a form, however
strange in grammar, traced to him, is
considered justifiable if used by any
modern sonneteer.* He holds the
place in his own country which
Shakespeare does in ours ; not only
is his terza rima considered inimitable, !
* Any one acquainted with Mastroflni's "Die- '
tionary of Italian Verbs " will understand this.
William Shakespeare.
555
but the concentration of brilliant im-
agery in our words, the flashes of his
great thoughts and the copious variety
of his learning, marvellous in his age,
make his volume be to this day the
delight of every refined intelligence
and every polished mind in Italy.
And he, too, like Homer, notwith-
standing the magnificent poets who
succeeded him, has never for a mo-
ment lost that fascination which he
alone exercises over the domain of
Italian poetry. He was as much its
ruler in his own age as he is in the
present.
In like manner, the two centuries
and more which have elapsed since
Shakespeare's death have as com-
pletely confirmed him in his legitimate
command as the same period did his
two only real predecessors. No one
can possibly either be placed in a
similar position or come up to his
great qualities, except at the expense
of the destruction of our present civ-
ilization, the annihilation of its past
traditions, the resolution of our lan-
guage into jargon, and its regeneration,
by a new birth, into something " more
rich and strange" than the powerful
idiom which so splendidly combines
the Saxon and the Norman elements.
Should such a devastation and recon-
struction take place, whether they come
from New Zealand or from Siberia,then
' there may spring up the poet of that
time and condition who may be the
fourth in that great series of unrivalled
bards, but will no more interfere with
i his predecessor's rights than Dante or
Shakespeare does with those of Ho-
mer.
But further, we may truly say that
the legislator of a people can be but
one, and, as such, can have no rival
beyond his own shores. Solon, Ly-
curgus, and Numa are the only three
men in profane history who have
reached the dignity of this singular
title. The first seized on the charac-
ter of the bland and polished Atheni-
ans, and framed his code in such har-
mony with it, that no subsequent laws,
even in the periods of most corrupt
relaxation, could efface their primitive
stamp, cease to make the republic
proud of their lawgiver's name.
Lycurgus understood the stern and
almost savage hardihood and simplici-
ty of the Spartan disposition, and per-
petuated it and regulated it by his harsh
and unfeeling system, of which, not-
withstanding, the Lacedaemonian was
proud. And so Numa Pompilius com-
prehended the readiness of the infant
republic, sprung from so doubtful and
discreditable a parentage, to discover
a noble descent, and connect its birth
and education with gods and heroes ;
took hold of this weakness for the
sanction of his legislation ; and feigned
his conferences with the nymph Egeria
as the sources of his wisdom. No ;
whatever may become of kings, legis-
lators are never dethroned.
And so is Shakespeare the unques-
tioned legislator of modern literary art.
No one will contend that, without cer-
tain detriment, it would be possible for
a modern writer, especially of dramatic
fiction, to go back beyond him and
endeavor to establish a pre- Shake-
spearian school of English literature, as
we have the pre-Raphaelite in art.
Struggle and writhe as any genius
may even if endowed with giant
strength it will be but as the battle of
the Titans against Jove. Huge rocks
will be rolled down upon him, and the
lightning from Shakespeare's hand
will assuredly tear his laurels, if it do
not strike his head. Byron could not
appreciate the dramatic genius of
Shakespeare ; perhaps his sympathies
ranged more freely among corsairs
and Suliotes than among purer and
nobler spirits. Certainly he speaks of
him with a superciliousness which be-
trays his inability fully to comprehend
him.* And yet, would "Manfred"
have existed if the romantic drama
and the spirit-agency of Shakespeare
* Lord Byron thus writes to Mr. Murray, July
14, 1821 : " I trust that Sardanapalus will not be
mistaken for a political play You will
find all this very unlike Shakespeare ; and so
much the better, in one sense, for I look upon
him to be the worst of models, though the most
extraordinary of writers." Moore's Life of Lord
Byron.
556
William Shakespeare.
had not given it life and rule ? So in
other nations. I shall probably quote
to you the sentiments of foreign writ-
ers of highest eminence concerning
Shakespeare, not as authorities, but as
illustrations of what I may say.
Singularly enough, the greatest of
German modern writers has nowhere
recorded a full and deliberate opinion
on our poet. But who can doubt that
" Gotz von Berlichingen with the Iron
Hand," and even the grand and tender
" Faust," and no less Schiller's " Wal-
lenstein," belong to the family of
Shakespeare, are remotely offsprings
of his genius, and have to be placed as
tributary garlands round his pedestal.
To imagine Shakespeare even in
intention removed from his sovereignty
would be a treachery parallel only to
that of Lear dethroned by his own
daughters.
But still more may we say thafy in
all such positions as that which we
have assigned to Shakespeare, there
has always been a culminating point
to which succeeds decline^ if not
downfall. It is so in art. Immedi-
ately after the death of Raphael, and
the dispersion of his school, art took a
downward direction, and has never
risen again to the same height. And
while he marks the highest elevation
ever reached in the arts of Europe, a
similar observation will apply to their
particular schools. Leonardo and
Luini in Lombardy ; the Carracci in
Bologna ; Fra Angelico in Umbria ;
Garofalo in Ferrara, not only take the
place of chiefs in their respective dis-
tricts, but mark the period from which
degeneracy has to date. And so
surely is it in our case, whatever may
have been the course of literature
which led up to Shakespeare, without
pronouncing judgment on Spenser,
or " rare Ben Jonson," it is certain
that after him, although England has
possessed great poets, there stands not
one forward among them as Shake-
speare's competitor. Milton, and
Dryden, and Addison, and Rowe have
given us specimens of high dramatic
writing of no mean quality ; others as
well, and even these have written
much and nobly, in lofty as in familiar
verse ; yet not one has the public
judgment of the nation placed on a
level with him. The intermediate
space from them to our own times has
left only the traces of a weak and
enervated school. It would be unbe-
coming to speak disparagingly of the
poets of the present age ; but no one,
I believe, has ventured to consider
them as superior to the noble spirits
of our Augustan age. The easy de-
scent from the loftiest eminence is not
easily reclimbed.
Surely, then, we may consider
Shakespeare, as an ancient mytholo-
gist would have done, as " enskied"
among " the invulnerable clouds,"
where no shaft, even of envy, can as-
sail him. From this elevation we may
safely predict that he never can be
plucked.
in.
The next point which seems to
claim attention is the very root of all
that I have said or shall have still to
say. To what does Shakespeare owe
this supremacy, or whence flow all the
extraordinary qualities which we at-
tribute to him ? You are all prepared
with the answer in one single word
his GENIUS.
The genius of Shakespeare is our
familiar thought and ready expression
when we study him, and when we
characterize him. Nevertheless, sim-
ple and intelligible as is the word, it is
extremely difficult to analyze or to de-
fine it. Yet everything that is great
and beautiful in his writings seems to j
require an explanation of the cause to j
which it owes its origin.
One great characteristic of genius,
easily and universally admitted, is, that
it is a gift, and not an acquisition. It
belongs inherently to the person pos-
sessing it; it cannot be transmitted by
heritage ; it cannot be infused by pa-
rental affection ; it cannot be bestowed
by earliest care; neither can it be
communicated by the most finished
William Shakespeare.
557
culture or the most studied education.
It must be congenital, or rather inborn
to its possessor. It is as much a living,
a natural power, as is reason to every
man. As surely as the very first germ
of the plant contains in itself the facul-
ty of one day evolving from itself
leaves, flowers, and fruit, so does genius
hold, however hidden, however unseen,
the power to open, to bring forth, and
to mature what other men cannot do,
but what to it is instinctive and almost
spontaneous. It may begin to mani-
fest itself with the very dawn of rea-
son ; it may remain asleep for years,
till a spark, perhaps accidentally, kin-
dles up into a sudden and irrepressible
splendor that unseen intellectual fuel
which has been almost unknown to its
unambitious owner.,
In our own minds we easily distin-
guish between the highest abilities or
the most rare attainments,, when the
fruit of education and o application,
and what we habitually distinguish as
the manifestation of genius. But still
we do not find it so easy to reduce to
words this mental distinction ; the one,
after all, however gracefully and how-
ever brightly, walks upon the earth,
adorning it by the good or fair things
which it scatters on its way; the
other has wings, and flies above the
surface it is like the aurora of Homer
or of Thorwaldsen, which, as it flies
above the plane of mortal actions, sheds
down its flowers along its brilliant
path upon those w~orthy to gaze up-
ward toward it. We connect in our
minds with genius the ideas of flashing
splendor and eccentric movement. It
is an intellectual meteor, the laws of
which cannot be defined or reduced to
any given theory. We regard it with
a certain awe, and leave it to soar or
to droop, to shine or disappear, to dash
irregularly first in one direction and
then in another ; no one dare curb it
or direct it ; but all feel sure that its
course, however inexplicable, is sub-
ject to higher and controlling rule. But
in order to define more closely what
we in reality understand by genius, it
may be well to consider its action in
divided and more restricted spheres of
activity. For although we habitually
attribute this singular quality to many,
and often but on light grounds, it is
seldom that we do so seriously and
deliberately without some qualifying
epithet. We speak of a military
genius, of a mechanical genius, of a
poetical genius, of a musical genius, or
of an artistic genius. All these ex-
pressions contain a restrictive clause.
We do not understand when we use
them that the person to whom they
were attributed possessed any power
beyond the limits of a particular sphere.
We do not mean by the use of the
word genius that the soldier knew any-
thing of poetry, or the printer of me-
chanism. We understand that each in
his own profession or stage of excel-
lence possessed a complete elevation
over the bulk of those who followed
the same pursuits ; a superiority so
visible, so acknowledged, and so clear-
ly individual, that no one else consid-
ered it inferiority, still less felt shame
at not being able to rise to the same
level. They gather round them ac-
knowledged disciples and admirers,
who rather glory to have been guided
by their teaching, and formed on their
example.
And in what consisted that com-
plete though limited excellence ? If I
might venture to express a judgment,
I would say that genius in these dif-
ferent courses of science or art may be
defined a natural sympathy with all
that relates to each of them, with the
power of giving full and certain exe-
cution to the mental conception. The
military genius is one who, either un-
trained by studious preparation, or
else starting out of the lines in which
many were ranged level with himself,
seizes the staff of command, and re-
ceives the homage of comrades and
superiors. While others have been
plodding through the long drill of theory
and of practice, he is found to have
discovered a new system of the science,
bold, irregular, but successful. But to
possess this genius, there must be a
universal sympathy with all that relates
558
William Shakespeare.
to its own peculiar province. The
military genius of which we are speak-
ing must embrace or acquire that which
relates to the soldier's life and duty,
from the dress of a single soldier, from
his duties in the sentry-box, or on the
picquet, to the practice of the regiment
and the evolutions of a field-day ; from
the complete command of tens of thou-
sands on the battle-field, with an
eagle's eye and a lion's heart, to the
scientific planning, on the chessboard
of an empire, of the campaign, which
he meditates, move by move and check
by check, till the final victory is
crowned in the capital city. He who
has not given proof of his being equal
to all this, has not made good his claim
to military genius. But such a one
will find, wherever he puts his hand,
generals and marshals, each able .to
command a host, or to take his place
in his roughest of enterprises.
I need not pass through other forms
of genius to reach similar results ; Ste-
phenson, from the labor of the mine,
creating that system of mechanical
motion, which may be said to have
subdued the world, and bound the
earth in iron links ; Mozart giving
concerts at the age of seven that as-
tonished gray-headed musicians ; Ra-
phael, before the ordinary age of fin-
ished pupilage, master of every known
detail in art of oil or fresco, drawing,
expression, and grand composition ;
Giotto, caught in the field as a young
shepherd by Cimabue, drawing his
sheep upon a stone, and soon becoming
the master of modern art.* These and
many others repeat to us what I have
said of the military genius >an inborn
capacity, comprehensive and complete,
with the power of fully carrying out
the suggestions of mind. Had there
been a single portion of their pursuits
* The early manifestation of artistic power is
eo frequent and well known, that it would be
superfluous to enumerate other instances. The
expression "ancA' io son pittore' 1 '' is become
proverbial. One of the Carracci, on being trans-
lated from an inferior profession to the family
studio, was found at once to possess the pictorial
skill of his race. At the present, Mintropp at
Diisseldorf, and Ackermann at Berlin, are both
instances of very high artists, the one in draw-
ing, the other in sculpture, both originally shep-
herds.
in which they did not excel, if the re-
sult of their work had not exhibited
the happy union and concord of the
many qualities requisite for its perfec-
tion, they never would have attained
the attribution of genius.
If this sympathy with one branch of
higher pursuits passes beyond it and
associates with it a similar facility of
acquisition and execution in some other
and distinct art or science, it is clear
that the claim to genius is higher and
more extensive. Raphael was before
the world a painter, but he could
scarcely have been so without embrac-
ing every other department of art.
Before the science of perspective was
matured or popularly known, when, in
consequence, defects are to be found
in the disposition of figures, and in the
adjustment of aerial distances,* his
architecture shows an instinctive famil-
iarity with its rules and proportions ;
a proof that he possessed an architectu-
ral eye. And consequently the one
statue which he is supposed to have
carved, and the one palace which he is
said to have built, show how easily he
could have undertaken and executed
beautiful works in either of those two
classes of art. In Orcagna and Mich-
elangelo we have the three branches of
art supremely united ; and the second
of these adds poetry and literature to
his artistic excellence. In like manner,
Leonardo has left proof of most varied
and accurate mechanical as well as
literary genius.
It is evident, however, that while a
genius has its point of concentration,
every remove from this, though wider,
will be fainter and less complete. We
may describe it as Shakespeare bin-
self describes glory, and say :
" Genius is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,
Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.
(^ Henry F/.," act i., scene 3.)
The sympathies with more remote
subjects and pursuits will be rather the
means of illustration, adornment, and
* See Mr. Lloyd's article on "Raphael's
School of Athens," in Mr. Woodward s Fine
Art Quarterly Review, January, 1864, p. 67.
Wittiam Shakespeare.
559
pleasing variety, than for the essential
requirements of the principal aim.
But though less minute in their appli-
cation, in the hand of genius they will
be wonderfully accurate and apt.
IV.
All that I have been saying is appli-
cable in the most complete and marvel-
lous way to Shakespeare's genius. His
sympathies are universal, perfect in
their own immediate use, infinitely va-
ried, and strikingly beautiful, when they
reach remoter objects. And hence,
though at first sight he might be classi-
fied among those who have displayed a
literary genius, he stretches his mind
and his feelings so beyond them on
every side, that to him, almost, perhaps,
beyond any other man, the simple dis-
tinctive, without any qualification, be-
longs. No one need fear to call
Shakespeare simply a grand, a sublime
genius.
The centre-point of his sympathies
is clearly his dramatic art. From this
they expand, for many degrees, with
scarce perceptible diminution, till they
lose themselves in far distant, and, to
him, unexplored space. This nucleus
of his genius has certainly never been
equalled before or since. Its essence
consists in what is the very soul of the
dramatic idea, the power to throw him-
self into the situation, the circumstan-
ces, the nature, the acquired habits, the
i feelings, true or fictitious, of every
character which he introduces. This
Ibrms, in fact, the most perfect of sym-
Ipathies. We do not, of course, use
the word in that more usual sense of
harmony of affection, or consent of
feeling. Shakespeare has sympathy
as complete for Shylock or lago as he
as for Arthur or King ^Lear. For a
ime he lives in the astute villain as
i the innocent child; he works his
ntire power of thought into intricacies
f the traitor's brain; he makes his
icart beat in concord with the usurer's
anguinary spite, and then, like some
)eautiful creature in the animal world,
Iraws himself out of the hateful evil,
and is himself again ; and able, even,
often to hold his own noble and gentle
qualities as a mirror, or exhibit the
loftiest, the most generous, and amiable
examples of our nature. And this is
all done without study, and apparently
without effort. His infinitely varied
characters come naturally into their
places, never for a moment lose their
proprieties, their personality, and the
exact flexibility which results from the
necessary combination in every man
of many qualities. From the begin-
ning to the end each one is the same,
yet reflecting in himself the lights and
shadows which flit around him.
This extraordinary versatility stands
in striking contrast with the dramatic
productions of other countries. The
Greek tragedian is Greek throughout
his subjects, his mythology, his sen-
tences, play wonderfully indeed, but
yet restrictedly, within a given sphere.
And Rome is but the imitator in all
its literature of its great mistress and
model.
" Graiis eloquium, Gratis dedit ore rotundo,
Musa loqui."
Even through the French school,
with the strict adhesion to the ancient
rule of the unities, seems to have de-
scended the partiality for what may
be called the chastely classical subjects.
Not so with Shakespeare.
Who, a stranger might ask, is the
man, and where was he born, and
where does he live, that not only his
acts and scenes are placed in any age,
or in any land, but that he can fill his
stage with the very living men of the
time and place represented ; make them
move as easily as if he held them
in strings ; and make them speak
not only with general conformity to
their common position, but with indi-
vidual and distinctive propriety, so that
each is different from the rest ? Did
he live in ancient Rome, strolling the
Forum, or climbing the Capitol ; hear
ancient matrons converse with modest
dignity ; listen to conspirators among
the columns of its porticos ; mingle
among senators around Pompey's stat-
560
William Shakespeare.
ue ; or with plebeians crowding to hear
Brutus or Anthony harangue ? Was
he one accustomed to idle in the pi-
azza of St. Mark, or shoot his gondola
under the Rialto ? Or was he a knight
or even archer in the fields of France
or England during the period of the
Plantagenets or Tudors, and witnessed
and wrote down the great deeds of
those times, and knew intimately and
personally each puissant lord who dis-
tinguished himself by his valor, by his
wisdom, or even by his crimes ? Did
he live in the courts of princes, per-
chance holding some office which en-
abled him to listen to the grave utter-
ances of kings and their counsellors, or
to the witty sayings of court jesters ?
Did he consort with banished princes,
and partake of their sports or their
sufferings ? In fine, did he live in great
cities, or in shepherds' cottages, or in
fields and woods; and does he date
from John and live on to the eighth
Henry a thread connecting in liim-
self the different epochs of mediaeval
England ? One would almost say so ;
or multiply one man into many, whose
works have been united under one
man.
This ubiquity, if we may so call it,
of Shakespeare's sympathies, consti-
tutes the unlimited extent and might
of his dramatic genius. It would be
difficult to imagine where a boundary
line could at length have been drawn,
beyond which nothing original, nothing
new, and nothing beautiful, could be
supposed to have come forth from his
mind. We are compelled to say that
his genius was inexhaustible.
v.
This rare and wonderful faculty be-
comes more interesting if we follow it
into further details.
I remember an anecdote of Garrick,
who, in company with another perfor-
mer of some eminence, was walking in
the country, and about to enter a vil-
lage. " Let us pass off, " said the
younger comedian to his more distin-
guished companion, " as two intoxicat-
ed fellows." They did so, apparently
with perfect success, being saluted by
the jeers and abuse of the inhabit-
ants. When they came forth at the
other end of the village, the younger
performer asked Garrick how he had
fulfilled his part. Very well," was
the reply, " except that you were not
perfectly tipsy in your legs."
Now, in Shakespeare there is no
danger of a similar defect. Whatever
his character is intended to be it is
carried out to its very extremities.
Nothing is forgotten, nothing over-
looked. Many of you, no doubt, are
aware that a controversy has long exist-
ed whether the madness of Hamlet is
intended by Shakespeare to be real or
simulated. If a dramatist wished to
represent one of his persons as feign-
ing madness, that assumed condition
would be naturally desired by the
writer to be as like as possible to the
real affliction. If the other persons
associated with him could at once dis-
cover that the madness was put on, of
course the entire action would be
marred, and the object for which the
pretended madness was designed would
be defeated by the discovery. How
consummate must be the poet's art,
who can have so skilfully described,
to the minutest symptoms, the mental
malady of a great mind, as to leave it
uncertain to the present day, even
among learned physicians versed in
such maladies, whether Hamlet's mad-
ness was real or assumed.
This controversy may be said to
have been brought to a close by one
of the ablest among those in England
who have every opportunity of study-
ing the almost innumerable shades
through which alienation of mind can
pass.* And so delicate are the
changeful characteristics which
Shakespeare describes, that Dr. Con-
oily considers that a twofold form of
* A Study of Hamlet," by John Conolly, M.D.,
London, 1863. In p. 52 the author quotes Mi
Coleridge and M. Killemain as holding the
opinion that Shakespeare has "contrived t(
blend both (feigned and real madness) in the
extraordinary character of Hamlet ; and to join
together the light of reason, the cunning of in-
tentional error, and the involuntary disorder or
a soul."
William Shakespeare.
561
disease is placed before us in the
Danish prince. He concludes that he
was laboring under real madness, yet
able to put on a fictitious and artificial
derangement for the purposes which
he kept in view. Passing through act
by act and scene by scene, analyzing,
with experienced eye, each new symp-
tom as it occurs, dividing and anatom-
atizing, with the finest scalpel, every
fibre of his brain, he exhibits, step
by step, the transitionary characters of
the natural disease in a mind naturally,
and by education, great and noble, but
thrown off his pivot by the anguish of
his sufferings and the strain of aroused
passion. And to this is superadded
another and not genuine affection,
which serves its turn with that
estranged mind when it suits it to act,
more especially that part which the
natural ailment did not suffice for.
Now, Dr. Conolly considers these
symptoms so accurately as well as
minutely described, that he throws out
the conjecture that Shakespeare may
have borrowed the account of them
from some unknown papers by his son-
in-law, Dr. Hall.
But let it be remembered that in
those days mental phenomena were
by no means accurately examined or
generally known. There was but
little attention paid to the peculiar
forms of monomania, or to its treat-
ment, beyond restraint and often
cruelty. The poor idiot was allowed,
if harmless, to wander about the vil-
lage or the country, to drivel or gibber
unidst the teasing or ill-natured treat-
ment of boys or rustics. The poor
naaiac was chained or tied in some
^retched out-house, at the mercy of
jome heartless guardian, with no pro-
but the constable. Shakespeare
Id not be supposed, in the little
>wn of Stratford, nor indeed in Lon-
itself, to have had opportunities of
.udying the influence and the appear-
ice of mental derangement of a high-
inded and finely-cultivated prince.
W then did Shakespeare contrive to
int so highly-finished and yet so
>lex an image ? Simply by the
36
exercise of that strong sympathetic
will which enabled him to transport,
or rather to transmute, himself into
another personality. While this char-
acter was strongly before him he
changed himself into a maniac ; he
felt intuitively what would be his own
thought, what his feelings, were he in
that situation ; he played with himself
the part of the madman, with his own
grand mind as the basis of its action ;
he grasped on every side the imagery
which he felt would have come into
his mind, beautiful even when dis-
lorded, sublime even when it was
grovelling, brilliant even when dulled,
and clothed it in words of fire and of
tenderness, with a varied rapidity
which partakes of wildness and of
sense. He needed not to look for a
model out of himself, for it cost him no
effort to change the angle of his mirror
and sketch his own countenance awry.
It was but little for him to pluck away
the crown from reason and contem-
plate it dethroned.
Before taking leave of Dr. Conolly's
most interesting monography, I will
allow myself to make only one remark.
Having determined to represent Ham-
let in this anomalous and perplexing
condition, it was of the utmost im-
portance to the course and end of this
sublime drama, that one principal in-
cident should be most decisively sepa-
rated from Hamlet's reverse of mind.
Had it been possible to attribute the
appearance of the Ghost, as the Queen,
his mother, does attribute it in the
fifth act, to the delusion of his be-
wildered phantasy, the whole ground-
work of the drama would have
crumbled beneath its superincumbent
weight. Had the spectre been seen
by Hamlet, or by him first, we should
have been perpetually troubled with
the doubt whether or not it was the
hallucination of a distracted, or the
invention of a deceitful, brain. But
Shakespeare felt the necessity of
making this apparition be held for a
reality, and therefore he makes it the
very first incident in his tragedy,
antecedent to the slightest symptom
562
William Shakespeare.
of either natural or affected derange-
ment, and makes it first be seen by
two witnesses together, and then con-
jointly by a third unbelieving and
fearless witness. It is the testimony
of these three which first brings to the
knowledge of the incredulous prince
this extraordinary occurrence. One
may doubt whether any other writer
has ever made a ghost appear suc-
cessively to those whom we may call
the wrong persons, before showing
himself to the one whom alone he
cared to visit. The extraordinary
exigencies of Shakespeare's plot
rendered necessary this unusual fic-
tion. And it serves, moreover, to
give the only color of justice to acts
which otherwise must have appeared
unqualified as mad freaks or frightful
crimes.
What Dr. Conolly has done for
Hamlet and Ophelia, Dr. Bucknill had
previously performed on a more ex-
tensive scale. In his " Psychology
of Shakespeare"* he has minutely
investigated the mental condition of
Macbeth, King Lear, Tim on, and
other characters. On Hamlet he seems
inclined to take a different view from
Dr. Conolly ; inasmuch as he con-
siders the simulated madness the
principal feature, and the natural
unsoundness which it is impossible to
overlook as secondary. But this
eminent physician, well known for his
extensive studies of insanity, bears
similar testimony to the extraordinary
accuracy of Shakespeare's delineations
of mental diseases ; the nicety with
which he traces their various steps in
one individual, the accuracy with
which he distinguishes these morbid
affections in different persons. He
seems unable to account for the exact
minuteness in any other way than by
external observation. He acknow-
ledges that "indefinable possession of
genius, call it spiritual tact or insight,
or whatever term may suggest itself,
by which the great lords of mind
estimate all phases of mind with little
aid from reflected light," as the men-
* Pages 58 and 100.
tal instrument through which Shake-
speare looked upon others at a distance
or within reach of minute observation.
Still he seems to think that Shake-
speare must have had many opportuni-
ties of observing mental phenomena. I
own I am more inclined to think that
the process by which the genius of
Shakespeare reached this painful yet
strange accuracy was rather that of
introversion than of external observa-
tion. At any rate, it is most interest-
ing to see eminent physicians main-
taining by some means or other that
Shakespeare arrived by some sort of
intuition at the possession of a psycho-
logical or even medical knowledge, ful-
ly verified and proved to be exact by
the researches two centuries later of
distinguished men in a science only re-
cently developed. Mrs. Jameson has
well distinguished the different forms
of mental aberration in Shakespeare's
characters, when she says that " Con-
stance is frantic, Lear is mad, Ophelia
is insane."*
VI.
This last quotation may serve to in-
troduce a further and a more delicate
test of Shakespeare's insight into char
acter. That a man should be able to
throw himself into a variety of mind
and characters among his fellow-men,
may be not unreasonably expected.
He has naturally a community of feel-
ings, of passions, of temptations, and
of motives with them. He can under-
stand what is courage, what ambition, ;
what strength or feebleness of mind, j
Inward observation and matured ex-j
perience help much to guide him to a
conception and delineation of the char-
acter of his fellow-men. But of thej
stronger emotions, the wilder passions, j
the subdued gentleness and tenderness,!
the heroic endurance, the meek bear-j
ing, and the saintly patience of the wo-
man, he can have had no experience.
Looking into himsolf for a reflection,
he will probably find a blank.
* " Character! B tics of Women." New York
1833, p. 142.
William Shakespeare.
563
It has often been said that in his
female characters Shakespeare is not
equal to himself. The work to which
I have just alluded meets, I think com-
pletely, this objection, which, I believe,
even Schlegel raises. It required a
lady, with mind highly cultivated, with
the nicest powers of discrimination,
and with happiness of expression, to
vindicate at once Shakespeare and her
sex. The difficulty of this task can
hardly be appreciated without the
study of its performance. Its great
difficulty consists in the almost family
resemblance of the different portraits
which make up Shakespeare's female
gallery. There is scarcely any room
for events, even for incident, still less
for actions, say for bold and unfemi-
nine deeds. Several of the heroines
of Shakespeare are subjected to similar
persecutions, and almost the same
trials. In almost every one the affec-
tions and their expression have alone
to interest us. From Miranda, the
desert-nurtured child in the simplicity
of untempted innocence, to Isabella in
her cloistered virtue, or Hermione in
her unyielding fortitude there are
such shades, such varying yet delicate
tints, that not two of these numerous
conceptions can be said to resemble
another. And whence did Shake-
speare derive his models ? Some are
lofty queens, others most noble ladies,
some foreigners, some native ; differ-
ent types in mind and heart, as in the
i lineament or complexion. Where
! did he find them ? Where did he
meet them ? In the cottages of Strat-
ford, or in the purlieus of Blackfriars ?
Among the ladies of the court, or in
jthe audience in his pit ? No one can
say no one need say. They were
the formations of his own quickened
and fertile brain, which required but
one stroke, one line, to sketch him a
ortrait to which he would give im-
nortality. Far more difficult was
lis success, and not less completely
as it achieved, in that character
hich medical writers seem hardly to
lelieve could be but a conception.
Ye may compare the mind of Shake-
speare to a diamond pellucid, bright,
and untinted, cut into countless pol-
ished facets, which, in constant move-
ment, at every smallest change of di-
rection or of angle caught a new re-
flection, so that not one of its brilliant
mirrors could be for a moment idle,
but by a power beyond its control was
ever busy with the reflection of innu-
merable images, either distinct or run-
ning into one another, or repeated each
so clearly as to allow him, when he
chose, to fix it in his memory.
VII.
We may safely conclude that, in
whatever constitutes the dramatic art
in its strictest sense, Shakespeare pos-
sessed matchless sympathies with all
its attributes. The next and most es-
sential quality required for true genius
is the power to give outward life to the
inward conception. Without this the
poet is dumb. He may be a "mute,
inglorious Milton ; " he cannot be a
speaking, noble Shakespeare. I should
think that I was almost insulting such
an audience, were I to descant upon
Shakespeare's position among the
bards and writers of England, and of
the modern world. Upon this point
there can scarcely be a dissentient
opinion. His language is the purest
and best, his verses the most flowing
and rich ; and as for his sentiments,
it would be difficult without the com-
mand of his own language to charac-
terize them. No other writer has ever
given such periods of sententious wis-
dom.
I have spoken of genius as a gift to
an individual man. I will conclude
by the reflection that that man becomes
himself a gift ; a gift to his nation ; a
gift to his age ; a gift to the world of all
times.. That same Providence which
bestows greatness, majesty, abundance,
and grace, no less presents, from time
to time, to a people or a race, these
few transcendent men who mark for it
564
William Shakespeare.
periods no less decisively, though
more nobly, than victories or conquests.
On England that supreme power has
lavished the choicest blessings of this
worldly life; it has made it vast in
dominion, matchless in strength ; it has
made it the arbiter of the earth, and
mistress of the sea ; it has made it
able to stretch its arm for war to the
savage antipodes, and, if it chose, its
hand for peace to the utter civilized
west ; it has brought the produce of
north and south to its feet with skill
and power, to transform and to refash-
ion in forms graceful or useful, to
send them back, almost as new crea-
tions, to its very source. Industry
has clothed its most barren plains with
luxuriant crops, and with Titan bold-
ness hollowed its sternest rocks, to
plunder them of their ever-hidden
treasures. Its gigantic strength seems
but to play with every work of ven-
turesome enterprise, till its cities seem
to the stranger to overflow with riches,
and its country to be overspread with
exuberant prosperity.
Well, these are great and magnifi-
cent favors of an over-ruling, most
benignant Power ; and yet there is a
boast which belongs to our country
that may seem to be overlooked. Yet
it is a double gift that that same creat-
ing and directing rule has made this
country the birthplace and the seat of
the two men who, within a short period,
were made the rulers each of a great
and separate intellectual dominion,
never to be deposed, never to be
rivalled, never to be envied. To New-
ton was given the sway over the science
of the civilized world ; to Shakespeare
the sovereignty over its literature.
The one stands before us passion-
less and grave, embracing in his in-
tellectual grandeur every portion of
the universe, from the stars, to him in-
visible, to the rippling of the tiny waves
which the tide brought to his feet.
The host of heaven, that seemed in
causeless dispersion, he marshalled in-
to order, and bound in safest discipline.
He made known to his fellow-men the
secret laws of heaven, the springs of
movement, and the chains of connec-
tion, which invariably and unchange-
ably impel and guide the course of its
many worlds.
In this aspect one's imagination
figures him as truly the director of what
he only describes as the leader of a
complicated army, who, with his staff,
seems to draw or to send forward the
wheeling battalions, intent on their own
errands, combining or resolving move-
ments far remote ; or, under a more
benign and pleasing form, we may con-
template him, like a great master in
musical science, standing in the midst
of a throng, in which are mingled to-
gether the elements of sublunest har-
monies, confused to the eye, but sweetly
attuned to the ear, mingling into orderly
combination and flowing sequence, as
they float through the air, which, though
he elicit not nor produce, he seems by
his outstretched hand to direct, or, at
least, he proves himself fully to under-
stand. For what each one separately
does, unconscious of what even his com-
panion is doing, he from afar knows,
and almost beholds, understanding from
his centre the concerted and sure re-
sults of their united action. And so
Newton, from his chamber on this little
earth, without being able more than the
most helpless insect to add power or
give guidance to one single element in
the composition of this universe, could
trace the orbits of planet or satellite,
and calculate the oscillations and the re-
ciprocal influences of celestial spheres.
Then his directing wand seems to
contract itself to a space within his
grasp. It becomes that magic prism
with which he intercepts a ray from
the sun on his passage to earth ; and as
a bird seizes in its flight the bee laden
with its honey, and robs it of its sweet
treasure even so he compels the mes-
senger of light to unfold itself before '
us, and lay bare to our sight the rich
colors which the rainbow had exhibited
to man since the deluge, and which had j
lain concealed since creation, in every
sunbeam that had passed through our !
atmosphere. And further still, he be-
queathes that wonderful alembic of light
William Shakespeare.
565
to succeeding generations, till, in the
hand of new discoverers, it has become
the key of nature's laboratory, in which
she has been surprised melting and
compounding, in crucibles huge as
ocean, the rich hues with which she
overlays the surfaces of suns and stars,
yet, at the same time, breathes its del-
icate blush upon the tenderest petals of
the opening rose.
And all the laws and all the rules
which form his code of nature seem
engraved, as with a diamond point,
upon a granite surface of the primitive
rocks inflexible, immovable, un-
changeable as the system which they
represent.
Beside him stands the Ruler of that
world, which, though even sublimely
intellectual, is governed by him with
laws in which the affections, even the
passions, the moralities, and the anxie-
ties of life have their share ; in which
there is no severity but for vice, no
slavery but for baseness, no unforgiv-
ingness but for calculating wickedness.
In his hand is not the staff of author-
ity, whether it take the form of a
royal sceptre or of a knightly lance,
whether it be the shepherdess's crook
or the fool's bauble, it is still the same,
the magician's wand. Whether it be
the divining rod with which he draws
up to light the most hidden streams of
nature's emotions, or the potential in-
strument of Prospero's spells, which
raises storms in the deep or works
spirit-music in the air, or the wicked
i implement with which the witches
mingle their unholy charm, its cunning
and its might have no limit among
created things. But it is not a world
f stately order which he rules, nor
are the laws of unvarying rigor by
hich it is commanded. The wildest
)aroxysms of passion ; the softest deli-
acy of emotions ; the most extrava-
gant accident of fortune ; the tenderest
ncidents of home ; the king and the
>eggar, the sage and the jester, the ty-
ant and his victim ; the maiden from
he cloister and the peasant from the
nountains ; the Italian school-child
tnd the Roman matron ; the princes
of Denmark and the lords of Troy
all these and much more are comprised
in the vast embrace of his dominions.
Scarcely a rule can be drawn from
them, yet each forms a model sepa-
rately, a finished group in combina-
tion. Unconsciously as he weaves his
work, apparently without pattern or
design, he interlaces and combines in
its surface and its depth images of the
most charming variety and beauty ;
now the stern mosaic, without coloring,
of an ancient pavement, now the flow-
ing and intertwining arabesque of the
fanciful east ; now the rude scenes of
ancient mediaeval tapestry like that of
Beauvais, and then the finished and
richly tinted production of the Gobe-
lins loom.
And yet through this seeming
chaos the light permeates, and that so
clear and so brilliant as equally to de-
fine and to dazzle. Every portion,
every fragment, every particle, stands
forth separate and particular, so as to
be handled, measured, and weighed in
the balance of critic and poet. Each
has its own exact form and accurate
place, so that, while separately they
are beautiful, united they are perfect.
Hence their combinations have become
sacred rules, and have given inviola-
ble maxims not only to English but
to universal literature. Germany, as
we have seen, studies with love and
almot veneration every page of Shake-
speare ; national sympathies and kin-
dred speech make it not merely easy
but natural to all people of the Teu-
tonic family to assimilate their litera-
ature to that its highest standard.
France has departed, or is fast depart-
ing, from its favorite classical type,
and adopting, though with unequal
power, the broader and more natural
lines of the Shakespearian model.
His practice is an example, his declar-
ations are oracles.
Still, as I have said, the wide re-
gion of intellectual enjoyment over
which our great bard exerts dominion,
is not one parcelled out or divided into
formal and state-like province?. While
the student of science is reading in his
566
William Shakespeare.
chamber the great " Principia " of
Newton, he must keep before him the
solution of only one problem. On that
his mind must undistractedly rest, on
that his power of thought be intensely
concentrated. Woe to him if imagin-
ation leads his reason into truant wan-
derings ; woe if he drop the thread of
finely-drawn deductions ! He will find
his wearied intelligence drowsily floun-
dering in a sea of swimming figures
and evanescent quantities, or floating
amidst the fragments of a shipwrecked
diagram. But over Shakespeare one
may dream no less than pore ; we may
drop the book from our hand and the
contents remain equally before us.
Stretched in the shade by a brook in
summer, or sunk in the reading chair by
the hearth in winter, in the imaginative
vigor of health, in the drooping spirits
of indisposition, one may read, and al-
low the trains of fancy which spring
up in any scene to pursue their own
way, and minister their own varied
pleasure or relief; and when by de-
grees we have become familiar with
the inexhaustible resources of his ge-
nius, there is scarcely a want in mind
or the affections that needs no higher
than human succor, which will not find
in one or other of his works that which
will soothe suffering, comfort grief,
strengthen good desires, and present
some majestic example to copy, or
some fearful phantom. But when we
endeavor to contemplate all his infin-
itely varied conceptions as blended to-
gether in one picture, so as to take in,
if possible, at one glance the prodi-
gious extent of his prolific genius, we
thereby build up what he himself so
beautifully called the " fabric of a vis-
ion," matchless in its architecture as
in the airiness of its materials. There
are forms fantastically sketched in
cloud-shapes, such as Hamlet showed
to Polonius, ill the midst of others
rounded and full, which open and un-
fold ever-changing varieties, now
gloomy and threatening, then tipped with
gold and tinted with azure, ever-roll-
ing, ever-moving, melting the one into
the other, or extricating each itself
from the general mass. Dwelling
upon this maze of things and imagina-
tions, the most incongruous combina-
tions come before the dreamy thought,
fascinated, spell-bound, and entranced.
The wild Ardennes and Windsor Park
seem to run into one another, then*
firs and their oaks mingle together; the
boisterous ocean boiling round " the
still vexed Bermoothes " runs smoothly
into the lagoons of Venice; the old
gray porticos of republican Rome, like
the transition in a dissolving view, are
confused and entangled with the slim
and fluted pillars of a Gothic hall ;
here the golden orb, dropped from the
hand of a captive king, rolls on the
ground side by side with a jester's
mouldy skull both emblems of a com-
mon fate in human things. Then the
grave chief-justice seems incorporated
in the bloated Falstaff; King John
and his barons are wassailing with
Poins and Bardolph at an inn door;
Coriolanus and Shylock are contending
for the right of human sensibilities ;
Macbeth and Jacques are moralizing to-
gether on tenderness even to the brute.
And so of other more delicate crea-
tions of the poet's mind Isabella and
Ophelia, Desdemona and the Scotch
Thane's wife, produce respectively
composite figures of inextricable con-
fusion. And around and above is that
filmy world, Ariel and Titania and
Peas-blossom and Cobweb and Moth,
who weave as a gossamer cloud around
the vision, dimming it gradually before
our eyes, in the last drooping of wear-
iness, or the last hour of wakefulness.
Miscellany.
MISCELLANY.
567
ART.
Domestic. The south gallery of the
new academy is the largest and best
lighted of the several exhibition rooms,
and contains some of the most ambitious
pictures of the year. As the visitor,
pausing for a moment to survey the
paintings, drawings, studies, architec-
tural designs, and miscellanea which are
hung around the four sides of the open
corridor at the head of the grand stair-
case, turns naturally into the great gal-
lery, through whose wide entrance he
catches glimpses of the art treasures
within, so do we propose to conduct
the reader thither without further parley.
Here confront us specimens of almost
every subject legitimate to the art, and of
some not legitimate great pictures and
little pictures, grave pictures and gay
pictures, landscape and genre, history
and portraiture, beasts, birds, fishes,
and flowers. At either end of the room
hangs a full-length portrait of a gentle-
, man of note, which challenges the
visitor's attention, be he never so re-
luctant. No. 464, the late Governor
Gamble, of Missouri, by F. T. L. Boyle,
belongs to a family only too numerous
among us (we speak of the picture only),
and whose acquaintance one feels
| strongly inclined to cut in the present
instance. But that is impossible. There
I stands the familiar lay-figure in the old
1 conventional attitude, which we feel
; sure the governor never assumed of his
! own accord. The marble columns, the
I draped curtain, the library table and
the books all the stock accessories in
fine are there ; and either for the purpose
f pointing a moral, of instituting a
>ersonal comparison, or of calling atten-
ion to its workmanship, the governor
)landly directs your attention to a bust
)f Washington. He might be intending
;o do any one or all of these things so far
as the expression of his face affords an
indication. The idea on which the
portrait is painted is thoroughly false,
and ought to be by this time discarded ;
>ut year after year artists continue to
mint these modish, stiff, and ridiculous
igures, when with a little regard to
common sense they could produce por-
traits which all would recognize as nat-
ural and effective. Especially is this
the case with the present picture, which
evinces considerable executive ability.
The other portrait to which we alluded,
No. 412, a full length of Ex-Governor
Morgan, painted by Huntington, for the
Governor's Room in the City Hall, is
one of the least creditable works ever
produced by that artist, cold and repul-
sive in color, awkward in attitude, and
unsatisfactory as a likeness.
Occupying a less prominent position
than either of these pictures, but con-
spicuous enough to attract a large share
of attention, is the full-length portrait
of Archbishop McCloskey, No. 438, by G.
P. A. Healy. Mr. Healy, though never
very happy as a colorist and often
disposed to sacrifice characteristic ex-
pression to a passion for painting bro-
cades and draperies, has generally suc-
ceeded in imparting a refined air
to his portraits, however feeble they
might be as likenesses. The present
work is coarse in expression, and untrue
as a likeness. It is a mistake to sup-
pose that a free, rapid touch is adapted
to every style of face. The small and
delicate features of the archbishop,
with their shrewd, yet refined and
benevolent expression, cannot be dashed
olf with a few strokes of the brush, but
require careful painting, and, above
all, patient painting. Mr. Healy's
portrait of Dr. Brownson in last year's
exhibition, though of little merit as a
painting, was much better than this.
No. 448, a portrait of the late Peletiah
Perit, by Hicks, is one of the most
creditable specimens of that very un-
equal painter that we have recently seen.
Mr. Perit is sitting easily and naturally
in his library chair, and is not made to
assume the attitude of a posture-master
for the time being, in order that pos-
terity may know how he did not look in
life. The likeness is not remarkable;
but the accessories are carefully painted
and agreeably colored. No. 423, por-
trait of a lady, by R. M. Staigg, is ex-
actly what it assumes to be a lady.
In the refined air of the gentlewoman
which the artist has so happily conveyed,
he recalls some of the female heads of
Stuart, though in the present instance
he had no wide scope for the display
568
Miscellany.
of Stuart's charming gift of color. The
resemblance is more in the general sen-
timent than in any technical qualities.
Almost adjoining this work is another
portrait of a lady, No. 425, by W. H.
Furness, a forcible example of the natu-
ralistic school, of great solidity of texture
and purity of color. There is intelli-
gence, earnestness, and strength in this
face, and in the attitude, though the
latter, as well as the accessories, is stud-
iously simple. Baker and Stone con-
tribute some attractive portraits to this
room. No. 454, a lady, by the latter, is
a good specimen of a style neither strong
nor founded on true principles, but
which, on account of a certain conven-
tional gracefulness, which amply satis-
fies those who look no deeper than the
surface of the canvas, will always find
admirers. No. 458, a portrait of Capt.
Riblett, of the New York 7th Regiment,
by Baker, is a clever work, noticeable
for the easy pose of the figure, the clear
fresh coloring, and the firm handling.
Two other portrait pieces may be
noticed in this room, of very opposite
degrees of merit. They illustrate a
method of treating this branch of the
art w r hich has become popular of late
years, and which seeks to combine
portraiture vtithgenre; that is to say,
the figures represent real personages,
but to the uninitiated seem merely the
actors in some little domestic scene.
Any subject verging on the dramatic
is of course inappropriate to this method.
Thus the stiffness too often inseparable
from portraiture and its unsympathetic
character to a stranger are avoided, and
the "gentlemen" and "ladies" who
have monopolized so much space on
the walls awaken an interest in a wider
circle than when appearing simply in
their proper persons. No. 441, "A Pic-
nic in the Highlands," by Rossiter, pre-
sents us with portraits of some twenty
ladies and gentlemen, including a fair
proportion of generals, who have been
ruthlessly summoned from the pleasures
of the rural banquet or of social inter-
course to place themselves in attitudes
which a travelling photographer would
blush to copy, and be thus handed
down to posterity. In submitting to
this dreadful process Generals Warren
and Seymour afforded a new proof of
courage under adverse circumstances;
and one scarcely knows whether they de-
serve most to be pitied, or the artist to be
denounced for putting brave men in so
ridiculous a position. The picture is
simply disgraceful, and would naturally
be passed over in silence had it not been
hung in a position to challenge attention,
while many works of merit are placed
far above the line. Thirty or forty
years ago, when the academy was glad
to enrol painters of the calibre of Mr.
Rossiter among its members, such pro-
ductions were perhaps acceptable on
the line. But have hanging committees
no appreciation that there is such a
thing as progress ? The other picture
above alluded to is No. 435, " Claiming
the Shot," by J. G. Brown. It repre-
sents a hunting scene in the Adirondacks,
and though thinly painted, with no
merit in the landscape, and of a general
commonplace character, tells its story
with humor and point. We have not
the pleasure of knowing the party of
amateur hunters whose good-natured
altercation forms the subject of Mr.
Brown's picture, but their faces are
perfectly familiar to us, and may be
seen any day on Broadway, until the
shooting season summons them to a
purer atmosphere than our civic rulers
permit us to breathe. That good-look-
ing and well-dressed young man, with
the incipient aristocratic baldness, and
the languid, gentleman-like air, reclining
in a not ungraceful attitude on a stump,
and whose incredulous shake of the
head denotes that he will not resign his
claim to the successful shot is he not
a type of our jeunesse doree? And who
has not met the portly, florid gentleman,
his face beaming with good nature and
good living, who claps our young friend
on the back and advises him to give it
up? The earnest expression of the
half-kneeling hunter, clinching the ar-
gument as he identifies his bullet-hole
in the side of the slain buck, is well
rendered, as is also that of another
florid gentleman who looks on, a
quiet but highly amused witness of the
dispute. In the background are a party
of guides and boatmen engaged in
preparing supper for the disputants,
over whose perplexity they appear to
be indulging in a little quiet "chaff."
We imagine that the faces of the
principal actors in this group are good
likenesses, and we feel sure that to
see them thus depicted amidst scenes
suggesting healthful out-door sports will
be pleasant to their friends.
From portraits we pass naturally to
figure pieces, and first pause with aston-
Miscellany.
569
ishment before No. 394, "The Two
Marys at the Sepulchre," by R. W.
Weir. Here is a work which has doubt-
less cost much thought and patient
labor, but which is so hopelessly beneath
the dignity of the subject as to seem
almost like a caricature. When will
modern painters recognize that sacred
history is a branch of their art not to be
attempted except under very peculiar
and favorable circumstances ? that the
artist must feel and believe what he
paints, unless he wishes to degenerate
into insipidity ? We do not desire to
impugn Mr. Weir's sincerity, but a
work so cold, lifeless, and void of pro-
priety shows that he is either hiding his
light under a bushel, or is incapable of
feeling, perhaps we should say of reflect-
ing, the religious fervor which should
be associated with so awful a scene.
Had he even stuck to the conventional
forms and accessories which have sat-
isfied six centuries of Christian painters,
he might have produced something of
respectable mediocrity. But modern
realism would not permit this, and
j therefore the Virgin is represented as a
commonplace middle-aged woman, who
might as well be Mr. Weir's house-
keeper, and whose mawkish expression
is positively repulsive. Of St. Mary
i Magdalen the attitude, figure, and ex-
pression are not less inappropriate.
Surely these personages are raised above
i the level of ordinary women no be-
i liever in Christianity will deny that
i and cannot the painter so represent
them ? In other respects the picture
has little merit, being stiff and man-
nered in the drawing and of a mixture
of dull gray and salmon in its local
coloring.
The most conspicuous landscape in
this room is Bierstadt's immense view
of the Yo Semite Valley in California,
| No. 436, which occupies the place of
! honor in the middle of the south wall.
For months past the artist has been an-
nounced as at work on this picture, and
in view of the great merits recognized
in his "Rocky Mountains," public ex-
pectation has been raised to a high pitch.
But public expectation has been doomed
to disappointment this time, for the Yo
Semite is much inferior to its predeces-
sor, though, in several respects, both
works show the same characteristics in
equal perfection. They have breadth
of drawing, admirable perspective, and
convey an idea of the solemn grandeur
of nature in the virgin solitudes of the
west. But while in the older work Mr.
Bierstadt succeeded in forgetting for a
time the academic mannerisms which
he brought with him from Germany, in
the present one he has, unconsciously,
perhaps, lapsed into them again, and
produced something of great mechani-
cal excellence, and with about as much
nature as can be seen through the at-
mosphere of a Diisseldorf studio. Yel-
low appears to be his weakness, and the
canvas is accordingly suffused with yel-
low tints of every gradation of tone ; not
a luminous yellow which the eye may
rest upon with pleasure, but a hard, dus-
ty-looking pigment, without warmth, or
transparency, or depth; such a yellow
as never tinged the skies of California
or any other part of the world, but is
begotten of men who derive their ideas
of nature from copying pictures of land-
scapes, instead of going directly to na-
ture. The grass and the foliage which
receive the sunlight are of a dirty, yel-
lowish green, those in the shadow of the
great mountain ridge on the right of the
scene of a yellowish black, the very rocks
and water are yellow, and if Indians or
emigrants had been introduced into the
foreground, we feel convinced they
would have received the prevailing hue.
Only in the mountain peaks, checkered
with sunlight and shadow, does the
artist seem to escape from this thral-
dom to one color, and paint with force
and truthfulness. The picture is there-
fore a failure ; and yet viewed from the
head of the great stair-case, across the
open space, and through the. entrance
to the exhibition-room, it has a mellow-
ness of tone and truthfulness of per-
spective which almost induce us to re-
tract our criticism. Approach it, how-
ever, and the illusion vanishes. Another
Californian scene by Bierstadt, in this
room, No. 472, "the Golden Gate,"
shows the artist's predominant fault
even more conspicuously, and is not
only unworthy of him, but absolutely
unpleasant to look at. No. 487, "Among
the Alps," by Gignoux, is a solidly,
though coarsely painted work, and not-
withstanding a prevalent cold, leaden
tone, tolerably effective. The idea
of solemn repose is well conveyed, al-
though scarcely one of the details is
truthfully rendered. The water of the
mountain lake is not water, but an
opaque mass, the trees and rocks are
so slurred in the drawing as to be un-
570
New Publications.
recognizable by the naturalist, and the
shadows are unnecessarily deep and
sombre. Such painting, however, pleases
the multitude, who do not care much for
absolute truth, provided effect is ob-
tained ; and Mr. Gignoux's picture is
considered very fine indeed. No. 466,
" A Mountain Lake in the Blue Ridge,"
by Sonntag, is a fine piece of scene paint-
ing, and, if properly enlarged, would
form an excellent design for a stage
drop-curtain. As a representation of
nature it is false in nearly every detail.
And yet no landscape painter deals more
readily and dexterously with the exter-
nal forms of American forest scenery, or
perhaps has more neatness of touch ;
and none, it may be added, has wan-
dered further from the true path.
No. 465, " Greenwood Lake," by
Cropsey, is a pleasanter picture than
we commonly see from this artist, who,
to judge from his productions, scarcely
ever saw a cloudy day, and has a very
indifferent acquaintance with shadows.
Here is a still, serene summer afternoon,
in the foreground a newly-mown hay-
field, with a group of mowers and rak-
ers, just pausing from their labor, and
beyond the placid bosom of the lake.
Despite its somewhat monotonous uni-
formity of tone, the picture is pervaded
by an agreeable sentiment of repose,
characteristic of midsummer ; and as an
honest attempt to portray a pleasing
phase of nature it is welcome. No. 493,
" Afternoon in the Housatonic Valley,"
by J. B. Bristol, represents the period
of the day selected by Mr. Cropsey, but
the tone of his picture is lower and cool-
er, and the coloring more harmonious.
Its most noticeable feature is a noble
mountain in the background, whose
wooded sides afford fine contrasts of
light and shadow. No. 494, "A Foggy
Morning Coast of France," by Dana,
evinces more desire to catch the secret
of rich coloring than success. It is not
by scattering warm pigments about,
without regard to harmony or grada-
tion, that Mr. Dana can attain his end;
and so far as color is concerned he shows
no improvement upon his work of former
years. In composition he wields, as
usual, a graceful pencil, and his children
are pleasingly and naturally drawn.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
THE ILIAD OP HOMER RENDERED INTO
ENGLISH BLANK VERSE. By Edward,
Earl of Derby. 2 vols. 8vo., pp. 430
and 457. New York : Charles Scrib-
ner & Company.
There have been several translations
of the Iliad into English verse, but,
practically, only three have hitherto
been much in vogue. The first of these,
by Chapman, is a work of considerable
spirit, of a rude, fiery kind ; but it is un-
faithful, and has long been antiquated.
Pope's brilliant and thoroughly un-
Homeric version will always be popular
as a poem, though anything more widely
different from the original was probably
never published as a translation. Cow-
per is verbally accurate, but tame and
tiresome. A translation in blank verse,
by William Munford, of Richmond, Va.,
appeared in Boston some twenty years
ago, but does not seem to have attracted
the attention it deserved.
Lord Derby appears to have avoided
nearly all the defects and combined
nearly all the merits of his predecessors.
He has aimed " to produce a translation
and not a paraphrase ; not, indeed, such
a translation as would satisfy, with re-
gard to each word, the rigid require-
ments of accurate scholarship, but such
as would fairly and honestly give the
sense and spirit of every passage and of
every line, omitting nothing and ex-
panding nothing, and adhering as
closely as our language will allow,
even to every epithet which is cap-
able of being translated, and which has,
in the particular passage, anything of a
special and distinctive character." The
testimony of critics is almost unanimous
as to the success with which he has
carried out his design. His translation
is incomparably more faithful than
either of those we have mentioned.
He almost invariably perceives the deli-
cate shades of meaning which Pope was
New Publications.
571
not scholar enough to notice, and he is
often wonderfully happy in expressing
them in English. His language is dig-
nified and pure ; his style animated and
idiomatic ; and his verse has more of
the majestic flow of Homer than that
of any previous translator. He has pro-
duced by all odds the best version of
the Iliad in the English language.
That a statesman should have suc-
ceeded in a task of this sort, where
Pope and Cowper failed, is strange in-
deed. But let our readers judge for
themselves: we give first a somewhat
celebrated passage from Pope the
bivouac of the Trojans, at the end of
the eighth book premising that Pope
prefixes to it four lines which have no
equivalent in the Greek, and which are
not only an interpolation but a positive
injury to the sense :
" The troops exulting sat in order round,
And beaming fires illumined all the
ground.
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of
night,
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred
light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep
serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn
scene ;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumbered gild the glowing
pole, .
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head ;
j Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect
rise,
! A flood of glory bursts from all the skies ;
I The conscious swains, rejoicing in the
sight,
' ilye the blue vault, and bless the useful
light.
So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,
And lighten glimmering Xanthus with
their rays:
The long reflections of the distant fires
Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the
spires ;
L thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,
\.nd shoot a shady lustre o'er the field,
^all fifty guards each flaming pile attend,
Vhose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes
send,
joud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps
of corn,
nd ardent warriors wait the rising morn."
This is not a faultless passage, but no
ne can help admiring the felicitous
nagery, the vivid word-painting, the
wonderful harmony of the versification.
Yet what reader of Homer will hesitate
to prefer Lord Derby's simpler and al-
most strictly literal rendering ?
" Full of proud hopes, upon the pass of
war,
All night they camped ; and frequent
blazed their fires.
As when in heaven, around the glittering
moon
The stars shine bright amid the breathless
air;
And every crag, and every jutting peak
Stands boldly forth, and every forest glade ;
Eo'n to the gates of heaven is opened wide
The boundless sky ; shines each particular
star
Distinct ; joy fills the gazing shepherd's
heart.
So bright, so thickly scattered o'er the
plain,
Before the walls of Troy, between the ships
And Xanthus' stream, the Trojan watch-
fires blazed.
A thousand fires burnt brightly ; and
round each
Sat fifty warriors in the ruddy glare ;
With store of provender before them laid,
Barley and rye, the tethered horses stood
Beside the cars, and waited for the morn."
Take now the description of Vulcan
serving the gods at a banquet, from the
conclusion of the first book. Cowper gives
it as follows :
" So he ; then Juno smiled, goddess white-
armed,
And smiling still, from his unwonted hand
Received the goblet. He from right to
left*
Rich nectar from the beaker drawn, alert
Distributed to all the powers divine.
Heaven rang with laughter inextinguish-
able,
Peal after peal, such pleasure all conceived
At sight of Vulcan in his new employ.
So spent they in festivity the day,
And all were cheered ; nor was Apollo's
harp
Silent, nor did the muses spare to add
Responsive melody of vocal sweets.
But when the sun's bright orb had now
declined,
Each to his mansion, wheresoever built
By the same matchless architect, withdrew.
Jove also, kindler of the fires of heaven,
His couch ascending as at other times
* Just the reverse, /ram left to right,
Cowper's blunder is serious, because to proceed
from right to left was looked upon by the Greeks
as unluckj.
572
New Publications.
When gentle sleep approached him, slept
serene,
With golden-sceptred Juno by his side."
Cowper is better than Pope here ; but
Lord Derby is the most literal and by
far the best of the three. His lines have
a dignified simplicity not unworthy the
father of poetry himself; yet the trans-
lation is nearly verbatim :
' Thus as he spoke, the white-armed god-
dess smiled,
And smiling from his hand received the
cup,
Then to th immortals all in order due
He ministered, and from the flagon poured
The luscious nectar; while among the
gods
Rose laughter irrepressible, at sight
Of Vulcan hobbling round the spacious
hall.
Thus they till sunset passed the festive
hours ;
Nor lacked the banquet aught to please
the sense,
Nor sound of tuneful lyre, by Phoebus
touched,
Nor muses' voice, who in alternate strains
Responsive sang ; but when the sun was
set,
Each for his h'ome departed, where for each
The cripple Vulcan, matchless architect,
With wondrous skill a noble house had
reared.
To his own couch, where he was wont
of old,
When overcome by gentle sleep, to rest,
Olypian Jove ascended ; there he slept,
And by his side the golden-throned queen."
If our space permitted we might easily
extend these comparisons, and show that
Lord Derby excels other translators in
every phase of his undertaking in the
rude shock of war, the touching emo-
tions of human sentiment, the debates
of the gods, and the beauties and phe-
nomena of nature. We cannot refrain,
however, from quoting a few passages
of conspicuous excellence.
Hector's assault on the ships in the
fifteenth book is thus spiritedly ren-
dered :
" Fiercely he raged, as terrible as Mars
With brandished spear ; or as a raging fire
'Mid the dense thickets on the mountain
side.
The foam was on his lips ; bright flashed
his eyes
Beneath his awful brows, and terribly
Above his temples waved amid the fray
The helm of Hector ; Jove himself from
heaven
His guardian hand extending, him alone
With glory crowning 'mid the host of men,
But short his term of glory ; for the day
Was fast approaching, when, with Pallas'
aid
The might of Peleus' son should work his
doom.
Oft he essayed to break the ranks, where'er
The densest throng and noblest arms he
saw;
But strenuous though his efforts, all were
vain ;
They, massed in close array, his charge
withstood ;
Firm as a craggy rock, upstanding high
Close by the hoary sea, which meets un-
moved
The boist'rous currents of the whistling
winds,
And the big waves that bellow round its
So stood unmoved the Greeks, and undis-
mayed.
At length, all blazing in his arms, he
sprang
Upon the mass; so plunging down as
when
On some tall vessel, from beneath the
clouds
A giant billow, tempest-nursed, descends :
The deck is drenched in foam ; the stormy
wind
Howls in the shrouds ; th' affrighted sea-
men quail
In fear, but little way from death re-
moved ;*
So quailed the spirit in every Grecian
breast."
In book sixth Hector is accosted by
his mother on his return from the bat-
tle-field. She offers him wine, where-
with to pour a libation to Jove and
then to refresh himself. Lord Darby's
translation of his answer is very neat
and very close to the original :
" No, not for me, mine honored mother,
pour
The luscious wine, lest thou unnerve my
limbs
* We are particularly struck with the excel- 1
lence of Lord Derby's translation of this mag-
nificent image when we contrast it with Mr.,
Munford's :
" As on a ship a wat'ry mountain falls,
Driven from the clouds by all the furious winds ;
With foam the deck is covered, pitiless
The deafening tempest roars among the shrouds ;l
The sailors, whirled along by raging waves.
Tremble, confused and faint ; immediate death j
Appears before them."
Yet, no less an authority than the late Presi '
dent Felton, of Harvard, pronounced Munfon
the best of all English metrical versions of the
Iliad,
New Publications.
573
And make me all my wonted prowess lose.
The ruddy wine I dare not pour to Jove
With hands unwashed ; nor to the cloud-
girt son
Of Saturn may the voice of prayer ascend
From one with blood bespattered and de-
filed."
We close our extracts with a few lines
from book third. Priam, sitting with
"the sage chiefs and councillors of Troy"
at the Scaean gate watching the hostile
armies, thus addresses Helen :
" 'Come here, my child, and sitting by my
side,
From whence thou canst discern thy for-
mer lord,
His kindred and his friends (not thee I
blame,
But to the gods I owe this woful war),
Tell me the name of yonder mighty chief
Among the Greeks a warrior brave and
strong :
Others in height surpass him ; but my eyes
A form so noble never yet beheld,
Nor so august ; he moves, a king indeed.'
To whom in answer, Helen, heav'nly
fair :
' With rev'rence, dearest father, and with
shame
I look on thee : oh, would that I had died
That day when hither with thy son I came,
And left my husband, friends, and darling
child,
And all the loved companions of my youth :
That I died not, with grief I pine away.
But to thy question ; I will tell thee true ;
Yon chief is Agamemnon, Atreus' son,
Wide-reigning, mighty monarch, ruler
good,
nd valiant warrior ; in my husband's
name,
jost as I am, I called him brother once.' "
LIFE OF MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO. By
William Forsyth, M.A., Q.C., author
of " Hortensius," " Napoleon at St.
Helena and Sir Hudson Lowe," " His-
tory of Trial by Jury," etc., and late
fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.
Two volumes, 8vo., pp. 364 and 341.
New York : Charles Scribner & Co.
JMr. Forsyth has a very correct notion
f the business of a biographer. His
t>ject has been not only to tell Cicero's
istory but to describe his private life
o make us acquainted with minute de-
ails of his domestic habits, and to repre-
ent him as far as possible in the same
anner as he would a man of the present
cneration. " The more we accustom
urselves," he says, "to regard the
ancients as persons of like passions as
ourselves, and familiarize ourselves with
the idea of them as fathers, husbands,
friends, and gentlemen, the better we shall
understand them." He has therefore
carefully gathered up from the letters
and other writings of the Roman orator
those little bits of personal allusion,
domestic history, and unconsidered
trifles which indicate, more clearly
sometimes than important actions, the
bent of one's mind or the inmost
character of one's heart; and he ha8
arranged them with great skill, and a
good eye for effect. He shows but slight
literary polish ; his style is not elegant,
nor always clear, nor even dignified ;
but he has a logical way of putting
things, a happy knack of arrangement,
and a habit of keeping to the point and
throwing aside superfluous matter, for
which we dare say he is indebted to his
training as a pleader in the courts. As
a lawyer, too, he is specially qualified to
give the history of the causes in which
Cicero's orations were delivered ; and this
he does better than we have ever seen
it done before, explaining the narrative
by copious illustrations from modern
jurisprudence. But if in some respects
he writes like a lawyer, in another very
important point his practice as an advo-
cate seems not to have affected him. He
is thoroughly impartial. He sums up
Cicero's character more like a judge
than a queen's counsel. He admires
him but not blindly ; holding the safe
middle path between the excessive ven-
eration shown by Middleton and Nie-
buhr and the unreasonable animosity
of Drumann and Mommsen. He admits
that Cicero was weak, timid, and irreso-
lute ; but these defects were counter-
balanced by the display, at critical pe-
riods of his life, of the very opposite
qualities. In the contest with Catiline
and the final struggle with Antony he
was as firm and brave as a man need be.
One principal cause of his irresolution
was an anxiety to do what was right.
If he knew that he had acted wrongly,
he instantly felt all the agony of remorse.
His standard of morality was as high as
it was perhaps possible to elevate it by
the mere light of nature. The chief
fault of his moral character was a want
of sincerity. In a different sense of the
words from that expressed by St. Paul,
he wished to become all things to all
men, if by any means he might win
some. His private correspondence and
574
New Publications.
his public speeches were often in direct
contradiction with each other as to the
opinions he expressed of his contempo-
raries. His foible was vanity. He was
never tired of speaking of himself. As
a philosopher he had no pretensions to
originality, but he was the first to make
known to his countrymen the philosophy
of Greece, which until he appeared may
be said to have spoken to the Romans
in an unknown tongue. He adhered to
no particular sect, but affected chiefly
the school of the new academy. He was
a firm believer in a providence and a
future state. As an orator his faults are
coarseness in invective, exaggeration in
matter, and prolixity in style. " Many
of his sentences are intolerably long,
and he dwells upon a topic with an ex-
haustive fulness which leaves nothing
to the imagination. The pure gold of
his eloquence is beaten out too thin,
and what is gained in surface is lost in
solidity and depth."
The position of Cicero with respect to
the political parties into which the re-
public was divided in his time is not so
well described as his personal character.
While Mr. Forsyth displays industry and
good judgment in collecting and ar-
ranging the little traits which go to make
up a life-like portrait, he lacks the com-
prehensive and philosophical view with
which Merivale has recently surveyed
the same period of history. Forsyth
writes as one who, having mingled with
the busy crowd in the forum, should come
away and tell us what he had seen and
heard, and describe the men with whom
he had talked. Merivale surveys the
scene from a distance ; and though his
perception of individual objects is less
distinct than Forsyth's, his view is
broader and takes in better the relative
situations and proportions of the various
features spread out before him. Both
are excellent in their kind : the histo-
rian is the more instructive, the bio-
grapher the more entertaining.
BEATRICE. By Julia Kavanagh, author
of "Nathalie," "Adele," "Queen
Mab," etc., etc. Three volumes in
one. 12mo., pp. 520. New York : D.
Appleton & Company.
The readers of " Adele" and " Nath-
alie" will hardly be prepared for what
awaits them in the novel now upon our
table. Miss Kavanagh has won a high
reputation by her delicate pictures of
quiet home life, and thorough analyses
of female character. But lately the
prevailing thirst for sensational stories
appears to have enticed her away from
the old path, and led her to attempt a
style of novel which will no doubt
please the majority of readers better
than her earlier efforts, though as a
work of art it is inferior to them. It is
by no means however a merely sensation
story. The heroine is painted with all
Miss Kavanagh's accustomed clearness
and skill ; although the uninter-
rupted series of plots and counterplots,
the dramatic terseness of the dialogue,
and the effectiveness of the situations,
tempt one to forget sometimes, in the
absorbing interest of the narrative, the
higher merit of vivid and truthful
drawing of character. That of Beatrice
is charmingly conceived, and admirably
worked out, recalling those delightful
heroines who first gave Miss Kavanagh
a hold upon the popular heart. Bea-
trice is a spirited, proud, natural, warm-
hearted girl, born in poverty and fallen
heiress unexpectedly to great wealth.
Her guardian and step-father, Mr. Ger-
voise, subjects her to innumerable
wrongs in order that he may get
possession of the property. Poison even
and a mad-house are hinted at. The
book is principally a narrative of battle
between the defenceless girl and this
villain. Our readers who may wish to
know how the struggle ends are referred
to the book itself; they will have no
reason to regret the time they may
spend in reading it.
GRACE MORTON ; OR, THE INHERITANCE.
A Catholic Tale. ByM. L.M. 12mo.,
pp. 324.
THE CONFESSORS OF CONNAUGHT; OB,
THE TENANTS OF A LORD BISHOP. A
Tale of our Times. By M. L. M.,
author of Grace Morton, etc. 12mo.,
pp.319. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cun-
ningham. New York : D. & J. Sad-
lier & Company.
These are both religious stories. The
first is inscribed to the Catholic youth
of America, and the scene is laid in
Pennsylvania. The second is founded
upon the evictions in 1860, in the parish
of Partry, Ireland, of a number of ten-
ants of the Protestant bishop of Tuam,
who had refused to send their children
to proselytizing schools. The well-
known missionary, Father Lavelle, is a
New Publications.
575
prominent figure in the book, slightly
disguised under the name of Father
Dillon.
A GENERAL HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC
CHURCH : FROM THE COMMENCEMENT
OF THE CHRISTIAN ERA UNTIL THE
PRESENT TIME. By M. I'Abbe" J. E.
Darras. First American from the last
French edition. With an Introduction
and Notes, by the Most Rev. M. J.
Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of Balti-
more. Numbers 6, 7, and 8. 8vo.
pp. (each) 48. New York : P. O'Shea.
We are pleased to learn that two va 1 '
uable appendices are to be added to th e
American translation of this important
work ; one by an eminent Jesuit on the
history of the Church in Ireland, the
other by the Rev. C. I. White, D.D.,
on the history of the Church in America.
The English version of the book ought
thus to be far superior to the original
French. The numbers appear with great
promptness, and present the same neat
and tasteful appearance which we took
occasion to praise in noticing some of
the earlier parts.
LIFE OF THE CURE D'ARS. From the
French of the Abbe" Alfred Monnin.
12mo., pp. 355. Baltimore: Kelly &
Piet.
It is only six years since Jean Baptist
Marie Vianney, better known as the Cure"
of Ars, closed his mortal life in that little
village near Lyons which will probably
be henceforth for ever associated with his
name. " A common consent," says Dr.
Manning, in a preface to the book before
us, " seems to have numbered him, even
while living, among the servants of
God ; and an expectation prevails that
the day is not far off when the Church
will raise him to veneration upon her
altars." He was the son of a farmer of
)ardilly, near Lyons, and appears to
ve inherited virtue from both his pa-
ents. God gave him neither graces of
erson nor gifts of intellect. His face
was pale and thin, his stature low, his
?ait awkward, his manner shy and ti-
id, his whole air common and unat-
ractive. His education was so defec-
ive that his teachers hesitated to recom-
mend him for ordination. But the want
>f human learning seems to have been
upplied by supernatural illumination.
When he went to Ars, virtue was
little known there. To say that
he speedily wrought an entire reforma-
tion is but a faint expression of the
extraordinary effect of his ministry.
Drunkenness and quarreling were soon
unknown. At the sound of the mid-
day Angelus the laborers would stop in
their work to recite the Ave Maria with
uncovered head. Men and women used
to repair to the church after their
work was done, and often came again
to pray at two or three o'clock in the
morning. The cure" himself, it may be
said, never left the church except to dis-
charge some function of his ministry, to
take one scanty meal a day, of bread
or potatoes, and to sleep two or three
hours. In the seventh year of his
ministry he founded an asylum for or-
phan or destitute girls which he called
"The Providence." It is believed that
he was miraculously assisted in provid-
ing food and clothing for these poor
children. Once the stock of flour was
exhausted, except enough to make two
loaves. "Put your leaven into the
little flour you have," said the cur6 to
the baker, " and to-morrow go on with
your baking as usual." "The next
day," says this person, " I know not
how it happened, but as I kneaded, the
dough seemed to rise and rise under
my fingers; I could not put in the
water quick enough ; the more I put in,
the more it swelled and thickened, so
that I was able to make, with a hand-
ful of flour, ten large loaves of from
twenty to twenty-two pounds each, as
much, in fact, as could have been made
with a whole sack of flour."
It was in consequence partly of cir-
cumstances of this nature connected
with the Providence, and partly of the
reputation of M. Vianney as a spiritual
director, that a stream of pilgrims set in
toward Ars that has continued to flow
ever since. Before the close of his life,
as many as eighty thousand persons are
said to have visited him in a single
year, by a single route. Most of them
came to confess ; many to be cured of
deformities or disease ; others to ask ad-
vice in special difficulties. The number
of cures effected at his hands was pro-
digious. His labors in the confessional
were almost beyond belief; for thirty
years he spent in this severest of all the
duties of a parish priest sixteen or
eighteen hours a day. Penitents were
content to await their turn in the church
all night, all the next day even two
576
New Publications.
days. Devout persons were so eager to
get relics of him during his life, that
whenever he laid aside his hat or his
surplice the garment was immediately
appropriated. So after a time he never
put on a hat, and never took off his
surplice.
It seemed at last that his humility
could no longer endure the veneration
that was paid him. He resolved to re-
tire to a quiet place, and spend the rest
of his life in prayer. He attempted to
escape secretly by night ; but one of
his assistant priests discovered his pur-
pose, and contrived to delay him, until
the alarm was sounded through the vil-
lage. The inhabitants were roused at
the first stroke. The clangor of the bell
was soon mingled with confused cries
of " M. le cure" ! " The women crowded
the market-place and prayed aloud in
the church ; the men armed themselves
with whatever came first to hand ; guns,
forks, sticks, and axes. M. Vianney
made his way with difficulty to the
street door, but the villagers would not
let him open it. "He went from one
door to another," says his old servant,
" without getting angry ; but I think
he was weeping." At last he reached
the street, and stood still for a moment,
considering how to escape. His assist-
ant made a last effort to persuade him
to remain. The populace fell at his
feet, and cried, with heart-rending sobs,
"Father, let us finish our confession;
do not go without hearing us ! " And
thus saying, they carried rather than
led him to the church. He knelt before
the altar and wept for a long time.
Then he went quietly into his confes-
sional as if nothing had happened.
We would gladly quote the whole of
the beautiful scene of which we have at-
tempted to give an outline; but our
space forbids. We must pass over also
the graphic description of the abbess
death and funeral, as well as the narra-
tive of the extraordinary sufferings
which made his life one long purgatory.
Let our readers get the book, and they
will find it as interesting as a romance.
THE LIFE OF JOHN MARY DECALOGNE,
STUDENT IN THE UNIVERSITY OF
PARIS. Translated from the French.
18mo., pp. 162. Baltimore : Kelly &
Piet.
This edifying narrative of the short
and almost angelic career of a school-
boy who died in the odor of sanctity,
in his seventeenth year, was a great
favorite with our fathers and grand-
fathers, but we believe has long been
out of print. Its re-publication is a
praiseworthy adventure, which we hope
will have the success it deserves. The
book is especially recommended to lads
preparing for their first communion.
The New Path, for June (New York :
James Miller, publisher), is devoted
wholly to the fortieth annual exhibition
of the National Academy of Design.
Our spicy little contemporary has no
mercy on the artists.
Trubner's American and Oriental Liter-
ary Record, the first number of which
was published in London last March, is
" a monthly register of the most impor-
tant works published in North and
South America, in India, China, and the
British Colonies ; with occasional notes
on German, Dutch, Danish, French,
Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Rus-
sian books." We believe it is the first
systematic attempt to bring the
young literature of America and the
East before the public of Europe. We
commend it to the attention of our
book- writing and publishing friends.
The American News Company issue
a little pamphlet on The Russo- Greek
Church, by a former resident of Russia,.
Its aim is to expose the absurdity of the
attempts at union between the Russian
and Protestant Episcopal Churches.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
History of England from the fall of Wolsey to
the death of Elizabeth. By James Anthony
Froude, M.A. New York : Charles Scribner
& Company.
The History of the Protestant Reformation, etc.
By M. J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of Balti-
more. Fourth revised edition. Baltimore:
John Murphy & Company.
Ceremonial for the use of the Catholic Churches
in the United States of America. Third edi-
tion, revised and enlarged. Baltimore: Kelly
& Piet.
Meditations and Considerations for a Retreat of
One Day in each Month. Compiled from the
writings of Fathers of the Society of Jesus.
Baltimore : Kelly & Piet,
The Year of Mary. Translated from the French
of the Rev. M. d'Arville, Apostolic Prothono-
tary. Edited and in part translated by Mrs. J.
Sadlier. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham.
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD,
VOL. L, NO. 5. AUGUST, 1865.
Translated from Etudes Keligieuses, Historiques, et Litteraires, par des Peres de la Compagnie de
Jesus.
DRAMATIC MYSTERIES OF THE FIFTEENTH AND SIX-
TEENTH CENTURIES.
BY A. CAHOUK, S. J.
THE drama of the Middle Ages
ends with a sort of theatrical explo-
sion. Everything disappears at once,
under all forms and on every side. It
included, like that of earlier times,
"mysteries" drawn from the Old and
the New Testament ; "miracles" and
plays borrowed from legends, trage-
dies inspired by the acts of the mar-
tyrs and by chivalric romances, by an-
icient history and by modern history ;
j" moralities " whose allegorical imper-
sonations represent the vices and the
prtues ; pious comedies like those of
Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Na-
jearre, upon the Nativity of Jesus
Christ, upon the Adoration of the
iagi, upon the Holy Family in the
isert ; profane comedies like those of
e " Two Daughters " and the " Two
r ives " by the same princess ; ludi-
ous farces like that of Patelin the
dvocate ; licentious farces ad nau-
am; finally, the " Soties," satirical
ays in which the Olercs de la Basoche
id the Enfants sans souci renewed
e^ audacity of Aristophanes without
viving his talent. There were repre-
ntations for all solemn occasions,
>r (he patron-feasts of cities and par-
ishes, for the assemblies of a whole
country, for the " joyous entry " of
kings and princes. There were also
scenic entremets for banquets ; and
nearly all these displays were made
with proportions so gigantic, with so
much pomp and expense, that every-
body must have participated in them,
priests and magistrates, lords and citi-
zens, carpenters and minstrels. The
representation of a " mystery " became
the affair of a whole city, of a whole
province. The hangings of the thea-
tre, the costume of the actors, exhib-
ited the most beautiful tapestries, the
richest dresses, the most precious jew-
els of the neighboring chateaux, and
even the ornaments of the churches
copes for the eternal Father, dalmat-
ics for the angels.
One of our most ingenious and
learned critics, whom it is impossible not
to cite frequently when writing upon
the dramatic poetry of the sixteenth
century, M. Sainte-Beuve, in speak-
ing of this prodigious fecundity, has
remarked, that " when things are
close to their end they often have a
final season of remarkable brilliancy
it is their autumn their vintage;
578
Dramatic Mysteries of the
or it is like the last brilliant discharge
in a piece of fireworks." Perhaps
there is no better illustration of this
phenomenon than that of a pyrotechnic
display, which multiplying its jets of
light, and illuminating the entire hori-
zon at the very moment of its extinc-
tion, disappears into the night and
leaves naught behind but its smoke.
What is there left, in fact, after all
this theatrical effervescence ? One
natural and truly French inspiration
alone the immortal farce of Patelin,
dating from the second half of the
fifteenth century, and revived at the
commencement of the eighteenth by
Brueys and Palaprat.
However, despite its poverty, this
dramatic epoch merits our close atten-
tion. In giving us a picture of the pub-
lic amusements of our forefathers, it
will indicate, on the one hand, the na-
ture of their morality and their literary
tastes, and on the other, the causes of
the decline of the old Christian drama
at the verge of the revolution which de-
livered over the French stage to the
ideas and the philosophy of paganism.
If we wished to give a catalogue of the
productions of the fifteenth and the six-
teenth centuries, we might easily com-
pile it from the history of the brothers
Parfait, the " Recherches " of Beau-
<champs, and the " Bibliotheque" of the
.Duke de la Valliere. Such a task,
however abridged, would require a
long chapter, and we neither have
time to undertake it nor are we sorry
~at being obliged to omit it. Passing
straight to our goal, let us occupy our-
selves with the tragic dramas alone,
.and even here we must put bounds to
our inquiry under penalty of losing
ourselves in endless and uninteresting
details. All that which character-
izes the Melpomene of the fifteenth
.and the commencement of the six-
teenth centuries is found in the two
great works, "The Mystery of the
Passion," and " The Mystery of the
.Acts of the Apostles." In these, and
we may almost say in these only,
shall we study its power and its ori-
ginality.
"The Mystery of the Passion" is
the work of two Angevin poets,
named alike Jehan Michel. The
first, born toward the end of the four-
teenth century, after having been a
canon and at the same time secre-
tary of Queen Yolande of Aragon,
mother of the good King Rene, Count
of Anjou and of Provence, became
bishop of Angers, February 19, 1438,
and died in the odor of sanctity, Sep-
tember 12, 1447. The second Jehan
Michel, a very eloquent and scientific
doctor, as la Croix du Maine informs
us, was the chief physician of King
Charles VIII., and died in Piedmont,
August 22, 1493. He edited and
printed, in 1486, the work of his name-
sake.
This mystery was played at Metz
and at Paris in 1437, and at Angers
three years afterward upon the com-
mencement of the episcopacy of its
first author. It is a gigantic trilogy,
into which are fused and co-ordinated
all the dramatic representations bor-
rowed for three centuries from the
canonical and apocryphal gospels.
"It is," remarks M. Douhaire, in
his eleventh lecture on the History of
Christian Poetry before the Renais-
sance, "it is a great central sea into
which flow all the streams of a com-
mon poetic region. From the refresh-
ing pictures of the patriarchal life of
Joachim and Ann to the sublime
scenes of the resurrection of Jesus
Christ and the saints of the ancient
law, all, or nearly all, that has caught
our eyes before is here found anew,
sometimes as a reminiscence, some-
times in the lifelike and spirited form
of a dialogue. The legend of the
death of the Holy Virgin, the legends
of the apostles, of Pilate, and of
the Wandering Jew, have alone been
omitted; whether because they ap-
peared to the authors of the mystery
to break the theological unity of their
work, or because their length exclud
ed them from a composition already
swollen far beyond reasonable limits."
The mystery opens with a council
held in heaven upon the redemption
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
579
)f the human race. On the one side
Mercy and Peace, in allegorical char-
acter, implore pardon for our first pa-
rents and their posterity. On the other,
Justice and Truth demand the eter-
nal condemnation of the guilty. To
conciliate them, there must be found
a man without sin who will freely die
for the salvation of all. They go forth
to seek him on the earth. To the
council of heaven succeeds that of hell.
Lucifer in terror convokes his demons
to oppose the redemption of the world.
During their tumultuous deliberation
the four virtues return in despair to
heaven. They have failed to find the
generous and pure victim necessary
for expiation. The Son of God offers
himself, and the mystery of the incar-
nation is decreed.* St. Joachim es-
pouses St. Ann, and Mary is born of
the union so long sterile. Then fol-
lows the scenic display of all the leg-
endary and gospel narratives of her
education, her marriage with St. Jo-
seph, the incarnation of the Word, the
birth of Jesus Christ, and all the won-
ders of his infancy up to his dispute
j in the temple with the doctors. It is
at this point that the great drama com-
pletes its first part, which is entitled
| " The Mystery of the Conception." It
i is adapted, after the style of the time,
for ninety-seven persons.
The second part, which has given
its name to the entire drama, is the
"Mystery of the Passion of Jesus
|Christ." It is divided into four "days,"
each of which has its appropriate ac-
tors. The first day, which is for
eighty-seven persons, extends from the
reaching of St. John the Baptist, in
le wilderness, to his beheading. The
econd requires a hundred persons. It
emprises the sermons and miracles of
ur Saviour, and ends with the resur-
ection of Lazarus. The third com-
nences with the triumphal entry of
esus Christ into Jerusalem and ends
ith Annas and Caiphas. This day
for eighty-seven persons, like the
* This is the idea of St. Bernard dramatized.
nfesto Annunciationis B. M. 7. Sermoprimus^
o. 9 ; vol. i., p. 974.
first. The fourth requires five hund-
red. It is the representation of all
the scenes in the tribunal of Pilate
and at the court of Herod, at Calvary
and at the holy sepulchre.
The third part, entitled "The Resur-
rection," represents Jesus Christ mani-
festing himself to his disciples in dif-
ferent places after he has risen from
the tomb ; then his ascension and en-
trance into heaven in the midst of con-
certs of angels ; and finally, the de-
scent of the Holy Spirit upon the apos-
tles assembled together in an upper
chamber. We have two different
forms of this third part. One is in
three days ; the other in one. The
former has only forty-five persons ;
one hundred and forty are needed for
the latter.
These three dramas, of which the
trilogy of the Passion is composed, were
played for a century and a half, some-
times together, sometimes separately.
When represented at Paris, in 1437,
at the entrance of Charles VII., they
closed with a spectacle of the final
judgment.* There are even found
amplifiers who carry it back as far a *
the origin of the world. It will be dif-
ficult to say how much time the per-
formance of this agglomeration of dra-
mas required. Some idea, however,
can be formed from a representation
of the Old Testament, arranged about
1500, which set out with the creation
of the angels and did not arrive at
the nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ
until after twenty-two days. Was the
trilogy of the two Angevin poets
sometimes preceded by this immense
prelude? We cannot tell. But the
length of the spectacle would render
this conjecture incredible, since the
" Triumphant Mystery of the Acts of
the Apostles," played at Bruges, in
1536, lasted forty days, morning and
afternoon. These spectacles com-
* "All along the great Rue St. Denis," accord-
ing to Alain Cnartier, ''to the distance of a stone's
throw on both sides, were erected scaffoldings of
great and costly construction, where were played
The Annunciation of Our Lady, The Nativity of
our Lord, his Passion, his Resurrection, Pente-
cost, and the Last Judgment, the whole passing
off quite well." (Beauchamps' Beclierches sur
ires de France, t. i., p. 254-256).
580
Dramatic Mysteries of the
menced ordinarily at nine in the morn-
ing. Then at eleven o'clock the people
went to dinner, and returned again
*wo hours after.
This drama, thirty or forty times
onger than our longest classical tra-
gedies, contains, at the least, sixty-six
thousand verses. It was printed for
the first time, in 1537, in two volumes
folio, and proved its popularity by three
different editions within four years.
The emphasis of its title attests, more-
over, the immense success of its repre-
sentation at Bruges the year before.
It was the composition of two brothers,
Arnoul and Simon Greban, born at
Compiegne. Arnoul, by whom it was
conceived and commenced about 1450,
was a canon of Mans. He died be-
fore he had finished versifying it. Si-
mon, monk of St. Riquier, in Pon-
thieu, completed it during the reign of
Charles VII., and, consequently, be-
fore 1461. Their dramatic composi-
tion is divided into nine books. They
have left to the " directors " of the
spectacle the care of dividing it into
more or fewer days, according to cir-
cumstances.
The first book commences with the
assembling of the disciples in the up-
per chamber, and represents the elec-
tion of St. Matthias, the descent of the
Holy Spirit, and the earlier preaching
of the apostles when braving the per-
secutions of the synagogue. The
second book extends from the martyr-
dom of St. Stephen to the conversion
of St. Paul. The third is filled with
the legendary traditions concerning the
apostleship of St Thomas in India.
The fourth brings back the spectacle
to Jerusalem, where Herod dies after
having cut off the head of St. James
the Greater ; then the scene is trans-
ferred to Antioch, where St. Peter, at
the solicitation of Simon the Magician,
is put into prison, and obtains his liber-
ty by restoring to life the son of the
prince of that city who had been dead
ten years. The fifth book contains,
first, the preaching of St. Paul at
Athens, where he converts St. Denis,
the future apostle of France ; then, the
death of the Blessed Virgin, at which
the apostles are present, brought
together suddenly by a miracle. The
sixth book is consecrated to the apos-
tleship and martyrdom of St. Matthew
in Ethiopia, of St. Barnabas in the
Isle of Cyprus, of St. Simon and St.
Jude at Babylon, and, finally, of St.
Bartholomew, whom Prince Astyages
flayed alive. In the seventh book, St.
Thomas ends his apostleship in India,
slain by the sword; St. Matthias is
stoned to death by the Jews ; St. An-
drew is crucified by the provost of
Achaia ; the Emperor Claudius dies
and Nero succeeds him. In the eighth
book, St. Philip and St. James the
Less suffer martyrdom at Hierapolis.
The two princes combine with the
apostles against Simon the Magician
and bring his miracles to naught. St
Paul recalls Patroclus to life, who had
fallen from a high window while sleep-
ing over the apostolic sermon. In the
ninth and last book, Simon the Magi-
cian, availing himself of his most pow-
erful enchantments in order to deceive
the Romans, having caused himself to
be lifted into the air by the demons,
falls at the voice of St. Peter and is
killed. Nero avenges him by impris-
oning St. Peter and St. Paul puts to
death Proces and Martinian, their
gaolers, whom they had converted and
by whom they were set at liberty
arrests the two apostles anew, and
condemns one to be crucified, the other
to be beheaded. Then, terrified by
the successive apparitions of the two
martyrs, who announce to him the
vengeance of heaven, he invokes the
demons, demands their counsel, kills
himself, and the devils bear away his
soul to hell.
When we add that each book is
filled with striking conversions, that-
some terminate with the baptism of a
whole city or a whole people, and that
the apostles insure the triumph of the
gospel even in death, a sufficient idea
will have been given of the historic
procession and the moral unity of this
drama, or rather of this epic worked
up in dialogue and arranged for the
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
581
stage. But in order to get a clearer
notion of its theatrical power and poetic
features, it is necessary to direct our
attention, in the first place, to the in-
terest of the legends which are here
blended constantly with history ; and,
in the second place, to the fairy art and
the magnificence of the spectacle.
Here, for instance, is an example of
the legendary poetry interwoven in the
piece. We borrow it from the third
book. Gondoforus, king of India,
wishes to build a magnificent palace ;
but he is in want of architects, and
therefore sends his provost Abanes to
Rome in search of one. The mes-
I senger mounts at once on a dromedary :
I he is followed by a servant leading a
j camel. In three and a half hours they
'are at Caesarea in Palestine, where
jthe apostle St. James is dwelling. St.
'Michael had descended from heaven
to anticipate the arrival of Abanes, and
icommands the apostle, in the name of
our Lord, to offer himself as architect.
Directed by the archangel, he accosts
jAbanes and tells him that he is the
man he seeks. They breakfast together
land set out, not this time on a drom-
edary and a camel, but in a ship con-
ducted by Palinurus, who had just
arrived, bringing St. James, the son of
jZebedee, from Spain to Palestine.
While they are making the voyage,
;he king of Andrinopolis is holding
sel upon the manner of celebrating
.e nuptials of his daughter Pelagia,
ho is espoused to the young chevalier
is ; and the result of this delibera-
is that he must invite everybody
ho can come. The apostle and the
rovost disembark at Andrinopolis at
very moment when the herald
the proclamation, in the name of
king, summoning to the banquet
tizens of all conditions and even
rangers pilgrims and wayfarers.
Thomas consequently is present at
e nuptial feast. A young Jewess
ants a roundelay:
There is a God of Hebrew story.
Dwelling in eternal glory
Who first of all things claims our love :
Who made the earth, sea, sky above,
And taught the morning stars to sing.
High would I laud this virtuous king,
And blaming naught, his praises ring
Through every hall, through every grove.
There is a God of Hebrew story,
Dwelling in eternal glory,
Who firat of all things claims our love.*
St. Thomas, charmed with this song?
begs that it may be repeated, and the
king's butler boxes his ears.
Ere the morrow shall be through,
Thy hand its fault will sorely rue,
says the apostle, adding
'Twere better for thy purgatory,
To suffer anguish transitory.
This prediction is not tardy of ac-
complishment. The butler is sent to
the fountain by the cup-bearer. A
lion comes up, and with a snap of his
teeth bites off the guilty hand, while
the poor man dies repentant and com-
mending his soul to God. In the banquet
hall all is gay confusion, when present-
ly a dog enters with the dissevered
hand. The king, informed of the
prophecy and its accomplishment,
prostrates himself with his whole fam-
ily at the feet of the apostle, who
blesses him. All at once there ap-
pears a branch of palm covered with
dates. The wedded couple eat of it
and then fall asleep. In their dreams
angels counsel them to preserve their
virginity. After having baptized the
king of Andrinopolis and all his house-
hold, St. Thomas renews his journey
with his guide, and arrives in India.
Gondoforus and his brother Agatus
salute the architect whom Abanes has
brought. "Well, master, at what
school did you study your art?"
" My master surpasses all others in
excellence." "And of whom did he
learn his science?"
"Master and teacher had he none,
He learneth from himself alone."
"Where is he?"
" In a country far away,
He lives and ruleth regally :
The sons of men his servants bo,
His twelve apprentices are we."
* She commences in Hebrew:
A sarahel zadab aheboin,
Aga sola tanmeth thavehel
Elyphaleth a der deaninin, etc.
Then she translates her roundelay into French.
582
Dramatic Mysteries of the
The king, amazed at the knowledge
of the stranger, gives him a vast sum
of gold, for the construction of his
palace. But it was not an earthly
edifice that the apostle proposed to
build it was a heavenly and spiritual
edifice whose materials were alms and
good works. He therefore distributes
among the beggars whom he meets all
the money which has been given him.
At the end of two years, Gondoforus
comes to see the building, and not find-
ing it, he thus addresses St. Thomas
and Abanes :
" Scoundrels without conscience born,
Where has all my money gone ?
My trust in you has cost me dear.
Sire, therewith I did uprear
A palace fair, of rare device
For you
AGATTTS.
Where is't ?
THOMAS.
In Paradise."
The Indian king, who does not un-
derstand that style of architecture,
throws St. Thomas and Abanes into
prison. Scarcely has he returned
home with his followers, when Agatus
suddenly dies. The angels descend
in haste to bear his soul to heaven.*
What do I see ?" he cries. " The
palace which Thomas has made for
thy brother," replies Raphael. " Great
God, but I am not pure enough to be
its porter!" "Thy brother," said
Uriel, " has made himself unworthy of
it. But if thou desirest, we will sup-
plicate our Lord to restore thee to
earth, and this palace shall be thine
when thou hast repaid the king his
money." The soul of Agatus joyfully
agreed to this, and was restored to its
body by Uriel. Then Agatus, as soon
as life returned, arose and told
Gondoforus all that he had seen,
proposing to reimburse him for all the
* " Although the arts of the middle ages,"
says Father Cahier, " did not adopt an abso-
lutely invariable form for the representation of
souls, the most ordinary symbol is that of a
small, nude figure escaping from the mouth, like
a sword drawn from the sheath." Monagraphie
de la Catheclrale cleB&urges, p. 158, note 2.
expenses of this heavenly palace the
possession of which he desired. The
amazed king, wishing to secure the
beautiful palace for himself, goes and
flings himself at the feet of St. Thom-
as, beseeching baptism for himself and
court.
When the " Mystery of the Acts of
the Apostles " was played at Bruges
in 1536, so perfect was the repre-
sentation of this legend and the other
marvels of the piece, says the old his-
torian Du Berry, that many of the
hearers thought it real and not feigned.
They saw, among a thousand other
wondrous sights, the provost of the
king of the Indies enter riding on a
huge dromedary, very well constructed,
which moved its head, opened its
mouth, and ran out its tongue. When
the butler was punished, they saw a
lion steal up and bite off the hand, and
a dog who bore it still bleeding into
the midst of the feasters. These were
not the only animal prodigies that
passed under the eyes of the spectators.
In the representation of the sixteenth
book, for example, two sorcerers, irri-
tated against St. Matthew, caused a
multitude of serpents to appear, and
the apostle summoned forth from the
earth a very terrible dragon which de- ;
voured them. In another part of this j
same book, St. Philip, having been
led before the god Mars, makes a drag-
on leap forth from the mouth of the
idol, which kills the son of the pagan
bishop, two tribunes, and tAvo varlets. i
In the course of the seventh book, a
still more extraordinary automaton ap-
pears. St. Andrew delivers Greece
from a monstrous serpent fifty cubits
long. " Here," says the note intro-
duced for the ordering of the mystery,
" an oak must be planted, and a ser-
pent must be coiled beneath the said
oak, glaring, and must vomit forth a
great quantity of blood and then die.'
The marvels of the art multiply
themselves infinitely and in all direc-
tions. We see, for example, idols i
crumbling into powder at the voice ol
the apostles, and temples crushing th(|
pagans in their fall. We see Saul
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
583
struck down from his horse by a great
light out of heaven ; St. Thomas walk-
ing over red-hot iron ; St. Barnabas
fast bound upon a cart-wheel over
a pan of live coals, which burn him
to cinders.* We see, also, the apos-
tles borne through the air to assist at
the death of the Virgin. "Here
lightning must be made in a white
cloud, and this cloud must float around
St. John, who is preaching at Ephesus,
and he must be borne in the cloud to
the gates of Notre Dame." A mo-
ment after, "thunder and lightning
must burst forth from a white cloud
which shall veil over the apostles as
they preach in different countries, and
bear them before the gates of Notre
Dame." While the apostles are car-
rying the body of the Holy Virgin to
the tomb, chanting In exitu Israel de
Egypto, " a rosy cloud in shape like a
coronet must descend, on which should
be many holy saints holding naked
swords and darts." A mob of Jews
come to lay hands on the shrine. " As
soon as they touch it, their hands must
be glued to the litter and become with-
ered and black ; and the angels in the
cloud must cast down fire upon them
and a storm of darts." The sacrilegi-
ous Jews are struck with blindness.
Some of them are converted and re-
cover their sight. Five remain obsti-
nate. The devils come to torment
them, and finally strangle them.
" Here their souls rise in the air and
the devils bear them away." Lastly,
we have the Assumption of the Holy
Virgin. " Here Gabriel puts a soul
into the body of Mary, after Michael
has rolled away the stone. And the
Virgin Mary rises to her knees, a halo
of glory round her like the sun. Then
a grand pause of the organ or anthem,
while Mary is being placed in the
cloud on which she will ascend. The
angels should sing as they disappear
Venite ascendamus, and the angels
ought to surround the Virgin and bear
her above Gabriel and the other an-
gels." Lifted thus above nine choirs
*"Daruwill pretend to burn Barnabas, and
will burn a feigned body, and will lower Barna-
bas under the earth."
of angels, she elicits vast admiration,
and beholding from the height of hea-
ven St. Thomas, who could not arrive
in time to assist at her death and re-
ceive her last benediction, she throws
him her girdle.
Thus in this drama, requiring forty
days and five hundred and thirty per-
sons* for its performance, heaven,
air, earth, hell, all participated in the
movement and the spectacle. What
kind of a theatre was required for such
scenic action ? In the sixteenth cen-
tury men saw theatres with two stages.
for the miracles of Notre Dame. The
Mysteries of the Acts of the Apostles
and of the Passion required three.
Heaven was on high, hell below, earth
in mid-space. Let us attempt to build
anew these theatres before the eyes of
our readers.
Paradise was an amphitheatre in
form. High above appeared the Deity,
seated upon a golden throne and over-
looking all the stage and the audience.
At the four corners of his throne sat
four persons representing Peace, Mer-
cy, Justice, Truth. At their feet were
nine choirs of angels ranged by hier-
archies upon the steps. There was
space also for the blessed spirits and
for the organ which accompanied the
celestial chants. Everything flashed
and glittered. The painter and the
carver were prodigal of their wonders.
Of this we can form a judgment from
a description of the paradise displayed
at Bruges on the representation of
the " Triumphant Mystery of the Acts
of the Apostles." According to a con-
temporary narrative, five hundred and
odd actors, sallying forth from the
abbey of St. Sulpice on Sunday af-
ternoon, April 30, 1536, bore with
them in great pomp the apparatus of
a spectacle which they were about to
give at the amphitheatre of the Arenes.
* This is the number of actors employed in the
representation made at Bruges in 153(5, accord-
ing to the calculation of M. Chevalier de Saint-
Amand. Cahier, " Monographic de la Cathed-
rale de Bourges," p. 153. We find only 484 per-
sons in the "Repertoire, des noms contenus au
jeu des actes des apotres." See the edition of
this "Mystery" published at Paris in 1541 by
Arnoul and Charles les Angliers, under this title :
" Les catholiques (Euvres et Actes des Apotres."
584
Dramatic Mysteries of the
They had a paradise twelve feet long,
and eight feet wide. "It had all
around it open thrones painted to re-
semble passing clouds, and both with-
out and within were little angels as
cherubim and seraphim, powers and
dominations, in bas-relief, their hands
joined and always moving. In the
middle was a seat fashioned like a rain-
bow, upon which was seated the God-
head Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ;
and behind were two gold suns revolv-
ing continuously in opposing orbits.
At the four corners were seats on
which reposed Justice, Peace, Truth,
and Mercy, richly clothed ; and beside
the said Godhead were two small
angels chanting hymns and canticles to
the music of the players on the flute,
the harp, the lute, the rebec, and the
viol, who circled about the paradise."
The same account describes a hell
fourteen feet in length and eight in
width. " It was made in the fashion of
a rock, upon which was raised a tower
always burning and sending forth
flames. At the four corners of the
said rock were four small towers, with-
in which appeared spirits undergoing
diverse torments, and on the fore-edge
of the rock writhed a great serpent,
hissing and emitting fire from his
mouth and ears and nostrils ; and
along the passages of the said rock
twined and crawled all kinds of ser-
pents and great toads."
The form and dimensions of this
fiery cavern varied according to the
exigencies of the dramatic action ; but
its place was invariably in the lower
part of the theatre. In this were as-
sembled all the diablerie, usually com-
prising a dozen principal personages ;
and from thence issued a terrible storm
of howls and shrieks. Lucifer was
there, and Satan, Belial, Cerberus, As-
taroth, Burgibus, Leviathan, Pros-
erpine, and other devils great and
small. The gate through which they
passed when coming to earth to tor-
ment mankind, appeared in shape like
the enormous jaws of a dragon, and
was called hell's mouth." *
* At the representation of the " Mystery of
Limbo, when demanded by the pe-
culiar features of the play, as in the
Mystery of the Resurrection, was
placed below hell, and was symbolized
by a huge tower with slits and grat-
ings on all sides, in order that the
spectators might catch glimpses of the
spirits confined there. As these spirits
were only statuettes, there was sta-
tioned behind the tower a body of men
who howled and shrieked in concert,
and when anything was to be said to
the audience, a strong and lusty voice
spoke in the name of all.* When a
purgatory was needed, it was located
and constructed after nearly the same
manner.
The stage, properly so called, which
was on a level with the audience, re-
presented earth that is, the different
countries to which the dramatic action
was successively transferred. It there-
fore required a vastly greater space
than hell or paradise ; the one symbol-
ized by a cavern, and the other by an
amphitheatre. It was divided into
compartments, and inscriptions indi-
cated the countries and the cities.
This division was effected by scaffolds
entirely separate, when there was
room enough. Thus at the " Mystery
of the Passion," represented at Paris
in 1437, at the entrance of King Char-
les VII., the scaffolds occupied the
whole of the Rue St. Denis for a dis-
tance of a stone's throw on either side,
and the more remote stage, on which
the last judgment was exhibited, was
before Le Chatelet. The spectators
were obliged to travel from one part
to the other with the actors. But they
remained seated, and could see the
whole without change of place, at the
performance of the same mystery,
given the same year at Metz, in the
the Passion" at Metz, in July, 1437. "The
mouth of hell was exceedingly well made, for it
opened and shut when the devils wished to en-
ter or go forth, and it had a great steel under-
work.^ Chronique de Metz, MS. ; composed by
a cure of St Eustache, cited by Beauchamps, in
the Recherches sur les theatres.' 1 ''
* " Mysteres imdlts du XVe siede" published
by Achille Jubinal, t. i., preface, p. xlii. (Paris,
1837). Let us remark here m passing, that M.
Jubinal, who is better acquainted with the manu-
scripts of the middle a?cs than with his cate-
chism, has confounded limbo with purgatory.
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
585
plain of Veximiel. For the vast semi-
circle destined for the assembly had
nine rows of seats, and behind were
the grand chairs for the lords and
dames assembled from all parts of the
province, and even from Germany. It
was the same at Bruges on the pre-
ceding year at the representation of
the " Acts of the Apostles. " The en-
closure occupied the whole space of the
ancient amphitheatre, commonly called
the Ditch of the Arenes. It had two
stages, and vast pavilions protected the
spectators from the inclemency of the
weather and the heat of the sun.
But three years after, in 1541, when
the burgesses of Paris played that im-
mense drama in the hall of 1'Hotel de
Flandre, or when the Fraternity of the
Passion gave their representations for
a century and a half, at their theatre
of the Trinity, in a hall one hundred
and twenty-nine feet long and thirty-
six feet deep, how were local distinc-
tions indicated*? Then the stage, in
default of space, was divided by simple
partitions, and inscriptions, indicating
beyond mistake the houses, cities,
and diverse countries, were more indis-
pensable than ever. We may remark,
finally, that in the great mysteries, di-
vided by days, it was easy during the
temporary suspension of the play to
give a new aspect to the stage by a
change of scenery. Sometimes, also,
as in the preceding century, the ac-
tors were obliged to inform the audi-
ence that they were transported from
one place to another by saying, " Here
we come to Bethlehem to Jerusalem.
We are making sail for Rome for
Athens, etc." And the illusion was
kept up, as far as could be, by the ces-
sation of the music, in the interval
during which, to use an expression of
M. Sainte-Beuve,. the mighty train
swept on across space and time.
Passing from the architecture of the
theatre to the physiognomy of the ac-
tors, let us study the manner in which
they were recruited. There were stock
companies, and extemporized com-
panies. Of the first description were
the "Fraternity of thePassion," so cele-
brated in the history of the represen-
tations of the " mysteries " at the end of
the middle ages. There were also the
burgesses of Paris, artisans of all
handicrafts, who, at the end of the four-
teenth century, assembled at the vil-
lage of St. Maur, near Vincennes, to
give on festal days their pious specta-
cles. Interdicted June 3, 1398, by
ordinance of the provost of Paris, who
mistrusted this novelty, they obtain-
ed from King Charles VI., by letters
patent of December 4, 1402, permis-
sion to play even at Paris, and at the
same time their society was elevated
into a permanent fraternity, under the
title of De la Passion de Notre Seig-
neur, and was installed near the gate
St. Denis in the ancient hospital of the
Trinity, then for some time disused.
It would appear that in certain pro-
vinces, cities, and even parishes, had,
like Paris, their association of miracle-
players. But, most commonly, these
companies were improvised, and con-
sisted of volunteers. This was the
case at the gigantic representations of
the Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles
at Bruges and at Paris. We have
still " the cry and public proclamation
made at Paris, Thursday, the sixteenth
of December, 1540, by the command
of our lord the king, Francis I. by
name, and monsieur the provost of
Paris, summoning the people to fill
the parts necessary for the playing of
said mystery." At eight o'clock of the
morning there were assembled at the
Hotel de Flandre, where the "mystery"
was to be performed, all those who
were charged with its management,
rhetoricians, gentlemen of the long
robe and the short, lawyers and com-
moners, clergymen and laity, in vast
numbers. They paraded through the
streets in fine apparel, all well mount-
ed according to their e'state and capa-
city, preceded by six trumpeters and
escorted by numerous sergeants of the
provost, who kept the crowd in check.
They halted at every square, and, af-
ter a triple flourish of trumpets, a
public crier made the proclamation,
which was in bad rhyme. Ten days
586
Dramatic Mysteries of the
after, on St. Stephen's day, the large
hall of the Hotel de Flandre the
usual place, says the narrative, for
making the records and holding the
rehearsals of the mysteries, was
filled with a crowd of burgesses and
merchants, clergy and laity, who
came to exhibit their talents in the
presence of the commissioners and
lawyers deputed to hear the voice of
each person, retaining and remunerat-
ing them according to the measure of
their excellence in the parts required.
The selections having been made, the
rehearsals commenced and continued
every day until the performance of the
mystery, which was played at the be-
ginning of the next year.
Whoever deemed himself of any
value responded generously to these
appeals, not only among the bourgeois
and gentlemen artisans and magis-
trates but also the cures and their
vicars, the canons, and sometimes
even the friari. Women alone were
excluded, the female parts being al-
ways filled by men. The participa-
tion of the clergy in these scenic di-
versions is readily accounted for, when
one considers the moral aim and the
religious character of the plays. All
these dramas represent the mysteries
and history of Christianity. All com-
mence, either with readings from the
Holy Scripture or by the chanting of
the hymns of the Church, or by the
recitation of the Ave Maria the
whole assemblage kneeling and join-
ing in the services. All ended, more-
over, as in preceding centuries, with
the Te Deum. The spectacle was
frequently interrupted by preaching,
and more than once, at the end of a
dramatic day, actors and spectators
might be seen wending their way to
church to offer up thanks to heaven.
Beside, did not the clergy find them-
selves on their own ground, in these
plays, instituted in order to increase
the solemnity of their sacred days,
and evincing unquestionable traces of
a liturgic origin ? Let us add finally,
with Dom Piolin, that a distinction
was rigorously maintained between
profane pieces and those whose aim
was the edification and the instruction
of the faithful ; that while zealously
keeping in check all acting which
could possibly be turned to license, the
clergy furthered with all their power the
exhibiting of the "mysteries." The
learned Benedictin presents to us the
chapter of St. Julien at Mans prevent-
ing, in 1539, the ringing of the cathe-
dral bells in order not to interrupt a re-
presentation of the Miracle of Theophi-
lus ; and stopping them again, in 1556,
and, in addition, hastening the morning
offices and delaying those of evening,
in order to accommodate them to the
time of the performance of the " Mys-
tery of the Conception of the most
Holy Virgin."
After the distribution of parts, all
the actors were obliged on the spot
to pledge themselves by oath and
under penalty of a fine never to be ab-
sent from the rehearsals. A second
appeal to the public good-will was ne-
cessary to secure a wardrobe for the
hundreds of players, who on the day of
exhibition wore sometimes the richest
jewels and the most beautiful stuffs of
a whole province. The magnificence
of the spectacle at Bruges, in 1536,
would strike us as incredible, if the
author of the narrative which has pre-
served us the details, had not taken
the precaution to forewarn his readers
at the start that he kept within the
truth. As illustrating its splendor,
take the following examples, gathered
here and there from the volume.
St. James the Lesser wore a scarf
estimated at 450 gold crowns. The
girdle of St. Matthew was valued at
more than 500 crowns sterling. Queen
Dampdeomopolis, who was mounted
on an ambling pad which was covered
with a housing of black velvet and had
a gold fringed harness, wore a petti-
coat of cloth of gold, beneath a robe of
crimson damask bordered with gold
chains, while down the front ran a rich
beading of precious stones, rubies and
diamonds, of the value of more than
2,000 crowns. This is not all. From
head to foot gold and jewels glittered
I
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
587
on her person. Her head-dress was
surmounted by a white feather, and on
her forehead hung by a little thread of
black silk a huge oriental pearl. The
wife of Herod Agrippa had for her
girdle a great gold chain of more than
1,000 crowns in value ; from which
hung chaplets carved in facets. She
had on her neck another great chain
and a collar of pearls, whence hung
a ring and sprig of four diamonds,
and on her stomacher was a dorure
which bore a gold dog having a great
ruby hanging from its neck, and a
great pearl suspended to the tail.
All these princesses and they
could be counted by dozens had with
them their maids, their squires, and
their pages, handsomely clothed. There
were likewise princes, kings, and em-
perors, who came from all quarters of
the world.
Nothing approaches to the magnifi-
cence of Nero. It would carry us too
far out of our way if we should men-
tion in detail the numerous and brilliant
cortege which preceded the formida-
ble emperor when the actors issued
from the abbey of St. Sulpice, where
they robed themselves before entering
the theatre. First came a troop of
musicians composed of a fifer, six
trumpeters, and four players on the
tamborine; next the grand provost of
Rome, mounted on a splendid horse
caparisoned with violet-colored satin,
fringed with white silk ; then four cav-
aliers attending the ensign-bearer of
Nero ; presently four companies of
Moors crowned with laurels and bear-
ing, some, masses of gilded silver,
others, vases of silver and gold or cor-
nucopias filled with fleurs de Us or the
armorial bearings of the empire inter-
worked on triumphal hats. Lastly, a
horse appeared covered to the ground
with flesh-colored velvet, bordered with
tracery of gold, into which were woven
the devices of Nero. This horse, con-
ducted by two lackeys clothed also with
flesh-colored velvet, bore a cushion of
silk and cloth-of-gold in Turkish work,
on which lay three crowns, the first,
solid gold ; the second, all pearls ; the
third, composed of every kind of pre-
cious stone of marvellous beauty and
richness and these three crowns
formed the imperial head-gear.
Next there came into sight another
horse, whose harness and caparison
were of blue satin, fringed with gold
and bestrewn with stars made of em-
broidery of gold stuff on a violet field.
The two lackeys who led it by the
bridle, had their heads uncovered and
were clothed with velvet of a violet
crimson, purfled with gold, slashed with
broad slashes, through which the lining
of white satin showed itself in folds.
This was the saddle-horse of the em-
peror.
Afterward came six players on the
hautboy clothed in sarcinet of a violet
crimson.
Nero appeared last, borne on a high
tribunal eight feet wide and ten long,
and covered to the earth with cloth-of-
gold, strewn with large embroidered
eagles, "copied as closely as possible
from the life." The chair on which he
was seated was entirely covered with
another cloth-of-gold crimped. His
sagum, or military cloak, was of blue
velvet all purfled with gold, with
large flowers in needle-work after the
antique ; the sleeves slashed, and dis-
playing beneath the undulating folds
of the lining, which was of gold stuff
on a violet field. His robe, a crimson
velvet, adorned with flowers and in-
terlaced with gold thread, was lined
with velvet of the same color. The
cape was serrated, the points inter-
blending, and was bestrewn with a
profusion of great pearls, and at each
point hung a great tassel of other
pearls. His hat, of Persian velvet
and of a tyrannical fashion, was bor-
dered with chains of gold and strewn
with a great quantity of rings. His
gold crown, with its triple branches,
was filled with gems so numerous, so
varied, and of so great a price that it
is impossible to specify them. And
his collar was not less garnished.
His buskins, of Persian velvet, with
small slashes, were laced with chains
of gold, and some rings hung from his
588
Dramatic Mysteries of the
garters. He placed one of his feet
upon a casket which enclosed the im~
penal seal and was covered with silver
cloth sown with gems, thus symboliz-
ing that the power of the empire was
his, and that all things were submissive
to him. In his hand was a battle-axe
well gilded. His port was haughty
and his mien very magnificent. The
tribunal, with the monarch upon it,
was borne by eight captive kings, the
drapery concealing from the audience
everything save their heads, on which
rested crowns of gold. A troupe of
musicians followed with trumpets,
clarions, tamborines, and fifes. The
procession was closed by twenty-four
cavaliers, captains, chevaliers, squires,
cup-bearers some wearing the impe-
rial livery, others clad according to
their pleasure ; and by chariots which
were loaded with the emperor's bag-
gage and vivanderie, and were drawn
by eighteen or twenty horses.
Nero's sagum, with its splendid
flower-work after the antique, his hat
of tyrannical fashion, his battle-axe, the
eagles embroidered on the drapery
which covered his tribunal, the laurel
crowns which begirt the brows of his
Moorish guards, the cornucopia, the
vases of gold and silver which they
carried, all indicate a tendency toward
historical costume. This is also seen
in the robes of the seventy-two disci-
ples approaching the ancient manner
the caps of the high priests, Jose-
phus and Abiachar, made according
to the Jewish manner the dagger
of Polemius, king of Armenia, the
golden handle of which was prepared
after the antique the robe, fashioned
after the Hebrew manner, which was
worn by the young Jew whom we saw
singing at the marriage of Pelagia
and Denis. But apart from these
examples and some others which are
found here and there in the pompous
catalogue of the actors of Bruges,
everybody used great liberty and
much fancifulness in the choice of ha-
biliments. Each person took the most
beautiful things he could lay hands on.
The cortege of Nero closed, as we have
seen, by cavaliers dressed after their
own pleasure. The marechal of Mig-
deus, king of Greater Ynde, and his
valet, had taffeta clothes while bear-
ing on their shoulders bars of iron
and mallets. The lord of Quantilly,
author of the relation from which we
have derived our details, after having
spoken of a group of eighteen or twen-
ty persons blind, halt, demoniac, lepers
and vagabonds, confesses that they
were too well clad to accord with their
condition.
Thus far we have concerned our-
selves with the history of the mysteries
and their representation ; we shall now
proceed to a critical retrospect of the
subject.
The trilogy of the " Mystery of the
Passion " and the " Triumphant Mys-
tery of the Acts of the Apostles,"
deserve an important place in the
history of French dramatic art, not
only because they characterize the
epoch of which they were the two
chief works, but also because they
have an intimate and an essential con-
nection with the tragic masterpieces
of the eighteenth century a connec-
tion also which has been little noticed.
We propose to consider the literary
value and the influence of those two
plays, commencing with an estimate of
the mise en scene and the spectacle
whose fairy-like pomp and immense
popularity we have just taken in view.
The dramatic writers and the man-
agers of the " mysteries " were well
aware that to move the multitude
the eye is of greater power than the
ear. We have seen that they directed
all their energies to the marvels of
stage effect. But they did not listen
to the precept of the poet, a precept
founded on the very nature of art,
which enjoins that only those things
should be interwoven into the compo-
sition which can be witnessed without
incredulity and without disgust. If
the devils intervene, they must be
introduced with their bat-shaped wings
ever moving, and fire issuing from
their nostrils, their mouth, and their
ears, while they held in their hands
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
589
fiery distaffs shaped like serpents ;
that Cerberus, porter of hell, should
have on his helmet three heads emit-
ting flame, and that the keys he carried
in his hand should seem to have just
issued from a furnace, they sparkled
so ; that the long and hideous breasts
of Proserpine should drip incessantly
with blood, and with jets of fire at
intervals ; that Lucifer should have a
casque vomiting forth flames unceas-
ingly, and should hold in his grasp
handfuls of vipers which moved in
fiery twists. It was then everywhere
fire, and, above all, real fire for the
contemporary authority who furnishes
us with the details is particular to tell
us, two several times, that there were
people employed to feed this fire.
The fire thus carried about by the
devils in all their goings and comings,
and ever bursting from the mouth of
hell when opened, became naturally
the occasion of numerous accidents.
We have an example of this nature
which might have been tragical, but by
good luck was only ludicrous, in the
performance of the " Mystery of St.
Martin" at Seurre, in 1496. At the
commencement of the spectacle, which
lasted three days, and opened with a
scene of diablerie, the man who held
the role of Satan having wished, says
an official report of this epoch, to as-
cend to earth, caught fire in his nether
garments, and was severely burnt.
But he was so suddenly rescued and
reclothed, that, without any one being
aware of the accident, he went through
with his part and then retired to his
house. The affair had occurred in the
morning between seven and eight
o'clock. When he returned at one in
the afternoon, the interval allowed, ac-
cording to usage, for the audience to
dine in being now over, he addressed
to Lucifer, who was the cause of his
misadventure, four impromptu verses
that the public applauded exceedingly,
but their grossness prevents our re-
producing them.
These material imitations of phys-
ical nature and these exaggerations
of the spectacle appear everywhere.
When they wished, for example, to
represent a martyr, it was necessary
that the victim should be visibly tor-
tured. We have even, in the repre-
sentation of the "Mystery of the Acts of
the Apostles," St. Barnabas disappear-
ing adroitly and leaving his counterfeit
presentment in the hands of the execu-
tioner, who binds it upon a wheel and
sets it revolving over a burning brazier
before the eyes of the spectators.
When St. Paul was decapitated, it was
requisite that his head, as it fell to the
ground, should leap three times, and
that at each bound, in accordance with
the tradition, a fountain should gush
forth. When they represented the
crucifixion of our Lord, and the de-
spair of Judas, it was necessary that
the Saviour of the world should be
seen nailed to the cross for the space
of three hours, and that the traitor be
hung miserably from a tree. On the
performance of the " Mystery of the
Passion" before the people of Lor-
raine in 1437, God, according to a
chronicler of the time, was imperson-
ated by "Sir Nicole don'Neuf-Chastel,
who was cure* of St. Victor at Metz,
and would have nearly died on the
cross, had he not been succored ; and
another priest had to be put in his
place to perfect the representation of
the crucifixion. The next day the
said cure, after having reposed, played
the resurrection and bore his part
superbly. Another priest, who was
called Messire Jehan de Nicey, and
who was chaplain of Metrange, acted
Judas, and was almost killed by hang-
ing, for his heart failed him, and he
was right speedily cut down."
The taste of the sixteenth and sev-
enteenth centuries for these materialis-
tic representations was such that for
the scenic features of the longer mys-
teries they contented themselves some-
times with a simple pantomime. In-
deed, on September 8, 1424, at the sol-
emn entry of the Duke of Bedford,
the English Regent of France, the
children of Paris, to adopt the expres-
sion of Sauval, played the Mystery of
the Old and New Testament without
590
Dramatic Mysteries of the
speech or sign, as if they had been
images carved on a frieze.
The infancy of art, which appeared
everywhere at this epoch in the repre-
sentation of the " Mysteries," was es-
pecially visible in their style and in
their composition. A rapid examina-
tion of its literary faults will suffice to
show that the French drama of the
middle ages, progressive, if not as re-
gards its truthfulness, at least in the
pomp of its spectacle, was in rapid de-
cline in respect to poetry.
The first and gravest literary fault
of this drama in its decadence that
which includes all the others is the
absence of all that makes the soul and
life of the drama of everything which
distinguishes it most essentially from
history. There is neither plot, nor
peripetia, nor characters, nor passions.
In the thirteenth century, Rutebceuf,
in the Miracle of Theophilus, bestows
on his hero a passionate nature, and
develops the action not by events in
their ordinary sequence, but by the
stormy struggles of the heart and the
agitations of conscience. One princi-
pal personage is put upon the stage,
and a single incident carries the play
rapidly forward to a unique denoue-
ment. Jean Bodel, in the " Play of
St. Nicholas," less skilled than his con-
temporaries in making his intrigue
keep step to the movements of pas-
sion, consoled himself with laying vio-
lent hands on the legend, to which he
gives an entirely new form. In the
fourteenth century we find no longer,
it is true, in the anonymous authors of
the " Miracles of Notre Dame " either
that creating power, or those passion-
ate intrigues, or that simple and rapid
movement, but at least we meet with
some true pathos in certain scenes, and
in a great number of monologues there
are pronounced and well-sustained char-
acters in the female parts, especially
while the dramatic interest concen-
trates on one person. Open the two most
celebrated works of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries the " Mystery of
the Passion" of the two Jehan Michels,
and the " Triumphant Mystery of the
Acts of the Apostles " of the brothers
Greban there is nothing more than a
pure and simple mise en scene of his-
tory or of legend, unrolling itself slow-
ly as the events arrive in their chron-
ological order. There is no unity
either of time or of place, as in the
past ; nor is there unity of action. Per-
sonal interest has ceased ; the passions
have ceased ; vigorous characteriza-
tions have ceased. Everybody speaks
frigidly from one end of the piece to the
other, and for forty days, and one can
scarcely find throughout the plays a
terse or impassioned line. There is
no progression in the movement ; no
advance in intrigue ; no fresh compli-
cation ; the tiresome dramatist jogs
along without troubling himself about
denouement.
This drama, which has no longer a
dramatic art save in its dialogue and
its spectacle is it then absolutely with-
out poetry? Some critics seem to
have thought so, since they dwelt only
on its absurdities and its literary po-
verty. And it must be avowed that
puerility, triviality, indecency even, so
dominate there, that it is easy, when
approaching it, to give one's self over
to a universal disgust. Others, recog-
nizing its poverty as a whole, have
found some redeeming features. Of
this number are M. Onesime Le Roy,
whose patriotic admiration of the Ar-
tesian works has perhaps led him too
far, and M. Douhaire, who has better
controlled his enthusaism. M. Dou-
haire is, in our opinion, the critic who
was not only the first to study, but has
also most clearly comprehended the
religious beauties of the later mediae-
val " mysteries." " We appeal," he
says in 1840, in his lectures on the
History of Christian Poetry, "we ap-
peal to the memory and the emotions
of the reader. Who is there that does
not recall with the most ineffable sen-
timents of joy those graceful scenes of
the gospel of the Nativity of our Lady,
the interior of the house of Joachim,
his retirement among the shepherds,
the triumphal song of St. Ann after
the birth of Mary, the life of the Vir-
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
591
gin in the temple? Who has not
present in his memory the grand pic-
tures of the Gospel of Nicodemus, the
conversations of the patriarchs in
limbo, the descent of Jesus Christ
into hell, the silent apparition of
Charinus and Leucius in the San-
hedrim, the terrible portrayal of the
last days of Pilate, and that personi-
fication of the Jew in Ahasuerus
whose grandeur surpasses the loftiest
conceptions of profane poetry ? But
it is not alone for its depth, it is also
for its form, or at least for the arrange-
ment and effect of its combinations,
that our mysteries are remarkable.
Doubtless in respect to theatrical art
they are more than defective. They
have indeed, to speak truly, no art at all.
The events are not co-ordinated with
a preconceived idea, and distributed in
a manner to lead forward to a catas-
trophe or to a final peripetia. The
order of facts is habitually that of time.
They are historic dialogues and noth-
ing more. But as in history the divine
and the human, the supernatural and
the real, are almost always blended to-
gether, the composers of the * myste-
ries ' have diligently worked out this
interrelation. Aided by the construc-
tion of their theatres, which permitted
them to move many scenes, they com-
bined these actions in a manner to
elicit extraordinary effects, unfolding
simultaneously to the eye of the spec-
tator heaven, earth, hell. They initi-
ated him into the secret of life, showed
to him the mysterious warfare of souls,
and by this spectacle made his spirit
pass through terrors that any other
drama would be powerless to produce."
Subscribing entirely, and it is an
easy thing for us, to the judgment of
the author of the " Course upon Chris-
tian Poetry," let us guard ourselves
from going too far by extending the con-
clusion beyond the premises. Where
does M. Douhaire find these poetical
beauties which he offers for our admi-
ration ? In the trilogy of the " Mys-
tery of the Passion." Now this vast
dramatic composition is nothing more,
in fact, than an agglomeration of the
" mysteries " which preceded the work
of the two Jehan Michels. These
charming scenes, these grand pictures,
which are met with here and there,
are only the fragments of a more
ancient poetry, that have been ga-
thered up anew. When the drama-
tists of the fifteenth and sixteenth cen-
turies enter upon original composi-
tion, the decline of poetry is seen
everywhere, in the detail as well as in
the whole, in the style as in the con-
ception. We know of but one merit
which truly belongs to them it is the
happy development they have given to
stage effect by a simultaneous presen-
tation of heaven, hell, and the earth
shadowing forth by this triple theatri-
cal action the incessant intervention of
the supernatural powers in the desti-
nies of humanity. But while this
conception is majestic, its literary ex-
ecution is wretched. We have a proof
in the " Triumphant Mystery of the
Acts of the Apostles," written from
beginning to end without verve, or
coloring, or nobleness, by the two most
celebrated dramatic poets of their age,
whom Marot calls
" The two Grebans of high-resounding line."
Having noticed the literary poverty
of the dramatic poetry of this epoch,
we will now point out the principal
sources of its faults. They are two.
The first is a misconception of the
dramatists respecting the nature of the
types proposed for the imitation of art.
The second is a consequence of the
popularity and the indefinite length of
their spectacles.
It is impossible to compare the
meagreness, the languor, and the stu-
pidity of the two brothers Greban with
the bright and graceful vivacity of the
writer who praises them, without being
amazed at the eulogies he bestows,
and demanding what can be the reason
of this misjudgment on the part of a
poet, the most spiritual and the most
delicate of the reign of Francis I.
It comes from the false idea which the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries formed
of the dramatic style, or, to speak more
592
Dramatic Mysteries of the
exactly, of the entire dramatic art. In
place of seeking the ideal, they sought
reality, and, what is worse, it was in
the commonest realities that the dra-
matists of that time searched after the
type of their language and the morals
of their heroes. We have already re-
marked the same aberration of public
taste in the far too materialistic imi-
tations of the spectacle.
"Under a literary and dramatic
point of view," says M. Sainte-Beuve,
** that which is the essential characteris-
tic of the mysteries of the sixteenth
century is its low vulgarity and its too
minute triviality. The authors had
but one aim. They sought to portray
in the men and events of other times
the scenes of the common life which
went on under their eyes. With them
the whole art was reduced to this imi-
tation, or rather to this faithful fac-
simile. If they exhibited a populace,
it was recognizable at once as that of the
market-places or of the city. Every
tribunal was a copy of the Chatelet or
of the Parliament. The headsmen of
Nero, of Domitian, Daru, Pesart,
Torneau, Mollestin, seemed taken from
the Place du Palais de Justice or from
Montfaucon What the public
above all admired, was the perfect
conformity of the dialogue, and of the
other features of the play, with every-
day realities. The good townsmen
could not cease gazing at and listening
to so natural an imitation of their daily
customs and their domestic bickerings.
All contemporary praise bears upon
this exact resemblance. It is in this
way that common and uncultured
minds strangers to the intimate and
profound joys of art readily accept
false coin, and content themselves with
pleasures at a low price."
This habitual imitation of the com-
mon life and of everything trivial is
found even in scenes of a wholly ideal
nature in heaven and in hell. The
language of God and of paradise is
vulgar ; that of the devils is grotesque,
sometimes even indecent. At the
commencement of the mysteries of the
brothers Greban, while the apostles
have assembled together in an upper
chamber to elect St. Matthias, Lucifer
orders the demons to wander over the
earth, and before going the evil spirits
request his benediction. He replies
to them :
"Devils damned, in malediction
O'er you each, with power blighted,
My paw I stretch, of God accursed,
From sins aud misdeeds all absolving,
Up 1 Set forth 1 " etc.
When Satan and Astaroth bring
the souls of Ananias and Saphira to
hell, Lucifer is so transported with
joy that he bids the demon hosts
exult :
"Let the crowd of the damned,
Here, before my tribunal,
Sing an anthem infernal 1 "
Belial and Burgibus, he adds, will
lead the treble : Berits, Cerberus, and
some others, the tenor ; Astaroth and
Leviathan, the bass. At once they all
begin to chant in chorus :
" The more he has, the more he asks for
Our grand devil, Lucifer.
Does he wish the sky to pour
Souls by thousands running o'er ?
The more they come, he longs for more,
For his appetite is sore.
The more he has, the more he asks for,
Our grand devil, Lucifer."
Lucifer, deafened by their hubbub,
stops his ears, and tries to silence them.
Impossible! "On with the song!"
cries Belial, and the uproar continues.
The " Mystery of the Passion " also
commences with a scene in hell, the
tone of which appears still more sin-
gular. God is in consultation with
the heavenly court upon the redemp-
tion of the human race. Lucifer,
alarmed, convokes his assembly.
"Devils of hell -fire, horned and terrible,
Infamous dogs, why sit ye idle ?
Start up, ye fat ones, young, old, and naked;
Serpents atrocious, hump-backed and twisted."
The devils hastily assemble. Satan
is the first to respond to the gracious
appeal.
" What is't thou wishest, bull-dog outrageous-
Fetid, infected, abhorrent, mendacious ?
For thee we have forfeited heaven and all,
To suffer such evils as no one can measure
And now, is cursing your only pleasure ?
Belial calls Lucifer a lag full of
rottenness^hose only food is toads, and
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
593
complains also that it is his nature to
torment them.
" This constant habit with the mys-
tery-makers of representing the demons
as insulting each other in their collo-
quies," says M. Douhaire, " is born of
a profound thought. We are told
that the wicked despise each other. It
is this which the Christian dramatists
put into action. Nothing can give a
more terrible idea of hell than these
disputes, where the demons mutually
accuse each other of sufferings which
cannot be abated."
Here is a reflection full of justice,
and indispensable for a right interpre-
tation of the moral aim of the " myste-
ries." But there still remains the
'literary and philosophical remark of
M. Saint-Beuve upon the general ten-
jdency of this epoch to a reproduction
| of the morals and language of the
most common and vulgar life. For
(the dramatists might have represented
jthe wickedness of the demons the
ihorror and disorder of hell without
'seeking their phrases in a vocabulary
jof the lowest siamp.
The frequent change from serious-
ness to buffoonery, from the beautiful
to the burlesque, has a similar origin
in the tastes of our ancestors for the
actualities of ordinary life, where these
transitions are habitual. But it also
-ose out of the necessity of keeping up
Ihe interest of a spectacle which con-
tinued many days, sometimes many
Iveeks. Variety was a necessity.
That popular assembly would consent
weep or even to be serious morning
d evening for a month ? Let us take
example where triviality, liveliness,
morality are all united together,
e borrow it from M. Onesime Lc Roy,
ho found it in an unedited " Mystery
" the Passion." and published it in
37.
The anonymous dramatist, after
ving depicted in beautiful and touch-
g scenes the sweet virtues and good
of St. Joachim and St. Ann,
gs on the stage two knaves who
ish to make experiments on their
us simplicity. "The fellow, who
38
has more than one trick in his bag,"
says the learned critic from whom we
transcribe the analysis, " pretending
that cold weather makes him insane,
styles himself Claquedent [chatterer] ;
and the other is called Babin, which
word, according to the lexicographer
Rouchi, signifies 'foolish,' 'imbecile.'
Babin, despite his name and simple
air, is more artful than even Claque-
dent, whom he persuades to imitate mad-
ness and to let himself be bound, the
better to excite compassion. Cla-
quedent, tied up with cords by Babin,
begins to gnash his teeth and to utter
piteous cries, which bring the wife of
Joachim. This holy woman wishes to
relieve him. Babin shouts out not to
touch him :
"Ha, good dame ! be wary,
Touch him not, I pray thee,
Lest, perchance, he slay thee ! "
After a long scene of horrible con-
tortions on one side, and of tender coin-
passion on the other, Babin says he is
going to lead away Claquedent, and
receives money from the charitable
dame, who bids him take good care
of his friend, and to return when the
money is gone. Babin, upon the lat-
ter part of this advice, replies pleas-
antly, " O madame, without fail! "
As soon as Ann has gone away, Cla-
quedent says to Babin, " Quick, untie
me ! " But the latter, wishing to pro-
fit, like Raton, from the misfortune
which another Bertrand has brought
on himself, says to him,
Wait awhile, I beg you, do ;
You have what is best for you ;
And since I am a trifle clever,
I will manage all this silver.
Claquedent, who sees himself caught
in a snare, fills the air with his shrieks,
which have no sham in them now.
Babin is not at all frightened, and tells
him, with a remarkable allusion to the
fable of the fox and the goat,
Adieu, good Claquedent. In the well
Till to-morrow you must dwell.
" Murder ! a thief, a thief ! " cries
the entrapped rogue, while the
other, as he runs off, doubtless tells
594
Dramatic Mysteries of l/te
everybody lie meets on the way not to
approach the infuriated man. " Don't
touch him. He will bite you!"
Finally, they come to Claquedent's
assistance, and when they inquire who
put him in this condition, he replies :
Un laronche.au, plein de malfalct.
(A roguish fellow full of mischief).
" All the comedy of this scene," says
M. Onesime Le Roy, " lies in this single
word, un laroncheau" a diminutive of
larron (rogue), who has taken in a
triple scamp, who thinks himself past
mastery ! It is thus that Patelin says
of another scamp, his younger brother,
" He has deceived me,who have deceiv-
ed so many others." " Is there not," adds
M.Douhaire, " is there not, moreover,
in this burlesque and merry episode, a
lesson for those very foolish persons
who from excess of goodness are so
easily victimized by the ruses of pro-
fessional beggars ? "
These gay scenes quite naturally
turn to farce, and these moralities de-
generate into satires. This occurs,
and in a deplorable manner, even in
the representation of the gravest and
most solemn " mysteries." The Frater-
nity of the Passion, perceiving that
the people grew tired of their pious
spectacles, called to their rescue a mis-
chievous and merry troupe, whose
duty it was to attract the crowd to their
hall at the Hospital de la Trinite. It
was the Enfants sans souci company,
celebrated at the end of the fourteenth
century, and composed of young gen-
tlemen of family, who, having invent-
ed a kingdom founded on the faults
and vices of the human race, called it
the Fool's Kingdom, named as its king
the Prince of Fools, and styled their
plays " Fooleries " (sotties) plays
which they made upon every-
body, in a fantastic and allegorical
form. At the court and among
the subjects of the prince figure his
well-beloved son, the " Prince of Jol-
lity," the Mother Fool," the Affi-
anced Fool," the " Fool Occasion," the
" Dissolute Fool," the " Boasting
Fool," the " Cheating Fool," the " Ig-
norant Fool," the " Corrupt Fool," and
twenty other personages whose names
and qualities vary according to the re-
quirements of the farce, and of a sa-
tire which spared none. In a sottie
played on Shrove Tuesday, in 1511,
and directed against Pope Julius IL,
then at war with Louis XII., the
" Mother Fool" represents the Church.
In another sottie where Tancien monde
is introduced, the " Dissolute Fool " is
dressed as a churchman, the " Boasting
Fool" as a gendarme, and the " Lying
Fool" as a merchant. It was the scan-
dalous conduct of these young Aristo-
phaneses, whose licentiousness equalled
their boldness, which, in 1547, provoked
the order of the Parliament against
the representation of " mysteries." The
Hospital de la Trinite reverted to its
first destination, and the Fraternity
of the Passion, driven from their thea-
tre after a century and a half of popu-
larity, could only obtain permission
on the following year to construct a
new stage at the Hotel de Bourgogne,
on the express condition that they
would play only profane subjects,
which should also be lawful and pro-
per. They accepted this new mode
of existence ; but their time was past,
and their glory was constantly in a
decline. However,' they held out
bravely till 1588, at which period
they leased their theatre to a com-
pany of travelling comedians, who fo
some years had been trying to estab
lish themselves in Paris. The clever
est of them, we are told by the bro
thers Parfait, attempted to preserv
their fame by giving out that the reli
gious title of their fraternity did no
permit them to play profane pieces
They had realized this a trifle late ir
the day ; some forty years too late
indeed !
The resuscitation of the Gree
theatre, four years after the parlii
mentary decree, completed the ruin c
the medieval spectacles. They s
played the miracles in the provin<
they even composed new ones. Bij
the pious representations went
changing more and more ; and tr
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
595
next century, which was that of Boi-
leau, merely amused itself with ridi-
culing them. However, in the very
simplicity of the miracles there was
something too popular to be complete-
ly forgotten, in countries where the
faith and the innocent manners of our
good ancestors survived. On May 18,
1835, M. Guizot, then minister, re-
commended to the attention of his his-
torical correspondents the still sur-
viving traditions of the moralities and
mysteries of the middle ages. " There
are yet preserved on festal days, in
certain districts of France," said he,
" certain popular dramatic perfor-
mances. It will not be a useless la-
bor to examine and note down these
relics of the past, before modern civili-
zation and the usages of the common
language cause their disappearance."
The author of " Researches into the
Mysteries which have been represent-
icd in Maine," Dom Piolin, has traced
jthese performances from the end of
Ithe sixteenth century up to the pres-
ent time. He finds the last one at
Laval, during the procession of Cor-
pus Christi. " At its origin," he says,
f'one of the principal features of this
fete, the one, at least, which peculiarly
iittracted the attention of the mob, con-
fisted in scenes from the Old and New
Testament which were represented on
heatres erected along the route of
ihe procession, but chiefly at the main
jpurt of the Convent des Cordeliers,
they belonged, unquestionably, to the
miracles' proper, having retained
!iat characteristic simplicity and brev-
y which is found in the most ancient
lieces. We know that King Rene es-
iblished a similar custom in the city
f Aix. Afterward, when the marion-
ettes were introduced into France by
atharine de Medicis, puppets were
instituted for the players. This thea-
p a remnant of the ancient manners
[-continued until the end of the restor-
Son, the last performance being in
M.Douhaire closes his " Course upon
|e History of Christian Poetry" by
account of a foreign performance,
extending from the creation of the
world to the resurrection of the dead,
of which he was an eye-witness. It
was in 1830, at a small town on the
banks of the Loire. " What I came
to see," he adds, " was the ' Mystery of
the Passion' played by puppets. I
did not suppose, before this curious
adventure, that there could be any ex-
isting trace of the scenic plays of the
middle ages ; but I have since learnt
that there still remain many consider-
able vestiges in our western and south-
ern provinces where not only pro-
fessional actors and puppets represent
the principal scenes of both Testaments,
but even families amuse themselves
with this holy recreation on days of
solemn feasts."
Permit us to mention, in our turn,
the performance of a mystery wit-
nessed by men still alive, and whose
simplicity carries one quite back to the
middle ages. We get the fact from
the president of the modern Bolland-
ists. At the commencement of our
century a good priest of French Hain-
out took upon himself to bring out the
" Mystery of the Passion," for the
welfare of his flock. An appeal was
made to all well-disposed people, and,
as at Paris in 1437, for the "Mystery
of the Acts of the Apostles," the parts
were distributed to the burgesses and
artisans of every description, according
to the measure of their talent in such
case required. A Judas was wanting.
The priest at once hit upon the apoth-
ecary of the place, whose modesty
kept him in his laboratory, and he went
in search of him. " My friend," said
he, " we are going, as you know, to
represent a fine 'mystery,' and it is
necessary, for the common good, that
you should do something. I have
found your place. Your role is Judas."
" But M. le cure, my memory
is not worth a sou, and you would
never be able to stuff so many words
into my head." " Exactly so, my
friend. I have selected for you the
shortest part, and I pledge myself
to teach you it in no time." Straight-
way our man is enrolled in the com-
596
Dramatic Mysteries of the
pany. The solemn day arrives. The
parish and all the country round are
there. The spectacle commences, and
the actors, duly costumed and seated
on benches along each side of the
stage, rise in turn to go through with
what they have to say. The moment
of the kiss of Judas is at hand. The
poor apothecary remains glued to his
chair, pale with terror. The priest,
who is all eyes, hastens to him, and
forces him to get up. Arrived before
the person who represents Jesus Christ,
he falls on his knees, trembling in
every limb, and crying with joined
hands, " Oh Lord ! thou well knowest
it was not my fault ! It is monsieur
the cure who forces me."
This grand trilogy of the " Mystery
of the Passion" which history exhi-
bits as closely connected with puppet
shows and village performances, naive
even to the grotesque has quite an-
other importance and quite another
destiny in the eyes of philosophy,
which discerns therein the principal
features of the modern dramatic art.
Let us not quit this subject before
presenting a confirmation of the thesis
which the readers of these essays
have already seen maintained in an
article where Corneille, Racine, and
even Voltaire himself were shown to
be unconsciously the lineal successors
of our old dramatists far more than of
JEschylus, of Sophocles, and of Euri-
pides. The father of French tragedy,
who discoursed upon his art with so
much philosophy and toiled night and
day to make our poetry Aristotle's
Pierre Corneille, after having for half
a century attempted himself, and seen
attempted around him, every possible
denouement, was led to recognize
the necessity in this particular of going
contrary to the tragic art of the Greeks.
" The ancients," he wrote at the close
of his career, " very often content them-
selves in their tragedies with depicting
vices in such a manner as to cause us
to hate them, and virtues so as to
cause us to love them, without troubling
themselves with recompensing good
actions or punishing bad ones. Cly-
temnestra and her paramour slay
Agamemnon, and go free. Medea
does the same with her children, and
Atreus with those of her brother. It
is true that by carefully studying the
actions which were selected for the
catastrophe of their tragedies, there
were some criminals whom they pun-
ished, but by crimes greater than their
own Our drama hardly
tolerates such subjects
It is the interest which we love to
extend to the virtuous that has obliged
us to resort to this other mode of finish-
ing the dramatic poem by punishing
the bad actions and by recompensing
the good. It is not a precept of art,
but a custom, which we have observed."
Whence originated this custom
Corneille gave his own century the
credit of it ; but it is from the middle
ages that it dates. What tragic drama
was it which was the most important
the most popular the longest played
of that first epoch of the modern thea-
tre ? Was it not the " Mystery of the
Passion," which we have seen com-
mencing with a simple dramatizing of
the gospel growing century by cen-
tury and ending with an immense
trilogy, extending from the fall of man
to the birth of our Saviour, from the j
passion and the death of the Saviour j
to his resurrection, from the establish-
ment of the Church to the last judg-
ment that solution of human doc
trines which regulates all things
retribution for the wicked and recom
pense for the good, and by making
virtue rise victorious from its battL
with the passions ? What the middL
ages show us in the " mystery " wind
was its masterpiece, appears withou
exception in all those dramatic compo
sitions which have come down to u?
We have already remarked, and it i
moreover a fact recognized by a.
scholars, that there is not a tragij
drama of this epoch, whatever ma
be its subject, which does not cloe
with the Te Deum or with some oth(
chant of joy, of triumph, or of forgiv
ness. Its denouement is always
homage rendered by the justice
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries.
597
heaven avenging innocence, or by
mercy bestowing on the guilty repent-
ance and pardon.
In speaking three years ago upon
the liturgic origin of the modern tra-
gedy, and the influence of Christianity
on the dramatic passions, we ended by
saying that we need no longer seek,
as has been too often done, in Corneille
or Racine for the restorers of the
ancient tragedy; that those great
dramatists, it is true, received from
Greece the science of the pageant
and the mise en scene; but that as
much as they approach the Greek art
in their literary form, so much they
depart from it not only by their de-
nouement but also by the moral
Character of their intrigue. It was
iimpossible, in fact, to change the nature
bf the tragic denouement without
changing that of the passions and of
the events which led to them. Let
as develop this conclusion of our
essay by showing what it is that
prevents our comprehending French
ragedy and defining it.
Voltaire has said, " To compress an
llustrious and interesting event into
[he space of two or three hours, to
ntrorluce the personce only when they
mght to appear, to never leave the
tage empty, to construct an intrigue
vhich shall be probable as well as
triking, to say nothing useless, to
struct the mind and to move the
'art, to be always eloquent in verse,
id with an eloquence appropriate to
ch character represented, to make
e dialogue as pure as the choicest
ose, without the constraint of the
yme appearing to fetter the thoughts,
id never to admit an obscure or
arsh or declamatory verse these are
e conditions which are exacted from
tragedy of our day, before it can
ass to posterity with the approbation
"critics, without which it can never
ave a true reputation."
This definition, or rather this expo-
tion, otherwise so clear and so ele-
ant, of the demands of our Melpomene,
far from being complete. In the
me of Euripides, a Greek could have
said almost as much. It is because
Voltaire has only taken into account
the style and the mise en scene, the
laws of which were at Athens what
they are at Paris. The difference
between the ancient tragedies and the
modern tragic art consists essentially
in their moral character and in that
alone. Christianity, by modifying the
passions of the human heart, has been
able to modify them on the stage like-
wise. It is, then, from the philosophy
of the drama that we ought to set out
with Aristotle to study its nature.
The French tragedy, such as our
own great century has made it, is the
representation of an action more pro-
bable than real, more ideal than his-
toric, wholly noble, serious, and becom-
ing, restricted to one place, accom-
plished in a few hours, without any
interruption, except the interval of the
acts, constructed with the majestic
simplicity of the epic, drawing its star-
tling changes from the play of passions
rather from that of events, and lead-
ing forward the mind by admiration
and enthusiasm to emotions of pity
and of terror.
It is not the Greek tragedy al-
though the ancient Melpomene has
transmitted to our time its cothurnus,
its mise en scene, its triple unity, its
heroes themselves, with their terrors
and their tears. The poetic form is
the same, the moral force is entirely
different. On the Athenian stage, the
will was subjugated by a brutal fatal-
ity ; upon ours, the will makes the
destiny. Vice becomes more terrible,
virtue more magnanimous, and the
struggles of the soul hold a larger
place than the tricks of fortune. The
heroes of the ancient tragedy, to be-
come endurable with us, would have
not only to take on something of our
character, of our manners, of our senti-
ments, and, above all, of our con-
science, but it would be necessary to
change their mode of action, and to
lead them to a denouement by paths
wholly new.
Returning to the trilogy of the Pas-
sion, let us conclude this essay with a
598
Antonio Canova.
reflection which appears to us of a na-
ture to throw great light upon the pop-
ularity and the gigantic proportions of
this " mystery." The middle age, so
penetrated with Christian beliefs and
ideas, loved it only because it found
there the supreme manifestation of
Divine Providence, at once merci-
ful and just. It had been induced to
thus represent the whole history of
the human race, only to give to that
manifestation all the development de-
manded by the religious conscience
and the ethics of nations. There was
needed the representation of sin and
the fall of the first man to explain the
justice and the pardon of Cavalry:
there was needed the spectacle of a
universal judgment to solve the grand
tragedy of human destinies.
We may blame the literary tastes
of our good ancestors, but not their
philosophy. It has established on an
immovable basis the fundamental
laws of our dramatic art. We may
laugh at the puerile simplicity of their
theatre, but let us laugh reverently,
since we find in their literary infancy
the germ, the strength, the charactei
of the manhood of the great century.
Translated and Abridged from the Civilta Cattolica.
ANTONIO CANOYA.
Memorie di Antonio Canova^ scritte
da Antonio d'Este, e pullicate per
euro, di Alessandro d'Este. Fi-
renze : Felice Le Monnier. 1864.
"!T must be known," says Signor
Antonio d'Este, " that when the
learned Missirini undertook to publish
the artist-life of Canova, he had re-
course to me as the only person living
who could inform him thoroughly and
truly of the principles of the Venetian
artist, and instruct him in some details
of a life which I had known intimately
for the space of fifty years
I put upon paper whatever might serve
to illustrate not only the disposition
and character of my friend, but also
the excellent qualities of his heart.
I was disappointed
when the illustrious writer, in sending
back my manuscript, said : ' I have
made use of many things, and of some
anecdotes, but not of all, since they
appeared to me too familiar.' To tell
the truth, such an answer hurt my
self-love, and offended the unquencha-
ble affection which I felt for Cano-
va."
Hence the book before us. The
author has apparently endeavored
chiefly to exhibit Canova the artist as
a model for the studious, but he has
not overlooked Canova the citizen and
the Christian. He begins with him
in the humble Possagno, and shows
us his life in Venice, where his genius
first displayed itself, even in the de-
generate school with which alone he
was then acquainted. It was in Rome
that the young sculptor saw the an
cient purity in its full splendor. It
burst upon him like a sudden revela-
tion. For several days he was like
one in a trance. Then, with his con-
ceptions enlightened, his manner fixed,
and his aim determined, he threw
himself into his work. Yet he
was never a servile copyist of
Greek or Roman models. He imbibed
the spirit of the classical school, but
his genius never was trammelled by
imitation. The last group which he
carved under the inspiration drawn
from the ancient masterpieces, his
Daedalus and Icarus, compared with
his Theseus, the first work which he
executed in Rome, shows in a marked
Antonio Canova.
599
manner the change in his style we
might almost say his conversion to the
true principles of art.
From this time Canova, though en-
dowed with rare modesty, and always
ready to take advice, showed a fixed
resolution to free sculpture from the
mannerism then so common ; and
neither the advice of friends nor the
abuse of evil-minded critics could
shake his purpose.
Nature undoubtedly lavished talents
upon him with unsparing hand ; but
he was without a parallel in the in-
dustry and care with which he fostered
the divine flame. His whole time not
passed in labor was devoted to monu-
ments and museums of art. With his
friend d'Este he often paid a reveren-
I tial visit to the famous horses at the
Quirinal, before which he gave free
vent to his fancy. He used to spend
many hours in contemplating these
masterpieces. Long before sunrise
he would spring from his bed and shut
himself up in his studio. He took no
relaxation scarcely even food and
rest. After hammering at the marble
all day, he examined it by candle-
i light, and dreamed about it at night.
;IIe so consumed himself in work that
ihis friends had to wrench the tools
from his hands by force. But if he
laid down the chisel, it was only to re-
turn to the study of ancient master-
pieces. Not content with contemplat-
ing the works themselves under every
possible aspect, he tried to study out
fhat instruments the artists probably
made use of. He would throw open
ris studio, and then hide or disguise
"imself in order to overhear the honest
pinions of his visitors. Extravagant
raise always made him suspicious.
3nce he was so much pained at a
avish eulogium upon one of his works
hat he ran, all trembling, to his friend
rlamiltou, and begged him to point
>ut some defect in it ; and having ob-
ained the criticism that he asked, he
*an home again in great glee to cor-
ect the fault. He gladly accepted
criticism from the ignorant as well as
he learned. One day, when he was
quite old, and recognized as the firsi
sculptor of the time, he begged d'Este
to move to a certain spot a beautiful
group that he had finished. Several
laborers were called in to move it.
When they had done their task, one
of them, with that connoisseur -air
which the Roman laborer knows so
well how to assume, shrugged his
shoulders and exclaimed :
" Well, perhaps the marchese" (Can-
ova bore this title in his later years)
"knows best; but to me this statue
seems to have the goitre."
The pupils in the studio sprang up
in a rage and loaded the poor man with
abuse, and in the midst of the noisy
dispute Canova rushed into the room,
and with some difficulty learned what
was the laborer's offence. He darted
a glance of fire at the marble.
" Bravo !" he exclaimed after a
moment's pause. "You are right.
'Take this watch it is yours you
have done me a great service."
So saying, he threw his watch and
chain upon the man's neck ; and taking
up a chisel began immediately to re-
touch the statue.
At the age of twenty-five, Canova
was selected by Volpato to execute the
monument of Clement XIV., and it is
not too much to say that the restora-
tion of the art of sculpture dates from
this immortal work. The governments
of Venice, Russia, Austria, and France
invited him to take up his residence in
their respective capitals; but he was
never happy out of Rome ; the ground
seemed to burn under his feet when-
ever he was away from his beloved
studio and the great works of the an-
cient sculptors. Few artists ever
enjoyed so high a reputation in Europe
during their lifetime as Canova, and
few certainly ever sought it less. He
was wholly absorbed in love for his ari.
and eagerness for its advancement.
But the character of a great artist,
according to the Italian ideal, is not
complete without a touch of oddity, and
Canova was not free from some amia-
ble eccentricities. His love passage
with the Signorina Volpato, and the
600
Constance Sherwood.
way he got out of it, will perhaps fur-
nish the subject for a poem by some
future Goldoni ; but we have no space
to tell of it here.
D'Este describes the moral charac-
ter of Canova extremely well. He
was upright, brave ? and sincere, an
ardent patriot, and a sensible, practical
Christian. In the midst of his labors
he was not insensible to the dark clouds
which obscured the political horizon,
and he felt so deeply the misfortunes
which threatened his country that he
took the pains to retouch his Dancing
Girls, because their expression was too
joyful to accord with his own sadness
of heart. He was still employed on
this work when the pope was carried
into captivity. He felt the misfortune
as a personal affliction, and on the
statue wrote these words : " Modelled in
the most unhappy days of my life,
June, 1809."
A few weeks after the establishment
of the Roman republic, a National In-
stitute was erected, and Canova was
chosen a member. He accepted the
appointment willingly, in the hope of
being useful to Rome and to her ar-
tists ; but when, on the evening ap-
pointed for his formal admission, the
oath of membership was tendered
to him, and he heard the words, "I
swear hatred to princes," etc., he
sprang to his feet, cried out in his
Venetian dialect, " Mi non odio nes-
sun /" (I hate no one), and left the
hall.
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
CHAPTER IX.
ON the next morning Mr. Congle-
ton called me into the library from
the garden, where I was gathering for
Muriel a few of such hardy flowers as
had survived the early frost. She
was wont to carry them with her to
the prisons ; for it was one of her
kindly apprehensions of the sufferings
of others to divide the comfort where-
with things seemingly indifferent do
affect those that be shut out of all
kinds of enjoyments ; and where a
less tender nature should have been
content to provide necessaries, she,
through a more delicate acquaintance-
ship and light touch, as it were, on the
strings of the human heart, ever be-
thought herself when it was possible
to minister if but one minute's pleasure
to those who had often well-nigh for-
gotten the very taste of it. And she
hath told me touching that point of
flowers, how it had once happened that
the scent of some violets she had con-
cealed in her bosom with a like intent
did move to tears an aged man, who
for many years past had not seen, no
not so much as one green leaf in his
prison ; which tears, he said, did him
more good than anything else which
could have happened to him.
I threw down on a bench the chrys-
anthemums and other bold blossoms I
had gathered, and running into the
house, opened the door of the library,
where, lo and behold, to my no small
agitation and amaze, I discovered Ed-
mund Genings, who cried out as I en-
tered :
" O my dear master's daughter and
well-remembered playmate, I do greet
you with all mine heart ; and I thank
God that I see you in so good a condi-
tion, as I may with infinite gladness
Constance Sherwood.
601
make report of to your good father,
who through me doth impart to you
his paternal blessing and most affec-
tionate commendations."
" Edmund," I cried, scarce able to
speak for haste, " is he in London ? is
he in prison ?"
" No, forsooth," quoth Mr. Congle-
ton.
" No, verily," quoth Edmund ; both
at the same time.
" Thy fears, silly wench," added the
first, "have run away with thy wits,
and I do counsel thee another time to
be at more pains to restrain them ; for
when there be so many occasions to be
afraid of veritable evils, 'tis but sorry
waste to spend fears on present fan-
cies."
By which I did conjecture my uncle
not to be greatly pleased with Ed-
mund's coming to his house, and no-
ticed that he did fidget in his chair and
ever and anon glanced at the windows
which opened on the garden in an un-
easy manner.
"And wherefore art thou then in
London ? " I asked of Edmund ; who
thus answered :
" Because Mr. James Fenn, who is
also called Williesden, was taken and
committed close prisoner to the Mar-
shalsea a short time back; which,
when my dear master did hear of, he
was greatly disturbed and turmoiled
thereby, by reason of weighty matters
having passed betwixt him and that
gentleman touching lands belonging
to recusants, and that extraordinary
damage was likely to ensue to several
persons of great merit, if he could not
advertise him in time how to answer to
those accusations which would be laid
against him ; and did seek if by any
means he could have access to him;
but could find no hope thereof without
imminent danger not to himself only,
but to many beside, if he had come to
London and been recognized."
" Wherein he did judge rightly,"
quoth my uncle ; and then Edmund
" So, seeing my master and others of
a like faith with him in so great straits
touching their property and their lives
also, I did most earnestly crave his li-
cence, being unknown and of no ac-
count in the world, and so least to be
suspected, to undertake this enterprise,
which he could not himself perform ;
which at last he did grant me, albeit
not without reluctance. And thus re-
solved I came to town."
" And has your hope been frus-
trated?" Mr. Congleton asked. To
whom- Edmund " I thank God, the
end hath answered my expectations.
I committed the cause to him to whom
nothing is impossible, and determined,
like a trusty servant, to do all that in
me did lie thereunto. And thinking
on no other means, I took up my abode
near to the prison, hoping in time to
get acquainted with the keeper ; for
which purpose I had to drink with him
each day, standing the cost, beside
paying him well, which I was furnished
with the means to do. At last I did,
by his means, procure to see Mr. Fenn,
and not only come to speak to him,
but to have access to his cell three or
four times with pen and ink and paper
to write his mind. So I have fur-
nished him with the information he
had need of, and likewise brought
away with me such answers to my
master's questions as should solve his
doubts how to proceed in the aforesaid
matters."
" God reward thee, my good youth,"
Mr. Congleton said, "for this thing
which thou hast done ; for verily, un-
der the laws lately set forth, recusants
be in such condition that, if not death,
beggary doth stare them in the face,
and no remedy thereunto except by
such assistance as well-disposed Prot-
estants be willing to yield to them."
" And where doth my father stay at
this present time ? " I asked ; and Ed-
mund answered :
" Not so much as to you, Mistress
Constance, am I free to reply to that
question ; for when I left, ' Edmund,'
quoth my master, 'it is a part of pru-
dence in these days to guard those
that be dear to us from dangers en-
suing on what men do call our per-
versity ; and as these new laws enact
C02
Constance Sherwood.
that he which knoweth any one which
doth hear mass, be it ever so private-
ly, or suffers a priest to absolve him,
or performs any other action apper-
taining to Catholic religion, and doth
not discover him before some public
magistrate within the space of twenty
days next folio wing, shall suffer the pun-
ishment of high treason, than which
nothing can be more horrible ; and that
neither sex nor age be a cause of ex-
emption from the like penalties, so
that father must accuse son, and sis-
ter brother, and children their parents ;
it is, I say, a merciful part to hide
from our friends where we do conceal
ourselves, whose consciences do charge
us with these novel crimes, lest theirs
be also burdened with the choice either
to denounce us if called upon to testi-
fy thereon, or else to speak falsely.
Therefore I do charge thee, my son
Edmund' (for thus indeed doth my
master term me, his unworthy ser-
vant), * that thou keep from my good
child, and my dear sister, and her no
less dear husband, the knowledge of
my present, but indeed ever-shift-
ing, abode; and solely inform them,
by word of mouth, that I am in good
health, and in very good heart also,
and do most earnestly pray for them,
that their strength and patience be
such as the times do require.' "
"And art thou reconciled, Ed-
mund ? " I asked, ever speaking has-
tily and beforehand with prudence.
Mr. Congleton checked me sharply;
whereupon, with great confusion, I in-
terrupted my speech ; but Edmund, al-
beit not in words yet by signs, an-
swered my question so as I should be
certified it was even as I hoped.
He then asked if I should not be
glad to write a letter to my father,
which he would carry to him, so that
it was neither signed nor addressed,
which letter I did sit down to com-
pose in a hurried manner, my heart
prompting my pen to utter what it
listed, rather than weighing the words
in which those affectionate sentiments
were expressed. Mr. Congleton like-
wise did write to him, whilst Edmund
took some food, which he greatly
needed; for he had scarce eaten so
much as one comfortable meal since
he had been in London, and was to
ride day and night till he reached his
master. I wept very bitterly when he
went away ; for the sight of him re-
called the dear mother I had lost, the
sole parent whose company 1 was like-
wise reft of, and the home I was never
like to see again. But when those
tears were stayed, that which at the
time did cause sadness ministered com-
fort in the retrospect, and relief from
worse fears made the present separa-
tion from my father more tolerable.
And on the next Sunday, when I went
to the Charter House, with my cousins
and Mistress Ward, I was in such
good cheer that Polly commended my
prating ; which she said for some days
had been so stayed that she had great-
ly feared I had caught the infectious
plague of melancholy from Kate, whom
she vowed did half kill her with the
sound of her doleful sighing since Mr.
Lacy was gone, which she said was a
dismal music brought into fashion by
love-sick ladies, and such as she never
did intend to practise; ''for," quoth
she, " I hold care to be the worst en-
emy in life ; and to be in love very
dull sport, if it serve not to make one
merry." This she said turning to Sir
Ralph Ingoldby, the afore-mentioned
suitor for her hand, who went with us,
and thereupon cried out, " Mercy on
us, fair mistress, if we must be merry
when we be sad, and by merriment
win a lady's love, the lack of which
doth so take away merriment that we
must needs be sad, and so lose that
which should cure sadness ; " and much
more he in that style, and she answer-
ing and making sport of his discourse,
as was her wont with all gentlemen.
When we reached the house, Mrs.
Milicent was awaiting us at the door
of the gallery for to conduct us to the
best place wherein we could see her
majesty's entrance. There were some
seats there and other persons present,
some of which were of Polly's acquain-
tance, with whom she did keep up a
brisk conversation, in which I had oc-
casion to notice the sharpness of her
wit, in which she did surpass any wo-
man I have since known, for she was
never at a loss for an answer ; as when
one said to her
" Truly, you have no mean opinion
of yourself, fair mistress."
" As one shall prize himself," quoth
she, " so let him look to be valued by
others."
And another : " You think yourself
to be Minerva."
Whereupon she : " No, sir, not when
I be at your elbow ; " meaning he was
no Ulysses.
And when one gentleman asked her
of a book, if she had read it :
"The epistle," she said, "and no
more."
"And wherefore no more," quoth
he, " since that hath wit in it ? "
" Because," she answered, " an au-
thor \vho sets all his wit in his epistle
is like to make his book resemble a
bankrupt's doublet."
" How so ? " asked the gentleman.
" In this wise," saith she, " that he
sets the velvet before, though the back
be but of buckram."
" For my part," quoth a foppish
young man, " I have thoughts in my
mind should fill many volumes."
"Alack, good sir," cries she, "is there
no type good enough to set them in ?"
He, somewhat nettled, declares that
she reads no books but of one sort,
and doats on Sir Bevis and Owlglass,
or Fashion's Mirror, and such like idle
stuff, wherein he himself had never
found so much as one word of profit-
able use or reasonable entertainment.
"I have read a fable," she said,
" which speaks of a pasture in which
oxen find fodder, hounds, hares, storks,
lizards, and some animals nothing."
" To deliver you my opinion," said
a lady who sat next to Polly's disput-
ant, " I have no great esteem for let-
ters in gentlewomen. The greatest
readers be oft the worst doers."
"Letters!" cries Polly; "why,
surely they be the most weighty things
in creation ; for so much as the differ-
Comtance Sherwood.
603
ence of one letter mistaken in the or-
der in which it should stand in a short
sentence doth alter the expression of
a man's resolve in a matter of life and
death."
" How prove you that, madam ? "
quoth the lady.
" By the same token," answered
Polly, " that I once did hear a gentle-
man say, ' I must go die a beggar,'
who willed to say, * I must go buy a
dagger.'"
They all did laugh, and then some one
said, " There was a witty book of em-
blems made on all the cardinals at
Rome, in which these scarlet princes
were very roughly handled. Bellar-
mine, for instance, as a tiger fast
chained to a post, and a scroll proceed-
ing from the beast's mouth ' Give me
my liberty ; you shall see what I am.'
I wish," quoth the speaker, "he
were let loose in this island. The
queen's judges would soon constrain
him to eat his words."
" Peradventure," answered Polly,
"his own words should be too good
food for a recusant in her majesty's
prisons."
" Maybe, madam, you have tasted
of that food," quoth the aforesaid lady,
" that you be so well acquainted with
its qualities."
Then I perceived that Mis tress Ward
did nudge Polly for to stay her from
carrying on a further encounter of
words on this subject ; for, as she did
remind us afterward, many persons
had been thrown into prison for only
so much as a word lightly spoken in
conversation which should be supposed
even in a remote manner to infer a fa-
vorable opinion of Catholic religion ; as,
for instance, a bookseller in Oxford, for
a jest touching the queen's supremacy
in ecclesiastical matters, had been a
short time before arrested, pilloried,
whipped, and his ears nailed to a
counter, which with a knife he had
himself to cut through to free himself;
which maybe had not been taken much
notice of, as nothing singular in these
days, the man being a Catholic and of
no great note, but that much talk had
604
Constance Sherwood.
ministered concerning a terrible
disease which broke out immediately
after the passing of that sentence, by
which the judge which had pronounced
it, the jury, and many other persons
concerned in it, had died raving
mad ; to the no small affright of the
whole city. I ween, howsoever, no
nudging should have stopped Polly
from talking, which indeed was a pas-
sion with her, but that a burst of mu-
sic at that time did announce the
queen's approach, and we did all
stand up on the tiptoe of expectation
to see her majesty enter.
My heart did beat as fast as the
pendulum of a clock when the cries
outside resounded, " Long live Queen
Elizabeth ! " and her majesty's voice
was distinctly heard answering, " I
thank you, my good people ; " and the
ushers crying out, " La Royne ! " as
the great door was thrown open;
through which we did see her majesty
alight from her coach, followed by
many nobles and lords, and amongst
them one of her bishops, and my Lord
and my Lady Surrey, kneeling to re-
ceive her on the steps, with a goodly
company of kinsfolks and friends
around them. Oh, how I did note
every lineament of that royal lady, of
so great power and majesty, that it
should seem as if she were not made
of the same mould as those of whom
the Scriptures do say, that dust they
are, and to dust must they return.
Very majestic did she appear; her
stature neither tall nor low, but her
air exceedingly stately. Her eyes
small and black, her face fair, her nose
a little hooked, and her lips narrow.
Upon her head she had a small crown,
her bosom was uncovered; she wore
an oblong collar of gold and jewels,
and on her neck an exceeding fine
necklace. She was dressed in white
silk bordered with pearls, and over it
a mantle of black silk shot with silver
threads ; her train, which was borne
by her ladies, was very long. When
my lord knelt, she pulled off her glove,
and gave him her right hand to kiss,
sparkling with rings and jewels ; but
when my lady, in as sweet and modest
a manner as can be thought of, ad-
vanced to pay her the same homage,
she did withdraw it hastily and moved
on. I can even now, at this distance
of time, call to mind the look of that
sweet lady's face as she rose to follow
her majesty, who leant on my lord's
arm with a show of singular favor, ad-
dressing herself to him in a mild, play-
ful, and obliging manner. How the
young countess's cheek did glow with a
burning blush, as if doubting if she had
offended in the manner of her behavi-
or, or had anyways merited the re-
pulse she had met with ! How she
stood for one moment irresolute, seek-
ing to catch my lord's eye, so as to be
directed by him ; and failing to do so,
with a pretty smile, but with what I,
who loved her, fancied to be a quiver-
ing lip, addressed herself to the ladies
of the queen, and conducted them
through the cloisters to the garden,
whither her highness and my lord had
gone.
In a brief time Mistress Milicent
came to fetch us to a window which
looked on the square, where a great
open tent was set for a collation, and
seats all round it for the concert which
was to follow. As we went along, I
took occasion to ask of her the name
of a waiting-gentleman, who ordered
about the servants with no small alac-
rity, and met her majesty with many
bows and quirks and a long compli-
ment in verse.
"Tis Mr. Churchyard," she said;
" a retainer of his grace's, and a poet
withal."
"Not a grave one, I hope," said
Polly.
" Nay," answered the simple gentle-
woman, "but one well versed in pa
geants and tournaments and suchlike
devices, as well as in writing of verses
and epigrams very fine and witty.
Her majesty doth sometimes send for
him when any pageant is on hand."
" Ah, then, I doubt not," quoth
Polly, he doth take himself to be no
mean personage in the state, and so
behaves accordingly."
Constance Sherwood.
C05
Pretty Milicent left us to seek for
Mistress Bess, whom she had charge
of that day ; and now our eyes were
so intent on watching the spectacle
before us that even Polly for a while
was silent. The queen did sit at ta-
ble with a store of noblemen waiting
on her ; and a more goodly sight and
a rarer one is not to be seen than a
store of men famed for so much brav-
ery and wit and arts of state, that
none have been found to surpass them
in any age, who be so loyal to a
queen and so reverent to a woman
as these to this lady, who doth wear
the crown of so great a kingdom, so
that all the world doth hold it in re-
spect, and her hand sought by so many
great princes. But all this time I
could not perceive that she so much
as once did look toward my Lady Sur-
rey, or spoke one single word to her
or to my Lady Lumley, or little Bess,
and took very scanty notice also of my
Lady Berkeley, his grace's sister, who
was a lady of so great and haughty a
stomach, and of speech so eloquent
and ready, that I have heard the
queen did say, that albeit Lady Ber-
keley bent her knee when she made
obeisance to her, she could very well
see she bent not her will to love or
serve her, and that she liked not such
as have a man's heart in a woman's
body. 'Tis said that parity breedeth
not affection, or affinity respect, of
which saying this opinion of the
queen's should seem a notable exam-
ple. But to see my Lady Surrey so
treated in her own husband's father's
house worked in me such effects of
choler, mingled with sadness, that I
could scarce restrain my tears. Me-
thought there was a greater nobleness
and a more true queenly greatness in
her meek and withal dignified endur-
ance of these slights who was the sub-
ject, than in the sovereign who did so
insult one who least of all did deserve
it. What the queen did, others took
pattern from; and neither my Lord
Burleigh, nor my Lord Leicester, or
Sir Christopher Hatton, or young Lord
Essex (albeit my loid's own friend ),
or little Sir John Harrington, her ma-
jesty's godson, did so much as speak
one civil word or show her the least at-
tention ; but she did bear herself with
so much sweetness, and, though I knew
her heart was full almost to bursting,
kept up so brave an appearance that
none should see it except such as had
their own hearts wounded through
hers, that some were present that day
who since have told me that, for prom-
ise of future distinction and true nobil-
ity of aspect and behavior, they had
not in their whole lives known one to
be compared with the young Countess
of Surrey.
Polly did point out to us the afore-
said noblemen and gentlemen, and also
Dr. Cheney, the bishop of Gloucester,
who had accompanied her majesty, and
M. de la Motte, the French ambassa-
dor, whom she did seem greatly to fa-
vor ; but none that day so much as my
Lord Surrey, on whom she let fall
many gracious smiles, and used play-
ful fashions with him, such as nipping
him once or twice on the forehead, and
shaking her fan, as if to reprove him
for his answers to her questions, which
nevertheless, if her countenance might
be judged of, did greatly content her ;
albeit I once observed her to frown
(and methought, then, what a terror
doth lie in a sovereign's frown) and
speak sharply to him ; at the which a
high color came into his cheek, and
rose up even to his temples, which her
majesty perceiving, she did again use
the same blandishments as before ;
and when the collation was ended, and
the concert began, which had been pro-
vided for her grace's entertainment,
she would have him sit at her feet,
and gave him so many tokens of good-
will, that I heard Sir Ralph Ingoldby,
who was standing behind me, say to
another gentleman :
" If that young nobleman's father is
like to be shorter by the head, his fa-
ther's son is like to have his own
raised higher than ever his father's
was, so he doth keep clear of papist
ry and overmuch fondness for his
wife, which be the two things her
GOG
Constance Sherwood.
majesty doth most abhor in her cour-
tiers."
My heart moving me to curiosity, I
could not forbear to ask :
" I pray you, sir, wherefore doth not
her majesty like her courtiers to love
their wives ? "
At the which question he laughed,
and said :
" By reason, Mistress Constance,
that when they be in that case they do
become stayers at home, and wait not
on her majesty with a like diligence
as when they are unmarried, or least-
ways love not their ladies. The Bible
saith a man cannot serve God and
mammon. Now her grace doth opine
men cannot serve the queen and their
wives also."
" Then," I warmly cried, " I hope
my Lord Surrey shall never serve the
queen !"
" I' faith, say it not so loud, young
Mistress Papist," said Sir Ralph,
laughing, " or we shall have you com-
mitted for high treason. Some are in
the Tower, I warrant you, for no worse
offence than the uttering of such like
rash words. How should you fancy
to have your pretty ears bored with a
rougher instrument than Master An-
selm's the jeweller ?"
And so he ; but Polly, who methinks
was not well pleased that he should
notice mine ears, which were little and
well-shaped, whereas hers were some-
what larger than did accord with her
small face, did stop his further speech
with me by asking him if he were an
enemy to papists ; for if so, she would
have naught to say to him, and he
might become a courtier to the queen,
or any one else's husband, for any-
thing she did care, yea, if she were to
lose her ears for it
And he answered, he did very much
love some papists, albeit he hated pa-
pistry when it proved not conformable
to reason and the laws of the country.
And so they fell to whispering and
suchlike discourses as lovers hold to-
gether ; and I, being seated betwixt
this enamored gentleman and the wall
on the other side, had no one then to
talk with. But if my tongue and
mine ears also, save for the music be-
low, were idle, not so mine eyes ; for
they did stray from one point to another
of the fair spectacle which the garden
did then present, now resting on the
queen and those near unto her, and
anon on my Lady Surrey, who sat on
a couch to the left of her majesty's
raised canopy, together with Lady
Southwell, Lady Arundell (Sir Rob-
ert's wife), and other ladies of the
queen, and on one side of her the
bishop of Gloucester, whom, by reason
of his assiduous talking with her, I
took more special note of than I should
otherwise have done ; albeit he was a
man which did attract the eye, even at
the first sight, by a most amiable suav-
ity of countenance, and a sweet and
dignified behavior both in speech and
action such as I have seldom observed
greater in any one. His manners
were free and unconstrained ; and only
to look at him converse, it was easy to
perceive he had a most ready wit
tempered with benevolence. He
seemed vastly taken with my Lady
Surrey; and either had not noticed
how others kept aloof from her, or was
rather moved thereby to show her
civility; for they soon did fall into
such eager, and in some sort familiar,
discourse, as it should seem to run on
some subject of like interest to both.
Her color went and came as the con-
versation advanced ; and when she
spoke, he listened with such grave
suavity, and, when she stayed her
speech, answered in so obliging a
manner, and seemed so loth to break
off, that I could not but admire how
two persons, hitherto strangers to each
other, and of such various ages and
standing, should be so companionable
on a first acquaintanceship.
When the queen rose to depart, in
the same order in which she came,
every one kneeling as she passed, I
did keenly watch to see what visage
she would show to my Lady Surrey,
whom she did indeed this time salute ;
but in no gracious manner, as one who
looks without looking, notices without
Constnace Sherwood.
C07
heeding, and in tendering of thanks
thanketh not. As my lord walked by
her majesty's side through the cloisters
to the door, he suddenly dropped on
one knee, and drawing a paper from
his bosom, did present it to her high-
ness, who started as if surprised, and
shook her head in a playful manner
(oh, what a cruel playfulness me-
thought it was, who knew, as her
majesty must needs also have done,
what that paper did contain) as if
she would not be at that time troubled
with such grave matters, and did hand
it to my Lord Burleigh ; then gave
again her hand to my lord to kiss, who
did kneel with a like reverence as be-
fore ; but with a shade of melancholy
in his fair young face, which methought
became it better than the smiles it had
worn that day.
After the queen had left, and all
the guests were gone save such few as
my lord had willed to stay to supper
in his private apartments, I went unto
my lady's chamber, where I found
Mistress Milicent, who said she was
with my lord, and prayed me to await
her return ; for that she was urgent I
should not depart without speaking
with her, which was also what I great-
ly desired. So I took a book and read
for the space of an hour or more, whilst
she tarried with my lord. When she
came in, I could see she had been
weeping. But her women being pre-
sent, and likewise Mistress Bess, she
tried to smile, and pressed my hand,
bidding me to stay till she was rid 01
her trappings, as she did term them ;
and, sitting down before her mirror,
though I ween she never looked at
her own face, which that evening had
in it more of the whiteness of a lily than
the color of the rose, she desired her
women to unbraid her hair, and remove
from her head the diamond circlet, and
from her neck the heavy gold chain with
a pearl cross, which had belonged to her
husband's mother. Then stepping out
of her robe, she put on a silk wrapper,
and so dismissed them, and likewise
little Bess, who before she went whis-
pered in her ear :
"Nan, methinks the queen is foul
and red-haired, and I should not care
to kiss her hand for all the fine jewels
she doth wear."
And so hugged her round the neck
and stopped her mouth with kisses.
When they were gone,
" Constance," quoth she, " we be full
young, I ween, for the burden laid up-
on us, my lord and me."
" Ay, sweet one," I cried ; " and God
defend thou shouldst have to carry it
alone;" for my heart was sore that
she had had so little favor shown
to her and my lord so much. A faint
color tinged her cheek as she replied :
" God knows I should be well con-
tent that Phil should stand so well in
her majesty's good graces as should
be convenient to his honor and the
furtherance of his fortunes, if so be
his father was out of prison ; and 'tis
little I should reck of such slights as
her highness should choose to put up-
on me, if I saw him not so covetous of
her favor that he shall think less well
of his poor Nan hereafter by reason
of the lack of her majesty's good opin-
ion of her, which was so plainly showed
to-day. For, good Constance, bethink
thee what a galling thing it is to a
young nobleman to see his wife so
meanly entreated ; and for her majes-
ty to ask him, as she did, if the pale-
faced chit by his side, when she ar-
rived, was his sister or his cousin.
And when he said it was his wife who
had knelt with him to greet her maj-
esty" Wife ! " quoth the queen ; " i '
faith, I had forgotten thou wast mar-
ried if indeed that is to be called a
marriage which children do contract
before they come to the age of reason ;"
and said she would take measures for
that a law should be passed which
should make such foolish marriages
unlawful. And when my lord tried
to tell her we had been married a
second time a few months since, she
pretended not to hear, and asked M.
de la Motte if, in his country, children
were made to marry in their infancy.
To which he gave answer, that the
like practice did sometimes take place
608
Constance Sherwood.
in France; and that he had himself
been present at a wedding where the
bridegroom was whipped because he
did refuse to open the ball with the
bride. At the which her majesty very
much laughed, and said she hoped my
lord had not been so used on his wed-
ding-day. I promise you Phil was
very angry ; but the wound these jests
made was so salved over with compli-
ments, which pleasantly tickle the ears
when uttered by so great a queen, and
marks of favor more numerous than
can be thought of, in the matter of in-
viting him to hunt with her in Maryle-
bone and Greenwich park, and telling
him he deserved better treatment than
he had, as to his household and setting
forward in the world, that methinks
the scar was not long in healing ; al-
beit in the relating of these passages
the pain somewhat revived. But what
doth afflict me the most is the refusal
her highness made to read my lord's
letter, lamenting the unhappy position
of the duke his father, and hoping the
queen, by his means and those of other
friends, should mitigate her anger. I
would have had Phil not only go down
on his knees as he did, but lie on the
threshold of the door, so that she
should have walked over the son's
body if she refused to show mercy to
the father; but he yet doth greatly
hope from the favor showed him that
he may sue her majesty with better ef-
fect some other time; and I pray God
he may be right."
Here did the dear lady break off
her speech, and, hiding her face in her
hands, remained silent for a short
space; and I, seeing her so deeply
moved, with the intent to draw away
her thoughts from painful musings, in-
quired of her if the good entertain-
ment she had found in conversing with
the bishop had been attributable to
his witty discourse, or to the subjects
therein treated of.
" Ah, good Constance," she an-
swered, "our talk was of one whom
you have often heard me speak of
Mr. Martin's friend, Master Campion,*
* State Papers.
who is now beyond seas at Douay, and
whom this bishop once did hold to be
more dear to him than the apple of
his eye. He says his qualifications
were so excellent, and he so beloved
by all persons in and outside of his
college at Oxford, that none more so ;
and that he did himself see in him so
great a present merit and promise of
future excellence, that it had caused
him more grief than anything else
which had happened to him, and been
the occasion of his shedding more tears
than he had ever thought to have
done, when he who had received from
him deacon's orders, and whom he
had hoped should have been an honor
and a prop to the Church of England,
did forsake it and fly in the face of his
queen and his country: first, by going
into Ireland ; and then, as he under-
stood, beyond seas, to serve the bishop
of Rome, against the laws of God and
man. But that he did yet so dearly
affection him that, understanding we
had sometimes tidings of Mr. Martin,
by whose means he had mostly been
moved to this lamentable defection, he
should be contented to hear somewhat
of his whilom son, still dear to him, al-
beit estranged. I told him we did
often see Master Campion when Mr.
Martin was here ; and that, from what
I had heard, both were like to be at
Douay, but that no letters passed be-
tween Mr. Martin and ourselves ; for
that his grace did not allow of such
correspondence since he had been re-
conciled and gone beyond seas. Which
the bishop said was a commendable
prudence in his grace, and the part of
a careful father ; and added, that then
maybe he knew more of what had be-
fallen Master Campion than I did;
for that he had a long epistle from
him, so full of moving arguments and
pithy remonstrances as might have
shaken one not well grounded and
settled in his religion, and which also
contained a recital of his near arrest
in Dublin, where the queen's officers
would have arrested him, if a friend
had not privately warned him of his
danger. And I do know, good Con-
Constance Shcncood.
609
stance, who that friend was ; for albeit
I would not tell the bishop we had
seen Master Campion since he was re-
conciled, he, in truth, was here some
months ago: my lord met him in
the street, disguised as a common
travelling man, and brought him into
the garden, whither he also called me ;
and we heard then from him how he
would have been taken in Ireland, if
the viceroy himself. Sir Henry Syd-
ney, who did greatly favor him, as
indeed all who know him incline to do,
for his great parts, and nobleness of
mind and heart, and withal most at-
tractive manners, had not sent him a
message, in the middle of the night, to
the effect that he should instantly
leave the city, and take measures for
to escape abroad. So, under the name
of Patrick, and wearing the livery of
the Earl of Kildare, he travelled to a
port twenty miles from Dublin, and
there embarked for England. The
queen's officers, coming on board the
ship whereon he had taken his pas-
sage, before it sailed, searched it all
over; but through God's mercy, he
said, and St. Patrick's prayers, whose
name he had taken, no one did recog-
nize him, and he passed to London ;
and the day after, my lord sent him
over to Flanders. So much as the
bishop did know thereon, he related
unto me, and stinted not in his praise
of his great merits, and lamentations
for what he called his perversion ; and
hence he took occasion to speak of re-
ligion. And when I said I had been
brought up in the Catholic religion,
albeit I now conformed to the
times, he said he would show me the
way to be Catholic and still obey the
laws, and that I might yet believe for
the most part what I had learnt from
my teachers, so be I renounced the
Pope, and commended my saying the
prayers I had been used to ; which, he
doubted not, were more pleasing to
God than such as some ministers do
recite out of their own heads, whom he
did grieve to hear frequented our
house, and were no better than here-
tics, such as Mr. Fox and Mr. Fulke
39
and Mr. Charke, and the like of them.
But what did much content me was,
that he mislikes the cruel usage recu-
sants do meet with ; and he said, not
as if boasting of it, but to declare his
mind thereon, that he had often sent
them alms who suffered for their con-
science' sake, as many do at this time.
But that I was to remember many
Protestants were burnt in the late
queen's time, and that if Papists were
not kept under by strict laws, the like
might happen again.
" You should have told him," I cried,
who had been silent longer than I
liked, " that Protestants are burnt also
in this reign, by the same token that
some Anabaptists did so suffer a short
time back, to your Mr. Fox's no small
disgust, who should will none but
Catholics to be put to death."
" Content thee, good Constance," my
lady answered ; " I be not so furnished
with arguments as thou in a like case
wouldst be. So I only said, I would
to God none were burnt, or hanged, or
tortured any more in this country, or
in the world at all, for religion ; and
my lord of Gloucester declared he was
of the same mind, and would have
none so dealt with, if he could mend
it, here or abroad. Then the queen
rising to go, our discourse came to an
end ; but this good bishop says he will
visit me when he next doth come to
London, and make that matter plain to
me how I can remain Catholic, and
obey the queen, and content his grace."
" Then he will show you," I cried,
" how to serve God and the world,
which the gospel saith is a thing not
to be thought of, and full of peril to
the soul."
My Lady Surrey burst into tears,
and I was angered with myself that I
had spoken perad venture over sharply
to her who had too much trouble al-
ready ; but it did make me mad to see
her so beset that the faith which had
been once so rooted in her, and should
be her sure and only stay in the dan-
gerous path she had entered on, should
be in such wise shaken as her words
did indicate. But she was not an-
610
Constance Sherwood.
gered, the sweet soul ; and drawing
me to herself, laid her head on my bo-
som, and said :
" Thou art a true friend, though a
bold one ; and I pray God I may
never lack the benefit of such friend-
ship as thine, for he knoweth I have
great need thereof"
And so we parted with many tender
embraces, and our hearts more strictly
linked together than heretofore.
CHAPTER X.
IN the month of November of the
same year in which the queen did
visit Lord and Lady Surrey at the
Charter House, a person, who men-
tioned not his name, delivered into the
porter's hands at our gate a letter for
me, which I found to be from my good
father, and which I do here transcribe, as
a memorial of his great piety toward
God, and tender love for me his un-
worthy child.
"MY DEARLY BELOVED DAUGH-
TER (so he), Your comfortable let-
ter has not a little cheered me ; and
the more so that this present one is
like to be the last I shall be able to
write on this side of the sea, if it so
happen that it shall please God to
prosper my intent, which is to pass
over into Flanders at the first conven-
ient opportunity: for the stress of the
times, and mine own earnest desire to
live within the compass of a religious
life, have moved me to forsake for a
while this realm, and betake myself
to a place which shall afford oppor-
tunity and a sufficiency of leisure for
the prosecution of my design. The
comfortable report Edmund made of
thy health, increased height, and good
condition, as also of thy exceeding
pleasant and affectionate behavior to
aim, as deputed from thy poor father
to convey to thee his paternal bless-
ing, together with such tokens as a
third person may exhibit of that most
natural and tender affection which he
bears to thee, his sole child, whom
next to God' he doth most entirely
value and love, of which charge this
good youth assured me he did acquit
himself as my true son in Christ,
which indeed he now is, and my good
brother's letter and thine, which both
do give proof of the exceeding great
favor shown toward thee in his
house, wherein he doth reckon my
Constance not so much a niece (for
such be his words) as a most cherish-
ed daughter, whose good qualities and
lively parts have so endeared her to
his family, that the greatest sorrow
which could befal them should be to
lose her company ; which I do not
here recite for to awaken in thee mo-
tions of pride or a vain conceit of
thine own deserts, but rather gratitude
to those whose goodness is so great as
to overlook thy defects and magnify
thy merits ; Edmund's report, I say,
coupled with these letters, have yield-
ed me all the contentment I desire at
this time, when I am about to embark
on a perilous voyage, of which none
can foresee the course or the end ; one
in which I take the cross of Christ
as my only staff ; his words, " Follow
me," for my motto; and his promise
to all such as do confess him before
men, as the assured anchor of my hope.
"Our ingenuous youth informed
thee (albeit I doubt not in such wise
as to conceal, if it had been possible,
his own ability, which, with his devot-
edness, do exceed praise) how he ac-
quitted both me and others of much
trouble and imminent danger by his
fortunate despatch with that close pris-
oner. I had determined to place him
with some of my acquaintance, lest
perhaps he should return, not without
some danger of his soul, to his own
friends ; but when he understood my
resolution, he cried out with like words
to those of St. Lawrence, < Whither
goeth my master without his servant ?
Whither goeth my father without his
son?' and with tears distilling from
his eyes, he humbly entreated he
might go together with me, saying, as
it were with St. Peter, ' Master, I am
Constance Sherwood.
611
ready to go with you to prison, yea to
death ; ' but, forecasting his future
ability, as also to try his spirit a little
further, I made him answer it was im-
possible ; to which our Edmund re-
plied, ' Alas ! and is it impossible ?
Shall my native soil restrain free will ?
or home-made laws alter devout reso-
lutions ? Am I not young ? Can I
not study ? May I not in time get
what you now have got learning for a
scholar ? yea, virtue for a priest, per-
haps ; and so at length obtain that for
which you now are ready? Direct
me the way, I beseech you ; and let
me, if you please, be your precursor.
Tell me what I shall do, or whither I
must go ; and for the rest, God, who
knows my desire, will provide and
supply the want. Can it be possible
that he who clothes the lilies of the
field, and feeds the fowls of the air,
will forsake him who forsakes all to
fulfil his divine precept, " Seek first
the kingdom of God and his justice,
and all other things shall be given
to you ? " ' Finally, he ended, to
my no small admiration, by reciting
the words of our Saviour, l Whoso-
ever shall forsake home, or brethren,
or sisters, or father, or mother, for my
sake and the gospel's, shall receive a
hundredfold and possess life everlast-
ing.'
" By these impulses, often repeated
with great fervor of spirit, I perceived
God Almighty's calling in him, and
therefore at last condescended to let
him take his adventures, procuring
1dm commendations to such friends be-
yond seas as should assist him in his
e, and furnishing him with money
uincient for such a journey ; not judg-
ng it to be prudent to keep him with
who have not ability to warrant
line own passage; and so noted a
usant, that I run a greater risk to
e arrested in any port where I em-
ark. And so, in all love and affec-
ion, we did part ; and I have since
ad intelligence, for the which I do
turn most humble and hearty thanks
God, that he hath safely crossed
he seas, and has now reached a sure
harbor, where his religious desires
may take effect. And now, daughter
Constance, mine own good child, fare
thee well ! Pray for thy poor father,
who would fain give thee the blessing
of the elder as of the younger son
Jacob's portion and Esau's also. But
methinks the blessings of this world
be not at the present time for the
Catholics of this land ; and so we
must needs be content, for our chil-
dren as for ourselves (and a covetous
man he is which should not therewith
be satisfied), with the blessings our
Lord did utter on the mountain, and
mostly with that in which he doth
say, ' Blessed are ye when men shall
persecute you, and revile you, and say
all manner of evil against you falsely,
for my name's sake ; for great is your
reward in heaven.'
"Your loving father in natural af-
fection and ten thousand times more
in the love of Christ, H. S."
Oh, what a gulf of tenfold separa-
tion did those words "beyond seas"
suggest betwixt that sole parent and
his poor child ! Thoughts travel
not with ease beyond the limits which
nature hath set to this isle ; and what
lies beyond the watery waste where-
with Providence hath engirdled our
shores offers no apt images to the
mind picturing the invisible from the
visible, as it is wont to do with home-
scenes, where one city or one land-
scape beareth a close resemblance to
another. And if, in the forsaking of
this realm, so much danger did lie,
yea, in the very ports whence he
might sail, so that I, who should other-
wise have prayed that the winds
might detain him, and the waves force
him back on his native soil, was con-
strained to supplicate that they should
assist him to abandon it, how much
greater, methought, should be the per-
ils of his return, when, as he indeed
hoped, a mark should be set on him
which in our country dooms men to a
cruel death ! Many natural tears I
shed at this parting, which until then
had not seemed so desperate and final ;
612
Constance Sherwood.
and for a while would not listen to the
consolations which were offered by the
good friends who were so tender to me,
but continued to wander about in a
disconsolate manner in the garden, or
passionately to weep in my own cham-
ber, until Muriel, the sovereign mis-
tress of comfort to others, albeit ever
ailing in her body, and contemned by
euch as dived not through exterior de-
formity into the interior excellences of
her soul, with sweet compulsion and
authoritative arguments drawn from
her admirable faith and simple devo-
tion, rekindled in mine the more noble
sentiments sorrow had obscured, not
so much through diverting, as by ele-
vating and sweetening, my thoughts to
a greater sense of the goodness of God
in calling my father, and peradventure
Edmund also, to so great an honor as
the priesthood, and never more honor-
able than in these days, wherein it
oftentimes doth prove the road to mar-
tyrdom.
In December of that year my Lord
and my Lady Surrey, by the Duke of
Norfolk's desire, removed for some
weeks to Kenninghall for change of
air, and also Lady Lumley, his grace
judging them to be as yet too young to
keep house alone. My lord's brothers
and Mistress Bess, with her gover-
ness, were likewise carried there.
Lady Surrey wrote from that seat,
that, were it not for the duke's impris-
onment and constant fears touching his
life, she should have had great con-
tentment in that retirement, and been
most glad to have tarried there, if it
had pleased God, so long as she lived,
my lord taking so much pleasure in
field-sports, and otherwise so compan-
ionable, that he often offered to ride
with her ; and in the evenings they
did entertain themselves with books,
chiefly poetry, and sometimes played
at cards. They had but few visitors,
by reason of the disgrace and trouble
Ms grace was in at that time ; only
such of their neighbors as did hunt
and shoot with the earl her husband ;
mostly Sir Henry Stafford and Mr.
Kookwood's two sons, whom she com-
mended ; the one for his good quali-
ties and honest carriage, and the other
for wit and learning; as also Sir Ham-
mond 1'Estrange, a gentleman who
stayed no longer away from Kenning-
hall, she observed, than thereunto com-
pelled by lack of an excuse for tarry-
ing if present, or returning when ab-
sent. He often procured to be invited
by my lord, who used to meet him out
of doors, and frequently carried him
back with him to dine or to sup, and
often both.
" And albeit" (so my lady wrote J
" I doubt not but he doth set a reason-
able value on my lord's society, who,
although young enough to be his son,
is exceedingly conversable and pleas-
ant, as every one who knows him doth
testify, and mislikes not, I ween, the
good cheer, or the wine from his
grace's cellar ; yet I warrant thee,
good Constance, 'tis not for the sake
only of our poor company or hospita-
ble table that this good knight doth
haunt us, but rather from the passion
I plainly see he hath conceived for ouf
Milicent since a day when he hurt his
arm by a fall not far from hence, and
I procured she should dress it with
that rare ointment of thine, which ver-
ily doth prove of great efficacy in j
cases where the skin is rubbed off.
Methinks the wound in his ami was
then transplanted into his heart, and
the good man so bewitched with the
blue eyes and dove-like countenance
of his chirurgeon, that he has fallen
head-over-ears in love, and is, as I
hope, minded to address her in a law-
ful manner. His wound did take an
exceeding long time in healing, to the
no small discredit of thy ointment ;
for he came several days to have it
dressed, and I could not choose but
smile when at last our sweet practi-
tioner did ask him, in an innocent
manner, if the wound did yet smart,
for indeed she could see no appearance
in it but what betokened it to be healed.
He answered, ' There be wounds, Mis-
tress Milicent, which smart, albeit no
outward marks of such suffering do
show themselves.' ' Ay,' quoth Mill-
Constance Sherwood.
613
cent, 'but for such I be of opinion fur-
ther dressing is needless ; and with
my lady's licence, I will furnish you,
sir, with a liquid which shall strengthen
the skin, and so relieve the aching, if
so you be careful to apply it night and
morning to the injured part, and to
cork the bottle after using it.' * My
memory is so bad, fair physician,'
quoth the knight, ' that I am like to
forget the prescription.' She an-
swered, he should stand the bottle so
as it should meet his eyes when he
rose, and then he must needs remem-
ber it,
" And so broke off the discourse.
But when he is here I notice how his
eyes do follow her when she sets the
table for primero, or works at the
tambour-frame, or plays with Bess, to
whom he often talks as she sits on her
knees, who, if I mistake not, shall be,
one of these days, Lady 1'Estrange,
and is as worthy to be so well married
as any girl in the kingdom, both as
touching her birth and her exceeding
great virtue and good disposition. He
is an extreme Protestant, and very
bitter against Catholics ; but as she,
albeit mild in temper, is as firmly set-
tled in the new religion as he is, no
difference will e^xist between them on
a point in which 'tis most of all to be
lesired husbands and wives should
)e agreed. Thou mayst think that I
lave been over apt to note the signs of
this good knight's passion, and to draw
deductions from such tokens as have
appeared of it, visible maybe to no
other eyes than mine ; but, trust me,
Constance, those who do themselves
mow what 'tis to love with an engross-
ng affection are quick to mark the
same effects in others. When Phil is
n the room, I find it a hard matter at
imes to restrain mine eyes from gaz-
ng on that dear husband, whom I do
so entirely love that I have no other
pleasure in life but in his company.
And not to seem to him or to others
top fond, which is not a beseeming
thing even in a wife, I study to con-
ceal my constant thinking on him by
such devices as cunningly to provoke^
others to speak of my lord, and so ap-
pear only to follow whereunto my own
desire doth point, or to propose ques-
tions, a pastime wherein he doth
excel, and so minister to mine own
pride in him without direct flattery, or
in an unbecoming manner setting forth
his praise. And thus I do grow
learned in the tricks of true affection,
and to perceive in such as are in love
what mine own heart doth teach me to
be the signals of that passion."
So far my lady ; and not long after,
on the first day of February, I had a
note from her, written in great dis-
traction of mind at the Charter House,
where she and all his grace's children
had returned in a sudden manner on
the hearing that the queen had issued
a warrant for the duke's execution on
the next Monday. Preparations were
made with the expectation of all Lon-
don, and a concourse of many thou-
sands to witness it, the tread of whose
feet was heard at night, like to the roll
of muffled drums, along the streets ;
but on the Sunday, late in the night,
the queen's majesty entered into a
great misliking that the duke should
die the next day, and sent an order to
the sheriffs to forbear until they should
hear further. His grace's mother, the
dowager countess, and my Lady
Berkeley his sister (now indeed lower-
ing her pride to most humble suppli-
cation), and my Lord Arundel from
his sick-bed, and the French ambassa-
dor, together with many others, sued
with singular earnestness to her ma-
jesty for his life, who, albeit she had
stayed the execution of his sentence,
would by no means recall it. I hasted
to the Charter House, Mistress Ward
going with me, and both were admitted
into her ladyship's chamber, with whom
did sit that day the fairest picture of
grief I ever beheld the Lady Marga-
ret Howard, who for some months had
resided with the Countess of Sussex,
who was a very good lady to her and
all these afflicted children. Albeit
Lady Surrey had often greatly com-
mended this young lady, and styled her
so rare a piece of perfection that no one
614
Constance Sherwood.
could know and not admire her, the
loveliness of her face, nobility of her
figure, and attractiveness of her man-
ners exceeded my expectations. The
sight of these sisters minded me then of
what Lady Surrey had written when
they were yet children, touching my
Lord Surrey, styling them " two twin
cherries on one stalk ;" and methought,
now that the lovely pair had ripened into
early maturity, their likeness in beauty
(though differing in complexion) justi-
fied the saying. Lady Margaret
greeted us as though we had not been
strangers, and in the midst of her
great and natural sorrow showed a
grateful sense of the share we did take
in a grief which methinks was deeper
in her than in any other of these
mourners.
Oh, what a period of anxious sus-
pense did follow that first reprieve !
what alternations of hope and fear !
what affectionate letters were ex-
changed between that loving father
and good master and his sorrowful
children and servants ; now writing
to Mr. Dyx, his faithful steward :
" Farewell, good Dyx ! your service
hath been so faithful unto me, as I am
sorry that I cannot make proof of my
good-will to recompense it. I trust
my death shall make no change in you
toward mine, but that you will faith-
fully perform the trust that I have re-
posed in you. Forget me, and remem-
ber me in mine. Forget not to counsel
and advise Philip and Nan's unexpe-
rienced years ; the rest of their
brothers' and sisters' well-doing resteth
much upon their virtuous and consid-
erate dealings. God grant them his
grace, which is able to work better in
them than my natural well-meaning
heart can wish unto them. Amen.
And so, hoping of your honesty and
faithfulness when I am dead, I bid
you this my last farewell. T. H."
Now to another trusty friend and
honest dependent:
" Good friend George, farewell. I
have no other tokens to send my
friends but my books ; and I know
how sorrowful you are, amongst the
rest, for my hard hap, whereof I thank
God ; because I hope his merciful
chastisement will prepare me for a
better world. Look well throughout
this book, and you shall find the name
of duke very unhappy. I pray God it
may end with me, and that others may
speed better hereafter. But if I might
have my wish, and were in as good a
state as ever you knew me, yet I
would wish for a lower degree. Be a
friend, I pray you, to mine ; and do
rny hearty commendations to your
good wife and to gentle Mr. Dennye.
I die in the faith that you have ever
known me to be of. Farewell, good
friend.
"Yours dying, as he was living,
"NORFOLK."
These letters and some others did
pass from hand to hand in that afflict-
ed house ; and sometimes hope and
sometimes despair prevailed in the
hearts of the great store of relatives
and friends which often assembled
there to confer on the means of soften-
ing the queen's anger and moving her
to mercy ; one time through letters
from the king of France and other
princes, which was an ill shot, for to
be so entreated by foreign potentates ^
did but inflame her majesty's anger
against the duke ; at others, by my
Lord Sussex- and my Lord Arun-
del, or such persons in her court
as nearly approached her high-
ness and could deal with her when
she was merry and chose to conde-
scend to their discourse. But the
wind shifts not oftener than did the
queen's mind at that time, so diverse
were her dispositions toward this no-
bleman, and always opposed to such
as appeared in those who spoke on
this topic, whether as pressing for his
execution, or suing for mercy to be
extended to him. I heard much talk
at that time touching his grace's good
qualities : how noble had been his
spirit ; how moderate his disposition ;
how plain his attire ; how bountiful
his alms.
Constance Sherwood.
615
As the fates of many do in these
days hang on the doom of one, much
eagerness was shown amongst those
who haunted my uncle's house to
learn the news afloat concerning the
issue of the duke's affair. Some Cath-
olics of note were lying in prison at
that time in Norwich, most of them
friends of these gentlemen ; of which
four were condemned to death at that
time, and one to perpetual imprison-
ment and loss of all his property for
reconcilement ; but whilst the Duke of
Norfolk was yet alive, they held the
hope he should, if once out of prison,
recover the queen's favor and drive
from their seats his and their mortal
enemies, my Lrds Burleigh and Lei-
cester. And verily the axe was held
suspended on the head of that duke
for four months and more, to the un-
speakable anguish of many ; and,
amongst others, his aged and afflicted
mother, the Dowager Countess of Sur-
rey, who came to London from the
country to be near her son in this ex-
tremity. Three times did the queen
issue a warrant for his death and then
recalled it ; so that those trembling
relatives and well-wishers in and out
of his house did look each day to hear
the fatal issue had been compassed,
[n the month of March, when her ma-
esty was sick with a severe inflamma-
tion and agonizing pain, occasioned,
some said, by poison administered by
mpists, but by her own physicians
declared to arise from her contempt of
lieir prescriptions, there was a strange
turmoil, I ween, in some men's breasts,
albeit silent as a storm brewing on a
sultry day. Under their breath, and
with faces shaped to conceal the wish
which bred the inquiry, they asked of
the queen's health ; whilst others tore
their hair and beat their breasts with
no affected grief, and the most part of
the people lamented her danger. Oh,
what five days were those when the
shadow of death did hover over that
royal couch, and men's hearts failed
them for fear, or else wildly whispered
hopes such as they durst not utter
aloud, not so much as to a close
friend, lest the walls should have
ears, or the pavement open under
their feet ! My God, in thy hands lie
the issues of life and death. Thou dost
assign to each one his space of exist-
tence, his length of days. Thy ways
are not as our ways, nor thy thoughts as
our thoughts. She lived who was yet
to doom so many princely heads to the
block, so many saintly forms to the
dungeon and the rack. She lived
whose first act was to stretch forth a
hand yet weakened by sickness to sign,
a fourth time, a warrant for a kins-
man's death, and once again recalled
it. Each day some one should come
in with various reports touching the
queen's dispositions. Sometimes she
had been heard to opine that her dan-
gers from her enemies were so great
that justice must be done. At others
she vehemently spoke of the nearness
of blood to herself, of the superiority
in honor of this duke ; and once she
wrote to Lord Burleigh (a copy of
this letter Lord Surrey saw in Lord
Oxford's hands), "that she was more
beholden to the hinder part of her
head than she dared trust the forward
part of the same ; " and expressed
great fear lest an irrevocable deed
should be committed. But she would
not see Lord Surrey, or suffer him to
plead in person for his father's life.
Yet there were good hopes amongst
his friends he should yet be released,
till one day I mind it well, for I
was sitting with Lady Surrey, reading
out loud to her, as I was often used to
do my Lord Berkeley burst into the
chamber, and cried, throwing his
gloves on the table and swearing a
terrible oath:
" That woman has undone us ! "
" What, the queen ?" said my lady,
white as a smock.
" Verily a queen," he answered
gloomily. " I warrant you the Queen
of Scots hath ended as she did begin,
and dragged his grace into a pit from
whence I promise you he will never
now rise. A letter writ in her cipher
to the Duke of Alva hath been inter-
cepted, in which that luckless royal
616
Constance Sherwood.
wight, ever fatal to her friends as to
herself, doth say, 'that she hath a
strong party in England, and lords
who favor her cause ; some of whom,
albeit prisoners, so powerful, that the
Queen of England should not dare to
touch their lives.' Alack! those
words, * should not dare,' shall prove
the death-warrant of my noble brother.
Cursed be the day when he did get
entangled in that popish siren's plots !"
" Speak not harshly of her, good my
lord," quoth Lady Surrey, in her gen-
tle voice. " Her sorrows do bear too
great a semblance to our own not to
bespeak from us patience in this mis-
hap."
" Nan," said Lord Berkeley, " thou
art of too mild a disposition. 'Tis the
only fault I do find with thee. Be-
shrew me, if my wife and thee could
not make exchange of some portion
of her spirit and thy meekness to the
advantage of both. I warrant thee
Phil's wife should hold a tight hand
over him."
" I read not that precept in the Bible,
my lord," quoth she, smiling. "It
speaketh roundly of the duty of wives
to obey, but not so much as one word
of their ruling."
" Thou hadst best preach thy theo-
logy to my Lady Berkeley," he answer-
ed ; " and then she "
" But I pray you, my lord, is it in-
deed your opinion that the queen will
have his grace's life ?"
"I should not give so much as a
brass pin, Nan, for his present chance
of mercy at her hands," he replied
sadly. And his words were justified
in the event.
Those relentless enemies of the
duke, my Lords Burleigh and Leices-
ter, who, at the time of the queen's
illness, had stood three days and three
nights without stirring from her bed-
side in so great terror lest she should
die and he should compass the throne
through a marriage with the Queen of
Scots, that they vowed to have his
blood at any cost if her majesty did
recover, so dealt with parliament as
to move it to send a petition praying
that, for the safety of her highness and
the quieting of her realm, he should be
forthwith executed. And from that
day to the mournful one of his death,
albeit from the great reluctance her
majesty had evinced to have him de-
spatched, his friends, yea unto the last
moment, lived in expectancy of a
reprieve ; he himself made up his
mind to die with extraordinary forti-
tude, not choosing to entertain so much
as the least hope of life.
One day at that time I saw my Lady
Margaret mending some hose, and at
each stitch she made with her needle
tears fell from her eyes. I offered to
assist her ladyship ; but she said,
pressing the hose to her heart, " I thank
thee, good Constance; but no other
hands than mine shall put a stitch in
these hose, for they be my father's,
who hath worn them with these holes
for many months, till poor Master Dyx
bethought himself to bring them here to
be patched and mended, which task
I would have none perform but my-
self. My father would not suffer him
to procure a new pair, lest it should
be misconstrued as a sign of his hope
or desire of a longer life, and with the
same intent he refuseth to eat flesh as
often as the physicians do order; 'for,'
quoth he, ' why should I care to nour-
ish a body doomed to such near de-
cay ? ' " Then, after a pause, she said,
" He will not wear clothes which have
any velvet on them, being, he saith,
a condemned person."
Lady Surrey took one of the hose
in her hand, but Lady Margeret, with a
filial jealousy, sadly smiling, shook her
head : " Nay, Nan," quoth she, " not
even to thee, sweet one, will I yield
one jot or tittle of this mean, but, in re-
lation to him who doth own these poor
hose, exalted labor." Then she ask-
ed her sister if she had heard of the
duke's request that Mr. Fox, his old
schoolmaster, should attend on him in
the Tower, to whom he desired to pro-
fess that faith he did first ground him
in.
And my Lady Surrey answered
yea, that my lord had informed her of
Constance Sherwood.
617
it, and many other proofs beside that
his grace sought to prepare for death
in the best manner he could think of.
" Some ill-disposed persons have
said," quoth Lady Margaret, " that it
is with the intent to propitiate the
queen that my father doth show him-
self to be so settled in his religion,
and that he is not what he seems ; but
tis a slander on his grace, who hath
been of this way of thinking since he
attained to the age of reason, and was
never at any time reconciled, as some
have put forth."
This was the last time I did see
these afflicted daughters until long
after their father's death, who was be-
headed in the chapel of the Tower
shortly afterward. When the blow
fell which, striking at him, struck a no
less fatal blow to the peace and well-do-
ing of his children, they all left the Char-
ter House, and removed for a time into
the country, to the houses of divers re-
latives, in such wise as before his death
the duke had desired. A letter which
I received from Lady Surrey a few
weeks after she left London doth best
serve to show the manner of this dis-
posal, and the temper of the writer's
mind at that melancholy time.
"My OWN DEAR CONSTANCE, It
may like you to hear that your afflict-
ed friend is improved in bodily health,
and somewhat recovered from the
great suffering of mind which the duke,
their good father's death, has caused
to all his poor children mostly to
Megg and Phil and me ; for their
brothers and my sister are too young
greatly to grieve. My Lord Arundel
is sorely afflicted, I hear, and hath
writ a very lamentable letter to our
'ood Lady Sussex concerning this sad
lishap. My Lady Berkeley and my
y Westmoreland are almost dis-
acted with grief for the death of a
rother they did singularly love. That
r lady (of Westmoreland) is much
o be pitied, for that she is parted from
er husband, maybe for ever, and has
t two fair daughters in one year.
" My lord hath shown much affec-
tion for his father, and natural sorrow
in this sad loss ; and when his last letters
written a short time before he suffered,
and addressed " To my loving chil-
dren," specially the one to Philip and
Nan, reached his hands, he wept so long
and bitterly that it seemed as if his
tears should never cease. My lord is
forthwith to make his chief abode at
Cambridge for a year or two ; and
Meg and I, with Lady Sussex, and I
do hope Bess also albeit his grace
doth appear in his letter to be other-
wise minded. But methinks he ap-
prehended to lay too heavy a charge
on her, who is indeed a good lady to us
all in this our unhappy condition, and
was loth Megg should be out of my
company.
" The parting with my lord is a sore
trial, and what I had not looked to ;
but God's will be done ; and if it be
for the advantage of his soul, as well
as the advancement of his learning,
he should reside at the university, it
should ill befit me to repine. And
now methinks I will transcribe, if my
tears do not hinder me, his grace's let-
ters, which will inform thee of his last
wishes better than I could explain
them ; for I would have thee know
how tender and forecasting was his
love for us, and the good counsel he
hath left unto his son, who, I pray to
God, may always follow it. And I
would have thee likewise note one
point of his advice, which indeed I
should have been better contented he
had not touched upon, forasmuch as
his having done so must needs hinder
that which thy fond love for my poor
self, and resolved adherence to what
he calls * blind papistry,' doth so
greatly prompt thee to desire ; for if
on his blessing he doth charge us to be-
ware of it, and then I should move my
lord to so much neglect of his last wish-
es as at any time to be reconciled, be-
think thee with what an ill grace I
should urge on him, in other respects,
obedience to his commands, which in-
deed are such as do commend them-
selves to any Christian soul as most
wise and profitable. And now, break-
618
Constance Sherwood.
ing off mine own discourse to tran-
scribe his words a far more noble
and worthy employment of my pen
and praying God to bless thee, I re-
main thy tender and loving friend,
tt A XT XT ftTTT>T>t?v"
ANN
to
The Duke of Norfolk's letters
his children :
" DEAR CHILDREN, This is the last
letter that ever I think to write to you ;
and therefore, if you loved me, or that
you will seem grateful to me for the
special love that I have ever borne
unto you, then remember and follow
these my last lessons. Oh, Philip,
serve and fear God, above all things.
I find the fault in myself, that I have
(God forgive me !) been too negligent
in this point. Love and make much
of your wife ; for therein, considering
the great adversity you are now in, by
reason of my fall, is your greatest
present comfort and relief, beside
your happiness in having a wife which
is endued with so great towardness
in virtue and good qualities, and in
person comparable with the best sort.
Follow these two lessons, and God will
bless you ; and without these, as you may
see by divers examples out of the Scrip-
ture, and also by ordinary worldly
proof, where God is not feared, all goeth
to wreck ; and where love is not between
the husband and wife, there God doth not
prosper. My third lesson is, that you
show yourself loving and natural to
your brothers and sister and sister-in-
law. Though you be very young in
years, yet you must strive with con-
sideration to become a man ; for it is
your own presence and good govern-
ment of yourself that must get friends ;
and if you take that course, then have
I been so careful a father unto you,
as I have taken such order as you, by
God's grace, shall be well able, be-
side your wife's lands, to maintain
yourself like a gentleman. Marry!
the world is greedy and covetous; and
if the show of the well government of
yourself do not fear and restrain their
greedy appetite, it is like that, by undi-
rect means, they will either put you
from that which law layeth upon you,
or else drive you to much trouble in
trying and holding your right. When
my grandfather died, I was not much
above a year elder than you are now ;
and yet, I thank God, I took such or-
der with myself, as you shall reap the
commodity of my so long passed travel,
if you do now imitate the like. Help
to strengthen your young and raw
years with good counsel. I send you
herewith a brief schedule, whom I wish
you to make account of as friends, and
whom as servants ; and I charge you,
as a father may do, to follow my di-
rection therein ; my experience can
better tell what is fit for you than your
young years can judge of. I would
wish you for the present to make your
chief abode at Cambridge, which is the
place fittest for you to promote your
learning in ; and beside, it is not very
far hence, whereby you may, within a
day's warning, be here to follow your
own causes, as occasion serveth. If.
after a year or two, you spend some
time in a house of the law, there is
nothing that will prove more to youi
commodity, considering how for the
time you shall have continual business
about your own law affairs ; and there-
by also, if you spend your time well,
you shall be ever after better able to
judge in your own causes. I too late
repent that I followed not this course
that now I wish to you ; for if I had,
then my case perchance had not been
in so ill state as now it is.
" When God shall send you to those
years as that it shall be fit for you to
keep house with your wife (which I
had rather were sooner, than that you
should fall into ill company), then I
would wish you to withdraw yourself
into some private dwelling of your own.
And if your hap may be so good as
you may so live without being called
to higher degree, oh, Philip, Philip,
then shall you enjoy that blessed lite
which your woful father would fain
have done, and never could be so hap-
py. Beware of high degree. To a
vain-glorious, proud stomach it seem-
eth at the first sweet. Look into all
Constance Sherwood.
CIO
chronicles, and you shall find that in
the end it brings heaps of cares, toils
in the state, and most commonly in the
end utter overthrow. Look into the
whole state of the nobility in times past,
and into their state now, and then judge
whether my lessons be true or no.
Assure yourself, as you may see by
the book of my accounts, and you shall
find that my living did hardly main-
tain my expenses ; for all the help
that I had by Tom's lands, and some-
what by your wife's and sister's-in-law,
I was ever a beggar. You may, by
the grace of God, be a great deal rich-
er and quieter in your low degree,
wherein 1 once again wish you to con-
tinue. They may, that shall wish you
the contrary, have a good meaning;
but believe your father, who of love
wishes you best, and with the mind
that he is at this present fully armed
to God, who sees both states, both high
and low, as it were even before his eyes.
Beware of the court, except it be to do
your prince service, and that, as near
, as you can, in the lowest degree, for
that place hath no certainty ; either a
man, by following thereof, hath too
i much of worldly pomp, which, in the
end, throws him down headlong, or else
he liveth there unsatisfied ; either that
he cannot attain for himself that he
would, or else that he cannot do for
ihis friends as his heart dcsireth. Re-
Imember these notes, and follow them ;
jand then you, by God's help, shall
reap the commodity of them in your
pid years.
j " If your brothers may be suffered
remain in your company, I would
e most glad thereof, because continu-
g together should still increase love
tween you. But the world is so
tching of everything that falls, that
bin being, as I believe, after my
ath, the queen's majesty's ward, shall
begged by one or another. But
t you are sure to have your brother
"illiam left still with you, because,
r boy, he hath nothing to feed cor-
orants withal ; to whom you will as
11 be a father as a brother ; for up-
my blessing I commit him to your
charge to provide for, if that which I
have assured him by law shall not
be so sufficient as I mean it. If law
may take place, your sister-in-law will
be surely enough conveyed to his be-
hoof, and then I should wish her to be
brought up with some friend of mine ;
as for the present I allow best of Sir
Christopher Heydon, if he will so
much befriend you as to receive her to
sojourn with him ; if not there in some
other place, as your friends shall best
allow of. And touching the bestowing
of your wife and Megg, who I would
be loth should be out of your wife's
company ; for as she should be a good
companion for Nan, so I commit Megg
of especial trust to her. I think good,
till you keep house together, if my
Lady of Sussex might be entreated to
take them to her as sojourners, there
were no place so fit considering her
kindred unto you, and the assured
friend that I hope you shall find of her;
beside she is a good lady. If it will
not be so brought to pass, then, by the
advice of your friends, take some other
order ; but in no case I would wish
you to keep any house except it be to-
gether with your wife.
" Thus I have advised you as my
troubled memory can at present suffer
me. Beware of pride, stubbornness,
taunting, and sullenness, which vices
nature doth somewhat kindle in you ;
and therefore you must with reason
and discretion make a new nature
in yourself. Give not your mind too
much and too greedily to gaming ;
make a pastime of it, and no toil.
And lastly, delight to spend some time
in reading of the Scriptures ; for there-
in is the whole comfort of man's life ;
all other things are vain and transi-
tory ; and if you be diligent in reading
of them, they will remain with you
continually, to your profit and com-
modity in this world, and to your com-
fort and salvation in the world to come,
whither, in grace of God, I am now
with joy and consolation preparing
myself. And, upon my blessing, be-
ware of blind papistry, which brings
nothing but bondage to men's con-
620
Constance Sherwood.
sciences. Mix your prayers with fast-
ing, not thinking thereby to merit ; for
there is nothing that we ourselves can
do that is good, we are but unprofit-
able servants ; but fast, I say, thereby
to tame tUe wicked affection of the
mind, and trust only to be saved by
Christ's precious blood ; for without a
perfect faith therein, there is no salva-
tion. Let works follow your faith ;
thereby to show to the world that you
do not only say you have faith, but
that you give testimony thereof to the
full satisfaction of the godly. I write
somewhat the more herein, because
perchance you have heretofore heard,
or perchance may hereafter hear, false
bruits that I was a papist ; * but trust
unto it, I never, since I knew what re-
ligion meant (I thank God) was of
other mind than now you shall hear
that I die in ; although (I cry God
mercy) I have not given fruits and
testimony of my faith as I ought to
have done ; the which is the thing that
I do now chiefliest repent.
" When I am gone, forget my con-
demning, and forgive, I charge you, my
false accusers, as I protest to God I
do ; but have nothing to do with them
if they live. Surely, Bannister dealt
no way but honestly and truly. Hick-
ford did not hurt me in my conscience^
willingly ; nor did not charge me with
any great matter that was of weight
otherways than truly. But the Bishop
of Ross, and specially Barber, did
falsely accuse me, and laid their own
treasons upon my back. God forgive
them, and I do, and once again I will
you to do ; bear no malice in your
mind. And now, dear Philip, fare-
well. Read this my letter sometimes
over; it may chance make you re-
member yourself the better ; and by
* There would seem to be no doubt that the
Duke of Norfolk was a sincere Protestant. The
strenuous advice to his children to beware of
Popery affords evidence of it. Greatly, however,
as it would have tended to their worldly pros-
perity to have followed their father's last injunc-
tions in this respect, all but one of those he thus
counselled were subsequently reconciled to the
Catholic Church.
The Duke's letters in this chapter are all
authentic. See the Rev. M. Tierncy^s History of
Arunclcl, and the Appendix to Nott's edition of
Lord Surrey's poems.
the same, when your father is dead and
rotten, you may see what counsel I
would give you if I were alive. If
you follow these admonitions, there is
no doubt but God will bless you ; and
I, your earthly father, do give you
God's blessing and mine, with my
humble prayers to Almighty God that
it will please him to bless you and your
good Nan ; that you may both, if it be
his will, see your children's children,
to the comfort of you both ; and after-
ward that you may be partakers of
the heavenly kingdom. Amen, amen.
Written by the hand of your loving
father. T. H."
" And to Tom his grace did write :
" Tom, out of this that I have writ-
ten to your brother, you may learn
such lessons as are fit for you. That
I write to one, that I write to all, ex-
cept it be somewhat which particularly
touches any of you. To fear and
serve God is generally to you all ; and,
on my blessing, take greatest care
thereof, for it is the foundation of all
goodness. You have, even from your
infancy, been given to be stubborn.
Beware of that vice, Tom, and bridle
nature with wisdom. Though you be
her majesty's ward, yet if you use
yourself well to my Lord Burleigh, he
will, I hope, help you to buy your own
wardship. Follow your elder brother's
advice, who, I hope, will take such a
course as may be to all your comforts.
God send him grace so to do, and to
you too ! I give you God's blessing
and mine, and I hope he will prosper
you."
" And to Will he saith (whom me-
thinks his heart did incline to, as
Jacob's did to Benjamin) :
" Will, though you be now young,
yet I hope, if it shall please God to
send you life, that you will then con-
sider of the precepts heretofore written
to your brethren. I have committed
the charge of your bringing-up to your
elder brother ; and therefore I charge |
you to be obedient to him, as you
would have been to me if I had been
Constance Sherwood.
621
living. If you shall have a liking to my
daughter-in-law, Bess Dacres, I hope
you shall have it in your own choice
to marry her. I will not advise you
otherways than yourself, when you are
of fit years, shall think good ; but this
assure yourself, it will be a good
augmentation to your small living,
considering how chargeable the world
groweth to be. As you are youngest,
so the more you ought to be obedient
to your elders. God send you a good
younger brother's fortune in this world,
and his grace, that you may ever be
his, both in this world and in the world
to come."
" To me, his unworthy daughter,
were these lines written, which I be
ashamed to transcribe, but that his
goodness doth appear in his good
opinion of me rather than my so poor
merits :
" Well-beloved Nan, that hath been
as dear to me as if you had been my
own daughter, although, considering
this ill hap that has now chanced, you
might have had a greater marriage
than now your husband shall be ; yet
I hope that you will remember that,
when you were married, the case was
far otherways ; and therefore I hope
your dutiful dealings shall be so to
your husband, and your sisterly love
;o your brothers-in-law and sister-in-
law, as my friends that shall see it may
think that my great affection to you
was well bestowed. Thanks be to God,
have hitherto taken a good course ;
whereby all that wish you well take
great hope rather of your going for-
ward therein than backward which
God forbid ! I will request no more at
your hands, now that I am gone, in
recompense of my former love to you,
but that you will observe my three les-
sons: to fear and serve God, flying
idleness ; to love faithfully your hus-
band ; and to be kind to your brothers
and sisters specially committing to
your care mine only daughter Megg,
hoping that you will not be a sister-
in-law to her, but rather a natural
sister, yea even a very mother ; and
that as I took care for the well be-
stowing of you, so you will take care
for the well bestowing of her, and be a
continual caller on your husband for
the same. If this mishap had not
chanced, you and your husband might
have been awhile still young, and I
would, by God's help, have supplied
your wants. But now the case is
changed, and you must, at your years
of fifteen, attain to the consideration
and discretion of twenty ; or else, if
God send you to live in your age, you
shall have cause to repent your folly in
youth, beside the endangering the
casting away of those who do wholly
depend upon your two well-doings. I
do not mistrust that you will be mind-
ful of my last requests ; and so doing
God bless you, and send you to be old
parents to virtuous children, which is
likeliest to be if you give them good
example. Farewell! for this is the
last that you shall ever receive from
your loving father. Farewell, my
dear Nan !"
" And to his own sweet Megg he
subjoined in the same letter these
words :
" Megg, I have, as you see, commit-
ted you to your loving sister. I charge
you therefore, upon my blessing, that
you obey her in all tilings, as you
would do me or your own mother, if
we were living ; and then I doubt not
but by her good means you shall be in
fit time bestowed to your own com-
fort and contentment. Be good;
no babbler, and ever be busied and
doing of somewhat; and give your
mind to reading in the Bible and such
other good books, whereby you may
learn to fear God ; and so you shall
prove, by his help, hereafter the better
wife, and a virtuous woman in all other
respects. If you follow these my lessons,
then God's blessing and mine I give you,
and pray that you may both live and
die his servant. Amen."
When I read these letters, and my
Lady Surrey's comments upon them,
what pangs seized my heart! Her
622
Constance SJtcrwood.
messenger was awaiting an answer,
which he said must be brief, for he had
to ride to Bermondsey with a message
for my Lord Sussex, and had been
long delayed in the city. I seized a
pen, and hastily wrote :
"Oh, my dear and honored lady,
what grief, what pain, your letter hath
caused me ! Forgive me if, having but
brief time in which to write a few lines
by your messenger, I dwell not on the
sorrow which doth oppress you, nor on
the many excellences apparent in
those farewell letters, which give token
of so great virtue and wisdom in the
writer, that one should be prompted
to exclaim he did lack but one thing
to be perfect, that being a true faith,
but rather direct my answer to that
passage in yours which doth work in
me such regret, yea such anguish of
heart, as my poor words can ill ex-
press. For verily there can be no
greater danger to a soul than to be
lured from the profession of a true
Catholic faith, once firmly received
and yet inwardly held, by deceptive
arguments, whereby it doth conceal
its own weakness under the garb of
respect for the dead and duty to the
living. For, I pray you, mine own
dear lady, what respect and what duty
is owing to men which be not rather
due to him who reads the heart, and
will ask a strict account of such as,
having known his will, yet have not
done it ? Believe me, 'tis a perilous
thing to do evil that good may come.
Is it possible you should resolve never
to profess that religion which, in your
conscience, you do believe to be true,
nor to move your lord thereunto, for
any human respect, however dear and
sacred? I hope other feelings may
return, and God's hand will support,
uphold, and never fail you in your need.
I beseech him to guard and keep you
in the right way.
"Your humble servant and truly
loving poor friend,
"CONSTANCE SHERWOOD."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
The Heart and the Brain*
From The Fortnightly Review.
THE HEART AND THE BRAIN.
BY GEORGE HENRY LEWES.
HEART and brain are the two lords
of life. In the metaphors of ordinary
speech and in the stricter language of
science, we use these terms to indicate
two central powers, from which all
motives radiate, to which all influenc-
es converge. They rule the moral and
the physical life : the moral owes to
them its continuous supply of fe-elings
and ideas ; the physical its continuous
supply of food and stimulus. All the
composite material which serves to
build up the bodily fabric, and re-
pair its daily waste, is only so much
" carted material " awaiting the archi-
tect, until it has twice passed through
the heart until having been sent by
the heart to the lungs it has there re-
ceived its plastic virtues, and returns
to the heart to be thence distributed
throughout the organism. So much is
! familiar to every one ; but less fami-
liar is the fact that this transmission of
! the blood from heart to lungs, and its
distribution throughout the organism,
are rendered possible and made effect-
ive only under the influence of the
* rain. Life is sustained by food and
timulus. The operation of nutrition
tself is indissolubly connected with
ensibility. Life is a plexus of nutri-
ion and sensation, the threads of which
nay ideally be separated, but which in
eality are so interwoven as to be in-
dissoluble. This is a paradox which
ven many physiologists will reject;
>ut it is only a paradox because bio-
ogical questions have constantly been
egarded from a chemical point of
aew.
To render my proposition free from
mbiguity, it is needful to premise
tat the term heart, by a familiar de-
HJi of rhetoric, here expresses the
hole of that great circulatory appa-
atus of which it is only a part ; and
in like manner the term brain here ex-
presses the whole of the sensory ap-
paratus. The reader knows perfectly
well that in strict anatomical language
the heart is only one organ having a
definite function ; and that the brain
although the term is used with consid-
erable laxity is only one portion of
the complex nervous mechanism, hav-
ing also its definite functions. But I
am not here addressing anatomists,
and for purposes of simplification I
shall generally speak of the heart as
if it were the whole of the vascular
system, and of the brain as if it were
the whole of the nervous system. And
there is a philosophic truth suggest-
ed by this departure from the limita-
tions of anatomical definition, namely,
that if the brain as a nervous centre
requires to be distinguished from all
other nervous centres, it also requires
to be affiliated on them: it has its
special functions as an organ, but it
has also a community of property i.e.,
sensibility with all other nervous
centres.
In the study of animal organisms,
the scientific artifice called analysis,
which separates ideally what nature has
indissolubly united, isolating each por-
tion of a complex whole to study it
undisturbed by the influences of other
portions, has established a division of
life into animal and vegetable. The
division is as old as Aristotle, but has
become the common property of science
only since the days of Bichat. It is
not exact, but it is convenient. As an
artifice it has proved its utility, but
like all such distinctions it has a ten-
dency to divert the mind from contem-
plation of the real synthesis of nature.
Even as an artifice the classification is
not free from ambiguities ; and per-
haps it would be less exceptionable if
624
The Heart and the Brain.
instead of vegetal and animal we were
to substitute nutritive and sensitive.
All the phenomena of growth, develop-
ment, and decay phenomena common
to plants as to animals may range
under the laws of nutrition. All the
phenomena of feeling and motion which
specially distinguish animals, will
range under the laws of sensibility.
Plants, it is true, manifest motion, some
few of them even locomotion ; but in
them it is believed that these pheno-
mena are never due to the stimulus of
sensibility.
Viewing the animal organism as
thus differentiated, we see on the one
hand a complex system of organs
glands, membranes, vessels all har-
moniously working to one end, which
is to build up the body, and silently re-
pair its continual waste. They evolve
the successive phases of development.
They prepare successive genera-
tions. On the other hand, we see a
complex system of organs muscles,
tendons, bones, nerves, and nerve-
centres also harmoniously co-opera-
tive. They stimulate the organs of
nutrition. They work first for the
preservation of the individual in the
struggle of existence ; next, for the
perfection of the individual in the de-
velopment of his highest qualities.
But it is important to remember
that this division is purely ideal a
scientific artifice, not a reality. Na-
ture knows of none such. In the or-
ganism the two lives are one. The
two systems interlace, interpenetrate
each other, so that the slightest modi-
fication of the one is followed by a
corresponding change in the other.
The brain is nourished by the heart,
and were it not for the blood which is
momently pumped into it by the heart,
its sensibility would vanish. And the
heart in turn depends upon the brain,
not for food, but for stimulus, for mo-
tive power, without which food is in-
ert. That we may feel, it is neces-
sary we should feed ; that we may
feed, it is necessary we should feel.
Nutrition cannot be dissociated from
sensation. The blood which nourishes
the brain, giving it impulse and sus-
taining power, could never have be-
come arterial blood, could never have
reached the brain, had not the heart
which sent it there been subjected to
influences from the brain. The blood
itself has no locomotive impulse. The
heart has no spontaneous power : it is
a muscle, and like all other muscles
must be stimulated into activity. Un-
less the sensitive mechanism were in
action, the lungs could not expand,
the blood would not become oxygen-
ated, the heart would not pump. Look
on the corpse from which the life has
just vanished. Why is it inert?
There is food within it. It has blood
in abundance. There is air in the
lungs. The muscles are contractile,
and the t&pdons elastic. So little is
the wondrous mechanism impaired,
that if by any means we could supply
a stimulus to awaken the dormant
sensibility, the chest would expand,
the heart would beat, the blood would
circulate, the corpse would revive.
It is unnecessary to point out in detail
how dependent the brain is upon the
heart ; but mention may be made of
the fact that more blood is sent to the
brain than to any other organ in the
body : according to some estimates a
fifth of the whole, according to others
a third. Not only is a large quantity
of blood demanded for the continuous
activity of the brain, but such is the
peculiar nature of this great nervous
centre, that of all organs it is the mosi
delicately susceptible to every varia-
tion in the quality of the blood sent to
it. If the heart pumps feebly, the
brain acts feebly. If the blood be
vitiated, the brain is lethargic ; and
when the brain is lethargic, the heart
is weak. Thus do the two great cen-
tres interact. They are both lords of
life, and both mutually indispensable.
There are two objections which it
may be well to anticipate : Nutrition,
it may be objected, cannot be so indis
solubly blended with sensation as .
have affirmed, because, in the firsl
place, most of the nutritive processes
go on without the intervention of sen
The Heart and the Brain.
625
sibility ; and in the second place, the
nutritive life of plants is confessedly
independent of sensation, since in
plants there is no sensitive mechan-
ism whatever. Nutrition is simply a
chemical process.
The answers to these objections
may be very brief. Nutrition is a bi-
ological not a chemical process : it in-
volves the operation of chemical laws,
but these laws are themselves subor-
dinated to physiological laws ; and one
of these laws is the necessary depend-
ence of organic activity on a nervous
mechanism wherever such a mechan-
ism exists. Although popular lan-
guage, and the mistaken views (as I
conceive) of physiologists, allow us to
say, without any apparent absurdity,
that the processes of respiration, di-
i gestion, circulation, and secretion go
on without feeling or sensation be-
cause these processes do not habit-
ually become distinct in consciousness,
but are merged in the general feeling
of existence we have only to replace
the word feeling, or sensation, by the
phrase " nervous influence," and it
then becomes a serious biological error
to speak of nutrition as dissociated
from the stimulus of nervous centres,
as capable of continuance without the
intervention of sensibility. The chem-
ical combinations and decompositions
do not of course depend on this inter-
I vention, but the transport of materials
does. All the disputes which have
been waged on this subject would
have been silenced had the disputants
borne in mind this distinction between
the chemical and organic elements in
every nutritive process. It is not the
stoker who makes the steam ; but if
the stoker were not to supply the fire
with coals, and the safety-valve were
not to regulate the amount of press-
ure, steam might indeed be generated,
but no steam-engine would perform
its useful work. In like manner, it is
not the vascular system which makes
a secretion ; but if the blood did not
supply the gland with materials, the
secreting process would quickly end,
and the blood can only be brought to
40
the gland through the agency of mus-
cular contractions stimulated by ner-
vous influence.
Granting that plants have no sensi-
bility, and that in them the process of
nutrition must go on without such an
intervention, we are able to demon-
strate that in animals in whose organism
the sensitive apparatus is an integral
portion, the processes of nutrition are
more or less under the influence of
this apparatus. In saying " more or
less," I indicate the greater or less
perfection of the organism ; for, as
every one knows, the perfection of
each type is due to the predominance
of its sensitive mechanism. In some
of the lowest types, no trace of a ner-
vous mechanism can be discovered.
A little higher in the scale, the mechan-
ism is very slight and simple. Still
higher, it becomes complex and im-
portant. It culminates in man. Cor-
responding with this scale of com-
plexity in the sensitive life is the scale
of complexity in the nutritive life.
As the two rise in importance they
rise in the scale of dependence. Thus
a frog or a triton will live long after
its brain is removed. I have kept
frogs for several w r eeks without their
brains, arid tritons without their heads.
Redi, the illustrious Italian naturalist,
kept a turtle alive five months after
the removal of its brain. Now it is
needless to say that in higher animals
death would rapidly follow the loss of
the brain. A somewhat similar paral-
lelism is seen on the removal of the
heart. None of the higher animals
can survive a serious injury to the
heart; but that organ may be removed
from a reptile, and the animal will
crawl away seemingly as lively as ever.
A frog will live several hours without
a heart, and will hop, swim, and
struggle as if uninjured. Stilling once
removed all the viscera from a frog,
which, however, continued for one
hour to hop, defend itself, and in va-
rious ways manifest its vivacity.*
In spite of these evidences of a tem-
* Stilling, TJntersuchungen uber die Functtonen
ties RiickenmarkSi p. 38.
026
The Heart and the Brain.
porary independence of brain and
heart, as individual organs, there is
nothing more certain than the intimate
interdependence of the sensitive and
circulating systems; and if in lower
animals the interdependence of the
two great central organs is less ener-
getic than in the higher, the law of
the intervention of sensibility in all
processes of nutrition is unaffected.
In fact, wherever the motor mechan-
ism is muscular, as it is in all but the
simplest animals, the necessary inter-
vention of sensibility is an a priori
axiom. Every action in the organs
of such animals is a manifestation of
muscular contractility, and there is no
known means of exciting this contrac-
tility except by the stimulus of a nerve.
The heart is a muscle. Some years
ago there was a school of physiologists
advocating the hypothesis that the ac-
tion of the heart was due to the irrita-
bility of its muscular tissue, which was
stimulated by the presence of blood.
The great Haller was the head of this
school, and his " Memoires sur la na-
ture sensible et irritable des parties "*
is still worthy the attention of experi-
mentalists. And, indeed, when men
saw the heart continue its pulsations
some time after death, and even after
removal from the body, and saw, more-
over, that after pulsation had ceased
it could be revived by the injection of
warm blood, there seemed the strong-
est arguments in favor of the hypo-
thesis. Unhappily for the hypothesis,
the heart continues to beat long after
all the blood has been pumped out of
it, consequently its beating cannot be
due to the stimulus of the blood.
In our own day the difficulty has to
a considerable extent been removed by
the discovery of a small nervous sys-
tem specially allotted to the heart,
nerves and ganglia imbedded in its
substance, which there do the work of
nerves and ganglia everywhere else.
Cut the heart into pieces, and each
piece containing a ganglion will beat
as before; the other pieces will be
8 till. Beside this special cardiac
* Lausanne, 1756, in 4 vols.
system which influences the regular
pulsations, there is the general nervous
system, which accelerates and arrests
these pulsations at every moment of our
lives. The heart is thus connected
with the general organism through the
intervention of the great sensory ap-
paratus. Filaments of what are
called the pneumogastric nerves con-
nect the heart with the spinal chord
and cerebral masses ; but it is not the
influence of these filaments which
causes the regular beatings of the
heart (as physiologists formerly sup-
posed), and the proof is that these fila-
ments may all be cut, thus entirely
isolating tfee heart from all connection
with the great nervous centres, and
yet the heart will continue tranquilly
beating. What causes this? Obvi-
ously the stimulus comes from the
heart's own nerves; and these are,
presumably, excited by the molecular
changes going on within it.
Physiologists, as we said just now,
supposed that the filaments of the
pneumogastric nerves distributed to
the heart caused its beating. What
then was their surprise, a few years
since, when Weber announced that
the stimulation of these fibres, instead
of accelerating the heart's action, ar-
rested it! Here was a paradox. All
other muscles, it was said (but errone-
ously said), are excited to increased
action when their nerves are stimulat-
ed, and here is a muscle which is
paralyzed by the stimulation of its
nerves. The fact was indisputable;
an electric current passed through the
pneumogastric did suddenly and inva-
riably arrest the heart. Physiologists
were interested. The frogs and rab-
its of Europe had a bad time of it,
called upon to answer categorically
such questions put to their hearts. In
a little while it appeared that although
a strong electric current arrested the
pulsations and in mammals instan-
taneously yet a feeble current accel-
erated instead of arresting them. The
same opposite results followed a
powerful and a gentle excitation of the
upper region of the spinal chord.
The Heart and the Brain.
627
To these very important and sug-
gestive facts, which throw a strong
light on many phenomena hitherto
obscure, let us add the interesting facts
that hi a healthy, vigorous animal, the
heart quickly recovers its normal ac-
tivity after the withdrawal of the elec-
tric stimulus ; but in a sickly or highly
sensitive animal the arrest is final.
Who does not read here the physi-
ological explanation of the familiar fact
that powerful mental shocks momently
arrest the heart, and sometimes arrest
it for ever? That which a powerful
current will do applied to the pneumo-
gastric nerve, will be done by a pro-
found agitation of grief or joy truly
called a heart-shaking influence. The
agitation of the great centres of thought
is communicated to the spinal chord,
and from it to the nerves which issue
to various parts of the body : the limbs
are violently moved, the glands are
excited to increased activity, the tears
flow, the facial muscles contract, the
chest expands, laughter or sobs, dances
of delight and shouts of joy, these and
the manifold expressions of an agitated
emotion, are the after results the first
effect is an arrest, more or less fugitive,
followed by an increase of the heart's
action. If the organism be vigorous,
the effect of a powerful emotion is a
sudden paleness, indicating a momen-
tary arrest of the heart. This may be
but for an instant ; the heart pauses,
and the lungs pause with it "the
breath is taken away." This is suc-
ceeded by an energetic palpitation;
the lungs expand, the blood rushes to
face and brain with increased force.
Should the organism be sickly or highly
sensitive, the arrest is of longer dura-
tion, and fainting, more or less pro-
longed, is the result. In a very
sensitive or very sickly organism the
arrest is final. The shock of joy and
the shock of grief have both been
known to kill.
The effects of a gentle stimulus we
may expect to be very different, since
we know that a feeble electric current
stimulates the heart's action. The
nature of the stimulus is always the
same, no matter on what occasion it
arises. It may arise from a dash of
cold water on the face as we see in
the revival of the heart's action when
we throw water on the face of a faint-
ing person. It may arise from in-
haling an irritant odor. It may arise
from the pleasurable sight of a deal
friend, or the thrill of delight at the new |
birth of an idea. In every case the brain
is excited, either through an impression
on a sensitive nerve, or through the
impulses of thought; and the sensibil-
ity thus called into action necessarily
discharges itself through one or more
of the easiest channels ; and among
the easiest is that of the pneumogastric
nerve. But the heart thus acted on
in turn reacts. Its increased energy
throws more blood into the brain,
which draws its sustaining power from
the blood.
Experimentalists have discovered
another luminous fact connected with
this influence of the brain upon the
heart, namely, that although a current
of a certain intensity (varying of
course with the nature of the organism)
will infallibly arrest the heart, if ap-
plied at once, yet if we begin with a
feeble current and go on gradually in-
creasing its intensity, we may at last
surpass the degree which would have
produced instantaneous arrest, and yet
the heart will continue to beat energet-
ically.
The effect of repetition in diminish-
ing a stimulus is here very noticeable.
It will serve to explain why, according
to the traditions of familiar experi-
ence, we are careful to break the
announcement of disastrous news, by
intimating something much less calam-
itous, wherewith to produce the first
shock, and then, when the heart has
withstood that, we hope it may have
energy to meet the more agitating
emotions. The same fact will also
serve, partly, to explain why from re-
petition the effect of smoking is no
longer as it is at first to produce pale-
ness, sweating, and sickness. The
heart ceases to be sensibly affected by
the stimulus.
628
The Heart and the Brain.
Returning to the effects of a gentle
stimulus, we can read therein the ration-
ale of change of scene, especially of for-
eign travel, in restoring the exhausted
energies. The gentle excitement of
novel and pleasurable sights is not, as
people generally suppose, merely a
mental stimulus a pleasure which
passes away without a physical influ-
ence ; on the contrary, it is insepara-
bly connected with an increased ac-
tivity of the circulation, and this brings
with it an increased activity of all the
processes of waste and repair. If the
excitement and fatigue be not too
great, even the sickly traveller finds
himself stronger and happier, in spite
of bad food, irregular hours, and many
other conditions which at home would
have enfeebled him. I have heard a
very distinguished physician (Sir
Henry Holland) say that such is his
conviction of the beneficial influence
of even slight nervous stimulus on the
nutritive processes, that when the
patient cannot have change of scene,
change of room is of some advantage
nay, even change of furniture, if
there cannot be change of room !
To those who have thoroughly
grasped the principle of the indissolu-
ble conjunction of nutrition and sensa-
tion, such effects are obvious deduc-
tions. They point to the great impor-
tance of pleasure as an element of
effective life. They lead to the question
whether much of the superior health of
youth is not due to the greater amount
of pleasurable excitement which life
affords to young minds.
Certain it is that much of the mar-
vellous activity of some old men, es-
pecially of men engaged in politics or
in interesting professions, may be as-
signed to the greater stimulus given to
their bodily functions by the pleasur-
able excitement of their minds. Men
who vegetate sink prematurely into
old age. The fervid wheels of life re-
volve upon excitement. If the excite-
ment be too intense, the wheels take
fire ; but if the mental stimulus be
simply pleasurable, it is eminently
beneficial.
Every impression reacts on the cir-
culation, a slight impression produc-
ing a slight acceleration, a powerful
impression, producing an arrest more
or less prolonged. The " shock " of a
wound and the "pain" of an opera-
tion cause faintness, sometimes death.
Indeed, it is useful to know that many
severe operations are dangerous only
because of the shock or pain, and can
be performed with impunity if the pa-
tient first be rendered insensible by
chloroform. On the other hand, the
mere irritation of a nerve so as to
produce severe pain will produce syn-
cope or death in an animal which is
very feeble or exhausted. It is possi-
ble to crush the whole of the upper
part of the spinal chord (the medulla
oUongatd) without arresting the action
of the heart, if the animal has been
rendered insensible by chloroform ;
whereas without such precautions a
very slight irritation of the medulla
suffices to arrest the heart.
A moment's reflection will disclose
the reason of the remarkable differences
observed in human beings in the mat-
ter of sensitiveness. The stupid are
stupid, not simply because their ner-
vous development is below the average,
but also because the connection be-
tween the two great central organs,
brain and heart, is comparatively lan-
guid ; the pneumogastric is not in them
a ready channel for the discharge of
nervous excitement. The sensitive
are sensitive because in them the con-
nection is rapid and easy. All ner-
vous excitement must discharge itself
through one or more channels ; but
what channels, will depend on the
native and acquired tendencies of the
organism. In highly sensitive ani-
mals a mere prick on the skin can be
proved to affect the beating of the
heart ; but you may lacerate a reptile
without sensibly affecting its pulse. In
like manner, a pleasurable sight or a sug-
gestive thought will quicken the pulse
of an intelligent man, whereas his stupid
brother may be the spectator of festal or
solemn scenes and the auditor of noble
eloquence with scarcely a change.
The Heart and the Brain.
629
The highly sensitive organism is
one in which the reactions of sensibil-
ity on the circulation, and of the cir-
culation on the sensibility, are most
direct and rapid. This is often the
source of weakness and inefficiency
as we see in certain feminine natures
of both sexes, wherein the excessive
sensitiveness does not He in an unusual
development of the nervous centres, but
in an unusual development of the direct
connection between brain and heart.
There are men and women of powerful
brains in whom this rapid transmission
of sensation to the heart is not observa-
ble ; the nervous force discharges itself
through other channels. There are
men and women of small brains in
whom " the irritability" is so great
that almost every sensation transmits
its agitating influence to the heart.
And now we are in a condition to
appreciate the truth which was confus-
edly expressed in the ancient doctrine
respecting the heart as the great emo-
tional organ. It still lives in our or-
dinary speech, but has long been
banished from the text-books of phy-
siology, though it is not, in my opinion,
a whit more unscientific than the mod-
ern doctrine respecting the brain
(meaning the cerebral hemispheres)
as the exclusive organ of sensation.
That the heart, as a muscle, is not
endowed with the property of sensibili-
ty a property exclusively possessed
by ganglionic tissue we all admit.
But the heart, as the central organ of
the circulation, is so indissolubly con-
nected with every manifestation of
sensibility, and is so delicately suscep-
tible to all emotional agitations, that
we may not improperly regard it as
the ancients regarded it, in the light
of the chief centre of feeling ; for the
ancients had no conception of the
heart as an organ specially endowed
with sensibility they only thought of
it as the chief agent of the sensitive
soul. And is not this the conception
we moderns form of the brain ? We
do not imagine the cerebral mass, as a
mere mass, and unrelated to the rest
of the organism, to have in itself sen-
sibility ; but we conceive it as the cen-
tre of a great system, dependent for
its activity on a thousand influences,
sensitive because sensibility is the
form of life peculiar to it, but living
only in virtue of the vital activities of
the whole organism. Thus the heart,
because its action is momently involved
in every emotion, and because every
emotion reacts upon it, may, as truly
as the brain, be called the great emo-
tional centre. Neither brain nor heart
can claim that title exclusively. They
may claim it together.
630 The Dream of Gerontius.
From The Month.
THE DREAM OF GERONTIUS.
BY JOHN HENEY NEWMAN, D.D.
[Concluded.]
4.
SOUL.
But hark ! upon my sense
Comes a fierce hubbub, which would make me fear,
Could I be frighted.
ANGEL.
We are now arrived
Close on the judgment-court ; that sullen howl
Is from the demons who assemble there.
It is the middle region, where of old
Satan appeared among the sons of God,
To cast his jibes and scoffs at holy Job.
So now his legions throng the vestibule,
Hungry and wild, to claim their property,
And gather souls for hell. Hist to their cry.
SOUL.
How sour and how uncouth a dissonance !
DEMONS.
Low-born clods
Of brute earth, They aspire
To become gods,
By a new birth, And an extra grace,
And a score of merits,
As if ought Could stand in place
Of the high thought, And the glance of fire
Of the great spirits,
The powers blest, The lords by right,
The primal owners
Of the proud dwelling And realm of light,
Dispossessed, Aside thrust,
Chucked down,
By the sheer might
Of a despot's will,
Of a tyrant's frown,
Who after expelling Their hosts, gave,
Triumphant still,
And still unjust,
Each forfeit crown
To psalm-droners
And canting groan era,
The Dream of Gerontius.
631
To every slave,
And pious cheat,
And crawling knave,
Who licked the dust
Under his feet.
ANGEL.
It is the restless panting of their being ;
Like beasts of prey, who, caged within their bars,
In a deep hideous purring have their life,
And an incessant pacing to and fro.
The mind bold
And independent,
The purpose free,
So we are told,
Must not think
To have the ascendant,
One whose breath
Before his death ;
Which fools adore,
When life is o'er,
Which rattle and stink,
E'en in the flesh.
No flesh hath he ;
Ha! ha!
Afresh, afresh,
As priestlings prate,
And envy and hate
DEMONS.
What's a saint ?
Doth the air taint
A bundle of bones,
Ha! ha!
We cry his pardon !
For it hath died,
'Tis crucified
Day by day,
Ha! ha!
That holy clay,
Ha! ha!
And such fudge,
Is his guerdon
Before the judge,
And pleads and atones
For spite and grudge,
And bigot mood,
And greed of blood.
SOUL.
Hov/ impotent they are ! and yet on earth
They have repute for wondrous power and skill ;
And books describe, how that the very face
Of th* evil one, if seen, would have a force
To freeze the very blood, and choke the life
Of him who saw it.
ANGEL.
In thy trial state
Thou hadst a traitor nestling close at home,
G32 The Dream of Gerontius.
Connatural, who with the powers of hell
Was leagued, and of thy senses kept the keys,
And to that deadliest foe unlocked thy heart.
And therefore is it, in respect of man,
Those fallen ones show so majestical.
But, when some child of grace, angel or saint,
Pure and upright in his integrity
Of nature, meets the demons on their raid,
They scud away as cowards from the fight.
Nay, oft hath holy hermit in his cell,
Not yet disburdened of mortality,
Mocked at their threats and warlike overtures ;
Or, dying, when they swarmed like flies, around,
Defied them, and departed to his judge.
DEMONS.
Virtue and vice, A knave's pretence.
'Tis all the same ; Ha ! ha ! Dread of hell-fire,
Of the venomous flame, A coward's plea.
Give him his price, Saint though he be, Ha ! ha !
From shrewd good sense He'll slave for hire ;
Ha ! ha ! And does but aspire
To the heaven above
With sordid aim, Not from love. Ha ! ha !
SOUL.
I see not those false spirits ; shall I see
My dearest Master, when I reach his throne ?
Or hear, at least, his awful judgment-word
With personal intonation, as I now
Hear thee, not see thee, angel ? Hitherto
All has been darkness since I left the earth ;
Shall I remain thus sight-bereft all through
My penance-time ? if so, how comes it then
That I have hearing still, and taste, and touch,
Yet not a glimmer of that princely sense
Which binds ideas in one, and makes them live ?
ANGEL.
Nor touch, nor taste, nor hearing hast thou now ;
Thou livest in a world of signs and types,
The presentations of most holy truths,
Living and strong, which now encompass thee.
A disembodied soul, thou hast by right
No converse with aught else beside thyself;
But, lest so stern a solitude should loa.cf
And break thy being, in mercy are vouchsafed
Some lower measures of perception,
Which seem to thee, as though through channels brought,
Through ear, or nerves, or palate, which are gone.
And thou art wrapped and swathed around in dreams,
The Dream of Gerontius. 633
Dreams that are true, yet enigmatical ;
For the belongings of thy present state,
Save through such symbols, come not home to thee.
And thus thou tell'st of space and time and size,
Of fragrant, solid, bitter, musical,
Of fire, and of refreshment after fire ;
As (let me use similitude of earth,
To aid thee in the knowledge thou dost ask)
As ice which blisters may be said to burn.
Nor hast thou now extension, with its parts
Correlative, long habit cozens thee,-
Nor power to move thyself, nor limbs to move.
Hast thou not heard of those, who after loss
Of hand or foot, still cried that they had pains
In hand or foot, as though they had it still ?
So is it now with thee, who hast not lost
Thy hand or foot, but all which made up man.
So will it be, until the joyous day
Of resurrection, when thou wilt regain
All thou hast lost, new-made and glorified.
How, even now, the consummated saints
See God in heaven, I may not explicate :
Meanwhile let it suffice thee to possess
Such means of converse as are granted thee,
Though till the beatific vision thou art blind ;
For e'en thy purgatory, which comes like fire,
Is fire without its light.
SOUL.
His will be done !
I am not worthy e'er to see again
The face of day ; far less his countenance,
Who is the very sun. Natheless, in life,
When I looked forward to my purgatory,
It ever was my solace to believe,
That, ere I plunged into th' avenging flame,
I had one sight of him to strengthen me.
ANGEL.
Nor rash nor vain is that presentiment ;
Yes, for one moment thou shalt see thy Lord.
Thus will it be : what time thou art arraigned
Before the dread tribunal, and thy lot
Is cast for ever, should it be to sit
On his right hand among his pure elect,
Then sight, or that which to the soul is sight,
As by a lightning-flash, will come to thee,
And thou shalt see, amid the dark profound,
Whom thy soul loveth, and would fain approach,
One moment ; but thou knowest not, my child,
What thou dost ask : that sight of the Most Fair
Will gladden thee, but it will pierce thee too.
634 The Dream of Gerontius.
SOUL.
Thou speakest darkly, angel ; and an awe
Falls on me, and I fear lest I "be rash.
ANGEL.
There was a mortal, who is now above
In the mid glory ; he, when near to die,
Was given communion with the Crucified,
Such, that the Master's very wounds were stamped
Upon his flesh ; and, from the agony
Wliich thrilled through body and soul in that embrace,
Learn that the flame of the Everlasting Love
Doth burn, ere it transform. . . .
5.
. . . Hark to those sounds !
They come of tender beings angelical,
Least and most childlike of the sons of God.
FIRST CHOIR OF ANGELICALS.
Praise to the Holiest in the height, And in the depth be praise :
In all his words most wonderful ; Most sure in all his ways !
To us his elder race he gave To battle and to win,
Without the chastisement of pain, Without the soil of sin.
The younger son he willed to be A marvel in his birth :
Spirit and flesh his parents were ; His home was heaven and earth.
The Eternal blessed his child and And sent him hence afar,
armed,
To serve as champion in the field Of elemental war.
To be his vice-roy in the world Of matter, and of sense ;
Upon the frontier, toward the foe, A resolute defence.
ANGEL.
We now have passed the gate, and are within
The house of judgment ; and whereas on earth
Temples and palaces are formed of parts
Costly and rare, but all material,
So in the world of spirits nought is found,
To mould withal and form a whole,
But what is immaterial ; and thus
The smallest portions of this edifice,
Cornice, or frieze, or balustrade, or stair,
The very pavement is made up of life
Of holy, blessed, and immortal beings,
Who hymn their Maker's praise continually.
The Dream of Gcrontius.
SECOND CHOIR OP ANGELICALS.
635
Praise to the Holiest in the height,
In all his words most wonderful ;
Woe to thec, man ! for he was found
And lost his heritage of heaven,
Above him now the angry sky,
Who once had angels for his friends,
man ! a savage kindred they :
And in the depth be praise :
Most sure in all his ways !
A recreant in the fight ;
And fellowship with light.
Around the tempest's din
Has but the brutes for kin.
To flee that monster brood
He scaled the sea-side cave and clomb The giants of the wood.
With now a fear and now a hope,
From youth to old, from sire to son,
He dreed his penance age by age ;
Slowly to doff his savage garb,
With aids which chance supplied,
He lived, and toiled, and died.
And step by step began
And be again a man.
And quickened by the Almighty's And chastened by his rod,
breath,
And taught by angel-visitings,
And learned to call upon his name,
A household and a fatherland,
Glory to him who from the mire,
Elaborated into life
At length he sought his God ;
And in his faith create
A city and a state.
In patient length of days,
A people to his praise !
SOUL.
The sound is like the rushing of the wind
The summer wind among the lofty pines ;
Swelling and dying, echoing round about,
Now here, now distant, wild and beautiful ;
While scattered from the branches it has stirred,
Descend ecstatic odors.
THIRD CHOIR OF ANGELICALS.
to the Holiest in the height,
in all his words most wonderful ;
lie angels, as beseemingly
once were tried and perfected,
or them no twilight or eclipse ;
Vas hopeless, all-engulfing night,
ut to the younger race there rose
Jid slowly, surely, gracefully,
nd ages, opening out, divide
nd from the hard and sullen mass
And in the depth be praise :
Most sure in all his ways !
To spirit-kind was given,
And took their seats in heaven.
No growth and no decay :
Or beatific day.
A hope upon its fall ;
The morning dawned on all.
The precious and the base,
Mature the heirs of grace.
man ! Albeit the quickening ray Lit from his second birth,
-akes him at length what once he was, And heaven grows out of earth ;
636 The Dream of Gerontius.
Yet still between that earth and His journey and its goal
heaven
A double agony awaits His body and his soul.
A double debt he has to pay The forfeit of his sins :
The chill of death is past, and now The penance-fire begins.
Glory to him, who evermore By truth and justice reigns ;
Who tears the soul from out its case, And burns away its stains !
ANGEL.
They sing of thy approaching agony,
"Which thou so eagerly didst question of:
It is the face of the incarnate God
Shall smite thee with that keen and subtle pain ;
And yet the memory which it leaves will be
A sovereign febrifuge to heal the wound;
And yet withal it will the wound provoke,
And aggravate and widen it the more.
SOUL.
Thou speakest mysteries ; still methinks I know
To disengage the tangle of thy words :
Yet rather would I hear thy angel voice,
Than for myself be thy interpreter.
ANGEL.
When then if such thy lot thou seest thy Judge,
The sight of him will kindle in thy heart
All tender, gracious, reverential thoughts.
Thou wilt be sick with love, and yearn for him,
And feel as though thou couldst but pity him,
That one so sweet should e'er have placed himself
At disadvantage such, as to be used
So vilely by a being so vile as thee.
There is a pleading in his pensive eyes
Will pierce thee to the quick, and trouble thee.
And thou wilt hate and loathe thyself; for, though
Now sinless, thou wilt feel that thou hast sinned,
As never thou didst feel ; and wilt desire
To slink away, and hide thee from his sight ;
And yet wilt have a longing aye to dwell
Within the beauty of his countenance.
And these two pains, so counter and so keen,
The longing for him, when thou seest him not ;
The shame of self at thought of seeing him,
Will be thy veriest, sharpest purgatory.
SOUL.
My soul is in my hand: I have no fear,
In his dear might prepared for weal or woe.
But hark ! a deep, mysterious harmony
The Dream of Gerontius. 637
It floods me, like the deep and solemn sound
Of many waters.
ANGEL.
Whave gained the stairs
Which rise toward the presence-chamber j there
A band of mighty angels keep the way
On either side, and hymn the incarnate God.
ANGELS or THE SACRED STAIR.
Father, whose goodness none can know, but they
Who seo thee face to face,
By man hath come the infinite display
Of thine all-loving grace ;
But fallen man the creature of a day
Skills not that love to trace.
It needs, to tell the triumph thou hast wrought,
An angel's deathless fire, an angel's reach of thought.
It needs that very angel, who with awe
Amid the garden shade,
The great Creator in his sickness saw,
Soothed by a creature's aid,
And agonized, as victim of the law
Which he himself had made ;]
For who can praise him in his depth and height,
But he who saw him reel in that victorious fight ?
SOUL.
Hark ! for the lintels of the presence-gate
Are vibrating and echoing back the strain.
FOURTH CHOIR OF ANGELICALS.
r'raise to the Holiest in the height, And in the depth be praise
!Q all his words most wonderful ; Most sure in all his ways !
The foe blasphemed the holy Lord, As if he reckoned ill,
[Q that he placed his puppet man The frontier place to fill.
For even in his best estate, With amplest gifts endued,
A. sorry sentinel was he, A being of flesh and blood.
U though a thing, who for his help Must needs possess a wife,
ould cope with those proud rebel hosts, Who had angelic life.
nd when, by blandishment of Eve, That earth-born Adam fell,
le shrieked in triumph, and he cried, " A sorry sentinel.
?he Maker by his word is bound, Escape or cure is none ;
le must abandon to his doom, And slay his darling Son. "
ANGEL.
And now the threshold, as we traverse it,
Utters aloud its glad responsive chant.
638 The Dream of Gerontius.
FIFTH CHOIR OF ANGELICALS.
Praise to the Holiest in the height, And in the depth be praise :
In all his words most wonderful ; Most sure in all his ways !
O loving wisdom of our God ! When all was sin and shame,
A second Adam to the fight And to the rescue came.
O wisest love ! that flesh and blood Which did in Adam fail,
Should strive afresh against the foe, Should strive and should prevail.
And that a higher gift than grace Should flesh and blood refine,
God's presence and his very self, And essence all-divine.
O generous love ! that he who smote In man for man the foe,
The double agony in man For man should undergo j
And in the garden secretly, And on the cross on high,
Should teach his brethren and inspire To suffer and to die.
6.
ANGEL.
The judgment now is near, for we are come
Into the veiled presence of our God.
SOUL.
I hear the voices that I left on earth.
ANGEL.
It is the voice of friends around thy bed,
Who say the " Subvenite " with the priest.
Hither the echoes come ; before the throne
Stands the great angel of the agony,
The same who strengthened him, what time he knelt
Lone in the garden shade, bedewed with blood.
That angel best can plead with him for all
Tormented souls, the dying and the dead.
ANGEL OF THE AGONY.
Jesu ! by that shuddering dread which fell on thee ;
Jesu ! by that cold dismay which sickened thee ;
Jesu ! by that pang of heart which thrilled in thee ;
Jesu ! by that mount of sins which crippled thee ;
Jesu ! by that sense of guilt which stifled thee ;
Jesu ! by that innocence which girdled thee ;
Jesu ! by that sanctity which reigned in thee ;
Jesu ! by that Godhead which was one with thee ;
Jesu ! spare these souls which are so dear to thee,
Who in prison, calm and patient, wait for thee ;
Hasten, Lord, their hour, and bid them come to thee,
To that glorious home, where they shall ever gaze on thee.
The Dream of Gerontius. 639
SOUL.
I go before my Judge. Ah ! . . . .
ANGEL.
.... Praise to his name !
The eager spirit has darted from my hold,
And, with the intemperate energy of love,
Flies to the dear feet of Emmanuel ;
But, ere it reach them, the keen sanctity,
Which with its effluence, like a glory, clothes
And circles round the Crucified, has seized,
And scorched, and shrivelled it ; and now it lies
Passive and still before the awful throne.
happy, suffering soul ! for it is safe,
Consumed, yet quickened, by the glance of God.
SOUL.
Take me away, and in the lowest deep
There let me be,
And there in hope the lone night-watches keep,
Told out for me.
There, motionless and happy in my pain,
Lone, not forlorn,
There will I sing my sad perpetual strain,
Until the morn.
There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast,
Which ne'er can cease
To throb, and pine, and languish, till possessed
Of its sole peace.
There will I sing my absent Lord and love :
Take me away,
That sooner I may rise, and go above,
And see him in the truth of everlasting day.
7.
ANGEL.
Now let the golden prison ope its gates,
Making sweet music, as each fold revolves
Upon its ready hinge. And ye, great powers,
Angels of purgatory, receive from me
My charge, a precious soul, until the day,
When, from all bond and forfeiture released,
1 shall reclaim it for the courts of light.
SOULS IN PURGATORY.
Lord, thou hast been our refuge : in every generation ;
2. Before the hills were born, and the world was : from age to age thou art
God.
Bring us not, Lord, very low : for thou hast said, Come back again, ye sons
of Adam.
640 The Dream of Gerontius.
4. A thousand years before thine eyes are but as yesterday : and as a watch
of the night which is come and gone.
5. Though the grass spring up in the morning ; yet in the evening it shall
shrivel up and die.
6. Thus we fail in thine anger ; and in thy wrath we are troubled.
7. Thou hast set our sins in thy sight : and our round of days in the light of
thy countenance.
8. Come back, O Lord ! how long ? and be entreated for thy servants.
9. In thy morning we shall be filled with thy mercy : we shall rejoice and be
in pleasure all our days.
10. We shall be glad according to the days of our humiliation ; and the years
in which we have seen evil.
11. Look, O Lord, upon thy servants and on thy work ; and direct their
children,
12. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us : and the work of our
hands direct thou it.
Glory be to the father and to the Son : and to the Holy Ghost.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be ; world without
end. Amen.
ANGEL.
Softly and gently, dearest, sweetest soul
In my most loving arms I now enfold thee,
And, o'er the penal waters, as they roll,
I poise thee, and I lower thee, and hold thee.
And carefully I dip thee in the lake,
And thou, without a sob or a resistance,
Dost through the flood thy rapid passage take
Shiking deep, deeper, into the dim distance.
Angels, to whom the willing task is given,
Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest ;
And masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven,
Shall aid thee at the throne of the Most Highest.
Farewell, but not for ever ! brother dear,
Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow ;
Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here,
And I will come and wake thee on the morrow.
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
G41
From The Edinburgh Review. (Abridged.)
THE CHURCH AND MOSQUE OF ST. SOPHIA.
1. Byzantine Architecture; illustrated
by Examples of Edifices erected in
the East during the earliest ages of
Christianity. With Historical and
ArchjBological Descriptions. By C.
TEXIER and E. P. PULLAN. Folio.
London: 1864.
2. Epigraphik von Byzantium und
Constantinopolis, von den dltesten
Zeiten bis zum J. 1453. Von Dr.
S. A. DETHIER und Dr. A. D.
MORDTMANN. 4to. Wien : 1864.
3. Ada Patriarchates Constantinopo-
litani, 1305-1402, e Codice MS.
Bibliotheca Palat. Vindobonensis ;
edentibus D. D. MIKLOVISCH et
MULLER. 8vo. 2 vols. Viennse :
1860-2.
4. Die alt-christliche Baudenkmale
Konstantinopels von V. bis XII.
Jahrhundert. Auf Befehl seiner
Majestat des Konigs aufgenommen
und historisch erldutert von W.
SALZENBERG. Im Anhange des
Silentiarius Paulus Beschreibung
der heiligen Sophia und der Ambon,
metrisch ubersetzt und mit Anmerk-
ungen versehen, von Dr. C. ~W
KORTUM. Fol. Berlin: 1854.
5. Aya Sofia, Constantinople, as re-
cently restored by Order of H. M. the
Sultan Abdul Medjid. From the
original Drawings of Chevalier
GASPARD FOSSATI. Lithographed
by Louis HAGHE, Esq. Imperial
folio. London: 1854.
THERE is not one among the evi-
dences of Moslem conquest more galling
to Christian associations than the oc-
cupation of Justinian's ancient basilica
for the purposes of Mohammedan wor-
ship. The most commonplace sight-
seer from the west feels a thrill when
his eye falls for the first time upon
the flaring cresent which surmounts
" Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ;"
and this emotion deepens into a feel-
41
ing of awe at the mysterious dispensa-
tions of Providence, when he has
stood beneath the unaltered and still
stately dome, and
4 'surveyed
The sanctuary, the while the usurping Moslem
prayed."
For oriental Christians, this sense of
bitterness is hardly second to that
with which they regard the Turkish
occupation of Jerusalem itself. In the
latter, however they may writhe
under the political supremacy of their
unbelieving master, still, as the right of
access to those monuments which form
the peculiar object of Christian vene-
ration is practically undisturbed, they
are spared the double indignity of
religious profanation super-added to
social wrong. But the mosque of St.
Sophia is, in Christian eyes, a stand-
ing monument at once of Moslem
sacrilege and of Christian defeat, the
sense of which is perpetuated and em-
bittered by the preservation of its
ancient, but now desecrated name.
To an imaginative visitor of the
modern mosque, it might seem as if the
structure itself were not unconscious
of this wrong. The very position of
the building is a kind of silent protest
against the unholy use to which its
Turkish masters have perverted it.
Like all ancient Christian churches,
it was built exactly in the line of east
and west ; and, as the great altar,
which stood in the semicircular apse,
was directly at the eastern point of the
building, the worshippers in the old St.
Sophia necessarily faced directly east-
ward ; and all the appliances of their
worship were arranged with a view to
that position. Now, in the exigencies
of Mohammedan ecclesiology, since the
worshipper must turn to the Kibla at
Mecca (that is, in Constantinople, to
the south-east), the mihrab, or sacred
niche, in the modern St. Sophia is
642
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
necessarily placed out of the centre of
the apse ; and thus the mimber (pulpit),
the prayer carpets, and the long ranks
of worshippers themselves, present an
appearance singularly at variance with
every notion of architectural harmony,
being arranged in lines, not parallel,
but oblique, to the length of the edifice,
and out of keeping with all the details
of the original construction. It is as
though the dead walls of this venerable
pile had retained more of the spirit of
their founder than the degenerate sons
of the fallen Rome of the east, and had
refused to bend themselves at the will
of that hateful domination before which
the living worshippers tamely yielded
or impotently fled !
The mosque of St. Sophia had long
been an object of curious interest to
travellers in the east. Their interest,
however, had seldom risen beyond curi-
osity ; and it was directed rather toward
St. Sophia as it is, than to the Christian
events and traditions with which it
is connected. For those, indeed, who
know the grudging and capricious con-
ditions under which alone a Christian
visitor is admitted to a mosque, and
the jealous scrutiny to which he is
subjected during his visit, it will be
easy to understand how rare and how
precarious have been the opportunities
for a complete or exact study of this,
the most important of all the monu-
ments of Byzantine art ; and, notwith-
standing its exceeding interest for an-
tiquarian and artistic purposes, far
more of our knowledge of its details
was derived from the contemporary
description of Procopius* or Agathi-
as,t from the verses of Paulus Silen-
tiarius,J from the casual allusions of
other ancient authorities, and, above all,
from the invaluable work of Du Gauge,
which is the great repertory of every-
thing that has been written upon
ancient or mediaeval Byzantium, than
from the observation even of the
most favored modern visitors of Con-
stantinople, until the publication of the
* De Edificiis, lib. i. c. i.
t Pp. 152-3.
t A very good German version, with most
valuable notes, is appended to the text of Saltz-
enberg'e Baudenkmale.
works named at the head of these
pages.
For the elaborate account of the
present condition of the mosque of St.
Sophia which we now possess, we are
indebted to the happy necessity by
which the Turkish officials, in under-
taking the recent restoration of the
building, were led to engage the ser-
vices of an eminent European archi-
tect, Chevalier Fossati, in whose ad-
mirable drawings, as lithographed in
the " Aya Sofia," every arch and pil-
lar of the structure is reproduced.
The archaeological and historical de-
tails, which lay beyond the province of
a volume mainly professional in its
object, are supplied in the learned and
careful work of M. Salzenberg, who
during the progress of the restoration
was sent to Constantinople at the
cost of the late King of Prussia, for
the express purpose of copying and
describing exactly every object which
might serve to throw light on Byzan-
tine history, religion, or art, or on the
history and condition of the ancient
church of St. Sophia, the most venera-
ble monument of them all.
Nor is it possible to imagine, under
all the circumstances of the case, a
combination of opportunities more fa-
vorable for the purpose. From long
neglect and injudicious or insufficient
reparation, the mosque had fallen into
so ruinous a condition, that, in the year
1847, the late sultan, Abdul Medjid,
found it necessary to direct a searching
survey of the entire building, and
eventually a thorough repair. In the
progress of the work, while engaged
near the entrance of the northern
transept, M. Fossati discovered, be-
neath a thin coat of plaster (evidently
laid on to conceal the design from the
eyes of true believers) a beautiful
mosaic picture, almost uninjured, and
retaining all its original brilliancy of
color. A further examination showed
that these mosaics extended through-
out the building ; and, with a liberality
which every lover of art must grate-
fully applaud, the sultan at once ac-
ceded to the suggestion of M. Fossati,
The CUiurch and Mosque of St. Sophia.
643
and ordered that the plaster should be
removed throughout the interior ; thus
exposing once more to view the origi-
nal decorations of the ancient basilica.
It was while the mosque was still
crowded with the scaffolding erected to
carry on this most interesting work,
that M. Salzenberg arrived in Con-
stantinople. He thankfully acknow-
ledges the facilities afforded to him, as
well by the Turkish officials as by
the Chevalier Fossati ; and, although
the specimens of the purely pictorial
decorations of the ancient church which
he has published are not as numerous
as the reader may possibly expect, yet
they are extremely characteristic, and
full of religious as well as of historical
and antiquarian interest.
Notwithstanding the beauty and at-
tractiveness of M. Louis Haghe's
magnificent lithographs of Chevalier
Fossati's drawings published in the
" Aya Sofia," the subject has received
in England far less attention than it de-
serves. There is not an incident in
Byzantine history with which the
church of St. Sophia is not associated.
There is not a characteristic of Byzan-
tine art of which it does not contain
abundant examples. It recalls in
numberless details, preserved in mon-
uments in which time has wrought
little change and which the jeal-
ousy or contempt of the conquerors
has failed to destroy or even to tra-
vesty, interesting illustrations of the
doctrine, the worship, and the discipli-
nary usages of the ancient Eastern
Church, which are with difficulty traced,
at present, in the living system of her
degenerate representative. To all
these researches the wider cultivation
of art and of history, which our age
has accepted as its calling, ought to
lend a deeper significance and a more
solemn interest. St. Sophia ought no
longer to be a mere lounge for the sight-
seer or a spectacle for the lover of
the picturesque.
The history of this venerable church
may be said to reach back as far as the
first selection of Byzantium by Constan-
tine as the new capital of Ms empire.
Originally, the pretensions of Byzan-
tium to ecclesiastical rank were suffi-
ciently humble, its bishop being but a
suffragan of the metropolitan of Hera-
clea. But, from the date of the trans-
lation of the seat of empire, Constan-
tino's new capital began to rise in
dignity. The personal importance
which accrued to the bishop from his
position at the court of the emperor,
was soon reflected upon his see. The
first steps of its upward progress arc
unrecorded; but within little more
than half a century from the founda-
tion of the imperial city, the celebrat-
ed fifth canon of the council which
was held therein in 381 not only dis-
tinctly assigned to the Bishop of Con-
stantinople " the primacy of honor,
next after the Bishop of Rome," but,
by alleging as the ground of this pre-
cedence the principle " that Constan-
tinople is the new Rome," laid the
foundation of that rivalry with the
older Rome which had its final issue
in the complete separation of the
Eastern from the Western Church.
The dignity of the see was repre-
sented in the beauty and magnificence
of its churches, and especially of its
cathedral. One of the considerations
by which Constantine was influenced
in the selection of Byzantium for hia
new capital, lay in the advantages for
architectural purposes which the
position commanded. The rich and
various marbles of Proconnesus ; the
unlimited supply of timber from the
forests of the Euxine; the artistic
genius and the manual dexterity of the
architects and artisans of Greece all
lay within easy reach of Byzantium ;
and, freely as Constantine availed
himself of these resources for the em-
bellishment of the new city in its pal-
aces, its offices of state, and its other
public buildings, the magnificence which
he exhibited in his churches outstrip-
ped all his other undertakings. Of
these churches by far the most mag-
nificent was that which forms the sub-
ject of the present notice. Its title is
often a subject of misapprehension to
those who, being accustomed to regard
644
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
" Sophia " merely as a feminine name,
are led to suppose that the church of
Constantine was dedicated to a saint
so called. The calendar, as well of
the Greek as of the Latin Church,
does, it is true, commemorate more
than one saint named Sophia. Thus
one Sophia is recorded as having suf-
fered martyrdom under Adrian, in
company with her three daughters,
Faith, Hope, and Charity. Another
is said to have been martyred in one
of the latter persecutions together with
St. Irene ; and a third is still specially
venerated as a martyr at Fermo (the
ancient Firmum). But it was not any
of these that supplied the title of Con-
stantine's basilica. That church was
dedicated to the APIA 2O$IA.
the HOLY WISDOM; that is, to the
Divine Logos, or Word of God, under
the title of the " Holy Wisdom," bor-
rowed by adaptation from the well-
known prophetic allusion contained in
the eighth chapter of Proverbs, and
familiar in the theological language of
the fourth century.
The original church, however, which
Constantine erected in 325-6 was but
the germ out of which the latter St.
Sophia grew. The early history of
St. Sophia is marked by many vicissi-
tudes, and comprises, in truth, the
history of four distinct churches, that
of Constantine, that of Constantius,
that of Theodosius, and finally that of
Justinian.
Thirty -four years after the founda-
tion of St. Sophia by the first Chris-
tian emperor, his son, Constantius,
either because of its insufficient size,
or owing to some injury which it had
sustained in an earthquake, rebuilt it,
and united with it the adjoining church
of the Irene, or " peace " (also built
by his father), forming both into one
grand edifice. And, although the
church of Constantius was not much
longer lived than that of his father, it
is memorable as the theatre for sev-
eral years of the eloquence of St.
John Chrysostom, while its destruc-
tion was a monument at once of the
triumph and of the fall of that great
father. It was within the walls of
this church that his more than human
eloquence was wont to draw, even
from the light and frivolous audiences
of that pleasure-loving city, plau-
dits, the notice of which in his own
pages reads so strange to modem
eyes. It was here that he provoked
the petty malice of the imperial di-
rectress of fashion, by his inimitable
denunciation of the indelicacy of fe-
male dress. Here, too, was enacted
that memorable scene, which, for deep
dramatic interest, has seldom been
surpassed in history the fallen min-
ister Eutropius clinging to the altar of
St. Sophia for protection against the
popular fury, while Chrysostom, in a
glorious exordium on the instability of
human greatness,* disarms the rage
of the populace by exciting their com-
miseration for their fallen enemy.
Nor can we wonder that those who
had hung entranced upon that elo-
quent voice should, when it was si-
lenced by his cruel and arbitrary ban-
ishment, have recognized a Nemesis
in the destruction of the church which
had so often echoed with the golden
melody of its tones. St. Sophia, by a
divine judgment, as the people be-
lieved, was destroyed for the second
time in 404, in the tumult which fol-
lowed the banishment of St. John
Chrysostom.
The third St. Sophia was built in
415 by Theodosius the Younger. The
church of Theodosius lasted longer
than either of those which went be-
fore it. It endured through the long
series of controversies on the Incar-
nation. It witnessed their first begin-
ing, and it almost survived their
close. It was beneath the golden roof
of the Theodosian basilica that Nes-
torius scandalized the orthodoxy of
his flock, and gave the first impulse to
the controversy which bears his name,
by applauding the vehement declara-
tion of the preacher who denied to the
Virgin Mary the title of mother oi
God. And it was from its ambo or
* Horn, in Eutr opium Patriciurn. Opp. torn
iii., p. 399 et seq. (Mi<,me ed.)
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
645
pulpit that the Emperor Zeno promul-
gated his celebrated Henoticon the
" decree of union " by which he vainly
hoped to heal the disastrous division.
The St. Sophia of Theodosius was the
scene of t4ie first act in the long
struggle between Constantinople and
Rome, the great Acacian schism ;
when, at the hazard of his life, an im-
petuous monk, one of the fiery " Sleep-
less Brotherhood," pinned the papal
excommunication on the cope of Aca-
cius as he was advancing to the altar.
And it witnessed the close of that pro-
tracted contest, in the complete and
unreserved submission to Rome which
was exacted by the formulary of Pope
Hormisdas as the condition of recon-
ciliation. The structure of Theodosius
stood a hundred and fourteen years
from 415 to 529, but perished at
length in the fifth year of Justinian, in
a disaster which, for a time, made
Constantinople all but a desert the
memorable battle of the blue and
green factions of the hippodrome,
known in history as the Nika sedi-
tion.
The restoration of St. Sophia, which
had been destroyed in the conflagra-
tion caused by the violence of the riot-
ers, became, in the view of Justinian,
a duty of Christian atonement no less
than of imperial munificence. There
is no evidence that the burning of the
church arose from any special act of
impiety directed against it in particu-
lar ; but it is certain that the ancient
feuds of the religious parties in the
east entered vitally as an element of
discord into this fatal sedition ; and
even the soldiers who had been en-
gaged on the side of the civil power
in the repression of the tumult, and
who were chiefly legionaries enlisted
from among the Heruli, the most sav-
age of the barbarian tribes of the em-
pire, had contributed largely to the
sacrilegious enormities by which, even
more than by the destruction of hu-
man life, the religious feelings of the
city had been outraged.
The entire history of the recon-
struction exhibits most curiously the
operation of the same impulse. It
was undertaken with a large-handed-
ness, and urged on with an energy,
which bespeak for other than merely
human motives. Scarce had Con-
stantinople begun to recover after the
sedition from the stupor of its alarm,
and the affrighted citizens to steal
back from the Asiatic shore to which
they had fled in terror with their fam-
ilies and their most valuable effects,
when Justinian commissioned Anthe-
mius of Tralles to prepare the plans
of the new basilica, on a scale of mag-
nificence till then unknown. On the
23d of February, 532, within forty
days from the catastrophe, the first
stone of the new edifice was solemnly
laid. Orders, to borrow the words of the
chronicler,* "were issued simultane-
ously to all the dukes, satraps, judges,
qusestors, and prefects" throughout
the empire, to send in from their sev-
eral governments pillars, peristyles,
bronzes, gates, marbles, and all other
materials suitable for the projected
undertaking. How efficiently the or-
der was carried out may yet be read
in the motley, though magnificent ar-
ray of pillars and marbles which form
the most striking characteristic of St.
Sophia, and which are for the most
part, as we shall see, the spoil of the
older glories of Roman and Grecian
architecture. We shall only mention
here eight porphyry columns from the
Temple of the Sun at Baalbec, which
Aurelian had sent to Rome, and which,
having come into the possession of a
noble Roman widow, named Marcia,
as her dowry, were presented by that
pious lady to Justinian, as an offering
vnep T//t>,Yt/c?7f (*ov aurjjpiag, " for the Sal-
vation of her soul." f
Indeed, some of the incidents of the
undertaking are so curious in them-
selves, and illustrate so curiously the
manners and feelings of the agp, that
we are induced to select a few of them
from among a mass of more or less le-
gendary details, supplied by the anony-
* Anonymi de Antlquit. Constantinop. (in Ban-
duri's Imperium Orientate), p. 55.
t Anonymi, p. 55.
646
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
mous chronicler already referred to,
whose work Banduri has printed in
his Imperium Orientals* and who,
if less trustworthy than Procopius or
the Silentiary, has preserved a much
greater amount of the traditionary
gossip connected with the building.
For the vastly enlarged scale of
Justinian's structure, it became neces-
sary to make extensive purchases in
the immediate circuit of the ancient
church ; and, as commonly happens,
the demands of the proprietors rose in
proportion to the necessity in which
the imperial purchaser was placed.
It is interesting to contrast the differ-
ent spirit in which each sought to use
the legal rights of a proprietor.
The first was a widow, named
Anna, whose tenement was valued by
the imperial commissaries at eighty-
five pounds of gold. This offer on the
part of the commissary the widow un-
hesitatingly refused, and declared that
she would consider her house cheap
at fifty hundred-weight of gold ; but
when Justinian, in his anxiety to se-
cure the site, did not hesitate to wait
upon the widow herself in person, she
was so struck by his condescension,
and so fired by the contagion of his
pious enthusiasm, that she not only
surrendered the required ground, but
refused all payment for it in money :
only praying that she might be buried
near the spot, in order that, from the
site of her former dwelling itself, she
" might claim the purchase-money on
the day of judgment." She was
buried, accordingly, near the Skeuophy-
lacium, or treasury of the sacred ves-
sels.f
Very different, but yet hardly less
characteristic of the time, was the con-
duct of one Antiochus, a eunuch, and
ostiarius of the palace. His house
stood on the spot now directly under
the great dome, and was valued by
the imperial surveyor at thirty-five
pounds of gold. But Antiochus ex-
* Under the title Anonymi de Antiquitat'ibus
Constantinopoleos. The third part is devoted
entirely to a "History and Description of the
Church of St. Sophia."
t Anonymi, p. 58.
acted a far larger sum, and obstinately
refused to abate his demand. Justin-
ian, in his eagerness, was disposed to
yield; but Strategus, the prefect of
the treasury, begged the emperor to
leave the matter in his hands, and
proceeded to arrest the obdurate pro-
prietor and throw him into prison.
It chanced that Antiochus was a pas-
sionate lover of the sports of the hip-
podrome, and Strategus so timed the
period of his imprisonment that it
would include an unusually attractive
exhibition in the hippodrome what
in the language of the modern turf
would be called " the best meeting of
the season." At first Antiochus kept
up a determined front ; but, as the
time of the games approached, the
temptation proved too strong ; his
resolution began to waver ; and, at
length, when the morning arrived, he
" bawled out lustily " from the prison,
and promised that, if he were released
in time to enjoy his favorite spectacle,
he would yield up possession on the
emperor's own terms. By this time
the races had begun, and the emperor
had already taken his seat ; but Stra-
tegus did not hesitate to have the
sport suspended, led Antiochus at
once to the emperor's tribunal, and,
in the midst of the assembled specta-
tors, completed the negotiation.*
A third was a cobbler, called by the
classic name of Xenophon. His sole
earthly possession was the stall in
which he exercised his trade, abutting
on the wall of one of the houses doomed
to demolition in the clearance of the
new site. A liberal price was offered
for the stall ; but the cobbler, al-
though he did not refuse to surrender
it, whimsically exacted, as a condition
precedent, that the several factions of
the charioteers should salute him, in
the same way as they saluted the em-
peror, while passing his seat in the
hippodrome. Justinian agreed ; hut
took what must be considered an un-
generous advantage of the simple man
of leather. The letter of Xenophon's .
condition was fulfilled. He was placed
* Anonymi^ p. 59.
Ike Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
647
in the front of the centre tribune, gor-
geously arrayed in a scarlet and white
robe. The factions, as they passed his
seat in procession, duly rendered the
prescribed salute ; but the poor cobbler
was balked of his anticipated triumph,
being compelled, amid the derisive
cheers and laughter of the multitude,
to receive the solute with his back
turned to the assembly!*
But it is around the imperial build-
er himself that the incidents of the
history of the work, and still more its
legendary marvels, group themselves
in the pages of the anonymous chron-
icler. For although the chief archi-
tect, Anthemius, was assisted by Aga-
thias, by Isidorus of Miletus, and by a
countless staff of minor subordinates,
Justinian, from the first to the last,
may be truly said to have been the
very life and soul of the undertaking,
and the director even of its smallest
details. From the moment when, at
the close of the inauguratory prayer,
he threw the first shovelful of mortar
into the foundation, till its solemn
opening for worship on Christmas-day,
538, his enthusiasm never abated, nor
did his energy relax. Under the
glare of the noon-day sun, while others
were indulging in the customary siesta,
Justinian was to be seen, clad in a
coarse linen tunic, staff in hand, and
his head bound with a cloth, directing,
encouraging, and urging on the
workmen, stimulating the industrious
by liberal donations, visiting the loiter-
ers with his displeasure. Some of his
expedients, as detailed by the chronic-
ler, are extremely curious. We shall
mention only one. In order to expe-
dite the work, it was desirable to in-
duce the men to work after-hours.
The natural way of effecting this
would have been to offer them a pro-
portionate increase of pay; but Jus-
tinian chose rather to obtain the same
result indirectly. Accordingly, he was
accustomed if our authority can be
relied on to scatter a quantity of
coins about the building; and the
workmen, afraid to search for them in
* Anonymi, p. 59.
the open day, were led to continue
their work till the shades of evening
began to fall, in order that they might
more securely carry off the spoil un-
der cover of the darkness !
Some of the building operations which
this writer describes are equally singu-
lar. The mortar, to secure greater
tenacity, was made with barley-water ;
the foundations were filled up with
huge rectangular masses, fifty feet
long, of a concrete of lime and sand,
moistened with barley-water and other
glutinous fluid, and bound together by
wicker framework. The tiles or bricks
of which the cupola was formed were
made of Rhodian clay, so light that
twelve of them did not exceed the
weight of one ordinary tile. The pil-
lars and buttresses were built of cubi-
cal and triangular blocks of stone, with
a cement made of lime and oil, sol-
dered with lead, and bound, within and
without, with clamps of iron.
It is plain, however, that these par-
ticulars, however curious they may
seem, are not to be accepted implicitly,
at least if they are judged by the pal-
pable incredibility of some of the other
statements of the writer. The super-
natural appears largely as an element
in his history. On three several oc-
casions, according to this chronicler,
the emperor was favored with angelic
apparitions, in which were imparted
to him successive instructions, first as
to the plan of the building, again as to
urging on its progress, and finally as
to finding funds for its completion.
One of these narratives is extremely
curious, as showing the intermixture
of earth and heaven in the legendary
notions of the time. A boy, during
the absence of the masons, had been
left in charge of their tools, when, as
the boy believed, one of the eunuchs
of the palace, in a resplendent white
dress, came to him, ordered him at once
to call back the masons, that the work
of heaven might not be longer retard-
ed. On the boy's refusing to quit the
post of which he had been left in
charge, the supposed eunuch volun-
teered to take his place, and swore " by
048
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
the wisdom of God " that he would not
depart from the place till the boy should
return. Justinian ordered all the eu-
nuchs of the palace to be paraded be-
fore the boy ; and on the boy's declar-
ing that the visitor who had appeared
to him was not any of the number, at
once concluded that the apparition was
supernatural; but, while he accepted
the exhortation to greater zeal and
energy in forwarding the work, he took
a characteristic advantage of the oath
by which the angel had sworn not to
leave the church till the return of his
youthful messenger. Without permit-
ting the boy to go back to the building
where the angel had appeared to him,
Justinian sent him away to the Cyc-
lades for the rest of his life, in order
that the perpetual presence and pro-
tection of the angel might thus be se-
cured for the church, which that di-
vine messenger was pledged never to
leave till the boy should return to re-
lieve him at his post ! *
Without dwelling further, however,
on the legendary details, we shall find
marvels enough in the results, such as
they appear in the real history of the
building. And perhaps the greatest
marvel of all is the shortness of the
period in which so vast a work was
completed, the new church being actu-
ally opened for worship within less
than seven years from the day of the
conflagration. Ten thousand workmen
were employed on the edifice, if it be
true that a hundred master-builders,
each of whom had a hundred men un-
der him, were engaged to accelerate
and complete the undertaking. For
the philosophical student of history,
there is a deep subject of study in the
bare enumeration of the materials
brought together for this great Chris-
tian enterprise, and of the various
quarters from which they were collect-
ed. It is not alone the rich assortment
of precious marbles the spotless
white of Paros ; the green of Crocese ;
the blue of Libya ; together with parti-
colored marbles in a variety hardly
ever equalled before the costly cipol-
t Anonymi, p. 61.
line, the rose-veined white marble of
Phrygia, the curiously streaked black
marble of Gaul, and the countless va-
rieties of Egyptian porphyry and gra-
nite. Far more curious is it to con-
sider how the materials of the structure
were selected so as to present in them-
selves a series of trophies of the tri-
umphs of Christianity over all the
proudest forms of worship in the old
world of paganism. In the forest of
pillars which surround the dome and
sustain the graceful arches of the gy-
nseconitis, the visitor may still trace the
spoils of the Temple of the Sun
at Baalbec, of the famous Temple
of Diana at Ephesus, or that of
the Delian Apollo, of Minerva at
Athens, of Cybele at Cyzicus, and of a
host of less distinguished shrines of
paganism. When the mere cost of
the transport of these massive monu-
ments to Constantinople is taken into
account, all wonder ceases at the vast-
ness of the sums which are said to
have been expended in the work. It
is easy to understand how, "before
the walls had risen two cubits from
the ground, forty-five thousand two
hundred pounds were consumed." * It
is not difficult to account for the enor-
mous general taxation, the oppressive
exactions from individuals, the percen-
tages on prefects' incomes, and the de-
ductions from the salaries of judges
and professors, which went to swell
the almost fabulous aggregate of the
expenditure ; and there is perhaps an
economical lesson in the legend of the
apparition of the angel, who, when the
building had risen as far as the cupola,
conducted the master of the imperial
treasury to a subterranean vault in
which eighty hundred weight of gold
were discovered ready for the comple-
tion of the work! "j"
Even independently of the building
itself and its artistic decorations, the
value of the sacred furniture and ap-
pliances exceeded all that had ever be-
fore been devised. The sedilia of the j
* Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," vol. iii. p. 633.
t Anonymi, p. 62.
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
649
priests and the throne of the patriarch
were of silver gilt. The dome of the
tabernacle was of pure gold, ornament-
ed with golden lilies, and surmounted
by a gold cross seventy-five pounds
weight and encrusted with precious
stones. All the sacred vessels chalic-
es, beakers , ewers, dishes, and patens,
were of gold. The candelabra which
stood on the altar, on the ambo, and
on the upper gynseconitis ; the two co-
lossal candelabra placed at either side
of the altar ; the dome of the ambo ;
the several crosses within the bema ;
the pillars of the iconastasis ; the cov-
ers of the sacred books all were
likewise of gold, and many of them
loaded with pearls, diamonds, and car-
buncles. The sacred linens of the al-
tar and the communion cloths were
embroidered with gold and pearls.
But when it came to the construction
of the altar itself, no single one of
these costly materials was considered
sufficiently precious. Pious ingenuity
was tasked to its utmost to devise a
new and richer substance, and the
table of the great altar was formed of
a combination of all varieties of preci-
ous materials. Into the still fluid mass
of molten gold were thrown pearls and
other gems, rubies, crystals, topazes,
sapphires, onyxes, and amethysts,
blended in such proportions as might
seem best suited to enhance to the
highest imaginable limit the costliness
of what was prepared as the throne of
the Most High on earth ! And to this
combination of all that is most precious
in nature, art added all the wealth at
its disposal, by the richness of the
chasing and the elaborateness and
beauty of the design.
The total cost of the structure has
been variously estimated. It amount-
ed, according to the ancient authorities,
to "three hundred and twenty thou-
sand pounds ;" but whether these were
of silver or of gold is not expressly
stated. Gibbon* leaves it to each
reader, " according to the measure of
his belief," to estimate it in one or the
* "Decline and Fall," vol. iii., p. 523.
other metal; but Mr. Neale* is not
deterred by the sneer of Gibbon from
expressing his " belief that gold must
be intended." According to this sup-
position the expenditure, if this can be
believed possible, would have reached
the enormous sum of thirteen millions
sterling !
It was, no doubt, with profound
self-gratulation that, at the end of al-
most six years of anxious toil, Justini-
an received the intelligence of the com-
pletion of this great labor of love. At
his special entreaty, the last details
had been urged forward with head-
long haste, in order that all might be
ready for the great festival of Christ-
mas in the year 538 ; and his archi-
tect had not disappointed his hopes.
There is some uncertainty as to the
precise date of the dedication ; and in-
deed it is probable that the festival
may have extended over several days,
and thus have been assigned to different
dates by different writers. But when
it came (probably on Chrismas eve,
December 24, 538) it was a day of
triumph for Justinian. A thousand
oxen, a thousand sheep, a thousand
swine, six hundred deer, ten thousand
poultry, and thirty thousand measures
of corn, were distributed to the poor.
Largesses to a fabulous amount were
divided among the people. The em-
peror, attended by the patriarch and
all the great officers of state, went in
procession from his palace to the en-
trance of the church. But, from that
spot, as though he would claim to be
alone in the final act of offering, Jus-
tinian ran, unattended, to the foot of
the ambo, and with arms outstretched
and lifted up in the attitude of prayer,
exclaimed in words which the event
has made memorable : " Glory to God,
who hath accounted me worthy of
such a work ! I have conquered thee,
O Solomon ! "
Justinian's works in St. Sophia, how-
ever, were not destined to cease with
this first completion of the building.
Notwithstanding the care bestowed on
* "Eastern Church," vol. i., p. 237.
650
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
the dome, the selection of the lightest
materials for it, and the science em-
ployed in its construction, an earth-
quake which occurred in the year 558
overthrew the semi-dome at the east
end of the church. Its fall was follow-
ed by that of the eastern half of the
great dome itself; and in the ruin per-
ished the altar, the tabernacle, and the
whole bema, with its costly furniture
and appurtenances. This catastrophe,
however, only supplied a new incentive
to the zeal of Justinian. Anthemius
and his fellow-laborers were now
dead, but the task of repairing the in-
jury was entrusted to Isidorus the
Younger, nephew of the Isidorus who
had been associated with Anthemius in
the original construction of the church.
It was completed, and the church re-
dedicated, at the Christmas of the year
561 ; nor can it be doubted that the
change which Isidorus now introduced
in the proportions of the dome, by add-
ing twenty-five feet to its height, con-
tributed materially as well to the ele-
gance of the dome itself as to the gen-
eral beauty of the church and the har-
mony of its several parts.
The church of Justinian thus com-
pleted may be regarded as substan-
tially the same building which is now
the chief temple of Islam. The few
modifications which it has undergone
will be mentioned in the proper place ;
but it may be convenient to describe
the building, such as it came from the
hands of its first founder, before we
proceed to its later history.
St. Sophia, in its primitive form,
may be taken as the type of Byzan-
tine ecclesiology in almost all its details.
Although its walls enclose what may
be roughly* called a square of 241
feet, the internal plan is not inaptly
described as a Greek cross, of Avhich
the nave and transepts constitute the
arm, while the aisles, which are sur-
mounted by the gynaeconitis, or women's
gallery, may be said to complete it
into a square, within which the cross
_ * This is not exactly true. The precise dimen-
sions of the building (excluding the apse and
narthex) are 241 feet by 226 feet.
is inscribed. The head of the cross is
prolonged at the eastern extremity
into a slightly projecting apse. The
aisle is approached at its western end
through a double narthex or porch, ex-
tending over the entire breadth of the
building, and about 100 feet in depth ;
so that the whole length of the struc-
ture, from the eastern wall of the apse
to the wall of the outer porch, is about
340 feet. In the centre, from four
massive piers, rises the great dome, be-
neath which, to the east and to the
west, spring two great semi-domes, the
eastern supported by three, the west-
ern by two, semi-domes of smaller' di-
mensions. The central of the three
lesser semi-domes, to the east, consti-
tutes the roof of the apse to which al-
lusion has already been made. The
piers of the dome (differing in this re-
spect from those of St. Peter's at
Rome) present from within a singularly
light and elegant appearance ; they
are nevertheless constructed with great
strength and solidity, supported by
four massive buttresses, which, in the
exterior, rise as high as the base of
the dome, and are capacious enough to
contain the exterior staircases of the
gynaeconitis. The lightness of the
dome-piers is in great part due to the
lightness of the materials of the dome
itself already described. The diame-
ter of the dome at its base is 100 feet,
its height at the central point above
the floor is 179 feet, the original height,
before the reconstruction in 561, hav-
ing been twenty-five feet less.* The ef-
fect of this combination of domes, semi-
domes, and plane arches, on entering the
nave, is singularly striking. It consti-
tutes, in the opinion of the authors of
" Byzantine Architecture," what may
regarded as the characteristic beauty be
of St. Sophia; and the effect is height-
ened in the modern mosque by the
nakedness of the lower part of the
* Later Greek authorities, for the purpose of
exalting the glories of the older church, allege
that the second dome is fifteen feet lower than
the first; and even Von Hammer (Constantinond
und der Bosporus, vol. i., p. 346) adopts this
view. But Zonaras and the older writers agree
that the height was increased by twenty-five leet.
See Neale's "Eastern Church," vol. i., p. 239.
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
G51
building, and by the absence of those
appurtenances of a Christian church,
as the altar, the screen, and the ambo,
which, by arresting the eye in more
minute observation, withdrew it in the
Christian times from the general pro-
portions of the structure. This effect
of lightness is also increased by num-
erous window's, which encircle the
tympanum. They are twenty-four in
number, small, low, and circular-head-
ed ; and in the spaces between them
spring the twenty-four groined ribs of
the dome, which meet in the centre
and divide the vault into twenty-four
equal segments. The interior was
richly decorated with mosaic work.
At the four angles beneath the dome
were four colossal figures of winged
seraphim; and from the summit of
the dome looked down that majestic
face of Christ the Sovereign Judge,
which still remains the leading type
of our Lord's countenance in the
school of Byzantine art, and even in
the Latin reproductions of it fills the
mind with a feeling of reverence and
awe, hardly to be equalled by any other
production of Christian art. The ex-
terior of the dome is covered with lead,
and it was originally surmounted by a
stately cross, which in the modern
mosque is replaced by a gigantic
crescent fifty yards in diameter ; on
the gilding of this ornament Murad
III. expended 50,000 ducats, and the
glitter of it in the sunshine is said to
be visible from the summit of Mount
Olympus a distance of a hundred
miles. To an eye accustomed to the
convexity of the cupola of western
churches, the interior height of the
dome of Sophia is perhaps somewhat
disappointing, especially considering
the name " aerial," by which it is called
by the ancient authorities. This name,
however, was given to it, not so much
to convey the idea of lightness or
" airiness" in the structure, as because
its proportions, as designed by the ar-
chitect, were intended to represent or
reproduce the supposed convexity of
the aerial vault" itself.
With Justinian's St. Sophia begins
what may be called the second or
classic period of Byzantine archaeology.
It is proper, therefore, that we should
describe, although of necessity very
briefly, its general outline and arrange-
ments.
With very few exceptions, the
Greek churches of the earlier period
(including the older church of St.
Sophia, whether as originally built by
Constantine and restored by his son,
or as rebuilt by Theodosius) were of
that oblong form which the Greeks
called " dromic" and which is known in
the west as the type of the basilica.
The present St. Sophia, on the con-
trary, may be regarded as practically
the type of the cruciform structure.
This cruciform appearance, however,
is, as has been already explained, con-
fined to the internal arrangement, the
exterior presenting the appearance of
a square, or if the porch be regarded
as part of the church, of an oblong
rectangle.
To begin with the narthex or porch :
That of St. Sophia is double, con-
sisting of an outer (exonarthcx) as
well as an inner (esonarthex) porch.
Most Byzantine churches have but a
single narthex often a lean-to against
the western wall ; and in some few
churches the narthex is altogether
wanting. But in St. Sophia it is a
substantive part of the edifice ; and,
the roof of the inner compartment be-
ing arched, it forms the substructure
of the western gynasconitis, or wo-
men's choir, which is also carried upon
a series of unrivalled arches support-
ed by pillars, most of which are his-
torical, around the northern and south-
ern sides of the nave. The outer
porch is comparatively plain, and com-
municates with the inner one by five
marble doorways (of which one is now
walled up), the doors being of bronze,
wrought in floriated crosses, still dis-
tinguishable, although much mutilated
by the Turkish occupants. The in-
ner porch is much more rich, the floor
of watered marble, and the walls lined
with marbles of various colors and with
richly carved alabaster. It opens on
652
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
the church by nine gates of highly-
wrought bronze ; over the central por-
tal is a well-preserved group in mosaic,
bearing the inscription: Eiptjvii t>v<
"Eyw ei/ii TO 0f rov Koafj.oii and rep-
resenting our Lord, with the Virgin
and St. John the Baptist on either
hand, in the act of giving with uplifted
right hand his benediction to an
emperor (no doubt Justinian) pros-
trate at his feet. This group is rep-
resented in one of M. Salzenberg's
plates ; and it is specially interesting
for the commentary, explanatory of
the attitude of our Lord, given in the
poem of Paul the Silentiary, accord-
ing to whom the position of our Lord's
fingers represents, in the language of
signs then received, the initial and
final letters of the sacred name, is X2 :
"Eot/ce de da/crv/la reivetv
ov uei&vra TTEIJXIVOKOV.
The outstretched forefinger meant I ;
the bent second finger, C or s ; the
third finger applied to the thumb, X ;
and the little finger, 2. It may also be
noted that Justinian in this curious
group is represented with the nimbus.
During the progress of the restoration
of the building in 1847, this mosaic
was uncovered, and exactly copied ;
but like all the other mosaics which
contain representations of the human
form, it has been covered with canvas,
and again carefully coated with plas-
ter. It was on the phiale or fountain
of the outer court of this narthex that
the famous palindromic inscription was
placed :
NI*ON ANOMHMATA MH MONAN O*IN.
" Wash thy sins, not thy countenance only."
The interior of St. Sophia, exclus-
ive of the women's choir, consisted of
three great divisions the nave, which
was the place of the laity ; the soleas,
or choir, which was assigned to the as-
sisting clergy of the various grades ;
and the bema, or sanctuary, the semi-
circular apse at the eastern end in
which the sacred mysteries were cele-
brated, shut off from the soleas by the
inconastasis or screen, and flanked by
two smaller, but similar, semicircular
recesses ; the diaconicon, correspond-
ing with the modern vestry; and the
prothesis, in which the bread and wine
were prepared for the eucharistic of-
fering, whence they were carried, in
the procession called the "Great En-
trance," to the high altar within the
bema.
The position of these several parts
is still generally traceable in the mod-
ern mosque, although, the divisions
having been all swept away, there is
some controversy as to details.
The nave, of course, occupies the
western end, and is entered directly
from the porch. It was separated from
the soleas, or choir, at the ambo the
pulpit, or more properly gallery, which
was used not only for preaching, but also
for the reading or chanting of the lessons
and the gospel, for ecclesiastical an-
nouncements or proclamations, and in
St. Sophia for the coronation of the
emperor. The ambo of St. Sophia was
a very massive and stately structure
of rich and costly material and of most
elaborate workmanship ; it was crown-
ed by a canopy or baldachin, surmount-
ed by a solid golden cross a hundred
pounds in weight. All trace of the
ambo has long disappeared from the
mosque ; but from the number of cler-
gy, priests, deacons, subdeacons, lec-
tors, and singers (numbering, even on
the reduced scale prescribed by Jus-
tinian, 385) which the soleas was de-
signed to accommodate, as well as from
other indications, it is believed that the
ambo, which was at the extreme end
of the soleas, must have stood under
the dome, a little to the east of the
centre. The seat of the emperor was
on the left side of the soleas, immedi-
ately below the seats of the priests,
close to the ambo, and opposite to the
throne of the patriarch. The seats
assigned in the present patriarchal
church to the princes of Wallachia and
Moldavia correspond in position to
those formerly occupied by the throne
of the emperor and are directly opposite
that of the patriarch. Beside its sa-
cred uses, the ambo of St. Sophia was
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
653
the scene of many a striking incident
in Byzantine history. The reader of
Gibbon will recall the graphic picture
of Heracleonas compelled by the tur-
bulent multitude to appear in the ambo
of St. Sophia with his infant nephew
in his arms for the purpose of receiv-
ing their homage to the child as em-
peror ;* or his still more vivid de-
scription of the five sons of Copronimus,
of whom the eldest, Nicephorus, had
been made blind, and the other four
had their tongues cut out, escaping
from their dungeon and taking sanctu-
ary in St. Sophia. There are few
more touching stories in all the bloody
annals of Byzantium than that which
presents the blind Nicephorus employ-
ing that faculty of speech which had
been spared in him alone, by appeal-
ing from the ambo on behalf of his
mute brothers to the pity and protec-
tion of the people ! f
But it was upon the bema of St.
Sophia, as we have already seen, that
the wealth and pious munificence of
Justinian were most lavishly expend-
ed. It was shut off from the soleas
by the inconastasis, which in Byzan-
tine art is a screen resembling, in all
except its position, the rood-screen of
western architecture, and derived its
name from the sacred pictures (eiKovecj
represented upon it. In that of St.
Sophia the material was silver, the
lower part being highly wrought with
arabesque devices, and the upper com-
posed of twelve pillars, twined two and
two, and separated by panels on which
were depicted in oval medallions the
figures of our Lord, his Virgin Mother,
and the prophets and apostles. It
had three doors ; the central one
(called fyia (jvpa, "sacred door") lead-
ing directly to the altar, that on the
right to the diaconicon, and that on the
left to the prothesis. The figures on
either side of the central door, following
.what appears to have been the univer-
sal rule, were those of our Lord and
the Virgin, and above the door stood a
massive cross of gold. The altar, with
* "Decline and Fall," vol. iv.. p. 403.
t Ibid., vol. iv., p. 413.
its canopy or tabernacle, has been al-
ready described. The synthronus, or
bench with stalls, for the officiating
bishop and clergy, are at the back of
the altar along the circular wall of the
bema. The seats were of silver gilt.
The pillars which separated them were
of pure gold. All this costly and
gorgeous structure has of course dis-
appeared from the modern mosque.
The eye now ranges without interrup-
tion from the entrance of the royal
doors to the very extremity of the
bema ; the only objects to arrest ob-
servation being the sultan's gallery
(maksure), which stands at the left or
north side of the bema ; the mimber, or
pulpit for the Friday prayer, which is
placed at the right or southern end of
the ancient inconastasis ; the mahfil, or
ordinary preaching pulpit, in the cen-
tre of the mosque ; and the mihrab, or
sacred niche, which is at the south-east
side of the bema.
It was more difficult, in converting
the church into a mosque, to get rid of
the numerous sacred pictures in gold
and mosaic which adorned the walls
and arches. Accordingly, instead of
attempting to remove or destroy them,
the Moslem invaders of the church
were content with covering all these
Christian representations with a coat
of plaster ; and thus in the late re-
paration of the mosque, the architect,
having removed the plaster, was ena
bled to have copies made of all the
groups which still remained uninjured.
Of the principal of them M. Salzen-
berg has given fac-similes. On the
great western arch was represented
the Virgin Mary, with Sts. Peter and
Paul. On the side walls of the nave,
above the women's choir upon either
side, were figures, in part now defaced,
of prophets, martyrs, and other saints.
M. Salzenberg has reproduced in his
volume Sts. Anthemius, Basil, Grego-
ry, Dionysius the Areopagite, Nicolas
of Myra, Gregory the Armenian apos-
tle, and the prophets Jeremiah, Isaiah,
and Habakkuk. On the great eastern
arch was a group consisting of the Vir-
gin Mary, St. John the Baptist, and
654
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
the Emperor John Palaeologus, the
last Christian restorer of the building;
but these figures and still more the
group which decorated the arch of the
bema, our Lord, the Virgin, and the
Archangel Michael are now much
defaced. Much to the credit of the
late sultan, however, he not only de-
clined to permit the removal of these
relics of ancient Christian art, but
gave orders that every means should
be taken to preserve them ; at the
same time directing that they should
be carefully concealed from Moslem
eyes, as before, by a covering of plas-
ter, the outer surface of which is deco-
rated in harmony with those portions
of the ancient mosaic, which, not con-
taining any object inconsistent with
the Moslem worship, have been restor-
ed to their original condition. Ac-
cordingly, the winged seraphim at the
angles of the buttresses which support
the dome have been preserved, and,
to a Christian visitor, appear in strange
contrast with the gigantic Arabic in-
scriptions in gold and colors which
arrest the eye upon cither side of the
nave and within the dome, commem-
orating the four companions of the
Prophet, Abu-bekr, Omar, Osman, and
Ali.
But there is one characteristic of St.
Sophia which neither time nor the
revolutions which time has brought
have been able to efface or even sub-
stantially to modify the strikingly
graceful and elegant, although far from
classically correct, grouping of the pil-
lars which support the lesser semi-
domes and the women's choir. It
would be impossible, without the aid
of a plan, to convey any idea of the
arrangement of this matchless assem-
blage of columns, which, as we have
already observed, are even less pre-
cious for the intrinsic richness and
beauty of their material than for the
interesting associations which their
presence in a Christian temple in-
volves. Most of these may still be
identified. The eight red porphyry
pillars standing, two and two, under
the semi-domes at either end of the
nave, are the celebrated columns from
the Temple of the Sun, already re-
corded as the gift of Marcia, offered
by her " for the salvation of her soul."
The eight pillars of green serpentine
which support the women's choir, at
either side of the nave, are from the
Temple of Diana at Ephesus ; and
among the remaining pillars on the
ground floor, twenty-four in number,
arranged in groups of four, are still
pointed out representatives of almost
every form of the olden worship of
the Roman empire spoils of the pa-
gan temples of Athens, Delos, Troas,
Cyzicus, and other sanctuaries of the
heathen gods.
Less grand, but hardly less grace-
ful, are the groups of pillars, sixty-
seven in number, in the women's choir
above the aisles and the inner porch.
The occasional absence of unifomaity
which they present, differing from
each ofher in material, in color, in
style, and even in height, although it
may offend the rules of art, is by no
means ungrateful to the eye. In the
total number of the pillars of St.
Sophia, which is the broken number
one hundred and seven, there is sup-
posed to be a mystic allusion to the
seven pillars of the House of Wis-
dom.*
Such was St. Sophia in the days of
its early glory a fitting theatre for
the stately ceremonial which consti-
tuted the peculiar characteristic of the
Byzantine court and Church. On all
the great festivals of the year Christ-
mas, Epiphany, Palm Sunday, Easter,
Pentecost, and the Ascension ; at the
ceremony of the emperor's coronation ;
at imperial marriages ; and on occa-
sions, more rare in the inglorious
annals of the Lower Empire, of im-
perial triumphs, the emperor, at-
tended by the full array of his family I
and court, went in state to St. Sophia
and assisted at the celebration of the
divine mysteries. The emperor <
himself, with his distinctive purple
buskins and close tiara; the Cosar,
* Proverbs ix. 1.
The Church and Mosque of St. Sophia.
655
and, in later times, the Sebastocrator,
in green buskins and open tiara ; the
Despots, the Panhypersebastos, and
the Protosebastos ; the long and care-
fully graduated line of functionaries,
civil and military the Curopalata,
the Logothete and Great Logothete,
the Domestic and Great Domestic, the
Prostostrator, the Stratospedarch, the
Protospatharius, the Great -ZEteri-
arch, and the Acolyth, with the sever-
al trains of attendants in appropriate
costume which belonged to each de-
partment, combined to form an array
for which it would be difficult to find a
parallel in the history of ceremonial ;
and when to these are added the purely
ecclesiastical functionaries, for whose
number even the munificent provision
of space allotted by Justinian's archi-
tect was found at times insufficient,
some idea may be formed of the gran-
deur of the service, which, for so many
ages, lent to that lofty dome and these
stately colonnades a life and a signifi-
, cance now utterly lost in the worship
which has usurped its place. As a
1 purely ecclesiastical ceremony, proba-
! hly some of the great functions at St.
Peter's in Rome surpass in splendor
such a ceremonial as the " Great En-
trance " at St. Sophia on one of the
emperor's days. But the latter had
the additional element of grandeur de-
rived from the presence of a court
unrivalled for the elaborate stateliness
and splendor of its ceremonial code.
We have said that the church of
Justinian is, in all substantial partic-
ulars, the St. Sophia of the present
day. In an architectural view the
later history of the building is hardly
worth recording. The eastern half of
the dome, in consequence of some set-
tling of the foundation of the but-
csses, having shown indications of a
mdency to give way, it became ne-
cessary in the reign of Basil the Ma-
cedonian, toward the end of the ninth
century, to support it by four exterior
buttresses, which still form a conspicu-
ous object from the Seraglio Place.
The Emperor Michael, in 896, erected
the tower still standing at the western
entrance, to receive a set of bells which
were presented by the doge of Venice,
but which the Turks have melted down
into cannon. About half a century
later, a further work for the purpose
of strengthening the dome was under-
taken by the Emperor Romanus ; and
in the year 987 a complete reparation
and re-strengthening of the dome,
within and without, was executed un-
der Basil the Bulgaricide, in which
work the cost of the scaffolding alone
amounted to ten hundred weight of
gold.
No further reparations are recorded
for upward of two centuries. But, to
the shame of the founders of the Latin
empire of Constantinople, the church
of St. Sophia suffered so much in their
hands, that, after the recovery of the
city by the Greeks, more than one of
the later Greek emperors is found en-
gaged in repairing the injuries of the
building. Andronicus the Elder, Can-
tacuzenus, and John IV. Palasologus,
each had a share in the work ; and,
by a curious though fortuitous coincid-
ence, Palseologus, the last of the Chris-
tian emperors who are recorded as re-
storers of St. Sophia, appears to be
the only one admitted to the same
honor which was accorded to its first
founder Justinian that of having his
portrait introduced into the mosaic
decorations of the building. John
PaLneologus, as we saw, is represented
in the group which adorned the eastern
arch supporting the great dome. The
figures, however, are now much defaced.
How much of the injury which,
from whatever cause, the mosaic and
other decorations of St. Sophia have
suffered, is due to the fanaticism of the
Turkish conquerors of Constantinople
it is impossible to say with certainty.
Probably, however, it was far less
considerable than might at first be
supposed. Owing to the peculiar dis-
cipline of the Greek Church, which,
while it freely admits painted images,
endures no sculptured Christian repre-
sentations except that of the cross it-
self, there was little in the marble or
bronze of St. Sophia to provoke Mos-
656
The CJiurch and Mosque of St. Sophia.
lem fanaticism. The crosses through-
out the building, and especially in the
women's choir, have been modified,
rather than completely destroyed ; the
mutilator being generally satisfied with
merely chiselling off the head of the
cross (the cruciform character being
thus destroyed), sparing the other
three arms of the Christian emblem.
For the rest, as we have already said,
the change consisted in simply denud-
ing the church of all its Christian fur-
niture and appliances, whether mov-
able objects or permanent structures,
and in covering up from view all the
purely Christian decorations of the
walls, roof, and domes. The mosaic
work, where it has perished, seems to
have fallen, less from intentional out-
rage or direct and voluntary deface-
ment, than from the long-continued
neglect under which the building had
suffered for generations, down to the
restoration by the late sultan.
The alterations of the exterior un-
der Moslem rule are far more striking,
as well as more considerable. Much
of the undoubtedly heavy and inele-
gant appearance of the exterior of St.
Sophia is owing to the absence of several
groups of statues and other artistic ob-
jects which were designed to relieve the
massive and ungraceful proportions of
the buttresses and supports of the build-
ing as seen from without. Of these groups
the most important was that of the
celebrated horses now at St. Mark's
in Venice. On the other hand, the
addition of the four minarets has, in a
different way, contributed to produce
the same effect of heaviness and in-
congruity of proportion. Of these min-
arets, the first, that at the south-east
angle, was built by Mahomet II. The
second, at the north-east, was erected
by Selim, to whose care the mosque
was indebted for many important
works, intended as well for its actual
restoration as for its prospective main-
tenance and preservation. The north-
western and south-western minarets
are both the work of Amurath III.
These structures, although exceedingly
light and elegant in themselves, are
altogether out of keeping with the mas-
sive structure to which they were in-
tended as an appendage, and the pre-
tentious style of their decoration only
heightens by the contrast the bald and
unarchitectural appearance of the ex-
terior of the church. It is not too much
to say that the effect of these peculiarly
Mohammedan additions to the structure
is externally to destroy its Christian
character.
But whatever may be said of the
works of former sultans, it is impossible
not to regard the late Sultan Abdul
Medjid as a benefactor to Christian
art, even in the works which he under-
took directly in the interest of his own
worship. From the time of Amurath
III. the building had been entirely
neglected. Dangerous cracks had ap-
peared in the dome, as well as in se-
veral of the semi-domes. The lead
covering of all was in a ruinous condi-
tion ; and the apertures not only ad-
mitted the rain and snow, but permit-
ted free entrance to flocks of pigeons
and even more destructive birds. The
arches of the gynasconitis were in many
places split and in a tottering condition
The pillars, especially on the upper
floor, were displaced and thrown out
of the perpendicular; and the whole
structure, in all its parts and in all its
appointments, presented painful evi-
dence of gross and long-continued ne-
glect. M. Louis Haghe has represent-
ed, in two contrasted lithographed
sketches, the interior of the mosque
such as it was and such as it now is
since the restoration. The contrast in
appearance, even on paper, is very
striking ; although this can only be
realized by those who have had the
actual opportunity of comparing the
new with the old. But the substantial
repairs are far more important, as
tending to the security of a pile so
venerable and the object of so many
precious associations. The great dome,
while it is relieved from the four heavy
and unsightly buttresses, is made more
permanently secure by a double girder j
of wrought iron around the base. The
lead of the dome and the roof has been
f
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
657
renewed throughout. The tottering pil-
lars of the women's choir have been
replaced in the perpendicular, and the
arches which they sustain are now
shored up and strengthened. The mo-
saic work throughout the building has
been thoroughly cleaned and restored,
the defective portions being replaced
by a skilful imitation of the original.
All the fittings and furniture of the
mosque the sultan's gallery, the pul-
pits, the mihrab, and other appurten-
ances of its worship have been re-
newed in a style of great splendor.
The work of reparation extended over
two years, and owed much of its suc-
cess, as well as of the spirit in which
it was executed, to the enlightened
liberality of Redschid Pacha. An ef-
fort is said to have been made by the
fanatical party in Constantinople to
induce the sultan to order the complete
demolition of the mosaic pictures on
the walls, as being utterly prohibited
by the Koran. But he firmly refused
to accede to the demand ; and it was
with his express permission that the
king of Prussia commissioned M. Salz-
enberg to avail himself of the occa-
sion of their being uncovered, in order
to secure for the students of the Chris-
tian art of Byzantium the advantage
of accurate copies of every detail of its
most ancient as well as most character-
istic monument.
From The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE ; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.
BY ROBERT CURTIS.
CHAPTER VII.
HERE it was that the real fun was
going on! From the centre of the
veiling hung a strong piece of cord,
with cross sticks, about eighteen inches
ong, at the end. On each end of one
of these sticks was stuck a short piece
)f lighted candle, while on the ends of
the other were stuck small apples of a
)eculiarly good kind. The cross was
hen set turning, when some plucky
lero snapped at the apples as they
vent round, but as often caught the
ighted candle in his mouth, when a
learty laugh from the circle of specta-
,ors proclaimed his discomfiture. On
he other hand, if fortunate enough to
secure one of the apples, a clapping of
lands, and shouts of " Well done !"
proclaimed his victory.
A h'ttle to one side of this " merry-
go-round" was a huge tub of spring-
water, fresh from the pump, and as
42
clear as crystal. It was intended that
the performers at this portion of the
fun should, stripped to the waist, dive
for pence or whatever silver the by-
standers chose to throw in. Up to
this it had not come into play, for until
their "betthers came down from the
parlor" no silver was thrown in ; and
the youngsters were " loth to wet their-
sel's for nothin'." Now, however, a
tenpenny-bit from Tom Murdock soon
glittered on the bottom of the tub, a
full foot and a half under water. Forth-
with two or three young fellows " peel-
ed off," to prove their abilities as
divers. The first, a black-haired fel-
low, with a head as round as a can-
non-ball, after struggling and bubbling
until the people began to think he was
smothering, came up without the prize.
He was handed a kitchen towel to rub
himself with ; while one of the other
young gladiators adjusted the tenpen-
ny-bit hi the middle of the tub, drew
C58
AU-HaUow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
in a long breath, and down he went
like a duck. He was not nearly so
long down as the other had been ; he
neither struggled nor bubbled, and
came up with the money between his
teeth.
" It wasn't your first time, Jamesy,
anyhow," said one.
" How did you get. a hoult of it,
Jamesy avic ?" said another.
But he kept drying his head, and
never minding them.
Another tenpenny was then thrown
hi by old Ned Cavana; it withstood
repeated efforts, but was at last fairly
brought up. Jamesy seemed to be the
most expert, for having lifted this
second tenpenny, his abilities were
finally tested with a fippenny-bit, which
after one or two failures he brought
up triumphantly in his teeth ; all the
other divers having declined to try
their powers upon it.
By this time the kitchen floor was
very wet, and it was thought, particu-
larly by the contributors to the tub,
that there had been enough of that
sort of fun. The girls, who were
standing in whatever dry spots of the
flags they could find, thought so too ;
they, did not wish to wet their shoes
before the dance, and there was another
move back to the parlor.
Here the scene was completely
changed, as if indeed by magic, as no-
body had been missed for the perform-
ance. The long table was no where to
be seen, while the chairs and forms
were ranged along the walls, and old
Murrin the piper greeted their entrance
with an enlivening jig.
Partners were of course selected at
once, and as young Lennon happened
to be coming in from the kitchen with
Winny Cavana at the moment, they
were soon with arms akimbo footing
it to admiration opposite each other.
Not far from them another couple were
exhibiting in like manner. They were
Tom Murdock and Kate Mulvey ;
while several other pairs were " foot-
ing it" through the room. To judge
from the self-satisfied smile upon Kate
Mulvey's handsome lips, she was not a
little proud or well pleased at having
taken Tom Murdock from the belle o*f
the party ; for she had too much self-
esteem to think that it was the belle of
the party had been taken from Tom
Murdock.
I need not pursue the several sets
which were danced, nor particularize
the pairs who were partners on the oc-
casion. Of course Tom Murdock took
the first opportunity possible to claim
the hand of Winifred Cavana for a
dance. Indeed, he was ill-pleased
that in his own house he had permitted
any chance circumstance to prevent
his having opened the dance witli her,
and apologized for it " but it happen-
ed in a manner over which he had no
control." He had picked up that ex-
pression at a race-course.
With all his bitterness he had the
good sense not to make a scene by en-
deavoring to frustrate that which he
had not the tact to obviate by pre-ar-
rangement. Winny had made no re-
ply to his apology, and he continued,
" I did not ask Kate Mulvey to dance
until I saw you led out by young Len-
non."
" That is a bad compliment to Kate,"
she observed.
"I can't help that," said he gruffly;
" some people take time d-mn-bly by
the forelock."
" That cannot apply to either him
or me in this case ; there were two
pairs dancing before he asked me."
Now although this was certainly
not said by way of reproach to Tom
for not himself being sooner, it was
unanswerable, and he did not try to
answer it. He was not however in
such good humor as to forward him-
self much in Winny's good opinion,
and Emon-a-knock, who watched him
closely, was content that he should be
her sole beau for the rest of the even-
ing.
Refreshments were now brought in ;
cold punch for the boys and " nagus"
for the girls ; for old Murdock could j
afford to make a splash, and this he
thought " was his time to do it. If
any one was hungry, there was plenty
All-HaUow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
659
of cold mate and bread on the kitchen
dresser." But after the calcannon
and tea, nobody seemed to hear him.
After the liquor on the first tray
was disposed of, and the glasses col-
lected for a replenish, a solo jig was
universally called for. The two best
dancers in the province were present
Tom Murdock and Edward Len-
non, so there could be no failure.
Old Murdock had never seen young
Lennon dance until that night, and so
far as he could judge, "he was not the
man that Tom need be afraid of." He
had often seen Tom's best dancing, and
certainly nothing which young Len-
non had exhibited there up to that
time could at all touch it
" Come, Tom," said he, " give the
girls a specimen of what you can do,
your lone," and he laid the poker and
tongs across each other in the middle
of the floor.
Paddy Murrin struck up a spirit-
stirring jig, which no one could resist.
The girls were all dancing it "to
themselves," and young Lennon's feet
were dying to be at it, but of course he
must wait.
Indeed he was not anxious to ex-
hibit in opposition to his host's son,
but feared his reputation as a dancer
would put him in for it.
Tom Murdock having been thus
called on, was tightening the fung of
one of his pumps, to begin. Turning
then to Murrin, he called for " the
fox-hunter's jig."
He now commenced, and like a
knowing professor of his art " took it
easy" at the commencement, determin-
ed however to astonish them ere he
lad done. He felt that he was danc-
ing well, but knew that he could dance
much better, and would presently do
so. He had often tried the "poker
and tongs jig," but hitherto never
quite to his satisfaction. He had fbme-
times come off perfectly victorious,
without touching them, but as often
managed to kick them about the floor.
He was now on his mettle, not only on
account of Winny Cavana, but also
because "that whelp, Lennon, was
looking on, which he had no right to
be." For a while he succeeded ad-
mirably. He had tipped each division
of the cross with both heel and toe,
several tunes with rapid and successful
precision; but becoming enthusiastic,
as the plaudits passed round, he called
to Murrin " to play faster," when af
ter a few moments of increased speed,
he tripped in the tongs, and came flat
on his back upon the floor. He was
soon up again, and a few touches of
the clothes-brush set all to rights, ex-
cept the irrepressible titter that ran
round the room.
Of course there was an excuse one
of the fungs of his pump had again
loosened and caught in the tongs. This
was not merely an excuse, but a fact,
upon which Tom Murdock built much
consolation for his "partial failure,"
as he himself jocosely called it ; but he
was savage at heart.
There was a general call now from
the girls for young Lennon, and
" Emon-a-knock, Emon-a-knock," re-
sounded on all sides. He would not
rise, however;. he was now more un
willing than ever to " dance a match,'
as he called it to himself, with hiJ
host's son.
The " partial failure" of his rival
and he was honest enough to admit
that it was but partial, and could not
have been avoided gave him well-
founded hopes of a triumph. He too
had tried his powers of agility by the
poker and tongs test, and oftener with
success than otherwise. It was some
time now since he had tried it, as lat-
terly he had not much time to spare
for such amusements. He was un-
willing, but not from fear of failure,
to get up ; but no excuse would be
taken ; he was caught by the collar of
his coat by two sturdy handsome girls,
and dragged into the middle of the
room. Thus placed before the specta-
tors, he could not refuse the ordeal, as
it might be called.
He had his wits about him, however.
He had seen Tom Murdock whisper
something to the piper when he was
first called on to stand up, and it
G60
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
proved that he was not astray as to
its purport.
Recollecting the jig he was in the
habit of dancing the poker and tongs
to, he asked the piper to play it. Mur-
rin hesitated, and at last came out
with a stammer that " he hadn't it, but
he'd give him one as good," striking
up the most difficult jig in the Irish
catalogue to dance to.
" No," said Lennon stoutly, " I heard
you play the jig I called for a hundred
times, and no later than last night,
Pat, at Jemmy Mullarky's, as I passed
home from work, and I'll have no
other."
" I took whatever jig he happened
to strike up," said Tom with a sneer.
" You might have had your choice,
for that matter, and I daresay you
had," replied Lennon, " and I'll have
mine ! It is my right."
"If a man can dance," continued
Tom, " he ought to be able to dance to
any jig that's given him ; it's like a
man that can only say his prayers out
of his own book." And there was a
suppressed smile at Lennon's expense.
He saw it, and his blood was up in
a moment.
" He may play any jig he chooses
now," exclaimed Lennon, " except one,
and that is the one you told him to
play," taking his chance that his sus-
picions were correct as to the pur-
port of the whisper.
" I'll play the one I pled for the young
masther himself ; an' if that doesn't
shoot you, you needn't dance at all,"
said Murrin, apparently prompted
again by Tom Murdock.
This was a decision from which no
impartial person could dissent, and
Lennon seemed perfectly satisfied, but
after all this jaw and interruption he
felt in no great humor to dance, and
almost feared the result.
As he stood up he caught a glance
from Winny's eye which banished
every thought save that of complying
with that look. If ever a look planted
an undying resolve in a man's heart it
was that. It called him " Emon " as
plain as if she had spoken it, and said,
" Don't let that fellow put you down,"
and quick as the glance was it added,
" he's a nasty fellow."
To it now Emon went with his
whole heart. He cared not what jig
Pat Murrin played, "or any other
piper," he was able for them.
At first the quiet tipping of his heel
and toe upon the floor, with now and
then a flat stamp which threw up the
dust, was inimitable. As he got into
the " merits of the thing," the music
was obliged to vie with him in activ-
ity. It seemed as much as if he was
dancing for the piper to play to, as
that the piper was playing for him to
dance. Those who were up to the
merits of an Irish jig, could have told
the one he was dancing to if there had
been no music at all. There was a
tip, a curl, or a stamp for every note
in the tune. In fact he played the jig
upon the floor with his feet. He now
closed the poker and tongs with con-
fidence, while Tom Murdock looked on
with a malicious hope that he too
would bungle the business ; and Win-
ny Cavana looked on with a timid fear
of the same result. But he danced
through and amongst them as if by ma-
gic a toe here, and a heel there, in
each compartment of the crossed irons
with the rapidity of lightning, but he
never touched one of them.
" Quicker! quicker," cried Murdock
to the piper, seeing that Lennon was
perfect master of his position.
" Aye, as quick as you like," stam-
mered Lennon, almost out of breath ;
and the increased speed of the music
brought forth more striking perform-
ance, testified to by the applause
which greeted his finishing bow.
He caught a short glance again
from Winny's eye, as he passed to a
vacant seat. " Thank you, Emon,
from my heart," it said, as plainly as
the other had spoken when he stood
up.
It was now well on in the small
hours, and as old Murdock and his
son had both ceased in a manner to do
any more honors, their silence was ac-
cepted as a sort of " notice to quit,"
Att-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
661
and there was a general move in
search of bonnets and cloaks. Tom
Murdock knew that he was in the
dumps, and wisely left Winny to her
father's escort. Lennon's way lay by
the Mulveys, and he was " that far "
with Kate and some others. Indeed,
all the branch roads and pathways
were echoing to the noisy chat and
opinions of the scattered party on
their several ways home.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE after-reflections of those most
interested in the above gathering were
i various, and it must be admitted to
some extent unsatisfactory. First of
all, old Murdock was keen enough to
perceive that he had not furthered his
object in the least by having given the
party at all. From what Tom had
told him he had kept a close watch
upon young Lennon, of whose aspira-
tions toward "Winny Cavana he had
now no doubt, and if he was not sure
of a preference upon her part toward
him, he was quite certain that she had
none toward Tom. This was the
natural result of old Murdock's observ-
ations of Winny's conduct during
the evening, who, while she could
and did hide the one, could not, and
did not, hide the other.
Tom Murdock was the least satis-
fied of them all with the whole busi-
ness, and sullenly told his father, who
had done it all to serve him, that " he
had done more harm than good, and
that he knew he would, by asking
that whelp Lennon; and he hoped
he might never die till he broke every
bone in his body. By hook or by
crook, by fair means or foul, he must
put a stop to his hopes in that
quarter."
His father was silent. He felt that
he had not advanced matters by his
party. Old Cavana was not the sharp
old man in these matters, either to
mind or divine from how many points
the wind blew, and quietly supposed
all had gone on smoothly, as he and
old Murdock wished.
Winifred had been more than con-
firmed in her dislike to Tom Murdock,
while her secret preference for Emon-
a-knock had been in no respect dimin-
ished. She had depth enough also to
perceive that Kate Mulvey was anxious
enough to propitiate the good opinion, to
which she had taken no pains to hide
her indifference. She wai aware that
Kate Mulvey's name had been asso-
ciated with young Lennon's by the
village gossips, but she had seen noth-
ing on that night to justify any appre-
hension, if she chose to set herself to
work. She would take an opportunity
of sounding her friend upon this mo-
mentous subject, and finding out how
the land really lay. If that was the
side of her head Kate's cap was in-
clined to lean to, might they not strike
a quiet and confidential little bargain
between them, as regarded these two
young men?
Kate Mulvey's thoughts were not
very much at variance with those of
her friend Winny. She, not having
the same penetration into the probable
results of sinister looks and scowling
brows ; or not, perhaps, having ever
perceived them, had thrown one of the
nicest caps that ever came from a
smoothing-iron at Tom Murdock, but
she feared he had not yet picked it
up. She was afraid, until the night
of the party, that her friend and rival
yes, it is only in the higher ranks of
society that the two cannot be united
had thrown a still more richly trimmed
one at him ; but on that night, and she
had watched closely, she had formed a
reasonable belief that her fear was
totally unfounded. She was not quite
sure that it had not been let drop in
Emon-a-knock's way, if not actually
thrown at him. These girls, in such
cases, are so sharp !
The very same thought had struck
her. She also had determined upon
sounding her friend Winny, and would
662
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
take the first favorable opportunity of
having a confidential chat with her
upon the subject. The girls were
very intimate, and were not rivals, only
they did not know it. We shall see
by-and-by how they " sounded " each
other.
Young Lennon's after-thoughts, up-
on the whole, were more satisfactory
than perhaps those of any of the other
principal persons concerned. If Win-
ny Cavana had not shown him a de-
cided preference over the general set
of young men there, she had certainly
been still less particular in her conduct
and manner toward Tom Murdock.
These matters, no doubt, are managed
pretty much the same in all ranks of
society, though, of course, not with the
same refinement ; and to young Len-
non, whose heart was on the watch, as
well as his eyes, one or two little in-
cidents during the night gave him
some faint hopes that, as yet at least,
his rich rival had not made much way
against him. Hitherto, young Lennon
had looked upon the rich heiress of
Rathcash as a fruit too high for him
to reach from the low ground upon
which he stood, and had given more of
his attention to her poorer neighbor
Kate Mulvey. He, however, met with
decided reluctance in that quarter, and
being neither cowardly, ignorant, nor
shy, he had improved one or two fa-
vorable occasions with Winny Cavana
at the party, whom he now had some,
perhaps delusive, notion was not so far
above his reach after all.
These are the only persons with
whose after-thoughts we are concerned.
There may have been some other by-
play on the part of two or three fine
young men and handsome girls, who
burned themselves upon the bar, and
danced together after they became
cinders, but as they are in no respect
mixed up with our story, we may pass
them by without investigating their
thoughts, further than to declare that
they were all well pleased, and that
the praises of old Murdoch's munifi-
cence rang from one end of the parish
to the other.
CHAPTER IX.
I MUST now describe a portion of
the garden which stretched out from
the back of old Ned Cavana's prem-
ises. A large well-enclosed farm-
yard, almost immediately at the rear
of the house, gave evidence of the
comfort and plenty belonging not only
to the old man himself, but to every-
thing living and dead about the place ;
and as we shall be obliged to pass
through this farm-yard to get into the
garden, we may as well describe it
first. Stacks of corn, wheat, oats, and
barley, in great variety of size, point-
ed the pinnacles of their finishing
touch to the sky. Sticking up from
some of these were sham weather-
cocks, made of straw, in the shape of
fish, fowl, dogs, and cats, the handi-
work of Jamesy Doyle, the servant
boy, the same black-headed urchin
who lifted the tenpenny-bit out of the
tub at old Murdock's party. They
were fastened upon sticks, which did
not turn round, and were therefore put
up more to frighten away the spar-
rows than for the purpose of indicating
which way the wind blew, or, more
likely still, as mere specimens of
Jamesy Doyle's ingenuity. The whole
yard was covered a foot deep with
loose straw, for the double purpose of
giving comfort to two or three litters
of young pigs, and that of being used
up, by the constant tramping, into
manure for the farm ; for cows, heif-
ers, and calves strayed about it with-
out interruption. A grand flock of
geese, as white as snow and as large
nearly as swans, marched in from the
fields, headed by their gander, every
evening about the same hour, to spend
their night gaggling and watching and
sleeping by turns under the stacks of
corn, which were raised upon stone
pillars with mushroom metal-caps, to
keep out the rats and mice. A big
black cock, with a hanging red comb and
white jowls, and innumerable hens be-
longing to him, something on the Brig-
ham Young system, marched trium-
phantly about, calling his favorites
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
and then with a quick mel-
ancnoiy iiitle chuckle as often as he
found a tit-bit amongst the straw.
Ducks, half as large as the geese,
coming home without a feather raffled,
in a mottled string of all colors, from
the stream below the hill, diving, for
variety, into the clean straw, emerging
now and then, and smattering with
their flat bills in any little puddle of
water that lay between the pavement
in the bare part of the yard. " Bully-
dhu," the-watch-dog, as evening closed,
taking possession of a small wooden
house upon wheels, Jamesy Doyle's
handiwork too, that it might be
turned to the shelter, whichever way
the wind blew. It was a miracle to
see Bully getting into it, the door was
so low ; another piece of consideration
of Jamesy 's for the dog's comfort. You
could only know when he was in it
by seeing his large soft paws under
the arch of the low door.
Beyond this farm-yard farm in all
its appearance and realities was the
garden. A thick, high, furze hedge,
about sixty yards long, ran down one
side of it, from the corner of the farm-
yard wall ; and at the further end of
this hedge, which was the square of
the garden, and facing the sun, was
certainly the most complete and beau-
tiful summer-house in the parish of
Rathcash, or Jamesy Doyle was very
much mistaken. It also was his
handiwork. In fact, there was nothing
Jamesy could not turn his hands to,
and his heart was as ready as his
hands, so that he was always success-
ful, but here he had outstripped all
his former ingenuity. The bower was
now of four years' standing, and every
summer Jamesy was proud to see
that nature had approved of his plan
by endorsing it with a hundred differ-
ent signatures. With the other por-
tions of the garden or its several crops,
we have nothing to do ; we will
therefore linger for a while about the
furze hedge and in " Jamesy's bower"
to see what may turn up. But I must
describe another item in the locality.
Immediately outside the hedge there
663
was a lane, common to ascertain ex-
tent to both farms. It might be said
to divide them. It lay quite close to
the furze hedge, which ran in a straight
line a long distance beyond where
" Jamesy's bower" formed one of the
angles of the garden. There was a
gate across the lane precisely outside
the corner where the bower had been
made, and this was the extent of Mur-
dock's right or title to the commonalty
of the lane. Passing through this
gate, Murdock branched off to the left
with the produce of his farm. It is a
long lane, they say, that has no turn-
ing, and although the portion of this
one with which we are concerned was
only sixty yards long, I have not, per-
haps, brought the reader to the spot
so quickly as I might. I certainly
could have brought him through the
yard without putting even the word
" farm" before it, or without saying a
word about the stacks of corn and the
weather-cocks, the pigs, cows, heifers,
and calves, the geese, ducks, cock, and
hens, " Bullydhu" and his house, etc.,
and with a hop, step, and a leap I
might have placed him in " Jamesy's
bower" if he had been the person to
occupy it but he was not. With
every twig, however, of the hedge and
the bower it is necessary that my
readers should be well acquainted ;
and I hope I have succeeded in mak-
ing them so.
Winny Cavana was a thoughtful,
thrifty girl, an experienced house-
keeper, never allowing one job to
overtake another where it could be
avoided. Of course incidental difficul-
ties would sometimes arise; but in
general she managed everything so
nicely and systematically that matters
fell into their own time and place as
regularly as possible.
When Winny got the invitation for
Mick Murdoch's party, which was
only in the forenoon of the day before
it came off, her first thought was, that
she would be very tired and ill-fitted
for business the day after it was over.
She therefore called Jamesy Doyle to
her assistance, and on that day and
664
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
the next, she got through whatever
household jobs would bear performance
in advance, and instructed Jamesy as
to some little matters which she used
to oversee herself, but which on this
occasion she would entrust solely to
his own intelligence and judgment for
the day after the party. She could
not have committed them to a more
competent or conscientious lad. Any-
thing Jamesy undertook to do, he did
it well, as we have already seen both
in the haggard, the garden, and the
tub for it was he who brought up the
fippenny-bit at Murdock's, and he
would lay down his life to serve or
even to oblige Winny Cavana.
Having thus purchased an idle day
after the party, Winny was determin-
ed to enjoy it, and alter a very late
breakfast, for her father, poor soul,
was dead tired, she called Jamesy,
and examined him as to what he had
done or left undone. Finding that,
notwithstanding he had been up as
late as she had been herself the night
before, he had been faithful to the
trust reposed in hirn, and that every-
thing was in trim order, she then com-
plimented him upon his snapping and
diving abilities.
" How much did you take up out of
the tub, Jamesy ?" she asked.
" Be gorra, Miss Winny, I took up
two tenpenny-bits an* a fippenny."
"And what will you do with all
that money, Jamesy ? it is nearly a
month's wages."
" Be gorra, my mother has it afore
this, Miss Winny."
" That is a good boy, Jamesy, but
you shouldn't curse."
" Be gorra, I won't, miss ; but I
didn't think that was cursing, at all, at
all."
" Well, it is swearing, Jamesy, and
that is just as bad."
"Well, Miss Winny, you'll never
hear me say it agen."
" That's right, James. Is the gar-
den open ?
" It is, miss ; I'm afther bringing out
an armful of leaves to bile for the
pigs."
Winny passed on through the yard
into the garden. It was a fine, mild
day for the time of year, and she was
soon sitting in the bower with an un-
opened story-book in her lap. It was
a piece of idle folly her bringing the
book there at all. In the first place,
she had it by heart for books were
scarce in that locality, and were often
read and in the next, she was more
in a humor to think than to read. It
was no strange thing, under the cir-
cumstances, if, like some heroines of a
higher stamp, " she fell into a reverie."
" How long she remained thus," to
use the patent phrase in such a case,
must be a mere matter of surmise ;
but a step at the gate outside the
hedge, and her own name distinctly
pronounced, caused her to start. Eaves-
dropping has been universally con-
demned, and "listeners," they say,
" never hear good of themselves.'
But where is the young girl, or in-
deed any person, hearing their own
name pronounced, and being in a po-
sition to listen unobserved, who would
not do so ? Our heroine, at all events,
was not " above that sort of thing,"
and instead of hemming, or coughing,
or shuffling her feet in the gravel, she
cocked her ears and held her breath.
We would be a little indulgent to a
person so sorely tempted, whatever
our readers may think.
"If Winny Cavana," she heard,
" was twice as proud, an' twice as
great a lady, you may believe me,
Tom, she wouldn't refuse you. She'll
have six hundred pounds as round as
the crown of your hat ; an' that fine
farm we're afther walkin' over ; like
her, or not like her, take my advice
an' don't lose the fortune an' the farm."
" Not if I can help it, father. There's
more reason than you know of why I
should secure the ready money of her
fortune at any rate ; as to herself, if it
wasn't for that, she might marry Tom
Naddy tK aumadhawn if she had a
mind."
" Had you any chat with her last
night, Tom? Oh then, wasn't she
lookin' elegant !"
(ll-IIallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
565
As elegant as you please, father,
but as proud as a peacock. No, I
had no chat with her, except what the
whole room could hear ; she was de-
termined on that, and I'm still of
opinion that you did more harm than
good."
" Not if you were worth a thrawncen,
Tom. Arrah avic machree, you don't
undherstand her ; that was all put on,
man alive. I'm afeerd she'll think
you haven't the pluck in you ; she's a
sperited girl herself, and depend upon
it she expects you to spake, an' its
what she's vexed at, your dilly-dallyin'.
Why did you let that fellow take her
out for the first dance? I heerd Mrs.
jMoran remark it to Kitty Mulvey's
imother."
"That was a mistake, father; he
had her out before I got hi from the
kitchen."
" They don't like them mistakes,
|Tom, an' that's the very tiling I blame
you for ; you should have stuck to her
like a leech the whole night ; they like
a man that's in earnest. Take my
advice, Tom avic, an put the ques-
[ion plump to her at wanst fore Shraf-
ide. Tell her I'll lay down a pound
or you for every pound her father
;ives her, and I'll make over this
place to you out an out. Old Ned an
I will live together while we last, an
hat can't be long, Tom avic. I know
ie'11 settle Rathcash upon Winny, and
e'll have the interest of her fortune
side"
"Interest be d d!" interrupted
"won't he pay the money
wn?"
"He might do that same, but I
nk not; he's afeerd it might be
ibbled away, but with Rathcash, an
athcashmore joined, the devil's in it
she can't live like a lady; at all
ents, Tom, you can live like a gen-
inan ; ould Ned's for you entirely,
'm, I can tell you that."
" That is all very well, father, and
wish that you could make me think
it your words would come true, but
n not come to four-and-twenty years
age without knowing something of
the way girls get on ; and if that one
is not set on young Lennon, my name
is not Tom Mtirdock ; and I'll tell
you what's more, that if it wasn't for
her fortune and that farm, he might
have her and welcome. There are
many girls in the parish as handsome,
and handsomer for that matter, than
what she is, that would just jump at
me."
" I know that, Tom agra, but may-
be it's what you'll only fix her on that
whelp, as you call him, the stronger,
if you be houldin' back the way you
do. They like pluck, Tom ; they
like pluck, I tell you, and in my
opinion she's only makin' b'lief, to
dhraw you out. Try her, Tom, try
her."
I will, father, and if I fail, and
J find that that spalpeen Lennon is at
the bottom of it, let them both look
out, that's all. For his part, I have
a way of dealing with him that he
knows nothing about, and as for
her"
Here Jamesy Doyle came out into
the lane from the farm-yard, and fath-
er and son immediately branched off in
the direction of their own house, leav-
ing Tom Murdock's second part of the
threat unfinished.
But Winny had heard enough.
Her heart, which had been beating
with indignation the whole time, had
nearly betrayed itself when she heard
Emon-a-knock called a spalpeen.
One thing she was now certain of,
and the certainty gave her whole soul
relief, that if ever Tom Murdock
could have had any chance of success
through her father's influence, and her
love for him, it was now entirely at an
end for ever. Should her father urge
the match upon her, she had, as a last
remedy, but to reveal this conversa-
tion, to gam him over indignantly to
her side.
Winny was seldom very wrong in
her likings or dislikings, although per-
haps both were formed in some instan-
ces rather hastily, and she often knew
not why. In Tom Murdock's case,
she was glad, and now rather " proud
666 St. Dorothea.
out of herself," that she had never his threat." And she went into the
liked him. house to prepare the dinner.
" I knew the dirt was in him," she Tom Murdock, notwithstanding his
said to herself as she returned to the shortcomings, and they were neither
house. "I wish he did not live so few nor far between, was a shrewd,
near us, for I foresee nothing but clever fellow in most matters. It was
trouble and vexation before me on his owing to this shrewdness that he re-
account. I'm sorry Jamesy Doyle solved to watch for some favorable
came out so soon. I'd like to have opportunity, rather than seek a formal
heard what he was going to say of meeting with Winny Cavana " at
myself, but sure he said enough. Em- wanst" as had been 'advised by his
on-a-knock may despise himself and father.
[TO BE CONTLNTTED.!
From Once a Week.
SAINT DOROTHEA.
THE sun blazed fiercely out of cloudless blue,
And the deep sea flung back the glare again,
As though there were indeed another sun
Within the mimic sky reflected there ;
Not steadily and straight, as from above,
But all athwart the little rippling waves
The broken daybeams sparkling leapt aloft
In glittering ruin ; scarce a breath of air
To stir the waters or to wave the trees ;
The flowers hung drooping, and the leaves lay close
Against their branches, as if sick and faint
With the dull heat and needing strong support.
The city walls, the stones of every street,
The houses glow'd, you would have thought that none
Would venture forth, till that the gracious night
Should come with sable robe and wrap the earth
In softest folds, and shade men from the day.
But see, from every street the seething crowds
Pour out, and all along the way they stand,
And ribald jest and song resound aloud,
And light accost and careless revelry :
What means this, wherefore flock the people forth ?
Ceases the hum, a sudden silence falls
On all around, the tramp of armed men
Rings through the air ; and hark, what further sound ?
A girl's fresh voice, a sad sweet song is heard
Above the clank of arms, men hold their breath ;
Yet not all sadness is that wondrous chant,
That hushes the wild crowd with sudden awe.
As when the nightingale's mellifluous tones
Rise in the woodland, ere the other birds
Saint Dorothea.
Have ceased their vesper hymn, that moment drops
Each fluttering songster's wild thanksgiving lay,
So for awhile did silence fall on all
Within the seething crowd at that sweet voice.
She comes, they bring her forth to die, for she
This day must win the martyr's palm, this day
Must witness for her faith, this day must reap
The fruit of all her pains, long rest in heaven !
Long had they spared her, for the governor
"Was loth that she should suffer, and her race
Was noble, so they hoped to make her yield,
And waited still and waited ; but at length
They grew enraged at her calm steadfastness,
They knew not whence a resolution such
As made a young maid baffle aged men,
So she must die.
Now as she went along
'Midst all her guards, again burst forth the mob
Into such bitter taunts, such foul wild words,
As sent the hot blood mantling to her cheek
For shame that she, a maid, must hear such things ;
And yet was no remorse within their hearts,
No light of pity hi their savage eyes,
Like hungry wolves that scent the blood from far
They howled with joy, expectant of their prey.
There was one there, he in old days had loved
Her fair young face, but he too now, with scorn
Written in his dark eyes and on his brow,
And in the curl of his short lip, stood by ;
It 'seemed not such a face, that bitter smile,
For he was passing fair, in youth's heyday ;
But if contemptuous was his mien, his words
Were worse for her to bear, for he cried out
He, whom her heart yet own'd its only love !
He, whom she held first of all living men !
He, whom she honor'd yet, though left by him
In her distress and danger ! this man cried,
" Ho, Dorothea ! doth the bridegroom wait ?
And goest thou to his arms ? Joy go with thee !
But yet when in his palace courts above,
Whereof thou tellest, fair one, think on us
Who toil in this sad world below ; on me
Think thou before all others, thine old love,
And send me somewhat for a token, send
Of that same heavenly fruit and of those flowers
That fade not!"
Then she turn'd and answer'd him,
" As thou hast said, so be it, thy request
Is granted ! " and she pass'd on to her death.
She died : her soul was rapt into the skies.
The vulgar horde who watch'd her torture, knew
Nought of the great unfathomable bliss
668 Saint Dorothea.
Which waited her, and when her spirit fled
None saw the angel bands receive her, none
Heard the long jubilant sweet sound that burst
Through heaven's high gates, swept from ten thousand harps
By seraph choirs, for she had died on earth
Only to enter on the life above.
Night fell upon the earth, the city lay
Slumb'ring in cool repose, the restless sea,
Weary with dancing all day 'neath the sun,
Was hushed to sleep by the faint whisp'ring breeze
That, wanting force to sport, but rose and fell
With soothing murmur, like to pine boughs stirr'd
By the north wind : sleep held men's eyelids close.
And he, that youth, slept, aye, slept peacefully,
Nor reck'd of the vile insult he had pour'd
Upon the head of one whom once he swore
To love beyond all others. As he lay,
Wrapt in the dreamless slumber of young health,
Sudden a light unearthly clear hath fill'd
The chamber, and he starts up from his couch,
Gazing in troubled wonder : by his side
What sees he ?
A young boy he deems him first,
But when had mortal such a calm pure smile
Since our first father lost his purity ?
A radiant angel, rather, should he be,
Who stands all glorious, bearing in his hands
Such fruit and flowers as surely never grew
On this dull earth ; their fragrance fill'd the air,
And smote the senses of Theophilus,
That a sad yearning rose within his heart,
Such as at tunes a strain of song will raise,
Or some chance word will bring (we know not why),
Flooding the inmost soul with that strange sense,
Half pain, half pleasure, of some bygone time
Some far off and forgotten happiness,
We know not where nor what.
The stranger spoke,
And thus he said, " Rise up, Theophilus !
And take these gifts which I from heaven bring.
Fair Dorothea, mindful of her words,
Hath sent thee these, and bids thee that henceforth
Thou scoff not, but believe ! "
With those same words
Vanish'd the cherub, and the room was dark,
Save where the moonbeams made uncertain light,
And where remain'd those blossoms and that fruit,
For from each leaf and stem there stream'd a ray
As of the morning.
Down upon his couch
Theophilus sank prone, with awe oppress'd;
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
669
But for a moment. Starting wildly up,
He cried, " My love, my Dorothea, list !
If thou canst hear me in those starry halls
Where now thou dwellest, I accept thy gift.
Do thou take mine, for I do give myself
Up to the service of thy Lord ; thy faith
Shall from this hour be mine, for I believe ! "
Translated from Der Katholik.
THE TWO SIDES OF CATHOLICISM.
[Second Article.]
I. THE PROBLEM.
S Neither," says Jesus Christ, " do
they put new wine into old bottles ;
otherwise the bottles break, and the
wine runneth out." The parable
teaches that the new spirit of Christian-
ity requires a new form, correspond-
ing to its essence. The essence and
the form of Christianity are, therefore,
intimately connected.
What is thus generally enunciated
in regard to the essential connection of
the spirit of Christianity with the forms
bf its expression, is equally true of the
mutual relations subsisting between the
substance and the manifestation of the
Jhurch. Christianity and the Church
re virtually identical. The former,
msidered as a source of union and
rotherhood, constitutes the Church,
i a former article we have recognized
atholicism as the type of the Church
mnded by Christ. Hence the inter-
ependence of the essence with the
rm of Christianity in general is not
nore thorough than that of the spirit of
he Church with the historical devel-
pment of Catholicism.
These remarks will be found to des-
ate the object of the present essay.
In inquiry into the fundamental prin-
'ple of Catholicism must address itself
i the elucidation of the cause of the
ecessary connection between the spirit
and the outer shape of the Church just
mentioned. The direction in which the
light is to be sought appears by the
parable cited above.
The new wine requires new bottles,
because they only correspond with its
nature. By the same induction it is
affirmed that if the true Church is real-
ized only in the form of Catholicism,
the reason is to be found in the inmost
nature of the Church, in the catholicity
of her spirit.
This idea of the inherent catholicity
of the Church, as well as the foregoing
assertion of a necessary inter-depend-
ence of the essence with the image of
Catholicism, is to be established on scrip-
tural authority by the following dis-
quisition.
II. THE KINGDOM OF ttOD ON EARTH.
The shape and form in which Catho-
licism appears in history has its root
in the papacy. It is certainly deserv-
ing of attention, that precisely in the in-
stitution of the papacy the Church is
designated by a name which affords an
insight into her inmost nature.
On that occasion the Church mean-
ing the Church as apparent in history
is called the kingdom of heaven.*
The Lord says to Peter, " I will give
* Matt. xvi. 18, 19.
670
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
unto thee the keys of the kingdom of
heaven ;" a promise substantially the
same with that given in the same
breath to the same apostle, though un-
der a different metaphor, when Jesus
calls him the rock upon which he will
build his Church. The primate is the
subject of both predictions. The apos-
tle Peter is to be the foundation of the
Church, and he is to receive the keys of
the same edifice, that is to say, he is to
be the master of the house.
That the epithet of "kingdom of
heaven " expresses the essential char-
acter of the Church, is easily shown
by a glance at the passages of Scrip-
ture in which the Church is mentioned.
Such is always the case where the
kingdom of God or of heaven is rep-
resented as in course of realization on
earth. In this respect the parables of
Jesus are especially significant. They
address themselves principally to the
spirit, the organization, and the most
essential peculiarities of the new order
of things which Jesus Christ had come
into the world to establish. In these
discourses the new foundation is con-
stantly brought forward as the kingdom
of God or of heaven. Thus we can-
not but recognize in this expression a
designation of the inner essence of the
institution of Jesus.
At a time when his destined kingdom
had not yet become historically mani-
fest, Jesus might still say, in the same
acceptation of the term, that it was al-
ready present, and palpable to all who
Bought to grasp it. This actual pres-
ence of the kingdom is deduced by the
Lord from the efficacy of his miracles.
In them the vital principle of Catholi-
cism was already at work. It had en-
tered the world at the same instant with
the person of the Son of Man. But
not until after Christ was exalted did
it assume a historical palpability. No
less does the declaration of Jesus, that
from the days of John the Baptist the
kingdom of heaven suffereth violence,
display Catholicism as a power even
before it came to figure in history. For
this very forwardness with which even
then the violent took it by force, was a
product of the Christ-like power which
had entered humanity simultaneously
with the person of the Messiah. And
where the Jews are called sons of the
kingdom, it is likewise in reference to
this elementary principle of Catholi-
cism. It had been planted in the first in-
stance on the historical soil of Judaism,
thence, of course, to spread its benign in-
fluence over the earth, and thus to make
historically manifest the vital substance
of the Church in its only adequate ex-
pression. " Many shall come from the
east and the west, and shall sit down
with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob,
in the kingdom." On the other hand, the
kingdom shall be taken from the Jews,
because they have made it unfruit-
ful.
No Christian sermon should omit to
give this inner view of Catholicism, or
of the advent of the kingdom. Therein
lies its peculiar force. The preacher
of the gospel has no more effective
word of consolation for the pious souls
who give him a ready hearing, than the
assurance that the kingdom of God has
come nigh unto them. In this word,
also, the apostle of Christ has his most
potent weapon against the assailants of
the Church. If they receive you not,
says the Lord unto his disciples, go |
your ways out into the streets of the [
same city, and say, Even the very dust of
your city, which cleaveth on us, wo do
wipe off against you ; yet know this,
that the kingdom of God is at hand.
The invincibility of Catholicism grows
out of the power of its principle. As
of old in enabling the apostles to heal
the sick, so at the present day in her
varied fortunes the Church approves
herself the kingdom of God.
But how is the interior of the Church
related to the exterior ? The word of
the kingdom is the seed of Catholicism.)
According to the quality of the hearers
of the word, the growing grain is fruit-
ful or empty, the members genuine or
spurious. A.gain, the kingdom of
heaven is like to a net, cast into the sea.
and gathering together all kind of fishes.
The kingdom of the Son of Man is noi
without scandals, and them that work
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
671
iniquity."* Hence the kingdom of God
on earth embraces the entire Church in
her temporal existence. The latter
is shown to be a kingdom of long-suf-
fering, in preserving her connection
even with ingredients estranged from
her in spirit, leaving the ultimate sep-
aration of the false members to the final
judgment. Even these erring ones
carry on their souls the impress of the
kingdom, the signature of baptism.
Nevertheless their adhesion to the king-
dom is external and objective merely.
In the more accurate sense of the word,
the idea of the kingdom applies only to
the marrow, the soul of the Church.
The good seed only are the real chil-
dren of the kingdom.
This account of the formation of the
; kingdom of God explains how the es-
of the true Church becomes a
historical reality in the actual condition
of Catholicism, notwithstanding its im-
perfections. The position,, therefore,
that the spirit of the Church is insepa-
rable from her temporal existence by
no means denies that this historical
exterior of Catholicism may be infected
with elements having nothing in com-
mon with, and even hostile to, the char-
acter of the true Church. This results
from the fact that the true Church,
though always preserving a unitary or-
ganization, realizes herself by degrees
nly. The form of Catholicism is
radually purified and disclosed by the
mctifying virtue of its inner life.
'hus it is that parasites take root in the
)il of the Church.
It is therefore a shifting of the real
ssue when Mr. Hase defines the Ca-
lolic antagonism to the ideal Church
f Protestantism as consisting in a no-
on of Catholicism that in all essential
ittributes there is a perfect congruity
etween the idea of the Church and
he concrete Church of Rome ; or in
>ther words, that the latter Church is at
ill tunes the perfect type of Christian-
ty. Two distinct things are here con-
unded. The position of Catholicism
hat the essence of the true Church, so
* Matt. xiii. 41.
far as realized at all, exists only within
the Catholic Church,where alone, there-
fore, a further development of this es-
sence can be accomplished or the ideal
of the Church attained is by no means
equivalent to the pretension, attributed
to Catholicism by Hase, that Catholi-
cism has already attained the ideal, or
that it is at all times the most perfect
representation of Christianity. After
this misrepresentation of the position of
Catholicism, Hase has no difficulty in
distorting the well-known Catholic doc-
trine that sinners also belong to the
Church into an unconscious acknow-
ledgment of the ideal Church of Pro
testantism.
While the toleration of spurious
members is a mandate of the education-
al mission of the Church, it involves,
moreover, a special dispensation of
Divine Providence. Like her divine
principle, the Church appears as a serv-
ant among men. The beauty of her
inner life is veiled beneath an exterior
covered with manifold imperfections.
This serves as a constant admonition to
the Church not to rely upon externals.
Yet even these shadows on the image
of the Church are evidences of her
vitality. How superhuman must be
an organization which outlasts all ene-
mies in spite of many deficiencies ! It is
error, therefore, to infer from the unde-
niable, practical incongruity between the
essence of the Church and her outward
form that there cannot be an exclusive,
concrete realization of the true Church
in history.
To make the growth of Catholicism
intelligible to his hearers, Jesus com-
pares the kingdom of heaven with a
grain of mustard, which unfolds the
least of all seeds to a stately tree. Im-
mediately thereafter it is said that the
kingdom of heaven penetrates the mass
of humanity like leaven. The law of
development of Catholicism is further
illustrated by the following parable :
The earth, says Jesus, bringeth forth
fruit; first the blade, then the ear,
afterward the full corn in the ear ; man
has but to cast the seed into the earth ;
then he may sleep, and the seed shall
672
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
spring and grow up, he knoweth not
how. Even so is the kingdom of God.
The Church therefore carries the germs
of her growth in her inmost nature.
Catholicism is gradually developed
out of itself, from within. Thanks to
the energy of her own principle, the
Church with her arms encircles nation
after nation. The faculty of being all
things unto all men she owes to her
being the kingdom of God. Here is
the root of Catholicism. As the king-
dom of God, the Church is fraught with
a wealth adequate to the mental require-
ments of all individuals and all nations.
As the kingdom of God, the Church is
adapted to every age and clime.
The word " Church " is used by
Jesus Christ far more rarely than
that of the "kingdom of heaven;" in-
deed but twice, and on each occasion
in direct reference to the external form
of the Church.
That this historical exterior of Ca-
tholicism, designated the Church, is the
manifestation of the kingdom of God,
We have already deduced from Matt.
xvi. 18, 19, and xiii. 41. The same
truth is expressed in the parable of the
treasure hid in the field. He who
would possess the treasure, that is to
say, the kingdom of heaven, or the vital
principle of Catholicism, must buy the
field in which the gem is concealed.
The field, the Catholic exterior of the
Church, is not the inner life ; but the
latter is realized only in the historical
form of Catholicism.
It now behooves us to more pre-
cisely expound this relation between
the spirit and the outer form of the
Church from the words of Jesus. The
way to do this is indicated by our Lord
himself. It consists in an extended
analysis of the biblical idea of the
kingdom of God. In it is disclosed
the inmost nature of the Church and
thereby the ultimate origin of her his-
torical figure as instituted by Christ,
or the principle of Catholicism, which
is the object of our search.
My kingdom, says the Lord, is not
of this world ; that is to say, its origin
is not here, and it is not established by
the exercise of worldly power. P,eg~
num meum non est hinc. True, the
kingdom of Christ is established hi the
midst of the world, but it was not gen-
rated there : from above, from heaven,
it was planted in the world as a super-
natural realm of grace. Therefore
its existence and its extension is in no
wise dependent on worldly power ; its
foundations lie deeper, in the principle
of truth which has entered the world
with Christ, For this cause came he
into the world, that he should bear
witness unto the truth. All they that
are of the truth, do him homage as
their king, and hear his kingly voice.
The same principle works hi them as
that of a new worship ; they worship
the Father in spirit and in truth.
But this elevated sense of truth in
individual souls is the fruit of a higher
form of being. He that is of God
heareth the words of God ; but they
hear them not who are not of God.
The entrance into the kingdom of God
therefore necessarily presupposes a
new beginning of man's life, a new
birth of water and of the Spirit. Wher-
ever the kingdom of God obtains a
foothold, it assumes the form of an en-
tirely new state of things, of a new
creation, of the principle of a new
mental activity, a new nature of the
spirit.
A transmutation of our souls, such
as just described, necessarily involves a
rupture with the natural man, a discard-
ing of the original individuality,
"Without this alteration we are imper-
vious to the new light which is to
enter our souls together with the king-
dom of God. This indispensable self-
denial is accomplished by a two-fold in-
strumentality by the love of God,
which is the first commandment, and
by the love of our neighbor as our-
selves. Whoever is in this frame oi
mind is pronounced by Jesus to be not
far from the kingdom of God.
What has been said reveals another
peculiarity of the kingdom of God
on earth. It is a supernatural king-
dom. At this point only do we fully
comprehend the title of the Church tc
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
G73
the designation of the kingdom of
heaven. The kingdom of God histo-
rically manifested in the Church is
intimately connected with the intro-di-
vinc relations or the inmost life of the
Deity. By admission into the Church
God the Father translates us into the
kingdom of his beloved Son. This is
not merely an exercise of the crea-
tive love common to the three persons
of the Trinity. On the contrary, it is
an evidence what manner of love the
Father hath bestowed upon us that
we should be called the sons of God.
Precisely in this is the peculiar super-
natural character of this dispensation
made manifest. It is this supernatu-
ral characteristic of the Church which
accounts for the bestowal upon the
Church of the name of the coming
realm of glory. The germ of the
latter is already contained in the exist-
ing Church. While, for this reason,
the Church visible is called the king-
dom of heaven, so the latter continues
to bear the name of the Church even
' in the splendor of its eternal glory.
This circumstance warrants the bold
utterance of the apostle that our con-
I versation is in heaven. In the same
sense it is laid down in the catechism
of the council of Trent that the Church
militant and the Church triumphant
are but two parts of the one Church,
not two churches ; and with entire con-
istency the same authority speaks of
he Church militant as synonymous
vith the kingdom of heaven.
It is but another expression for the
upernatural character of the Church
f she is called the Jerusalem which is
ibove, even in her historical form and
igure. And precisely because this epi-
het applies to her, she is free and is
>tir mother. The catholicity of the
Church, her faculty of enfolding all
nankind, of being the spiritual mother
f us all, is owing to her supernatural
character.
This doctrine of the supernaturalness
of the Church is the connecting link
Between the essence and the form of
Catholicism. As the latter is supernat-
iral in its character, so must the form
43
of its establishment bear a supernatural
impress. How can anything utterly
supernatural attain an adequate form
of expression by mere natural devel-
opment ? It assumes a historical re-
ality in so far only as it assumes sim-
ultaneously with its supernatural
essence a corresponding supernatural
image. The form as well as the
substance of the Church must needs be
the fruit of an immediate interposition
of God, because the substance must
needs exercise its supernatural func-
tions.
The idea just expressed may have
been dimly present to the mind of
Moehler when he wrote : " But it is
the conviction of Catholics that this
purpose of the divine revelation in
Christ Jesus would not have been at-
tained at all, or at least would have
been attained but very imperfectly, if
this embodiment of the truth had been
but momentary, and if the personal
manifestation of the Word had not
been sufficiently powerful to give its
tones the highest degree of intensified
animation, and the most perfect con-
ceivable efficacy, that is to say, to
breathe into it the breath of life, and to
create a union once more setting forth
the truth in its vitality, and remaining
emblematically the conclusive authori-
ty for all time, or, in other words,
representing Christ himself."
Viewed in this light, the historical
manifestation of the Church, instituted
Matt. xvi. 18, 19, presents itself as a
postulate of her essence. Because
the Church was essentially destined
historically to manifest the kingdom of
God, the Lord built her upon Peter,
the rock. A temporal establishment
of the kingdom of heaven in the midst
of this world required the divine in-
stallation of an individual keeper of the
keys. Thus the idea of the papacy
flows from that of a kingdom of God
on earth.
If, then, this explanation presents
Catholicism as a supernatural kingdom,
and if this very attribute constitutes
the characteristic feature of its being,
its inmost life and fundamental princi-
674
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
pie, it is manifestly inadmissible to
place the kingdom of God as estab-
lished in the Church on the same foot-
ing with the works of creation. A
juxtaposition like this would entirely
ignore the vital essence of the Church,
that is to say, her superiority to na-
ture.
The same distinction is overlooked
by those who regard Church and state
as simply two manifestations of the
same kingdom of God. Such is the
point of view of a system of moral the-
ology, the influence of which upon
the opinions prevailing among a con-
siderable fraction of the present gene-
ration of theologians is not to be
mistaken. In the eye of that doctrine
" Mosaism and Chris tianism state and
Church both externally represent
the kingdom, and both represent one
and the same kingdom ; the former
[the state] rather in its negative, the
latter [the Church] rather in its posi-
tive aspect. And thus we have two
great formations in which the kingdom
on earth is made manifest, Church and
state." Could Hirscher have reached
any other conclusion ? He regards it
as his task " to dispose of the question
whether the germs of the divine king-
dom, like seeds, are implanted in the
character of man as in a fruitful soil,
and whether they can spring forth
from it [i. e., from the character or
nature of man himself] and blossom as
the kingdom of God."
Although it is here said that " God
abode in man with his Holy Spirit and
with its sanctifying grace," yet the Holy
Spirit or his grace is not made the
foundation upon which the kingdom is
erected ; that foundation is sought, on
the contrary, in the " divine powers "
infused into man at his creation. God
only assists at the upraising of the
kingdom through them by " dwelling
in them for ever as the principle of
divine guidance."
The logical inference from these prem-
ises, which seek the germs of the king-
dom of God as established on earth in
human nature itself, that is to say,
in the " heavenly faculties" inherent in
man, is well disclosed in the definition
of the kingdom of God on earth given
by Petersen, a theologian reared in the
school of Schleiermacher. " The
kingdom of God on earth," says he,
" is at once Church, state, and civili-
zation, i. e., it is an organism of com-
munity in religion, morals, and society,
and by these three special organisms
it essentially approaches, develops,
and perfects its organic unity, in or-
ganizing its religious principle in the
Church, its moral framework in the
state, and its natural base in civiliza-
tion, thus in the unity of all three
rounding its proportions as a universal
organism of genuine humanity." If
"the germs of the divine kingdom,
like seeds, are implanted in the charac-
ter of man as in a fruitful soil," it is
entirely consistent to regard the king-
dom of God on earth as " substantially
identical with the idea of the human
race," as "the realization of that
idea."
It gives us pleasure to state that the
notion of the kingdom of God on earth
just alluded to has been declared un-
scriptural even in a Protestant ext
sis of greater thoroughness.*
III. THE BODY OF CHRIST.
Next to the idea of the kingdom of
God, the most significant expression
for the inner essence of Catholicism is
found in the scriptural conception of
the body of Christ. As his body, the
Church is intimately connected with
him. Christ and the Church belong
together as the head and the body;
both constitute a single whole. This
intimate relation between Christ and
the Church is described by the Scrip-
tures in animated terms. The Church,
it says, is for Christ what our own
body is for us ; as members of the
Church we are members of the body
of Christ, of his flesh, and of his bones.
On one occasion, indeed, the apostle
uses the word Christ as synonymous
with the Church, so intimate is their
relation.
* Hofman, Schriftbeweis, 1855.
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
675
And it is the Son of Man, or Christ
in his human capacity, as whose body
the Church is regarded. For as the
head thereof the apostle designates him
who was raised from the dead. The
Church here enters into a profound-
ly intimate relation to the sacred hu-
manity of Christ. We shall seek
further profit from this idea in the
sequel.
Immediately after having called the
Church the body of Christ, he calls her
the 7T/l%KJ^a rov ra Travra kv TTUOI xhjpuvfj,?-
vov. This epithet results from the fore-
going. It is because she is the
body of Christ that the Church is the
trJUypama rou ra Travra kv Ttuat Trfajpovftevov.
I translate these difficult words, the
fulness of him who filleth all in all.
God who filleth all things with his
essential presence, in whom we live,
and move, and have our being, hath
his fulness in the Church. The Church
is entirely filled with God. But how ?
Is not God, in his very nature, present
everywhere ? How then can the
Church be filled with God in a greater
degree than the world without ? As
the body of Christ, she has this capa-
city. For if the Church, as Christ's
body, assumes a special relation, pe-
culiar to herself, to his sacred human-
ity, then, by that very assumption, she
acquires a share in the K^pa/ia of the
ity which dwells bodily in that sa-
humanity. She thereby becomes
spot where God is especially re-
vealed and glorified. For while
God, hi the fulness of his nature, is
present over all the world, neverthe-
less this presence is more largely ap-
parent in the Church than elsewhere.
By the Church alone the manifold wis-
dom of God is known unto the princi-
palities and powers in heavenly places.
In him is glory in the Church by Christ
Jesus throughout all ages, world with-
out end. Thus she stands approved
as his pleroma, as entirely filled with
God.
But how are we to understand this
repletion of the Church with God ? It
is well known that Moehler sees in the
visible Church the Son of God con-
tinually appearing among men in hu-
man form, constantly re-creating, eter-
nally rejuvenating himself, his perpe-
tual incarnation." In this sense he
apprehends the scriptural conception
of the body of Christ, the " interpre-
tation of the divine and the human in
the Church." This proposition, which
has become celebrated, was intended,
in the first instance, to afford a more
profound insight into the visibility of
the Church, in addition to which it is
inseparable from Moehler'-s views on
the subject of the means of grace. In
this twofold light we must make it the
subject of examination.
Moehler goes on to argue that, if
the Church is a continuance of the in-
carnation, she must be, like the latter,
a visible one. This can mean no
more than that even as the Son of
God during his stay upon earth wrought
visibly for mankind in the flesh, so also
the saving efficacy of Christ, abiding
after his departure from the earth, re-
quires a visible medium. Such a point,
however, Protestantism is far from dis-
puting. In the separate congrega-
tions, in their visible means of grace,
and in the audible exposition of the
word of God, even Protestants admit
that the efficacy of Christ is visibly
perpetuated, and the idea of Christian-
ity and the Church gradually realized.
Every Protestant denomination aspires
to be the palpable image, the living
presentment, of the Christian religion.
Moehler's conception of the Son of
God continually appearing among men
in human form has even become a fa-
vorite theme of modern Protestant
theology. This will appear from the
mere perusal of the disquisitions on
this head of the so-called Christological
school. The advantage gained for
the Catholic interpretation amounts to
nothing. For the point is not that the
efficacy of Christ is perpetually exer-
cised among men in a visible manner,
but it is in question whether this con-
tinued exercise ensues only in the fold
of a particular institution, and by par-
ticular means of grace.
Moehler arrived at his doctrine in
676
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
reference to the Church through the
medium of his views regarding the
means of grace. In his opinion " the
Eucharistic descent of the Son of God"
(and the same must be inferred to ap-
ply to all the means of grace which it
is the function of the Church to admin-
ister*) " is a part of the totality of his
merit, wherewith we are redeemed."
The sacramental offering of Christ is
"the conclusion of his great sacrifice
for us," and in it " all the other parts
of the same sacrifice are to be bestowed
upon us ; in this final portion of the
objective offering, the whole is to be-
come subjective, a part of our individ-
ual being." But the incarnation of
God, or, in other words, the work of
our salvation accomplished by Christ
during his walk upon earth, stands in
need of no continuation or completion
by a posthumous labor of Christ, con-
stituting " a part of the totality of his
merit, wherewith we are redeemed."
The perpetual condescension of Christ,
administered by the Church, to our
helplessness, does not form a comple-
ment to the objective work of salva-
tion ; it is not an integral part of it,
but only its continued application.
" Chris tus" says Suarez, "jam vero
nos non redimit, sed applicat nobis re-
demptionsm suam"\ If this work of
redemption were even now in progress
that is to say, if " the Eucharistic
descent of the Son of God" were "a
part of the totality of his merits, where-
with we are redeemed," then Christ
would not have fully taken away the
sin of the world once for all on Gol-
gotha. Who would maintain such a
proposition? Moehler would be the
last man to do so. He would there-
fore undoubtedly have renounced the
opinion in question if these, its logical
results, had presented themselves to
* For, according to St. Thomas, the Eucharist
is the perfect LO omnis sacramenti, habens quasi
in capitulo et summo omnia, quae alia sacra-
inenta continent singUlatim ; the perfection of
the whole sacrament, having as it were in an
epitome and a summary all the virtues which,
other sacraments contain sing!y." IV. Sent. a.
8. q. 1, a. 2, solut. 2 ad. 4.
t At present Christ docs not redeem us, hut
applies to us his redemption. Delncarnat., Par.
L^Disp. 39, Sec. 3.
his mind. The sacramental offering
of Christ, as indeed the whole of his
perennial saving efficacy in the sacra-
ments of the Church, wherewith we
are saved, is only the means by
which it is applied to our salvation.
The ground of salvation for all man-
kind was perfected in the sufferings
and death of Christ. The realization
of salvation for individuals is accom-
plished by their appropriating to them-
selves the salvation purchased or
achieved for all mankind by the pre-
cious blood of Jesus Christ ; a work
in which, undoubtedly, Christ him-
self co-operates as the head of the
Church.
In this sense the apostle says that
he fills up those things that are want-
ing of the sufferings of Christ in his
flesh. By faithfully following Christ,
we partake more and more of the
fruits of redemption. Thus is Christ
likewise gradually fulfilled in the in-
dividual Christians that is to say, he
finds in them a more and more ample
expression. And in the same degree
in which Christ stamps himself upon
the single members of the Church, the
latter also is more and more filled with
him.
Scarce has the apostle declared of
Christ, in Col. ii. 9, that in him dwell-
eth all the nhfipupa of the Godhead
corporally, when he turns to the Co-
loss ians with the words, "And you are
filled in" God that is to say, "in
him," i. e., in Christ, in so far as ye
stand in communion with him, " which
is the head of all principality and
power." This communion of indivi-
duals with Christ, and their attendant
participation in the fulness of the God-
head which dwelleth in him, is accom-
plished by the instrumentality of the
Church, particularly by the sacrament
of baptism, which incorporates the in-
dividual with the Church. Verse 10-
12: "JEt estis in illo repleti. In quo
et circumcisi estis, circumcisione non
manufacta, sed in circumcisione Chns-
ti, conscpulti ei in baptismo."
Thus the Church is seen to be the
pleroma of the Godhead in a twofold
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
677
point of view. First, in her members,
which, being gradually filled with God,
become partakers of the divine nature.
In the second place, in the active co-
operation of the Church herself in the
performance of this work.
In the first regard, the repletion of
the Church with God is not a state
attained once for all. It is rather a
process of measured growth els perpov
ij>Awciflf TOV Trfa/pu{j.aTO TOV XpiGTov. The
measure of the age of the fulness
of Christ is the goal and the objective
point of the entire development of the
Church. It will be attained when
every individual shall have become
complete in Christ, and therewith also
in his own person a pleroma of Christ.
In the edifying of the body of Christ,
or in the establishment of the Church,
therefore, we must work without re-
pose till we all meet in the unity of
the faith and of the knowledge of the
Son of God. In this sense only can
it be said that there is a progress in
the Church. This continued develop-
ment of Catholicism the apostle re-
gards as a gradual repletion of the
single members of the Church with
all the fulness of God, dr KUV TO
We have as yet, however, come to
know but the one phase of this rela-
tion of the Church to Christ, or to the
pleroma of the Godhead. The Church
is not only destined to present herself
at the close of her historical develop-
ment as the pleroma of him that filleth
all in all ; she is even now entitled to
this attribute, by virtue of her essential
character.
On this head we derive instruction
from a nearer contemplation of the
process of development hi which the
erection of the Church is completed.
" The whole body," says the apostle,
meaning the body of Christ himself,
"maketh increase of the body unto
the edifying of itself in charity." The
Church therefore carries within her-
self, in the inmost recesses of her
being, the principle and the germinal
power of her whole development.
This fundamental principle of Catho-
licism is Christ himself, who pervades
the Church as his body.
There is a subjective and an objec-
tive repletion of the Church with
Christ. The former progresses gradu-
ally, in so far as the single members of
the Church assimilate themselves more
and more to Christ. The latter is a
given state of things from the first.
In it consists the most subtle essence
of the Church. This objective pres-
ence of Christ in her approves itseli
as the vital power of her growth. The
gradual ripening of the Church there-
fore grows up into Christ (elf avrov,
Eph. iv. 15) on the one hand, and pro-
ceeds from him (e ov) on the other.
From him that is to say, by means
of the vivifying influence of the Son of
God, present in the Church, she mak-
eth increase of herself unto the edify-
ing of herself in charity.
It is the same idea, when the apos-
tle characterizes the growth of the
Church as an av^aug TOV tieov, an aug-
mentum Dei, i. e., a growth emanating
from God. God effects it, but by the
instrumentality of the Church, within
her and as issuing from her. For this
purpose God hath installed her as his
pleroma. Precisely because the Church
is filled with God, or is his pleroma,
the members of the Church may gra-
dually become complete in him. Thus
there is a development and a progress
only for the individual members of the
Church. She herself, by virtue of her
essential character, is superior to de-
velopment, and acts as the impelling
force of this development. Christian-
ity has a history, but it is not itself a
history. The essence of Christianity,
which is that of the Church, is not a
thing in process of formation, it is a
thing accomplished and perfect from
the beginning.
The scriptural idea of the body of
Christ presents the principle of Catho-
licism in a new light. The Church
alone has Christ for her head. It is
her exclusive privilege to be the body
of Christ. This gives her a fellowship
of life with Christ, by which she is
distinguished from the world, the lat-
678
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
ter sustaining to him no relation but
that of subjection and dependence.
But upon what rests this privilege of
the Church ? Why is she alone the
body of Christ, the pleroma of the God-
head ?
Christology must supply the funda-
mental reason. According to the Ca-
tholic dogma of the person of Christ,
he filleth the universe only by virtue
of liis Godhead. With his life as the
Son of Man he filleth only the Church,
his body. But how much more largely
does God reveal himself by his per-
sonal inhabitation of the sacred hu-
manity of Christ than by the creative
power wherewith he penetrateth and
filleth all in all ! Here a single ray,
a faint reflection of his glory, flutters
through the veil of created nature,
there the fulness of the Godhead dwell-
eth bodily.
The idea of Catholicism, therefore,
coincides with that of fulness. As the
pleroma of him who filleth all in all,
the Church harbors in her bosom a
treasure, the richness of which is in-
exhaustible. Every created thing,
every single period, every particular
phase of the culture of the human
mind, has some good attribute. Yet
tlu's attribute is a mere special advant-
age, a peculiar quality, a feeble reflex
of the chief good, a single ray of the
shining sea of goodness inclosed in the
unfathomable abyss of the divine es-
sence, of the fulness of the Godhead.
The completeness of the revelation of
God's goodness is found only in the
sacred humanity of Christ, and there-
fore in the Church. Hence the Church
is the highest good that is to be found
on earth. Let the productions of the
human mind, at a given stage of its
development, be ever so glorious and
sublime, they can never supplant the
pleroma of the Church. Her wealth
is fraught with all the possible results
of the human intellect and imagination ;
and these, in the fulness of the Church,
are intensified, raised, as it were, to
a higher power of goodness. Every
production of the human mind is more
or less in danger of falling short of the
requirements of later ages. The metal
of all such fabrics needs to be recast
from time to time, as forma and fash-
ions change. In default of this, it
gradually degenerates into mere anti-
quity, or, in the most fortunate event,
it preserves only the character of an
honored relic. From this fate of all
that comes into existence the Church
is exempt. She alone is ever young,
and always on a level with the times.
This qualifies her to be the teacher of
the world from age to age. Hence,
also, she is enabled to minister an ap-
propriate remedy for the disease of
every generation. How, then, can a
movement which makes war on the
Church claim to be an advance of the
human mind in the right direction?
The interests of true civilization will
never interfere with those of the
Church.
As well that the Church is the body
of Christ as that in her is the fulness
of him who filleth all in all both of
these attributes adhere to her in virtue
of her divine foundation. Thus Catho-
licism, whose fundamental principle
we have contemplated in this twofold
scriptural aspect, is not the product of
the combination of any external cir-
cumstances. It is grounded in the
very idea of the Church, in the inmost
depths of her being. Therefore she
remains the Catholic Church in every
vicissitude of her external condition,
whether in the splendor of princely
honors, or under the crushing weight
of Neronic persecution.
If, then, Catholicism is of the es-
sence of the Church, the momentous
conclusion is irresistible, that the true
Church is capable of realization in
such an image only as enables her to
present herself in her essential feature
of catholicity. It follows that the
papacy, as necessary to the Catholic
manifestation of the Church, is impera-
tively demanded by the law of her
being.
The Cathedral Library.
From Once a Week.
THE CATHEDRAL LIBRARY.
679
IT is now between forty and fifty
years ago that I obtained leave from
the dean and chapter of Winterbury
Cathedral to read for some weeks in
their cathedral library. The editions
of the fathers and of some important
middle-age writers which are preserv-
ed in that quiet library boast of pe-
culiar excellence, and I well remember
the exultation with which I, then a
very young man, received news of the
desired information to ransack those
treasures. Having secured a small
lodging in the close, or cathedral en-
i closure, I set out for Winterbury early
in the year 182 . Through the
kindness of one of the canons, who
seldom had to consult the library on
his own account, I was provided with
a key to the library buildings, and al-
lowed to keep undisturbed possession
of it as long as my visit lasted. This
key gave access not only to the libra-
ry, but to all parts of the cathedral
likewise, including even the cloisters,
so that I was able to let myself in and
out of the noble edifice at all hours of
the day or night, and to ramble un-
challenged through aisle, crypt, stalls,
triforium, and organ-loft.
I have never forgotten, and shall
never forget, the day on which I first
took my seat in the room which was
;o be the special scene of my labors.
The library lay on the south side of
the cathedral, being a lower continua-
ion of the south transept, and forming
one side of the cloister court. It was
obviously, therefore, raised above the
lieight of the cloister vaulting, and it
was reached by a flight of stairs open-
ing into the cathedral itself. Narrow-
ness (it measured about eighty feet by
thirty), and a certain antique collegiate
air (and smell, too, to be perfectly ac-
curate) about the bindings of the books
and the coverings of the chairs, were
its chief characteristics. There was a
bust of Cicero at one end, and of
Seneca at the other. Some smaller
busts of the principal Greek fathers
adorned the side-shelves, and a dingy
portrait of the "judicious " Hooker
abode in a musty frame over the
heavy stone mantelpiece. The fender
itself was of stone, or rather the fire-
place was not protected by a fender
at all, but by a small stone wall, about
three inches thick and six inches high,
which afforded blissful repose to the
outstretched foot.
One April evening, shortly after sun-
set, when there was still daylight
enough to read the titles on the backs
of books, I walked across the close in
order to fetch and bring away with me
a couple of volumes of which I stood
in need. It was an hour when the
grand old cathedral is accustomed to
put on its very best appearance. The
heaven-kissing spire and the far lower,
but beautiful, western towers are tinted
with the faint rose color which suits
old stonework so admirably ; and the
deep gloom of the cloisters, tempered
by the glow from the noble piles of
masonry overhead, makes it possible
and easy to realize some of the raptur-
ous visions of the recluse. I passed
as usual down the nave, and having
ascended the little staircase, let my-
self into the library, and was on the
point of attacking the necessary book-
shelf, when instead of placing the key
in my pocket, as it was my habit to do,
I tossed it carelessly on to the sill of
an adjoining window. The woodwork
of the library was by no means in a
sound condition, and between the inner
edge of the sill and the wall there was
a wide chink, opening down into un-
seen depths of distance. Into this
chink, impelled by my evil genius, or
by one of the ghostly beings that (as
680
The Cathedral Library.
I was assured by the verger) haunt
the library and cloisters, down tum-
bled my unlucky key. I saw it disap-
pear with a sharp twinge of vexation,
principally, however, at the thought
of the tune and trouble that would be
consumed in bringing it to light again.
To-morrow, I said to myself, I shall
be forced to get a carpenter to remove
this sill, and rake up the key from
heaven knows where; while smirk-
ing Mr. Screens, the verger, will watch
the whole proceeding, and insinuate
with silent suavity a doubt whether I
am a fit person to be entrusted with
Canon Doolittle's key. It was not un-
til I had come down from the short
ladder with the books under my arm,
and, warned by the deepening shades,
was about to leave the library, that
the full effect of the key's disappear-
ance presented itself to my mind. The
outer gate and inner door of the nave
had been carefully shut by me, ac-
cording to custom, on entering the
cathedral. All the gates and doors
were fitted with a spring-lock, so that
without my key I was double-locked
into the building. My first thought
was one of amusement, and I fairly
laughed aloud at my own perplexity.
It seemed an impossible and inconceiv-
able thing that one might really have
to pass the entire night in this situa-
tion. Presently I left the library, the
door of which I had not shut on en-
tering, and went down the staircase
into the transept, and then into the
nave. I carefully tried the inner door,
but without effect. I had done my
duty on entering, ancl it was hopelessly
and mercilessly fastened against me.
Resolved on maintaining unbroken
self-possession, I returned to the li-
brary. It was now quite dark, the
only light being that reflected from the
shafts of the cloisters, on which the
moonbeams were now beginning to fall.
I sat down in a large arm-chair which
stood at one end of the library table, and
thought over all the possible means of
extricating myself from an unexpected
durance. Should I go up to the belfry
in the north-western tower and toll one
of the bells until the verger, roused
from his first sleep, should come to see
what was the matter? but even this I
could not do without the key, which
would be required to open the door at
the entrance of the tower. Or should
I make my way into the organ-loft,
and filling the bellows quite full, strike
a succession of loud chords, until the
music might attract the attention of
some passer-by? this might be done,
but it would be a perilous experiment.
Half Winterbury would be seized with
the belief that their old cathedral was
haunted. The organ-loft would be in-
vaded by vergers, beadles, and consta-
bles there were no blue- coated po-
lice in those days and I should move
about the ancient city ever after with
the stigma of a madcap on my head.
People would nod knowingly to one
another as I passed, and significantly
tap their foreheads, by way of hinting
that I was "a little touched." Canon
Doolittle would recall his key, and ab-
stain from inviting me to his hospita-
ble table. Gradually, therefore, I gave
up the scheme of saving myself by
means of the organ ; and the belfry
being already set aside, no other re-
source remained but to stay where I
was, and quietly to pass the hours as
best I could until Mr. Screens should
open the doors at about half- past six
in the morning, ready for the seven
o'clock prayers in the Lady chapel.
I was luckily undisturbed by any
fears arising from the possible anxiety
of my landlady. Winterbury is near
the sea ; and I had on more than one
occasion spent the greater part of the
night on the cliffs, watching the glori-
ous moonlit effects upon the romantic
coast scenery of that district. These
Mrs. Jollisole was accustomed to call
my " coast-guard nights ;" and I made
no doubt that, should I fail to appear,
the sensible old lady would go content-
edly to bed, supposing me to have
mounted guard on the cliffs.
I therefore lost no time in compos-
ing myself, if not to sleep, at any rate
to an attempt at sleep. The library
table was always surrounded by an ar-
The Cathedral Library.
681
ray of solemn old oak cliairs, padded
with cushions of yellowish leather, and
looking as though if their own opin-
ion were consulted no mortal man
of lower degree than a prebendary
should ever be allowed to seat himself
upon them. At each end of the table
there was a chair of a superior order
a couple of deans, as it were, keep-
ing high state amidst the surrounding
canons. These chairs were made of
precisely the same kind of oak, and
covered with leather of exactly the
same yellowish tinge as the others, but
their whole design was larger and more
imposing, and what was of the most
consequence to me in my present posi-
tion they were arm-chairs, affording
opportunity for all manner of easy and
sleep-inviting postures. Throwing my-
self into one of these dignified recep-
tacles, I soon fell asleep, and soon af-
terward took to dreaming.
Leaning in my dream on the sill of
the library window, I fancied myself
to be gazing down into a peaceful
church-yard. One by one, like gleams
of moonlight in the dark shade of the
surrounding cloisters, I saw a number
of young girls assemble, and fall with
easy exactitude into rank, as if about
to take part in a procession. Each
slender figure was draped in the purest
white muslin, with a veil of the same
material arranged over the head, and
partially concealing the face. Just as
one sees at the present day in Roman
Catholic churches at the more import-
ant fetes, the procession was arranged
according to the gradations of height.
The very young children were in the
front, and as the other end of the line
was approached, the pretty white fig-
ures grew gradually taller, until girls
of eighteen or nineteen brought up the
rear. They presently began to move,
and it was clear that they were about
to take part in some solemn office
for the dead. With two priests at their
head, they made the circuit of the clois-
ters, moving along with graceful regu-
larity of step. Between each pair of
the slender columns of the cloister
building, I imagined that a small stone
basin (or " benitier") was set, standing
on a low pedestal, and filled with holy
water. Each girl walking on the side
next to these basins was furnished with
a small broom of feathers, like those
which may at any time be seen in the
Continental churches. Dipping these
brooms from time to time into the ba-
sins of water, they waved them in beau-
tiful harmony with their own harmo-
nious movements, sprinkling the an-
cient monumental slabs over which they
were stepping. They sang to a strain
of rare melody the familiar words of
Requiem ^Eternam.
Presently they seemed to change
time and tune, and to sing a hymn of
many verses, each verse ending with
a refrain. A single voice would give
the verse, but all joined together in the
plaintive music of the refrain :
" Through life's long day and death's dark night,
O gentle Jesua 1 be our light ! "
I have heard much music, secular and
sacred, since then ; but I know of no
musical effect which abides with me so
constantly as that imagined chanting
of young voices heard long ago.
One girl in particular attracted my
attention as I dreamt. She was one
of the pair who closed the procession,
and was of a commanding height and
extremely elegant figure. She had,
as it seemed to me, taken excessive
precaution in drawing her ample veil
closely around her head and face,
* * * *
On a sudden I awoke. There, in
one of the decanal arm-chairs, I was
sitting in an easy, familiar posture,
as if I had been myself a dean and
there beside me, close at hand, within
reach of my outstretched arm, was a
tall figure in white, clearly a female
form, and the precaution had been
taken of drawing an ample veil closely
around the head and face. Any one
but an imbecile would have acted as I
did, though I remember taking some
credit to myself at the time for my
coolness and presence of mind. I sim-
ply sat still and stared ; and by degrees
I observed, I conned. Years before,
in my boyhood, I had walked a good
682
The Cathedral Library.
deal on the stretch ; and I had known
what it was in North Devon to wake
up " upon the middle of the night," to
feel the hard, unyielding turf under-
neath one's back, and see and gaze,
gaze wistfully upon the bright unan-
swering stars above one's head. Even
then one could divine the true value
of a bed. But to wake on the downs
in the small hours is a trifle compared
with waking in a cathedral any time
between dew and dawn. More espe-
cially when, as was my case, you have
a ghost at your elbow. Not that my
ghost remained long stationary. She
did not. Starting from my arm-chair,
she began a survey of the shelves by
moonlight in so active and business-like
a manner that I felt no doubt, given
her quondam or present mortality, she
was or had been a "blue." In five
minutes, my powers of decision were
wide awake, and the question of her
mortality was settled. She was not a
thing of the past, but alive as I myself
was ; and the only scruple was, how
or how soon to awaken her from her
somnambulist's dream. While I was
debating with myself the best means
to pursue, she suddenly passed out of
the library door on to the stone stair-
case. My alarm was now fairly ex-
cited. She had two courses to pursue
in her sensational career I employ
the word in a more correct use than it
is commonly put to. She might either
turn downward toward the floor of
the church itself, in which case she
could do herself little or no harm ; or
she could mount the ascending stair-
case, and reach an outward parapet,
with heaven knew what mad scheme
in view, before I had time to overtake
her. She chose the second alternative,
and she leading, I following we
mounted the lofty staircase that leads
to the base of the spire. I was aware
that the door at the top of this partic-
ular ascent was not furnished with a
lock; it was fastened by a simple bolt,
and I had little doubt that my sleep-
walking friend would shoot that bolt
back as readily as she had taken down
and replaced the books on the library
shelves. My greatest fear was that
she might begin playing some mad
prank upon the parapet before I was
sufficiently near to arrest her move-
ments. I need hardly add that, in-
fluenced by the dread of consequences
commonly said to follow on a sudden
awakening from a fit of somnambulism,
I inwardly resolved to try every means
of humoring and coaxing my compan-
ion down again to terra firma, and only
as a last resort to attempt arousing her.
In a few moments we stood side
by side on the platform looking down
on Winterbury, which lay outstretched
in the white moonlight. It was a tran-
quil and beautiful scene. There was
the church of St. Werburgh, a noble
monument of thirteenth century build-
ing, which would attract instantaneous
admiration anywhere but under the
shadow of Winterbury cathedral.
There was the fine old market-place,
with the carved stone pump at which
Cromwell drank as he passed through
the city ; and the charmingly quaint
guildhall, and the ruins of the abbey
skirting the river in the distance. I
was not permitted, however, long to
enjoy the prospect. Before I could lift
a finger to arrest her rapid movements,
my mysterious companion had stepped
lightly on to the parapet, and began a
quick and perfectly unembarrassed walk
around it. Dreading the experiment
of forcible rescue, it occurred to me to
try the effect of quietly accosting her,
and endeavoring by humoring her
present mental condition to decoy her
away from her perilous amusement.
It was an awful moment of suspense.
Should she lose her balance and her
life, it would be next to impossible for
me ever totally to clear up the enig-
matical circumstance of my having
been actually present by her side dur-
ing that weird moonlit dance upon the
parapet. If, on the other hand, I were
to seize and lift her from the top-stone,
she might rouse the whole close with
frightful screams, she might faint-
might even die in my arms, or from
the shock of sudden awakening she
might lose her reason.
The Cathedral Library.
683
But there was no time to stand bal-
ancing chances. Accordingly, I gently
drew toward her side, and said, in as
easy and collected a tone as I could
command,
" I think we left the library door un-
locked ; before you complete your
j rounds, had we not better go down the
stairs and secure it ? Having been al-
lowed the entry of the cathedral, I
think we are bound in honor to shut
doors after us."
" To be sure," she replied, and in-
stantly, to my intense relief, dropped
cleverly down into the space between
the parapet and the lower courses of
the spire. " To be sure, the door should
be locked at once. Let us go down.
I cannot make out who you are. In
none of my former visits to the cathed-
ral have I met you ; but you seem to
be no intruder, and I will certainly go
down and secure the door as you sug-
gest."
All this was uttered quickly and
easily, but with an abstracted air, and
without the slightest motion of her
steadfast eyes. While still speaking,
she stooped under the low door-way at
the stair-head, and began to descend.
I followed, busily devising plans for
preventing any fresh ascent, and yet
still avoiding the necessity of breaking
the curious spell which bound her.
We reached the library door. To my
surprise, she produced a key of her
)\vn, and was about to turn the lock,
tvhen I remembered that at this rate
[ should be deprived for the rest of the
kight of my only comforts, the warm
mosphere of the library and the de-
anal arm-chair. I therefore extem-
>rized a bold stroke.
" Excuse me," I said, " I have left
y hat and a few papers inside, and
aving a canon's key, I will save you
e trouble of locking up. But per-
it me to suggest that it is still very
irly in April and the night is cold.
Vhy not give up the rest of your walk
r to-night, and return again on one
the glorious nights in May or
une?"
Without uttering a syllable in reply,
she turned on her heel, and began
slowly descending the staircase into
the transept. My curiosity was now
fairly on the alert, and I resolved to
unravel the mystery, at least so far as
to discover by what means she would
leave the cathedral, and in what direc-
tion she would go. Stepping for a mo-
ment inside the library, I hastily but
quietly slipped off my shoes on the mat-
ting of the floor, and followed her bare-
foot and silent. She was just stepping
from the staircase into the transept,
when I caught sight of her again.
With the same steady and self-pos-
sessed action which she had displayed
throughout, she crossed the transept,
and made straight for a small postern
door which led, as I knew, into the
garden of the bishop's palace. This
she unlocked, and I made sure that,
having passed through, she would lock
it again behind her. Whether, how-
ever, she was a little forgetful that
night, or whether the unexpected ren-
contre with a stranger had ruffled
the tranquil serenity of her trance, it
so happened that she omitted to turn
the lock, and I was able, after gently
reopening the door, to trace her pro-
gress still further. Under the noble
cedars of the episcopal gardens, past
long flower-beds and fresh-,mown
lawns, I followed her barefoot, until
we arrived within a few yards of the
hinder buildings of the palace. Here
I stopped under the dark shade of a
cedar, and watched my companion
walk coolly up to a little oaken, iron-
clamped door, open it, and disappear
within the house. Then of course I
retraced my steps toward the cathed-
ral. But stopping again under one of
the magnificent cedars, I could not
avoid a few moments' reflection on the
exceedingly odd position into which
accident had brought me. Here was
I, alone and barefooted, standing, at
two o'clock in the morning, on the
lawn of the palace, where I had no
more business than I had at the top
of the spire ; and the only place in
which I could find shelter for the night
was the cathedral itself, a building
684
The Cathedral Library.
that most people would rather avoid
than enter during the small hours. The
queerness of my situation, however,
did not prevent me from enjoying to
the full the extreme loveliness of the
gardens, and the glorious view of the
splendid edifice, rising white and clear
in the moonlight above their shady al-
leys and recesses.
On regaining the library, I dozed
away the remainder of the dark hours
in the same commodious arm-chair, and
as soon as the bell began to toll for the
seven o'clock prayers, I passed unno-
ticed out of the building and regained
my lodgings.
" Been keeping a coast-guard night,
sir ? " said Mrs. Jollisole, as she set
the breakfast things in order.
" Why, yes, Mrs. Jollisole," I an-
swered ; " I did enjoy some rather
extensive prospects last night."
And that was all that passed. I
had fixed it in my own mind that I
would keep my own counsel strictly
until I should have called at the pal-
ace, and communicated the whole of
the circumstances in confidence to the
bishop, with whom I was slightly ac-
quainted.
This plan I carried into effect in the
course of the morning. His lordship
was at home, and listened with his cus-
tomary kindness and courtesy to the
whole of my romantic recital. Just as
I was finishing, his study door opened,
and a young lady entered, dressed in
black, tall, and strikingly beautiful,
though looking pale and fagged. Glanc-
ing at me she gave a slight start, and
taking a book from one of the shelves,
instantly left the room, after a few
muttered words of apology for disturb-
ing the bishop. It was my companion
of the library and the tower.
" I see," said his lordship, " that you
have recognized the ghost. That young
lady is an orphan niece of mine, and has
been brought up in my house from her
infancy. Never strong, she has re-
duced what vigor she possesses by her
ardent love of books, and her intellect-
ual interest is awake to all kinds of
subjects. She is equally unwearied in
visiting amongst the poor, and often re-
turns home from her rounds in a state
of exhaustion from which it is difficult
to rouse her. About a twelvemonth
ago we first noticed the appearance of
a tendency to somnambulism. She
was removed for several weeks to the
sea-side, and we began to hope that a
permanent improvement had set in. A
severe loss, however, which she has
lately sustained, has, I fear, done her
great injury, and here is proof of the
old malady returning. We are indebted
to you, sir," added the kind old man,
"for your judicious and thoughtful way
of proceeding under the circumstances
of last night, and for at once putting me
in possession of the details, which will
enable me to take the necessary pre-
cautions."
Before leaving the bishop's com-
pany, I begged him to go with rne in-
to the cathedral, and to be present
while a carpenter removed the wood-
work of the library window in order to
recover the key. This he consented at
once to do, and we crossed the gardens by
the very route which "the ghost" and I
had traversed during the night. On re-
moving the panelling, we found that the
depth of the chink was comparatively
trifling, and the key was soon seen
shining among the dust.
I was further gratified by another
discovery, which, together with the ex-
treme pleasure that it gave the bishop,
quite indemnified me for my night's
imprisonment. . We noticed, partially !
concealed by rubbish in a niche of the
wall below the panelling, the corner of
a vellum covering. On further exam
ination, this proved to be a MS. copy
of St. Matthew's Gospel, not indeed oi
the most ancient date, but adorned
with very rare and curious illumina-
tion, and making an excellent addition
to the stores of the library. After a
tete-a-tete dinner that evening with the
friendly bishop, we spent a pleasan
hour or two in a thorough inspectior
of the newly-found treasure.
It was little more than a montlj
afterward that I heard the great bel
in the western tower toll the tidings
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
685
of a death. One week more, and a
sorrowing procession of school-children
and women of the alms-houses filed
from the transept into the quiet clois-
ter-ground, there to bury the last re-
mains of one who would seem to have
been to them in life a loving and much-
loved friend. It was so. The eager
brain and the yearning heart, worn
out with unequal labors, were laid to
rest for ever, The bishop's frail nurs-
ling was dead.
From The Month.
CATHOLIC PHILOSOPHY IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY
THE errors of the present day are
generally the consequences of some
false principle admitted long ago, and
many may be traced clearly to the ca-
lamities of the sixteenth century. One
of these is, that the mediaeval learning
preserved (as was declared at the
Council of Trent) chiefly among the
monks was in its nature useless and
trifling, fitted only to amuse ignorant
and narrow-minded men in the dark-
ness of the middle ages, and consist-
ed in certain metaphysical specula-
tions and logical quibbles, called schol-
istic teaching. Several French writ-
ers have done much to disabuse men
[)f this prejudice, by making known
the amount of knowledge and science
Attained by mediaeval scholars, whose
ivorks are despised because they are
oo scarce to be read, and perhaps too
Icep to be understood in a less studi-
es age. One of these champions of
he truth is Ozanam, who has traced
nth a master-hand the preservation
f all that was valuable in antiquity,
arough the downfall of the empire ;
nd he has rendered a subject which
therwise it would have been pre-
mption to approach a plain matter
history, which the reader has only
receive, like other facts ; so that we
3e how, under the safeguard of the
hurch, the same powers which were
>rmerly used in vain by the philoso-
hers for the discovery of truth, were
ccessfully used for the attainment
its deeper mysteries. But all that
is human is marked by imperfection ;
and the very instinct which led philo-
sophers to " feel after" their Creator,
and seek that supreme good for which
we were created, was misled by errors
which all ultimately ended in infideli-
ty. It is not necessary to dwell on
these. A few words will remind the
classical scholar that the Ionian school,
which sought truth by experiment,
through the perception of the senses,
leads to fatalism and pantheism ; while
Pythagoras, who sought by reason
and the sciences him who is above
and beyond their sphere, left the dis-
appointed reason in a state of doubt
and indifference, or else despair.
Plato alone pursued a course of safety.
Taking the existence of God as a
truth derived perhaps from patriar-
chal teaching, he used the Socratic
method of induction only for the de-
struction of falsehood, and received
with fearless candor all that the poets
taught of superhuman goodness and
beauty ; for though the symbolism of
the poets degenerated into disgusting
idolatry, they have been called the
truest of heathen teachers. It is well
known how Aristotle strengthened the
reasoning power; but the mighty
power had no object on which to put
forth its strength, and the more noble
minds rejected at once both reasoning
and experiment, and sought for reli-
flon in the mysticism of Alexandria.
uch was the wreck and waste of all
that man could do without revelation,
686
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
and so sickening was the disappoint-
ment, that St. Augustin would fain
have closed the Christian schools to
Virgil and Cicero, which he loved
once too well; but St. Gregory,
brought up as he was a Roman and a
Christian, had nothing to repent of or
to destroy, and classic letters were
preserved by Christians.
Ozanam found pleasure in believing
that Christianity, while as yet conceal-
ed in the catacombs, was " in all senses
undermining ancient Rome," and that
it had an ameliorating effect on the
Stoic, which was then the best sect of
the philosophers ; so that Seneca, in-
stead of following the lantern of Zeno,
who confused the natures of God and
man, learnt from St. Paul not only to
distinguish them, but also the relation
in which man regards his Creator and
Father, whom he serves with free-will
and love, by subduing his body to the
command of his soul. But the pride
of philosophy may be modified without
being subdued. The principle of
heathenism is " the antagonist of Chris-
tianity : one is from man, and for man ;
the other from God, and for God." It
was the object of St. Paul and the first
fathers of the Church to liberate the
intellect as well as the affections from
perversion, and to teach how the treas-
ures of antiquity might be used by
Christians for religion, as the spoils of
Egypt and the luxurious perfumes of
the Magdalen. And after the fierce
battle of Christianity with paganism
was over, the triumph of the Church
was completed under Constantine by
the Christianization of literature ; that
is, by using in the service of truth all
those powers which had been wasted
in the ineffectual efforts for its dis-
covery. " A mixed mass of ancient
learning was saved from the wreck of
the Roman world ; and as Pope Boni-
face preserved the splendid temple of
the Pantheon, and dedicated it to the
worship of God glorified in his saints,
so the doctors of the Church employ-
ed the logic and eloquence of Ihe phil-
osophers without adopting their theo-
ries. This was not always easy, and
some, like Origen and Tertullian, fell
into error ; for the distinctive charac-
ter of Christian teaching is to be dog-
matic, not argumentative, submitting
the conclusions of reason to the de-
cisions of inspired authority, and the
province of reason has bounds which
it cannot pass."
Gradually a Christian literature
arose. Not only in the still classical
Roman schools, but in those of Con-
stantinople, Asia, and Africa, pagan
writings were used as subservient to
the training of Christian authors,
and the fourth century was the golden
age of intellect as well as sanctity.
The fathers employed their classical
training in the study of the Holy Scrip-
tures ; but, according to the true prin-
ciple of sacred study, they sought from
Almighty God himself the grace which
alone can direct the use of the intel-
lectual powers. " From the three j
senses of Holy Scripture" (says St.j
Bonaventure, in a passage quoted by
Ozanam out of his Redactio Artium
ad Theologiam) " descended three
schools of Scriptural teaching. The
allegorical, which declares matters ol
faith, in which St. Augustin was s
doctor, and in which he was followed
by St. Anselm and others, who taughi
by discussion. The moral, on whicl: !
St. Gregory founded his preaching j
and taught men the rule of life, ir
which he was followed by St. Bernard
who belongs also to the mystical school
and by a host of preachers. Whilt
from the third or analogical sense, St
Dionysius taught by contemplation th<
manner in which man may unite him
to God." Ozanam names a chain o
authors as belonging to this school
" Boethius, who on the eve of mar
tyrdom wrote the consolations of tha
sorrow which is concealed under thi
illusions of the world ; Isidore, Bede
Rabanus, Anselm, Bernard, Peteij
Damian, Peter the Lombard, who re
joiced ' to cast his sentences like th-
widow's mite into the treasury of th'i
temple, Hugo, and Richard of Si:
Victor, Peter the Spaniard, Alberi
St. Bonaventure, and St. Thomas."
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
687
" Under the barbarian rule, all the
intellectual, an well as the devout,
took sanctuary in the cloister ; so that
when the Arian Lombards attacked
the centre of Christendom, they were
opposed only by the teaching and dis-
cipline of the Church as perfected by
St. Gregory ; and the power of these
must have been supernatural, as the
influence of letters was nearly lost in
Rome. Then, in defence of the faith,
St. Benedict marshalled a new band of
devoted champions in the mountains
of Subiaco, and he made it a part of
their duty to preserve the treasures of
learning, and to employ them in the serv-
ice of religion ; and these monks,"
says Ozanam, " who spent six hours
in choir, transcribed in their cells the
historians and even the poets of
Greece and Rome, and bequeathed
to the middle ages the most valuable
writings of antiquity."
It is agreed by all that Charlemagne
was the founder of the middle ages ;
and he opened the schools in which
theology was formed into a science,
and gained the title of scholastics.
Alcuin was the instrument by whom
Charlemagne remodelled European
literature, with the authority of the
Church and councils, tradition and the
fathers. Of these the Greek were
little known west of Constantinople ;
and the chief representative of the
Latin fathers was St. Augustin.
'here were a few later writers, as
Boethius on the " Consolation of Phil-
sophy," and Cassidorus, who wrote
De Septem Disciplinis.
" Every one knows," says Ozanam,
that when Europe was robbed of an-
ient literature by the invasion of bar-
arians, the remains of science, saved
y pious hands, were divided into
even arts, and enclosed in the Trivi-
al and Quadrivium." These arts
ere grammar, rhetoric, logic, and
nathematics, which last comprehended
rithmetic and geometry, music and
stronomy. "The establishment of
ublic schools in cent, ix.," says Ozan-
m, " assisted the progress of reason-
ng, till it became in itself an art capa-
ble of being employed indifferently to
prove either side of an argument. The
science of words was no longer that of
grammar, but became dialectics ; and
words were used lightly as a mere
play of the intellect, or as a mechan-
ical process to analyze truth." But it
can never be lawful for a Christian to
discuss what has been revealed, as
though it were possible that those who
reject it may be right ; nor to consider
truth as an open question, which is
still to be decided, and may be sought
by those rules of reasoning which had
been laid down by Aristotle for the
discovery of what was as yet unknown.
It was for this reason that, as Ozanam
says, Tertullian called Aristotle the
patriarch 'of heretics ; yet his rules of
reasoning were right, and the error lay
in using them amiss. Thus the Man-
ichseans reasoned when they should
have believed, and the Paulicians sub-
jected the Holy Scriptures to their
own interpretation, and rejected all
that was above their comprehension ;
and thus in after-times did the Albi-
genses, and then the Protestants of the
sixteenth, and the Liberals of the
nineteenth, century.
It was in 891 that Paschasius wrote,
for the instruction of his convent, a
treatise on the Holy Eucharist) in
which he proved by reasoning that
doctrine which "the whole world
believes and confesses ;" but he was
contradicted by Ratram, who first put
forth the heresy that the real pres-
ence is only figurative, and then the
Church pronounced the dogma of
transubstantiation. From that time
theologians were obliged to confute the
intellectual heresies of philosophers by
fighting, as on common ground, with
the weapons of argument which were
used by both, in order to defend the
doctrines which had been hitherto de-
clared simply and by authority, as by
our Lord himself. " Now," says
Ozanam, " mysteries were subjected
to definitions, and revelation was di-
vided into syllogisms. And as the
love of argument 'increased, the dis-
putants took up the question which
688
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
had been discussed among heathen
philosophers as to the abstract exist-
ences which are called universal forms
or ideas; types of created things
eternally existing in the mind of
God, according to the teaching of
St. Bonavcnture. .And when these
were discovered by metaphysics, logic
was exercised upon them ; and a dis-
pute arose as to whether truth exists
independently of the perceptions of
man. The Platonists asserted that
it does, and this belief, which they
called idealism, was held by the di-
vines, and was called realism, while
those who denied that it exists inde-
pendently of man were said to be
nominalists." In modern days the
dispute of realism and nominalism
is laughed at as an idle war of words ;
but the war is, in truth, on principles,
and still divides the orthodox and
unbeliever, and the names of realism
and nominalism are only changed for
objective and subjective truth.
A painful experience had long pre-
vailed that the spirit of controversy is
destructive of devotion ; and the more
devout, weary of the wars of philoso-
phers, rejected logic, and found in the
mystic school that repose which had
been sought even by heathens in a
counterfeit mysticism, in which the
evil powers deluded men by imitating
divine inspirations. According to Oz-
anam, " Christian mysticism is ideal-
ism in its most brilliant form, which
seeks truth in the higher regions of
spontaneous inspiration ;" and he goes
on to explain, from the writings of St.
Dionysius, that its nature is contem-
plative, ascetic, and symbolical. It is
contemplative, as it brings man into
the presence of the immense indivisi-
ble God, from whom all power, life,
and wisdom descend upon man through
the hierarchies of the angels and
through the Church, and whose di-
vine influences act in nine successive
spheres through all the gradations be-
tween existence and nothing. It is
ascetic, as it acts on the will through
the link which connects the body with
the mind, and regulates the passions
through the inferior part of the soul.
This "medicine of souls" was taught
by the fathers of the desert, who
were followed by all the mystic doc-
tors ; and it was on this reciprocal
action of physics and morals that
St. Bonaventure afterward wrote the
Compendium. It is symbolic, because
it takes the creation as a symbol of
spiritual things, and the external
world as the fchadow of what is invisi-
ble. The union of man with God is
the object and fullness of the know-
ledge which regards both the divine
and human nature, and levels all in-
tellects in the immediate presence of
God. This was imparted to Adam,
and restored by Christ our Lord, who
left it in the keeping of the Church.
The first uninspired teacher of this
mystic theology is thought to have
been Dionysius the Areopagite, and
the martyred Bishop of Athens, or, as
some say, of Paris. In the festival of
his martyrdom it is declared " that he
wrote books, which are admirable and
heavenly, concerning the divine names,
the heavenly and ecclesiastical hier-
archy, and on mystical theology."
Ozanam quotes a fragment from his
writings, which teaches that the indi-
visibility of God is intangible by
mathematical abstractions of quantity,
and indefinable by logic, because defi-
nition is analysis ; and it is incompara-
ble, because there are no terms of com-
parison.
The teaching of St. Dionysius was
not forgotten when the knowledge of
Greek was lost in the west. He was
succeeded in this religious and Chris-
tian philosophy by St. Anselm in the
eleventh century. In his Monologium,
De Ratione Fidei, he supposes an ig-
norant man to be seeking the truth
with the sole force of his reason, and
disputing in order to discover a truth
hitherto unknown. " Every one, for
the most part," he says, " if he has
moderate understanding, may persuade
himself, by reason alone, as to what
we necessarily believe of God; and
this he may do in many ways, each
according to that best suited to him-
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
689
self ; " and he goes on to say that his
| own mode consists in deducing all
j theological truths from one point the
I being of God. All the diversity of
I beautiful, great, and good things sup-
poses an ideal one or unity of beauty,
and this unity is God. Hence St.
Anselm derives the attributes of God
the creation, the Holy Trinity, the
I relation of man to God, in a word, all
1 theology. The Proslogium, or truth
demonstrating itself, is a second work,
in which St. Anselm proposes to de-
monstrate truth which has been al-
| ready attained. "As in the first he
jhad, at the request of some brothers,
(written De Ratione Fidei in the per-
ison who seeks by reasoning what he
'does not know, so he now seeks for
some one of these many arguments
which should require no proof but
from itself. He was the first to use
the famous argument, that from the
isole idea of God is derived the de-
mons Iration of his existence. He thus
begins the Proslogium : l The fool
hath said in his heart, there is no God.
Wherefore the most foolish atheist
has in his mind the idea of the sover-
sign good, which good cannot exist in
thought only, because a yet greater
apod can still be conceived. This
vereign good therefore exists inde-
ndently of the thought, and is God.' "
It is not worth while to follow out
e errors which arose in the middle
es from nominalism. In the eleventh
ntury Roscelin carried it to the ab-
rdity of saying that ideas are only
ords, and that nothing real exists ex-
pt in particulars. And Philip of
lampeaux asserted the opposite ex-
jme, and denied the existence of all
t imiversals ; as that humanity alone
sists, of which men are mere parts or
agments. It was in the twelfth cen-
ry that Abelard, who had been
ained in both these systems, came
rtfa in the pride of his vast intellect
reconcile them by a new theory,
ut his search after truth was by a
ere intellectual machinery, to be em-
oyed by science in order to construct
general scheme of human knowledge ;
44
while it led to the rejection of that
simple faith which believes without
examination, and substituted the sys-
tem of rationalism, so fruitful to this
day of error and unbelief.
It was while men were constructing
this intellectual tower of Babel that
Almighty God raised up as the cham-
pion of the truth the meek and holy
St. Bernard. Like David he laid
aside his weapons of reasoning, and
left his cloister to overthrow the gi-
gantic foe. In the cowl of St. Bene-
dict, he declared that the truth, which
men sought by human efforts, was to
be received in faith as the gift of God,
from whom all knowledge and light
proceeds. And it was not the powers
of his well-trained faculties, nor his
classical and poetical studies, but his
prayers, which gained the victory ; so
that, as by miracle, Abelard, the most
eloquent disputant of his age, stood
mute before the saint, who taught that
faith is no opinion attained by reason-
ing, but a conviction beyond all proof
that truth is revealed by God. This
had been the teaching of St. Gregory,
who said that faith which is founded
on reason has no merit ; and of St.
Augustin, who said that faith is no
opinion founded on reflection, but an in-
terior conviction ; and of the apostle,
who said that faith is the certainty of
things unseen. It is consoling to read
that the holy influence of St. Bernard
did not only silence his adversary ;
the heart of Abelard was melted, he
laid aside the studies in which he had
so nearly lost his soul, and he made
his submission to the Church, and
sought the forgiveness of St. Bernard.
Soon afterward he died a penitent, sor-
rowing for his moral and intellectual of-
fences. But evil does not end with
the guilty ; and his school has contin-
ued brilliant in intellect and taste, but
presumptuous in applying them to the
examination of truth. On the other
hand, the two folio volumes of St. Ber-
nard have been always a treasury of
devotion, where the saints and pious
of all succeeding ages have been
trained. It is impossible for words to
690
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
contain more thought ; and he had the
gift of penetrating thoughts contained
in the inspired writings ; as when he
wrote twenty-four sermons on the
three first verses of the Canticles.
Ozanam says that St. Pierre per-
ceived a fresh world of insects each
day that he examined a single straw-
berry-leaf ; and thus in the spiritual
world the intellect of St. Bernard con-
templated and beheld wonders with a
sort of microscopic infinity, while his
vast comprehension was analogous
in its discoveries to the telescope.
Such were the gifts conferred by God
on the humble abbot of Clairvaux.
There were in the time of St. Ber-
nard other great teachers : Peter the
Venerable, St. Norbert, Godfrey, Rich-
ard, and Hugo, all monks of St. Vic-
tor. Ozanam says that he embraced
the three great modes of teaching
that is, the allegorical, moral, and ana-
logical ; and preceded St. Bonaven-
ture in a gigantic attempt to form an
encyclopaedia of human knowledge,
based on the truth declared by St.
James, that every good and perfect
gift descends from the Father of light,
who is above.
With a vast amount of literary trea-
sures the crusaders had brought from
the east, in the twelfth century, the
Greek authors, with their Arab com-
mentators. They brought the physics,
metaphysics, and morals of Aristotle ;
and they brought also the pantheism,
which, says Ratisbon, the Saracens,
like the early Stoics, had learnt from
the Brahmins, who believe that men
have two souls one inferior and led
by instinct, the other united and iden-
tical with God. This fatal error was
received by a daring school, to which
Frederic of Sicily was suspected to
belong. It was to confute this school
that St. Bernard had taught in his ser-
mons on the Canticles that union with
God is not by confusion of natures,
but conformity of will. The poison
entered Europe from the west as well
as the east ; the Arabs in Spain mixed
the delusions of Alexandria with the
subtleties of Aristotle, and the result
was such men as Averroes and Avi-
cenna. Gerbert, afterward Silvester
II., had himself studied in Spain, and
brought back into the European
schools not only the philosophy of
Aristotle, but the Jewish translations
of Averroes. The unlearned monks
of the west were naturally alarmed at
the new works on physics, astronomy,
and alchemy, and especially at the
logic of Aristotle, and the terrible
eruption of pantheism. It was then
that the Church exercised her pater-
nal authority, and condemned the con-
fusion of the limits between faith and
opinion, and the degradation of the
sciences to mere worldly purposes.
Ozanam gives the bull issued in 1254
by Innocent IV., in which he com-
plains that the study of civil law
was substituted for that of philoso-
phy, and that theology itself was
banished from the education of
priests. " We desire to bring back
men's minds to the teaching of theo-
logy, which is the science of salvation ;
or at least to the study of philosophy,
which, though it does not possess the
gentle pleasures of piety, yet has the
first glimpses of that eternal truth
which frees the mind from the hin-
drance of covetousness, which is
idolatry.
The tendency of philosophical er-
rors was now rendered apparent by
their development, so that what was
at first a vague opinion was now a
broad and well-defined system. Those
who were firm in the teaching of the
Church found it necessary 1o use
every means for opposing such multi-
plied evils, and they boldly ventured
on a Christian eclecticism, which should
employ all the faculties and all the
modes of using them in the service of
religion ; but it was not like the ec-
lecticism of Alexandria, where the ideas
of Plato were united with the forms of
Aristotle, and adorned by the delu-
sions of magic. The strength of
Christian eclecticism lay in the pure
unity of faith, defended by all the
powers of man. " Both analysis and
synthesis," says Ozanam, "are har-
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
691
monized in true science : they are the
two poles of the intellectual world,
and have the same axis and horizon.
The intersecting point of the two sys-
tems was the union of what is true in
realism and nominalism with mystic
teaching, and the eclectic admitted the
experience of the senses as well as the
deductions of reason and the intuition
of mysticism with the testimony of
learning. Thus were united in the
study of truth the four great powers of
the soul, reason, tradition, experience,
and intuition." But it has been re-
marked that some of the masters who
taught by experiment and tradition
were persecuted as magicians, and
some of those who used reason and in-
tuition were canonized. Both, how-
ever, observed the ascetic life, of
which the abstinence of Pythagoras
and the endurance of the Stoics were
imitations, and all practised the vir-
tues most opposite to heathen morality,
namely, humility and charity. The
first attempt at uniting the different
I opinions of the learned was made by
Peter Lombard, who collected the
' sentences of the fathers into a work,
which gained him the title of Master
of the Sentences, and which was after-
ward perfected in the Summa of St.
Thomas. Albert the Great left the
palace of his ancestors for the Domini-
can cloister. He studied at Cologne,
and was unequalled in learning and
psychology. While he reasoned on
ideas, he made experiments on matter ;
nay, he used alchemy, to discover un-
known powers and supernatural agents.
It is said that his twenty -one folio vol-
umes have never been sufficiently
studied by any one to pronounce on
their merits. His work on the uni-
verse was written against pantheism,
and declares the presence of God in
every part of creation, without being
confused with it. That divine pre-
sence is the source of all power.
" He was," says Ozanam (p. 33), " an
Atlas, who carried on his shoulders
the whole world of science, and did
not bend beneath its weight." He was
familiar with the languages of the an-
cients and of the east, and had im-
bibed gigantic strength at these foun-
tains of tradition. He believed in the
title of magician, which his disciples
gave him ; and he is remembered by
posterity rather as a mythological be-
ing than as a man.
The contemporary of Albert, says
Ozanam, was Alexander Hales, who!
wrote the " Summa of Universal The-
ology." William of Auvergne was a
Dominican and preceptor of St. Louis ;
he wrote Specimen Doctrinale, Natu-
rale, Historiale ; a division of the
sciences and their end, containing 1,
theology, physics, and mathematics;
2, practice, monastic, economic, and
politic ; 3, mechanics and arts ; 4,
logic and words. Duns Scotus, a
Franciscan, was more accurate in
learning tban Albert himself; sound,
though no discoverer in physics, and
deep in mathematics. He commented
on Aristotle and Peter Lombard.
From his strength, sagacity, and pre-
cision, he was named the Doctor Sub-
tilis. He wrote on free will, and says
that its perfection is conformity to the"
will of God ; and derives the moral
law from the will of God, according
to St. Paul, " Sin is the transgression
of the law." When St. Thomas
taught that the moral law is necessa-
rily good because God is good, and
this question divided the learned into
the schools of Scotists and Thomists,
Roger Bacon, an English Franciscan,
was the pupil of Scotus ; but he was
eclectic, and admitted both exterior and
interior experience, and the deductions
of reason, into the intercourse of the
soul with God. Though he condemn-
ed magic as an imposture, he wrote on
alchemy, and with the simplicity of en-
thusiasm he hoped to find the philoso-
pher's stone, and to read the fall of
empires in the stars. He believed in
the powers of human science, and he
hints at the possibility of a vessel
moving without sails or oars ; and im-
agined a balloon, a diving-bell, a sus-
pension bridge, and other miracles of
art, especially a telescope and a mul-
tiplying-glass. Speaking of Greek
692
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
fire and unquenchable lamps, he says
that art as well as nature has its thun-
ders, and describes the effect of gun-
powder, the attraction of the loadstone,
and the sympathies between minerals,
plants, and animals ; and says, "When
I see the prodigies of nature, nothing
startles my faith either in the works
of man or in the miracles of God;"
concluding, that Aristotle may not
have penetrated the deepest secrets of
nature, and that the sages of his own
time will be surpassed by the novices
of future days. He had the same
clear and sound views of supernatural
things, and wrote on the secret works
of art and nature, and the falsehood
of magic. " Man cannot influence the
spiritual world except by the lawful
use of prayer addressed to God and
the angels, who govern not only the
world of spirits, but the destinies of
man." Though called the Doctor
Mirabilis, he was suspected of magic,
and died neglected in a prison, where
he had no light to finish his last works.
His manuscripts were burned at the
Reformation, in a convent of his order,
by men " who professed," says Ozan-
am, " to restore the torch of reason,
which had been extinguished by the
monks of the middle ages."
Raymond Lulli, the Doctor Illum-
inatus, was a Franciscan, the great
inventor of arts ; but he was a phil-
osophical adventurer, whose cast of
mind was Spanish, Arabian, African,
and eastern. His youth was licenti-
ous, his life turbulent, and his imagina-
tion restless ; but he died as a saint
and a martyr on his return from liber-
ating the Christian slaves in Spain.
The glory of the Franciscan order
is the Seraphical Doctor, St. Bona-
venture He was educated under
Hales, the Irrefragable Doctor. His
genius was keen and his judgment just,
and he was a master of scholastic the-
ology and philosophy. But when he
studied, it was at the foot of a crucifix,
with eyes drowned in tears from in-
cessant meditation on the passion of
Christ. His life was dedicated to the
glory of God and his own sanctifica-
tion ; yet he spent much time in actual
prayer, because he knew from mystic
theology that knowledge and obedience
are the gifts of God; and devoted
himself to mortifications, because they
alone prepare the soul for the recep-
tion of divine grace and intuition.
Yet though he obtained the gift of
ecstacy and -the grace of crucifying the
human nature, he placed Christian
perfection not in heroic acts of virtue,
but in performing ordinary actions
well. Ozanam quotes his words : "A
constant fidelity in small things is a
great and heroic virtue ; it is a con-
tinued crucifixion of self-love, a com-
plete sacrifice of self, an entice sub-
mission to grace." And his own pale
and worn countenance shone with a
happiness and peace which exemplified
his maxim that spiritual joy is a sign
that grace is present in the soul.
Though his desire for sacramental
communion was intense, yet we are
told his great humility once kept
him at a distance from the altar, till
an angel bore to him the consecrated
host ; and the raptures with which he
always received his God are expressed,
though doubtless imperfectly, in the
burning words, Transfige Domine, etc.,
which he was wont to utter after he had
himself offered the holy sacrifice. His
devotional works, written for St. Louis
and others in his court, fill the heart
with their unction, and rank him as
the great master of spiritual life. It
was during the intervals of ecstasies
that he wrote ; and while he was oc-
cupied on the life of St. Francis, St.
Thomas beheld him in his cell raised
above the earth, and the future saint
exclaimed : " Leave a saint to write
the life of a saint."
It is with profound reverence that
we must inquire what was the intel-
lectual teaching of so holy a man ;
and it is, indeed, so vast and yet so
deep that it exhausts all the human
powers in contemplating the nature of
God and the end of man, which is his
union to God. Ozanam gives a pas-
sage from his work on the " Reduction
of Arts to Philosophy," in which he
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
693
says that philosophy is the medium by
which the theologian forms for him-
self a mirror (speculum) from created
things, which serve him as steps by
which he may ascend to heaven. He
begins by the revealed truth, that
every good and perfect gift descends
from the Father of light, and teaches of
its descent by these four ways ex-
terior, inferior, interior, and superior
through successive irradiations, name-
ly, Holy Scripture, experimental me-
chanics, and philosophy, which suc-
ceed each other like the days of crea-
tion, all converging in the light of
Holy Scripture, and all succeeded by
that seventh day in which the soul will
i rest in the perfect knowledge of heaven.
1. Exterior light, or tradition, re-
lates to the exterior forms of matter,
and produces the mechanical arts,
which were divided by Hugo into
seven weaving, work in wood and
in stone, agriculture, hunting, naviga-
tion, theatricals, and medicine.
2. Inferior light, or that of the sens-
es, awakens in the mind the percep-
tions of the five senses, as St. Augustin
says, by that fine essence whose nature
and whose seat baffles all our discov-
eries.
3. Interior light, or reason, teaches
us by the processes of thought those in-
tellectual truths which are fixed in the
I human mind by physics, logic, and
ethics, though rational, natural, and
moral action on the will, the conduct,
and the speech, which are the triple
functions of the understanding, and on
the three faculties of the reason ap-
prehension, judgment, and action ; this
'uteri or light acts on outward things
physics, mathematics, and meta-
ysics, and perceives God in all
hings by logic, by physics, and by
hies. And he goes on to consider
th as it is in the essence of w r ords,
hings, and actions.
4. The superior light proceeds from
and from the Holy Scriptures, and
veals the truths relating to salvation
nd sanctification. It is named from
ts raising us to the knowledge of things
>ve us, and because it descends from
God by way of inspiration and not by
reflection. This light also is threefold.
Holy Scripture contains, under the
literal sense of the words, the allegor-
ical, which declares what must be be-
lieved concerning God and man ; the
moral, which teaches us how to live ;
the analogical, which gives the laws
by which man may unite himself to
God. And the teaching of Holy
Scripture contains three points faith,
virtue, and beatitude. The course by
which knowledge must be sought is by,
1, tradition ; 2, experiment ; 3, rea-
son ; and 4, a descent as it were by
the same road, so as to find the stamp
of the divinity on all which is con-
ceived, or felt, or thought. All sci-
ences are pervaded by mysteries ; and
it is by laying hold of the clue of the
mystery that all the depths of each
science are explored.
It was to Mount Alvernia, where
his master, St. Francis, so lately re-
ceived the stigmata, that St. Bonaven-
ture retired to write the Itinerarium
Mentis ad Deum, in which he treats on
the divine nature, and considers God as
manifesting himself in three modes,
and man as receiving the knowledge
of him by the three functions of mem-
ory, understanding, and will.
Ozanam says : " To these triple
functions of the mind God manifests
himself in three ways : 1, by the
traces of his creation in the world;
2, by his image in human nature ;
3, by the light which he sheds on the
superior region of the soul. Those
who contemplate him in the first are
in the vestibule of the tabernacle;
those who rise to the second are in the
holy place ; those who reach the third
are within the holy of holies, where the
two cherubim figured the unity of the
divine essence and the plurality of
divine persons." He likens the in-
visible existence of God to the light,
which, though unseen, enables the eye
to perceive colors; and proves from
his existence his unity, eternity, and
perfection ; and from the eternal action
of his goodness he deduces the doc-
trine of the Trinity.
694
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
The Breviloquium treats on the na-
ture of man, who exists not of himself,
nor by emanation from God, but was
called into life out of nothing by the
Creator, and lives by no mortal life
borrowed from the outer world, but by
its own and immortal life, intelligent
and free. These attributes of God
are communicated by him to his
creatures according to his own law,
" that the superior shall be the medium
of grace to the inferior." The happi-
ness of the soul must be immortal and
is in God, and she can exist separated
from this body which she inhabits and
moves. Ozanam says: "The Com-
pendium Theologies Veritatis treats
of the connection between physics and
morals, and inquires how the body in-
dicates the variations of the soul by
that mysterious link on which the
scientific speculate, but which the
Baint treats as a subject not for dogma-
tizing but for contemplation, assisted
by the mortification which alone brings
the passions into subserviency. But
the Seraphic Doctor left his teaching
unfinished. Some of his spiritual works
have been translated by the Abbe
Berthaumier ; and the reader will find
that what has been said gives an im-
perfect idea of the writings of this
doctor of the Church, which fill
six folio volumes, and have scarcely
been mastered by a few, though they
have warmed the devotion of many ;
and one short treatise, called the " So-
liloquy," is of such a nature as to include
the whole science of devotion. It rep-
resents the soul contemplating God,
not in his creatures, but within itself,
and asking what is her own position
in his presence : created by him, and
sinning against him; redeemed by
him, and yet sinning ; full of contri-
tion, yet firm in the hope of glory.
The teaching of St. Paul is continued
by St. Augustin, St. Ambrose, and St.
Bernard ; and it seems as if no other
book were .needful. One passage, and
one only, may show the treasures it
contains. The soul is convinced of
the vanity of created things, and asks
how men are so blinded as to love
them. Because the soul is created
with so glorious and sensitive a na-
ture, that it cannot li ve without love ;
and while the elect find nothing in creat-
ed things which can satisfy their desire
of happiness, and therefore rest in the
contemplation of God, the deluded
multitude neglect themselves for pass-
ing objects, and love their exile as if it
were their home. But Ozanam does
not leave his history of intellectual
progress to treat of spiritual gifts.
St. Thomas was born nearly at the
same time as St. Bonaventure, in the
same wild valleys of the Apennines.
They studied together at Paris ; they
lived and died and were canonized to-
gether.
It was said by Pallavicini that
" when, in the twelfth century, the
Arabs made Cordova a second Athens,
and Averroes used the philosophy of
Aristotle as a weapon against the
faith, God raised up the intellect of
St. Thomas, who, by deep study of
Aristotle, found in his own principles a
solution of the arguments used by in-
fidels; and the scholastics, following
him, have so employed Aristotle to
defend Christianity, that whosoever
rebels against the Vatican rebels also
against the Lycasum." St. Thomas
had, however, to confute the errors of
Aristotle, and of Abelard and others
who had followed them, while he set
forth the great truths of reason which
he taught. It was in 1248 that he
published a comment on the " Ethics."
He had himself, says Ozanam, the
learning and the weight of Aristotle ;
his power of analysis and classifica-
tion, and the same sobriety of lan-
guage. He had also studied the
Timgeus of Plato, the doctrines of Al-
bert, Alexander Hales, and John of
Salisbury. He followed the school of
St. Augustin, and drew from St.
Gregory his rule of morals. His
comments on the Sentences contain a
methodical course of philosophy, as his
Summa contains an abridgment of di-
vinity. In an extract given by Ozanam,
St. Thomas says, faith considers beings
in relation to God; philosophy, as they
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
695
are in themselves. Philosophy studies
second causes ; faith, the first cause
alone. In philosophy the notion of
God is sought from the knowledge of
creatures, so that the notion of God is
second to that of his creatures ; faith
teaches first the notion of God, and
reveals in him the universal order of
which he is the centre, and so ends by
the knowledge of creatures ; and this
is the most perfect method, because
human understanding is thus assimi-
lated to the divine ; which contemplat-
ing itself contemplates all things in
itself. Theology, therefore, only bor-
rows from philosophy illustrations of
the dogmas she offers to our faith.
It was in 1265 that, at the request
of St. Raymond de Pennafort, St.
Thomas wrote the Summa Theologies
against the infidels in Spain ; a book
which has ever since been considered
as a perfect body of theology and the
manual of the saints. "In the phil-
osophy of St. Bonaventure," says Oz-
anam, " the leading guide was perhaps
rather the divine love than the re-
searches of intellect." St. Thomas
combined all the faculties under the
rule of a lofty meditation and a solemn
reason, uniting the abstract perceptions
beheld by the understanding with the
images of external things received by
the senses. " It was a vast encyclo-
paedia of moral sciences, in which was
said all that can be known of God, of
man and his relations to God ; in short,
Summa totius theologies. This monu-
ment, harmonious though diverse, co-
lossal in its dimensions, and magnificent
in its plan, remained unfinished, like
all the great political, literary, and
architectural creations of the middle
age, which seem only to be shown and
not suffered to exist." And the Doc-
tor Angelicus left the vast outline in-
complete. That outline is to be appre-
ciated only by the learned ; the igno-
rant may guess its greatness by a cat-
alogue, however meagre, of its con-
tents. In the first part, or the na-
tural, St. Thomas treats of the nature
of God and of creatures ; his essence,
Ms attributes, and the mystery of the
Holy Trinity ; then, in relation to his
creatures, as their Creator and Pre-
server. In the second, or moral, part
he treats of general principles, of vir-
tues and vices, of the movement of the
reasonable creature toward God, of
his chief end, and on the qualities of
the actions by which he can attain it,
of the theological and moral virtues.
In the third, or theological, part he
examines the means of attaining God,
the incarnation and the sacraments. In
the Summa, says Ozanam, " the no-
tions of things lead to the attributes of
the divinity, unity, goodness, and truth ;
thus, natural theology arrived at the
unity as well as the attributes of God,
while from his action is deduced his
Personality and Trinity. Then fol-.
lows the nature of good and bad an-
gels, of souls in a separate state ; and
then the science of man considered as
a compound being of soul and body,
endowed with intellect for receiving
impressions from the divine light
above, and from its reflection on things
below. He is also endowed with de-
sire, by which he is formed to seek
goodness and happiness, but is free in
will to chose vice or virtue ; and the
rejection of sin, and acquisition of
virtue, in a life regulated by divine
human law, is a shadow of life in
heaven. Enough has been said to show
how lofty was the teaching of the
saint ; to whose invocation large in-
dulgences are attached, and who had
the task of composing the ofiice used
on the festival of Corpus Domini.
The great object of his adoration and
contemplation was the mystery of the
real presence ; and his Adoro Te de-
vote may be used as an act of wor-
ship at the holiest moment of the sac-
rifice of the altar. The ecstasy of his
joy in communion is expressed in the
Gratias Tibi ago ; and he declared
his faith in the mystery as he lay on
the ashes where he died. And this
pure faith is recorded by Raphael, who
represents him in his picture of the
' Dispute on the Blessed Eucharist'
among the doctors of all ages before
the miraculous host."
696
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century.
Like all other saints, he sought de-
tachment by mortification, and the love
of God by prayer. His principle was,
that prayer must precede study, be-
cause more is learnt from the crucifix
than from books ; and his last maxim
was, that in order to avoid being sepa-
rated from God by sin, a man must
walk as in the sight of God and pre-
pared for judgment. When he laid
aside his religious studies to prepare
for eternity, he used the words of St.
Augustin : " Then shall I truly live
when I am full of thee and thy love ;
now am I a burden to myself, because
I am not entirely full of thee."
Mystic theology was now carried to
perfection by Gersen, abbot of the Ben-
edictine monastery of Verceuil from
1220 to 1240. Many attribute to him
the authorship of the " Imitation of
Christ;" there are, however, a num-
ber of others who do not agree with
this opinion. The " Imitation" is gen-
erally ranked as coming very close af-
ter the inspired writings. What is
said of the interior life is more or less
intelligible to those who are endeavor-
ing after perfection, but must be unin-
telligible to any who have not the faith :
" Una vox librorum" (iii. 43), says the
author ; but the one voice does not teach
all alike, for he who is within is the
teacher of truth. The four books are
in the hands of all. The contents of
the first are on the conduct of men as
to the exterior world, and the qualities
necessary for the following of Christ
humility, detachment, charity, and
obedience; then grace will be found,
not in external things, but within, in a
mind calm, obedient, and seeking not
to adapt but to master circumstances.
The second teaches him who turns
from creatures that the kingdom of
God is within, and that the government
of this inner world is the science of
perfection : " Give room to Christ and
refuse entrance to others ; then will
man be free amid the chaos, and crea-
tures will be to him only the speculum
vitce" Seek Christ in all, and you
will find him in all ; seek self, and you
will find it everywhere : one thing is
above all, that leaving all you leave
self. In the third book the soul listens
to the internal voice of God, who
makes known to her that he is her sal-
vation; and she therefore prays for
the one gift of divine love. It is im-
possible, perhaps not desirable, to re-
peat the devout aspirations of this di-
vine love. May those who read the
holy words receive their import through
the light of grace ! The fourth book
relates to the union of the soul with
her Lord through sasuamental com-
munion ; and this can only be read in
the hours of devotion.
It is presumptuous to say even thus
much of the great saints who lived in
the thirteenth century, how is it possible
to undervalue the progress they made
in all the highest powers of the soul? or
who can speak of the schools of the mid-
dle ages as deserving of contempt in
days which cannot comprehend them ?
Ozanam desires to show that Dante
was trained in this exalted learning,
and has embodied what he learnt in his
Divina Commedia. He speaks of the
full development attained by scholas-
tic teaching in those great teachers,
after whom no efforts were made to
extend the limits of human knowledge ;
and he speaks of the perplexities
which arose with the anti-papal schism.
" It was to the calm and majestic phil-
osophy of the thirteenth century," says
Ozanarn, "that Dante turned his eye?;
and his great poem declared to an age,
which understood him not, the contem-
plative, ascetic, and symbolical teach-
ing of the mystic school, which he had
studied in the Compendium of St.
Bonaventure and the Summa of St.
Thomas ;" and he proves by an anal-
ysis of that wonderful poem that it
contains not only the great truths of
revelation, but the spirit of the decay-
ing mediaeval philosophy :
U O voi che avete gli intclletti eani,
Mirate la dottrina che ascende
Sotto '1 velarae del versi straui."
What came of a Prayer.
697
Translated from the Revue du Monde Catholique.
WHAT CAME OF A PRAYER.
IN the fifth story of an old house in
the Rue du Four-Saint-Germain, lay
a sick woman whose pale emaciated
face bore traces of age and sorrow.
Beside her bed was a young man,
whose tender care showed him to be
her son. The furniture of the apart-
ment, though of the plainest kind, was
neatly and carefully arranged, while
the crucifix at the head of the bed and
a statue of the Blessed Virgin marked
the Christian family. The youth had
just given his mother a spoonful of
gruel, and she had fallen asleep smil-
ing on her son that quiet sleep attend-
! aut on recovery from severe illness.
I He knelt to thank God for having
I saved his mother's life, and while he
' prays, and she sleeps, without disturb-,
ing the prayer of the one, or the sleep
1 of the other, I will tell you their story
in a few words.
The father was a printer at Sceaux.
j Industrious, prudent, of scrupulous in-
tegrity, loving justice and fearing God,
; he acquired by his honest labor a com-
petence for his old age and a fair pros-
pect for his son. Losses, failures, and
| unforeseen misfortunes ruined him,
'and he found himself bankrupt. This
|blow sensibly affected him, but did not
overwhelm him. He was offered a
(situation as compositor in a printing
office in Paris, resumed the workman's
dress, and courageously began to work.
SHis wife, as strong as he, never ut-
jred a complaint or regret. Their
on was withdrawn from college to
earn his father's trade, and although
> young, his heart was penetrated with
profound religious faith. Thus lived
his humble household, resigned and
appy, because they loved each other,
Jared God, and accepted trials. Sev-
ral years elapsed, years of toil in
heir endeavors to liquidate the debts
f the past: fruitful, however, in domes-
c joys. The child became a young
man, and fulfilled the promises of his-,
childhood. God blessed these afflicted
parents hi their son.
Suddenly the father fell sick and
died. Those of us who have wept at the
death-bed of a father, know the anguish
of those hours when we contemplate
for the last time the beloved features
which we are to see no more on earth ;
the impressions of which grief time
softens but can never efface. For
those who live entirely in the domestic
circle, the separation, in breaking the
heart, breaks at the same time the tie
to life. Left thus alone, the mother
and son were more closely united, each
gave to the other the love formerly be-
stowed upon him who was no more.
Jacques Durand was now twenty-five
years old. His countenance was frank
and open, but serious and grave. He
had the esteem of his employer, the
respect of his companions, and the
sympathy of all who knew him. He
was not ashamed to be a mechanic,
knowing the hidden charm of labor
when that labor is offered to God.
During the month of his mother's ill-
ness he did not leave her pillow.
The physician pronounced her, the day
before our story opens, out of danger.
You understand now why the young
man prayed with so much fervor while
his mother slept. His devotions were
interrupted by a knock at the door.
It was Mine. Antoine, the porter's wife,
a little loquacious, but obliging to her
tenants, in a word^ such a portress as
we find only in books. Jacques, who
was going out, had requested her to
take his place beside his mother.
She entered quietly for fear of disturb-
ing the patient, received the directions
which the young man gave her in a
low voice, and seating herself near the
bedside, busied her skilful fingers with
her knitting. Old Antoine, the porter,
stopped our friend Jacques at the foot
698
What came of a Prayer.
of the staircase. He was polite, be-
nevolent, attached to his tenants, did
not despise them if they were poor,
and rendered them a service if he
could. He was an old soldier of 1814.
He delighted to speak of the French
campaign, wore with pride the medal
of St. Helena, and showed a seal which
he received at Champaubert. " In re-
membrance of Napoleon," he says,
raising his hat and straightening his bent
figure. I don't know of any fault that
he had except relating too often the
battle of Champaubert.
"Well," said he, "how is Mme.
Durand ?" " Much better," replied the
youth, " she has just fallen into a quiet
sleep, which the doctor declares favora-
ble to her recovery." " God be praised,"
resumes Antoine. "Beg pardon, M.
Jacques, I can tell you now Mme. Du-
rand has made us very uneasy." In
saying this he gave the young man a
cordial shake of the hand, which the
latter heartily returned.
In going out Jacques took the Rue du
Vieux-Colembier, and entered the office
of the Mont-de-piete at the corner
of La Croix-Rouge.
During his mother's illness he had
spent many hard-earned savings, for
you already know he had imposed on
himself the obligation of paying the
debts of the failure, and beside, detained
at home with his mother, he had been
unable to earn anything during the
month. Still the doctor had to be
paid, and medicines bought ; the small
sum advanced by his employer was
nearly exhausted, and he was now
on his way to pawn a silver fork and
spoon. A young girl stood beside him
in the office, and as there were many
to be served before himself, he reliev-
ed the weariness of waiting by watch-
ing her. Her cap had no ribbons, but
was gracefully placed on her light
hair ; a woollen dress, not new, nor of
the latest fashion, but clean and well
kept, a wedding ring (doubtless her
mother's legacy), and a plain shawl,
completed her poor toilette. Jacques
was attracted by her modest air. Some
industrious seams tress, he said to him-
self. As his turn had now come, he
presented the fork and spoon the
value was ascertained and the sum
paid. The girl, following him, drew
from a napkin a half worn cloak, which
she offered with a timid air.
" Ten francs," says the clerk.
" Oh !" said she blushing, " if you
could give me fifteen for it ! See, sir,
the cloak is still good."
"Well, twelve francs ; will you trade
at that price ?"
Having given her assent, she took
the money and the receipt, and went
out. Jacques preceded her, and be-
fore passing out the door, he saw her
dry a tear. " She is weeping," he said
to himself; "I suppose the rent is un-
paid. Poor girl ! Stupid clerk !"
With these reflections he arrived at
the druggist's ; he bought the reme-
dies prescribed by the doctor; then
certain that Mme. Antoine was taking
good care of his charge, he thought he
should have time to say a prayer at
the church of St. Sulpice. Jacques
had a particular devotion to the
Blessed Virgin. It is to her interces-
sion he attributed his mother's cure :
it is before her altar that he knelt.
His prayer was an act of thanksgiving
and a petition for a new favor. His
mother wished him to marry ; he had
often dreamed of cheering her old age
by the affection of a daughter, and he
asked the Virgin to guide him in his
choice.
Happiness disposes the soul to
charity. He thought of the mother-
less, the suffering, arid the sorrowful,
and prayed for them. He remem-
bered the young girl he had just seen
weeping, and prayed for her. At this
moment, a woman kneeling in front
of him rose, and as she passed him to
leave the church he recognized the
young girl. Prayer has the secret of
drying our tears ; her face had resum-
ed its usual serenity. He still prayed
for her : "Holy Virgin, watch over that
child, grant that she may be ever pious
and chaste, and all else shall be added
to her." As he prepared to leave, he
saw a letter beside the chair where
What came of a Prayer.
699
the girl had knelt. He made haste to
rejoin her in order to restore it ; but she
had already left the church. He put
it in his pocket, intending to burn it
when he reached home.
That evening, as he sat by his
mother's side while she slept, here-
viewed the events of the day, accord-
ing to his custom, preparatory to his
examination of conscience. Thus he
recalled the incidents of the morning,
and having drawn the letter from his
pocket prepared to burn it. He ap-
proached the fire and was about to
throw it in. What restrains his hand ?
In the letter he feels something a
piece of gold, perhaps. It was not
sealed ; he opened it, and drew out a
medal of the Blessed Virgin. The
open letter excited his curiosity ; he
was tempted to read it. Do not blame
him too severely, reader, if he yields
to the temptation. He has finished
his perusal, and I see he is affected.
His emotion excites my curiosity, and
I am tempted to read it in my turn.
Will you be angry with me, or will
you be accomplices in my fault?
Here are the contents of the letter :
TO M. LUCIEN EIGAUT, CORPORAL IN THE
110TH REGIMENT, METZ.
" MY DEAR BROTHER : I cannot
send you the hundred francs you /isk
me for. Do not blame me, it is not
my fault ; work is not well paid, and
everything is very dear in Paris, and
you must know last month I had to
pay something to the man who takes
care of mamma's tomb. When you re-
turn I am sure you will be much
grieved if that is neglected. You
shall receive fifty francs. Here are
thirty from me ; the remainder is from
the good Abbe Garnier whom I went
to see, and who wishes also to assist
his extravagant child. At the same
time he gave me for you a medal of
the Blessed Virgin, which you will find
in my letter, and which you must wear
on your neck. That, my naughty
brother, will preserve you from danger
and keep you from sin. Promise me
never more to associate with bad com-
panions, who lead you to the cafes and
who are not too pious, I am sure. You
must say your prayers morning and
night, go to mass on Sunday, confess,
and live like a good Christian. I will
not reproach you for having neglected
your duties, but I am grieved, and if
you could have seen your poor sister
weep I am sure you would reform. Do
you remember when mamma was about
to leave us, and we were beside her
bed restraining our tears that she
might have as a last joy in this world
the smile of her children, how she
made us promise to be always good
and religious? Never forget that prom-
ise, Lucien, for the good God punishes
perjured children. What will you think
of my letter ? Oh, you will call me a
little scold. You will be angry at
first, then you will pardon me ; you
will put the medal around your neck,
and you will write me a good letter to
restore gaiety to my heart. You do
not know how well I have arranged
my room. When you return you will
recognize our old furniture. Mamma's
portrait hangs over the bureau, and I
have placed our first communion pic-
tures on each side. When I have
money I buy flowers, and for four sous
I give to my abode the sweet odor of
the country. Shall I tell you how I
employ my time ? I am an early
riser. First my housekeeping, then
my breakfast ; afterward I hear mass,
and from the church to my day's work.
Thanks to the recommendation of the
Abbe Garnier and of the sister at the
Patronage, I do not want for work.
In the evening, before returning, I say
a prayer in the church ; then my sup-
per, and a little reading or mending
till bed-time. On Sunday after mass
I go to the cemetery to pray at mamma's
tomb, afterward to the Patronage,
where we enjoy ourselves much. I
wish you could see how good the sister
is, how she spoils me, how gently she
scolds me when I am not good, for hi
spite of all my sermons it sometimes
happens that I deserve to be scolded.
You see, brother, that I have no time
to be sad. If in the evening I feel
700
What came of a Prayer.
lonely, I think of God, who is always
near us, of my good friends, of you,
whom I shall see next year, and these
sweet thoughts make me forget the
isolation of my little room. How
proud I shall be to go out leaning on
your arm, and to walk with you on
Sunday in the Luxembourg ! With the
corporal's ribbons and the Italian
medal, I am sure everybody will turn
round to look at you. Do you know
I have made a novena that you may
be made sergeant before the beginning
of next year ? I will send you every
month ten francs to finish paying your
debt. Have no scruples in accepting
them ; it is superfluous money which
would have served to buy gew-gaws.
You do me a favor in taking it , as I
shall be prevented from becoming a
coquette. What shall I say more to
you ? Be good, be a Christian ; but I
have already said that. Do not forget
me, but write often . We must love one
another, since each of us is all the
family of the other. Farewell, Lucien.
" Your affectionate sister,
MADELEINE."
I do not regret having been curious.
I understand the emotion of Jacques.
I am also moved. This letter from a
sister to a brother, so simple and naive,
breathes in every word the perfume of
sincere piety, and in each line is found
the candor of an innocent heart.
When Jacques had finished reading
it, he still lingered before throwing it
into the fire. He wished to read it again.
He read it several times ; then he
shut it up in a drawer, and put the
medal around his neck. He was
charmed. He loved this simple letter,
and he loved, almost without knowing
it, this child whose thoughts had been
accidentally made known to him. He
guessed what the sister did not tell her
brother, the pawning of the cloak to
complete the fifty francs, the priva-
tions to which she submits in order to
send every month the promised ten
francs. " I understand now," said he,
" the secret of her tears. Three francs
are wanting for the required sum."
He was still more moved by her tears
now that he had the secret of them.
" A good Christian girl," thought he. In
his evening prayer she was not for-
gotten.
The following day, as his moth-
er was tolerably restored, he re-
turned to the printing office. As he
worked he thought of Madeleine, and
was sad that he should see her no
more. It was a folly, but who has not
been foolish? A little folly is the poetry
of youth.
Time passed, the impression grew
fainter, but was not effaced. It was
like a dream we try to retain on awak-
ening, but whose brilliant colors fade
by the light of day. Mme. Durand
was fully restored, bat although occu-
pied with the care of the household,
she did not go out, and this explains
why on Easter Sunday Jacques was
alone at high mass in the church of St.
Sulpice. This festival, when the faith-
ful are united in one common joy, dis-
poses the heart to serene impressions.
After having thanked God for his
mother's recovery, he dreamed of a
new affection, and begged the blessed
Virgin to guide him in his choice.
Mass being ended, a young girl on her
knees in front of him rose to leave the
church, and he recognized Madeleine.
He left in his turn, and during the day
he thought of that sweet face, which
had twice appeared to him, as if in
answer to his prayer. It is Madeleine
whom he will marry, her smile shall
make the joy of his Christian fireside ;
still, how is he to see her again ? He
knows not ; the Blessed Virgin, when
she chooses, will bring him back to
her.
In their evening chats, when his
mother made plans of marriage for
him, he never uttered Madeleine's
name.
Again, on one of those mild days
which are the charm of the month of
April, he was walking in the Luxem-^
bourg. It was a beautiful Sunday, the '
lilacs were in flower, and the old gar-
den seemed rejuvenated in its new
dress. As he thought of Madeleine,
What came of a Prayer.
two verses from Brizeux recurred to
his memory :
"Vienne Avril, ct jeunesse, amours, fleurs sont
ecloses;
Dieu sous la memo loi mit les plus belles
choses."
At the turn of a walk, -in a fresh,
simple dress, he saw her once more.
When she had passed he followed her.
He knew not why himself, but an in-
describable charm attracted and re-
tained hun near her. He left the Lux-
embourg, went down the Boulevard
Mont Parnasse, and saw her enter a
house which he recognized as an asy-
lum for young work-women.
One morning, as he stopped at An-
toine's lodging, he saw on his face
traces of sorrow.
"You seem sad," he said to him;
"has any misfortune happened to
you ?"
" No," replied Antoine, " but I am
grieved. A young woman, beg par-
don, who has lived above for two
months, has just fallen ill, of bad fe-
ver, the doctor says. She is a good
girl, M. Jacques a good industrious
girl. She has worked hard and sat up
late, which brought on fever, and when
I think of it I am troubled."
" Is she alone ?" asked Jacques.
" Entirely alone ; but so gay, of a
disposition so sweet, that though poorly
fed and overworked she never com-
i plained. When she passed, morning
and night, she had always a pleasant
word for old Antoine. You will not
Mieve it, but for three days she has
not been down. I have been as much
ifflicted as if she were my own
So saying, he wiped a tear which
'ell on his white mustache.
During the day Jacques recalled
;he words of the old man. He was
sad at the thought of the poor girl,
ick without a friend near her, for
even Antoine was detained at the lodge
during his wife's absence. He did
not know her (and that was not sur-
prising, as in Paris two neighbors of-
ten live strangers to each other) and
had never seen her : he was troubled
701
that she suffered, and tt no one was
near her to alleviate hejjuffering. He
resolved to speak to his mother in the
evening of her case, that she might go
and take care of her. He thought
how Madeleine might fall sick, and
have no one near her. He determined
to confide to his mother the secret of
his love, and to beg her to see Made-
leine and obtain her consent to their
marriage.
In the evening he informed his
mother of their neighbor's illness, and
the next day Mme. Durand took her
place at her bedside. It was a dan-
gerous illness, but youth, good care,
prayer, and a novena to the Blessed
Virgin triumphed, and at the end of
fifteen days she began to improve.
During this time Mme. Durand devot-
ed herself to this sweet, patient child.
When her care was no longer neces-
sary she continued to go every morn-
ing to her patient's room. They
worked and talked together. Mme.
Durand spoke of her son and she of
her mother whom she had lost, and
insensibly a mutual affection sprang
up between them. Jacques listened
with interest to his mother's praise of
the sick child, and was for a moment
distracted from his remembrance of
Madeleine. He had, moreover, that
modesty of true love which shrank
from the avowal of its tenderness.
His mother knew nothing of his love,
and touched by the sweetness and pa-
tience of the young girl whom she had
nursed, hoped she might yet become
her son's wife.
One evening in the month of June
he was walking with his mother in the
gardens of the Luxembourg. He re-
membered his last meeting with
Madeleine, which recalled these verses
of Brizeux :
" Un jeime homine
Natlf clu meme eudroit, travailleur, economc
En voyant sa belle ame, en voyant sou beau
corps
L'airnee : les vieilles gens firent lea deux ac-
cords."
He was about to speak to his mother
of Madeleine when she said to him,
" My son, you are entering your twen-
702
What came of a Prayer.
ty-sixth year, it is time for you to
marry, and if you wish, I should like
to call our neighbor, the young girl
whom I have nursed, my daughter."
" Mother," said Jacques, " I cannot
marry her, I love another." He then
related his simple story, and pronounc-
ed for the first time Madeleine's name.
Mme. Durand listened much moved.
She understood and shared the trust-
ing faith of her son. " My child,"
said she, " it shall be as you desire. I
will go on Sunday to the Patronage."
continued to see her patient often, and
The week passed. Mme. Durand
she, nearly restored, came sometimes
to her apartment at the time Jacques
was at the printing office, for his mother
wished to prevent a meeting which
might perhaps trouble an innocent
heart, But on Saturday, having re-
turned sooner than usual, he found
the young girl in his mother's room.
They con versed a moment, and she with-
drew. In the pallid face he recogniz-
ed the sweet countenance of Madeleine.
When she had gone, he embraced his
mother, weeping and smiling at the
same time. " It is she, it is my sweet
Madeleine." His mother, returning
his embrace, exclaimed, " She shall be
your wife and my daughter."
I must tell you how, on Jacques' re-
turn from work, Mme. Durand went
for Madeleine, how they passed many
a pleasant evening in conversation or
in reading a good book, and under
their mother's eye loved each other
with a pure and earnest love.
At the end of a month Mine. Du-
rand obtained the consent of Made-
leine, but she said nothing to her of
her son's secret, of their meeting, of
the letter, of the feelings so long
cherished, nor of the protection of
Mary, who had brought together these
two Christian souls. This she left for
him to relate one day when he was
alone with his betrothed. She listen-
ed much affected, and you may be sur-
prised to learn that she forgot to ask
for the lost letter and the medal of the
Virgin.
Mme. Durand saw the good abbe
and the sister at the Patronage, and
they approved the marriage. The
consent of the soldier brother was
asked and obtained.
The marriage was to take place in
a few days. " Beg pardon," says An-
toine, " these" two young people were
made for each other a fine match
really. You will not believe me, but I
love them as if they were my own
children."
Lucien came to Paris for the wed-
ding. From the first he made a con-
quest of Antoine. It turned out that
Antoine too had served in the 110th.
The two heroes talked of their cam-
paigns. One related the battle of Cham-
paubert, the other that of Solferino.
The medal of St. Helena fraternized
with the Italian medal ; they drank to
the laurels of the old 110th, to the
triumphs of the new. The veteran
and the conscript became the best
friends in the world.
The great day arrived. The abb6
blessed the union and Antoine gave
away the bride. He straightened his
bent figure ; he put a new ribbon in
his medal. He was prouder than on
the evening of Champaubcrt, when
Napoleon said, "Soldiers of the 110th,
you are heroes ?" Brother Lucien,
with his corporal's badge and his
Italian medal, added much to the bril-
liancy of the cortege. Mesdaraes
Durand and Antoine put on their
richest dresses. What shall we say
of Madeleine in her bridal dress ? of
her veil, and the wreath upon her
auburn tresses ? of the sweet face re-
flecting the purity of an innocent heart
and a chaste love ? of the tears which
flow when the heart is too full? of
the sacred hour when this Christian
couple unite in a common prayer ?
Now they are married they do not
seek pleasures abroad. Their hap-
piness is found in their daily labor,
their evening conversation, or reading ;
on Sunday, after mass, a walk to the
Tuileries, while their mother at their
side smiles on their love. Their
hearts are drawn so near together that
Catholic Progress in London.
703
3y beat in unison, they think and
feel at the same time. At last a child
makes one more joy in this joyous
house one stronger bond between
these united souls. Such is their pure
affection : a love which age can never
wither, a love born of a prayer, and
blest by God.
Jacques has reaped the fruit of his
labor ; he has paid all the debts of the
past, and ease and plenty have return-
ed to the household. He hopes to be
soon taken into partnership with his
employer.
They do not wish to leave the old
house in the Rue du Four-Saint-Ger-
main, so filled with sweet memories,
bu{; they have taken a lower floor,
thay have a large apartment, and are
almost rich. The poor have their
share of their riches.
Lucien, the soldier, has entirely re-
formed, and has risen to the rank of
sergeant. Perhaps he may yet wear
an officer's epaulettes.
Old Antoine grows old, but his
heart remains young ; his figure is
more bent, but he still straightens it
when he speaks of Napoleon, and re-
lates to our friends the battle of Cham-
paubert. He was the godfather of the
little boy. " A fine child," said he
" Beg pardon, we will make a general
of him." "I am willing, I am sure,"
said Madeleine, "but we must first
make him a Christian."
From The London Review.
CATHOLIC PROGRESS IN LONDON.
THERE are few questions upon
which there exists a greater variety
of opinion, and with regard to which
such contradictory statements are pub-
lished, as upon the increase of Roman
Catholicism in the metropolis. There
are those on one hand who believe
that it has made no progress at all,
and that the rumors of " conversions,"
and even those Roman Catholic build-
ings which have of late years sprung
up in such abundance around us, are
not to be taken as proofs of such an
increase in the numbers of Roman
Catholics as the latter at least seem to
indicate. Others believe without doubt-
ing that the Catholic Church is silently
and energetically spreading its rami-
fications over the metropolis, and that
there is hardly a household of any re-
spectability in which its agents, in
some form or other, have not contrived
to get a footing ; while there are per-
sons who go so far as to assert that
many of the Protestant clergy them-
selves are the direct emissaries of
Rome, doing her work, and doing it
consciously nay, doing it under com-
pact while receiving the pay of the
National Church. We believe that
the truth will be found to lie between
these extreme views. Not only has
the Church of Rome gained ground in
London, but it is steadily progressing,
even at the present time, though by
no means at such a rate, except in
certain parishes, as to occasion the
slightest danger to the Protestant cause,
if only a moderate amount of energy
and good will is shown by the Re-
formed denominations in securing their
flocks within their own folds. We
have already stated our belief that the
fact of a clergyman holding High or
Low Church views is not in any man-
ner whatever necessarily connected
with the increase of Catholicism among
his congregation, but that such increase
is owing either to the lack of a suffi-
cient staff of the Protestant clergy to
704
Catholic Progress in London.
repel its advances, or to the apathy or
inefficiency of the incumbent, or, as
may be especially shown in some
wealthy districts, to that mysterious
want of power in the clergy of the
Church of England over the minds
of the rich and influential of their
parishioners. And that this view is
not without some basis in fact, will be
seen when we have described the pres-
ent relative position of the Catholic
and Anglican Churches in the wealthy,
aristocratic, and populous parish of
Kensington, comprising as it does the
three wards of Not ting-hill, Kensing-
ton, and Brompton.
Formerly, for the accommodation of
the whole of the Roman Catholics of
the parish of Kensington, there was
but one small chapel near the High
street, which appeared amply sufficient
for the members of that creed. But
ten or twelve years ago a Roman Ca-
tholic builder purchased, at an enor-
mous price, a plot of ground about
three acres in extent beside the church
of the Holy Trinity, Brompton. For
a time considerable mystery prevailed
as to the uses it was to be applied to ;
but, shortly after the buildings were
commenced, they were discovered to
be for the future residence and church
of the Oratorian fathers, then estab-
lished in King William street, Strand.
As soon as a portion of the building
was finished, the fathers removed to it
from their former dwelling ; and the
chapel, a small and commodious erec-
tion, was opened for divine service.
At first the congregation was of the
scantiest description ; even on Sun-
days at high mass, small as the chapel
was, it was frequently only half filled,
while, on week days, at many of the
services, it was no uncommon circum-
stance to find the attendances scarcely
more numerous than the number of
priests serving at the altar. By de-
grees the congregation increased, till
the chapel was found too small for
their accommodation, and extensive
additions were made to it ; but these,
again, were soon filled to overflowing,
and further alterations had to be made,
till at last the building was capable of
holding without difficulty from 2,000
to 2,500 persons. It is now frequently
so crowded at high mass that it is diffi-
cult for an individual entering it after
the commencement of the service to
find even standing room. ' In the
meantime the monastery itself, if that
is the proper term, was completed
a splendid appearance it presents
and we believe is now fully occupied.
The Roman Catholic population in
the parish, or mission, under the spirit-
ual direction of the fathers of the Ora-
tory, now comprises between 7,000
and 8,000 souls. The average attend-
ance at mass on Sundays is about
5,000, and the average number of
communions for the last two years has
been about 45,000 annually. But in
addition to this church, Kensington
has three others, St. Mary's, Upper
Holland street, St. Simon Stock, be-
longing to the Carmelite Friars, and
the church of St. Francis Assissi in
Notting Hill. Of monasteries, or re-
ligious communities of men, it has the
Oratorian s before mentioned, and the
Discalced Carmelites, in Vicarage
place. Of convents of ladies, it has
the Assumption in Kensington square,
the Poor Clares Convent in Edmond
terrace, the Franciscan Convent in
Portobello road, the Sisters of Miseri-
corde, 195 Brompton road, and the
Sisters of Jesus, 4 Holland villas. Of
schools, the Roman Catholics possess,
in the parish of Ken? ing ion, the Or-
phanage in the Fulham road, the In-
dustrial School of St. Vincent de Paul,
as well as the large Industrial Schools
for girls in the southern ward. All
these schools are very numerously at-
tended, the gross number of pupils
amounting to 1,200, those of the Ora-
tory alone being 1,000. The kindness
and consideration shown by the Ro-
man Catholic teachers to the children
of the poor is above all praise, not only
in Kensington, but in all localities
where they are under their charge.
It might be imagined from this ac-
count of the Roman Catholic institu-
tions in Kensington, that a general
Catholic Progress in London.
705
rush had been made upon that parish,
and that the surrounding districts were
comparatively free from Roman Cath-
olics. Such, however, is very far
from being the case. In the union of
Fulham and Hammersmith we have
the Roman Catholic church of St.
Thomas of Canterbury, the church of
the Holy Trinity, Brook-green, and
the church of Our Lady of Grace,
Tumham-green. Of monasteries there
are the St. Mary's Training College
and the Brothers of Mercy, and for
ladies there is the order of the Good
Shepherd. Of charities and schools
they have the Holy Trinity alms-houses
on Brook-green, a home for aged fe-
males, a refuge for female penitents,
most admirably managed and produc-
ing a most beneficial effect, an excel-
lant reformatory for criminal boys,
the large industrial schools of St.
Vincent de Paul, and a home, St.
Joseph's, for destitute boys. In Bays-
water there is the cathedral of St.
Mary's of the Angels (of Avhich the
celebrated Dr. Manning is the supe-
rior) and the convent of Notre Dame
I de Sion. In Chelsea there is the
church of St. Mary's, Cadogan terrace,
a convent for the Sisters of Mercy,
another for the Third Order of Serv-
ites, as well as two well conducted
and numerously attended schools.
In the united parishes of St. Mar-
i garet's and St. John's, Westminster, a
tew years since, the priests opened
their campaign with considerable en-
ergy. In addition to their church in
the Horsferry road, which was opened
in 1813, they erected those of St. Pe-
ter's and St. Edmond's in Palace
street, the superior priest of the latter
being the celebrated Father Roberts,
a man not only respected for the en-
ergy he shows in the cause of his re-
ligion, but beloved by all classes for
his philanthropy. To these some
schools and convents were added, the
most celebrated of the latter being
that of the Sisters of Charity in Vic-
toria street. At first the priests
seemed to be sanguine of success in
the parish ; but their advance was met
45
by men of as much ability, courage,
and energy as themselves.
On the Surrey side of the water the
Catholic Church has the magnificent
cathedral dedicated to St. George, in
St. George's Fields ; the church of the
Most Holy Trinity, Parker's road,
Dockhead, Bermondsey ; the church
of Our Lady of the Immaculate Con-
ception, Trinity road, Rotherithe ; that
of Our Lady of La Salette and St. Jo-
seph, Melior street, Southwark ; and the
church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus,
Windham street, Camberwell ; beside
several others in Peckham, Clapham,
Lambeth, and the surrounding dis-
tricts. Of communities of men there
are the Capuchines at Peckham and at
Clapham, the Redemptorists, and the
Brothers of the Christian Schools.
Of convents they have the Religious
of the Faithful Virgin at Norwood,
which also comprises an orphanage ;
the order of the Sisters of Mercy in
Bermondsey ; the order of the Sisters
of the Christian Retreat, St. Joseph's,
Kennington ; the Little Sisters of the
Poor, Fentiman road, Lambeth ; beside
one or two others of minor importance.
Ic should also be remarked that all these
establishments, with one or two excep-
tions, have sprung up within the last
ten or twenty years. Of the numbers of
the congregations of the different
churches it would be difficult to form
a just idea, but they are certainly very
great; that properly attached to St.
George's cathedral alone we have
been assured, on most reliable Roman
Catholic authority, amounting to
12,000 or 13,000. The number of
children attend ing the schools is doubt-
less proportionably great.
In the north-eastern portion of the
metropolis, we find the Roman Catho-
lics, although they have lately built
several new churches, are fully occu-
pied in holding their own ground with-
out exerting themselves to make con-
verts. And here, opposed as we are
to their creed on doctrinal points, it
would be unjust to withhold our meed
of praise to the exertions of the priests
in relieving the temporal miseries of
706
Catholic Progress in London.
their poor. It would be difficult to
imagine charitable efforts carried on
more indefatigably or nobly. Few
who have not visited and personally
inspected the different courts and alleys
in the neighborhood of Spitalfields,
Bethnal-gi een, St. George's-in-the-
East, and Ratcliffe Highway, inhabited
as they are by the poor Irish, can have
an idea of the abject poverty which
reigns in them, or the amount of pa-
tience, courage, and Christian feeling
necessary to relieve it. Yet all this
is cheerfully performed by the Roman
Catholic priesthood, their energies ap-
pearing to increase in proportion as
the difficulties and dangers before
them become greater. It would per-
haps be an injustice to their body in
this district to select any for notice in
preference to the rest ; but we cannot
refrain from making special mention
of the labors of the Rev. Father
Kelley, of Ratcliffe Highway, and the
Rev. Father Chaurain, of Spitalfields,
into the results of whose exertions we
have made personal investigation.
In the northern districts of the me-
tropolis, especially in Islington and its
surrounding neighborhoods, the Roman
Catholics appear to have made con-
siderable progress. They have lately
built several new churches as well as
houses for religious communities, both
for men and women. That their pro-
gress in the metropolis is not solely
the result of the High-Church practices
in the establishment may be presumed
from the fact that, although the in-
habitants of Islington and its vicinity
are particularly noted for their attach-
ment to Low-Church principles, Catho-
licism has gained more ground there
than in localities where Puseyism is
dominant. In the north-western dis-
tricts it does not appear to have in-
creased, though the churches are well at-
tended, and the congregations apparent-
ly very numerous. That of one of the
largest, Our Lady's church, in St. John's
Wood, is 6,000, and the children in the
schools 600. In the central districts
of London Roman Catholic churches
are very numerous and proportionate-
ly well attended ; those in Moorfields,
and those in the neighborhood of Co-
vent Garden and Piccadilly, being par-
ticularly so.
One of the most effective means em-
ployed by the Roman Catholics to
make the conversions is the opening of
schools for the education of children of
the poor ; nor do they hesitate to admit
that these schools are not only open to
the children of their own persuasion, but
to all who may choose to avail them-
selves of them. This is clear from the
speech of the late Cardinal Wiseman
at the Roman Catholic Congress
held at Malines in the autumn of
1863. Speaking of the hundreds of
ragged children, scarcely knowing
their parents, he had been accustomed
to meet in the different lanes and alleys
of the poorer London localities, he
says : " We are doing all we can
to gather these poor little outcasts to-
gether, and to give them Christian
training. The schools in which they
are taught, and to which I am at pres-
ent alluding, are themselves situated
in a truly fearful spot, Charles street,
Drury lane. We owe them in a great
measure to the great zeal of the fath-
ers of the Oratory. Their cost has
been no less than 12,000. The Re-
ligious Sisters from Tournay, with a
devotion truly heroic, have undertaken
the care of the girls' school. For
some time past we have had the con-
solation of seeing increased, by 1,000
a year, the number of children attend-
ing our schools for the poor; there
still remain 17,000 poor children who
attend no school."
The Catholic Church judges rightly
that a few years hence the children
under its care will not only augment
the number of adult members of its
faith, but will proportionately swell
their ranks in the next generation.
Nor is this danger to the Protestant
cause to be despised. Ah 1 their schools
are admirably managed, and the chil-
dren in them are treated with the
greatest kindness and consideration.
We have visited several, and in all
we remarked a great affection and re-
Catholic Progress in London.
707
spect existing in the minds of the
pupils for their teachers, the latter not
considering that their duties are over
when the classes are dismissed, but
afterward entering into their amuse-
ments and occupations with great pa-
tience and good humor. We late-
ly visited unexpectedly the school
alluded to by Cardinal Wiseman,
and although lessons were over we
found one of the masters in the large
play-room busily employed in in-
structing a dozen of the most rag-
ged urchins it would be possible to
find in that squalid and impoverished
locality in the mysteries of spinning
peg-tops. Such acts of kindness to
children are not forgotten when
they grow up, and a better means of
binding them to their faith when
adults it would be impossible to
imagine.
In Gate street, Lincoln's Inn-fields,
is another school of the same descrip-
tion. We have watched its progress
since its establishment, and marked
the great increase in the number of
its scholars. It commenced with very
few, but must now number several
hundreds. Those in Drury-lane have
more than four hundred children,
among whom, perhaps, not ten before
the buildings were erected were receiv-
ing any instruction whatever. All
the Roman Catholic charities appear
to be admirably managed ; their or-
phanages especially so. Those of the
Sisters of Charity in Victoria street,
Westminster, and Norwood, consider-
ing the comparatively small means at
the disposal of their priesthood, are
perfect models of what institutions of
the kind ought to be; at the same
time, it must not be imagined that the
Roman Catholic charities in London
are solely of a description calculated
to obtain con verts to their creed. Their
reformatories for fallen women and
their exertions for the relief of the
sick are worthy of the highest praise.
An hospital, with a church attached,
solely for chronic and incurable dis-
eases, has for some time been estab-
lished in Great Ormond street, at the
expense of a gentleman of wealth.
The hospital is under the care of the
prioress and sisters of the Order of
St. John of Jerusalem, and we never
saw an infirmary of the kind better
managed. A large staff of nuns nurse
the sick ; and not only are their num-
bers greater in proportion to those of
the patients than in any of our metro-
politan hospitals, but their attention
and kindness to those under their
charge might serve as a model to many
of our Protestant institutions of a sim-
ilar character.
708
A Vanishing Race.
From Chambers's Journal.
A VANISHING RACE.
THE residence of Captain C. F. Hall
in the arctic regions, and his explora-
tions among the solemn and majestic
wastes surrounded by the " hyperbo-
rean seas," have invested the Esqui-
maux with a degree of interest which
they had never previously excited.
The savage inhabitants of the more
beautiful and fertile regions of the
earth have been observed by travellers
with close and careful attention, which
leads to hopeful efforts for their civi-
lization. As the map of the world is
opened up to our comprehension, new
schemes and prospects for the advance
of the human race are opened with it ;
savans, artists, missionaries, merchants,
gird themselves to the contest with the
material and moral conditions of the
peoples yet, though the world's day
has lasted so long, in their infancy,
whose unknown future may contain
histories as brilliant as those of the
civilizations of the present and the
past. But there is a race who have
not excited such hopes, who have not
given rise to such exertions a race
whose life of unimaginable hardship
gives them a mysterious resemblance
to the phantoms of mythological belief,
and places them beyond the reach of
the sympathies of civilization by its
physical conditions, the amelioration
of which is impossible. Beyond the
stern barrier which nature has set in
the northernmost part of her awful
realm, behind the terrible rampart of
.snow and ice, and storm and darkness,
these creatures of her wrath, rather
than of her bounty, dwell. To reach
their land, the traveller must leave
behind him every familiar object, and
abandon every habit or need of ordin-
ary life. He must bid farewell to
green trees, to fertile fields, to the
rops which give food to man and
beast, to the domestic animals, to every
mode of conveyance, to every imple-
ment of common use, to food anc
clothing such as even the poorest anc
roughest sons of a less terrible clime
may command ; to the thousand voices
of nature, even in its secluded nooks,
It is a mockery to speak of the arc-
tic regions as the land of the Esqui-
maux, for nowhere on the earth is man
less sovereign. Here nature is in-
deed grand beyond conception, but also
terrible, implacable, and impenetrable.
She sets man aside in her awful scorn;
he is a thing of no moment, a cum-
berer of the ice-fields, learning the
simple lessons whereby he supports
his squalid existence from the brutes,
which are lordlier than he, inasmuch
as the ice-slavery is no chain of servi-
tude to them ; and heedless of him, of
his terrible hunger and destitution, of
his hopeless isolation, she builds her
ice-palaces upon the seas, and locks the
land in her glittering ice-chains, and
flings her terrific banners of flame
wide against the northern sky; and
sends her voice abroad, without a tone
of pity in its vibrations, sounding
through the troubled depths of the wa- '
ters and the rent masses of the many-
tinted icebergs. Nature is indeed
beautiful in her northern strongholds, j
but her beauty shows only its terribl
aspects, its dread grandeur. The fac
of the mighty mother does not softe
into a smile for the feebleness of he
youngest-born offspring, but is fixed ii
its awful sublimity. There is no poin 1
of contact between this ice-kingdon
and European civilization, and men o
our race and tongue shrink from i
with an appalled sadness, for has it no
been the tomb of many of our brav
and beloved? Three centuries ago i
earned that evil reputation, which, ii
the then elementary state of geographi
cal knowledge, and the general pref
alence of superstition, assumed a weir j
and baleful form. It has but increase!
A Vanishing Race.
709
in degree, though differing in kind, in
our days, and we think of the arctic
regions as the sepulchre of the beloved
dead, the land toward which the heart
of England yearned, and which kept
pitiless silence through long years of
hope deferred. But of its people we
do not think ; we are satisfied to have
but a vague notion of them ; to won-
der, amid the many marvels of that
mighty problem the distribution of
the human race how human beings
ever found their way to those dread-
ful fastnesses, more cruel in their ex-
action of human suffering than the des-
ert and the forest. This indifference
gives way when we learn what man-
ner of people these are whom we call
Esquimaux, a word which signifies
"eaters of raw food," but who call
themselves Innuit, or "the people,"
and explain their own origin by a
story which is a pleasing testimony to
the common possession of self-conceit
by all nations. They say that the
Creator made white men first, but ^s
dissatisfied with them, regarded them
as worthless unfinished creatures, and
straightway set about making the In-
nuit people, who proved perfectly sat-
factory.
Captain Hall lived among this
strange race for two years and a half,
! and he is about to return and prose-
cute his researches in Boothia and
, King William's Land. This time, his
object is to trace the remnants of the
Franklin expedition, which as he
finds the history of the few events
which have ever marked the progress
of time in that distant land handed
down by oral tradition with extraordi-
nary distinctness he has no doubt of
being able to do. His first journey
was in search of relics of the Fro-
bisher expedition, and was as success-
ful as it was daring, patient, and per-
severing. His experiences were
strange in all respects, and in many
most revolting ; but we owe much to
this cheerful, courageous, simple-
hearted American gentleman, who has
revealed the Esquimaux to us as Cap-
tain Grant has revealed the African
tribes, and oriental tourists the dwell-
ers in the deserts. There is poetical
harmony in the stern conditions of life
among the Innuits; there is the im-
press of sadness and of sterility upon
them all. Time itself changes its
meaning in a land where
" The eun starts redly np
To shine for half a year,"
and dim wintry twilight lasts through-
out the other half, and hunger is the
normal state of the people. The trav-
eller's route is to be traced on the
map, which is mere guess-work hith-
erto, up the western side of Davis's
Strait ; and once away from Holstein-
borg, the journey assumes all its sav-
age features. The terrible icebergs
rear their menacing masses in the
track of the ship ; the sun pours its
beams upon them, and bathes them in
golden light ; they appear in fantastic
shapes of Gothic cathedral, of battle-
mented tower, of clear single-pierced
spire, of strong fenced city, of jewel-
mountain, of vast crystal hills ; and
so, as the voyager leaves art and civi-
lization behind, their most supreme
forms flash a mirage-like reminiscence
upon him, intensifying the contrast of
the prospect, and luring him to a fran-
tic and futile regret.
A grand and terrible confusion
reigns around ; the voyager shrinks
from the overwhelming scene, where
ranges of mountains, islands, rocks,
castles, huge formless masses, and gor-
geous prismatic lights, surround that
laboring speck upon the mystic sea,
of whose littleness he is so small an
atom; and a strange sense, which is
not fear, but awe, comes to him with
the knowledge that nothing of this
sublime confusion is real, on the hori-
zon or beyond it. For all the time of
his stay in the arctic regions he is to
be surrounded by contradictions, by
the sublimest manifestations of nature,
by the lowest conditions of humanity,
by gorgeous and majestic optical delu-
sions, and by the hardest and most
grovelling facts of daily existence;
he must share, to their fullest extent,
the relentless physical needs of the
710
A Vanishing Race.
people, and live, if he would live at all,
in close contact with them and yet his
solitude must be inwardly profound
and unapproachable ; his purposes un-
intelligible to his associates ; and their
language, elementary in itself, dimly
and scantily comprehended by him
even in its most sparing forms. All
this without any of the alleviations of
life among savages hi southern coun-
tries without the warmth, which, if
sometimes oppressive, is ordinarily
grateful without the rich and genial
beauties of nature without the re-
sources of sport without the natural
fruits of the earth without the intel-
lectual occupation of speculating upon
development, of ascertaining capabili-
ties, or of investigating sources of
wealth. The civilized dweller in arc-
tic regions has none of these. He be-
holds, with admiration so solemn as to
be painful, the unapproachable dig-
nity and hard implacable stillness of
nature; but he never dreams of
treasure to be wrested from the cells
of the ice-prison ; he seeks the dead
the dead of centuries ago the
dead of a decade since, to be found,
it may be, incorporated with their froz-
en resting place ; for the fiat of na-
ture arrests decay in these terriblo re-
gions, where death and life are always
at close gripes with one another.
While the mind is ceaselessly impress-
ed with sadness and solemnity, the
body asserts its claim to superiority;
it will not be forgotten or neglected,
for cold encompasses it with unrelax-
ing menace of death, and hunger
preys upon the vitals, whose heat
wanes rapidly in the pitiless climate,
and which crave for the nutriment so
hard to procure, so repulsive when
procured.
Toil is the law of the ice-clad land
toil, not to wrest from the bosom of
the earth her children's sustenance,
but to tear from the amphibious crea-
tures, from whom they have learned
how to shelter themselves from the
cold, and whose skins cover them, the
unctuous flesh, which they devour
raw in enormous quantities. The
Innuit are, on the whole, a gentle
people, driven by the relentless need
and severity of their lives into close
and peaceful companionship. They
have no king, no government, no law,
no defined religion, no property ; they
have, for all these, custom the oldest
law ; they are animated by the same
spirit that dictated the reply once
made to one who sat by Jacob's well :
" Our fathers worshipped in this
mountain, and we worship." As " the
old Innuits " did, so do their succes-
sors. They have no bread, no medi-
cine, no household furniture ; they are
poor human waifs upon the wide
white bosom of the frozen seas ; and
they have, no help or resource but in
the seal, the walrus, the white bear,
the rein -deer, and the wonderful Esqui-
maux dogs, which are by far the
noblest living creatures in all those
sterile wastes. From the seal they
have learned to make the iffloo, which
is the house of the Innuit. They eat
the flesh of this animal, and drink its
fresh warm blood ; they kill its young,
and eagerly swallow the milk of the
mother, found in the stomach of the
baby seal. When the sudden summer
comes, and the snow melts, and leaves
the surface of the ice bare, they are
houseless ; the igloo melts away ; their
home is but of frozen water, and sud-
denly it disappears. Then they have
recourse to the tupic, which is a huge
sheet of skins hung across a horizontal
pole, supported at either end. Their
bed is a snow platform, strewn with
the moss which is the rein-deer's food,
and covered with skins. Their choic-
est dainties are the fat of the tuktoo,
or rein-deer, the marrow procured by
mashing the bones of the legs, and the
thick, white, unctuous lining of the
whale-hide.
The interior of an igloo presents a
picture more repulsive than that of any
African hut or Indian wigwam, more
distressing to human feelings and de-
grading to human pride. The igloo is
a dome-shaped building, made of ice-
blocks, with an aperture in the roof,
and a rude doorway at one side, closed
A Vanishing Race.
711
with ice-blocks, when the inmates are
assembled. The snow platform which
forms the bed is occupied by the wo-
men and the stranger. Men and wo-
men are clad in skins, put together
with neatness and ingenuity. The
1 dress of the sexes differs only in two
1 particulars ; that of the women is fur-
I nished with a long tail, depending
from the jacket, and has a sort of
hood, in which loads and children are
carried. The life of the infant is pre-
served by its naked body being kept
in contact with that of the mother.
One household implement they pos-
j sess it is a stone lamp ; something
like a trough, with a deep groove in
j it, in which the dried moss, used as a
wick, floats in the seal oil, expressed
by the teeth of the women from lumps
of blubber, which they patiently "mill"
] until the precious unguent is all pro-
cured. But this lamp too often fails
them, and darkness and hunger take
up frequent abode with the Innuit.
Days and nights are passed by the
men, sitting singly, in death-like still-
mess and silence, by the hole which
they have found, far under the snow,
! at which the seal will " blow." It is
strange and terrible to think of those
watches, in the midst of the desola-
tion, under that arctic sky, with the
cold dense fog now swooping, now
lifting, in the enforced stillness, with
famine gnawing the watcher, and fa-
mine at home in the igloo, and the
chance of food depending on the sure-
ness of one instantaneous stroke, down
through the snow, through the narrow
orifice in the ice, into the throat of the
mimal with the sleek skin, and the
nournful human eyes, which vainly
mplore mercy from raging hunger.
When the Innuit brings the seal to
he igloo, a crowd invades the nar-
ow space, for the simplest hospitality
)revails, and the long watch, the skil-
ul stroke, do not constitute sole owner-
iip of the prize. / The skin is stripped
ff the huge unsightly carcass, and a
lorrible scene ensues. The flesh is
orn or cut with the stone knives in
arge lumps, and having been first
licked by the women, to remove any
hairs or other adhesive matter, 13 dis-
tributed to the party, and devoured
raw ; the blood is drunk, the bones are
mashed, the entrails are greedily eaten,
the dogs sharing in all ; and the blubber
is made to yield its oil by the disgust-
ing process already described. One
turns silenced from the picture ; from
the sights, and sounds, and scents ; from
the vision of dark faces, eager with
gluttonous longing, gathered round the
red, flaring light ; from the skin-
clothed bodies, reeking with grease
and filfrh, and the foul exhalations of
the mutilated animal ; from the lumps
of flesh torn by savage hands, and
crammed dripping into distended
mouths ; from the steaming blood, and
the human creatures who rapturously
quaff it in the presence of the white
man, who sits among them and feeds
with them, whose heart yearns with
dumb compassion for them, who has
wonderful scientific instruments in his
pockets, and his Bible in his breast
As the seal teaches the Innuits the art
of housing themselves, so the white
bear teaches them how to kill the wal-
rus, their most plentiful and frequent
food, when the ice is drifting, and the
unwieldy creatures lie upon the blocks
close inshore ; then the bear climbs
the overhanging precipice, and taking
a heavy block in his deft forepaws, he
hurls it with rare skill and nicety of
aim upon the basking monster below.
So brutes train men in those dreadful
regions, arid not men brutes. The life
of the Innuits is full of such contradic-
tions. And their deaths ? From the
contemplation of these one turns away-
appalled, for they die in utter soli-
tude.
When Captain Hall first heard of
this horrible custom, he started off at
once to see its truth ; and having re-
moved the blocks with which the door-
way had been built up, entered an
igloo, and found a woman who had
yet many days to linger thus fastened
up in her living tomb. Again, hear-
ing that a woman had been abandoned
to die, at a great distance, he set forth,
712
Miscellany.
and having reached the spot with
immense difficulty and danger, he man-
aged to remove the snow and the
block which closed the hole in the top
of the igloo, lowered himself into it, and
found the woman dead, and frozen as
hard as her bier and her tomb, with a
sweet serene smile upon the marble
face. So this is the close of a life of
toil and privation the withdrawal of
every kindred face, the fearful solitude
of the ice-walls, the terrible arctic dark-
ness and silence, and the frozen corpse
lying unshrouded, naked, beneath the
frozen skins, until the resurrection.
Surely the angel of death is an angel
of mercy there, and does his errand
gently, bearing away the lonely, ter-
rified spirit to the city of gold, the
gates of pearl, the jasper sea, the land
where there is no darkness, physical
or mental, for evermore. The earth,
always pitiless to them, which never
feeds them from her bosom, does not
suffer her dead children of the Innuit
people to sleep their last sleep in her
lap. Their graves are only blocks of
ice piled around and above the corpses,
which remain unharmed, unless when
the blocks melt, as they sometimes do,
and the wolves, dogs, or bears gain
access to the frozen remains. The
Innuits are dying out ; disease is mak-
ing havoc among them ; consumption,
formerly unknown, is thinning their
numbers by its S!OAV, furtive, murder-
ous advance ; their children are few,
and fewer still are reared; and the
long story of awful desolation draws to a
close. Who can regret it ? Who can do
aught but desire that the giant wastes of
the arctic regions should be left to the
soulless creatures of God ; that the
great discord between them and human
life has ceased to trouble the harmony
of creation ; that the mystery of such
an existence is quietly laid at rest,
among the things which " we know
not now, but which we shall know
hereafter?"
MISCELLANY.
SCIENCE.
A New Kind of Mirror. The Cfomical
News states that M. Dode, a French
chemist, has introduced platinum mir-
rors, which are greatly admired, and
which present this advantage, that the
reflecting metal is deposited on the
outer surface of the glass, and thus any
defect in the latter is concealed. The
process, which is patented in Paris, is
described as follows : Chloride of pla-
tinum is dissolved in water, and a cer-
tain quantity of oil of lavender is added
to the solution. The platinum imme-
diately leaves the aqueous solution and
passes to the oil, which holds it in sus-
pension in a finely divided state. To
the oil so charged the author adds
litharge and borate of lead, and paints
a thin coat of this mixture over the
surface of the glass, which is then car-
ried to a proper furnace. At a red heat
the litharge and borate of lead are
fused, and cause the adhesion of the
platinum to the softened glass. The
process is very expeditious. A single
baking, M. Dode says, will furnish 200
metres of .glass ready for commerce.
It would take fifteen days, he says, to
coat the same extent with mercury by
the ordinary plan.
African Silkworm. A silkworm before
unknown in Europe has been introduced
into France from Senegal, and without
suffering from change of climate. It
yields a richer silk than that of any
other worm known to naturalists, and
its cocoons are twice the ordinary
weight. It is to be tried in Algiers,
and if successful there, this new and
rich silk may become in time an import-
ant article of commerce.
Science in a Balloon. Mr. Glaisher has
Miscellany.
713
given, in a lecture at the Royal Institu-
tion, a resume of his scientific experi-
ments in balloons. Tables recording
the decline of temperature with eleva
tion, show that when the sky was clear
a more rapid decline took place than
when the sky was cloudy. Under a
clear sky, a fall of 1 takes place with-
in 100 feet of the earth, but at heights
exceeding 25,000 feet it is necessary to
pass through 1,000 feet of vertical
height to obtain a fall of 1 in tempera-
ture. At extreme elevations, in both
states of the sky, the air became very
dry, but as far as his experiments went,
was never quite free from water. From
ascents made before and after sunset,
Mr. Glaisher concludes that the laws
which hold good by day do not hold
good by night ; indeed, it seemed pro-
bable that at night, for some little dis-
tance, the temperature may increase
with elevation, instead of decreasing.
From experiments made on solar radia-
tion with a blackened bulb thermome-
ter, and with Herschel's actinometer, it
was inferred that the heat rays from the
sun pass through space without loss,
and become effective in proportion to
the density or the amount of water
present in the atmosphere through
which they pass. If this be so, the
proportion of heat received at Mercury,
Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn may be the
same as that received at the earth, if
the constituents of their atmospheres
be the same as that of the earth, and
greater if the amount of aqueous vapor
be greater, so that the effective solar
heat at Jupiter and Saturn may be
greater than at either the inferior plan-
ets, Mercury or Venus, notwithstanding
their far greater distances from the sun.
This conclusion is most important as
corroborating Professor Tyndall's ex-
periments on aqueous vapor. Experi-
ments on the wind showed that the
velocity of the air at the earth's sur-
face was very much less than at a high
elevation. A comparison of the tem-
perature of the dew point, as shown by
different instruments, gave results prov-
ing that the temperatures of the dew
point, as found by the use of the dry
and wet bulb thermometers, and Dan-
iell's hygrometer, are worthy of full
confidence as far as the experiments
went.
The Eruption of Mount Etna. At a
recent meeting of the Paris Academy of
Sciences, an important letter was read
from M. Fouque" to M. Saint-Claire Deville
on the eruption of Etna, which has pre-
sented several phenomena of great sci-
entific interest.
The eruption commenced at half-past
ten on the evening of January 31. On
the previous day two successive shak-
ings of the earth had been noticed.
Just before the eruption began a violent
earthquake was felt, the wave travelling
to the north-east ; after this, slight oscil-
lations continued until about 4 A.M.
Large flames now rose from a point on
the north-east side of Etna 5,500 feet
above the snow line, and lava began to
flow rapidly. In two or three days the
lava traversed a space of 19,000 feet,
with a width of from 10,000 to 12,-
000, and a variable thickness, but often
reaching to the depth of 30 or 60 feet.
After destroying for some distance every-
thing in its passage, the current of
lava struck one of the old craters, and
then bifurcated, The stream on the
west side moved very slowly, and, be-
coming subdivided, it nearly ceased to
move ; the stream on the east s^de fell
over a deep and precipitous valley,
which it soon filled, being then able to
continue its progress, until finally it was
stopped by a lava mound of a previous
eruption.
The number of the craters is seven ;
of these five form a vast elliptical en-
closure, the major axis of which is di-
rected toward the north-east. A deep
fissure, 1,500 feet in length, opened from
the base of a former crater, Frumento, to
the nearest of the present cones. This
chasm, M. Fouque" shoAvs, was probably
formed by the shock at the commence-
ment of the eruption. This fissure, and
also a depression of the crater Frumento,
is in a right line with the major axis of
the ellipse formed by the craters. The
same general fact has been several times
noticed in previous eruptions.
The vapors attending an eruption
have been divided into the dry, contain-
ing chiefly chloride of sodium and no
water, the acid, which contain a large
amount of watery vapor, the alkaline,
and the carbonic. The first indicates the
maximum, and the last the minimum of
volcanic action. Each of these varieties
of vapor, succeeding in their order, were
noticed at this eruption. M. Fouque
found the dry vapor upon the still in-
candescent lava ; the acid vapor in those
parts where the temperature was over
714
Miscellany.
400; the alkaline, where the tempera-
ture was lower, but generally over 100 ;
and finally, carbonic acid has been de-
tected in one of the adjacent old craters,
which was at the ordinary temperature.
The first three varieties of vapor were
thus found upon the same transverse
section of the lava, less than 150 feet
distant from each other. In all these
vapors the atmospheric air which ac-
companied them was deprived of part
of its oxygen, generally containing only
from 18 to 19 per cent., and in some al-
kaline vapors the proportion was still
less.
In this eruption there was a remarka-
ble absence of sulphur and its com-
pounds ; chemical tests as well as the
sense of smell could detect no trace of
them. The eruption indeed was char-
acterized by the absence of the com-
pounds of sulphur and the abundance of
the compounds of chlorine. Hydro-
chlorate of ammonia, which w T as found
in abundance, has generally been
regarded as exclusively belonging to
the alkaline vapors; but here it has
been discovered among the other
varieties, whilst the alkaline vapors
were distinguished by the carbonate
rather than by the hydrochlorate of
ammonia.
At the present time, M. Fouque* writes,
the eruption is most active in the four
lowest craters ; these throw liquid lava
into the air, and emit a nearly colorless
smoke ; the three superior craters eject
solidified lava and black stones, at the
same time pouring out a dense smoke
charged with aqueous vapor and brown-
colored ashes.
The three higher craters produce
every two or three minutes a very loud
report resembling the rolling of thun-
der; the four lower craters, on the
contrary, send forth a rapid succession
of ringing sounds, which it is impossible
to count. These sounds follow each
other without any cessation, and are
only to be compared to the noise pro-
duced by a series of blows from a ham-
mer falling on an anvil. If the ancients
heard these noises in former eruptions,
it is easily conceivable how they imag-
ined a forge to exist in the centre of the
volcano, with Cyclops for the master
workman. The lava is black, rich in
pyroxene, and strongly attracted by a
magnet. Since the commencement of
the eruption, the central crater of Etna
has emitted white vapors, which contin-
ually cover its summit. Several good
photographs of the eruption have been
taken by M. Berthicr, who accompanied
M. Fouqu6 in his explorations, which
were by no means unattended with
danger.
M. Saint-Claire Deville then made
some observations on this paper. He
explained the almost entire absence of
sulphur by the fact that M. Fouque" only
examined the vapors from the lava.
These nearly always contain chlorine for
their electro-negative element, and
scarcely show, and that not until later,
sulphuretted and carbonic vapors. Af-
ter the eruption of Vesuvius in 1861,
very light deposits of sulphur were found
covering the hydrochlorate of ammonia,
which shows that the former body is
not absent from the lava. The exis-
tence of hydrochlorate of ammonia in
the emanations does not necessarily
exclude that of the vapors of hydro-
chloric and sulphuric acids.
Magnetism of Iron-dad Ships. Staff-
Commander Evans, of the British navy,
and Mr. Archibald Smith, who have
devoted themselves for several years to
investigations into the character of the
magnetism of iron-built and armor-
plated ships, have embodied the results
of their studies in an interesting paper
read at a recent meeting of the Koyal
Society. It is well known that iron
ships have been very difficult to navigate
because of the disturbing effect of the
iron upon the compass, and serious acci-
dents have happened in consequence.
But underwriters, and the whole naval
profession, will be glad to hear that the
difficulty and risk are now greatly
lessened, if not entirely removed. For
the results established by the paper in
question are That it is no longer ne-
cessary to swing a ship in order to ascer-
tain the compass deviation, or error,
seeing that it is possible to determine
the various forms of error by mathemat-
ics ; that an iron ship should always be
built with her head to the south ; if
built head north, there is such a confused
amount of magnetism concentrated in
the stern as to have a violent disturbing
effect on the compass; that if, after
building, a ship is to be armor-plated, \
the head, during the fixing of the plates, i
should be turned in the opposite direc-
tion that is, to the north ; and that
especial pains should be taken while ;
building an iron ship to provide a suit-
New Publications.
715
able place for the standard-compass.
Beside these particulars, the shot and
shell stowed in the vessel, the iron
water-tanks, and, indeed, all the iron
used in her interior fittings, are to be
taken into account ; and it is satisfactory
to know that the influence exerted on
the compass by any one or all of these
I conditions can be ascertained, and
j allowed for, as in the other cases above
mentioned.
Explained. The London
Header gives the following explanation
of a curious experiment in optics which
has been performed at one of the Lon-
! don theatres under the name of " Eidos
JSides," and reproduced in New York
under the appellation of " Gyges." It
consists in causing an actor or an inan-
imate object which is in full view of the
audience at one moment to disappear
instantly, and then to reappear with the
same rapidity. The means by which
i this is accomplished are very simple,
and are to some extent similar to those
used in exhibiting " Pepper's Ghost."
A sheet of plain unsilvered glass is
placed upon the stage, either upright or
inclined at a suitable angle, at the place
where the actor or object is to disap-
pear. This glass is not perceived by
the audience, and it does not interfere
with their view of the scenery, etc.,
behind the plate. A duplicate scene
representing that part of the back of the
stage covered by the glass is placed at
the wing, out of sight of the spectators.
With the ordinary lighting of the stage
the reflection of this counterfeit scene in
the glass is too faint to be observed ;
but when a strong light is thrown upon
the scene, the stage lights being lowered
at the same time, the image becomes
visible. This duplicate scene being an
exact fac-simile of the background of the
stage, the change is not noticed by the
audience, the only difference being that
they now see by reflection that which
they saw a moment previously by direct
vision. The actor, standing a sufficient
distance behind the glass, is completely
hidden from view, and he is again ren-
dered visible by turning down the light
on the false scene and allowing the
stage lights to predominate. When
"Eidos ^Eides" was being performed
at Her Majesty's Theatre, it was, how-
ever, possible, with a good opera-glass,
to distinguish the outline of the figure
behind the plate. The effects produced
may of course be modified. An actor
may be made to appear walking or fly-
ing in the air, or dancing on a tight-
rope, by eclipsing or obscuring a raised
platform on which he may be placed.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
HISTORY OF ENGLAND FROM THE FALL
OF WOLSEY TO THE DEATH OF ELIZA-
BETH. By James Anthony Froude,
M.A., late fellow of Exeter College,
Oxford. Volumes I. and II. 8vo., pp.
447 and 501. New York: Charles
Scribner & Company.
In these two luxurious volumes we
liave the first instalment of an import-
ant work upon the most important
period of English history. Six other
(volumes are to follow. Mr. Froude is
i thorough good Protestant. His main
ourpose in this history seems to have
leen the glorification of the English re-
? ormers. For the worst sovereigns of
he house of Tudor he displays an en-
thusiastic admiration which, one is
tempted to believe, is half genuine sen-
timent, and half love of paradox.
Catholics, of course, he could not have
expected to satisfy; but he has gone
too far to please even the members of
his own Church. Of Henry VIII.,
whose apologist he has appropriately
been called, he draws a flattering por-
trait :
"If Henry VIII.," he says, "had
died previous to the first agitation of
the divorce, his loss would have been
deplored as one of the heaviest misfor-
tunes which had ever befallen the coun-
try ; and he would have left a name
which would have taken its place in
history by the side of that of the Black
716
New Publications.
Prince or of the conqueror of Agin-
court. Left at the most trying age,
with his character unformed, with the
means at his disposal of gratifying
every inclination, and married by his
ministers when a boy to an unattrac-
tive woman far his senior, he had lived
for thirty-six years almost without
blame, and bore through England the
reputation of an upright and virtuous
king. Nature had been prodigal to
him of her rarest gifts. In person he
is said to have resembled his grand-
father, Edward IV., who was the hand-
somest man in Europe. His form and
bearing were princely ; and amidst the
easy freedom of his address, his manner
remained majestic. No knight in Eng-
land could match him in the tourna-
ment except the Duke of Suffolk ; he
drew with ease as strong a bow as was
borne by any yeoman of his guard ;
and these powers were sustained in un-
failing vigor by a temperate habit and
by constant exercise." His state papers
and letters lose nothing by comparison
with those of Wolsey and Cromwell.
He was an accomplished musician ; he
wrote and spoke in four languages ; he
was one of the best physicians of his
age, an engineer, and a theologian.
" He was * attentive,' as it is called,
' to his religious duties,' being present
at the services in the chapel two or
three times a day with unfailing regu-
larity, and showing to outward appear-
" ance a real sense of religious obligation
in the energy and purity of his life."
In private he was good-humored and
good-natured. But " like all princes
of the Plantageuet blood, he was a per-
son of a most intense and imperious
will. His impulses, in general nobly
directed, had never known contradic-
tion ; and late in life, when his charac-
ter was formed, he was forced into
collision with difficulties with which
the experience of discipline had not
fitted him to contend." " He had ca-
pacity, if his training had been equal
to it, to be one of the greatest of men.
With all his faults about him he was
perhaps the greatest of his contempor-
aries."
Mr. Froude does not believe that the
king's scruples respecting the validity
of his marriage with Catharine of Ara-
gon were inspired by his affection for
Anne Boleyn. " They had arisen to
their worst dimensions before he had
ever seen Anne Boleyn." But Mr.
Froude's narrative of the king's early
intercourse with Anne is extremely un-
satisfactory, not to say disingenuous.
How long Henry may have cherished
his scruples in secret, our author affords
us no means of guessing ; but the earliest
intimation which he finds of an intend-
ed divorce was in June, 1527. It was
in 1525, he says, that Anne came back
from France and appeared at the Eng-
lish court. This is an error, and is in-
consistent with other statements in the
same chapter ; the date was 1522 ; and al-
most immediately afterward the king be-
gan to pay Anne marked attention. Her
celebrated love-passage with Lord Percy
took place in 1523. Mr. Froude speaks of
it as follows : " Lord Percy, eldest son of
Lord Northumberland, as we all know,
was said to have been engaged to her.
He was in the household of Cardinal
Wolsey ; and Cavendish, who was with
him there, tells a long romantic story of
the affair, which, if his account be true,
was ultimately interrupted by Lord
Northumberland himself." Now what
will be thought of our author's honesty
when we say that Cavendish repeats
again and again that the match was
broken off by command of the Icing f Lord
Northumberland did not appear in the
matter at all until Wolsey, by his maj-
esty's orders, had remonstrated with the
young nobleman, and threatened him
with dire consequences if he should
persist in a pursuit which was displeas-
ing to his sovereign. Mr. Froude care-
fully suppresses all allusion to inter-
course between the king and his fair
favorite, until the project of the divorce
was well advanced, not discussing or
discrediting the statements of other
historians respecting Henry's early pas-
sion for Anne Boleyn ; but simply put-
ting them behind his back, as matters
of which it did not suit his purpose to
take notice. This fashion of writing
may do for romance, but not for his-
tory.
In demanding a divorce from^h
first queen, Henry has, as we might
suppose, Mr. Froude's full approval :
"It may be admitted, or it ought to
be admitted, that if Henry VIII. had
been contented to rest his demand for a j
divorce merely on the interests of the i
kingdom ; if he had forborne, while his
request was pending, to affront the
princess who had for many years been
his companion and his queen ; if he
had shown her that respect which her
New Publications.
717
high character gave her a right to de-
mand, and which her situation as a
stranger ought to have made it impos-
sible "to him to refuse, his conduct
would have been liable to no imputa-
tion, and our sympathies would with-
out reserve have been on his side. . .
. . His kingdom demanded the secu-
rity of a stable succession ; his con-
science, it may not be doubted, was se-
riously agitated by the loss of his chil-
dren ; and looking upon it as the sen-
tence of heaven upon a connection the
legality of which had from the first
been violently disputed, he believed
that he had been living in incest and
that his misfortunes were the conse-
quence of it. Under these circum-
stances he had a full right to apply for
a divorce."
'With all its faults, Mr. Froude's book
tells many wholesome truths in a very
forcible manner. Here is an admission
which from such an out-and-out Prot-
estant we should hardly have looked
for ; he is speaking of religious perse-
cution :
" We think bitterly of these things,
and yet we are but quarrelling with
what is inevitable from the constitution
of the world. . . . The value of a
doctrine cannot be determined on its
own apparent merits by men whose
habits of mind are settled in other
forms ; while men of experience know
well that out of the thousands of theo-
ries which rise in the fertile soil below
them, it is but one here and there which
grows to maturity ; and the precarious
chances of possible vitality, where the
opposite probabilities are so enormous,
oblige them to discourage and repress
opinions which threaten to disturb es-
tablished order, or which, by the rules
of existing beliefs, imperil the souls of
those who entertain them. Persecution
has ceased among ourselves, because we
do not any more believe that want of
theoretic orthodoxy in matters of faith
is necessarily fraught with the tremen-
dous consequences which once were sup-
posed to be attached to it. If, how-
ever, a school of Thugs were to rise
among us, making murder a religious
service ; if they gained proselytes, and
the proselytes put their teaching in
execution, we should speedily begin
again to persecute opinion/ What
teachers of Thuggism would appear to
ourselves, the teachers of heresy ac-
tually appeared to Sir Thomas More,
only being as much more hateful as
the eternal death of the soul is more
terrible than the single and momentary
separation of it from the body. There
is, I think, no just ground on which to
condemn conscientious Catholics on the
score of persecution, except only this :
that as we are now convinced of the in-
justice of the persecuting laws, so among
those who believed them to be just,
there were some who were led by an in-
stinctive protest of human feeling to be
lenient in the execution of those laws ;
while others of harder nature and more
narrow sympathies enforced them with-
out reluctance, and even with exulta-
tion."
The following extract from an ac-
count of the feelings of the mass of the
English people during the early stages
of the divorce affair, must be rather un-
palatable to the High-Church Episco-
palians :
" They believed and Wolsey was,
perhaps, the only leading member of
the privy council, except Archbishop
Warham, who was not under the same
delusion that it was possible for a na-
tional church to separate itself from the
unity of Christendom, and at the same
time to crush or prevent innovation of
doctrine ; that faith in the sacramental
system could still be maintained, though
the priesthood by whom those mysteries
were dispensed should minister in
golden chains. This was the English
historical theory handed down from
William Rufus, the second Henry, and
the Edwards ; yet it was and is a mere
phantasm, a thing of words and paper
fictions, as Wolsey saw it to be. Wolsey
knew well that an ecclesiastical revolt
implied, as a certainty, innovation of
doctrine ; that plain men could not and
would not continue to reverence the
office of the priesthood, when the priests
were treated as the paid officials of an
earthly authority higher than their
own. He was not to be blamed if he
took the people at their word ; if he be-
lieved that, in their doctrinal conserva-
tism, they knew and meant what they
were saying ; and the reaction which
took place under Queen Mary, when
the Anglican system had been tried and
failed, and the alternative was seen to
be absolute union with Rome, or a for-
feiture of Catholic orthodoxy, proves
after all that he was wiser than in the
immediate event he seemed to be ; that
if his policy had succeeded, and if,
718
New Publications.
strengthened by success, lie had intro-
duced into the Church those reforms
which he had promised and desired, he
would have satisfied the substantial
wishes of the majority of the nation."-
From an introductory chapter on the
social condition of England in the early
part of the sixteenth century, we extract
the following graphic passage, as an
example of Mr. Froude's fascinating
style. Doubtless most of our readers
will agree with us in wishing that so
graceful a pen had been more worthily
employed :
" The habits of all classes were open,
free, and liberal. There are two expres-
sions, corresponding one to the other,
which we frequently meet with in old
writings, and which are used as a
kind of index, marking whether the con-
dition of things was or was not what it
ought to be. We read of ' merry En-
gland' ; when England was not merry,
things were not going well with it. We
hear of the ' glory of hospitality,' En-
gland's pre-eminent boast, by the rules
of which all tables, from the table of the
twenty-shilling freeholder to the table
in the baron's hall and abbey refectory,
were open at the dinner hour to all
comers, without stint or reserve, or
question asked : to every man, accord-
ing to his degree, who chose to ask for
it, there was free fare and free lodging ;
bread, beef, and beer for his dinner ; for
his lodging, perhaps, only a mat of
rushes in a spare corner of the hall, with
a billet of wood for a pillow, but freely
offered and freely taken, the guest pro-
bably faring much as his host fared,
neither worse nor better. There was
little fear of an abuse of such licence,
for suspicious characters had no leave
to wander at pleasure ; and for any man
found at large, and unable to give a
sufficient account of himself, there were
the ever-ready parish stocks or town
gaol. The ' glory of hospitality' lasted
far down into Elizabeth's time ; and
then, as Camden says, 'came in great
bravery of building, to the great beau-
tifying of the realm, but to the decay' of
what he valued more.
" In such frank style the people lived,
hating three things with all their hearts :
idleness, want, and cowardice ; and for
the rest, carrying their hearts high, and
having their hands full. The hour of
rising, winter and summer, was four
o'clock, with breakfast at five, after
which the laborers went to work, and
the gentlemen to business, of which they
had no little. In the country every un-
known face was challenged and exam-
ined, if the account given was insuffi-
cient, he was brought before the jus-
tice ; if the village shopkeeper sold bad
wares, if the village cobbler made ' un-
honest' shoes, if servants and masters
quarrelled, all was to be looked to by
the justice; there was no fear lest time
should hang heavy with him. At
twelve he dined ; after dinner he went
hunting, or to his farm, or to do what
be pleased. It was a life unrefined,
perhaps, but colored with a broad, rosy
English health."
THE AMERICAN ANNUAL CYCLOPEDIA
AND REGISTER OF IMPORTANT EVENTS
OP THE YEAR 1864. 8vo., pp. 838.
New York : D. Appleton & Company.
The Annual Cyclopedia grows more
and more valuable and interesting every
year. The present volume is a great im-
provement upon all that have gone be-
fore it. The course of events has been
unusually varied and startling, and
the topics suggested by it appear to
have been for the most part selected
with good judgment and treated by
competent writers. We have under the
head of "Army Operations" an ad-
mirable history of Sherman's great
march and of Grant's campaign in the
wilderness, both illustrated with maps.
The article on the " Army of the Unit-
ed States " abounds in information re-
specting the number of troops, organi-
zation, supplies, department and corps
commanders, etc., such as everybody
wants to have, but nobody knows
where to look for. Under the titles of
"Confederate" and "United States
Congress " we have a complete political
history of our country during the last
year, while the condition and progress
of the several foreign states are treated
in their proper places. A great deal of
interesting matter is given in the
articles on the "Anglican" and
"Greek" Churches, " Commerce " and
"Commercial Intercourse," "Diplomatic
Correspondence and Foreign Relations,"
"Finances of the United States,"
"Freedmen," "Freedom of the Press,"
"Geographical Explorations and Dis-
coveries," " Literature and Literary Pro-
gress," "Military Surgery and Medi-
cine " (profusely illustrated), " Navy,"
"Ordnance," "Petroleum," etc., etc.
New Publications.
719
ler the head of " Public Documents "
is the most correct translation of the
Pope's Encyclical and syllabus of er-
rors condemned that has yet appeared
in this country. Biographical sketches
are also given of the most distinguished
men who died during the course of the
year.
SONGS FOB ALL SEASONS. By Alfred
Tennyson. With illustrations by D.
Maclise, T. Creswick, S. Eytinge, C.
A. Barry, H. Fenn, and G. Perkins.
16mo., 'pp. 84. Boston : Ticknor &
Fields.
HOUSEHOLD POEMS. By Henry "W.
Longfellow. With illustrations by
John Gilbert, Birket Foster, and
John Absolon. 16mo., pp. 96. Bos-
ton: Ticknor & Fields.
The series of " Companion Poets for
the People," of which these two vol-
umes are the first issues, deserves speci-
al commendation as an example of the
, way in which cheapness and elegance
may be combined. For half a dollar
| Messrs. Ticknor & Fields offer us a neat
| little book, printed in the best style of
typography, on rich tinted paper, with
\ a clean broad margin, and some twelve
or fifteen wood-cuts by reputable ar-
| tists. The selections appear to have
been made with good judgment, and
! include some late pieces of both Tenny-
son and Longfellow which are not to be
found in previous editions of their
works.
THE HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT
REFORMATION IN GERMANY AND
SWITZERLAND, AND IN ENGLAND,
IRELAND, SCOTLAND, THE NETHER-
, FRANCE, AND NORTHERN Eu-
PE. IN A SERIES OF ESSAYS, RE-
EWING D'AUBIGNE, MENZEL, HAL-
BISHOP SHORT, PRESCOTT,
E, FRYXELL, AND OTHERS. By
J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop
Baltimore. Fourth revised edition,
o volumes in one. 8vo., pp. 494
and 509. Baltimore: John Murphy
& Company.
We welcome this new and improved
edition of the best antidote that has
yet been prepared for English readers
to the common misrepresentations of
Protestant historians of the reformation.
Archbishop Spalding's book has
been so long before the public, and has
been received with such general favor,
that it would be superfluous at this late
day to enter upon a general examination
of its merits. It will prove a valuable
guide to the student of English and
continental history ; he will find here
the chief points mado against the
Church, by the long list of writers named
in the title-page, taken up and answered
by a prelate of high reputation for
sound and thorough scholarship. Dr.
Spalding of course does not deny that
there were abuses in the 16th century
which ought to have been abolished;
but he contends that the gravity and
extent of these disorders have been great-
ly _ exaggerated ; that they generally
originated in the world and its princes,
not in the Church ; most of them being
due to the fact that bad men were
thrust into high ecclesiastical places by
worldly-minded and avaricious sover-
eigns; that there was a lawful and effi-
cacious remedy for all such evils, which
consisted in giving to the popes their
due power and influence in the nomina-
tion of bishops and in the deliberations
of general councils; in a word, that
"reformation within the Church, and
not .revolution outside of it, was the only
proper, lawful, and efficacious remedy
for existing evils ;" and finally, " that
the fact of Christians having at length
felt prepared to resort to the desperate
and totally wrong remedy of revolution
was owing to a train of circumstances
which had caused faith to wane and
grow cold, and which now appealed
more to the passions than to reason,
more to human considerations than to
the principles of divine faith and the
interests of eternity."
THE YEAR OF MARY; OR, THE TRUE
SERVANT OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN.
Translated from the French of Rev.
M. d'Arville, Apostolic Prothonotary.
Edited, and in part translated, by
Mrs. J. Sadlier. 12mo. Philadelphia:
Peter F. Cunningham.
This is a work intended for the use
either of private persons or of confra-
ternities, sodalities, and similar associa-
tions formed in honor of the Blessed
Virgin. The matter is distributed into
exercises, the number of which is fixed
at seventy-two, because our Lady is
supposed to have lived seventy-two
years on earth. One exercise is appro-
priated to each of the Sundays and
principal festivals of the year.
720
New Publications.
The reverend author writes with sim-
plicity and unction, and has given us a
really devout book. The translation
seems to be very well done.
CEREMONIAL, FOR THE USE OF THE
CATHOLIC CHURCHES IN THE UNITED
STATES OF AMERICA. Published by
order of the First Council of Balti-
more, with the approbation of the
Holy See. Third edition, carefully
revised and considerably enlarged.
With illustrations. 12mo., pp. 534.
Baltimore : Kelly & Piet.
This book is almost indispensable to
clergymen, and very convenient for lay-
men who wish to understand the beau-
tiful ceremonies which the Church has
appointed for the various festivals and
services of the ecclesiastical year. It was
originally compiled by Bishop Rosati,
of St. Louis, and formally adopted by
the council of Baltimore in 1852. The
extensive additions which are now pub-
lished with it Avere made by direction
of the late Archbishop Kenrick, of Bal-
timore. They consist of the ceremonies
of low mass, low mass for the dead, and
the manner of giving holy communion
within the mass or at other times ; in-
structions for the priest who is obliged
to say two masses, from the decrees of
the sacred congregation of rites, ap-
proved under the present pope; the
manner of singing mass without deacon
and sub-deacon, and the vespers without
cope-bearers, in accordance with ap-
proved usages of the best-regulated
churches in Italy ; the mode of giving
benediction with the blessed sacrament,
in which the ceremonial of bishops and
the various decrees of the sacred con-
gregation of rites are strictly followed ;
Gregorian notes to guide the celebrant
and sacred ministers in singing the
prayers, gospel, epistle, confiteor, etc.
The illustrations, intended to show
the proper form of various church uten-
sils, church furniture, etc., constitute a
valuable feature of the book.
MEDITATIONS AND CONSIDERATIONS FOR
A RETREAT OF ONE DAY IN EACH
MONTH. Compiled from the writings
of Fathers of the Society of Jesus, by
a Religious. Published with the ap-
probation of the Most Rev. Arch-
bishop of Baltimore. 18mo., pp. viii.,
154. Baltimore : Kelly & Piet.
This little book is designed for the
use not only of religious communities,
but of persons in the world who may
feel disposed to devote a day now and
then exclusively to the affairs of their
souls. The exercises consist of three
meditations and a " consideration," for
each month in the year, arranged after
the manner of the exercises of St. Ig-
natius.
STREET BALLADS, POPULAR POETRY,
AND HOUSEHOLD SONGS OF IRELAND.
16mo., pp. 312. Boston: Patrick
Donahoe.
The poems contained in this little
volume are by a great number of au-
thors, and of course of very different de-
grees of merit. Most of them are of a
patriotic nature ; a good many are ama-
tory ; and two or three seem to have no
business in the collection at all. For
example, Lieut-Colonel Halpine's "Ap-
ril 20, 1864," is a poem of the American
rebellion. Mr. John Savage's "At
Niagara " is certainly neither a street
ballad nor a household song, nor is it
part of the popular poetry of Ireland
any more than of our own country.
We dare say, however, that nobody will
feel disposed to quarrel Avith the editor
for including these spirited pieces, as
well as others we might mention, which
do'not properly belong under the cate-
gories mentioned in the title-page.
Among the best known writers whose
names appear in the table of contents
are William Allinghain, Aubrey De
Vere, Samuel Fergusson, Lady Wilde,
Gerald Griffin, and Clarence Mangan.
THE MONTH OF MARY, FOR THE USE OF
ECCLESIASTICS. Translated from the
French. 32mo., pp. 207. Baltimore:
John Murphy & Company.
This little manual is intended exclu-
sively for ecclesiastics, especially stu-
dents in theological seminaries. It
sets forth, for each day of the month,
some trait of the life of the Blessed
Virgin, first as an object of veneration
and love, secondly, as a model of some
virtue of the clerical state, and finally,
as a motive of confidence. It is brief,
suggestive, and practical.
The Man without a Country (Boston :
Ticknor & Fields) is a reprint in pam-
phlet form of a remarkable narrative
which appeared originally in The At-
lantic Monthly.
THE
CATHOLIC WOELD.
VOL. L, NO. 6. SEPTEMBER, 1865.
From The Dublin Review.
THE CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS OF ALEXANDRIA. ORIGEN.
Opera Omnia. Ed. De la
Rue, accurante J. P. MIGNE. Paris.
Origenes, Eine Darstellung seines Le-
bens und seiner Lehre, von Dr.
REDEPENNING. ( Origen: A History
of his Life and Doctrine. By Dr.
1 REDEPENNING). 1841. Bonn.
^!N a former article we have given
some account of the labors and teach-
ing of Pantcenus and Clement in the
twenty years after the death of Mar-
cus Aurelius (180-202), during which
the Church enjoyed comparative peace.
Commodus was not a persecutor, like
his philosophic father. Personally, he
was a signal instance of the total
break-down of philosophy as a train-
ing for a prince imperial ; for what-
I ever advantages the most enlightened
j methods and the most complete estab-
Ilishment of philosophic tutors could
I afford were his, probably to his great
disgust. But the Church has often
found that an imperial philosopher is
something even worse than an impe-
rial debauchee. Pertinax and Didius
Julianus, who succeeded Commodus,
had little time either for philosophy or
pleasure, for they followed their prede-
cessor, after the violent fashion so pop-
War with conspirators and Praetorians,
in less than a twelvemonth. Septimius
Severus, the first, and, with one ex-
ception, the only Roman emperor who
was a native African, during the ear-
lier years of his reign protected the
Christians rather than otherwise. How
and why he saw occasion to change
we shall have to consider further on.
During these twenty years of tran-
quillity the great Church of Alexan-
dria had been making no little pro-
gress. Her children had not been en-
tirely undisturbed. The populace, and
sometimes the magistrates, often did
not wait for an imperial edict to set
upon the Christians, and the commo-
tions that followed the death of Corn-
modus were the occasion of more than
one martyr's crown. We learn from
Clement of Alexandria, speaking of
this very time of comparative quiet,
that burnings, beheadings, and cruci-
fixions took place "daily;" whereby
he seems to point to some particular
local persecutions. But the Alexan-
drian Church, on the whole, was left
in peace, and was rapidly extending
herself among the student population
of the city, among the Greeks, but,
above all, among the poorer classes of
the native Egyptians. Christianity
seems to have spread in Egypt with a
722
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
rapidity almost unexampled elsewhere,
and historians have taken much pains
to point out that this was the effect of
the considerable agreement there is
between the asceticism of the early
Church and that of the native worship.
Without discussing the point, we may
note that rapidity of extension was the
rule, not the exception, when an
apostle was the missionary; and
that the Alexandrian Church was
founded by direct commission from
St. Peter, and, therefore, shared with
Borne and Antioch the distinction of
being the mother-city of Christianity.
Moreover, the Nile valley, which above
the Delta is nowhere more than eleven
miles in width, contained a teeming
population, the whole of which was
thoroughly accessible by means of the
river itself. For nearly five hundred
miles every city and town, every least
village and hamlet, stood right on the
banks of the great water-way ; and it
is probable that half the inhabitants
of Upper Egypt and the Thebaid were
often floating on its bosom at one and
the same time. The high road that
was so serviceable for traffic and
pleasure could be made of equal ser-
vice to religion. How unweariedly
the successors of St. Mark must have
traversed it from end to end may be
read in the history of those lauras and
hermitages that at one time were to
be found wherever its rocky barriers
were indented by a sandy valley, and
wherever the old builders of Thebes
and Memphis had left a quarried
opening in the limestone. There was
not a stronger contrast between these
monastic dwellings and the bosom of
the gay river than ^ere was between
Egyptians Christian and Egyptians
pagan. If the Church's converts
rushed into the deserts and the caves,
it was not especially because they liked
them, but because there was absolutely
no other means of getting out of a so-
ciety not to be matched for immorality
except, perhaps, by pagan Rome at
its very worrit. Of the number of
Christians in Alexandria itself at the
commencement of the third century
we can only form an approximate
judgment. On the one hand, Euse-
bius tells us that the Church had
spread over the whole Thebaid. As
the Thebaid was the southern division
of Egypt proper, and, therefore, the
most distant from Alexandria, we may
safely say as much, at least, for the
Delta and Middle Egypt. On the
other hand, we are told by Origen
that the Christians in the city were
not so numerous as the pagans, or
even the Jews. This will not appear
surprising if we recollect that the Al-
exandrian Jews were more numerous,
as well as richer and more powerful,
than any other Jewish community in
the world. We know enough to bo
quite sure that the Alexandrian
Church was working quietly but vig-
orously. From the heads of the Cat-
echetical school down to the humblest
little child that was marked out by
baptism in the great city of sin, there
was a great work going on. The im-
pulse that Pantsenus and Clement
were giving was felt downward and
around, and when Origen begins to
rise on the scene, we can mark what
an advance there has been even in the
short twenty years since the death of
Marcus Aurelius.
Septimus Severus had reigned for
ten years, as we said above, before he
began to persecute. He was undoubt-
edly an able and vigorous emperor;
he could meet his enemies and get rid
of his friends, bribe the Praetorians
and slaughter his prisoners of war,
with equal coolness and generally
with equal success. In the course of
a reign of twenty years he seems to
have visited with hostile intent the
greater part of his extensive empire,
from the Syrtes of Africa, where he
was born, to the banks of the Euphra-
tes, and thence to Britain, where he
died, at York, A.D. 211. At the time
we speak of (198) he had just con-
cluded a brilliant campaign against
those pests of the Roman soldiery, the
Parthians ; and having then engaged
the Arabs, still in arms for a chief
whose head he had had the pleasure
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
723
of sending to Rome twelve months be-
fore, had got rather the worst of it in
two battles. It was between this and
the year 202 that he visited Alexan-
dria. There can be no doubt he must
have been received at Alexandria with
no little triumph by one class of its
citizens. Some six years before, he
had restored to the Greek inhabitants
their senate and municipal privileges.
The Greeks, who, as far as intellect
went, were the indisputable rulers of
Alexandria, must have been highly
elated at being now restored to civil
importance ; for though their senate
was little more than an ornament, and
their municipal rights confined to hold-
ing certain assemblies for the discus-
sion of grievances, still, to have a re-
cognized machinery of wards and
tribes, and to be called " men of Mace-
don," as of old, was not without ad-
vantage, and was, indeed, all that their
fathers had presumed to seek for, even
in the days of the lamented Ptolemies.
We cannot doubt, therefore, that by
the Greeks Severus was received
with much enthusiasm, and he, on his
part, seems to have been equally sat-
isfied with his reception, for we find
that he enriched Alexandria with a
temple of Rhea, and with public baths
which he named after himself. But
more came of this visit than compli-
ments or temples. It was an hour of
favor for the Greeks; the chief among
them were also the chiefs and ruling
spirits of the university ; we know
they must have come across Christian-
ity during the preceding twenty years
in many ways, but chiefly as a teach-
ing that was gaining ground yearly
among their best men ; as philoso-
phers, we know they loathed it ; as
worshippers of the immortal myths,
they were burning to put it down.
Does it seem in any way connected
with these facts that Severus at this
very time changes his policy of mild-
ness, and issues a decree forbidding,
under severest penalties, all conver-
sions to Christianity or Judaism ?
There is something suggestive in the
juxtaposition of facts, and it is not at
all impossible that the commencement
of the fifth persecution was a compli-
ment to Clement of Alexandria. Sev-
erus, indeed, must have frequently
come into contact with Christianity
himself during the three or four years
he spent in Syria and the East ; he
could not have visited Antioch, Edessa,
and Ca?sareawithoutbeing obliged to no-
tice the development of the Church. The
Jews, too, had given him a great deal
of trouble, which may account for that
part of the edict which affected them,
and perhaps the Montanist fanatics
had helped to irritate him against the
name of Christian. However these
things may be, the prohibition, though
apparently moderate in its scope, was
the signal for the outburst of a tre-
mendous persecution. Ltetus, the pre-
fect of Alexandria, was so zealous in
his work, that it is impossible not to
suspect that he was acting under the
very eye of his imperial master. He
was not content with torturing and
slaying in the city itself, but sent his
emissaries up the Nile to the very ex-
tremity of the Thebaid to hunt up the
Christians and send them by boat-
loads to the capital for judgment arid
punishment Numbers of the Alex-
andrian Christians fled to Palestine
and elsewhere on the first intimation
of danger. Pantaanus, who had re-
turned from his Indian mission, had
perhaps already left Alexandria ; but
Clement was at the head of the Cate-
chisms, and he was of the number of
those who fled. The great school was for
a time broken up. The functions of the
Church were suspended for want of
ministers, or prevented by the impos-
sibility of meeting in safety. It was
taught in the Alexandrian Church that
if they were persecuted in one city,
they should flee into another ; and,
just at this time, the Motanist error,
that it was unlawful to flee from per-
secution, caused this teaching to be
acted upon with less hesitation than
usual ; and so, in the year 202, Chris-
tians in Alexandria, from being a com-
paratively flourishing community, be-
came a proscribed and secret sect.
724
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
It would be very far from the truth,
however, to suppose that the teachings
of the Catechetical school had not
been able to form martyrs. We know
that multitudes stood up for their faith
and shed their blood for it at Alexan-
dria, during the first years of this
persecution, and this amidst horrors
so unusual even with persecutors, that
it was thought they portended the com-
ing of the last day. The name of Po-
tamiana alone will serve to raise asso-
ciations sufficient to picture both the
heroism of the confessors and the enor-
mities of the tyrants. But there is
another name with which we are more
nearly concerned at present. Leoni-
des, the father of Origen, was one of
those Christians who had not fled from
the persecution. He was an inhabi-
tant of Alexandria, a man of some
position and substance, and when the
troubles began he was living in Alex-
andria with his wife and family. It
was not long before he was marked
down by Lcetus and dragged to prison.
The martyr's crown was now within
his grasp ; but he left behind him in
his desolate home another who was
burning to share it by his side. His
son, Origen, was not yet seventeen
when his father was torn away by the
Roman soldiers, and, in spite of the
entreaties of his mother, he insisted up-
on following him to prison. His mother
finally kept him beside her by a device
which may raise a smile in this gene-
ration. She "hid all his clothes,"
says Eusebius, and so compelled him
to stop at home. But his zeal was all
aroused and on fire, and, indeed, in
this, the earliest incident known to us
of his life, we seem to read the zeal
and fire of the man that was to be.
He sent a message to his father in
these words, " Be sure not to waver on
our account." The exact words seem
to have been handed down to us, and
Eusebius, who gives them, probably
received them from Origen's own disci-
ples in Csesarea of Palestine. The
boy well knew what would be the
martyr's chief and only anxiety in his
prison. The thought of the wife and
seven young children whom he waa
leaving desolate would be a far bitter-
er martyrdom than the Roman pris-
ons. But Leonides gloriously perse-
vered, confessed the faith, and was
beheaded, while the whole of his pro-
perty was confiscated to the emperor.
Origen, as we have said, was not
quite seventeen years old at his father's
martyrdom, having been born about
the year 185. Both his father and
mother were Christians, and apparent-
ly had dwelt a long time in Alexan-
dria. He had therefore been brought
up from his infancy in that careful
Christian training which it is the pride
and joy of a good and earnest Chris-
tian father to bestow upon his son.
The traces of this training, as we find
them in Eusebius, are touching in the
extreme. Leonides, to whom the
teachings of Clement had made the
Holy Scriptures a very fountain of
life and sweetness, made them the
principal means of the education of
his son. Every day the child repeat-
ed to his father a portion of the holy
books, and was instructed according
to his capacity. Knowing what, in af-
ter life, was to be Origen's connection
with the Holy Scriptures, we are not
surprised to find that his father soon
began to experience some difficulty in
answering his questions. The boy,
with true Alexandrian instinct, was
not content with the bare letter of the
book ; he would know its hidden mean-
ing and prophetic sense. Leonides
discouraged these questions and specu-
lations, not, it would seem, because he
disapproved of them, but because he
sensibly thought them premature in
so young a child. But in the secret
of his heart he was full of joy to see
the ardor, eagerness, and amazing
quickness of his dear child, and often,
when the boy was asleep, would he
uncover his breast and reverently kiss
it, as the temple of the Holy Spirit.
It is of very great importance for the
right comprehension of the great Ori
gen to bear in view this picture of his
tender youth, and to reflect that he
was no convert from heathenism, no
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
Christianized philosopher, whose ear-
ly notions might from time to time be
expected to crop up in the field of his
orthodoxy, but a Christian child, born
and bred in the Church's bosom, brought
up by a father of unquestioned ability,
who died a martyr and is honored as
a saint. Origen began to think right-
ly as soon as he could think at all ;
his early education left him nothing to
forget, As he grew up and began to
be familiar with Alexandria the beau-
tiful, he received that subtle education
of the eye and imagination that every
Alexandrian, like every Athenian,
succeeded to as an heirloom. But
with the heathen philosophers he had
nothing to do, and it may be question-
ed whether he ever entered the walls
of the Museum. His father had not
neglected to teach him the ordinary
branches of Greek learning. He at-
tended the lectures of Clement, those
brilliant and winning discourses, half
apology, half exhortation, that he him-
self was afterward to emulate so well.
He heard Pantaenus, also, after the
venerable teacher had returned from
his Indian mission. We may be sure
that he dreaded worse than poison tho
society of the pagan youth of the uni-
versity; this his subsequent conduct
proves. But he had his circle of
friends, and among them was a young
man, somewhat older than himself, who
was hereafter to leavfc an undying
name as St. Alexander of Jerusalem.
Thus, by ear and eye, by master and
by fellow-student, by his father's labor,
and by the workings of his own won-
derful intellect and indomitable will,
he was formed into a man. His edu-
cation came to a premature end ; but
his father's martyrdom, though to out-
ward seeming it left him a destitute
orphan, really hardened the boy of
seventeen into the man and the hero.
" When his father was martyred,"
continues Eusebius, writing, in all
probability, from the relation of those
who had heard Origen's own account,
"he was left an orphan, with his
mother and six young brothers and
sisters,, being of the age of seventeen.
725
All his father's property was confis-
cated to the emperor's treasury, and
they were in the utmost destitution ;
but God's providence took care of Ori-
gen." A rich and illustrious lady of
Alexandria received him into her
house. Whether this lady was pro-
fessedly a Christian, a pagan, or a here-
tic, history does not say. She can hard-
ly have been a pagan, though it is not
impossible that a philosophic and lib-
eral pagan lady should have taken a
fancy to help such a youth as Origen.
It is not likely that she was a heretic,
for in that case Origen would never
have entered her door. Thanks to
the Gnostics, heretics in those days
were looked upon in Alexandria as
more to be dreaded than pagans. She
was probably, by outward profession
at least, a Christian, "illustrious,"
says the historian, "for what she had
done, and illustrious in every other
way." What she had done we are not
permitted even to guess ; but one fact
in her history we do know, and it is
very significant. She had living in
her house, on the footing of an adopt-
ed son, one Paul, a native of Antioch,
and one of the chiefs of the Alexan-
drian heretics. It is certain that Ori-
gen's patroness must have had either
very uncertain or very easy notions oi
Christianity, if she could lend her
house, her money, and her influence to
an arch-heretic, who had come from
Syria to trouble the Church of Alex-
andria, as Basilides and Valentine had
come before him. Gnosticism had
probably lost ground in the city, un-
der the eloquent attacks of St. Clem-
ent. This Paul was a man of great
eloquence, and his reputation attracted
great numbers to hear him, not only
of heretics, but also of Christians. He
came from Antioch, the headquarters
of an unknown number of Gnostic
sects, and, with the usual instinct
of false teachers, he had " led cap-
tive" this Alexandrian lady. Mark,
of infamous memory, had already
done the same thing by others, and
perhaps by her, and Paul had suc-
ceeded to his position and was now
726
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
the rival of the head of the Catechisms.
Such a state of things makes it easier
to understand why St. Clement, in his
Stromata, calls those who lean to her-
esy " traitors to Christ," and compares
perverts to the companions of Ulysses
in the sty of Circe, and why he makes
the very treating with heretics to be
nothing less than desertion in the soldier
of Christ. It does seem a little
strange, at first sight, that the uncom-
promising Origen should have con-
sented to receive assistance from one
whose orthodoxy must have been in
such bad odor. The difficulty grows
less, however, if we consider the cir-
cumstances. It was in the very heat
of a terrible persecution, when the
canons of the Church must have been
suspended. Origen had lost his father,
and had nowhere to turn for bare sub-
sistence. We can hardly wonder if,
in such a strait as this, he asked few
questions when the charitable lady
wished to take him in. But when the
grief and agitation of his orphaned
state had somewhat subsided, and
when the persecutors had begun to
slacken their fury, we may suppose
that he began to examine the harbor
of his refuge, and that it pleased him
not. He was under the same roof as
Paul of Antioch, a heretic and a lead-
er of heretics ; but never, young as
he was, could he be induced to asso-
ciate with him in prayer, or in any
way that could violate the canons of
the Church, as far as it was possible
to keep them in such times. " From
his childhood," says his biographer,
" he kept the canons, and execrated
the teachings of heretics;" and he
tells us that this last phrase is Origen's
own. And it seems that he took the
most energetic measures to get away
from a companionship that he must
have loathed. He had been well
instructed, as we have said, by his
father in the ordinary branches of
education. After his father's death
he again applied himself to study with
greater ardor than before, for he had
an object in view now. It was not
long before he was offering himself as
a public teacher of those sciences that
are designated by the general term
" Grammatical It was the first pub-
lic step in a life that was afterward
to be little less than the entire history
of the Eastern Church. He was not
yet eighteen, but there was no help
for it. He must have bread, and he
could not eat of the loaf that was
shared by Paul of Antioch. Early
writers lay much stress on this first
exhibition of orthodox zeal in him who
was afterward to be the "hammer"
of heretics, from Egypt to Greece.
Certain it is that his conduct as a boy
was the same as his sentiments when
he was in his sixtieth year. " To err
in morals, " he wrote in his commen-
tary on Matthew, at Caesarea, forty
years after his first essay as a teacher
of grammar, " to err in morals is bad,
but to err in dogma and to contradict
Holy Writ is much worse." If in
after life he was to be so singularly
earnest and so unaffectedly devout, so
enthusiastic for the Gospel, so eager
in exploring the depths of sacred sci-
ence, and so unwavering in his faith,
all this was but the growth and devel-
opment of what was already springing
in his soul in those early years of his
trials and zeal. The strong will was
already trying its first flights, the sensi-
tive heart was being schooled to throw
all its motive power into duty, and the
quick, clear apprehension and the won-
derful memory for which he was to be
so famous, were already beginning to
show what they would one day be.
Origen was now a teacher of gram-
mar and the sciences, but he had not
kept school for many months when his
teachings took a turn that he can hard-
ly have anticipated. His text-books
were the common pagan historians,
poets, and philosophers that have been
thumbed by the school-boy from that
generation to this. It was no part of
Origen's character to leave his hearers
in error when plain speaking would
prevent it ; and so it happened that
his exposition of his author often took
in hand not merely the parts of speech,
but the doctrine. Though he was only
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
727
school-master by profession, his
scholars soon found out he was a Chris-
tian, and a Christian of uncommon
power and clear-sightedness. The
Catechetical school was closed ; mas-
ters and scholars were scattered in
flight or in concealment. It was not
long, therefore, before the young teach-
er found himself applied to by first one
heathen and then another, who, under
other circumstances, would have applied
to the school of the Catechisms. Among
these were Plutarchus, who soon af-
terward showed how a young Alexan-
drian student could die a glorious mar-
tyr; and Heraclas, his brother, who,
after his conversion, left everything to
remain with his master, became his
assistant and successor in his catechet-
ical work, and finally died Patriarch
of Alexandria. These were the first-
fruits of his zeal for souls. Many oth-
ers followed; and as the persecution
was somewhat abating, Demetrius,
bishop of Alexandria, looking round
for men to resume the work of the
schools, saw no one better fitted to be
intrusted with its direction than Ori-
gen himself. He was accordingly,
though not yet eighteen, appointed the ,
successor of Clement.
Lretus, prefect of Alexandria, who
had exerted himself so strenuously to
please Severus when the persecution
commenced, had now been recalled ;
probably he had reaped the reward of
his zeal, and was promoted. His suc-
;or, Aquila, signalized his entering
>n office by an activity that outdid
,t of Laitus himself. The persecu-
[, that had calmed down a little to-
ward the end of the first year and
when Lretus was leaving, now raged
with redoubled fury. We have al-
ready said that the authoritative tradi-
tion, and, in great measure, also the
practice, of the Alexandrian Church
was flight at a time like this.
Origen, however, was very far from
fleeing ; never at any time of his
life did he display such fearless bald-
ness, such energetic contempt for
the enemy, as during these years
of blood, from 204 to 211. There was
no prison so well-guarded, no dungeon
so deep, that he could not hold com-
munication with the confessors of
Christ. He went up to the tribunals
with them, and stood beside them at
the interrogatory and at the torture.
He went back with them in a sort of
defiant triumph, after sentence of death
had been pronounced. He walked
undauntedly by their side up to the
stake and the beheading block, and
kissed them and bade them adieu when
it was time for them to die. It is no
wonder that Eusebius sets down his
own safety to a miraculous interposi-
tion of the right hand of God. Once,
as he stood by a dying martyr, embrac-
ing him as he expired, the Alexan-
drian mob set on him with stones and
nearly killed him ; how he escaped
none could tell. Again and again the
persecutors tried to seize him ; as of-
ten (" it is impossible," says the histo-
rian, " to tell how often") was he de-
livered from their hands. He was no-
where safe : no sooner did the mob get
a suspicion of where he was than they
surrounded the house, and hounded in
the soldiers to drag him out. He fled
from house to house ; perhaps he was
assisted to escape by some of his num-
erous friends ; perhaps he hid himself,
as St. Athanasius in the next century
did, in some of those underground wells
and cisterns with which every house in
Alexander's city was provided, and
then sought other quarters when the
mob had gone off. But it was not
long before he was again discovered.
The numbers that came to hear him
soon let the infuriated pagans know
where their victim was, and he was
again besieged and hunted out. Once,
St. Epiphanius relates, he was caught,
apparently by a street-mob, and some
of the low Egyptian priests as their
leaders. It was near the Egyptian
quarter of the city ; perhaps, even, he
was visiting some poor native convert
in the dirty streets of the Rhacotis it-
self. If so, the name of Origen would
have been enough to empty the whole
quarter of its pariah race, and bring
them yelling and cursing into the Hep-
728
Tlte Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
tastadion. They showed him no mer-
cy ; they abused him horribly ; they
beat him and bruised him ; they drag-
ged him along the ground. But be-
fore killing him outright, the idea seiz-
ed them that they should make him
deny his religion, and at the same tune
make a shameful exhibition of himself.
There must have been Greeks in the
crowd, for Egyptians would never
have had patience to spare him so long.
The Serapeion, however, was at hand,
and thither they dragged him. As
they hauled him along, " they shaved
his head," says St. Epiphanius that
is, they tried to make him look like the
Egyptian priests, who were distin-
guished by a womanish smoothness of
face ; and we may imagine that they
did it with no gentle hands. "When at
length the rushing mob had surged up
the steps of the great temple, their vic-
tim in the midst of them, they set him
on his feet, and gave him some palm
branches, telling him to act the priest
and distribute them to the votaries of
Serapis. The palm, we know, was a
favorite tree with the Egyptian priests ;
it was sculptured and painted on the
walls of their huge temples, and it was
borne in the hands of worshippers on
solemn festivals. On the present oc-
casion there were, probably, priests of
one rank or another standing before
the vestibule of the Serapeion, ready to
supply those who should enter. It
was, therefore, the work of a moment
to seize the stock of one of these min-
isters, and force Origen to take his
place. If they anticipated the pleas-
ure of seeing the hated Christian teach-
er humiliated to the position of an os-
tiarius of an idolatrous temple, they
were never more mistaken in their
lives. Origen took the palms, and be-
gan without hesitation to distribute
them; but, as he did so, he cried out in
a voice as loud and steady as if neither
suffering nor danger could affect him,
" Take the palms, good people ! not
the palms of idols, but the palms of
Christ I" How he escaped after this
piece of daring, we are only left to con-
jecture. Perhaps the Roman troops
came suddenly on the scene to quell
the riot ; and as they hated the dwell-
ers in the Rhacotis almost as much as
the latter hated Origen, the neighbor-
hood of the Serapeion would have been
speedily cleared of Egyptians. How-
ever it came about, Origen was
saved.
Meanwhile, he saw his own scholars
daily going to death. The young
student Plutarchus fell among the first
victims of Aquila's new vigor ; Origen
was by his side when he was led to
execution, was recognized by the mob,
and once more narrowly escaped with
his life. Serenus, another of his disci-
ples, was burnt; Heraclides, a cate-
chumen, and Hero, who had just been
baptized, were beheaded ; a second
Serenus, after enduring many tor-
ments, suffered in the same way. A
woman named Herceis, one of his con-
verts, was burned before she could be
baptized, receiving the baptism of lire,
as her instructor said. Another who
is numbered among his disciples is
Basilides, the soldier who protected St.
Potamiana from the insults of the mob,
and whom she converted by ap-
pealing to him three nights after-
ward. We are told that the brethren,
and we know who would be foremost
among the brethren in such a case,
visited him in prison as soon as they
heard of his wonderful and unexpect-
ed confession. He told them his vis-
ion, was baptized, and the following
day died a martyr. Probably it was
Origen who addressed to him the few
hurried words of instruction there was
time to say. " All the martyrs," says
Eusebius, " whether he knew them or
knew them not, he ministered to with
the most eager affection." His repu-
tation, it may well be conceived, suf-
fered no diminution as these things
came to be known. The horrors of
the persecution could not keep schol-
ars away from him, nor prevent in-
creasing numbers from coming to
seek him. Many of the unbelieving
pagans, full of admiration for a holi-
ness of life and a heroism they could
not comprehend, came to his instruc-
Ttie Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
729
is ; and even literary Greeks who
had gone through the curriculum of
the Museum, and were deeply versed
in Platonic myths and Pythagorean
theories of mortification, came to lis-
ten to this fearless young philosopher,
in whom they found a learning that
could not be gainsaid, combined with
a practical contempt for the things of
the body that was quite unknown in
their own schools.
The persecution seems to have died
down and gone out toward the year
211, nine years after its commence-
ment. Origen's labors became the
more extraordinary in proportion as
he had freer scope for pursuing them.
The feature in his life at this time,
which is most characteristic of the time
and the city, and which more than
anything else attracted the cultivated
heathens to listen to him, was his se-
vere asceticism. Times of persecu-
tion may be considered to dispense
with asceticism ; but Origen did not
think so. It was a saying of his mas-
ter. St. Clement, and, indeed, appears
to have been a common proverb in
that reformed school of heathen philq|
sophy which resulted in Neo-Pla-
tonism, " As your words, so be
your life." A philosopher in Al-
exandria at that time, if he
would not be thought to belong to an
effete race of thinkers who had long
been left behind, or who only sur-
vived in the well-paid and well-fed
professorships of the university, was of
necessity a man whose strict and so-
ber living corresponded to the high
and serious truths which he consid-
ered it his mission to utter. St. Clem-
ent did not forget this, either in prin-
ciple or in practice, when he under-
took to win the heathen men of science
to Christ. Origen, born a Christian,
made a teacher apparently by chance
and in the confusion of a persecution,
cared little, in the first instance, for
what pagan philosophy would think of
him. The fact that all who pretended
to be philosophers pretended also to
asceticism may, indeed, have caused
him to embrace a life of denial more
as a matter of course. But the holy
gospels and the teachings of Clement
were the reasons of his asceticism.
It is amazing that Protestant writers,
when they write of the asceticism of the
early Church, can see in it nothing
but the reflection of Buddhism, or
Judaism, or of the tenets of Pythago-
ras, and that they always seem ner-
vously glad to prove by the assistance
of the Egyptian climate or the Platonic
hatred of matter, that it was not the
carrying out of the law of Christ, but
merely a self-imposed burden. Cli-
mate, doubtless, has great influence
on food, and English dinners would
no more suit an Egyptian sun than
would the two regulation paximatia
of the Abbot Moses in Cassian be
enough for even the most willing of
English Cistercians. But why go to
climate, to Plato, to Pythagoras, and to
Buddha, to account for what is one of
the most striking recommendations of
the gospels ? We need not stop to in-
quire the reason, but Ave may be sure
that a child who had been taught the
Holy Scriptures by heart would not
be unlikely to know something of
their teaching. His biographer tells
us expressly, with regard to several of
his acts of mortification, that they
were done in the endeavor to carry
out literally our Lord's commands.
And yet it is very remarkable, and a
trait of the times, that Eusebius, in de-
scribing his mode of life, uses the word
philosophy three times where we should
use asceticism. Origen, soon after
being appointed head of the Catechetic
school, found he could not do his duty
by his hearers as thoroughly as he
could wish, on account of his other oc-
cupation of teacher of grammar. He
therefore resolved to give it up. It
was his only means of subsistence, but
he might reasonably have expected
" to live by the gospel " as long as he
was in such a post as chief catechist.
If he had expected this he would not
have been disappointed, for there
would have been no lack of charity.
But he had an entirely different view
of the matter. He would be a burden
730
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
to no one, and would live a life of the
strictest poverty. Simple, straightfor-
ward, and great, here as ever, we may
conceive how he would appreciate the
fetters of a rich man's patronage.
But, if we may trust the utterances of
his whole life, his love for holy pov-
erty was such that, while it makes
some refer once more to Pythagoras,
to a Catholic it rather suggests St.
Francis of Assisi. " I tremble," he said
thirty years afterward, " when I think
how Jesus commands his children to
leave all they have. For my own
part, I plead guilty to my accusers and
I pronounce my own sentence ; I will
not conceal my guiltiness lest I become
doubly guilty. I will preach the pre-
cepts of the Lord, though I am con-
scious of not having followed them
myself. Let us now at least lose no
time in becoming true priests of the
Lord, whose inheritance is not on
earth but in heaven." Such language
from one who can hardly be said to
have possessed anything during his
whole life can only be explained on
one hypothesis. In order, therefore,
at once to secure his independence in
God's work, and to oblige himself to
practise rigorous poverty, he made a
sacrifice which none but a poor stu-
dent can appreciate. He sold his man-
uscripts, and secured to himself, from
the sale, a sum of four oboli a day,
which was to be his whole income.
This sum, which was about the ordi-
nary pay of a common sailor, who had
his food and lodging provided for him,
was little enough to live upon; but
miserable as it was, Origen must have
paid a dear premium to obtain it.
Those manuscripts of "ancient au-
thors " were probably the fruits and
the assistance of his early studies ; he
must have written many of them un-
der the eye of his martyred father.
He had " labored with care and love
to write them out fairly," we are told,
and doubtless he prized them at once
as a scholar prizes his library and a
laborious worker the work of his
hands. For many years, probably un-
til he went to Rome in 211, he con-
tinued to receive his twopence or
threepence every day from the person
who had bought his books. But we
cease in great part to wonder how lit-
tle he lived on when we know how he
lived. In obedience to our Lord's
command, and in opposition to the pre-
vailing practice of all but the poorest
classes, he wore the tunic single, and
as for the pallium, he seems either to
have dispensed with it altogether, or
only to have worn it whilst teaching.
For many years he went entirely bare-
foot. He fasted continually from all that
was not absolutely necessary to keep
him alive ; he never touched wine ; he
worked hard all day in teaching and
visiting the poor ; and after studying
what we should call theology the
greater part of the night, he did not go
to bed, but took a little rest on the floor.
This " vehemently philosophic " life, as
Eusebius calls it, reduced him in time,
as might .have been expected, to a
mere wreck ; insufficient food and
scanty clothing brought on severe
stomachic complaints, which nearly
caused his death. It is not to be sup-
posed that his disciples and the
thurch in general looked on with in-
difference whilst he practised these
austerities. On the contrary, he was
solicited over and over again to re-
ceive assistance and to take care of
himself; and many were even some-
what offended because he refused their
well-meant offers. But Origen had
chosen to put his hand to the plough,
and he would not have been Origen if
he had turned back. It is probable,
indeed, that he somewhat moderated
his austerities when his health began
to give way seriously ; but hard work
and hard living were his lot to the
end, and the name of Adamantine,
which he received at this time, and
which all ages and countries have con-
firmed to him, shows what the popu-
lar impression was of what he actually
went through. As might have been
expected, a man of such singleness
and determination had many imitators.
We have seen that the very pagan
philosophers came to listen to him.
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
The young scholars whom he in-
structed, and many of whom he con-
verted, did more than listen to him;
they joined him, and imitated as nearly
as they could what Eusebius again calls
the " philosophy " of his life. It was
no barren aping of externals, such as
might have been seen going on a little
way off at the Museum ; he, on his
part, taught them deep and earnest
lessons in the deepest and most earn-
est of all philosophies ; they, on theirs,
proved that his words were power by
the severest of all tests they stood
firm in the horrors of a fearful perse-
cution, and more than one of them
witnessed to them by a cruel death.
As long as the persecution lasted,
anything like regularity and complete-
ness in a work like that of Origen was
clearly impossible. But a persecution
at Alexandria, though generally furi-
ous as long as it lasted, happily sel-
dom lasted very long. Popular opin-
ion was, no doubt, very bitter against
Christianity. But popular opinion was
one thing ; the Avill of the prince-gov-
ernor another. Moreover, the popular
opinion of the Greek philosophers was
generally diametrically opposed to
that of their Roman masters, and the
beliefs and traditions of the Rhacotis
tended to the instant extermination of
the Jews ; and though these four an-
tagonistic elements could, upon occa-
sion, so far forget their differences as
to unite in an onslaught against the
Christians, yet, before long, quarrels
arose and riots ensued among the
allied parties to such an extent that
the legionaries had no choice but to
clear the streets in the most impartial
manner. Again, it is quite certain
that the Christian party included in it
not a few men of rank ; and, what is
more important, of power and authori-
ty. This we know from the trouble
St. Dionysius, one of Origen's scholars,
afterward had with many such per-
sons who had "lapsed" in the Decian
persecution. As everything, therefore,
depended on the humor of the gover-
nor, and as the governor was, as other
men, liable to be. influenced by bribes
731
suggestions, and caprice, a furious
persecution might suddenly die out,
and the Church begin to enjoy com-
parative peace at the very time when
things looked worst. Until the year
211, "Adamantius" taught, studied,
prayed, and fasted amidst disturbance,
martyrdoms, and fleeings from house
to house; but that year wrought a
change, not only in Alexandria, but
over the whole world. It was simply
the year of the death of Septimus
Severus at York, and of the accession
cf Caracalla and Geta ; but this was
an event which, if precedents were to
be trusted, invited all the nations that
recognized the Roman eagle to be
ready for any change, however unrea-
sonable, beginning with the senate,
and ending with the Christians. It
was, probably, in this same year, 211,
that Origen took advantage of the res-
toration of tranquillity to visit the city
and Church of Rome. It would seem
that this episode of his journey to
Rome has not been sufficiently con-
sidered in the greater part of the ac-
counts of his life. Protestant writers,
as may be expected, pass it over qui-
etly, either barely mentioning it, or, if
they do put a gloss upon it, confining
themselves to generalities about the
interchange of ideas or the an-
tiquity and renown of the Roman
Church. But there is evidently more
in it than this. Origen was just twen-
ty-six years of age : though so young,
ho was already famous as a teacher
and a holy liver in the most learned
of cities, and one of the most ascetical
of churches. His work was immense,
and daily increasing. On the cessation
of the persecution, the great school
was to be reorganized, and put once
more into that thorough working order
which had made it so effective under
Pantrcnus and Clement. Yet, just at
this busy crisis, he hurries off to Rome,
stays there a short time, and hurries
back again. In the first place, why
go at all ? "What could Rome or any
other church give him that he had not
already at Alexandria ? Not scientific
learning, certainly; not a systematic
732
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Oriyen*
organization of work ; not reverence
for Holy Scripture ; not the method of
confuting learned philosophy. Again :
why go specially to Rome ? Was there
not a high road, easy and comparatively
short, to Cresarea of Palestine, and
would he not find there facilities enough
for the " interchange of thought ? "
For there, about fifteen years before,
had assembled one of the first councils
ever held since the council of Jerusa-
lem. Was there not Jerusalem, the
cradle of the Church ? It was then,
indeed, shorn of its glory, both spiritual
and historical ; for it was subject, at
least not superior, to Csesarea, and
was known to the empire by the name
of Aelia Capitolina; but its aged bishop
was a worker of miracles. Was there
not Antioch, the great central see of
busy, intellectual Syria, the see of St.
Theophilus, wherein saintly bishops
on the one hand, and Marcionite heresy
and Paschal schism on the other, kept
the traditions of the faith bright and
polished? Were there not the Seven
Churches ? Was there not many a
" mother-city " between the Mediterra-
nean and the mountain ranges where
apostolic teachings were strong yet, and
apostolic men yet ruled? Origen's
motive in going to " see Rome " is
given us by himself, or, rather, by his
biographer in his words ; but, unfortu-
nately, in such an ambiguous way that
it is almost useless as an argument ; he
wished, says Eusebius, " to see the very
ancient Church of Rome." The word
we have translated " very ancient "
(hpxatoTuTTiv) may also mean, as we
need not say, " first in dignity." It is
hardly worth while to argue upon it,
but it will not fail to strike the reader
that Jerusalem and Antioch, not to
mention other sees, were both older
than Rome, if age was the only recom-
mendation. Origen's visit to Rome,
then, is a very remarkable event in
his life, for it shows undoubtedly that
the chief of the greatest school of the
Church found he required something
which could only be obtained in Rome,
and that something can only have been
an approach to the chief and supreme
depositary of tradition. He was at the
very beginning of his career, and he
could begin no better than by invoking
the blessing of that rock of the Church
of whom his master, Clement, had
taught him to think so nobly and lov-
ingly. We shall see that, many a
year after this, in the midst of troubles
and calumnies, when his great life was
nearly closed, the same see of Peter
received the professions and obedience
of his failing voice, as it had witnessed
and blessed the ardor of his youth.
He was not, indeed, the first who,
though already great in his own country,
had been drawn toward a greatness
which something told them was without
a rival. Three-quarters of a century
before Rome had attracted from far-off
Jerusalem that great St. Hegesippus,
the founder of church history, whose
works are lost, but whose fame remains.
A convert from Judaism, he left his
native city, travelled to Rome, and
sojourned there for twenty years, busily
learning and committing to writing
those practices and traditions of the
Roman Church which he afterward
appears to have disseminated all over
the East, and which he conveyed, to-
ward the end of his life, to his own
Jerusalem, where he died. From
Assyria and beyond the Tigris the
" perfume of Rome " had enticed the
great Tatian happy if, on his return,
he had still kept pure that faith which,
at Rome, he defended so well against
Crescens the cynic. A great mind and
a widely cultivated genius found the
sphere of its rest in Rome, when St.
Justin finished his wanderings there
and sealed the workings of his active
intellect by shedding his blood at the
bidding of the ruling clique of Stoics
" philosophus et martyr" as the old
martyrologies call him. A famous
name, too, is that of Rhodon, of Asia,
well known for his steady and able
defence of the faith against Marcionites
and other heretics. These, and such
as these, had come from the world's
ends to visit the great apostolic see
before Origen's day dawned. But
there were others, and as great, whom
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
733
he may actually have met in the city,
either on a visit like himself, or because
they were members of the Roman
clergy. There was the great Cartha-
ginian, Tertullian, who, for many years,
lived, learned, and wrote in Rome ; his
works show how well he knew the
Roman Church, and how often after-
ward he had occasion, in his polemical
battles, to allude to the " Ecclesia
transmarina" as Africa called Rome.
A meeting between Origen and Ter-
tullian is a very suggestive idea ; the
only misfortune is, that we have no
warrant whatever for supposing it
beyond the bare possibility. But by
naming Tertullian we suggest one view,
at least, of the ecclesiastical society
which Origen would meet when he
visited Rome. Another celebrated
man, whom there is more likelihood
that Origen did meet, is the convert
Roman lawyer, Minucius Felix, who
employed his recognized talents and
trained skill in vigorous apologetic
writings, one of which we still possess.
A third was the priest Caius, one of
the Roman clergy, famed as the ad-
versary of Proclus the Montanist, un-
less he had already started on his
missionary career as regionary
bishop. Finally, there was St. Hippo-
lytus, who, like Caius, was from the
school of St. Irena3us, and had come
from Lyons to Rome, where he seems
to have been no unworthy representa-
tive of his teacher's zeal against here-
tics. Nearly every step of the life of
St. Hippolytus is encumbered by the
ruin of a learned theory or the useless
rubbish of an abandoned position ; but
he
as far as we can con-
jecture, the chief scientific advi-
ser of the Roman pontiffs in the
measures they took at this time regard-
ing Easter and against the Noetians.
Until scientific men have settled their
disputes as to who was the author of
the Philosopkumcna, or Treatise
against All Heresies, little more can be
said about St. Hippolytus. The
Treatise itself, however, whose recove-
ry some twenty years ago excited so
much interest, must have had an au-
thor, and it is nearly certain the author
must have been one of the Roman
clergy at this very time. It is still
more certain that the matters therein
discussed must represent very com-
pletely one view of Church matters at
Rome in the early part of the third
century ; and, therefore, even if Origen
did not meet the author in person, he
must have met many who thought as
he did. Now it is rather interesting
to read the Philosophumena in this
light, ajid to conjecture what Origen
would think of some of its views. The
leading idea of the work, which is not
even yet extant complete, is to prove
that all heresies have sprung from
Greek philosophy. This it attempts
to do by detailing, first, the systems of
the philosophers, then those of the
heretics, and showing their mutual
connection. The scandalous attack on
St. Callistus, in the ninth book, may or
may not be an interpolation by a later
hand ; if not, the author must have
been much more ingenious than repu-
table. There is no denyvig the his-
torical and literary value of the Treat-
ise ; but where it professes to draw
deductions and to give philosophical
analyses of systems, it seems of
comparatively moderate worth. For
instance, the author's analysis and
appreciation of the philosophy of
Aristotle is little better than a libel on
the great " maestro di lor chi sanno ;"
and Basilides, though doubtless a
clever personage in his way, can hardly
have taken the trouble to go so far for
the small amount of philosophy that
seasons his fantastical speculations.
But a general opinion resembling the
opinion maintained in the Treatise
seems to have been common in the
West ; and when Tertullian says of
the philosophy of Plato that it was
" hcsreticornm omnium condimentari-
um," he was doubtless expressing the
idea of many beside himself. To
Origen, fresh from the school of Clem-
ent and the atmosphere of Alexandria,
such language must have sounded
startling, to say' the least, and we
cannot help feeling he would be rather
734
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
sorry, if not indignant, to hear the
great names lie had been taught to
think of with so much admiration and
compassion unfeelingly caricatured
into a relationship of paternity with
such men as the founders of Gnosti-
cism. He does not appear to have
been very familiar yet with the Greek
systems ; they had not come specially
in his way, though he had heard of
them in the Christian schools, and
there is little doubt that he had already
seen the necessity of studying them
more closely, as he actually did on his
return to Alexandria. What effect
the views of the Western Church had
on his teaching, and how he treated
the philosophers, we shall have to
consider in the sequel. Meanwhile,
his stay at Rome was over; he had
studied the faith and heresy, discipline
and schism, church organization and
sectarian rebellion, in the most impor-
tant centre of the whole Church, and
his school at Alexandria was awaiting
him, to reap the benefit of his journey.
On the return of Origen to Alex-
andria, it would almost appear as if he
had wished to decline, for a time, the
office of chief of the Catechisms. The
historian tells us that he only resumed it
at the strongly expressed desire of his
bishop, Demetrius, who was anxious
for the " profit and advantage of the
brethren." Perhaps he wished for
greater leisure than such a post would
permit of, in order to carry into exe-
cution certain projects that were form-
ing in his mind. But neither the
patriarch nor his scholars would hear
of his giving up, and so he had to settle
to his work again ; " which he did,"
says Eusebius, " with the greatest
zeal," as he did everything. From
this time, with one or two short inter-
ruptions, he lived and taught in Alex-
andria for twenty years. His life as
an authoritative teacher and " master
in Israel" may be said to commence
from this point. It was an epoch
resembling in some degree that other
epoch, thirty years before, when
Pantaenus had been called upon to
take the charge of chief teacher in the
Alexandrian Church. Now, as then,
the winter of a persecution had passed,
and the season was sunny and promis-
ing. Now, as then, men were high
in hope, and set to work with valiant
hearts to repair the breaches the
straggle had left, and to restore to the
rock-built fortress that glory and
comeliness that became her so well;
but with which, if need was, she could
securely dispense. But there was no
slight difference between 180 and 211.
The tide of Christianity had risen
perceptibly all over the Church ; most
of all on the shores of its greatest
scientific centre. The possibility of
appealing to those who had heard the
apostles had long been past, but now
even the disciples of Polycarp, Simeon,
and Ignatius had disappeared; instead
of Irenseus there was Hippolytus, and
Demetrius of Alexandria was the
eleventh successor of St. Mark.
Heretics had multiplied, questions had
been asked, tradition was developing
itself, dogma was being fixed. The
form of teaching was, therefore, in
process of change as other things
changed. Greater precision, more
" positive theology," a more constant
look-out for what authority had said or
might say these necessities would
make the teacher's office more difficult,
even if more definite. The position
of the Church toward its enemies, also,
was sensibly changing. The "gain-
sayers " were not of the same class as
had been addressed by St. Theophilus
or St. Justin. The state of things had
grown more distinctly marked. Chris-
tianity was no longer an idea that
might, in a burst of noble rhetoric, be
made to set on fire, for a moment, even
the camp of the enemy. It was now
known to the Gentile world as a stern
and unyielding praxis,; susceptible,
perhaps, of scientific and literary
treatment, but quite distinct from both
science and letters. Enthusiastic but
timid dilettanti had lost their enthusi-
asm, and gave full scope to their
fears. Amiable philosophers took
back the right hand of fellowship, and
retreated behind those who, by a spe-
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
735
cial instinct, had always refused to be
amiable, and now thought themselves
more justified than ever. On the
Christian side the war had lost much
of the adventure which accompanies
the first dashing inroads into an ene-
my's country. Surprises were not so
easy, systematic opposition was fre-
quent, and their writers were obliged
to fight by tactics, and in the prosaic
array of argument for argument.
Documents, moral testimony, institu-
tions, were the objects of attack from
without. The apostles were vilified,
failh was proved to be irrational, the
Bible was ranked with Syrian impos-
tures and Jewish charm-books. And
here, in the matter of the Bible, was a
mighty enterprise for the Christian
teacher. The canon had not yet
been officially promulgated. A gene-
ration that would despise an apocry-
phal book of Homer or a false Orphic
hymn would not be easily satisfied
with the credentials of a religion.
Great, then, would be that Christian
teacher who should at once teach the
faithiul, and yet not " take away from"
the faith ; win the philosophers, and
yet fight them hand to hand ; and give
to the world a critical edition of the
Bible, yet hold fast to ancient tradi-
tion. Such was the work of Origen.
He began by external organization ;
he divided the multitudes that flocked
to the Catechisms into two grand
classes ; one of those who were co,m-
rnencing, another of those who were
more advanced. The former class he
gave to his first convert, Heraclas;
the latter he kept to himself. Hera-
clas was " skilled in theology," and " in
other respects a very eloquent man ;"
and, moreover, he was " fairly convers
ant with philosophy," three qualifica-
tions in an Alexandrian catechist none
of which could be dispensed with. In
any case, the division was a matter of
absolute necessity, for these extraordi-
nary Alexandrian scholars, models and
patterns that deserve to be imitated
more extensively than they have been,
gave him no respite and kept no regular
school-hours, but crowded in and out
" from morning till night ;" " not even
a breathing-space did they afford him,"
says his biographer. In such circum-
stances theological study and scrip-
tural labors were out of the question,
even if he had been the man of ada-
mant that his admirers, with the true
Alexandrian passion for nicknames, had
already begun to call him. He there-
fore looked about among " his famil-
iars," those of his disciples who had
attached themselves to him and lived
with him a life of study and asceti-
cism; and from them he chose out
Heraclas, the brother of the martyred
Plutarchus, to be the chief associate
of his work.
It need not be again mentioned that
Origen's work, as that of Pantrenus
and of Clement before him, had three
classes of persons to deal with cate-
chumens, heretics, and philosophers.
His dealings with the heretics and
philosophers will be treated of more
appropriately when we come to con-
sider his journeys, the most important
of which occurred after the expiration
of the twenty years with which we are
now concerned. As the school of Al-
exandria was chiefly and primarily
connected with the catechumens, the
account of the twenty years of his
presidency will naturally be concerned
chiefly and primarily with the latter,
that is to say, with those whom that
great school undertook to instruct in
faith and discipline. And here we ap-
proach and stand close beneath one
side of that monumental fane that
bears upon it for all generations the
name of Origen. The neophytes of
Alexandria were chiefly taught out of
one book ; it was the custom handed
from teacher to teacher; each held
up the book and explained it, ac-
cording to the " unvarying tradition of
the ancients." For two hundred and
ten years the work had gone on ; but
time has destroyed nearly every trace
of what was written and spoken. For
the first time since St. Mark wrote the
gospel, Alexandria speaks now in
history with a voice that shall com-
mence a new era in the history of
736
The Christian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
Holy Scripture. Pantamus had writ-
ten '' Commentaries " on the whole of
the Bible; Clement had left, in the
Hypoty poses, a summary exposition of
all the canonical Scripture, not for-
getting a glance at the " Contradic-
tions" of heretics. Both these writings
have perished long ago. When Ori-
gen came, in his turn, to take the same
work in hand, a pressing want soon
forced itself upon his mind. There
was no authentic version of the sa-
cred Word. The New Testament
canon was still uncertain, one Church
upholding a greater number of books,
another less. The Roman canon was,
indeed, from the first identical with the
Tridentine (see Perrone, " De Locis
Theologicis"}. But the Church of
Antioch, e. a., ignored no less than five
of the canonical books. Alexandria,
well supplied with learned expositors,
and not a little influenced by the na-
tive Alexandrian instinct for criticism
and grammar, had got further in the
development of the canon than the
majority of its sisters. Yet, so far,
there had hardly been any distinct in-
terference on the part of authority,
and though, as we shall &ee, Origen's
New Testament canon was the same
as that of the Council of Trent, yet
there were not wanting private writers
who expressed doubts about the Epis-
tle to the Hebrews or the Apocalypse.
One thing, however, is very clear in
all these somewhat troublesome dis-
putes about the canon ; whether we
turn to Tertullian in Africa, to St.
Jerome in Italy, to St. Irenaeus in the
West, or to Clement and Origen in the
East, we find one grand and large cri-
terion put forth as the test of all au-
thenticity, viz., the tradition of the an-
cients. " Go to the oldest churches,"
says St. Irenceus. " The truest," says
Tertullian, " is the oldest ; the oldest
is what always was ; what always was
is from the apostles ; go therefore to
the churches of the apostles, and find
what is there held sacred." "We
must not transgress the bounds set by
our fathers," says Origen. It took
several centuries to complete this pro-
cess ; but the principle was a strong
and a living one, and its working out
was only a matter of time. It was
worked out something in this fashion.
A provincial presbyter, we will say
from Pelusium, or Syene, or Arsinoe,
came up to Alexandria (he may easily
have done so, thanks to the police ar-
rangements and engineering enterprise
of Ptolemy Philadelphus) ; having
much ecclesiastical news to communi-
cate, and perhaps important business
to arrange on the part of his bishop,
he would be thrown into close contact
with the presbytery of the metropoli-
tan Church. Let us suppose that, in
order to support some point of prac-
tical morality, touching the " lapsed" or
the converts, he quoted Hernias' " Shep-
herd" as canonical Scripture. The
archdeacon with whom he was arguing
would demur to such an authority;
let him quote Paul, or Jude, or Peter,
or John, but not Hernias; Hernias
was not in the canon. The presbyter
from the provinces would be a little
amazed and even ruffled; how could
he say it was not in the canon when
he himself had heard it read on the
Lord's day before the sacred myste-
ries in the patriarchal Church, in the
presence of the very patriarch himself,
seated on his throne, and surrounded
by the clergy? A canonical book
meant a book within the Church's gen-
eral rule (/cavwv), and the rule of the
Church was that a book read at such a
time was thereby declared true Scrip-
ture. The archdeacon would reply
that the presbyter was right in the
main, both as to facts and principles ;
but would point out that at Alexandria
they had a set of books which were
read at the solemn time he mentioned,
beside regular Scripture ; and if he
had known their usages better, or if he
had asked any of the clergy, or the
patriarch, he would be aware that
such writings were only read to the
people as pious exhortations, not defin-
ed as the repository of the faith. The
presbyter would consider this incon-
venient, and would doubtless be right in
thinking so. The practice was con
The CJiristian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
737
dcmned by various councils in the next
century. But he would at once admit
that if the tradition were so, then the
Alexandrian Church certainly ap-
peared to reject Hernias. But he
would have another difficulty. Did
not Clement, of blessed memory, con-
sider Hernias as authentic, or, at any
rate, the Epistle of Barnabas, which
was quite a parallel case ? And did not
Origen (whom we suppose to be then
teaching) call the " Shepherd" " divine-
ly inspired ?" It was true, the archdea-
con would rejoin, that both Clement
in former years and Origen then spoke
very highly of several writings of this
class ; but he must refer him once
more to the authoritative tradition of
the Alexandrian Church, to be learned,
in the last instance, from the lips of
Demetrius himself: this would at once
show that Clement and Origen could
not mean to put Hernias on a level
with Paul, and Origen himself would
certainly admit so much, if he were
asked. The presbyter would inquire,
during his stay, of the heads of the
Catechetical school, of the ancient
priests, and of the patriarch ; he would
be satisfied that what the archdeacon
said was true ; and he would return
to his city on the Red Sea, or at the
extremity of the Thebaid, or on the
north-western coast of the continent,
with authentic intelligence that the
Apostolic Church of Alexandria re-
jected Hennas from the Scripture
canon, and that, therefore, it certainly
ought to be rejected by his own
Church. He would, perhaps, in addi-
tion to this, bring the information that
the metropolitan Church, so he had
found out in his researches, upheld
the Epistle to the Hebrews, or the
Apocalypse of the Apostle John, to
be true and genuine Scripture ; would
it not, therefore, be well to consider
whether these also should not be ad-
mitted by themselves ? In this way,
or in some way analogous, the
Churches that lay within the " circum-
scription" of a patriarchal or apostolic
see would by degrees be led to con-
form then.- canon to the canon of the
47
principal Church. As time went on,
the great metropolitan sees themselves
became grouped round the three
grand centres of Alexandria, Antioch,
and Rome ; and, finally, in the pro-
cess of the development of tradition,
at least as early as A.D. 800, the
whole Church had adopted the canon
as approved by Rome in the decretal
of Innocent I. It is, therefore, a re-
markable fact that Origen quotes
the canon of the New Testament
precisely as it now stands in the Vul-
gate. It would hardly be true to say
that he formally states as exclusively
authentic the complete list of the Ca-
tholic canon; but that he docs enum-
erate it is certain. Moreover, in ad-
dition to the remarkable correctness
of his investigations on the canon, Ori-
gen did much, in other ways, for a
book that was emphatically the text-
book of his school. The exemplars
in general use were in a most unsatis-
factory state : there were hardly two
alike. "Writers had been careless,
audacious innovators had inserted
their interpolations, honest but mis-
taken bunglers had added and
taken away whenever the sense
seemed to require it. It is Origen
himself who makes these complaints,
and nobody had better occasion to
know how true they were. The
manuscript used in the great Church
probably differed from that used by
the chief catechist ; his, again, differ-
ed from every one of those brought to
class by the wealthier of his scholars.
One would bring up a copy of St.
Matthew's Gospel, which, on investi-
gation, would turn out to be full of
Nazarite or Ebionite " improvements "
another would have an Acts of the
Apostles, which had been bequeath-
ed to him by some venerable Judaiz-
ant, and wherein St. James of Jerusa-
lem would be found to have assumed
more importance than St. Luke was
generally supposed to have given him.
A third would have a copy so full of
monstrous corruptions in the way of
mutilation and deliberate heretical
glossing, that the orthodox ears of the
738
The CJiristian Schools of Alexandria. Origen.
master would certainly have detected
a quotation froin it in two lines: it
would be one of Valentine's editions.
A fourth, newly arrived from some
place where Tcrtullian had never been
heard of, would appear with a bulky
set of volumina, which Origen would
find to his great disgust to be the New
Testament "according to Marcion."
That first and chief of reckless falsifiers
had " circumcised" the New Testa-
ment, as St. Irenasus calls it, to such
an extent that he had to invent a
quantity of new Acts and Apocalypses
to keep up appearances, and what he
retained he had freely cut and tortur-
ed into Marcionism ; for. he said
openly that the apostles were moder-
ately well-informed, but that his lights
were far in advance of them. Such
examples as these are, of course, ex-
tremes ; but even in orthodox copies
there must have been a bewildering
number of variantes. Origen's posi-
tion would bring him into contact with
exemplars from many distant church-
es. The work of copying fresh ones
for the " missions," or to supply the
wants of the provinces, would necessi-
tate some choice of manuscripts ; and
in a matter so important, we may be
sure that his catechists, fellow-towns-
men of Aristarchus, rather enjoyed
than otherwise the vigorous critical
disputes which the collation of MSS.
has a special tendency to engender. It
is nearly established indeed, we may
say, it is certain that Origen wrote a
copy of the New Testament with his
own hand. It was not a new edition,
apparently, but a corrected copy of the
generally received version. He cor-
rected the blunders of copyists ; he
struck out of the text everything that
was evidently a mere gloss ; he re-in-
serted what had clearly dropped out
by mischance, and adopted a few read-
ings that were unmistakable improve-
ments. But he made no alteration of
the text on mere conjecture. However
faulty a reading might seem, he never
changed it without authority ; he had
too much reverence for Holy Scrip-
ture, and probably, also, too bitter an
experience of conjectural emendations,
to sanction such dangerous proceed-
ings by his own practice. This pre-
cious copy, the fruit of his labors and
study, the depositary of his wide expe-
rience, and the record of his "ada-
mantine" industry, was apparently the
one from which he himself always quot-
ed, and, therefore, we may conclude,
which he always used. It lay, after his
death, in the archives of Cassarea of
Palestine, with his other Biblical
MSS. Pamphilus the Martyr is re-
lated to have copied it ; and in the time
of Constantine, Eusebius sent many
transcripts of it to the imperial city.
Eusebius himself copied it with all the
reverence he would necessarily feel
for his hero, Origen ; and by means of
his copy, or of copies made by his di-
rection, it became the basis of that re-
cension of the New Testament known
as the Alexandrine. St. Jerome was
well acquainted with the library of
Caesarca, and often mentions the " Co-
dices Adamantii" which he was privi-
leged to consult there ; and we need
not remind the reader of the well-
known agreement of the Latin ver-
sions with those of Palestine and Alex-
andria. Now Palestine meant first,
Jerusalem, where was the celebrated
library formed by St. Alexander, Ori-
gen's own college friend and an Alex-
andria man, as we should say, and
partly under Origen's influence ; and,
secondly, Coesarea, which inherited
Origen's traditions and teaching, at
least equally with Alexandria, as we
shall see later on, and in which the or-
iginals of his works were preserved with
religious veneration, until war and sack
of Persian or Moslem destroyed them.
Thus the work of Origen on the New
Testament, begun and mainly carried
out during those twenty years at Alexan-
dria, is living and active at this very day.
But if the New Testament needed
setting to rights, it was correct and
accurate in comparison with the Old.
How he treated the Septuagint, and
how the Hcxapla and the Tetraplagrew
under nimble hands and learned heads,
we must for the present defer to tell.
Martin's Puzzle. 739
From The Fortnightly Review.
MARTIN'S PUZZLE.
THERE she goes up the street with her book in her hand,
And her " Good morning, Martin ! " " Ay, lass, how d'ye do ? "
" Very well, thank you, Martin !" I can't understand ;
I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe !
I can't understand it. She talks like a song :
Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass ;
She seems to give gladness while limping along ;
Yet sinner ne'er suffered like that little lass.
II.
Now, I'm a rough fellow what's happen 'd to me ?
Since last I left Falmouth I 've not had a fight
With a miner come down for a dip in the sea ;
I cobble contented from morning to night.
The Lord gives me all that a man should require ;
Protects me, and " cuddles me up," as it were.
But what have I done to be saved from the fire ?
And why does his punishment fall upon her ?
in.
First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart.
Then, her fool of a father a blacksmith by trade
Why the deuce does he tell us it hah broke his heart?
His heart ! where's the leg of the poor little maid !
Well, that 's not enough ; they must push her downstairs,
To make her go crooked : but why count the list ?
If it's right to suppose that our human affairs
Are all order'd by heaven there, bang goes my fist !
IV.
For if angels can look on such sights never mind !
When you're next to blaspheming, it's best to be mum.
The parson declares that her woes weren't design'd ;
But, then, with the parson it's all kingdom-come.
" Lose a leg, save a soul " a convenient text ;
I call it " Tea doctrine," not savoring of God.
When poor little Molly wants " chastening," why, next
The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.
But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles
To read books to sick people ! and just of an age
740 Martin's Puzzle.
When girls learn the meaning of ribbons and smiles,
Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage.
The more I push thinking, the more I resolve :
I never get further : and as to her face,
It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve,
And says, " This crush'd body seems such a sad case."
VI.
Not that she's for complaining : she reads to earn pence ;
And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are enough.
Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense ?
Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff.
Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord ;
She sings little hymns at the close of the day,
Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord,
And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.
VII.
What I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear,
If there's law above all ? Answer that if you can !
Irreligious I'm not ; but I look on this sphere
As a place where a man should just think like a man.
It isn't fair dealing ! But, contrariwise,
Do bullets in battle the wicked select ?
Why, then it's all chance-work ! And yet, in her eyes,
She hold's a fixed something by which I am check'd.
VIII.
Yonder ribbon of sunshine aslope on the wall,
If you eye it a minute, '11 have the same look :
So kind ! and so merciful ! God of us all !
It's the very same lesson we get from thy book.
Then is life but a trial ? Is that what is meant ?
Some must toil, and some perish, for others below :
The injustice to each spreads a common content ;
Ay ! I 've lost it again, for it can't be quite so.
IX.
She's the victim of fools : that seems nearer the mark.
On earth there are engines and numerous fools.
Why the Lord can permit them, we 're still in the dark ;
He does, and in some sort of way they 're his tools.
It's a roundabout way, with respect let me add,
If Molly goes crippled that we may be taught :
But, perhaps, it's the only way, though it's so bad ;
In that case we'll bow down our heads, as we ought.
But the worst of me is, that when I bow my head,
I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust,
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
741
And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead
Of humble acceptance : for, question I must !
Here's a creature made carefully carefully made
Put together with craft, and then stampt on, and why ?
The answer seems nowhere : it's discord that's play'd.
The sky's a blue dish ! an implacable sky !
XI.
Stop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit.
They tell us that discord, though discord, alone,
Can be harmony when the notes properly fit :
Am I judging all things from a single false tone ?
Is the universe one immense organ, that rolls
From devils to angels ? I'm blind with the sight.
It pours such a splendor on heaps of poor souls !
Suppose I try kneeling with Molly to-night.
GEORGE MEREDITH.
Translated from Der Katholik.
THE TWO SIDES OF CATHOLICISM.
[Third and concluding Article.]
IV. THE HEART OF THE CHURCH.
Christ approves himself as the
head of the Church inasmuch as her
individual members are subject to his
guidance, and live and move in him.*
This protracted influence of Christ is
exercised by means of an innate har-
monizing and vivifying principle of
the Church. We have arrived at the
heart of the Church. Our ancient
theology bestows this epithet on the
Holy Ghost, f The Church receives
the Holy Ghost through Christ. Such
is the doctrine of Scripture, clearly ex-
pressed. Jesus promises his disciples
to send them after his departure the
Holy Spirit, the Spirit of truth, in whom
* St. Thomas, iii. 93, a. 6.
i Ibid, a. 1, ad. S: Caput habet manifestam
tminentiam respectu cceterorum exteriorum mem-
brorum ; sed cor habet quandam infiitentiam
occultam. Et ideo cordi comparatur Spiritus
xanctus, qui inmsibiliter ecdesiam ximjicat et
unit.
they will find a compensation for the
Master. For it is the function of the
Spirit to testify of Christ, and to bring
all things to the remembrance of the
Church, whatsoever Jesus has said.
Thus are all things taught unto the
Church. This efficacy, which has the
glory of Christ for its aim, the Holy
Ghost derives from the fulness of
Christ's Godhead, de meo accipiet. The
Holy Ghost was not given until after
Jesus was glorified. Christ being ex-
alted, and having received the Holy
Ghost promised of the Father, sheds
forth the Spirit upon the Church.
Even the prior inspiration of the apos-
tles was the result of an act of Christ.
Jesus breathed on them and said unto
them, Receive ye the Holy Ghost.
The Spirit acts as the heart of the
Church under the control and influence
of the head. The fundamental theo-
logical reason of this is not difficult of
demonstration. The external relations
742
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
of the several divine persons, or their
relations to the works of God, such as
the one just described of the Holy
Ghost to the Church, are intimately
connected with the intro-divine rela-
tions of the members of the most Holy
Trinity to each other. It is in this
sense that Holy Writ makes mention
of a mission of the Son and of the
Spirit. The expression implies that
the person concerning whom it is used,
occupies toward the remaining divine
persons a position admitting of the giv-
ing of a mission by them or one of them,
that is to say, of a particular work
done by the one by the power and at
the delegation of the other. For one
person of the Trinity to act in a mis-
sion, therefore, it is requisite that the
power and the will to act must ema-
nate from the person conferring the mis-
sion. Thus Jesus says that his doctrine
is not his own, but the doctrine of him
by whom he was sent. But one per-
son of the Trinity can be a recipient
from another in so far only as the re-
cipient issues from the giver for ever
and ever, or only in respect of the
eternal procession. It follows that a
divine person can receive a mission
only in emanating from another, that
is to say, none but the personce pro-
ductce, the Son and the Holy Ghost,
can be sent ; while, on the other hand,
only the persona producentes, the Fa-
ther and the Son, can confer a mission.
Hence the fundamental reason why
the sway of the Spirit in the Church
is exercised under the influence of
Christ, is to be found in the manner
of the eternal procession, i. e., in the com-
ing of the Spirit from the Father and
the Son.
The essence of Christianity consists
in spiritual intercourse and spiritual
influence. As distinguished from the
old covenant, the characteristic of the
New Testament dispensation consists
in this : that it is done by the agency
of the Holy Ghost, sent down from
heaven. The Spirit of Christ was in
the prophets ; but the same Spirit man-
ifests a new activity since the mission
from heaven. When the apostle de-
sires to make the true foundation of
faith clear to the Galatians, he con-
tents himself with asking them whence
they had received the Spirit ? By its
descent the blessing of Abraham came
on the Gentiles through Jesus Christ,
in fulfilment of the prophecies. The
pouring out of the Holy Ghost is the
crowning work of Christ's mediation.
But what is the badge of this more
profuse dispensation of the Spirit, thus
recognized in Scripture as the peculiar
mark of Christianity ? Under the an-
cient covenant, answers St. Gregory
of Naziance, the Holy Ghost was pres-
ent only by its efficacy
now it abides among us
i. e., in its essence, or substantialiter, as
our theologians phrase it. The efficacy
of the Spirit in the prophets is describ-
ed by St. Cyril of Alexandria as a
mere irradiation [Qhappiv ua-Kep >u] ;
they received only the effulgence of
the light, as those who follow a torch-
bearer [8ado vxoi]-, while the Spirit
in proper person enters into the souls
of those who believe in Christ, and
dwells therein [CLVTO Karotmiv TO KVi>[j.a
Kal evavM&adat]. It is only since the
ascension of Christ that the inhabita-
tion of the Spirit in the souls of men has
reached its completion as o/lo/c/l^pof. This
is the reason assigned by St. Cyril for
the declaration of the Lord that he
that is least in the kingdom of heaven
is greater than John the Baptist, than
whom there hath not risen a greater
among them that are born of women.
He interprets the kingdom of heaven
here referred to to be the impartment
[Mais] of the Holy Ghost. From
this interpretation he deduces the rea-
son wherefore the humblest citizen of
the kingdom of heaven is above the
Baptist. For the latter is born of wo-
man, the former of God. In conse-
quence of this regeneration we are
partakers of the divine nature, which
St. Cyril interprets to mean neither
more nor less than the dwelling of the
Holy Ghost in our souls. *
As the head of tke Church, the Son
* Comment, in Joann. Evangel., lib. 5. Oper
Lutet, 1638, A. IV., p. 474 et seq.
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
743
of man, being lifted up from the earth,
draws all men unto him. The Scrip-
ture concludes the narration of the
miraculous events of the first Christian
Passover and of their immediate re-
sults with the remark that the Lord
added to the Church daily such as
should be saved. Therefore, immedi-
ately alter the outpouring of the Holy
Ghost, began the daily increase of the
Church through the fructifying influ-
ence of the grace of its head. They
were multiplied in proportion as they
walked in the comfort, the irapuKfajaif, of
the Holy Ghost. By one Spirit the
Church of Christ is baptized into one
body, which Spirit overflows it and satu-
rates it with its essence. In him we were
sealed as the possession of Christ, and
we know that he abideth in us by the
Spirit which he hath given us. On
being received into the Church the
members are built into an edifice, the
foundation of which has its corner-
stone in Christ. By this incorporation
they are united into a mansion of God
in the Spirit. In so far as we are joined
unto the Lord we are one spirit with
him, and our bodies are temples of
the Holy Ghost.
On account of its intimate relations
with Christ, the Spirit is called the
Spirit of Christ. Even the Lord him-
self is directly called the Spirit. By
him, the Spirit of the Lord, we are
insformed into his image, the image
the Lord. Thereby the Spirit evin-
itself the principle of our liberty.
The main result of the action of the
Spirit in the Church is, therefore, the
union of the latter and of her individ-
ual members with Christ, the Christ
who is within us. The union between
Christ and the Church is effected by
the Spirit, who acts as the connecting
link, while Christ himself is the effi-
cient cause of the union, in so far as
he sends his Spirit to accomplish it.
How, then, is the inhabitation of the
Spirit, which is identical with that of
Christ, in the Church brought about ?
The answer to this question involves
results decisive of the present inves-
tigation.
If the Church were an unattained
ideal, according to the Protestant accep-
tation, the promise of Christ to be with
his followers even unto the end of the
world would admit of no more pro-
found interpretation than that, after his
personal departure, the Lord would
continue to occupy the minds of his
disciples, thus giving their thoughts a
right direction through all time. The
presence of Christ in the visible
Church would no longer be vouchsafed
by a substantial pledge, making the
repletion of the Church with Christ,
which is the ideal of that institution,
a historical reality even at the present
day, in so far as the pledge is actu-
ally present. If, on the other hand,
the latter view is the only scriptural
one, then the true Church is not to be
handed over exclusively to the future
and to the realm of ideas. She is
herself within the sphere of reality,
she belongs to the living present, if the
inmost principle of her being is even
now actually at work, as a gift coeval
with her establishment, not the mere
object of search and speculation.
The idea of Catholicism presup-
poses one thing more. Such a princi-
ple dwelling in the Church as a reality
must necessarily exercise its functions
in a single individual image only.
Both of these positions are the neces-
sary results of the teachings of Holy
Writ.
The Scriptures describe the Holy
Ghost, by whom the love of God is
shed abroad in our hearts, as some-
thing conferred upon us, per spiritum
sanctum qui datus est nobis. In the
capacity of abiding in our souls as
something bestowed upon us, as do-
num, the fathers distinguish a personal
attribute of the Holy Ghost, having
its foundation in the peculiar manner
of its eternal emanation from the
Father and Son. This emanation is
wrought as a common infusion of be-
ing from Father and Son, as an intro-
divine overflowing of love.* Together
* St. Augustinus, de Trinit., lib. v., cap. 14:
Exiit enim non quomodo natus, sed quomodo
datus; et ideo non dicitur filius. Cap. 15:
Quia sic procedebat ut esset donabile, jam donum
744
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
with the Holy Ghost that is given
unto us, that is to say, by means of the
love shed abroad in our hearts through
him, the two other persons of the
Trinity likewise come and take up
their abode within our souls. The
unity of the three divine persons is
not only the antetype of the unity of
the Church, but is at the same time its
fundamental principle. In his high
sacerdotal invocation the Lord prays
that all those who believe through the
word may be one, even as the Father
is in him and he in the Father ; arid
that we may be one in the Father and
the Son, ut et ipsi eis nolis unum
sint. The unity of the Father and
the Son, who take up their abode with-
in us simultaneously with the Holy
Ghost, is the foundation of our own
ecclesiastical unity. There is the
fundamental, the ultimate principle
of Catholicism. In it, through the
Holy Ghost, we have a fellowship
with the Father and with his Son Je-
sus Christ.
The other functions ascribed to the
Spirit by Holy Writ are also of such
.a nature as to constrain us to as-
sume that the essence of the true
Church is a reality even at this day.
By the Holy Ghost we receive even
now an earnest of the inheritance in
store for us. Its testimony assures
us that we are the children of God.
We have become such even now, and
through him. We are born of the
Spirit. The renewal accomplished by
him is a bath of regeneration, the put-
ting on of a new man. In the hearts
of believers he is a well of water
springing up into everlasting life. In
this sense our justification may be re-
garded as a glorification in the germ.
Christ has anointed the Church with
a chrism which abides and exerts
itself in her as a permanent teacher.
It is an entire misapprehension of
erat et antequam esset cui daretur. Cap. 11 :
Spiritits sanctus ineff'abUis esl quaedam Pqfris
Filiique communio .... hoc ipse proprie dicitur,
quod illl communiter : qula et Pater spiritus et
Filius S])iritus et Pater sanctus et Filing vanc/iia.
Ut ergo ex nomine, quod utrique convenit, utrius-
qw communio sigmfieetur, vocatur donum ain-
borum Spiritus sanctus.
the creative power of Christianity to
ascribe to the Spirit of Christ which
governs the Church no more profitable
efficacy than the barren, resultless
chase of an ideal which constantly
eludes realization. The very idea
that a law of steady development is
to be traced in Christianity itself, this
very favorite view of all the advocates
of an ideal Church, ought to have led
to a more profound appreciation of the
essence and history of the Church.
If the Church is to undergo a devel-
opment, the realization of her ideal
should not be postponed to the end of
time. What is its course in history ?
This point is decisive of our position
respecting the ideal Church.
The doctrine relies upon Matt, xviii.
20. Here the Catholic acceptation of
a realization of the essence of the
Church, historically manifested, would
appear to be directly excluded. The
passage adduced makes Christ abide
among us, and accordingly makes the
true Church come into being simply in
consequence of the casual assemblage
of two or three, so that it takes place
in his name a condition the perform-
ance or breach of which is a matter
by no means patent to the senses. But
these words are to be read in connec-
tion with what precedes them. Verses
17 and 18 allude to the authority of'
the Church as historically manifest.
The resolutions of that authority are
ratified in heaven, and are valid before
God. For such is the logical thread
of the discourse of Jesus what the
Church, as historically manifested, or-
dains, is at the same time ordained by
the Holy Ghost dwelling within her.
That such is actually the case, the
Lord then proceeds to show by the
concluding illustration. The agree-
ment of two is alone sufficient to se-
cure a fulfilment of the prayer: for
where two or three are assembled to-
gether in the name of Christ, there is
he in the midst of them : how much
more amply then is the presence and
the countenance of Christ assured to
the entire Church, and to the organ
intrusted with the execution of her
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
745
power !* True, Christ is present even
where only two or three are assembled
in his name ; but the result of his pres-
ence corresponds to the extent of the
assembly. There Christ simply effects
the fulfilment of the common prayer.
That the arbitrary concourse of a few
individuals in the name of Christ is
the realization of the essence of the
Church, nowhere in the whole pas-
sage is there a word to confirm such
an interpretation.
The advocates of the ideal Church
also cite Eph. v. 27.f There the
Church is called holy and without blem-
ish, not having spot or wrinkle ; a de-
scription supposed to be applicable ex-
clusively to the Church that is to be,
and by no means to the Church as it is.
The remark is an idle one, and does not
touch the real question. In our view
it is the work of the present to lay the
foundation for the future glory of the
Church. This position is fully borne
out by the words of Scripture. For
in verse 2G the apostle points out the
sanctification of the Church as the
immediate object of the sacrifice of
Christ, and at the same time indicates
the means by which the Church is to
be sanctified. This is done by the
washing of water, which owes its pu-
rifying efficacy to the simultaneous ut-
te'rance of the word. The presenta-
tion of the Church in unblemished ho-
jness and glory, the object of the sac-
ificial death of Christ, is therefore
gradually effected in the present world
n proportion as the purification by the
acrament, under the continued influ-
;ncc of Christ, exerts its efficacy in
he Church.
If the apostle were here speaking
imply of a remote future holiness of
he Church, his whole course of rea-
oning would lose its point. The love
)f Christ is here presented to hus-
)ands and wives as a model for their
wn connubial relations. As the self-
* This is the interpretation of this passage by
he council of Chalcedon, in its missive to "Pope
Leo the Great. Compare BallerinL op. S. Leonis,
. i., p. 1087.
t Ease, Handbuch der prot. Polemik (Manual
>f Protestant Polemics), p. 42.
sacrifice of Christ for the Church has
for its object the sanctification of the
latter, so the mutual self-devotion of
husbands and wives is to invest their
lives with a higher grace. It is not
the mere act of the self-sacrifice of
Christ which is to be emulated in mar-
riage. No admonition would be need-
ed for such a purpose. Marriage is
necessarily a type of this relation.
The discourse of the apostle tends, on
the contrary, to recommend the motive
of the sacrifice of Christ, and its influ-
ence upon the sanctification of the
Church, to husbands and wives for im-
itation. How feeble, how little calcu-
lated to fortify the admonition of the
apostle, would be their reference to
the relation of Christ to the Church,
if the sanctification of the Church by
Christ, thus held up to husbands and
wives for emulation, were something
totally unreal, a mere creature of re-
flection ! If the purpose of the sacri-
fice of Christ, the sanctification of the
Church, were still unattaincd, how
could husbands and wives be expected
to make their intercourse bear those
moral fruits by which it is to approve
itself a type of the relation of Christ
to the Church?
The holiness of the Church, then,
has its origin in the sacraments. But
that which makes the Church holy ap-
pertains to her essential character. It
follows that this character also is evolv-
ed by means of the sacraments. This
proves, finally, that this evolution of
the character of the true Church is
only possible in a single, individual
historical manifestation, that is to say,
only within, or at least by the agency*
of, that visible body politic which is in
possession of the sacraments.
Protestantism is untrue to its ow r n
principle in representing the admin-
istration of the sacraments according
to their institution as an index of the
true Church. The whole force of this
position lies in the presumption of a
* The means of grace administered by the
Church sometimes exert their influence beyond
the pale, i. e., outside of, her historical image.
This is seen in the validity of the baptism of
heretics.
746
The Two Sides of Catholicism.
distinct historical organization as the
necessary exponent of the inward es-
sence of the true Church. A contrary-
doctrine is in danger of bestowing the
name of the true Church on a society
which may possibly be composed ex-
clusively of hypocrites. The infer-
ence is obvious. If the essence of the
true Church is only to be found in the
domain of the mind, or if it even re-
mains a mere ideal, where is the guar-
antee that the mantle of the sacra-
mental organization covers that silent,
invisible congregation of spirits in
which alone the Protestant looks for the
essence of the true Church ? The re-
former's idea of the Church is here
entangled in a contradiction in terms.
On the principle of justification by
faith alone, the character of the true
Church must be wholly expressed in
something incorporeal. And yet the
true Church is to be rcognized by the
use of the sacraments according to
their institution. Where is the con-
necting link between the external and
the internal Church ? The congruence
of the Spirit and the body of the
Church, if it occurs, is purely acci-
dental. The visible Church, taken by
itself, is a mere external thing, possi-
bly void of all substantial essence.
The doctrine of sola fides is incapable
of a profound appreciation of the vis-
ible Church. This, taken in connection
with the old Protestant theory that the
phase of the Church manifested in
preaching and in the sacraments is of
the essence of the Church, makes it
clear that the attempt of the reformers
to spiritualize Christianity leads on the
contrary to a materialization of the
idea of the Church.
The modern Protestant theology
was far from being deterred by its
reverence for the reformers from lay-
ing bare this unsound portion of their
system. They attempted to make up
for it by the well known theory of the
ideal Church, which begins by renounc-
ing, in entire consistency with the
Protestant principle of justification by
faith alone, every outward manifesta-
tion of the essence of the Church.
The manifold forms in which Christi-
anity becomes palpable as a power in
history are here treated as some-
thing purely accidental, easily capable
of severance from the essence of the
true Church. How does this expla-
nation comport with the doctrine of
Scripture just expounded ?
The Church of Christ, says Holy
Writ, receives her unseen bridal orna-
ments by means of the palpable sacra-
ments. In consequence of their efficacy
she conceals the germs of her future
glory under the guise of her temporal
image. The most profound and super-
sensual characteristic of the Church is,
therefore, closely though mysteriously
allied with the palpable exterior. It is
not our present task to show how this
alliance is formed. We simply inquire
into the foundation of this necessary
combination of the spirit and the form
of the Church. This foundation we
claim to discover in the sublimity of
the principle heretofore recognized by
us as the marrow, the heart of the
Church.
If that which constitutes the heart
of the Church is supernatural, and be-
yond the reach of the natural powers
of the human mind, its impartment
and preservation necessarily presup-
pose a peculiar influence of God upon
man, different from the creative power.
Under these circumstances, the precise
method of the divine influence pervad-
ing the Church is only to be learned
with certainty from revelation. And
here we find the most explicit teach-
ings on this subject. According to the
testimony of Scripture, the Lord pro-
motes the growth of the Church by
means palpable to the senses. This
suggests inquiry into the laws under
which these means of grace find their
application. Those laws are derived
from the object of their institution. It
consists in the adhibition of instrumen-
talities in the production of a divine
effect. Consequently the means em-
ployed, or the sacraments, can mani-
fest their efficacy only under certain
conditions divinely ordained.
The correct understanding of the
Sonnet. Unspiritual Civilization.
747
mutual relations subsisting between
the spirit and the body of the Church
is further assisted by reference to anoth-
er idea also derived from the Church.
The regular growth of the Church is
made intelligible to us as a self-edi-
fication in love. The means required
for the attainment of this purpose have
been given into the hands of the Church
herself. For this end Peter received the
keys of the kingdom of heaven. He
is not only the thread of the historical
development of the Church, but the
interior organization also necessarily
presupposes a union with Peter. The
organs of this organization are the sac-
raments. But they manifest their sav-
ing efficacy on those only who have
not knowingly interrupted the chain
of union between themselves and
Peter, and their use is totally void of
effect if the party by whom they are
administered is not actuated by the
desire of doing that which is done in
sacramental ceremonies by the Church,
united with Peter (intentio fadendi
quodfacit ecclesia.)
The inmost principle, the heart of
the Church, is inseparably connected
with these visible actions, which are
efficaciously administered only accord-
ing to the intention and in the name of
the visible Church, and in virtue of
their efficacy the latter approves her-
self as holy. Thus the present inqui-
ry leads to the same result already
reached by other investigations. The
spirit and the body of Catholicism are
not to be separated. The connecting
link which binds them together is
Peter, the bearer of the keys of the
kingdom of heaven, who still lives in
his successors. But the fountain-head
of this necessary relationship is in the
vital principle of the Church, in her
supernatural principle.
The idea of a supernatural principle,
and- that of the papacy, together con-
stitute the principle of Catholicism. In
the former we behold its fundamental
essence, in the latter the cement of its
historical unity, as well as the connect-
ing link between the interior and the
exterior catholicity of the Church.
From The Month.
SONNET.
UNSPIRITUAL CIVILIZATION.
WE have been piping, Lord ; we have been singing ;
Five hundred years have passed o'er lawn and lea,
Marked by the blowing bud and falling tree,
While all the ways with melody were ringing :
In tented lists, high-stationed and flower-flinging,
Beauty looked down on conquering chivalry ;
Science made wise the nations ; laws made free ;
Art, like an angel ever onward winging,
Brightened the world. But, O great Lord and Father !
Have these, thy bounties, drawn to thee man's race,
That stood so far aloof? Have they not rather
His soul subjected ? with a blind embrace
Gulfed it in sense ? Prime blessings changed to curse
'Twixt God and man can set God's universe.
AUBREY DE VERB.
748
Constance Sherwood.
From The Month
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTOX.
CHAPTER XI.
DURING the two years which fol-
lowed the Duke of Norfolk's death I
did only see my Lady Surrey once,
which was when she came to Arundel
House, on a visit to her lord's grand-
father; and her letters for a while
were both scanty and brief. She
made no mention of religion, and but
little of her husband; and chiefly
touched on such themes as Lady Mar-
garet's nuptials with Mr. Sackville
(Lord Dorset's heir) and Mistress
Milicent's with Sir Hammond 1'Es-
trange. She had great contentment,
she wrote, to see them both so well
married according to their degree;
but that for herself she did very much
miss her good sister's company and
her gentlewoman's affectionate servi-
ces, who would now reside all the
year at her husband's seat in Norfolk ;
but she looked when my lord and
herself should be at Kenninghall,
when he left the university, that they
might yet, being neighbors, spend
some happy days together, if it so
pleased God. Once she wrote in ex-
ceeding great joy, so that she said she
hardly knew how to contain herself,
for that my lord was coming in a few
days to spend the long vacation at
Lord Sussex's house at Bermondsey.
But when she wrote again, methought
albeit her letter was cheerful, and
she did jest in it somewhat more than
was her wont that there was a si-
lence touching her husband, and her
own contentment in his society, which
betokened a reserve such as I had not
noticed in her before. About that
time it was bruited in London that my
Lord Surrey had received no small
detriment by the bad example he had
at Cambridge, and the liberty permit-
ted him.
And now, forsaking for a while the
theme of that noble pair, whose mis-
haps and felicities have ever saddened
and rejoiced mine heart almost equal-
ly with mine own good or evil fortune,
I here purpose to set down such oc-
currences as should be worthy of note
in the more obscure sphere in which
my lot was cast.
When I was about sixteen, my cou-
sin Kate was married to Mr. Lacy ;
first in a secret manner, in the night,
by Mr. Plasden, a priest, in her father's
library, and the next day at the parish
church at Holborn. Methinks a fairer
bride never rode to church than our
Kate. Her mother went with her, which
was the first time she had been out of
doors for a long space of time, for she
feared to catch cold if the wind did
blow from the north or the east ; and
if from the south she feared it should
bring noxious vapors from the river ;
and the west, infection from the city,
and so stayed ' at home for greater
safety. But on Kate's wedding day
we did all protest the wind blew not
at all, so that from no quarter of
the sky should mischief arise ; and in
a closed litter, which she reckoned to
be safer than a coach, she consented
to go to church.
" Marry, good wife," cried Mr. Con-
gleton, when she had been magnify-
ing all the dangers she mostly feared,
" thou dost forget the greatest of all
in these days, which doth hold us all
by the neck, as it were. For hearing
mass, as we did in this room last night,
we do all run the risk of being hanged,
which should be a greater peril me-
thinks than a breath of foul air."
She, being in a merry mood, re
Constance Sherwood.
749
plied : " Twittle twattle, Mr. Congle-
ton; the one may be avoided, the
other not. 'Tis no reason I should
get a cold to-day because I be like to
be hanged to-morrow."
" I' faith," cried Polly, " my mother
hath well parried your thrust, sir ; and
methinks the holy Bishop of Roches-
ter was of the same mind with her."
How so, Polly ?" quoth her father;
and she, " There happened a false ru-
mor to rise suddenly among the peo-
ple when he was in the prison, so I
have heard Mr. Roper relate, that he
should be brought to execution on a
certain day ; wherefore his cook, that
was wont to dress his dinner and carry
it daily unto him, hearing of his exe-
cution, dressed him no dinner at all
that day. Wherefore, at the cook's
next repair unto him, he demanded the
cause why he brought him not his din-
ner. ' Sir,' said the cook, ' it was com-
monly talked all over the town that
you should have died to-day, and
therefore I thought it but vain to dress
anything for you.' ' Well,' quoth the
bishop merrily, 'for all that report,
thou seest me yet alive ; and therefore,
whatsoever news thou shalt hear of
me hereafter, prithee let me no more
lack my dinner, but make it ready ;
and if thou see me dead when thou
comest, then eat it thyself. But I
)romise thee, if I be alive, by God's
srace, to eat never a bit the less.' "
" And on the day he was verily exe-
cuted," said Mistress Ward, "when
lie lieutenant came to fetch him, he
said to his man, ' Reach me my furred
ippet, to put about my neck.' ' O my
ord !' said the lieutenant, ; what need
you be so careful of your health for
this little time, being not much above
in hour?' 'I think no otherwise/
=iaidthis blessed father; 'but yet, in
he mean time, I will keep myself as
well as I can ; for I tell you truth,
hough I have, I thank our Lord, a
ery good desire and a willing mind
die at this present, and so I trust of
is infinite mercy and goodness he
will continue it, yet I will not will-
ingly hinder my health one minute of
an hour, but still prolong the same as
long as I can by such reasonable ways
as Almighty God hath provided for
me.' " Upon which my good aunt fas-
tened her veil about her head, and
said the holy bishop was the most
wise saint and reasonablest martyr she
had yet heard of.
Kate was dressed in a kirtle of
white silk, her head attired with an
habiliment of gold, and her hair,
brighter itself than gold, woven about
her face in cunningly wrought tresses.
She was led to church between two
gentlemen Mr. Tresham and Mr.
Hogdson friends of the bridegroom,
who had bride-laces and rosemary
tied about their silken sleeves. There
was a fair cup of silver gilt carried before
her, wherein was a goodly branch of
rosemary, gilded very fair, and hung
about with silken ribbons of all colors.
Musicians came next; then a group ^
of maidens bearing garlands finely
gilded ; and thus we passed on to the
church. The common people at the
door cheered the bride, whose fair
face was a passport to their favor ;
but as Muriel crept along, leaning on
my arm, I caught sound of murmured
blessings.
" Sweet saint," quoth an aged man,
leaning on his staff, near the porch,
"I ween thine espousals be not of
earth." A woman, with a child in
her arms, whispered to her as she
past, " He thou knowest of is dead,
and died praying for thee." A man,
whose eyes had watched her painfully
ascending the steps, called her an an-
gel; whereupon a beggar with a
crutch cried out, " Marry, a lame an-
gel!" A sweet smile was on her
face as she turned toward him ; and
drawing a piece of silver from her
pocket, she bestowed it on him, with
some such words as these that she
prayed they might both be so happy,
albeit lame, as to hobble to heaven,
and get there in good time, if it should
please God. Then he fell to blessing
her so loud, that she hurried me into
the church, not content to be thanked
in so public a manner.
750
Constance Sherwood.
After the ceremony, we returned in
the same order to Ely Place. The
banquet which followed, and the sports
succeeding it, were conducted in a
private and somewhat quiet fashion,
and not many guests invited, by rea-
son of the times, and Mr. Congleton
misliking to draw notice to his house,
which had hitherto been but little mo-
lested, partly for that Sir Francis
Walsingham had a friendship for him,
and also for his sister, Lady Egerton
of Ridley, which procured for them
greater favor, in the way of toleration,
than is extended to others ; and like-
wise the Portuguese ambassador was
his very good friend, and his chapel
open to us at all times ; so that
priests did not need to come to his
house for the performance of any re-
ligious actions, except that one of the
marriage, which had taken place the
night before in his library. Howso-
ever, he was very well known to be a
recusant, for that neither himself, nor
any belonging to him, attended Pro-
testant worship; and Sir Francis
sometimes told him that the clemency
with which he was treated was shown
toward him with the hope that, by
mild courses, he might be soon brought
to some better conformity.
Mr. Lacy's house was in Gray's
Inn Lane, a few doors from Mr.
Swithin Wells's ; and through this
proximity an intimate acquaintance-
ship did arise between that worthy
gentleman and his wife and Kate's
friends. He was very good-natured,
pleasant in conversation, courteous, and
generous; and Mrs. Wells a most
virtuous gentlewoman. Although he
(Mr. Swithin) much delighted in
hawking, hunting, and other suchlike
diversions, yet he so soberly governed
his affections therein, as to be content
to deprive himself of a good part of
those pleasures, and retire to a more
profitable employment of training up
young gentlemen in virtue and learn-
ing ; and with such success that
his house has been, as it were, a fruit-
ful seminary to many worthy members
of the Catholic Church. Among the
young gentlemen who resided wilh
him at that time was Mr. Hubert Rook-
wood, the youngest of the two sons
of Mr. Rookwood, of Euston, whom I
had seen at the inn at Bedford, when
I was journeying to London. We
did speedily enter into a somewhat
close acquaintanceship, founded on a
similarity of tastes and agreeable in-
terchange of civilities, touching the
lending of books and likewise pieces
of music, which I did make fair copies
of for him, and which we sometimes
practiced in the evening ; for he had a
pleasant voice and an aptness to catch
the trick of a song, albeit unlearned
in the art, wherein he styled me pro-
ficient ; and I, nothing loth to impart
my knowledge, became his instructor,
and did teach him both to sing and
play the lute. He was not much
taller than when I had seen him be-
fore ; but his figure was changed, and
his visage had grown pale, and his
hair thick and flowing, especially to-
ward the back of the head, discovering
in front a high and thoughtful lore-
head. There was a great deal of good
young company at that time in Mr.
Wells's house ; for some Catholics
tabled there beside those that were
his pupils, and others resorted to it by
reason of the pleasant entertainment
they found in the society of ingenuous
persons, well qualified, and of their
own religion. I had most days op-
portunities of conversing with Hubert,
though we were never alone ; and,
by reason of the friendship which had
existed between his father and mine,
I allowed him a kindness I did not
commonly afford to others.
Mr. Lacy had had his training in
that house, and, albeit his natural
parts did not title him to the praise of
an eminent scholar, he had thence de-
rived a great esteem for learning, a
taste for books, of the which he did
possess a great store (many hundred
volumes), and a discreet manner of
talking, though something tinctured
with affectation, inasmuch as he should
seem to be rather enamored of the
words he uttered, than careful of the
Constance Sherwood.
751
substance. Hubert was wont to say
that his speech was like to the drawing
of a leaden sword out of a gilded
sheath. He was a very virtuous
young man ; and his wife had never
but one complaint to set forth, which
was that his books took up so much of
his time that she was almost as jeal-
ous of them as if they had been her
rivals. She would have it he did kill
himself with study ; and, in a partic-
ular manner, with the writing of the
life of one Thomas a Kempis, which
was a work he had had a long time on
hand. One day she comes into his
library, and salutes him thus:
" Mr. Lacy, I would I were a book ;
and then methinks you would a little
more respect me." Polly, who was by,
cried out, " Madam, you must then be
an almanac, that he might change
every year ; " whereat she was not a
little displeased. And another time,
when her husband was sick, she said,
| if Mr. Lacy died, she would burn
I Thomas a Kempis for the killing of
her husband. I, hearing this, answer-
I ed that to do so were a great pity ; to
I whom she replied, " Why, who was
Thomas a Kempis?" to which I
! answered, "One of the saintliest men
I of the age wherein he lived." Where-
iwith she was so satisfied, that she
jsaid, then she would not do it for all
i he world.
Methinks I read more in that one
year than in all the rest of my life be-
ide. Mine aunt was more sick than
isual, and Mistress Ward so taken up
ivith the nursing of her, that she did
pot often leave her room. Polly was
married in the winter to Sir Ralph In-
pldby, and went to reside for some
nths in the country. Muriel pre-
ailed on her father to visit the pris-,
with her, in Mistress Ward's
tead, so that sometimes they were
broad the whole of the day ; by rea-
n of which, I was oftener in Gray's
n Lane than at home, sometimes at
's house, and sometimes at Mis-
s Wells's mansion, where I became
fected with a zeal for learning, which
'ubcrt's example and conversation
did greatly invite me to. He had the
most winning tongue, and the aptest
spirit in the world to divine the natural
inclinations of those he consorted with.
The books he advised me to read were
mostly such as Mistress Ward, to
whom I did faithfully recite their titles,
accounted to be not otherwise than
good and profitable, having learned so
much from good men she consulted
thereon, for she was herself no scholar;
but they bred in me a great thirst for
knowledge, a craving to converse with
those who had more learning than my-
self, and withal so keen a relish for Hu-
bert's society, that I had no content-
ment so welcome as to listen to his dis-
course, which was seasoned with a rare
kind of eloquence and a discursive
fancy, to which, also, the perfection of
his carriage, his pronunciation of
speech, and the deportment of his
body lent no mean lustre. Naught
arrogant or affected disfigured his con-
versation, in which did lie so effica-
cious a power of persuasion, and at
times, when the occasion called for it,
so great a vehemency of passion, as
enforced admiration of his great parts,
if not approval of his arguments. I
made him at that time judge of the
new thoughts which books, like so
many keys opening secret chambers
in the mind, did unlock in mine ; and
I mind me how eagerly I looked for
his answers how I hung on his lips
when he was speaking, not from any
singular affection toward his person,
but by reason of the extraordinary
fascination of his speech, and the in-
terest of the themes we discoursed up-
on ; one time touching on the histories
of great men of past ages, at another
on the changes wrought in our own by
the new art of printing books, which
had produced such great changes in
the world, and yet greater to be ex-
pected. And as he was well skilled
in the Italian as well as the French
language, I came by his means to be
acquainted with many great writers of
those nations. He translated for me
sundry passages from the divine play
of Signor Dante Alighieri, in which
752
Constance Sherwood.
hell and purgatory and heaven are de-
picted, as it were by an eye-witness,
with so much pregnancy of meaning
and force of genius, that it should al-
most appear as if some special revela-
tion had been vouchsafed to the poet be-
yond his natural thoughts, to disclose
to him the secrets of other spheres.
He also made me read a portion of
that most fine and sweet poem on the
delivery of the holy city Jerusalem,
composed by Signer Torquato Tasso,
a gentleman who resided at that time
at the court of the Duke of Ferrara,
and which one Mr. Fairfax has since
done into English verse. The first
four cantos thereof were given to Mr.
Wells by a young gentleman, who had
for a while studied at the University
of Padua. This fair poem, and mostly
the second book thereof, hath remained
imprinted in my memory with a singu-
lar fixity, by reason that it proved the
occasion of my discerning for the first
time a special inclination on Hubert's
side toward myself, who thought noth-
ing of love, but was only glad to
have acquired a friend endowed with
so much wit and superior knowledge,
and willing to impart it. This book,
I say, did contain a narration which
bred in me so great a resentment of
the author's merits, and so quick a
sympathy with the feigned subjects of
his muse, that never before or since
the story of Olindo and Sophronisba.
methinks has a fiction so moved me as
Methinks this was partly ascribable
to a certain likeness between the
scenes described by the poet and some
which take place at this time in our
country. In the maiden of high and
noble thoughts, fair, but heedless of
her beauty, who stood in the presence
of the soldan, once a Christian, then a
renegade, taking on herself the sole
guilt, O virtuous guilt ! O worthy
crime ! of which- all the Christians
were accused, to wit, of rescuing
sacred Mary's image from the hands of
the infidels who did curse and blas-
pheme it, and, when all were to die
for the act of one unknown, offered
herself a ransom for all, and with a
shamefaced courage, such as became a
maid, and a bold modesty befitting a
saint a bosom moved indeed, but not
dismayed, a fair but not pallid cheek
was content to perish for that the
rest should live ; in her, I say, I saw
a likeness in spirit to those who suffer
nowadays for a like faith with hers,
not at the hands of infidels, but of such
whose parents did for the most part
hold that same belief which they do
now make out to be treason.
Hubert, observing me to be thus
moved, smiled, and asked if, in the
like case, I should have willed to die
as Sophronisba.
"Yes," I answered, "if God did
give me grace ;" and then, as I uttered
the words, I thought it should not be
lawful to tell a lie, not for to save all
the lives in the world ; which doubt I
imparted to him, who laughed and
said he was of the poet's mind, who
doth exclaim, touching this lie, "
noble deceit ! worthier than truth it-
self!" and that he thought a soul
should not suffer long in purgatory
for such a sin. " Maybe not," I an-
swered ; " yet, I ween, there should
be more faith in a sole commitment to
God of the events than in doing the
least evil so that good should come of
it."
He said, " I marvel, Mistress Con-
stance, what should be your thoughts
thereon if the life of a priest was in
your hands, and you able to save him
by a lie."
" Verily," I answered, " I know not,
Master Kookwood; but I have so
much trust in Almighty God that he
would, in such a case, put words into
my mouth which should be true, and
yet mislead evil-purposed men, or
that he shall keep me from such fear-
ful straits, or forgive me if, in the
stress of a great peril, I unwittingly
should err."
"And I pray you," Hubert i.
said, as if not greatly caring to pursue
the theme, "what be your thought
concerning the unhappy youth Olindo,
who did so dote on this maiden that,
fearful of offending there where above
Constance Sherwood.
753
all he desired to please, had, greatly
as he loved, little hoped, nothing asked,
and not so much as revealed his pas-
sion until a common fate bound both
to an equal death ?"
"I thought not at all on him," I
answered; "but only on Sophron-
isba."
At which he sighed and read fur-
ther: "That all wept for her who, albeit
doomed to a cruel death, wept not for
herself, but in this wise secretly re-
proved the fond youth's weeping :
' Friend,' quoth she, ' other thoughts,
other tears, other sighs, do beseem
this hour. Think of thy sins, and
God's great recompense for the good.
Suffer for his sole sake, and torment
shall be sweet. See how fair the heav-
ens do show, the sun how bright, as it
were to cheer and lure us onward !' "
" Ah !" I exclaimed, " shame on him
who did need to be so exhorted, who
should have been the most valiant, be-
ing a man !" To the which he quickly
replied :
" He willed to die of his own free
i will rather than to live without her
whom he jewelled more than life : but
| in the matter of grieving love doth
imake cowards of those who should
else have been brave."
" Me thinks, rather," I answered,
"that in noble hearts love's effects
should be noble."
" Bethink you, Mistress Constance,"
he then asked, " that Sophronisba did
act commendably, insomuch that when
an unlooked-for deliverance came, she
refused not to be united in life to him
mt had willed to be united to her in
eath."
" You may think me ungrateful, sir,"
answered; "but other merits me-
links than fondness for herself should
ave won so great a heart."
" You be hard to content, Mistress
Constance," he answered somewhat
esentfully. " To satisfy you, I per-
eive one should have a hard as well
s a great heart."
" Nay," I cried, " I praise not hard-
ess, but love not softness either. You
lat be so learned, I pray you find the
48
word which doth express what pleas-
eth me in a man."
" I know not the word," he answer-
ed ; " I would I knew the substance
of your liking, that I might furnish
myself with it."
Whereupon our discourse ended
that day ; but it ministered food to my
thoughts, and I fear me also to a vain
content that one so gifted with learn-
ing and great promise of future great-
ness should evince something of regard
beyond a mutual friendship for one as
ignorant and young as I then was.
Some months after Kate's marriage,
matters became very troublesome, by
reason of the killing of a great store,
as was reported, of French Huguenots
in Paris on St. Bartholomew's day, and
afterward in many cities of France,
which did consternate the English
Catholics for more reasons than one,
and awoke so much rage in the breasts
of Protestants, that the French am-
bassador told Lady Tregony, a friend,
of Mistress Wells, that he did scarce
venture to show his face ; and none,
save only the queen herself, who is
always his very good friend, vfould
speak to him. I was one evening at
the house of Lady Ingoldby, Polly's
mother-in-law, some time after this
dismal news had been bruited, and the
company there assembled did for the
most part discourse on these events,
not only as deploring what had taken
place, and condemning the authors
thereof, which, indeed, was what all
good persons must needs have done,
but took occasion thence to use such vile
terms and opprobrious language touch-
ing Catholic religion, and the cruelty
and wickedness of such as did profess
it, without so much as a thought of
the miseries inflicted on them in Eng-
land, that albeit I had been school-
ed in the hard lesson of silence so
strong a passion overcame me then,
that I had well nigh, as the Psalmist
saith, spoken with my tongue, yea,
young as I was, uttered words rising
hot from my heart, in the midst of
that adverse company, which I did
know, them to be, if one had not at
754
Constance Sherwood.
that moment lifted up his voice, whose
presence I had already noted, though
not acquainted with his name ; a man
of reverent and exceedingly benevo-
lent aspect ; aged, but with an eye so
bright, and silvery hair crowning a no-
ble forehead, that so much excellence
arid dignity is seldom to be observed
in any one as was apparent in this
gentleman.
" Good friends," he said, and at the
sound of his voice the speakers hushed
their eager discoursing, " God defend
I should in any way differ with you
touching the massacres in France;
for verily it has been a lamentable and
horrible thing that so many persons
should be killed, and religion to be the
pretence for it; but to hear some
speak of it, one should think none did
suffer in this country for their faith,
and bloody laws did not exist, whereby
Papists are put to death in a legal,
-cold-blooded fashion, more terrible, if
possible, than the sudden bursts of
wild passions and ci\;il strife, which re-
venge for late cruelties committed by
the Huguenots, wherein many thou-
sand Catholics had perished, the de-
struction of churches, havoc of fierce
-soldiery, and apprehension of the like
attempts in Paris, had stirred up to
fury; so that when the word went
forth to fall on the leaders of the
party, the savage work once begun,
even as a fire in a city built of wood,
raged as a madness for one while, and
men in a panic struck at foes, whose
gripe they did think to feel about
their throats."
Here the speaker paused an in-
stant. This so bold opening of his
speech did seem to take all present by
surprise, and almost robbed me of my
breath ; for it is well known that now-
adays a word, yea a piece of a word,
or a nod of the head, whereby any
suspicion may arise of a favorable
disposition toward Catholics, is often-
times a sufficient cause for a man to
be accused and cast into prison ; and I
waited his next words (which every
one, peradventure from curiosity, did
likewise seem inclined to hear) with
downcast eyes, which dared not to
glance at any one's face, and cheeks
which burned like hot coals.
" It is well known," quoth he, " that
the sufferings which be endured by
recusants at this time in our country
are such, that many should prefer to
die at once than to be subjected to so
constant a fear and terror as doth be-
set them. I speak not now of the
truth or the falsity of their religion,
which, if it be ever so damnable and
wicked, is no new invention of their
own, but what all Christian people did
agree in, one hundred years ago ; so
that the aged do but abide by what
they were taught by undoubted author-
ity in their youth, and the young have
received from their parents as true.
But I do solely aver that Papists are
subjected to a thousand vexations,
both of bonds, imprisonments, and tor-
ments worse than death, yea and oft-
entimes to death itself; and that so
dreadful, that to be slain by the sword,
or drowned, yea even burned at the
stake, is not so terrible ; for they do
hang a man and then cut him down
yet alive, and butcher him in such
ways plucking out his heart and
tearing his limbs asunder that noth
ing more horrible can be thought of."
" They be traitors who are so
used," cried one gentleman, somewhat
recovering from the surprise which
these bold words had caused.
" If to be of a different religion from
the sovereign of the country be a proof
of treason," continued the venerable j
speaker, " then were the Huguenots,
which have perished in France, a
whole mass and nest of traitors."
A gentleman seated behind me, who
had a trick of sleeping in his chair,
woke up and cried out, " Not half a !
one, sirs ; not so much as half a one
is allowed," meaning the mass, which
he did suppose to have been spoken
of.
" And if so, deserved all to die,'
continued the speaker.
" Ay, and so they do, sir," quoth the
sleeper. " I pray you let them all be
hanged." Upon which every one
Constance Sherwood.
755
ighed, and the aged gentleman also ;
and then he said,
" Good my friends, I ween 'tis a
rash thing to speak in favor of recu-
sants nowadays, and what few could
dare to do but such as cannot be sus-
pected of disloyalty to the queen and
the country, and who, having drunk of
the cup of affliction in their youth,
even to the dregs, and held life for a
long time as a burden which hath need
to be borne day by day, until the
wished for hour of release doth come
and the sooner, the more welcome
have no enemies to fear, and no object
to attain. And if so be that you will
bear with me for a few moments, yea,
if ye procure me to be hanged to-mor-
row " (this he said with a pleasant
smile ; and, " Marry, fear not, Mr.
Roper," and " I' faith, speak on, sir,"
was bruited round him by his aston-
ished auditors), "I will recite to you
some small part of the miseries which
have been endured of late years by
i such as cannot be charged with the
I least thought of treason, or so much
1 as the least offence against the laws,
l except in what touches the secret
j practice of their religion. Women
have, to my certain knowledge, been
j hung up by the hands in prisons (which
j do overflow with recusants, so that at
I this time there remaineth no room for
! common malefactors), and cruelly
scourged, for that they would not con-
fess by which priest they had been re-
conciled or absolved, or where they
had heard mass. Priests are often
tortured to force them to declare what
they hear in confession, who harbor
priests and Papists, where such and
such recusants are to be found, and
the like questions ; and in so strenu-
ous a manner, that needles have been
thrust under their nails, and one man,
not long since, died of his racking. O
sirs and gentle ladies, I have seen
with mine own eyes a youth, the son
of one of my friends young Mark
Typper, born of honest and rich pa-
rents, skilful in human learning, hav-
ing left his study for a time, and go-
ing home to see his friends whipped
through the streets of London, and
burnt in the ear, because, forsooth, a
forward judge, to whom he had been
accused as a Papist, and finding no
proof thereof, condemned him as a
vagabond. And what think you, good
people, of the death of Sir Robert
Tyrwit's son, who was accused for
hearing of a mass at the marriage of
his sister, a,nd albeit at the time of his
arrest in a grievous fever, was pulled
out of the house and thrust into prison,
even as he then was, feeble, faint, and
grievously sick ? His afflicted parents
entreat, make intercession, and use all
the means they can to move the jus-
tices to have consideration of the sick ;
not to heap sorrow upon sorrow, nor
affliction on the afflicted ; not to take
away the life of so comely a young
gentleman, whom the physicians come
and affirm will certainly die if he
should be removed. All this is noth-
ing regarded. They lay hold on the
sick man, pull him away, shut him up
in prison, and within two days next
after he dies. They bury him, and
make no scruple or regard at all. O
sirs, bethink you what these parents
do feel when they hear Englishmen
speak of the murders of Protestants in
France as an unheard of crime. If,
in these days, one in a family of recu-
sants doth covet the inheritance of an
elder brother yea, of a father he
hath but to conform to the now estab-
lished religion (I leave you to think
with how much of piety and con-
science), and denounce his parent as a
Papist, and straightway he doth pro-
cure him to be despoiled, and his lands
given up to him. Thus the seeds of
strife and bitter enmity have been
sown broadcast through the land,
the bands of love in families destroyed,
the foundations of honor and benefi-
cence blown up, the veins and sinews
of the common society of men cut
asunder, and a fiendly force of violence
and a deadly poison of suspicion used
against such as are accused of no other
crime than their religion, which they
yet adhere to ; albeit their fortunes be
ruined by fines and their lives in con-
756
Constance Sherwood.
stant jeopardy from strenuous laws
made yet more urgent by private mal-
ice. My friends, I would that not
one hair of the head of so much as
one Huguenot had been touched in
France ; that not one Protestant had
perished in the flames in the late
queen's reign, or in that of her present
majesty ; and also that the persecution
now framed in this country against
Papists, and so handled as to blind
men's eyes and work in them a strange
hypocrisy, yea and in some an inno-
cent belief that freedom of men's souls
be the offspring of Protestant religion,
should pass away from this land. I
care not how soon (as mine honored
father-in-law, and in God too, I verily
might add, was wont to sayj, I care
not how soon I be sewn up in a bag
and cast into the Thames, if so be I
might first see religious differences at
an end, and men of one mind touching
God's truth."
Here this noble and courageous
speaker ceased, and various murmurs
rose among the company. One lady
remarked to her neighbor : " A mar-
vellous preacher that of seditious doc-
trines, methinks."
And one gentleman said that if
such talk were suffered to pass unpun-
ished in her majesty's subjects, he
should look to see massing and Pop-
ery to rear again their heads in the
land.
And many loudly affirmed none
could be Papists, or wish them well,
and be friends to the queen's govern-
ment, and so it did stand to reason that
Papists were traitors.
And another said that, for his part,
he should desire to see them less mer-
cifully dealt with ; and that the great
clemency shown to such as did refuse
to come to church, by only laying fines
on them, and not dealing so roundly
as should compel them to obedience,
did but maintain them in their obstin-
acy ; and he himself would as lief
shoot down a seminary priest as a
wolf, or any other evil beast.
I noticed this last speaker to be one
of those who had spoken with most
abhorrence of the massacres in
France.
One lady called out in a loud voice
that Papists, and such as take their
part, among which she did lament to
see Mr. Roper, should be ashamed so
much as to speak of persecution ; and
began to relate the cruelties practised
upon Protestants twenty years back,
and the burning at Oxford of those
excellent godly men, the bishops of
London and Worcester.
Mr. Roper listened to her with an
attentive countenance, and then said :
" I' faith, madam, I cannot choose
but think Dr. Latimer, if it be he
you speak of, did somewhat approve of
such a method of dealing with persons
obstinate touching religion, when others
than himself and those of his own way
of thinking were the subjects of it, if
we judge by a letter he wrote in 1538
to his singular good friend the Lord
Privy Seal Cromwell, at the time he
was appointed to preach at the burn-
ing at Smithfield of Friar Forest of
Greenwich, a learned divine I often
did converse with in my young years."
" What wrote the good bishop ? "
two or three persons asked ; and the
lady who had spoken before said she
should warrant it to be something
pious, for a more virtuous Protestant
never did live than this holy martyr.
Whereupon Mr. Roper: "This
holy bishop did open his discourse
right merrily, for in a pleasant man-
ner he thus begins his letter : * And,
sir, if it be your pleasure, as it is, that
I shall play the fool in my customable
manner when Forest shall suffer, I
would wish my stage stood near unto
Forest ; for I would endeavor myself
so to content the people that therewith
I might also convert Forest, God so
helping/ And further on he cloth
greatly lament that the White Friars
of Doncaster had access to the prison-
er, and through the fault of the sheriff
or jailers, or both, he should be al-
lowed to hear mass and receive the
sacrament, by which he is rather com-
forted in his way than discouraged.
And such is his foolishness, this good
Constance Sherwood.
757
doth humbly say, that if Forest
would abjure his religion, he should
yet (for all his past obstinacy) wish
him pardoned. O sirs, think you that
when at Oxford this aged man, seven-
teen years after, did see the flames
gather round himself, that he did not
call to mind what time he preached,
playing the fool, as he saith, before a
| man in like agonies, and never urged so
j much as one word against his sen-
tence ?"
" Marry, if he did not," said one,
whom I take to have been Sir Chris-
topher Wray, who had been a silent
listener until then, " if his conscience
pricked him not thereon, it must needs
I have been by the same rule as the
ilawyer used to the countryman, who
did put to him this question: 'Sir, if
my cow should stray into your field
iand feed there one whole day, what
should be the law touching compensa-
tion therefor?' 'Marry, friend, as-
suredly to pay the damage to the full,
which thou art bounden at once to do/
' Ay,' quoth the countryman ; ' but 'tis
your cow hath strayed into my field.'
jDpon which, * Go to, go to,' cries the
fawyer ; * for I warrant thee that doth
altogether alter the law.'"
I Some smiled, aud others murmured
jit this story ; and meanwhile one of
the company, who from his dress I
perceived to be a minister, and more-
pver to hold some dignity in the Prot-
istant Church, rose from his place, and
grossing the room, came up to Mr.
floper (for that bold speaker was no
ther than Sir Thomas More's son-
-law, whose great charity and good-
ess I had often heard of), and, shak-
g hands with him, said : " I be of
he same mind with you, friend Roper,
n every word you have uttered to-
ight. And I pray to God my soul
ay be with yours after this life, and
ur end in heaven, albeit I should not
lil there in the same boat with
ou."
" Good Mr. Dean," quoth Mr. Ro-
Jr, " I do say amen to your prayer."
nd then he added somewhat in a low
oice, and methinks it was that there
is but one ship chartered for safety in
such a voyage.
At the which the other shook his
head and waved his hand, and then
calling to him a youth not more than
twelve or thirteen years old, his son,
he did present him to Mr. Roper. I
had observed this young gentleman to
listen, with an eagerness betokening
more keenness for information than is
usually to be found in youths of his
years, to the discourses held that even-
ing. His father told Mr. Roper that
this his son's parts and quick appre-
hension in learning did lead him to
hope he should be one day, if it pleas-
ed God, an ornament to the church.
Mr. Roper smiled as he saluted the
youth, and said a few words to him,
which he answered very readily. I
never saw again that father or that
son. The one was Dr. Mathews,
whom the queen made Bishop of Dur-
ham ; and the other, Toby Mathews,
his son, who was reconciled some years
ago, and, as I have heard from some,
is now a Jesuit.
The venerable aspect of the good
Mr. Roper so engaged my thoughts,
that I asked Lady Tregony, by whose
side I was sitting, if she was acquaint-
ed with him, and if his virtue was as
great as his appearance was noble.
She smiled, and answered that his ap-
pearance, albeit honorable and comely,
was not one half so honorable as his
life had been, or so comely as his
mind. That he had been the husband
of Sir Thomas More's never-to-be-
forgotten daughter, Margaret, whose
memory he so reverently did cherish
that he had never so much as thought
of a second marriage; and of late
years, since he had resigned the office
of sub-notary in the Queen's Bench
to his son, he did give his whole sub-
stance and his time to the service of
the poor, and especially to prisoners,
by reason of which he was called the
staff of the sorrowful, and sure refuge
of the afflicted. Now, then, I looked
on the face of this good aged man with
a deeper reverence than heretofore.
Now I longed to be favored with so
758
Constance Sherwood.
much of his notice as one passing word.
Now I watched for an opportunity to
compass my desire, and I thank God
not without effect ; for I do count it
as a chief blessing to have been hon-
ored, during the remaining years of
this virtuous gentleman's life, with so
much of his condescending goodness,
that if the word friendship may be
used in regard to such affectionate feel-
ings as can exist between one verging
on four-score years of age and of such
exalted merit, and a foolish creature
yet in her teens, whom he honored with
his notice, it should be so in this in-
stance; wherein on the one side a sin-
gular reverence and humble great af-
fection did arise almost on first ac-
quaintance, and on the other so much
benignity and goodness shown in the
pains taken to cultivate such good dis-
positions as had been implanted in this
young person's heart by careful pa-
rents, and to guard her mind against
the evils of the times, that nothing
could be greater.
Mr. Roper chancing to come near
us, Lady Tregony said somewhat,
which caused him to address me in
this wise :
" And are there, then, maidens in
these days not' averse to the sight of
gray hairs, and who mislike not to
converse with aged men ?"
This was said with so kindly a
smile that timidity vanished, and con-
fidence took its place.
" Oh, sir," I cried, " when I was not
so much as five years old, my good
father showed me a picture of Sir
Thomas More, and told me he was a
man of such angelic wit as England
never had the like before, nor is ever
like to have again, and of a most fa-
mous and holy memory ; and me-
thinks, sir, that you, being his son-in-
law, who knew his doings and his
mind so well, and lived so long in his
house, must needs in many things re-
semble hun."
"As to his doings and his mind,"
Mr. Roper replied, "no man living
knoweth them so well, and if my mean
wit, memory, and knowledge could
serve me now, could declare so much
thereof. But touching resemblance,
alas ! there was but one in all the
world that represented the likeness of
his virtues and perfections ; one whom
he loved in a particular manner, and
who was worthiest of that love more
than any creature God has made."
Here the good man's voice faltered
a li ttle, and he made a stop in his dis-
course ; but in a little while said that
he had thought it behoved him to set
down in writing such matters concern-
ing Sir Thomas's life as he could then
call to remembrance, and that he would
lend me the manuscript to read, which I
did esteem an exceeding great favor,
and one I could not sufficiently thank
him for. Then he spoke somewhat of
the times, which were waxing every
day more troublesome, and told me he
often called to mind a conversation he
once had with Sir Thomas, walking
along the side of the Thames at Chel-
sea, which he related in these words :
" ' Now would to God, my son Ro-
per/ quoth Sir Thomas, ' I were put
in a sack, and presently cast into the
Thames, upon condition that three
things were well established through-
out Christendom.' ' And what mighty
things are those, sir?' I asked.
Whereupon he : ' Wouldst thou know,
son Roper, what they be ?' ' Yea,
marry, sir, with a good will, if it
please you,' quoth I. T faith, son,
they be these,' he said: 'The first is
that, whereas the most part of Chris-
tian princes are at mortal wars, they
were all at peace ; the second that,
whereas the church of Christ is at
present sorely afflicted with so many
heresies, it were settled in perfect uni-
formity of religion; the third that,
where the matter of the king's mar-
riage is now come in question, it were,
to the glory of God and the quietness
of all parties, brought to a good conclu-
sion.' ' Ay, sir,' quoth I, ' those were
indeed three things greatly to be de-
sired ; but' I continued with a cer-
tain joy ' where shall one see a hap-
pier state than in this realm, that has
so Catholic a prince that no heretic
Constance Sherwood.
759
durst show his face ; so virtuous and
learned a clergy ; so grave and sound a
nobility ; and so loving, obedient sub-
jects, all in one faith agreeing togeth-
er ?' ' Truth it is indeed, son Roper,'
quoth he ; and in all degrees and es-
tates of the same went far beyond me
in commendation thereof. 'And yet,
son Roper, I pray God,' said he, * that
some of us, as high as we seem to sit
on the mountains, treading heretics
under our feet like ants, live not the
day that we would gladly be at league
and composition with them, to let them
have their churches quietly to them-
selves, so that they would be con-
tented to let us have ours quietly to
ourselves.' After I had told him many
considerations why he had no cause
to say so: 'Well,' said he, ' I pray
God, son Roper, some of us will live
not to see that day.' To whom I re-
plied : ' By my troth, sir, it is very
desperately spoken.' These vile terms,
I cry God mercy, did I give him, who,
perceiving me to be in a passion,
said merrily unto me, ' It shall not be
so ; it shall not be so.' In sixteen
years and more, being in the house
conversing with him, I could not per-
ceive him to be so much as once out
of temper."
This was the first of many conver-
sations I held, during the years I lived
in Holborn, with this worthy gentle-
man, who was not more pleased to re-
late, than I to hear, sundry anecdotes
concerning Sir Thomas More, his
house, and his family.
Before he left me that day, I did
make bold to ask him if he feared not
ill consequences from the courageous
words he had used in a mixed, yea
rather, with few exceptions, wholly
adverse, company.
"Not much," he answered. "Mine
age; the knowledge that there are
those who would not willingly see me
roughly handled, and have power to
prevent it ; and withal no great con-
cern, if it should be so, to have my
liberty constrained, yea, my life short-
ened by a few years, or rather days,
doth move me to a greater freedom of
speech than may generally be used,
and a notable indifference to the re-
ults of such freedom."
Having whispered the like fears I
had expressed to him to Lady Treg-
ony, she did assure me his confidence
was well based, and that he had con-
nexions which would by no means
suffer him to be thrown into prison,
which should be the fate of any one
else in that room who had spoken but
one half, yea one tenth part, as boldly
as he had ventured on.
CHAPTER XII.
IT was some time before I could re-
store myself to my countenance, after
so much moving discourse, so as to
join with spirit in the sports and the
dancing which did ensue among the
young people that evening. But so-
ber thoughts and painful themes af-
ter a while gave place to merriment;
and the sound of music, gay tattle,
and cheerful steps lured me to such
enjoyment as youth is wont to take
in these kinds of pastimes. It was
too much my wont to pursue with
eagerness the present humor, and
drink deeply of innocent pleasure
wherein no harm should exist if en-
joyed with moderation. But like in
a horse on whose neck the bridle is
cast, what began in a gentle ambling
ends in wild gallopping ; so lawful mer-
riment, if unrestrained, often ends in
what is unbeseeming, and in some
sort blameable. So this time, when
dancing tired, a ring was formed for
conversation, and the choice of the
night's pastime yielded to my discre-
tion ; alack, rather to my imprudence
and folly, methinks I might style it.
I chose that arguments should be held
by two persons of the company, turn
by turn, and that a judge should be
named to allot a reward to the worthi-
est, and a penance to the worst. This
liked them all exceedingly, and by one
consent they appointed me to be judge,
and to summon such as should dispute.
760
Constance Sherwood.
There were there two young gentlemen
which haunted our house, and Lady
Ingoldby's also. One was Martin
Tregony, Lady Tregony's nephew, an
ill-favored young man, with manners
worse than his face, and so apish and
foppish in his dress and behavior, that
no young woman could abide him,
much less would receive his addresses,
or if she did entertain him in conversa-
tion, it was to make sport of his so great
conceit. He had an ill-natured kind
of wit, more sharp than keen, more
biting than sarcastic. He studied the
art of giving pain, and oftentimes did
cause shamefaced merit to blush. The
other was Mr. Thomas Sherwood, who,
albeit not very near in blood to my
father, was, howsoever, of the same fam-
ily as ourselves. He had been to the
English College in Douay, and had
brought me tidings a short time back
of my father and Edmund Genings'
safe arrival thither, and afterward came
often to see us, and much frequented
Lady Tregony's house. He had ex-
ceedingly good parts, but was some-
what diffident and bashful. Martin
Tregony was wont to make him a
mark, as it were, of his ill-natured wit,
and did fancy himself to be greatly
his superior in sharpness, partly be-
cause Mr. Sherwood's disposition was
retiring, and partly that he had too
much goodness and sense to bandy
words with so ill-mannered a young
man. I pray you who read this, could
aught be more indiscreet than, in a
thoughtless manner, to have summon-
ed these two to dispute ? which never-
theless I did, thinking some sport
should arise out of it, to see Master
Martin foisted in argument by one he
despised, and also from his extrav-
agant gestures and affected counte-
nances. So I said :
" Master Tregony, your task shall
be to dispute with Master Sherwood ;
and this the theme of your argument,
' The Art of Tormenting.' He who shall
describe the nicest instances of such
skill, when exercised by a master to-
ward his servant, a parent to his child,
a husband to his wife, a wife to her
husband, a lover to his mistress, or a
friend to his friend, shall be proclaim-
ed victorious ; and his adversary sub-
mit to such penance as the court shall
inflict,"
Master Sherwood shook his head
for to decline to enter these lists ; but
all the young gentlemen and ladies
cried, he should not be suffered to show
contempt of the court, and forced him
to stand up.
Master Martin was nothing loth, and
in his ill-favored countenance there
appeared a made smile, which did in-
dicate an assurance of victory j so he
" The more wit a man hath, the bet-
ter able he shall be at times to torment
another ; so I do premise, and at the
outset of this argument declare, that
to blame a man for the exercise of a
talent he doth possess is downright
impiety, and that to wound another by
the pungency of home-thrusts in con-
versation is as just a liberty in an in-
genious man, as the use of his sword
in a battle is to a soldier."
Mr. Sherwood upon this replied,
that he did allow a public disputation,
appointed by meet judges, to come un-
der the name of a fair battle ; but even
in a battle (he said) generous combat-
ants aim not so much at wounding
their adversaries, as to the disarming of
them ; and that he who in private con-
versation doth make a weapon of his
tongue is like unto the man who pro-
vokes another to a single combat,
which for Christians is not lawful, and
pierces him easily who has less skill
in wielding the sword than himself.
"Marry, sir," quoth Master Mar-
tin, " if you dobring piety into your
discourse, methinks the rules of just
debate be not observed ; for it is an
unfair thing for to overrule a man with
arguments he doth not dare to reply
to under pain of spiritual censures."
" I cry you mercy, Master Martin,"
quoth the other; "you did bring in
impiety, and so methought piety should
not be excluded." At the which we
all applauded, and Martin began to
perceive his adversary to be less
Constance Sherwood.
761
contemptible than he had suppos-
ed.
"Now to the point," I cried; "for
exordiums be tedious. I pray you,
gentlemen, begin, and point out some
notable fashion wherewith a master
might torment his servant."
Upon which quoth Martin: " If a
man hath a sick servant, and doth note
his fancy to be set on some indulgence
not of strict necessity, and should there-
fore deny it to him, methinks that should
be a rare opportunity to exercise his
talent."
" Nay," cried Master Sherwood, " a
nicer one, and ever at hand afterward,
should be to show kindness once to a
dependent when sick, and to use him
ten times the worse for it when he is
well, upbraiding him for such past fa-
vors, as if one should say: 'Alack,
be as kind as you will, see what return
you do meet with!' "
This last piece of ingenuity was al-
lowed by the court to surpass the first.
" Now," I cried, "what should be the
greatest torment a parent could inflict
on a child ? "
Martin answered: " If it should be
fond of public diversion, to confine it
in-doors. If retirement suits its tem-
per, to compel it abroad. If it should
delight in the theatre, to take it to see
a good play, and at the moment when
the plot shall wax most moving, to say
it must be tired, and procure to send
it home. Or, in more weighty mat-
ters, a daughter's marriage, for in-
stance, to detect if the wench hath
set her heart on one lover, and if so, to
keep from her the knowledge of this
gentleman's addresses ; and when she
hath accepted another, to let her know
the first had sued for her hand, and
been dismissed. "
Here all the young gentlewomen did
exclaim that Master Sherwood could
by no means think of a more skilful
torment than this should prove. He
thought for an instant, and then said :
" It should be a finer and more deli-
cate torment to stir up in a young gen-
tlewoman's mind suspicions of one she
loved, and so work on her natural pas-
sions of jealousy and pride, that she
should herself, in a hasty mood, discard
her lover; and ever after, when the
act was not recallable, remind her she
herself had wrought her own unhap-
piness, and wounded one she loved."
" Yea, that should be worse than the
first torment," all but one young lady
cried out ; who, for her part, could bet-
ter endure, she said, to have injured
herself than to be deceived, as in the
first case.
"Then do come husbands," quoth
Mr. Martin ; " and I vow," he cried,
" I know not how to credit there be
such vile wretches in the world as
should wish to torment their wives ;
but if such there be, methinks the
surest method they may practise is, to
loving wives to show indifferency ; to
such as be jealous, secrecy ; to such as
be pious, profaneness; and the like in
all the points whereon their affections
are set."
"Alack !" cried Mistress Frances
Bellamy, " what a study the man hath
made of this fine art! Gentlewomen
should needs beware of such a one for
a husband. What doth Master Sher-
wood say?"
Whereupon he : " Methinks the
greatest torment a husband might in-
flict on a worthy wife should be to
dishonor her love by his baseness ; or
if he had injured her, to doubt her
proneness to forgive."
" And wives," quoth Mistress South-
well, " what of their skill therein,
gentlemen ?"
" It be such," cried Martin, " as
should exceed men's ability thereof to
speak. The greatest instance of tal-
ent of this sort I have witnessed is in
a young married lady, whose husband
is very willing to stay in his house or
go abroad, or reside in town, or at his
seat in the country, as should most
please her, so she would let him know
her wishes. But she is so artful in
concealing them, that the poor man can
never learn so much as should cause
him to guess what they may be ; but
with a meek voice she doth reply to
his asking, * An it please you, sir, let it
762
Constance Sherwood.
be as you choose, for you very well
know I never do oppose your will/
Then if he resolve to leave town, she
maketh not much ado till they have
rode twenty or thirty miles out of Lon-
don. Then she doth begin to sigh
and weep, for that she should be a
most ill-used creature, and her heart
alnost broken for to leave her friends,
and be shut up for six months in a
swamp, for such she doth term his es-
tate ; and if she should not have left
London that same day, she should
have been at the Lord Mayor's ban-
quet, and seen the French princes,
which, above all things, she had desir-
ed. But some husbands be so hard-
hearted, if they can hunt and hawk,
'tis little count they make of their
wives' pleasures. Then when she hath
almost provoked the good man to
swear, she hangeth down her head and
saith, ' Content you, sir content you;
'tis your good fortune to have an obe-
dient wife/ And so mopes all the
time of the journey."
Whilst Martin was speaking, I not-
ed a young gentlewoman who did
deeply blush whilst he spoke, and tears
came into her eyes. I heard after-
ward she had been lately married,
and that he counterfeited her voice in
so precise a manner, so that all such
as knew her must needs believe her
to be the wife he spoke of; and that
there was so much of truth in the pic-
ture he had drawn, as to make it seem
a likeness, albeit most unjust toward
one who, though apt to boast of her
obedience, and to utter sundry trifling
complaints, was a fond wife and to-
ward lady to her dear husband ; and
that this malice in Mr. Tregony, over
and above his wonted spite, was due
to her rejection of his hand some short
time before her marriage. Master
Sherwood, seeing the ungracious gen-
tleman's ill-nature and the lady's con-
fusion, stood up the more speedily to
reply, and so cut him short. " I will
relate," he said, " a yet more ingeni-
ous practice of tormenting, which
should seem the highest proof of skill
in a wife, albeit also practised by hus-
bands, only not so aptly, or peradven-
ture so often. And this is when one
hath offered to another a notable in-
sult or affront, so to turn the tables,
even as a conjuror the cards he doth
handle, that straightway the offended
party shall seem to be the offender, and
be obliged to sue forgiveness for that
wherein he himself is hurt. I pray
you, gentlemen and ladies, can any-
thing more ingenious than this prac-
tice be thought on ? "
All did admit it to be a rare exam-
ple of ability in tormenting ; but some
objected it was not solely exercised by
wives and husbands, but that friends,
lovers, and all sorts of persons might
use it. Then one gentleman called
for some special instance of the art in
lovers. But another said it was a nat-
ural instinct, and not an art, in such to
torment one another, and likewise their
own selves, and proposed the behavior
of friends in that respect as a more
new and admirable theme.
"Ah," quoth Master Martin, with
an affected wave of his hand, " first
show me an instance of a true friend-
ship betwixt ladies, or a sincere affec-
tion betwixt gentlemen ; and then it
will be time for to describe the arts
whereby they do plague and torment
each other."
Mr. Sherwood answered, "A French
gentleman said, a short time since,
that it should be a piece of commend-
able prudence to live with your friend
as looking that he should one day be
your enemy. Now we be warranted,
by Master Tregony's speech, to con-
clude his friendships to be enmities in
fair disguise ; and the practices where-
with friends torment each other no
doubt should apply to this case also ;
and so his exceptions need in no wise
alter the theme of our argument. I
pray you, sir, begin, and name some
notable instance in which, without any
apparent breach of friendship, the ap-
pearance of which is in both instances
supposed, one may best wound his
friend, or, as Mr. Tregony hath it,
the disguised object of his hatred."
I noticed that Master Martin glanced
Constance Sherwood.
763
maliciously at his adversary, and then
answered, " The highest exercise of
such ability should be, methinks, to
get possession of a secret which your
friend, or disguised enemy, has been at
great pains to conceal, and to let him
know, by such means as shall hold him
in perpetual fear, but never in full as-
surance of the same, that you have it
in your power to accuse him at any
time of that which should procure him
to be thrown into prison, or maybe
hanged on a gibbet."
A paleness spread over Master Sher-
wood's face, not caused, I ween, by fear
so much as by anger at the meanness
of one who, from envy and spite, even
in the freedom of social hours, should
hint at secrets so weighty as would
touch the liberty, yea, the life, of one
he called his friend ; and standing up,
he answered, whilst I, now too late
discerning mine own folly in the pro-
posing of a dangerous pastime, trem-
bled in every limb.
" I know," quoth he, " I know a
yet more ingenious instance of the skill
of a malicious heart. To hang a
sword over a friend's head, and cause
him to apprehend its fall, must needs
be a well-practised device ; but if it
be done in so skilful a manner that the
weapon shall threaten not himself alone,
but make him, as it were, the instru-
ment of ruin to others dearer to him
his own life, if, by the appear-
ce of friendship, the reality of which
ch a heart knoweth not, he hath been
to such confidence as shall be the
means of sorrow to those who have be-
friended him in another manner than
this false friend, this true foe, the
triumph is then complete. Malice
and hatred can devise naught beyond
it."
Martin's eyes glared so fearfully,
and his voice sounded so hoarse, as he
hesitated in answering, that, in a sort
of desperation, I stood up, and cried,
" Long enough have these two gentle-
men had the talk to themselves.
Verily, methinks there be no con-
queror, but a drawn game in this in-
stance."
But a murmur rose among the com-
pany that Master Sherwood was vic-
torious, and Master Tregony should
do penance.
"What shall it be?" was asked;
and all with one voice did opine Mas-
ter Sherwood should name it, for he
was as much beloved as Master Treg-
ony was misliked. He (Sherwood), al-
beit somewhat inwardly moved, I ween,
had restrained his indignation, and
cried out merrily, " Marry, so will I !
Look me in the face, Martin, and give
me thy hand. This shall be thy pen-
ance."
The other did so ; but a fiendly look
of resentment was in his eyes ; and
methinks Thomas Sherwood must
needs have remembered the grasp of
his hand to forgive it, I doubt not,
even at the foot of the scaffold.
From that day Martin Tregony con-
ceived an implacable hatred for Mas-
ter Sherwood, whom he had feigned a
great friendship for on his first arrival
in London, because he hoped, by his
means and influence with his aunt, to
procure her to pay his debts. But
after he had thrown off the mask, he
only waited for an opportunity to de-
nounce him, being privy to his having
brought a priest to Lady Tregony's
house, who had also said mass in her
chapel. So one day meeting him in
the streets, he cried out, "Stop the
traitor! stop the traitor!" and so
causing him to be apprehended, had
him before the next justice of the
peace ; where, when they were come,
he could allege nothing against him,
but that he suspected him to be a Pa-
pist. Upon which he was examined
concerning his religion, and, refusing
to admit the queen's church-headship,
he was cast into a dungeon in the
Tower. His lodgings were plundered,
and 25, which he had amassed, as I
knew, who had assisted him to procure
it, for the use of his aged and sick
father, who had been lately cast into
prison in Lancaster, was carried off
with the rest. He was cruelly racked,
we heard, for that he would not reveal
where he had heard mass ; and kept
764
Constance Sherwood.
in a dark filthy hole, where he en-
dured very much from hunger, stench,
and cold. No one being allowed to
visit him for the Tower was not like
some other prisons where Mistress
Ward and others could sometimes
penetrate or afford him any comfort,
Mr. Roper had, by means of another
prisoner, conveyed to his keeper some
money for his use ; but the keeper re-
turned it the next day, because the
lieutenant of the Tower would not suf-
fer him to have the benefit of it. All
he could be prevailed upon to do was
to lay out one poor sixpence for a lit-
tle fresh straw for him to lie on. About
six months after, he was brought to
trial, and condemned to die, for deny-
ing the queen's supremacy, and was
executed at Tyburn, according to sen-
tence, being cut down whilst he was
yet alive, dismembered, bowelled, and
quartered.
Poor Lady Tregony's heart did al-
most break at this his end and her
kinsman's part in it ; and during those
six months for she would not leave
London whilst Thomas Sherwood was
yet alive I did constantly visit her,
almost every day, and betwixt us there
did exist a sort of fellowship in our
sorrow for this worthy young man's
sufferings ; for that she did reproach
herself for lack of prudence in not
sufficient distrust of her own nephew,
whom now she refused to see, at least,
she said, until he had repented of his
sin, which he, glorying in, had told
her, the only time they had met, he
should serve her in the same manner,
and if he could ever find out she
heard mass, should get her a lodging
in the Tower, and for himself her es-
tate in Norfolk, whither she was then
purposing to retire, and did do so
after Master Sherwood's execution.
For mine own part, as once before my
father's apprehended danger had di-
verted my mind from childish folly,
so did the tragical result of an enter-
tainment, wherein I had been carried
away by thoughtless mirth, somewhat
sicken me of company and sports. I
went abroad not much the next year ;
only was often at Mr. Wells's house,
and in Hubert's society, which had be-
come so habitual to me that I was al-
most persuaded the pleasure I took
therein proceeded from a mutual in-
clination, and I could observe with
what jealousy he watched any whom
I did seem to speak with or allow of
any civility at their hands. Even
Master Sherwood he would jalouse,
if he found me weeping over his fate ;
and said he was happier in prison, for
whom such tears did flow, than he at
liberty, for whom I showed no like re-
gard. " Oh," I would answer, " he is
happy because, Master Rookwood, his
sufferings are for his God and his con-
science' sake, and not such as arise
from a poor human love. Envy him
his faith, his patience, his hope, which
make him cry out, as I know he doth,
1 my Lord Jesu ! I am not worthy
that I should suffer these things for
thee ;' and not the compassionate tears
of a paltry wench that in some sort
was the means to plunge him in these
straits."
In the spring of the year which
did follow, I heard from my father,
who had been ordained at the English
College at Rheims, and was on the
watch, he advertised me, for an oppor-
tunity to return to England, for to ex-
ercise the sacred ministry amongst
his poor Catholic brethren. But at
which port he should land, or whither
direct his steps, if he effected a safe
landing, he dared not for to commit to
paper. He said Edmund Genings
had fallen into a most dangerous con-
sumption, partly by the extraordinary
pains he took in his studies, and partly
in his spiritual exercises, insomuch
that the physicians had almost de-
spaired of his recovery, and that the
president had in consequence resolved
to send him into England, to try change
of air. That he had left Rheims with
great regret, and went on his journey,
as far as Havre de Grace, and, after
a fortnight's stay in that place, having
prayed to God very heartily for the
recovery of his health, so that he
might return, and, without further de-
Constance Sherwood.
765
lay, continue his studies for the priest-
hood, he felt himself very much bet-
ter, almost as well as ever he was in
his life ; upon which he returned to
his college, and took up again, with
exceeding great fervor, his former
manner of life ; " and," my father
added, "his common expression, as
often as talk is ministered of England
and martyrdom there, is this : ' Viva-
mus in spe ! Vivamus in spe /' "
This letter did throw me into an ex-
ceeding great apprehension that my
father might fall into the hands of the
queen's officers at any time he should
land, and the first news I should hear
of him to be that he was cast into prison.
And as I knew no Catholic priest could
dwell in England with out he did assume
a feigned name, and mostly so one of his
station, and at one time well noted as
a gentleman and a recusant, I now
never heard of any priest arrested in
any part of England but I feared it
should be him.
Hubert Rookwood was now more
than ever at Mr. Lacy's house, and in
his library, for they did both affection
the same pursuits, albeit with very dif-
ferent abilities; and I was used to
transcribe for them divers passages
from manuscripts and books, taking
greater pleasure, so to spend time, than
to embroider in Kate's room, the com-
pass of whose thoughts became each
day more narrow, and her manner of
talk more tasteless. Hubert seemed
not well pleased when I told him my
father had been ordained abroad. I
gathered this from a troubled look in
his eyes, and an increasing paleness,
which betokened, to my now observant
eyes, emotions which he gave not vent
to in words at all, or leastways in any
that should express strong resentment.
His silence always frighted me more
than anger in others. He had ac-
quired a great influence over me, and,
albeit I was often ill at ease in his
company, I ill brooked his absence.
He was a zealous Catholic, and did
adduce arguments and proofs in behalf
of his religion with rare ability. Some
of his writings which I copied at that
time had a cogency and clearness in
their reasons and style, which in my
poor judgment betokened a singular
sharp understanding and ingenuity of
learning ; but in his conversation, and
writings also, was lacking the fervency
of spirit, the warmth of devout aims,
the indifferency to worldly regards,
which should belong to a truly Christian
soul, or else the nobleness and freedom
of speech which some do possess from
natural temper. But his attainments
were far superior to those of the young
men I used to see at Mr. Wells's, and
such as gave him an extraordinary re-
putation amongst the persons I was
wont to associate with, which contribu-
ted not a little to the value I did set on
his preference, of which no proofs were
wanting, save an open paying of his
addresses to me, which by reason of
his young age and mine, and the
poorness of his prospects, being but
a younger son of a country gentleman,
was easy of account. He had a great
desire for wealth and for all kind of
greatness, and used to speak of learn-
ing as a road to it.
In the spring of that year, my Lord
Surrey left Cambridge, and came to
live at Howard House with his lady.
They were then both in their eight-
eenth years, and a more comely pair
could not be seen. The years that
had passed since she had left London
had greatly matured her beauty. She
was taller of stature than the common
sort, and very fair and graceful. The
earl was likewise tall, very straight,
long-visaged, but of a pleasant and
noble countenance. I could not choose
but admire her perfect carriage, toward
her loid, her relatives, and her ser-
vants ; the good order she established
in her house ; the care she took of her
sister's education, who in two years
was to be married to Lord William
Howard ; and her great charity to the
poor, which she then began to visit
herself, and to relieve in all sorts of
ways, and was wont to say the angeld
of that old house where God had been
served by so many prayers and alms
must needs assist her in her care for
766
Constance Sherwood.
those in trouble. My lord appeared
exceedingly fond of her then. One
day when I was visiting her ladyship,
he asked me if I had read the life of
that sweet holy Queen Elizabeth of
Hungary ; and as I said I had not met
with it, he gifted me with a copy fairly
printed and well ornamented, which
Mr. Martin had left behind him when
he went beyond seas, and said :
" Mistress Sherwood, see if in this
book you find not the likeness of a lady
which you mislike not any more than
I do. Beshrew me, but I fear I may
find some day strange guests in mine
house if she do copy the pattern herein
set down ; and so I will e'en send the
book out of the house, for my lady is
too good for me already, and I be no
fitting husband for a saint, which a very
little more of virtue should make her."
And so he laughing, and she pretti-
ly checking his wanton speech, and
such sweet loving looks and play-
ful words passing between them as
gladdened my heart to see.
Some time after, I found one day
my Lady Surrey looking somewhat
grave and thoughtful. She greeted me
with an affectionate kiss, and said,
" Ah, sweet Constance, I be glad
thou art come ; for methinks we shall
soon leave London."
" So soon ?" I answered.
" Not too soon, dear Constance/' she
said somewhat sadly.
I did look wistfully in her sweet
face. Methought there was trouble
in it, and doubt if she should further
speak or not ; for she rested her head on
her hand, and her dark eyes did fix
themselves wistfully on mine, as if ask-
ing somewhat of me, but what I knew
not. " Constance, "she said at last, " I
have no mother, no sister of mine own
age, no brother, no ghostly father, to
speak my mind to. Methinks it should
not be wrong to unbosom my cares to
thee, who, albeit young, hast a thought-
ful spirit, and, as I have often observ-
ed, an aptness to give good counsel.
And then thou art of that way of think-
ing wherein I was brought up, and
though in outward show we now do
differ, I am not greatly changed there-
in, as thou well knowest."
"Alack!" I cried, "too well I do
know it, dear lady; and, albeit my
tongue is silent thereon, my heart doth
grieve to see you comfortless of that
which is the sole source of true com-
fort."
"Tis not that troubles me," she
answered, a little impatiently. " Thou
art unreasonable, Constance. My duty
to my lord shapes my outward be-
havior ; but I have weighty cares,
nevertheless. Dost thou mind that
passage in the late duke our father's
letter to his son and me? that we
should live in a lower degree, and out
of London and from the court. Me-
thinks a prophetic spirit did move him
thus to write. My lord has a great
heart and a generous temper, and loves
to spend money in all sorts of ways,
profitable and unprofitable, as I too
well observe since we have been in
London. And the queen sent him a
store of messages by my Lord Essex,
and others of his friends, that she was
surprised not to see him at court ; and
that it was her highness's pleasure he
should wait upon her, and she shall
show him so much favor as he deserves,
and such like inducements."
" And hath my lord been to court ?"
I asked.
"Yea, he hath been," she answered,
sighing deeply. " He hath been forced
to kiss the hand which signed his fa-
ther's death-warrant. Constance, it
is this which doth so pain me, that her
majesty should think he hath in his
heart no resentment of that mishap.
She said to my Lady Berkeley some
days since, when she sued for some fa-
vor at her hands, * No, no, my Lady
Berkeley ; you love us not, and never
will. You cannot forgive us your
brother's death.' Why should her
grace think a son hath less resentment
of a father's loss than a sister ?"
Willing to minister comfort to her
touching that on which I did, neverthe-
less, but too much consent to her think-
ing, I said, "In my lord's case, he
must have needs appeared to mislike
Constance Sherwood.
767
queen and her government if he him for that they would climb after
stayed away from court, and his duty him do ever set before his eyes is
to his sovereign compelleth him to
render her so much homage as is due
to her majesty."
" Yea," cried my lady, " I be of the
same mind with thee, that if my lord do
live in London he is in a manner
forced to swim with the tide, and God
only knoweth into what a flood of troub-
les he may thus be led. But I have
prevailed on him to go to Kenninghall,
and there to enjoy that retired life his
father passionately wished him to be
contented with. So I do look, if it
please God, to happy days when we
leave this great city, where so many and
great dangers beset us."
" Have you been to court likewise,
dear lady ?" I asked ; and she answered,
" No ; her majesty doth deny me
that privilege which the wife of a no-
bleman should enjoy without so much
as the asking for it. My Lord Arun-
del and my Lord Sussex are mad there-
on, and swear 'tis the gipsy's doing, as
they do always title Lord Leicester,
the queen's majesty's favor. 'Tis the
breath of their nostrils, the perpetual
theme of their discourse. Mine ears
sometimes ache with the sound of their
oft-repeated words."
Then she broke off her speech for
an instant, but soon asked me if to
consult fortune-tellers was not a sin.
"Yea," I answered, "the Church
doth hold it to be unlawful."
"Ah!" she replied, "I would to
God my lord had never resorted to a
person of that sort, which hath filled
his mind with an apprehension which
will work us great evil, if I do mistake
not."
" Alas ! " I said, " hath my lord been
so deluded?"
" Thou hast heard, I ween," my lady
continued, " of one Dr. Dee, whom
the queen doth greatly favor, and oft-
en charge him to cast her horoscope.
Some time ago my lord was riding
with her majesty and the most part of
her court near unto this learned gen-
tleman's house at Mortlake, which her
highness, taking notice of, she must
needs propose to visit him with all
her retinue, in order, she said, to ex-
amine his library and hold conference
with him. But learning that his wife
and a sign of his hatred to my lord.
But I be not of their mind; for me-
thinks he doth but aid my lord to win
the queen's favor by the slights which
are put on his wife, which, if he doth
take patiently, must needs secure for
him such favor as my Lord Leicester had been buried only four hours, her
iuld wish, if report speaks truly, majesty would not enter, but desired
le should enjoy but himself."
" But surely," I cried, " my lord's
spirit is too noble to stomach so mean
a treatment of his lady ? "
A burning blush spread over the
countess's face, and she answered,
" Constance, nobility of soul is
shaped into action by divers motives
and influences. And, I pray thee,
my Lord Leicester to take her down
from her horse at the church-wall at
Mortlake and to fetch the doctor unto
her, who did bring out for her grace's
inspection his magic-glass, of which
she and all those with her did sec
some of the properties. Several of the
noblemen thereunto present were great-
ly contented and delighted with this
since his father's death and the loss of cunning witchery, and did agree to
his first tutor, who hath my lord had visit again, in a private manner, this
learned ma,n, for to have their nativi-
ties calculated ; and my lord, I grieve
to say, went with them. And this
cheat or wizard, for methinks one or
other of those names must needs be-
to fashion the aims of his eager spirit
to a worthy ambition, and teach him
virtuous contentment with a meaner
rank and lower fortunes than his birth
do entitle him to ? He chafes to be
degraded, and would fain rise to the
long to him, predicted to my lord that
heights his ancestors occupied; and, he should be in great danger to be
alas ! the ladder which those who beset overthrown by a woman. And, I
768
Constance Sherwood.
ween, good Constance, there was a
craft in this most deep and deceptive,
for doth it not tend, whichever way it
be understood, to draw and urge on-
ward my lord to a careful seeking to
avoid this danger by a diligent serving
and waiting on her majesty, if she be
the woman like to undo him, or else to
move him to the thought that his mar-
riage as I doubt not many endeavor
to insinuate into his mind should be
an obstacle to her favor such as must
needs mar his fortunes ? Not that my
lord hath breathed so much as one such
painful word hi my hearing, or abated
in his kind behavior; but there are
others who be not slow to hint so much
to myself; and, I pray you, shall they
not then deal with him in the same
manner, albeit he is too noble and
gentle to let me hear of it ? But since
that day he is often thoughtful when
we are alone, and his mind ever run-
ning on means to propitiate her majes-
ty, and doth send her many presents,
the value of which should rather mark
them as gifts from one royal person to
another than from a subject to his
prince. O Constance, I would Ken-
ninghall were a thousand miles from
London, and a wild sea to run between
it and the court, such as could with
difficulty be crossed ; but 'tis vain wish-
ing ; and I thank God my lord should
be willing to remove there, and so we
shaJl be in quiet."
" God send it !" I answered ; " and
that you, my sweet lady, may find
there all manner of contentment."
Then I asked her ladyship if she had
tidings of my Lady 1'Estrange.
"Yea," she answered; "excellent
good tidings, for that she was a con-
tented wife to a loving husband. Sir
Hammond," she said, "hath a most
imperious temper, and, as I hear, doth
not brook the least contradiction ; so
that a woman less mild and affection-
ate than Milicent should not, I ween,
live at peace with him. But her
sweet temper doth move her to such
strict condescension to his humors, that
she doth style herself most fortunate
in marriage and a singular happy
wife. Dost mind Master Chaucer's
tale of the patient Grizzel, which Phil
read to me some years back, soon af-
ter our first marriage, for to give me a
lesson on wifely duty, and which I did
then write to thee the story of?"
" Yea, well," I cried ; and that I
was so angered at her patience, which
methought was foolish, yea, wicked in
its excess, that it did throw me into a
passion."
My lady laughed and said, indeed
she thought so too ; but Milicent, in
her behavior and the style of her let-
ters, did mind her so much of that
singular obedient wife, that she did
sometimes call her Grizzel to her face.
" She is now gone to reside with her
husband," she said, "at a seat of his
not very far from Lynn. "Pis a poor
and wild district; and the people, I
hear, do resort to her in great numbers
for assistance in the way of medicine
and surgery, and for much help of va-
rious sorts. She is greatly contented
that her husband doth in nowise im-
pede her in these charitable duties, but
rather the contrary. She is a crea-
ture of such natural good impulses
and compassionate spirit that must
needs show kindness to all who do
come in her way."
Then my lady questioned me touch-
ing Muriel and Mistress Ward, and
Kate and Polly, who were now both
married ; and I told her Kate had a
fair son and Polly a little daughter,
like to prove as sharp as her mother
if her infant vivacity did not belie her.
As to Muriel and her guide and friend,
I told her ladyship that few were like
to have speech with them, save such
as were in so destitute a condition
that nothing could exceed it. Now
that my two elder cousins had left
home, mine uncle's house was become
a sort of refuge for the poor, and an
hospital for distressed Catholics.
"And thou, Constance," my lady
said, "dost thou not think on mar-
riage ?"
I smiled and answered I did some-
times ; but had not yet met with any
one altogether conformable to my liking.
Constance Sherwood.
7G9
"Not Mr. Hubert Rookwood ?"
she said smiling ; " I have been told
he haunts Mrs. Lacy's house, and
would fain be admitted as Mistress
Sherwood's suitor."
"I will not deny," I answered, "but
that he doth testify a vast regard for
me, or that he is a gentleman of such
great parts and exceedingly winning
speech that a gentlewoman should be
flattered to be addressed by him ; but,
dear lady," I continued, opening my
heart to her, " albeit I relish greatly
his society, mine heart doth not alto-
gether incline to his suit; and Mr.
Congleton hath lately warned me to
be less free in allowing of his atten-
tions than hath hitherto been my wont ;
for, he said, his means be so scanty,
that it behoveth him not to think of
marriage until fcis fortunes do im-
prove ; and that his father would not
be competent to make such settlements
as should be needful in such a case,
or without which he should suffer us
to marry. As Hubert had never
opened to me himself thereon in so
i pointed a fashion as to demand an an-
swer from me, I was somewhat sur-
| prised at mine uncle's speech ; but I
1 found he had often ministered talk of
I his passion for me for so he termed
it to Kate and her husband."
" And did it work in thee, sweet one,
no regrets," my lady asked, " that the
j course of this poor gentleman's true
love should be marred by his lack of
wealth ?"
" In truth no, dear lady," I replied ;
"except that I did notice, with so
much of pain as a good heart must
leeds feel in the sufferings of another,
hat he was both sad and wroth at
he change in my manner. And in-
deed I had always seen and me-
hinks this was the reason that my
icart inclined not warmly toward his
suit that his affection was of that
sort that doth readily breed anger;
and that if he had occasion to mis-
doubt a return from me of such-like
regard as he professed, his looks of
ove sometimes changed into a scowl,
or something nearly resembling one.
Yet I had a kindness toward him,
yea, more than a kindness, an attach-
ment, which methinks should have led
me to correspond to his affection so far
as to be willing to marry him, if mine
uncle had not forbade me to think on
it; but since he hath laid his com-
mands upon me on that point, me-
thinks I have experienced a freedom
of soul and a greater peace than I
had known for some time past."
" 'Tis well then as it is," my lady
said ; and after some further discourse
we parted that day.
It had been with me even as I had
said to her. My mind had been more
at ease since the contending would and
would not, the desire to please Hu-
bert and the fear to be false in so do-
ing, had been stayed, and mostly
since he had urged me to entertain
him as a friend, albeit defended to re-
ceive him as a lover. And that peace
lasted until a day ay, a day which
began like other days with no percep-
tible presentiment of joy or sorrow,
the sun shining as brightly, and no
more, at its rise than on any other
morning in June ; and the thunder-
clouds toward noon overshadowing its
glory not more darkly than a storm is
wont to do the clear sky it doth in-
vade ; nor yet evening smiling again
more brightly and peacefully than is
usually seen when nature's commotion
is hushed, and the brilliant orb of day
doth sink to rest in a bed of purple
glory ; and yet that day did herald
the greatest joys, presage the greatest
anguish, mark the most mighty begin-
nings of most varied endings that can
be thought of in the life of a creature
not altogether untried by sorrow, but
on the brink of deeper waters than she
had yet sounded, on the verge of such
passages as to have looked forward to
had caused her to tremble with a two-
fold resentment of hope and of fear,
and to look back to doth constrain her
to lay down her pen awhile for
to crave strength to recount the
same.
[TO BE COKTINUBD.J
49
770
Terrene Phosphorescence.
From Chambers's Journal.
TERRENE PHOSPHORESCENCE.
IT has been suggested that light,
heat, magnetism, and electricity are
only the effects of motion among the
molecules of matter. Our earth is but
an aggregation of atoms, and every
substance upon which we lay our hands
is in like manner formed of infinitesi-
mal particles, so small as to baffle mi-
croscropic investigation. When we
consider that animalcula have been
discovered so minute that it would take
a million of them to form a grain of
sand, it is evident that motion as mo-
tion among the ultimate particles of
matter is beyond man's powers of
observation. Physical investigations
have led us to believe that these atoms
have an action or circulation of their
own, and as this action of necessity es-
capes our eye, it is not irrational,
when looking for some evidence of
this disturbance, to attribute to it phy-
sical forces for which we cannot satis-
factorily account, yet which appertain
to the earth. Thus has arisen the
hypothesis above stated ; and intimate-
ly connected with those forces (heat,
electricity, etc.) is phosphorescence, a
power on which the examinations of
twenty years have thrown little light,
and which still remains of doubtful
origin.
The power in minerals, plants, and
animals of producing light is appar-
ently a consequence of these objects
being under the direct influence, per-
manently, or for a time, of heat, light,
or electricity, as some substances be-
come phosphorescent after insolation,
or exposure to the sun's rays ; others,
from heat : others, by having an elec-
tric current passed through them ; and
lastly, some give forth a phosphoric
light of their own, without any apprecia-
ble warmth. Whatever may be the cause
of this property, it is found to pervade
all parts of creation : the atmos-
phere, the common stones by the way-
side, the flowers in cottage gardens,
and the humble insects or worms
crawling at our feet, can shed around a
faint glimmer of light. The earth it-
self is occasionally, if not always, self-
luminous, as are other of the heav-
enly bodies. Venus, Jupiter, the
moon, and comets, are conjectured to
have a certain portion of phosphoric
light, which is independent of and un-
borrowed from the sun. The lumin-
osity of the earth is made evident to
us on starless, moonless nights. We
may not have thought of it, but still it
is certain that light surrounds us from
some source or other in varying quan-
tities, on such nights as are above de-
scribed ; for our movements are very
different, even when walking in the
open air on the darkest nights, from
what they would be in a cave, or when
groping in a room with closed shutters.
This phase of phosphorescence, and
also that of faint flickering clouds
against the horizon, is distinct from
meteorological phosphorescence, which
branch of the subject includes lumin-
ous rain, fog, dust, ignis-fatuus, north-
ern and southern lights. A shower
of dust which fell during an erup-
tion of Vesuvius in 1794, had a faint
luminosity in the dark, distinctly visi-
ble on the sails of vessels on which it
had fallen. Many instances are re-
corded of rain producing sparks as it
touched the ground, and Arago col-
lected the authentic accounts of this
phenomenon. In June, 1731, an ec-
clesiastic near Constance described the
rain during a thunder-storm as falling
like drops of red-hot liquid metal ; and
it is observable that most of these
sparkling showers seem to have oc-
curred during thunder-storms, or when
the air was highly charged with elec-
tricity.
Butcomplete mystery still surrounds
the cause of luminous fogs and mista,
Terrene Phosphorescence.
in 1783, when a dry fog, lasting for a
month, covered the northern parts of
America, and Europe from Sweden
to Africa. It resembled moonlight
through a veil of clouds, and was
equally diffused on all sides, making
objects visible at a distance of six
hundred yards. Being, as it were,
a deep mass of phosphoric vapor,
reaching to the summit of the highest
mountains, no storms of rain or wind
seemed to affect it; but in Europe it
was thought to emit an unpleasant sul-
phurous smell.
Another feature of meteorological
phosphorescence is that of luminous
appearances at sea, quite distinct from
the luminosity of the ocean itself as
produced by marine animalcula. Mrs.
Somerville gives the following interest-
ing description of one of these phosphoric
phenomena : " Captain Bonnycastle,
coming up the Gulf of St. Lawrence on
the 7th of September, 1826, was roused
by the mate of the vessel in great
alarm from an unusual appearance. It
was a starlight night, when suddenly
the sky became overcast in the direction
of the highland of Cornwallis country,
and an instantaneous and intensely vi-
vid light, resembling the aurora, shot
out of the hitherto gloomy and dark
sea on the lee-bow, which was so bril-
liant that it lighted every thing distinct-
ly, even to the mast-head. The
light spread over the whole sea be-
tween the two shores, and the waves,
which before had been tranquil, now
began to be agitated. Captain Bon-
nycastle describes the scene as that 01
a blazing sheet of awful and most bril-
liant light. A long and vivid line of light,
superior in brightness to the parts of
the sea not immediately near the
vessel, showed the base of the high,
frowning, and dark land abreast ; the
sky became lowering and more in-
tensely obscure. Long tortuous lines
of light showed immense numbers of
very large fish darting about, as if in
consternation. The sprit-sail-yard
and mizzen-boom were lighted by the
glare, as if gas-lights had been burn-
ing directly below them ; and until
just before daybreak, at four o'clock,
the most minute objects were distinct-
ly visible. Day broke very slow-
ly, and the sun rose of a fiery and
threatening aspect Rain followed.
Captain Bonnycastle caused a bucket
of this fiery water to be drawn up : it
was one mass of light when stirred by
the hand, and not in sparks, as usual,
but in actual coruscations. A portion
of the water preserved its luminosity
for seven nights. On the third night,
scintillations of the sea reappeared ; in
the evening the sun went down very
singularly, exhibiting in its descent a
double sun ; and when only a few de-
grees high, its spherical figure changed
into that of a long cylinder, which
reached the horizon. In the night the
sea became nearly as luminous as be-
fore ; but on the fifth night the appear-
ance entirely ceased. Captain Bonny-
castle does not think it proceeded from
animalcula, but imagines it might be
some compound of phosphorus, sud-
denly evolved, and disposed over the
surface of the sea ; perhaps from the
exuviae or secretions of fish connected
with the oceanic salts, muriate of
soda and sulphate of magnesia."
Quite distinct from luminous mists
772
Terrene Phosphorescence.
is another species of phosphoric phe-
nomenon in the shape of luminous
bodies of considerable size and bril-
liancy. We find Arago saying, in
1838, "that great luminous meteors,
similar to lightning in their nature,
show themselves sometimes at the
surface of the globe, even when the
sky does not appear stormy." An in-
stance of this is given by a Mr. Ed-
wards, as having been seen by him
when crossing Loch Scavig in a boat
at night. In this instance, a light
swept rapidly over the face of the wa-
ter, resembling the light in a cabin
window, but moving with great rapid-
ity. It passed near the boat, and
caused much consternation among the
boatmen, who viewed it as something
supernatural ; but it was soon out of
sight, following a curved course. A
far more startling occurrence was seen
by the ship Montague when "a few
minutes before mid-day, and in per-
fectly serene weather, a large bluish
globe of fire rolled up to the ship, the
Montague, and exploded, shattering
one of the masts. This globe of fire
appeared as large as a millstone."
This appearance does not seem to have
had the swiftness of motion we should
expect if it had been a species of glo-
bular lightning, but rather resembled
a gigantic ignis-fatuus, which some-
times takes a globular form, and al-
though generally attributed to the com-
bustion of phosphuretted hydrogen
gas, may and does arise from
certain electrical conditions of the at-
mosphere. A remarkable ignis-fatuus
is described by Dr. Shaw in his travels
in the Holy Land. He observed it on
Mount Ephraim, and it followed him
for more than an hour. " Sometimes it
appeared globular, at others it spread
itself to such a degree as to involve
the whole company in a pale inoffen-
sive light ; then it contracted itself, and
suddenly disappeared, but in less than
a minute would appear again ; some-
times running swiftly along, it would
expand itself over two or three acres
of the adjacent mountains."
We will not dwell on other instan-
ces of ignis-fatuus, a phenomenon
so common as to be known to all. But
although this form of gas phosphu-
retted hydrogen has been long known
as luminous, it is only since 1859 that
gases in general have been discovered
to possess phosphoric qualities when
exposed to the sun's light. It is a re-
markable fact, but one which has been
proved, that, with the exception of
metals, nearly all terrestrial bodies ap-
pear luminous when taken into the dark
after insolation or exposure to the sun.
They absorb so much light as to give
it back again when removed from its
influence, and this property is opposed
to electricity, for we find that good
conductors of that fluid are not liable
to insolated phosphorescence. The first
discovery of this property was made
by Viscenzo Cascariolo, a shoemaker
of Bologna, who, loving alchemy, and
seeking gold, found in his ramble a
heavy stone, from which he hoped and
longed to produce the precious metal.
Failing in this, he found what till then
was unknown, that sulphuret of baryta
would " absorb the sun's rays by day,
to emit them by night." From him this
substance has received the name of
Bologna stone ; and this first discovery
has been followed by others, which prove
that phosphoric light may be produced
by heat, friction, cleavage, and many
other forces beside insolation. Some
diamonds shine in the dark after a few
minutes' exposure to the sun ; others
cannot be made phosphorescent by
heat if uncut, but when polished, or
submitted to two or three electric dis-
charges, easily become luminous. So
slight a heat is required to call forth
this light-giving property in some sub-
stances, that rare kinds of clorophane
shine in a dark room from the mere
warmth of the hand ; and other sub-
stances are phosphorized by the slight-
est friction. Thus Dana says : " Mere-
ly the rapid motion of a feather across
some specimens of sulphuret of zinc
will often elicit light more or less in-
tense from this metal."
Several simple and amusing experi-
ments may be made to show the phos-
Terrene Phosphorescence.
773
phorescence of minerals. The power
of cleavage to produce light is seen
when sugar is broken in a mortar. If
a sufficient quantity is ground rapidly
in the dark, the whole will appear a
mass of fire. If phosphuretted hydro-
gen is evolved by throwing phosphuret
of calcium into water, each bubble
as if rises will fire spontaneously on
combining with the air. But the
most elegant production of light is
the result of an experiment by Profes-
sor Pontus in 1833 : " He showed that
a vivid spark is produced when water
is made to freeze rapidly. A small
glass, terminating in a short tube, is
filled with water ; the whole is covered
with a sponge or cotton-wool imbibed
with ether, and placed in an air pump.
As soon as the experimenter begins to
produce a vacuum, the ether evapor-
ates, and the sponge or cotton-wool
descends, the temperature of the water
rises rapidly. But some instants be-
fore congelation takes place, a brilliant
spark, perfectly visible in the day-
time, is suddenly shot out of the lit-
tle tube that terminates the glass
globe."
Before passing on to the considera-
tion of animal phosphorescence, let us
glance at the luminosity of plants.
This is found in many phanerogams
and cryptogams. In the latter, it is
well known, from being found fre-
quently in mines, where the fungus
mycelium is seen spreading its web-like
growth, and diffusing a tranquil light,
sufficiently strong to read by, as some
have affirmed. The most beautiful
instance of this is found in the mines
in Hesse, where the galleries for sup-
plying air are illumined with this soft
phosphoric light. No example of
phosphorescence among sea-weed has
been known, but the delicate little
moss Schistostega osmundacea is lumi-
nous. Among phanerogams, or ordin-
ary plants, are many examples of
phosphorescence. Several kinds of
garden nasturtiums, sun-flowers,
French and African marigolds, yellow
lilies, and poppies, have been eeen to
emit either sparks or a steady light. By
some it is thought that it is produced
when the pollen flies off and is scat-
tered over the petals, but it is invaria-
bly noticed on warm tranquil even-
ings, when there is electricity in the
atmosphere. It is observed that near-
ly all the flowers proved to be phos-
phoric are of a yellow color, but the
cause of this has not been ascertained.
The leaves of an American plant
((Enothera macrocapa) have been
seen, during a severe storm of thun-
der and lightning, to emit brilliant
flashes of light, and this is, we believe,
the only plant as yet discovered with
phosphoric foliage. M. Martins of
Montpellier has noticed that the juice
of the Euphorbia phosphorea, when
rubbed on paper, appears luminous in
the dark, or when heated. But the
most remarkable instance is that of the
common potato emitting a brilliant
light : Mr. Phipson states that a sol-
dier of Strasburg thought that the
barracks were, on onp occasion, on
fire, from the light which was found
to proceed from a cellar full of pota-
toes. It is a question whether they
were in a state of decomposition, and
if so, it differs slightly from the lumin-
osity of decaying wood, which is usu-
ally caused by the presence of phos-
phoric fungi.
To attempt to enumerate the ani-
mals of inferior organism which are
phosphoric would be impossible, as al-
most every known zoophyte is pos-
sessed of this light-giving quality ; and
perhaps no branch of the subject has
received so much attention as that which
concerns animals, from the fact of the
phosphorescence of dead animal mat-
ter and insects being phenomena of
daily occurrence. On the former,
very early observations were made. In
1592, Fabricius d'Acquapendente re-
lates the astonishment of three Roman
youths who found the remains of their
Easter lamb shining like candles in
the dark. Nearly a century later,
Robert Boyle described the phospho-
rescence of a neck of veal " as a very
splendid show," and in a paper in the
Philosophical Transactions tried to ac-
774
Terrene Phosphorescence.
count for it. It is found that flesh
will continue luminous about four
days.
Among the insect-world there are
numerous light-giving members. The
common glowworm needs no descrip-
tion, and the lantern flies of the tropics
are almost as well known. Tropical
regions abound with these fire-flies,
seventy kinds of which are found in
South America and the southern states
of the northern continent. Some of
them emit the light from the abdomen,
others from the head. The famous
Fitlgora lantemaria, or lantern-fly of
Linnaeus, produces the light from the
long transparent horn or proboscis
curving upward from the head. The
light of one of these is sufficiently
bright to read a newspaper by, and
two or three of them in a bottle is the
common form of lamp. The natives
also light their way on a dark night by
tying one or two at the end of a stick.
The Noctua psi, a little gray night-
flying moth, is luminous, as also are
some kinds of caterpillars ; and the
cricket and "daddy long-legs" have the
same property attributed to them by
some naturalists. The reader cannot
fail to have noticed that there is no in-
stance recorded of any larger animal
producing phosphoric light. Invisible
animalcula and insects are numerous,
and of late years the common earth-
worm, or Lambricus, has been proved
beyond doubt to have a phosphoric
power ; but beyond this, and the crawl-
ing centipede (Scolopendrd), there is
no animal with light-giving power.
The gleaming light seen in the eyes of
cats, dogs, and wild animals has been
called phosphoric ; but this is doubtful,
and more nearly resembles some phase
of reflected light. Humboldt, and
later the natural historian, Reuger,
speak of a monkey, Nyctipithecus tri-
virgatuSj as having eyes so brilliant
as to illumine objects some inches
off.
But this is the only case of at all
probable phosphoric light. Perhaps,
La this very instance, it arose from
some peculiar physical condition of the
animal ; in the same way as the scin-
tillation in the eyes of one or two hu-
man beings was found connected with
extreme delicacy of constitution. The
phenomenon of brilliant colors being
perceived on a person pressing his
eye, or on Jhe injury of the optic
nerve, is called by Mr. Phipson
Subjective phosphorescence, but this
is only an undeveloped hypothesis.
Old dames and superstitious north-
erners speak of Elf -candles as preced-
ing death ; and of the fact of human
bodies during life exhibiting phospho-
ric light there is no doubt, but it also
depends on the state of the body, and
does not signify the sure approach of
death. A lady in Italy is described by
Bartholin as producing phosphoric
radiation when her body was gently
rubbed with dry linen, and more than
one instance of pale light surrounding
sick persons is recorded on good au-
thority. This portion of the science of
phosphorescence is involved in the
same mystery as the previously de-
scribed branches ; theories are suggest-
ed ; but no real satisfactory explana-
tion is found for the different kinds of
luminosity. "VYe will close this article
with an account given by Dr. Kane of
an extraordinary case of phosphores-
cence on the human body which occur-
red in the polar regions. It was on
the night of January 2, 1854, that the
party sought shelter from an icy death-
dealing wind in an Esquimaux hut.
Exhaustion, added to the intense cold,
induced sleep, but as the doctor was
composing himself for the night, he was
aroused by an exclamation that the fire
was out. To try and relight it was
the instant endeavor of Dr. Kane and
his man. The latter failing, the doc-
tor, in despair, sought to do so himself.
" It was so intensely dark," says he,
" that I had to grope for it (the pistol
with which they strove to produce a
spark), and in doing so touched his
hand. At that instant, the pistol be-
came distinctly visible. A pale bluish
light, slightly tremulous, but not brok-
en, covered the metallic parts of it
the barrel, lock, and trigger. The
Civilization in the Fifth Century.
775
stock, too, was clearly discernible, as
if by the reflected light, and to the
amazement of both of us, the thumb
and two fingers with which Petersen
was holding it, the creases, wrinkles,
and circuit of the nails clearly defined
upon the skin. The phosphorescence
was not unlike the ineffectual fire of the
glowworm. As I took the pistol, my
hand became illuminated also, and so
did the powder-rubbed paper when I
raised it against the muzzle. The pa-
per did not ignite at the first trial ; but
the light from it continuing, I was
able to charge the pistol without diffi-
culty."
From The Month.
CIVILIZATION IN THE FIFTH CENTURY.
THE name of Ozanam was already
celebrated in the world of letters, and
he had published some portions of his
historical course, when he died, in the
midst of his unfinished labors. His
early death is a fresh proof of the
truth of the old adage, Ars longa, vita
brevis, and the interest of his short
autobiography is intense. He tells us
of himself : " In the midst of an age of
scepticism God gave me the blessing
of having a Christian father and a re-
ligious mother ; and he gave me for
my first instructress a sister full of in-
telligence, and devout, like the angels
whom she has gone to join. But, in
the course of time, the rumors of an
infidel world reached even to me, and
I knew all the horror of those doubts
which weigh down the heart during
the day, and which return at night
upon the pillow moistened with tears.
The uncertainty of my eternal des-
tiny left me no repose. I clung with
despair to the sacred dogmas, and I
thought I felt them give way in my
grasp. It was then that I was saved
by the teaching of a priest well versed
in philosophy. He arranged and
cleared up my ideas. I believed from
that time with a firm faith, and, pene-
trated with the sense of so rare a bless-
ing, I vowed to God that I would de-
vote my life to the service of that truth
which had given me peace. Twenty
years have passed away since that
time. Providence has done every-
thing to snatch me from business and
to fix me in intellectual labors. The
combination of circumstances has led
me to study chiefly religion, law, and
letters. I have visited the places
which could afford me information.
The historian Gibbon, as he wandered
on the capitol. beheld issuing from the
gates of the basilica of Ara Coeli a
long procession of Franciscans, who
marked with their sandals the pave-
ment trodden by so many triumphs.
It was then that, inspired by indigna-
tion, he formed the design of avenging
antiquity thus outraged by Christian
barbarism, and he conceived the plan
of a History of the Fall of the Roman
Empire. I too have seen jthe monka
of Ara Coeli tread the ancient pave-
ment of Jupiter Capitolinus, and I re-
joiced at it, as the victory of love over
strength ; and I resolved to write the
history of progress in those ages
where philosophy finds only deca-
dence ; the history of civilization in
barbarous times, the history of thought
escaping the shipwreck of letters, forti
tegente brachio" (Pref., pp. 2, 5.)
The professor relates himself, with
all the vigor of his intellect, the great
and glorious plan of history which
was the object of his life, in a letter
dated Jan. 25, 1848 : " This will bo
the literary history of barbarous times,
the history of letters, and consequently
776
Civilization in the Fifth Century.
of civilization, from the Latin deca-
dence, and the first beginning of
Christian genius, to the end of the
thirteenth century. I shall make it
the subject of my lectures during ten
years, if it is necessary, and if God
prolongs my life. The subject would
be admirable, for it would consist in
making known this long and laborious
education which the Church bestowed
on modern nations." He then marks
the salient points of his picture the
intellectual state of the world at the
commencement of Christianity the
monde barbare and its irruption into
civilized society, and met by the labors
of Boethius, Isidore of Seville, Ven.
Bede, and St. Boniface, who carried
the torch of learning from one coun-
try to another, and handed it down to
Charlemagne. Then follow the cru-
sades, and then the three glorious cen-
turies of the middle ages, when St.
Anselm, St. Bernard, Peter Lombard,
Albert the Great, St. Thomas, and St.
Bonaventure achieved for the world
of intellect all that the Church and
state acquired from Gregory VII.,
Alexander III., Innocent III. and IV.,
Frederic II., St. Louis, and Alfonso X.
He gives a resume of the events which
influenced modern history, and ends
by saying, " My labors would be com-
pleted by la Divina Commedia, the
greatest monument of a period, of
which it may be called an abridgment,
and of which it is the glory." " This
is proposed to himself by a man who
was near dying, a year and a half ago,
and who is not yet wholly recovered.
But I depend entirely on the goodness
of God, in case he is pleased to restore
my health and preserve to me the love
for these noble studies with which he
has inspired me." (Pref., pp. 3-6.)
Such was the object and occupation
of his life from the age of eighteen,
when he was an obscure student, to
the time when he pronounced, as pro-
fessor, the lectures which contained
the labors of twenty years. Happily
for himself, he had learnt early the
result of labor. When he was twenty
years of age, he wrote, " We exist on
earth only to accomplish the will of
God. This will is fulfilled day by
day; and he who dies, leaving his
task unfinished, is, in the sight of the
divine maker, as far advanced as he
who has had time to bring his to com-
pletion."
It was at Pisa, April 23, 1853, that
M. Ozanam wrote a prayer so solemn,
as well as so touching, that his friend,
Father Ampere, seems to hesitate
whether it ought to be laid before the
public. His hesitation was conquered
by the desire of making what is so ex-
cellent known, and he publishes the
soliloquy of the dying man :
"I have said, 'In the midst of my
days I shall go down to the gates of
death,' etc. (Canticle Ezek.)
" This day is completed my fortieth
year: more than half the ordinary
span of life. I am, however, danger-
ously ill. Must I, then, quit all these
possessions which thou thyself hast
given me, my God ? Wilt thou
not, O Lord, accept a part of the sac-
rifice ? Which of my ill-regulated af-
fections shall I offer up to thee?
Wilt not thou accept the holocaust of
my literary self-love, my academical
ambition, my prospects for study, in
which, perhaps, there is mingled more
pride than zeal for truth ? If I sold
the half of my books and gave the
price of them to the poor, and if I re-
stricted myself to fulfilling the du-
ties of my office, and consecrated the
rest of my life to visiting the poor and
instructing apprentices and soldiers,
Lord, would this be a sufficient satis-
faction, and wouldst thou leave me the
happiness of living to old age with my
wife, and completing the education of
my child ? Perhaps, O my God, this
is not thy will. Thou wilt not accept
these selfish offerings. Thou rejectest
my holocaust and my sacrifices. It is
myself whom thou requirest. It is
written in the commencement of the
book that I must do thy will, and I
have said, O Lord, I come."
It is with a solemn interest that we
turn to the fragments of that work to
which Ozanam devoted his life and
Civilization in the Fifth Century.
777
energies, and we find it to be the his-
tory of modern Europe. He himself
lays down the three elements of histo-
ry. "First, chronology, which pre-
serves the general succession of
events ; then legend, which gives them
life and color; and then philosophy,
which fills them, as it were, with soul
and intelligence."
In the childhood of the world, when
the desire of knowledge was fresh and
strong, all pagan histories began with
the siege of Troy, and all Chris-
tian histories from Adam and Eve.
Authors gained fame by chronicles of
all past events, because it satisfied the
natural curiosity of man to know the
antecedents of his country or race.
As time went on, history became the
expression of popular feelings ; and
what took place generally may be in-
ferred from what we know of our own
country. The British monk, Geoffrey
of Monmouth, wrote of Arthur, the
champion of the faith and the model of
chivalry; and the Venerable Bede
wrote of the saints among his own Sax-
on countrymen ; then came, with the
evils of the reformation, a reverence
for what was ancient, and Stow wrote
of Catholic England with a fidelity
which ranked him among the benefac-
tors of his country. But then also
egotism began. Each must think for
himself, and appropriate the results of
former labors ; each must analyze, or
generalize, or criticise ; and perhaps it
is true that the original writer is he who
gives to the world his own view of
things, and not the things themselves,
If he is unselfish and loves truth for
itself, he is a poet ; if he subjects truth
to his own views, he writes of history,
but he does not write history; facts
become subservient to theories, and he
mentions only a few, as necessary il-
lustrations of his own system. The
reader yawns over the succession of
kings and events, and chooses for his
guide the infidel Hume, the philan-
thropic Mackintosh, or the Hanover-
ian Macaulay. The fashion of the
present day is the idolization of nature.
This has made art pre-Raphaelite, and
poetry euphuistic. History, too, is
perhaps becoming a laborious restora-
tion of the past. With a taste for de-
tail which is truly Gothic, the popular
historian must reproduce his charac-
ters with their own features, costume,
and entourage, and the long forgotten
personages, as if restored to life by the
genius of Sir Walter Scott, must walk
about the stage in mediaeval garb.
History has gone through nearly the
same phases on the continent until the
period of the reformation. Then in
Catholic countries as France, Spain,
and Italy arose a more reasoning
but a grave and instructive school of
history, which preserved past events
as a deposit of the ages of faith ; and
latterly, since excitement is become
necessary to all, and the speculations
of German literature have taught al-
most all to think, the French and Ger-
man historians have adopted the phi-
losophy of history. The German
school takes a naked problem and
proves it by a series of abstractions.
We read Schlegel and Guizot, and we
find, instead of facts or dates or per-
sons, a sort of allegorical personifica-
tion of civilization, liberty, progress,
etc. This is rather declamation than
narration, and those among the learn-
ed who value antiquity have found the
art of realizing not the externals but
the spirit of the past. Thus when
Ozanara, as the professor of foreign
literature at Paris, writes of the mid-
dle ages, the persons whom he names
are, for the moment, living, not petri-
fied, as in the stereoscope, but thinking,
speaking, and acting, as if the writer
could open a bright glimpse into the
eternal world, where St. Denys, St.
Bernard, St. Bonaventure, and St.
Thomas still contemplate the author
and giver of all they knew. And when
he speaks of the succession of events,
it seems as if we passed from the
midst of a crowded procession, jostling
along the dusty highway, to an emi-
nence from which we see the points of
its departure and arrival, the distin-
guished persons, the great objects, and
the direction of the march, and that we
778
Civilization in the Fifth Century.
not only see but understand and sym-
pathize with the spirit of the undertak-
ing. The thought is from above, but
it becomes our own. For lie not only
classifies and generalizes, but he chris-
tianizes his glimpses into history. His
pictures are indeed only illustrative of
his principles; but when he intro-
duces a person or a fact, he speaks of
them with such intimacy of knowledge
that it creates a keen curiosity as well
as a consciousness of ignorance in the
reader. But the reader of Ozanam
must be already a historian before he
can appreciate the benefit of having
his knowledge classified and animated
by a living principle, as well as vivi-
fied and rendered distinct, as the ob-
jects in a dull landscape by a beam of
sunshine.
The mission of Ozanam seems to
be the destruction of those errors as to
the value of the knowledge possessed
in the middle ages, which have ex-
isted since the renaissance.
It was natural that when the cala-
mities of Europe were so far past as
to permit the development of the intel-
lectual faculties, men should be elated
by their new powers, and undervalue
the painful labors of men "interrupted
by violence and crime. Maitland, by
the evidence of his own reading, saw
the injustice of this, and said wittily,
that u by the dark ages were meant
the ages about which we are in the
dark." But he could see only the
outward face of mediaeval knowledge,
and missed its vivifying spirit the
faith of the Church. Ozanam had the
gift of faith, and traces with a firm
hand the progress of human intellect,
often concealed and limited, but always
advancing, and often breaking out in
power and glory when some sainted
pope or doctor of the Church explained
the principles of religion and philoso-
phy-
But it would be presumptuous to
anticipate Ozanam himself, whose own
words as well as his very life itself
have given a resume of his great ob-
ject. It is at the conclusion of a lecture
that he thus addresses the students :
"It is not my intention to follow
out into its minor details the literary
history of the fifth century. I only
seek in it that light which will clear up
the obscurity of the following ages.
Travellers tell us of rivers which flow
underneath rocks, and which reappear
at a distance from the place where they
were lost to the view. I trace up the
stream of these traditions above the
point where it seems to be lost, and I
shall endeavor to descend with the
stream into the abyss, in order to as-
sure myself that I really behold the
same waters at their outlet. Histo-
rians have opened a chasm between
antiquity and barbarism. I have at-
tempted to replace the connections
which Providence has never suffered
to fail in time any more than in space,
etc. I should not brave the difficulties
of such a study, gentlemen, if I were
not supported, nay, urged onwards, by
you. I call to witness these walls, that
if ever, at rare intervals, I have been
visited by inspiration, it was within
their circuit ; whether they have given
back some of the glorious echoes with
which they have formerly rung, or
whether I have felt myself carried
away by your ardent sympathies. Per-
haps my design is rash ; but you must
share the responsibility. You will
make up the deficiency of my strength.
I shall grow old and gray-haired in the
labor, if God permits ; but the cold-
ness of age shall not gain upon me so
far as that I shall not be able to return,
as this day, in order to renew the young
vigor of my heart in the warmth of
your youthful days."
It is in his lecture on pagan empires
that Ozanam lays down the principle
on which his views of mediaeval his-
tory are based : " Each epoch has a
ruin and a conquest a decadence and
a renaissance." The greatest epoch
of the world's history is that when all
that was given to man at his creation
was exchanged for a better nature at
his redemption. This truth of destruc-
tion and regeneration is repeated over
and over again through all created
things the seed must die before the
Civilization in the Fifth Century.
779
new grain can live. As each indivi-
dual must be changed from the excel-
lence of what he is still by nature
to a heavenly model, so nations must
be changed, and institutions perish and
revive, and the great republic of letters,
founded before the flood and perfected
in Greece and Rome, must die and be
regenerated in the Christian Church.
The first decadence is that of pagan
Rome.
It is impossible to represent by quo-
tations the grand but terrible picture
which Ozanam draws of paganism, in
its glory, its worldly splendor, and its
spiritual darkness. He does full jus-
tice to the excellence of every art and
science which the heathens attained ;
but he shows that while the court
of Augustus was the model of refine-
ment and civilization, the altars were
smoking with incense to devils, who
were the personifications of every vice,
and the rites of the temples were in-
cantations and abominations. An au-
dience of Christian students could not
bear the too revolting details.
His object was the same as that
of the great author of " Callista " to
destroy the prestige which still invests
all that is classical. Rome was in
truth a majestic empire, and even St.
Jerome trembled at its fall : " Elk est
captive la cite qui mit en captivite le
monde"
St. Augustin was not a Roman,
and was less overpowered by the ter-
ror of its fall. In the midst of the
outcries which accused Christianity as
the cause of the ruin which involved
the world by the evident vengeance of
heaven, the saint wrote his " City of
God," and developed from the creation
of the world to the times in which he
lived the great Christian law of pro-
gress. A new empire that of con-
science was to rule all nations. In
this new empire strength and courage
were of no avail, and women were as
powerful as men in converting the
world. Clotilde converted the heathen
Franks, and Theodolind the Arian
Lombards. The holy bishop St. Pat-
rick converted in his lifetime the whole
Irish nation ; and the hdy monk St.
Benedict founded in the desert of Cas-
sino the monastic armies of the Church ;
while St. Gregory, from his bed of
sickness, headed the battle of civiliza-
tion against barbarism. The victory
was complete, and every converted
country sent forth its missionaries to
form Christian colonies.
Thus fell the power of Rome, but
not her influence, for the great influ-
ence of paganism was the excellence
of its literature. Though the Augus-
tan writers were no more, yet Am-
mianus Marcellinus wrote history with
the spirit of a soldier, and Vegetius
wrote the precepts of the art of con-
quering. Symmachus was thought to
rival Pliny in his letters ; and, at the
same time, Claudian, the last and not
the least of Latin poets, succeeded
Lucan in those historical epics so pop-
ular at Rome. He celebrated the war
of Gildo and the victories of Stilicho
over the Goths in verses equal to the
" Pharsalia ;" and his invectives against
Eutropius and Rufinus, in defense of
Stilicho his patron, are still considered
masterpieces. He ignored not only
Christianity but Christian writers,
though St. Ambrose was at Milan and
St. Augustin at Carthage, and wrote
gravely of mythology in an age when
few pagans believed its fables. He
was an Egyptian by birth, and trained
in the schools of Alexandria, and was
patronized by the Christian emperor
Honorius, who erected to him as to
the best of poets a statue in Trajan's
Forum. Yet Claudian had truly pa-
gan morals ; he praised the vices of
his patron Stilicho, and when he was
murdered he wrote a poem to his en-
emy ; " he misused both panegyric
and satire, the powers of a good un-
derstanding and a rich fancy and flow-
ing versification, which place him, after
an interval of three hundred years,
among the poets of ancient Rome."
But while Claudian celebrated the con-
flict of Rome with the barbarians, he
perceived not the mighty war between
Christianity and paganism ; and while
our Lord and his blessed Mother tri-
780
Civilization in the Fifth Century.
umphed over the idols and their tem-
ples, he wasted his poetry in their
praise ; and when he recited a poem
in the presence of Honorius and the
senate, he spoke to them as if they
believed in mythology. Ozanam gives
one remarkable proof of the hold over
men's minds retained by paganism.
When Honorius took possession of the
palace of Augustus on Mount Pala-
tine, he assembled the senate, and in
the presence of all these great persons,
many of whom were Christian, Claud-
ian unrolled the parc!iment whereon
his verses were written in letters of
gold, and addressed Honorius as re-
sembling Jupiter conquering the giants.
And again, when he had the office of
showing the splendors of Rome to
Honorius, when he visited it for the
first time (404), he spoke of the city
as a pagan in the language of idolatry.
And the poet Rutilius, though born in
Gaul, idolized Rome. "Rome was
the last divinity of the ancients.
Mother of men and gods " (he calls her,
as he wrote his " Itinerary to Gaul"),
the sun rises and sets in thy domin-
ions ; thou hast made one country
of many nations one city of the
world. Thy year is an eternal spring ;
the winter dares not stay thy joy."
So powerful was the influence of pa-
gan Rome over a foreigner; and that
influence may be yet better perceived
in the Christian poet Sidonius Apolli-
naris, who, though brought up, like
Ausonius, in the Gallic schools, and
sound in faith, could not write hexam-
eters without mythology. The only
language of poetry was pagan ; and
when he wrote to St. Patient, bishop
of Lyons (who fed his people in fam-
ine), he compared him to Triptolemus.
The first antagonist of the Church,
in her task of regenerating society,
was paganism ; the second, barbarism.
Charlemagne constructed, on the ruins
of tjje Roman empire, an empire of
enlightened Christianity ; but another
decadence followed. The Normans
sacked monasteries, and burned the
Holy Scriptures, together with Aris-
totle and Virgil. The Huns destroyed
the very grass of the fields. The
Lombards seemed to be sent for the
destruction of all that was left of hu-
man kind. Ozanam says, " Provi-
dence loves to surprise." The monks
who escaped the Norman pirates
preached to them amidst the ashes of
their monasteries, and the Normans
became Christians. Then arose the
basilicas of Palermo and Monreale
in Sicily, and the churches of Italy,
Normandy, and England. St. Adal-
bert converted the Huns, and they de-
fended Christendom against the vices
of Byzantium and the invasions of
Mohammedans. On the ruins of the
Roman empire arose the kingdoms of
France, Germany, and Italy. Of this
new empire, feudality and chivalry
were the opposite elements. Feudal-
ity was the principle of division, chiv-
alry that of fraternity ; and these re-
modelled society.
The calamities attending this final
disruption of the empire interrupted
study, and learning was confined to the
islands of Great Britain and Ireland,
from whence missionaries carried not
only religion but learning into the
countries where they were almost ex-
tinguished by the Goths. Germany
had three great monasteries Nou-
velle Corbie, Fulda, and St. Gall. At
this last monastery was preserved the
classic literature. Monks studied
grammar and wrote ^neids. The
royal Hedwige introduced the study
of Greek at St. Gull; and Ozanam
relates it in one of those graphic inci-
dents which are worth volumes. A
new period began with Gregory VII.
When he said, " Lord, I have loved
justice, and hated iniquity ; wherefore
I die in exile," a bishop replied, " You
cannot die in exile, because God has
given you the earth for your jurisdic-
tion, and the nations for your inheri-
tance." Then followed the crusades,
that wonderful and providential means
by which the civilization of the East
was brought into the service of the
Western Church. They destroyed
feudalism ; for all who fought gained
glory, whether serf or noble. Chival-
Civilisation in the Fifth Century.
781
ric poetry arose. Germany had its
Niebelungen, Spain its Cid. Then
arose the arts around Giotto and the
tomb of St. Francis. Christian archi-
tecture was not Roman. The small
temples and large amphitheatres, etc.,
were replaced by large churches, pub-
lic halls, schools and hospitals, a small
town round a large cathedral. There
were three capitals : Rome, the seat
of the Papacy ; Aix-la-chapelle, the
seat of empire ; and Paris, of the
schools.
How paganism perished is perhaps
one of the most useful lectures in the
course, as it bears upon the doubts
which are still felt by some as to the
use of pagan books in Christian edu-
cation. Ozanam shows that the monks
preserved by transcribing the works
of Seneca and Cicero, and that St.
Augustin brought Plato and Aristotle
into Christian schools; that St. Au-
gustin, St> Jerome, and St. Basil pre-
served the heathen poets till Christian
poets had learnt their art ; nay, how
the Church protected the Gallic bards
and German scalds, and taught them
to sing the praises of God. St. Greg-
ory preserved the Saxon temples, and
even adapted their rites and festivals
to be used in Christian worship, that
what had been perverted to the service
of -devils might be restored to God.
The contrast the abyss between
the middle ages and the renaissance
has been exaggerated. There was
literary paganism in the ages of faith.
The troubadours sang of mythology,
and the language of idolatry was puri-
fied by its application to the praises of
the martyrs, as is shown in the poems
of St. Paulinus. When the Church
emerged from persecution, the Ro-
man schools became Christian ; and
when the Lombards threatened to
plunge Christendom in darkness, there
were two lamps still burning in the
night episcopal and monastic teach-
ing ; and in these, by degrees, the pa-
gan books and pagan literature were
replaced by Christian works, in which,
however, there were still abundant
traces of their pagan masters.
It is in a fragment that Ozanam
speaks of the way in which the valu-
able part of antiquity was preserved.
" When winter begins, it seems as if
vegetation would perish. The wind
sweeps away the flowers and leaves ;
but the seeds remain. The providence
of God watches over them. They are
defended by a husk against the cold,
and have wings which bear them to
congenial places, where they spring
again. So, when the ages of barbar-
ism came, the winter of human nature,
it seems as if poetry and all the vege-
tation of thought would perish ; but it
was preserved in the dry questions of
the schools through three or four cen-
turies ; and when the time and place
came, the man of genius was raised
up. and in his hands they grew again.
Such was St. Thomas of Aquin, the
champion of dogmatism ; and St. Bon-
aventure, of mysticism ; and Christen-
dom had its own philosophy." Per-
haps we do not realize sufficiently the
despair which was the lot of reflecting
heathens. They sought the aid of
philosophy to console them " for hope-
less deterioration from a golden to an
iron age ; but philosophy could only
teach that the world was perishing,
and that the pride of man must pre-
serve him from erring and perishing
with its possessions. The heathens
knew not the idea of progress ; but the
gospel teaches and commands human
perfectibility, and says to each, Be ye
perfect ; and to all, Let the Church
grow into the fulness of Christ." It
was faith, hope, and charity which pro-
duced progress.
And, first, faith set free the human
mind from the ignorance of God.
Idolatry was not only that men gave
to devils the worship which they owed
to God ; it was the love of what is
mortal and perishable, instead of what
is spiritual and eternal ; it sunk man-
kind into materialism and sensuality.
"Painters and sculptors represented
only corporeal beauty : there was no
expression in the figures of Phidias or
Parrhasius." Ozanam shows how
Christian art used what is material
782
Civilization in the Fifth Century.
only as symbolism, and expressed by
form and color what is invisible and
celestial ; while poetry was rescued
from degradation, and became what it
really is, the noblest aspiration after
truth of which man in his present
state is capable. Philosophy was freed
from the trammels of false systems,
and speculated securely and deeply on
the divine and human nature. " Ori-
gen formed in the Catechetical schools
of Alexandria the science of theo-
logy," and in " the golden age of this
new science St. Jerome taught exege-
sis, St. Augustin dogmatic, and St.
Ambrose moral theology. St. An-
selm was tormented by the desire of
finding a short proof that God exists,
and with him began metaphysics."
These were the rich treasures which
lay concealed in the scholastic teach-
ing of the middle ages.
As theology and Christian philoso-
phy had sprung from faith, so hope
extended knowledge, because men la-
bored with fresh vigor in improving
science. "The course of ages offers
no grander spectacle than that of man
taking possession of nature by know-
ledge." In the seventh century the
Byzantine monks pierced the steppes
of Central Asia, and passed the wall
of China ; monks took the message of
the Pope to the Khan before Marco
Polo visited the East; and monks, in
the eighth century, visited Iceland and
even America. It was the calcula-
tions of the middle ages which embold-
ened Columbus to discover a new
world and new creation ; and when
Magellan sailed round the globe,
" man was master of his abode." He
goes on : " When man had conquered
the earth, he could not rest ; Coper-
nicus burst through the false heavens
of Ptolemy ; the telescope discovered
the secrets of the stars, and calcula-
tion numbered their laws and orbits in
the abyss of heaven. Woe be to those
who are led away by such a sight
from God ! The stars told his glory
to David, and so they did also to Kep-
ler and to Newton."
It was by the third and greatest of
the theological virtues, charity, that
the moral as well as the intellectual
nature of man was regenerated, though
the change was wrought, perhaps, by
slower degrees. Slavery of the most
revolting kind that slavery which
ignores the soul and the reason, as
well as the social rights of the slave,
was replaced by liberty, oppression
and injustice by laws which are still
based upon the letter of the Roman
laws ; but administered with the equi-
ty of the Christian code. Cruelty
and indifference to human life, as
shown in the national passion for gla-
diatorial games, was replaced by gen-
tleness and all good works ; and the
luxury of palaces, baths, etc., was
replaced by gorgeous churches and
hospitals. Education, which had been
restricted to the few, was thrown open
to all by free schools and by Christian
preaching. Above all, the daughters
of Eve, who were degraded below the
condition of the very slaves, were
raised to be helps-meet for Christians,
either by the sacrament of marriage
or by the holiness of virginity.
In speaking of the reconstruction of
intellectual action in the civilization of
Western Christendom, Ozanam has a
grand and striking thought, that the
first step to this was uniformity of
language. The confusion of tongues
which began at Babel was silenced
throughout the world by the universal
use of the Latin language, which was
adopted by the Church; and that
language, which was formed to express
all the passions and vices, as well as
the strength and intelligence of man,
conveyed, by the words of St. Gelasius
and St. Gregory, the most sublime
devotion ; by those of St. Jerome, the
deep senses of the Holy Scriptures ;
and when the Christian intellect was
free to develop itself, there arose that
Christian eloquence in preaching the
gospel which influenced, for the first
time, all ranks and all dispositions
of men.
The present edition of the author's
works is conducted by friends who
understood and valued his object, and
The Bells of Avignon.
783
who were able to fill up, without
blemishing, the unfinished parts of his
lectures. Nothing can be done more
faithfully, or in better taste ; but there
are many blanks too wide to be filled
even by such skilful hands. Ozanam
says himself, that the two poles of his
work are the "Essays on the Ger-
mans before Christianity," and that on
Dante. These form the third and
fourth volumes. In the fifth volume
is his " Essay on the Franciscan
Poets ; " and that on Dante closes the
series. We have confined ourselves
to the subject-matter of the first and
second volumes, which contain the
lectures on the civilization of the fifth
century, and which suffice to show
the lofty Christian philosophy with
which Ozanam beholds the course of
modern history. More than this it
would be difficult to show. The lec-
tures themselves are fragments ; ideas
snatched from the rapid flow of his
eloquence, and that eloquence itself
could feebly express the thoughts
which visited his mind, and the im-
pressions of glory which left no trace
but sensation. There is no chronolo-
gy, no succession. He fixes his eyes
on the fifth century he penetrates its
mysteries, and the secret influences
which it sends forth to after times.
He speaks of what he sees ; and we
learn that the world of Christen-
dom has had its decadence and re-
naissance, yet that progress con-
tinues. The crimes of the middle
ages conceal that progress, and so
do the troubles of the present time.
passi graviora, dabit Deus his
quoque finem.
From Chambers's Journal.
THE BELLS OF AVIGNON.
AVIGNON was a joyous city,
A joyous town with many a steeple,
Towers and tourelles, roofs and turrets,
Sheltering a merry people.
In each tower, the bells of silver,
Bronze or iron, swayed so proudly,
Tolling deep and swinging cheerly,
Beating fast and beating loudly.
One ! Two ! Three ! Four ! ever sounding ;
Two ! Four ! One ! Three ! still repeating ;
Five ! Seven ! Six ! Eight ! hurrying, chasing ;
Bim-bom-bing-bang merry beating.
All the day the dancing sextons
Dragged at bell-ropes, rising, falling ;
Clanging bells, inquiring, answering,
From the towers were ever calling.
Cardinals, in crimson garments,
Stood and listened to the chiming ;
And within his lofty chateau
Sate the pope, and beat the timing.
Minstrels, soldiers, monks, and jesters
Laughed to hear the merry clamor,
The Bells of Avignon.
As above them in the turrets
Music clashed from many a hammer.
Avignon was a joyous city :
Far away across the bridges,
'Mong the vine-slopes, upward lessening,
To the brown cliffs' highest ridges,
Clamored those sonorous bells ;
In the summer's noontide wrangling,
In one silver knot of music
All their chimes together tangling.
Showering music on the people
Round the town-house in the mornings ;
Scattering joy and jubilations,
Hope and welcome, wrath and scorn ings ;
Ushering kings, or mourning pontiffs ;
Clanging in the times of thunder,
And on nights when conflagrations
Clove the city half asunder.
Nights and nights across the river,
Through the darkness starry-dotted,
Far across the bridge so stately.
Now by lichens blurred and blotted,
Came that floating, mournful music,
As from bands of angels flying,
With the loud blasts of the tempest
Still victoriously vieing.
Who could tell why Avignon
All its bells was ever pealing ?
Whether to scare evil spirits,
Still round holy cities stealing.
Yet, perhaps, that ceaseless chiming,
And that pleasant silver beating,
Was but as of children playing,
And their mother's name repeating.
One! Two! Three! the bells went prattling,
With a music so untiring ;
One ! Two ! Three ! in merry cadence,
Rolling, crashing, clanging, firing.
Hence it was that in past ages,
When 'mid war those sounds seemed sweeter,
La Ville Sonnante people called it,
City sacred to Saint Peter.
Years ago ! but now all silent,
Lone and sad, the grass-grown city,
Has its bell-towers all deserted
By those ringers more's the pity.
Pope and cardinal are vanished,
And no music fills the night-air ;
Gone the red robes and the sable ;
Gone the crosier and the mitre.
AU-HaUow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
785
From The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.
BY ROBERT CURTIS.
CHAPTER X.
IT is not to be wondered at that two
persons, equally clever in all respects,
and having a similar though not iden-
tical object in view, should have pretty
much the same thoughts respecting the
manner of carrying it out, and finally
pursue the same course to effect their
purpose. But the matter involves
some nicety, if not difficulty, when it
so happens that those two persons
have to work upon each other in a
double case. It is then a matter of
diamond cut diamond ; and if, as I
have suggested, both are equally clever,
the discussion of the subject between
them would make no bad scene in a
play. Winny wanted to find out some-
thing from Kate Mulvey, and at the
same time to hide something from her.
Kate Mulvey was on precisely the
same intent with Winny Cavana in both
ways ; so that some such tournament
must come off between them the first
time they met, with sufficient opportu-
nity to " have it out" without inter-
ruption.
You have seen that Winny had
determined to sound her friend Kate,
as to how her land lay between these
two young men. If Kate had not
made a like determination as to sound-
ing Winny, she was, at all events,
ready for the encounter at any moment,
and had discussed the matter over and
over in her own mind. Their mutual
object, then, was to find out which of
the young men was the real object of
the other's affections; and up to the
present moment each believed the other
to be a formidable rival to her own
hopes.
Winny was not one who hesitated
about any matter which she felt to
require immediate performance; and
50
as she knew that some indefinite time
might elapse before an opportunity
could occur to have her chat out with
Kate Mulvey, she was resolved to
make one.
Her father's house, as the reader
has seen in the commencement, was
not on the roadside. There was no
general pass that way ; and except
persons had business to old Cavana's
or Mick Murdock's, they never went
up the lane, which was common to
both the houses of these rich farmers.
It was not so with the house where
Kate Mulvey resided. Its full front
was to the high-road, with a space not
more than three perches between.
This space had been originally what
is termed in that rank of life "a
bawn," but was now wisely converted
into a cabbage-garden, with a broad
clean gravel-walk running through the
centre of the plot, from the road to the
door. It was about half a mile from
Cavana's, and there was a full view of
the road, for a long stretch, from the
door or window of the house that is,
of Mulvey's.
It was now a fine mild day toward
the end of November. Old Mick Mur-
dock's party had ceased to be spoken
of, and perhaps forgotten, except by
the few with whom we have to do.
Winny Cavana put on her every-
day bonnet and her everyday cloak,
and started for a walk. Bully-dhu
capered round her in an awkward
playful manner, with a deep-toned
howl of joy when he saw these pre-
parations, and trotted down the lane
before her. As may be anticipated,
she bent her steps down the road
toward Mulvey's house. She knew
she could be seen coming for some dis-
tance, and hoped that Kate might greet
her from the door as she passed. She
rse
AU-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
was not mistaken ; Kate had seen her
from the first turn in the road toward
the house, and was all alive on her
own account. She had tact and vanity
enough, however, for she had plenty
of time before Winny came alongside
of the house, to slip in and put on a
decent gown, and brush her beautiful
and abundant hair; and she came to
the door, as if by mere accident, but
looking her very best, as Winny ap-
proached. Kate knew that she was
looking very handsome, and Winny
Cavana, at the very first glance, felt
the same fact.
" Good morrow, Kate," said Winny ;
" that's a fine day."
" Good morrow kindly, Winny ;
won't you come in and sit down
awhile?"
" No, thank you ; the day is so fine,
I'm out for a walk. You may as
well put on your bonnet, and come
along with me; it will do you good,
Kitty."
** With all my heart ; step up to the
house, and I'll be ready in two twos."
But she was not so sure that it would
do her good.
The girls then turned up to the
house, for Kate had run down in her
hair to shake hands with her friend.
Winny would not go in, but stood at
the door, ordering Bully-dliu not to
growl at Captain, and begging of Cap-
tain not to growl at Bully -dhu. Kate
was scarcely the " two twos" she gave
herself until she came out ready for
the road ; and the two friends, and the
two dogs, having at once entered into
most amicable relations with each other,
went off together.
Winny was resolved that no " awk-
ward pause" on her part should give
Kate reason to suppose there was any-
thing unusual upon her mind, and
went on at once, as if from where she
had left off.
" The day was so fine, Kate," she
continued, " that I was anxious to get
some fresh air. I have been churning,
and packing butter, every day since
Monday, and could not get out. Biddy
Murtagh is very clean and honest, but
she is very slow, and I could not leave
her."
" It is well for you, Winny, that has
the butter to pack."
"Yes, Kate, I suppose it will be
well for me some day or other ; but as
long as my poor father lives God
between him and harm ! 1 don't feel
the want of anything."
" God spare him to you, Winny
mavourneen ! He's a fine hale old
man, and I hope he'll live to be at the
christening of many a grandchild. If
report speaks thrue, Winny dear, that
same is not unlikely to come round."
"Report does not always speak
the truth, Kate ; don't you know
that?"
" I do ; but I also know that there's
seldom smoke without fire, and that it
sometimes makes a good hit. And
sure, nothin's more reasonable than
that it's right this time. Tom's a fine
young fellow ; an' like yourself, sure,
he's an only child. There wasn't such
a weddin' this hundred years no, nor
never in the parish of Rathcash, as
it will be come now !"
" Tom is a fine young man, Kate ;
I don't deny it "
" You couldn't you couldn't, Winny
Cavana ! you'd belie yoursel' if you
did," said Kate, with a little more
warmth of manner than was quite
politic under the circumstances.
" But I don't, Kate ; and I can't see
why you need fly at me in that way."
" I beg your pardon, Winny dear ;
but sure everybody sees an' knows
that you're on for one another ; an'
why not? wasn't he as cross as a
bag of cats at his father's party because
he let * that whelp' (as he called him)
Edward Lennon take you out for the
first dance ?"
" Emon-a-knock is no whelp ; he
couldn't call him a whelp. Did he
call him one?"
" Didn't you hear him ? for if you
didn't you might; it wasn't but he
spoke loud enough."
"It is well for him, Kate, that Emon
did not hear him. He's as good a
man as Tom Murdock at any rate.
AU-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
787
He didn't fall over the poker and tongs
as Tom did."
" That was a mere accident, "Winny.
I seen the fung of his pump loose
myself; didn't I help to shut it for
him,aftherhefell?"
" You were well employed indeed,
Kate," said Winny sneeringly.
" You would have done it yourself
if he axed you as he did me," replied
Kate.
" Certainly not," said Winny.
So far they seemed both to have the
worst of it, in spite of all their caution.
What they wanted was to find out how
the other's heart stood between these
two young men, without betraying their
own which latter they had both nearly
done.
There was a pause, and Kate was
the next to speak.
" Not but I must admit that Emon-
a-knock is a milder, better boy in
some respects than Tom. He has a
nicer way with him, Winny, and I
think it is easier somehow to like him
than to like Tom."
" Report says you do, Kate dear."
" But you know, Winny, report
does not always spake thrue, as you
say yourself."
" Ay, but as you said just now,
Kate, it sometimes makes a good hit."
" Well, Winny, I wish you joy at
all events, with all my heart. Both
your fathers is anxious for your
match ; an' sure, when the two farms
is joined in one, with you an' Tom,
you can live like a lady. I suppose
you'll hould your head too high for
poor Kate an' Emon-a-knock then."
There was a sadness in Kate's tone
as she said this, which, from ignorance
of how matters really stood, was part-
ly genuine, and, from anxiety to find it
out, was partly assumed.
But she had turned the key and
the door flew open. Winny could
fence with her feelings no longer.
" Kate Mulvey," she exclaimed,
" do not believe the reports you hear
about me and Tom Murdock. I'm
aware of what you say about his fa-
ther and mine being anxious to unite
the farms by our marriage. I don't
want to say anything against Tom
Murdock ; but he'll never call me
wife. There now, Kate jewel, you
have the truth. I'll be well enough
off, Kitty, without Tom Murdock's
money or land ; and when I really
don't care for him, don't you think it
would be much better and handsomer
of him to bestow himself and it upon
some nice girl without a penny " (and
she glanced slyly at Kate, whose
cheeks got rosy red), "than to be
striving to force it upon one that doesn't
want it nor wish for it ? And don't
you think it would be much better and
handsomer forme, who has a nice little
fodeen, and must come in for my fa-
ther's land, God between him and
harm ! to do the same, if I could
meet with a nice boy that really cared
for myself, and not for my money?
Answer me them questions, Kate."
Kate was silent ; but her eyes had
assumed quite a different expression,
if they had not altogether turned al-
most a different color. The weight
of Winny's rich rivalry had been lifted
from her heart, and so far as that ob-
stacle had been dreaded, the coast was
now clear. Of course she secretly
agreed in the propriety of Winny's
views, and it was only necessary that
she should now do so openly.
" You didn't answer me them ques-
tions yet, Kate."
" Well I could, Winny, if I liked it ;
but I don't wish to have act, hand, or
part in setting you against your fa-
ther's wishes."
" You need not fear that, Kitty ; my
father won't force me to do what I
really do not wish to do. He never
put the matter to me plainly yet, but I
expect it every day. He's always
praising Tom Murdock, and hinting
at the business, by saying he wishes
he could see me comfortably settled ;
that he is growing old and is not the
man he used to be; and all that. I
know very well, Kate, what he means,
both ways ; and, God between him
and harm ! I say again ; but he'll
never see me Tom Murdock's wife.
788
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
I have my answer ready for them
both."
" Well, Winny, as you seem deter-
mined, I suppose I may spake ; and, to tell
youlhetruth,! always thought it would
be a pity to put them two farms into
one, and so spoil two good establish-
ments ; for sure any one of them is
lashings, Winny, for any decent boy
and girl in the parish; an' what's
more, if they were joined together to-
morrow, there is not a gentleman in
the county would think a bit the bet-
ter of them that had them."
" Never, Kitty, except it was some
poor broken-down fellow that wanted
to borrow a couple of hundred pounds,
and rob them in the end. And now,
Kitty, let us be plain and free with
one another. My opinion is that Tom
could raise you I won't say out of
-poverty, Kate ; for, thanks be to God,
it is not come to that with you, and
that it never may but into comfort
and plenty; and that I could, some
day, do the same, if I could meet with
a nice boy that, as I said, would care
for myself and not for my money. If
Tom took a liking to you, Kitty, you
might know he was in earnest for
yourself; I know he's only put up to
his make-belief liking for me by his
own father and mine. But, Kitty
dear, I'm afraid, like myself, you have
no fancy for him."
" Well, Winny, to tell you the truth,
I always believed what the neighbors
said about you an* him; an' I tried
not to think of him for that same
reason. There's no doubt, Winny
dear, but it would be a fine match for
me ; but I know he's out an' out for
you : only for that, Winny, I could
love every bone in his body there
now ! you have it out."
" He'll soon find his mistake, Kate
dear, about me. I'm sure the thing
will be brought to a point before long
between us, and between my father
and me too. When Tom finds I'm
positive, he can't be blind to your
merits and beauty, Kitty yes, I will
say it out, your beauty ! you needn't
be putting your hand to my mouth
that way; there's no mistake about
it."
" Ah, Winny, Winny dear, you're
too lenient to me entirely ; sure I
couldn't sit or stand beside you in
that respect at all, an' with your mon-
ey; sure they'll settle it all between
themselves."
"They may settle what they like,
Kitty; but they can't make me do
what I am determined not to do ; so
as far as that goes, you have nothing
to fear."
"Well, Winny dear, I'm glad 1
know the truth ; for now I won't be
afeard of crossing you, at any rate;
and I know another that wouldn't be
sorry to know as much as I do."
"Who, Kitty? tell us."
"Ah, then now, Winny, can't you
guess ? or maybe it's what you know
better than I do myself."
" Well, I suppose you mean Emon-
a-knock ; for indeed, Kitty, he's al-
ways on the top of your tongue, and
the parish has it that you and he are
promised. Come now, Kitty, tell us
the truth. I told you how there was
no truth in the report about me and
Tom Murdock, and how there never
could be."
If this was not leading Kate Mul-
vey to the answer most devoutly wish-
ed for, I do not know what the mean-
ing of the latter part of the sentence
could be. It was what the lawyers
would call a " leading question." The
excitement too of Winny, during the
pause which ensued, showed very
plainly the object with which she
spoke, and the anxiety she felt for the
result.
Kate did not in the least misun-
derstand her. Perhaps she knew
more of her thoughts than Winny was
aware of, and that it was not then she
found them out for the first time ; for
Kate was a shrewd observer. She
had gained her own object, and it was
only fair she should now permit Win-
ny to gain hers.
" Ah, Winny dear, " she said, after
a contemplative pause, " there never
was a word of the kind between us.
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
789
You know, Winny, in the first place,
it wouldn't do at all two empty sacks
could never stand; and in the next
place, neither his heart was on me,
nor mine on him. It was all idle talk
of the neighbors. Not but Emon is a
nice boy as there is to be found in
this or any other parish, and you know
that, Winny; don't you, now?"
" Kitty dear, there's nobody can
deny what you say, and for that self-
same reason I believed what the
neighbors said regarding you and
him."
"Tell me this now, Winny, you
know we were reared, I may say, at
the door with one another, and have
been fast friends since we were that
height " (and she held her hand within
about two feet of the ground, at the
same time looking fully and very
kindly into her friend's face), "tell
me now, Winny dear, did it fret you
to believe what you heard? Come
now."
" For your sake, and for his, Kitty,
it could not fret me ; but for my own
sake there now, don't ask me."
" No, avourneen, I won't ; what
need have I, Winny, when I see them
cheeks of yours, or is it the sun that
cum suddenly out upon you, Winny
asthore ? "
" Kate Mulvey, I'll tell you the
truth, as I believe you have told it to
me. For many a long day I'm striv-
ing to keep myself from liking that
boy on your account. I think, Kate,
if I hadn't a penny-piece in the world
no more than yourself, I would have
done my very best to take him from
you ; it would have been a fair fight
then, Kitty; but I didn't like to use
any odds against you, Kitty dear;
and I never gave him so much as one
word to go upon."
" I'm very thankful to you, Winny
dear ; an' signs on the boy, he thought
you were for a high match with rich
Tom Murdock ; an' any private chat
Emon an' I ever had was about that
same thing."
" Then he has spoken to you about
me ! O Kitty, dear Kitty, what used
he to be saying of me ? do tell
me."
" The never a word I'll tell you,
Winny dear. Let him spake to your-
self; which maybe he'll do when he
finds you give Tom the go-by; but
I'm book-sworn ; so don't ask me."
" Well, Kitty, I'm glad I happened
to come across you this morning ; for
now we understand each other, and
there's no fear of our interrupting one
another in our thoughts any more."
" None, thank God," said Kitty.
By this time the girls had wandered
along the road to nearly a mile from
home. They had both gained their
object, though not in the roundabout
sounding manner which we had an-
ticipated, and they were now both
happy. They were no longer even
the imaginary rivals which it appears
was all they had ever been ; and as
this light broke upon them the en-
dearing epithets of " dear " and " jew-
el" became more frequent and em-
phatic than was usual in a conversation
of the same length.
Their mutual confidences, as they
retraced their steps, were imparted to
the fullest extent. They now per-
fectly "understood each other," as
Winny had said ; and to their cordial
shake-hands at the turn up to Kate
Mulvey's house was added an affec-
tionate kiss, as good as if they swore
never to interfere with each other in
love-affairs.
CHAPTER XI.
WINNY CAVANA, as far as her own
feelings and belief were concerned,
had not made a bad morning's work of
it. Hitherto she had supposed that
Kate Mulvey had forestalled her in the
affections of Emon-a-knock. The
neighbors had given them to each
other, and she feared that Emon
was not free from the power of her
charms. With these doubts, or almost
with this belief, upon her mind, she
could not have met her father's impor-
790
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
tunities about Tom Murdock with the
same careless and happy determination
winch matters, as they now stood,
would enable her to do. Being assur-
ed, from her conversation with Kate,
that there was nothing between her and
Emon, she could " riddle" more easily
some circumstances and expressions
which, to say the least of it, were puz-
zling, with a belief that these two per-
sons were mutually attached. Winny
knew now how to reconcile them; and
the view she took of them was anything
but favorable to her father's wishes or
Tom Murdock's hopes.
She could not hope, however, per-
haps she did not wish, for any inter-
view with Ernon just then, when her
change of manner, emanating from her
knowledge of facts, might draw him
out, for her heart now told her that
this would surely come. She had
some fears that her father might sound
her about Emon, and she wished to be
able to say with a clear conscience
that he had never spoken, or even hint-
ed at the subject, to her ; but she was
determined, nevertheless, to act to-
ward her father, and subsequently to-
ward Tom Murdock, as if her troth
and Emon's had been already irrevo-
cably plighted. She was in hopes that
if she had an interview with her father
upon the subject of Tom Murdock in
the first instance, the unalterable dis-
like which she would exhibit to the
match might save her the horrible ne-
cessity of going through the business
with the man himself. But poor
Winny had settled matters in her own
mind in an order in which they did
not occur; and it so happened that,
although she thought her heart had
gone through enough excitement
for one day, and that she would, for the
rest of that evening, hide beneath the
happiness which was creeping over her,
yet she was mistaken.
Tom Murdock had seen her pass
down the road ; and hastily putting on
one of his best coats and his very best
hat, he followed her, determined to have
good news in return for his father's
advice ; but he was disappointed. Be-
fore he could overtake her, he
perceived that she had been joined by
Kate Mulvey, and that they went
coshering away together. Of course
he saw that it was " no go," as ha
said, for that time ; but he would watch
her returning, when he could not fail
to meet her alone.
"Hang me," said he, as he saw
them walking away, " if I don't think
Kate Mulvey is the finest girl of the
two, and very nearly as handsome as
ever she was some people say hand-
somer. If it was not for her money,
and that grand farm she'll have, I'd
let her see how soon I could get a girl
in every other respect as good, if not
better, than she is. Look at the two
of them : upon my faith, I think
Kate is the lightest stepper of the
two."
Tom paused for a few moments, if
not in his thoughts, at least in the ex-
pression of them ; for all the above
had been uttered aloud. Then, as if
they had received a sudden spur which
made him start, he muttered with his
usual scowl, " No, no ; I'll follow it up
to the death if necessary. That whelp
shall never have it to say that Tom
Murdock failed, and perhaps add,
where he did not. I'll have her, by
fair means if I can ; but if not, by them
five crosses," and he clasped his hands
together, " she shall be mine by foul.
Sure it is not possible they are going
to meet that whelp this blessed mo-
ment !" And he dogged them at so
long a distance behind that, even if
their conversation had been less inter-
esting, they would not have been aware
of his stealthy espionage.
When they turned to return, he
turned also, and was then so
far before them that, with the bushes
and the bends in the road, he
could not be perceived. Thus he
watched and watched, until, to his
great satisfaction, he saw them part
company at Kate's house. Winny
Cavana, as we have seen, had still
some distance to walk ere she reached
the lane turning up to her father's ;
and Kate having gone in and shut the
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
791
door, Tom strolled on, as if by mere
accident, until he met Winny on the
road.
Tom was determined to be as mild
and as bland, as cordial and good-na-
tured, as possible. He felt there had
always been a sort of undefined snap-
pish battle between him and Winny ;
and he had the honesty of mind, as
well as the vanity, to blame his own
harsh and abrupt manner for this.
Perhaps it arose no less from a con-
sciousness of his personal advantages
than from a belief that in his position
as an only son, and heir to his father's
interest in a rich and profitable farm,
he had no great need of those bland-
ishments of expression so generally re-
quisite in making way to a young and
unhackneyed heart. He resolved,
therefore, upon this occasion to give
Winny no cause to accuse him of un-
couthness of manner ; neither was he
inclined to be uncouth when he beheld
the glowing beauty of her face, height-
ened, as he thought, solely by the ex-
ercise of her walk ; but not a little
increased, without his knowledge of
the fact, by the new light which had
just dawned upon the horizon of her
hopes.
Her heart bounced in her bosom as
she saw him approach.
" Good morning, Winny," he said,
holding out his hand.
" Good morrow kindly, Tom," she
replied, wishing to be civil, and taking
it. She knew she was " in for it," as
she expressed it to herself; but en-
couraged " by the Jiope within her
springing," and softened by the anti-
cipation of its fulfilment, she was de-
termined to be kind but firm.
"Have you been walking far,
Winny ? Upon my life, it seems to
agree with you. It has improved your
beauty, Winny, if that was possible."
" Tom, don't flatter me ; you're al-
ways paying me compliments, and I
often told you that I did not like it. Be-
side, you did not let me answer your
question until you begin at your old
work. I walked about a mile of the
road with Kate Mulvey."
"Kate Mulvey is a complete nice
girl. You are not tired, Winny, are
you ?"
" Ah, then, what would tire me ? is
it a mile of a walk, and the road under
my feet ? I could walk to Boher-na-
Milthiogue and back this minute."
By this time they had come to the
end of the lane turning up to Kathcash
House.
" I'm glad to find you are not tired,
Winny. You may as well come on
toward the cross ; I have something
to say to you."
" And welcome, Tom ; what is it ?"
Winny felt that the thing was com-
ing, and she wished to appear as care-
less and unconscious as possible.
When she recollected all Kate Mulvey
had said to her, she was just in the
humor to have it over. Upon reflec-
tion, too, she was not sorry that it
should so happen before the grand
passage between her and her father
upon the same subject. She could the
more easily dispose of the case with
him, having already disposed of it with
Tom himself. She therefore went on,
past the end of her own lane; and
Tom, taking this for an unequivocal
token in his favor, was beginning to get
really fond of her at least he thought
so.
"Well, Winny, I'm very glad I
happened to meet you, and that you
seem inclined to take a walk with me ;
for to tell you the truth, Winny, I
can't help thinking of you."
" Perhaps you don't try, Tom."
" True for you, Winny dear ; I
wouldn't help thinking of you if I
could, and I couldn't if I would."
" Is that the way with you, Tom ?"
But Winny did not smile or look at
him, as he had hoped she would have
done.
" You know it is, Winny dear ; but
I can keep the truth, in plain English,
from you no longer."
" See that now ! Ah, then, Tom, I
pity you."
And Tom could not tell from her
manner, or from the tone of her
voice, whether she was in earnest or
792
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
only joking. He preferred the for-
mer.
" Well, Winny Cavana, if you knew
how much I love you, you would sure-
ly take pity on me, my own colleen
dhass."
" Faith, Tom, I believe it's in ear-
nest you are, sure enough."
"In earnest ! Yes, Winny, by the
bright sky over me and it is not
brighter than your own eyes I am in
earnest ! It is a long day now since I
first took to loving you, though it was
only of late you might have picked it
out of my looks. Ah, Winny dear, if
you hadn't a penny-piece but yourself,
I would have spoken to you long ago.
But there was a great deal of talk
among the neighbors about the join-
ing of them two farms together, and I
was afraid you might think "
" I understand. You were afraid I
might think it was my money and the
farm you were after, and not myself.
Was not that it, Tom?"
" Just so, Winny. But I am indeed
in earnest, and for yourself alone,
Winny dear ; and I'm willing to prove
my words by making you my wife, and
mistress of all I have coming Shraf-
tide, God willing." And he took her
by the hand.
She withdrew it at once, after a
slight struggle, and replied, "Tom
Murdock, put such a thing totally out
of your head, for it can never be
never, by the same oath you swore
just now, and that is the blue heaven
above me !" And she turned back to-
ward the lane.
"I cross, Winny. Don't say that.
I know that your father and mine
would both be willing for the match.
As to what your father would do for
you, Winny mavoumeen, I don't care
a boughcdawn lui ; for I'm rich enough
without a cross of his money or his
land. My own father will make over
to me by lawful deed, the day you be-
come my wife, his house and furniture,
together with the whole of his land and
cattle. Your father, I know, Winny,
would do the same for you, for he has
but yourself belonging to him ; and al-
though your fortune or your land has
nothing to say to my love, yet, Winny,
dear, between us, if you will consent
to my prayer, for it is nothing less,
there's few grandees in the country
could compare to you, I'll say noth-
ing for myself, Winny dear, only say
the word."
" No, Tom, I'll say no word but what
I'm after saying ; and you are only
making matters worse, talking of gran-
deur and riches that way. You would
only be striving at what you would not
be able for, nor allowed to keep up,
Tom, and as for myself, I'd look well,
wouldn't I ? stuck up on a new side-
car, and a drawn bonnet and feathers,
coming down the lane of a Sunday,
and the neighbors thronging to mass,
aping my betters, and getting my-
self and yourself laughed at. Devil a
one, Tom, but they'd call you Lord
Boher-na-Milthiogue. No, Tom ; put it
out of your head ; that is my first and
last word to you." And she hastened
her step.
" No, Winny, you won't leave me
that way, will you ? By all the books
that were ever shut and opened, you
may make what you please of me.
I'll never ask to put yourself or my-
self a pin's- point beyond what we al-
ways were, either in grandeur or any-
thing else. But wouldn't i t be a fine thing,
Winny dear, to have our children able
to hold up their heads with the best in
the county, in a manner ?"
"Ay, in a manner, indeed. No,
Tom ; they would never be anything
but the Murdocks of Rathcashmore
grandchildren of ould Mick Murdock
and ould Ned Cavana, the common
farmers."
" And what have you to say against
old Mick Murdock ?" exclaimed Tom,
beginning to feel that his suit was
hopeless, and flaming up inwardly in
the spirit which was most natural to
him.
" Nothing indeed, Tom ; you need
not be so angry, I meant no offence ;
I said as much against my own father
as against yours, if there was anything
against either. But we must soon
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
793
part now, Tom, and let us part friends
at all events, living as we do within a
stone's-throw of each other." She
held out her hand, but he took it
coldly and loosely. He felt that his
game was up.
" Take my advice, Tom Murdock"
this was the second time she had
found it necessary to overcome her
antipathy to pronounce the name
" take my advice, and never speak to
me again upon the subject. Sure, there's
many a fine handsome girl would be
glad to listen to you ; and I'll now ask
you one question before we part.
Wouldn't it be better and fitter for
you to bestow yourself and your land
upon some handsome young girl who
has nothing of her own, and was,
maybe, well inclined for you, and to
rise her up to be independent, than to
be striving to force yourself and it
upon them that doesn't want your land,
and cannot care for yourself? Why
don't you look about you? There's
many a girl in the parish as handsome,
and handsomer, than I am, that would
just jump at you."
Winny had no sooner uttered these
latter words than she regretted them.
She did not wish Tom Murdock to
know that she had overheard him.
She was glad however to perceive
that, in his anger, he had not recog-
nized them as a quotation from his
conversation with his father at the
gate.
There was a silence now for a min-
ute or two. Tom's blood was ' up ;
his hopes of success were over, and he
was determined to speak his mind in
an opposite direction.
" Have I set you thinking, Tom ?"
said Winny, half timidly.
" I'm d d but you have, Winny
Cavana ; and I'll answer your ques-
tion with one much like it. And
would not it be better and fitter for
you of course it would to bestow
yourself and your fortune and your
land upon some handsome young fel-
low that has nothing but his day's
wages, and was well inclined for you,
and to rie him up out of poverty,
than to spoil a good chance for a
friend by joining yours to them that
has enough without it? Why didn't
you follow up your first question with
that, Winny Cavana?" And he stop-
ped short, enjoying the evident confu-
sion he had caused.
Winny thought, too, for a few mo
ments in silence. She was consider
ing the probability of Tom Murdock's
having overheard her conversation
with Kate Mulvey from behind some
hedge. But the result of her calcula-
tions was that it was impossible.
She was right. It was a mere par-
aphrase of her own question to him,
and only shows how two clever peo-
ple may hit upon the same idea, and
express it in nearly the same lan-
guage. And the question was prompted
by his suspicions in the quarter al-
ready intimated.
" Yes, I see how it is," he exclaimed,
breaking the silence, and giving way
to his ungovernable temper. "But,
by the hatred I bear to that whelp,
that shall never be, at all events. I'll
go to your father this moment, and let
him know what's going on "
" And who do you dare to call ' a
whelp,' Tom Murdock ? If it be Ed-
ward Lennon, let me tell you that his
little finger is worth your whole head
and heart body and bones together."
" There, there she acknowledges
it. But I'll put a spoke in that whelp's
wheel, for it was him I called a
whelp, since you must know, see if
I don't; so let him look out, that's
all."
"I have acknowledged nothing, Tom
Murdock. A word beyond common
civility never passed between Edward
Lennon and myself; and take care
how you venture to interfere between
my father and me. You have got
?>ur answer, and I have sworn to it.
ou have no right to interfere fur-
ther."
By this time they had reached the
end of the lane again ; and Winny,
with her heart on fire, and her face in
a flame, hurried to the house. For-
tunately, her father had not returned
794
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
from the fields, and rushing to her
own room, she locked the door, took off
her bonnet and cloak, and " threw
herself" (I believe that is the proper
expression) upon the bed. Perhaps
a sensation novelist would add that
she " burst into an agony of tears."
CHAPTER XII.
WINNY lay for nearly an hour medi-
tating upon the past, the present, and
the future. Upon the whole she did
not regret what had occurred, either be-
fore or after she had met Tom Mur-
dock, and she cooled down into her ac-
customed self-possession sooner than
she had supposed possible.
One grand object had been attained.
Tom Murdock had come to the point,
and she had given him his final and
irrevocable answer, if she had twenty
fathers thundering parental authority
in her ears. A spot of blue sky had
appeared too in the east, above the
outline of Shanvilla mountain, in
which the morning-star of her young
life might soon arise, and shine brightly
through the flimsy clouds for she
could call them nothing but flimsy
now which had hitherto darkened her
hopes. What if Tom Murdock was a
villain ? and she believed he was :
what dared he what could he do ?
Pshaw, nothing ! But, oh that the
passage-of-arms between herself and
her father was over ! "Then," thought
she, " all might be plain sailing before
me."
But, Winny, supposing all these
matters fairly over, and the battle
Avith your father is likely to be as
cranky and tough upon his part as it
is certain to be straightforward and
determined upon yours, there will
still be a doubtful blank upon your
mind and in your heart, and one the
solution of which you cannot, even
with Kate Mulvey's assistance, seek
an occasion to fill up. Ah, no, you
must trust to chance for time and op-
portunity for that most important of
all your interviews. And what if
you be mistaken after all, and, if
mistaken, crushed for ever by the re-
sult?
Let Winny alone for that. Wo-
men seldom make a bad guess in
such a case.
Winny's mental and nervous system
having both regained their ordinary
degree of composure, she left her room,
and proceeded through the house upon
her usual occupations. She was not,
however, quite free from a certain de-
gree of anxiety at the anticipated in-
terview with her father. He had not
in any way intimated his intention to
ask certain questions touching any
communication she might have re-
ceived from Tom Murdock, together
with her answers thereto ; and yet she
felt certain that on the first favorable
occasion he would ask the questions,
without any notice whatever. She
had subsided for the day, after a very
exciting morning upon two very dif-
ferent subjects. Yes ; she called them
different, though they were pretty
much akin ; and she would now pre-
fer a cessation of her anxiety for the
remainder of that afternoon at least.
So far she was fortunate. Her fa-
ther did not come in until it was very
late ; and being much fatigued by his
stewardship of the day, he did not ap-
pear inclined to enter upon any im-
portant subject, but fell asleep in his
arm-chair after a hasty and (Winny
observed) scarcely-touched dinner.
Winny was an affectionate good
child. She was devotedly fond of her
father, with whose image were asso-
ciated all her thoughts of happiness
and love since she was able to clasp
his knees and clamber to his lap. Even
yet no absolute allegiance of a de-
cided nature claimed the disloyalty of
her heart ; but she felt that the time
was not far distant when either he
must abdicate his royalty, or she must
rebel.
" It is clearly my duty now," she
said to herself, " not to delay this busi-
ness about Tom, upon the chance of his
being the first to speak of it : to-mor-
All-Hallow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
795
row, before the cares and labors of
the day occupy his mind, and perhaps
make him ever so little a bit cross, I
will tell him what has happened. I
am afraid he will be very angry with
me for refusing that man ; but it can-
not be helped : not for all the gold they
both possess would I marry Tom
Murdock. I shall not betray his sor-
did villany, however, until all other
resources fail ; but I know my father
will scorn the fellow as I do when he
knows the whole truth but ah, I
have no witness," thought she, " and
they will make a liar of me."
If the old man could have ever
perceived any difference in the kind
and affectionate attention so uniformly
bestowed upon him by his fond
daughter, perhaps it might have been
upon that night after he awoke from
a lather lengthened nap in his easy
chair.
Winny had sat during the whole
time gazing upon the loved features of
the sleeping old man. She could not
call to mind, from the day upon which
her memory first became conscious, a
single unkind or even a harsh word
which he had uttered to her. That he
could be more than harsh to others she
knew, and she was now in her nine-
teenth year ; fifteen clear years, she
might say, of unbroken memory. She
could remember her fifth birthday
quite well, and so much as a snappish
word or a commanding look she had
never received from him ; not, God
knows, but he had good reason, many's
the time, for more than either. . And
there he lay now, calm, and fast asleep,
the only one belonging to her on the
wide earth, and she meditating an op-
position in her heart to his plans re-
specting her all, she knew, arising
from the great love he had for her,
and i:he frustration of which, she was
aware, would vex him sore. " Oh,
Tom Murdock, Tom Murdock, why
are you Tom Murdock ? or Emon-a-
knock, why did I ever see you ?" was
the conclusion to this train of thought,
as she sat still, gazing on her sleeping
father.
Then a happier train succeeded, and
a fond smile lit up her handsome face.
"Ah no, no! I am the only being
belonging to him, the only one he
loves. The father who for nearly
twenty years never spoke an unkind
word and if he had reason to re-
prove me did so by example and re-
quest, and not the rod has only to
know that a marriage with Tom Mur-
dock would make me miserable to
make him spurn him, as I did my-
self. As to the other boy, I know
nothing for certain myself about
him, and I can fairly deny any accu-
sation he may make ; and I am certain
he has been put up to it by old Mur-
dock through his son. Yet even on
this score I'll deny as little as I can."
Here it was her father awakened ;
and Winny had only time to conclude
her thoughts by wondering how that
fellow dare call Emon " a whelp."
"Well, father dear," she said, "you
have had a nice nap ; you must have
been very tired. I wish I was a man,
that I might help you on the farm."
" Winny darlin', I wouldn't have
you anything but what you are for the
world. I have not much to do at all
on the farm but to poke about, and sec
that the men I have at work don't rob
me by idling ; and I must say I never
saw honester work than what they
leave after them. But, Winny, I came
across old Murdock shortly after I
went out, and he came over my land
with me, and I went over his with him,
so that we had rather a long walk.
I'll engage he's as tired as what I am.
I did not think his farm was so ex-
tensive as it is, or that the land was so
good, or in such to-au-op caun-di-
shon." And poor old Ned yawned and
stretched himself.
Winny saw through the whole thing
at once. The matter of a marriage
between herself and Tom Murdock,
and a union of the farms, had doubt-
less been discussed between her father
and old Mick Murdock, and a final
arrangement, so far as they were con-
cerned, had been arrived at. A hitch
upon her part she was certain neither
796
All-HaUow Eve ; or, The Test of Futurity.
of them had ever dreamt of ; and yet
" liitch" was a slight word to express
the opposition she was determined to
give to their wishes.
She knew that if her father had got
so far as where he had been inter-
rupted by the yawn when he was
fresh after breakfast, the whole thing
would have come out. She was, how-
ever, a considerate girl ; and although
she knew there was at that moment a
good opening, where a word would
have brought the matter on, she knew
that the result would have completely
driven rest and sleep from the poor
old man's pillow for the night, tired
and fatigued as he was. She there-
fore adroitly changed the conversation
to his own comforts in a cup of tea
before he went to bed.
" Yes, mavourneen" he said, " I
fell asleep before I mixed a tumbler of
punch, and I'll take the tea now in-
stead ; for, Winny, my love, you can
join me at that. Do you know, Winny,
I'm very thirsty ?"
" Well, father dear, I'll soon give
you what will refresh you."
While Winny was busying herself
for the tea, putting down a huge kettle
of water in the kitchen, and rattling
the cups and saucers until you'd think
she was trying to break them, the old
man wakened up into a train of thought
not altogether dissimilar to that which
Winny herself had indulged in over
his sleeping form.
Winny was quite right. The whole
matter had been discussed on that day
between the old men during their per-
ambulations round the two farms ; the
respective value and condition of the
land forming a minute calculation not
unconnected with the other portion of
their discourse settlements, deeds of
conveyance, etc., etc., had all been
touched upon.
Winny was right in another of her
surmises, although at the time she
scarcely believed so herself. Old Mur-
dock, taking his cue from Tom, told
old Ned that if he found Winny at all
averse to marrying Tom, he was certain
young Lennon would be at the bottom
of it at least Tom had more than
hinted such to him.
Old Ned was furious at this, declaring
that if Tom Murdock was never to the
fore, his daughter should never bestow
his long and hard earnings upon a
pauper like that, looking for a day's
wages here and there, and as often
without it as with it; how dare the
likes of him lift his eyes to his little
girl ! But he'd soon put a stop to that,
if there was anything in it, let what
would turn up. Every penny-piece he
was worth in the world was in his own
power, and there was a very easy way
of bringing Miss Winny to her senses,
if she had that wild notion in her head.
Poor old Ned, in his indignation for
what he thought Winny's welfare, for-
got that she was the only being be-
longing to him in the world, and that
when it came to the point he would
find it impossible to put this threat of
" cutting her off" into execution.
Old Murdock was delighted with
this tirade against young Lennon, whom
he looked upon as the only real ob-
stacle to Tom's acquisition of land and
money, to say nothing of a handsome
wife.
" Bestuddy with her, Ned," said he,
" she has a very floostherin' way wid
her where you're concerned ; I often
remarked it. Don't let her come round
you, Ned, wid her pillaverin' about
that ' whelp,' as Tom calls him."
" An' he calls him quite right. If
he daars to look up to my little girl,
he'll soon find out his mistake, I can
tell him."
" Nothin' would show him his mis-
take so much as to have Tom's business
an' hers settled at Shraft, Ned."
"I know that, Mick; an' with the
blessing I'll spake to her in the morn-
in' upon the subjict. I dunna did
Tom ever spake to herself, Mick ?"
" If he didn't he will afore to-mor-
row night ; he's on the watch to meet
with her by accident; he says it's
betther nor to go straight up to her,
an' maybe frighten her."
" Very well, Mick ; I'll have an eye
to them ; maybe it would be betther
Young's Narcissa.
797
let Tom himself spake first. These
girls are so dam' proud ; an' I can tell
you it is betther not vex Winny."
Of course these two old men said a
great deal more ; but the above is the
pith of what set old Ned Cavana think-
ing the greater part of the night ; for
the tea Winny made was very strong,
and, as he said, he was thirsty, having
missed his tumbler of punch after
dinner. He fell asleep, however, much
sooner than he would have done had
the sequel to his plans become known
to him before he went to bed.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
From The Book of Days.
YOUNG'S NARCISSA.
THE Third Night of Young's Com-
plaint is entitled Narcissa, from its be-
ing dedicated to the sad history of the
early death of a beautiful lady, thus
poetically designated by the au-
thor. Whatever doubts may exist
with respect to the reality or personal
identity of the other characters no-
ticed in the " Night Thoughts," there
can be none whatever as regards Nar-
cissa. She was the daughter of
Young's wife, by her first husband,
Colonel Lee. When scarcely seven-
teen years of age she was married to
Mr. Henry Temple, son of the then
Lord Palmerston*. Soon afterward,
being attacked by consumption, she
was taken by Young to the south of
France in hopes of a change for the
better ; but she died there about a
year after her marriage, and Dr. John-
son tells us, in his "Lives of the Poets,"
that " her funeral was attended with
the difficulties painted in such animated
colors in Night the Third." Young's
words in relation to the burial of Nar-
cissa, eliminating, for brevity's sake,
some extraneous and redundant lines,
are as follows :
"While nature melted, superstition raved;
That mourned the dead ; and this denied a grave .
For oh I the curst ungodliness of zeal !
While sinful flesh retarded, spirit nursed
In blind infallibility's embrace,
Denied the charity of dust to spread
O'er dust I a charity their dogs enjoy.
What could I do ? what succor ? what resource ?
* By a second wife, grandfather of the present
Premier.
With pious sacrilege a grave I stole ;
With Impious piety that grave I wronged ;
Short in my duty : coward in my grief!
More like her murderer than friend, I crept
With soft suspended step, and muffled deep
In midnight darkness, whispered my last sigh.
I whispered what should echo through their
realms,
Nor writ her name whose tomb should pierce the
skies."
All Young's biographers have told
the same story from Jolmson down to
the last edition of the " Night Thoughts,"
edited by Mr. Gilfillan, who, speaking
of Narcissa, says " her remains were
brutally denied sepulture as the dust
of a Protestant." Le Tourneure trans-
lated the " Night Thoughts" in to French
in 1770, and, strange to say, the work
soon became exceedingly popular in
France, more so probably than ever
it has been in England. Naturally
enough, then, curiosity became excited
as to where the unfortunate Narcissa
was buried, and it was soon discovered
that she had been interred in the Bo-
tanic Garden of Montpellier. An old
gate-keeper of the garden, named
Mercier, confessed that many years
previously he had assisted to bury an
English lady in a hollow, waste spot
of the garden. As he told the story,
an English clergyman came to him
and begged that he would bury a lady ;
but he refused, until the Englishman,
with tears in his eyes, said that she
was his only daughter ; on hearing
this, he (the gate-keeper), being a
father himself, consented. Accord-
ingly the Englishman brought the dead
798
Young's Narcissa.
body on his shoulders, his eyes rain-
ing tears, to the garden at midnight,
and he there and then buried the
corpse. About the time this confes-
sion was made, Professor Gouan, an
eminent botanist, was writing a work
on the plants in the garden, into which
he introduced the above story, thus
giving it a sort of scientific authority ;
and consequently the grave of Nar-
cissi became one of the treasures of
the garden, and one of the leading lions
of Montpellier. A writer in the "Evan-
gelical Magazine" of 1797 gives an ac-
count of a visit to the garden, and a
conversation with one Bannal, who
had succeeded Mercier in his office,
and who had often heard the sad story
of the burial of Narcissa from Mer-
cier's lips. Subsequently, Talma, the
tragedian, was so profoundly impressed
with the story that he commenced a
subscription to erect a magnificent
tomb to the memory of Narcissa; but
as the days of bigotry in matters of
sepulture had nearly passed away,
it was thought better to erect a simple
monument, inscribed, as we learn from
"Murray's Handbook," with the words :
"Placandis Narcissse manibus,"
the " Handbook" adding, " She was bu-
ried here at a time when the atrocious
laws which accompanied the Revoca-
tion of Nantes, backed by the super-
stition of a fanatic populace, denied
Christian burial to Protestants."
Strange to say, this striking story is
almost wholly devoid of truth. Nar-
cissa never was at Montpellier. That
she died at Lyons we know from
Mr. Herbert Crofts's account of
Young, published by Dr. Johnson;
that she was buried there we know by
her burial registry and her tombstone,
both of which are yet in existence.
And by these we also learn that Young's
" animated" account of her funeral in
the " Night Thoughts" is simply untrue.
She was not denied a grave :
"Denied the charity of dust to spread
O'er dust,"
nor did he steal a grave, as he
asserts, but bought and paid for it
Her name was not unwrit, as her
tombstone still testifies. The cen-
tral square of the Hotel de Dieu
at Lyons was long used as a burial
place for Protestants; but the alter-
ation in the laws at the time of the
great Revolution doing away with the
necessity of having separate burial
places for different religions, the cen-
tral garden was converted into a med-
.ical garden for the use of the hospital.
The Protestants of Lyons being of
the poorer class, there were few me-
morials to move when the ancient bury-
ing place was made into a garden.
The principal one, however, consisting
of a large slab of black marble, was
set up against a wall, close beside an old
Spanish mulberry-tree. About twenty
years ago the increasing growth of
this tree necessitated the removal of
the slab, when it was found that the
side which had been placed against
the wall contained a Latin inscription
to the memory of Narcissa. The in-
scription, which is too long to be quoted
here, leaves no doubt upon the matter.
It mentions the names of her father
and mother, her connection with the
noble family of Lichfield, her descent
from Charles II., and concludes by
stating that she died on the 8th of Oct.,
1736, aged 18 years. On discovering
this inscription M. Ozanam, the di-
rector of the Hotel de Dieu, searched
the registry of the Protestant burial,
still preserved in the Hotel de Ville
at Lyons, and found an entry, of which
the following is a correct translation :
"Madam Lee, daughter of Col. Lee,
aged about eighteen years, wife of
Henry Temple, English by birth, was
buried at the Hotel de Dieu at Lyons,
in the cemetery of persons of the Re-
formed religion of the Swiss nation,
the 12th of Oct., 1736, at eleven
o'clock at night, by order of the Prevot
of merchants." " Received 729 livres
12 sols. Signed, Para, priest and
treasurer." From this document, the
authenticity of which is indisputable,
we learn the utter untruthfulness of
Young's recital. True, Narcissa was
buried at night, and most probably
Madame de Maintenon.
799
without any religious service, and a
considerable sum charged for the priv-
ilege of interment, but she was not
denied the " charity their dogs enjoy."
Calculating according to the average
rate of exchange at the period, 729
livres would amount to thirty-five
pounds sterling. Was it this sum that
excited a. poetical imagination so
strong as to overstep the bounds of
veracity ? We could grant the excuse
of poetical license had not Young de-
clared in his preface that the poem
was " real, not fictitious." The subject
is not a pleasing one, and we need not
carry it any further; but may con-
clude, in the words of Mr. Cecil, who,
alluding to Young's renunciation of the
world in his writings when he was
eagerly hunting for church preferment,
says : " Young is,* of all other men,
one of the most striking examples of
the sad disunion of piety from
truth."
From The Dublin Eeview.
MADAME DE MAINTENON.
Madame de Maintenon et sa Famille.
Lettres et Documents inedits. Par
HONORE BONHOMME. Paris: Di-
dier. 1863.
Hisioire de Madame de Maintenon, et
des principaux Evenemcnts du Regne
de Louis XIV. Par M. le Due DE
NOAILLES, de 1'Academie Fran-
gaise. Tomes 4. Paris : Comon.
1849-1858.
The Life of Madame de Maintenon.
Translated from the French. Lon-
don : Lockyer Davis. 1772.
The Secret Correspondence of Madame
de Maintenon with the Princess des
Ursins, from the original manu-
scripts in the possession of the Duke
of Choiseul. Translated from the
French. 3 vols. London : Whit-
taker. 1827.
Memorial de Saint- Cyr. Paris : Ful-
gence. 1846.
FEMALE characters have, for good
or ill, played a larger part on the
stage of French history than of Eng-
lish. We have no names which cor-
respond in extensive influence to those
of Mesdames de Sevigne", de Maintenon,
de Genlis, and Re'camier; while the
extraordinary power, both political and
social, exercised by royal mistresses in
France, finds no parallel in England,
even in the worst days of courtly profli-
gacy. Nor is it easy to say to what
cause this difference between the two
countries is to be ascribed. It may be
that public opinion has been brought
to bear more fully on individual action
here than in France, and acts as a
more powerful restraint; and it may
be also that extreme prominence in
society is repugnant to the more modest
and retiring habits of Englishwomen.
There is no lady in our annals who
has occupied a position similar to that
of Madame de Maintenon in relation
to royalty except Mrs. Fitzherbert;
but she, though highly distinguished
for her virtues, was altogether wanting
in those intellectual endowments which
adorned that gifted woman who won
the esteem and fixed the affections of
Louis XIV. Many circumstances com-
bined to make her the most striking
example of female ascendency in
France; and the object of this paper
will be to trace the causes which led
to it, as well as to her being, to this
day, an object of never-failing interest
to the French people. Like all great
women, she has had many virulent
detractors and many ardent eulogists ;
but we shall endeavor to avoid the
800
Madame de Maintenon.
extremes of both, more especially as
M. Bonhomme is of opinion that her
biography has still to be written. If
there were no higher consideration,
self-respect alone would demand scru-
pulous impartiality in a historical
inquiry ; and we are the less tempted
to depart from this rule in the present
instance because we are convinced that
in Madame de Maintenon's history
there is ample scope for the most
chivalrous vindication of her fame,
and that, as time goes on, and the
materials relative to her contempora-
ries are collated, her apparent defects
will lessen in importance, and her
character stand out in fairer propor-
tions and clearer light. It needs only
to compare recent memoirs of her with
the jejune attempts of the last century,
to perceive how much her cause gains
from fuller and closer investigation.
The Due de Noailles has rendered
good service to the literature of his
country by his voluminous history of
this lady, conducted as it is on the
sound and admirable principle of mak-
ing the subject of the biography speak
for herself. There is no historical
personage about whom more untruths
have been circulated; and, after all
that has been said and written, the
only way to know her is to read her
correspondence.
Lord Macaulay speaks of Franchise
de Maintenon in terms so pointed, that
they well deserve to be quoted at the
outset :
"It would be hard to name any
woman who, with so little romance in
her temper, has had so much in her
life. Her early years had been passed
in poverty and obscurity. Her first
husband had supported himself by
writing burlesques, farces, and poems.
When she attracted the notice of her
sovereign, she could no longer boast
of youth or beauty ; but she possessed
in an extraordinary degree those more
lasting charms, which men of sense,
whose passions age has tamed, and
whose life is a life of business and
care, prize most highly in a female
companion. Her character was such
as has well been compared to that
soft green on which the eye, wearied
by warm tints and glaring lights, re-
poses with pleasure. A just under-
standing; an inexhaustible yet never
redundant flow of rational, gentle, and
sprightly conversation; a temper of
which the serenity was never for a
moment ruffled ; a tact which sur-
passed the tact of her sex as much as
the tact of her sex surpasses the tact
of ours ; such were the qualities which
made the widow of a buffoon first the
confidential friend, and then the
spouse, of the proudest and most
powerful of European kings. It
was said that Louis had been with
difficulty prevented by the argu-
ments and vehement entreaties of
Louvois from declaring her Queen
of France."*
The romance of her life began with
her birth, which took place on the
27th of November, 1635,f in the
prison of Niort, where her father was
confined. His life had been full of
adventure and crime, and he was un-
worthy of the faithful and affectionate
wife who shared his imprisonment.
He changed his religious profession
several tunes, but at the moment of
Frances' birth he called himself Pro-
testant. The child accordingly was
baptized in the Calvinist church of
Niort, though her mother was a Catho-
lic, and was placed under the charge
of her aunt, Madame de Vilette, at
Mur9ay, about a league from the
prison. The prisoner, Constant d'Au-
bigne, was at length released, and
being disinherited by his father for his
ill conduct, embarked a second time
for America about the year 1643,+
taking with him his wife and children.
Little Frances suffered so much from
the voyage that at one time she was
thought to be dead, and a sailor held
her hi his arms, ready to sink her hi a
watery grave. " On ne revient pas"
as the Bishop of Metz said long after
* "History of England," chap, xi., 1689.
t " Bonhomme," p. 235.
$ 7Wcf., p. 230.
Madame de Maintenon.
801
to Madame de Maintenon, " de si loin
pour pen de chose" *
Notwithstanding her father's evil
example, there was enough in Frances
d'Aubigne's ancestral remembrances to
have dazzled her imagination in after
life. Her aunt, who had been her
earliest instructress, was a zealous Pro-
testant ; and her grandfather, Agrippa
d'Aubigne, as a soldier, a historian,
and a satirical poet, was one of the first
men of his day. He had served Henry
IV. in various capacities, and was
used to address his royal master so
freely as to reproach him for his change
of religion. One day, when the king
was showing a courtier his lip pierced
by an assassin's knife, d'Aubigne said,
" Sire, ydu have as yet renounced God
only with your lips, and he has pierced
them ; if you renounce him in heart,
he will pierce your heart also."
Frances' father died in Martinique,
having lost all he had gained by gam-
bling. Madame d'Aubigne therefore
returned to France, and devoted herself
to the education of her child. She
made her familiar with "Plutarch's
Li ve?,"and exercised her in composition.
She would gladly have kept the task
of instruction to herself, but poverty
constrained heratlast to resign Frances
with many fears into the hands of her
aunt, Madame de Vilette. The effect
of this transfer was her becoming im-
bued with Calvinist tenets ; and when,
through the interference of the gov-
ernment,f she was removed from Ma-
dame de Vilette's care, and made over
to a Catholic relative, she proved very
refractory, and persisted in turning her
back to the altar during mass. Various
means of persuasion were tried in
vain ; and it was not till the Ursuline
sisters in Paris took her in hand that
her scruples vanished, and she con-
sented to abjure her errors and to
believe anything except that her aunt
Vilette would be damned. In after-
life she used often to say that her
mother and several of the nuns had
* " One does not return from so far bat for a
great object."
t " l>uc de NoaMes," tome L, p. 77.
51
been very injudicious and severe with
her, and that, but for the kindness and
good sense of one lady in the convent,
she should probably never have em-
braced the Catholic faith.
Only a few years passed before she
had to choose between a conventual
life and a distasteful marriage. Her
mother was dead, and " the beautiful
Indian," as she was called, was left
almost without resources. She had
become acquainted with the comic
poet Scarron, and often visited him.
He was five-and-twenty years older
than herself, and hideously deformed.
A singular paralysis, caused by quack
medicines, had deprived him of the
use of his limbs, his hands and mouth
only being left free. His satirical
pieces had been very popular, and,
though fixed to his chair, he received
a great deal of company, and joked
incessantly. He was much struck by
Frances d'Aubigne, and appreciated
her talents the more highly because
mental culture was rapidly advancing,
and the conversation in drawing-rooms
began to be rational. His offer of
marriage was accepted by her, for
" she preferred," as she said, " marry-
ing him to marrying a convent." In
the summer of 1652 she became his
bride. Such a union deserved a place
in one of his own farces, and gave
little promise of happiness or virtue.
But the consequences were far differ-
ent from what might have been ex-
pected. A change for the better had
taken place in public morals, and
Madame Scarron had no sooner a
house of her own than she took a
prominent part in the movement. She
carefully tended her helpless spouse ;
brushed the flies from his nose when
he could not use his fingers, and ad-
ministered to him the opiate draught
without which he could not sleep. She
received his guests with a dignity
beyond her years, and her conduct
was regulated on a plan of general
reserve. No one dared address her
in words of double signification ; and
one of the young men of fashion who
frequeated the house declared that he
802
Madame de Maintenon.
would sooner think of venturing on
any familiarity with the queen than
with Madame Scarron. People saw
that she was in earnest. During
Lent, she would eat a herring at the
lower end of the table, and retire be-
fore the rest. So young and attract-
ive, in a capital of brilliant dissipa-
tion, and with such a husband as
Scarron, her example could not but
have an effect. Meanwhile she culti-
vated her mind, and learned Italian,
Spanish, and Latin. She knew not
what might be required of her, for
Scarron's fortune was dwindling away,
and he had been compelled to resign
the prebend of Mans. He was a lay-
ecclesiastic, and, like many literary
men of that day, bore the title of
abbe. Poverty again stared her in
the face, and the servant who waited
at table had often to whisper, "Ma-
dame, no roast again to-day ! " Devot-
ed to her husband's sick chamber,
she avoided society abroad, and wrote,
only two years after her marriage,
letters which might have come from
an aged saint on the brink of eternity.
" All below is vanity," she said, " and
vexation of spirit. Throw yourself
into the arms of God ; one wearies of
all but him, who never wearies of
those who love him."
Her enemies have slrongly contested
her virtue at this period, and appealed
to her intimacy with Ninon de Len-
clos in proof of their allegations. This
modern Leontium certainly frequent-
ed Scarron's drawing-room and also
(such were the dissolute manners of
the age) that of most other celebrities
in Paris. But the unhappy woman
herself has left behind her an unques-
tionable testimony to Madame Scar-
ron's purity. " In her youth," she says,
'< she was virtuous through weakness
of mind : I tried to cure her of it, but
she feared God too much." She had,
of course, many admirers, and she
must needs have gone out of the
world not to have them. But to be
admired and courted is one thing, to
yield and sin mortally is another. It
might be wished that Madame Scar-
ron's name had never been mixed up
with that of Ninon, to whom virtue
was "faitteese d'esprit" but the free-
dom of her conduct must not be tried
too severely by the stricter laws of
propriety which prevail among us
now. She never forgot Ninon, corre-
sponded with her at times, aided her
when she was in distress, and was
consoled by her dying like a Chris-
tian at the age of 90.* She who
had boasted that Epicurus was her
model gave the closing years of her
life to God.f
Madame Scarron's resistance to the
importunities of Villarceaux was well
known, and is thus alluded to by Bois-
Robert in verses addressed to the
marquis himself:
" Si c'est cette rare beaute
Q,ui tieut ton esprit enchaine,
Marquis, j'ai raison de te plaindre ;
Car BOH humeur est fort a craindre:
Elle a presque autant de fierte
Qu'elle a de grace et de beaute."
But those who follow the course of
Madame de Maintenon's interior life
know perfectly well how to interpret
what Bois-Robert called "haughti-
ness," and Ninon " weakness of mind."
It is a matter of no small importance
to rescue such characters from the
foul grasp of calumny. Gilles Boi-
leau was the only one of her contem-
poraries while she was young who
dared to throw out any suspicion
against her honor, but this he did evi-
dently to avenge himself on Scarron,
against whom he had a mortal pique.
A new era was dawning on France.
Richelieu and Mazarin had by their
policy prepared the triumphs of mon-
archy ; Turenne and Conde had dis-
played their genius in war ; the great
ministers and captains waited for the
moment when their master should call
them to his service ; and arts and let-
ters were ready to embellish all with
their rich coloring. Louis XIV. really
mounted the throne in 1660, and the
glory and greatness of France rose
* In 1705.
t " Due de NoaUles," tome i., p. 206.
$ "Marquis, if it ia this rare beauty
you in chains, I have reason to pity you ; for she
as of a temper much to be feared. She has almost
as much pride as she has grace and beauty."
Madame de Maintenon.
803
with him. Pascal, Moliere, La Fon-
taine, and Boileau published their
works almost at the same time. Ra-
cine presented to the king the first-
fruits of his master mind, and the
voice of Bossuet had already been
heard from the pulpit. Scarron fore-
saw the brilliancy of the epoch, but he
saw also that his own end was nigh.
u I shall have," he said, " no cause for
regret in dying, except that I have no
fortune to leave my wife, who deserves
more than I can tell, and for whom I
have every reason in the world to be
thankful." Humorous to the last, he
made a jest of his sufferings, and,
when seized with violent hiccough,
said if he could only get over it, he
would write a good satire upon it.
He died perfectly himself, and was
not even for a moment untrue to his
character. A few seconds before his
end, seeing those around him in tears,
he said, " You weep, my children ;
ah ! I shall never .make you cry as
much as I have made you laugh."
He had but one serious interval to
give to death that in which Madame
Scarron caused him to fulfil his relig-
ious duties. He had always been a
Christian, and neither in his writings
nor in his conversation had allowed
anything prejudicial to religion to
escape him. A chaplain came every
Sunday to say mass at his house.
" I leave you no fortune," he said to
his wife when dying, " and virtue will
bring none: nevertheless be always
virtuous." The point of this admoni-
tion must be gathered from the cor-
ruption of the times. Her mother's
last words also had sunk deep into
Frances' memory, for she had warned
her " to hope everything from God
and to fear everything from man."
Scarron died in 1660, and was soon
forgotten. His name would now
scarcely be known, nor would any at
this day be conversant with his come-
dies and satires but for the exalted
position which his widow subsequently
attained. His immediate successors
obeyed unconsciously the epitaph
which he nad himself composed, and
made no noise over the grave where
poor Scarron took his "first night's
rest."
" Passants, ne faites pas de bruit,
De crainte que je ne m'eveille ;
Car voila la premiere nuit
Que le pauvre Scarron sommeille." *
Was there ever a more pathetic
joke ?
When Mazarin died in 1661, the
young king summoned his council and
said, " Gentlemen, I have hitherto al-
lowed the affairs of state to be con-
ducted by the late cardinal ; hence-
forward I intend to govern myself,
and you will aid me with your advice
when I ask it." From that day, the
face of society in France rapidly
changed. Then, as Voltaire says, the
revolution in arts, intellect, and morals
which had been preparing for half a
century took effect, and at the court of
Louis XIV. were formed that refine-
ment of manners and those social
principles which have since extended
through Europe. The example long
set by the Hotel de Rambouillet in
Paris was followed by many others,
and numerous salons which have since
become matter of history united all
that was most brilliant in genius and
talent with much that was estimable
for worth and even piety.
The first ten years of Madame
Scarron's widowhood were passed in
the midst of these elegant and intel-
lectual circles. The assemblies of
Madame de SeVigne*, Madame de
Coulanges, Louvois' cousin, and Ma-
dame de Lafayette, the novelist, were,
with the hdtels of Albret and Riche-
lieu, those which she principally fre-
quented. She was in great distress,
and her friends tried to obtain for her
the pension her husband had once en-
joyed. But Cardinal Mazarin was
inflexible. He remembered the " Ma-
zarinade," in which Scarron had satir-
ized him, and refused to grant any
relief to his charming widow. But
she would be beholden to none for a
subsistence. She retired into the
* " Poor Scarron his firet night of sleep enjoys :
Hugh, passers-by, nor wake him with yow
noise 1 "
804
Madame de Maintenon.
convent of the Hospitalers, where a
relation lent her an apartment, and
lived for some time on a pittance she had
hoarded. The queen-mother then be-
came interested in her behalf, and a
pension of 50 a year was assigned
her. " Henceforward," she said in a
letter to Madame d'Albret, "I shall
be able to labor for my salvation in
peace. I have made a promise to
God that I will give one fourth of my
pension to the poor." She now re-
moved to the Ursuline convent, where
she lived simply and modestly, but
visited constantly, and received, as the
sisters complained, " a furious deal of
company." Her dress was elegant,
but of cheap materials, and she man-
aged by rare economy to keep a maid,
pay her wages, and have a little over
at the end of the year. She might
have accepted the Marechal d'Albret's
offer of a home in her hotel, but she
preferred entire independence in her
own humble asylum. Many a page
could we fill with accounts of the
friendships she formed at this period.
To epitomize her life is in one respect
a painful task, for the records we pos-
sess respecting her are equally inter-
esting and copious. She has found at
last a biographer worthy of her, and it
is to the Due de Noailles' volumes we
must refer those who long for further
details than our space allows us to
give. He is the ablest champion of
her honor that has yet appeared, and
refutes triumphantly the calumnies of
tne Due de Saint Simon by which so
many have been deceived.
At the Hotel d'Albret Madame
Scarron often met Madame de Mon-
tespan, who soon after became the
mistress of Louis. The two ladies
had many tastes in common, arid an
intimacy sprang up between them.
How strangely they became related
to each other afterward we shall pres-
ently see. Meanwhile Madame Scar-
ron was overtaken by another reverse.
The queen-mother died in 1666, and
with her the pension ceased. Many
splendid mansions were eager to re-
ceive and entertain her, but she de-
clined them all as permanent abodes.
A rich and dissolute old man propos-
ed to marry her, and her friends un-
wisely seconded his overtures ; but she
was proof against them, and wrote to
Ninon to express her gratitude, be-
cause the voice of that licentious wo-
man alone was raised in approval of her
conduct. She was indignant at the
comparison her friends made between
the unworthy aspirant and her late
husband, and avowed her readiness to
endure any hardships rather than sac
rifice her liberty, and entangle herself
in an engagement which conscience
could not approve. Constrained,
therefore, by want, she was about to
expatriate herself, and follow in the
train of the Duchesse de Nemours,
who was affianced to the King of Por-
tugal. It was a sore trial, for none
are more attached to their country,
none endure exile with less fortitude,
than the French. She saw Madame
de Montespan once more ; it was in
the royal palace, and that incident
changed her destiny. The future
rivals met under conditions how differ-
ent from those which were one day to
exist ! Madame de Montespan, though
not yet the king's mistress, was al-
ready in high favor, and the patron-
ess of that poor widow who was af-
terward, by winning Louis' esteem,
to supplant her in his affections, and
become, all but in name, Queen of
France. Through her mediation the
forfeited pension was restored, and we
find her name in the list of ladies in-
vited to a court fete in 1688. Never-
theless, her troubles withdrew her very
much from the world, and she thought
for a time of adopting a religious
habit. Indeed, it is not impossible
that she might actually have done so,
had she not been made averse to the
step by the severity of her confessor,
the Abbe Gobelin. With a view of
mortifying her ambition to please and
be admired, he recommended her to
dress still more plainly, and be silent in
company. She obeyed, and became
so disagreeable to herself and others
that she sometimes felt inclined to re-
Madame de Maintenon.
805
nounce her habits of devotion.* She
retired, however, to a small lodging
in the Rue des Tournelles, lived more
alone, and, as she wrote to Ninon,
" read nothing but the Book of Job and
the Maxims."
Here fortune came to her relief.
The infidelities of Louis XIV. are un-
happily too well known. Suffice it
in this place to say that Madame de
Montespan bore him a daughter in
1669, and a son, afterward the Due
du Maine, in 1670. Circumstances
required that the existence of these
children should be concealed, and
their mother, in whose heart the voice
of conscience was never stifled, be-
thought her of the good Madame Scar-
ron as one who was well fitted to take
charge of their education. According-
ly, she was sounded on the subject.
The king's name was not mentioned,
but she was informed that the secret
regarding the children was to be kept
inviolate. She hesitated, refused, re-
considered the matter, and at last con-
sented on condition that the king him-
self should command her services.
The office was far from dishonorable
in the eyes of the world. Madame
Colbert, the minister's wife, had been
intrusted with two of his majesty's
children by Madame de la Valliere.
It was not on this point that Madame
Scarron was anxious, but she feared
lest she should give scandal and en-
tangle her conscience by a seeming in-
dulgence to such immorality. Louis
at last requested that she would be as
a mother to his babes. They were
placed with a nurse in an obscure lit-
tle house outside the walls of Paris.
Madame Scarron was to live as before
in her own lodgings, but without losing
sight of the infants. It was a point
of honor with her to observe the ut-
most secrecy. She visited each of
them separately, for they were kept
apart, and passed in and out disguised
as a poor woman, and carrying linen
or meat in a basket. Returning home
on foot, she entered by a private door,
dressed, and drove to the Hotel d'Al-
bret or Richelieu to lull suspicion
asleep. When the secret was at
length known, she caused herself to be
bled lest she should blush.* In two
years' time the number of children had
increased, and a different arrangement
was adopted. A large house was
purchased in the country, not far from
Vaugirard, and Madame Scarron, now
enjoying a certain degree of opulence,
established herself there, and gave all
her time to the task of education. She
was lost to the world, and her friends
deeply lamented her disappearance.
But she was sowing the seed of her
future greatness. The king, who had
a great love for his children, often
saw her when he visited them; the
aversion he had felt for her at first
gradually melted away ; he admired
her tender and maternal care of his
offspring, contrasted it with the com-
parative indifference of their own moth-
er, greatly increased her pension, and,
having legitimized the Due du Maine,
the Count de Vexin, and Mademoi-
selle de Nantes in 1673, soon after ap-
pointed them with their gouvernante
a place at court. Thus, step by step,
without her own seeking, she was led on
to exercise a higher and most salutary
influence on the king's moral charac-
ter, till, in reward of her long-tried
virtue, she was ultimately to fix his
wandering affections and effect his
conversion; an object which for so
many years she had regarded as the
end of her being. She was nearly
forty years of age when she entered on
her duties in the palace; and, m that
difficult and trying position, she set
the glorious example of one who was
guided in all things by principle, and
who thought that the highest talents
were best devoted to leading an irre-
proachable life. She had a work be-
fore her, and it was great. She con-
tributed to withdraw the king from his
disorderly habits, to restore him to the
queen, and to bring about a reforma-
tion of morals in a quarter where it
* "T>M de Noattles," tome i., pp. 310-12.
* " Deuxieme Entretien a Saint-Cyr."
Madame de Maintenon.
had been most wantonly retarded by
the royal example. The king, in that
day, was all in all. The ideal of the
government was royalty. The Fronde
had died away, and with it the power
of the nobles. That of the peo-
ple, in the sense in which it is now
generally understood, was unknown ;
even infidels and scoffers scarcely
dreamed of it. The monarch, like
Cyrus* and the Ccesars, believed him-
self something more than man. Dis-
eases fled at his touch, and he virtu-
ally set himself above all laws, hu-
man and divine. It needed the elo-
quence of a Bossuet to convince Louis
that a priest had done his duty in re-
fusing absolution to the mother of
his illegitimate children, f The suc-
cess oi lus arms enhanced his self-es-
teem, and the atmosphere of his court
was so tainted .with corruption that
Madame Scarron often sighed for re-
tirement, and resolved to flee from so
perilous and painful a promotion. Her
intercourse with Madame de Monte-
span was chequered with stormy dis-
sensions, and the jealousy of the lat-
ter became almost insupportable. The
education of the children was a con-
stant subject of contention, and Ma-
dame Scarron, who knew that they
would be ruined if left to their mother,
was not disposed to yield any of her
rights. But the Due du Maine was
the idol of his father and mother, and
this served to attach them both to the
incomparable gouvernante, who loved
the boy with an affection truly mater-
nal.
Being disgusted with the court, and
having received from the king a pres-
ent of 200,000 francs, she bought in
1674 the estate of Maintenon, about
thirty miles from Versailles, with the
intention of retiring thither. But a
rupture between the king and his fav-
orite mistress was at hand, and on this
circumstance hinged Madame Scar-
ron's future career.
In spite of his profligacy, Louis
XIV. was at bottom religiously dis-
* "Herodotus, Clio," cciv.
t "Z>c de NoaUles^ tome i., p. 316.
posed. His serious attention to busi-
ness proved him to be a man of
thought and reflection, and, when the
great festivals came round, it grieved
him not to be in a condition to fulfil
his religious duties. The sermons of
Bourdaloue during the Lent of 1675
touched him, and the expostulations of
Bossuet in private deepened their ef-
fect. He resolved to dismiss Madame
de Montespan, and departed to join
the army without seeing her. " I have
satisfied you, father," he said to Bour-
daloue : " Madame de Montespan is
at Clagny." " Yes, sire," replied the
preacher ; " but God would be better
satisfied if Clagny were seventy
leagues from Versailles." Meanwhile
Madame Scarron, with the Due du
Maine, went to Bareges, and, as the
king had, before creating her a mar-
chioness, graciously called her, in pres-
ence of his nobles, Madame de Main-
tenon, we shall henceforward speak
of her by the name which she bears in
history. The three most important
personages in our drama were now
separated. The king, at the head of
his army, received the letters of Bos-
suet, conjuring him to persevere in
his promises of amendment, while
Madame dc Montespan, in her retreat,
was pressed by the same fervid elo-
quence to return to the path of virtue.
But the Due du Maine was every-
where entertained as the king's son,
and fetes that vied with each other in
splendor awaited him and his gouver-
nante everywhere. So popular was
the king, so loyal his people, that his
vice passed for virtue or innocent gal-
lantry.
Bareges was not then what it has
now become. A few thatched cotta-
ges and one house with a slated roof
were all it could boast. Madame de
Maintenon and her sick charge, the
little duke, had but one room, meanly
furnished, where he slept by her side.
The place was then scarcely known ;
but the physician Fagon had discov-
ered it during his excursions among
the Pyrenees, and, by making Madame
de Maintenon acquainted with the eifi-
Madame de Maintenon.
807
cacy of its baths, he raised it to im-
portance and secured for himself for-
tune and renown. Here she re-
ceived many letters from the king in
attestation of his friendship ; and re-
turning hence, she visited Niort and
the pnson where she was born, the
aunt she had so tenderly loved, and
the Ursuline convent where she had
first been schooled and supported by
charity. Attentions were lavished on
her in every quarter, and many val-
uable records of her family fell into
her hands. Among these was the
life of her illustrious grandfather,
Agrippa d'Aubigne, written by him-
self.
Her reception by the king was more
cordial than ever ; but the high favor
in which she stood did not break her
resolution to renounce a court life as
soon as circumstances should permit.
She corresponded regularly with the
AJbbe" Gobelin, and often expressed
her willingness to follow implicitly his
advice. Madame de Montespan re-
gained her ascendancy, at least in ap-
pearance ; but many thought that the
king was fast becoming weaned from
her, through the new influence. Ma-
daaie de Maintenon exerted daily a
more manifest empire.. Everything,
as Madame de Sevigne wrote in 1G76,
yielded to her. One attendant held
the pominade before her on bended
knee, another brought her gloves, and
a third lulled her to sleep. She sa-
luted no one; but those who knew
her believed that she laughed in her
heart at these formalities. " I desire
more than ever," she said to M. Gobe-
lin, ' to be away from this place ; and
I am more and more confirmed in my
opinion that I cannot serve God here."
Madame de Montespan, during some
years, continued to be the recognized
favorite ; but the beautiful Fontanges
divided with her the unenviable dis-
tinction till, having just been made a
duchess, she died in the flower of her
youth. But amidst all this levity,
Louis paid the severe Madame de
Maintenon the most delicate attentions,
which failed not to excite the utmost
indignation in the breast of the royal
mistress. At length, in 1680, the
dauphin espoused the daughter of the
Elector of Bavaria, and Louis, anx-
ious to retain Madame de Maintenon
in the service of the court, made her
lady of the bed-chamber to the dau-
phiness. In this honorable office she
was set free from the bondage she had
endured. She had now nothing in com-
mon with Madame de Montespan ; and
she exchanged the apartments she had
occupied for others immediately over
those o" the king, where he could visit
her at will, and, by her lively and flow-
ing conversation, refresh his mind
when weary with business, or jaded
with pleasures that had long since be-
gun to pall. Surrounded by minions
of every sort, it was something new
to him to be addressed freely and
without any selfish view. This was
the secret of Madame de Maintenon's
power over his heart, and he confessed
the potency of the spell. Madame de
Montespan was visited less and less.
and Louis passed hours every day in
the apartments of the dauphiness,
where he found also her lady of the
bed-chamber. A cabal was formed
by the deserted mistresses and some
profligate ministers against the new
and truly estimable object of Louis'
favor; but their machinations failed.
The sovereign at last broke his chains,
and Madame de Montespan, like
Ninon and La Valliere, made profit of
the time which was allowed to her for
repentance, but which had been denied
to Fontanges. The miserable death-
bed of that young creature, distracted
by remorse, but still clinging passion-
ately to her unlawful love, deeply af-
fected the king,* and is said to have
powerfully contributed to reclaim him
from his evil habits. The benign in-
fluence of Madame de Maintenon re-
united him to the long abandoned
queen, who, with all her exalted piety
and Christian virtue, was deficient, it
must be confessed, in tact and discern-
ment, as well as in those intellectual
* Gabourd, " Histoire de France," tome xiv.,
p. 453, note.
808
Madame de Maintenon.
gifts which would have made her an ac-
ceptable companion to Louis; while
her strict devotional practices and retir-
ing habits habits which her native
modesty and timidity of character,
combined with her husband's neglect,
tended to confirm may have had no
small share in increasing his estrange-
ment. His evenings were now fre-
quently spent with her; and every
member of the royal family was de-
lighted with the happy change, and
grateful to her by whom it had been
I rought about. The king himself
found the paths of virtue to be those
of peace, and the finer parts of his
character were displayed to advantage.
He had naturally a kind and feeling
heart, and was by no means that mon-
ster of selfishness and formality which
historians so often make him.*
After the peace of Nimeguen, Louis
XIV., having seen his enterprises
everywhere crowned with victory, be-
came intoxicated with his own great-
ness, and arrogant toward foreign
powers. But the counsels of Madame
ie Maintenon tended to restrain his
ambition and modify the defiant tone
of his government. She well knew
that such an attitude, beside being
wrong in itself, was the certain fore-
runner of formidable coalitions. How-
ever lightly she might have thought
of the Prince of Orange, if singly
matched with the greatest potentate
of Europe, she wisely judged his tal-
ents and prowess capable of inflicting
great injury on France if he were in
union with exasperated allies. While
her hand thus nearly touched the
helm of state, it was busy as ever in
dispensing private charities; and it
was about this time also that she
founded an establishment at Rueil
which was the origin of " Saint-Cyr."
" For the first time," she said, in a let-
ter to her brother,! " I am happy."
In 1683 the queen died, and Louis,
who had become convinced of her
merits too late, wept over her when
expiring and said, " It is the first
* " Dm de Noailles," tome ii., p. 28.
t 20th February, 1682.
trouble she has ever caused me."
Madame de Maintenon, who had
staid with her to the last, was about
to retire, when the Due de la Roche-
foucauld, taking her by the arm, drew
her toward the king, saying, " It is no
time, madame, to leave him : he needs
you in his present condition." Her
position at court was now very embar-
rassing. She was aware of the king's
predilections, and he was no less
persuaded that she could be attached
to him by none but virtuous ties. The
dauphiness requested her to accept
the place of lady of honor, but she
steadily refused. Was it indeed that
she aspired higher ? Could she fancy
for one moment that Louis would
exalt her to the rank of his wife ? An
anecdote related by Madame de Cay-
lus would lead us to suppose that the
thought had crossed her mind, and that
the king himself had perhaps given
her some pledge of his intentions.
Madame de Caylus was astonished at
her declining a post of such high dig-
nity. " Would you," asked her aunt,
" rather be the niece of a lady of
honor, or the niece of one who re-
fused to be such ? " Madame de Cay-
lus replied that she should look upon
her who refused as immeasurably
higher than her who accepted: on
which Madame de Maintenon kissed
her. She had given the right answer.
Madame de Montespan was still at
court with her children, but her day
was gone by ; and she whose silent
influence had wrought her overthrow
never triumphed over her, and even
deemed it prudent to abstain from any
overt attempt to prevent the king's
seeing her.
The decorations at Versailles were
at this time conducted on such a scale
as to make that spot one of the won-
ders of the world. All Europe was
curious to see its gardens or read of
their matchless splendor. Its foun-
tains and cascades were never to be
silent, night or day, and the waters of
the Eure were to supply them by
means of a canal and aqueduct
more than fourteen leagues in length.
Madame de Maintenon.
809
Twenty-two thousand men worked on
the line, which traversed the estate
and valley of Maintenon. The aque-
duct was there supported by magnifi-
cent arcades, and its entire cost,
without counting purchase of land,
was about nine millions of francs. To
the town of Maintenon the "very
powerful and pious " lady who bore
its name was a great benefactress.
She obtained for it fairs and markets,
and founded in it a hospital and
schools. She rebuilt, entirely at her
own cost, the church and presbytery,
as well as those of two adjoining par-
ishes. She brought thither Normans
and Flemings to teach the villagers
how to weave, and distributed abun-
dant alms to the poor and infirm. The
king staid at her chateau repeatedly,
and inspected the works that were
rapidly advancing among the hills.
Racine also was her guest about this
period, and was charmed with his
visit. Here, too, in the very house
where Charles X., and with him the
direct Bourbon line, afterward ceased
to reign, was probably fixed that
remarkable marriage of which we
shall have much to record.
Madame de Maintenon was still
beautiful, though in her fiftieth year.
She was three years older than the
king, and the influence she exerted
over him was no matter of surprise to
those who were used to watch her
radiant eyes and face beaming with
animation and intelligence. Severe
virtue gave additional dignity to her
distinguished and graceful nanners,
and, while she yielded to none in con-
versational powers, she was also a
good listener. The proud king found
in her one to whom he could bow
without humiliation, and her conquest
of his heart was a signal triumph of
moral worth. The marriage was
private, and the secrecy so well pre-
served that its date cannot be ascer-
tained. It is supposed to have taken
place in 1 685, and was celebrated by
the Archbishop of Paris, in the pres-
ence of Pere la Chaise ; Bontemps, a
valet-de-chambre, who served the
mass; and M. de Montchevreuil,
Madame de Maintenon's intimate
friend. A union satisfactory to her
conscience was all she required, and
this being obtained, she took the ut-
most pains to prevent the matter
becoming public. The court remained
for some time in ignorance of the
marriage ; but the fact is beyond all
doubt, and is dwelt on with little dis-
guise by the Bishop of Chart-res, in
letters to the king and his wife, and
by Bourdaloue in his private instruc-
tions to the latter. While Saint-Si-
mon denounces it as " so profound a
humiliation for the proudest of kings
that posterity will never credit it,"
Voltaire, with more good sense, main-
tains that Louis in this marriage in
no degree compromised his dignity,
and that the court, never having any
certainty on the subject, respected the
king's choice without treating Madame
de Maintenon as queen.* There is
not the slightest proof that Louis ever
contemplated sharing his throne with
her openly, and still less that her am-
bition extended so far. In the pas-
sage we quoted from Macaulay the
reader will have observed that he
introduces the fable with " It was
said." He is, in fact, there following
Saint-Simon and the Abbe de Choi-
sy,t whose " Memoirs "are, in this par-
ticular, altogether at variance with
Madame de Maintenon's character as
revealed in her letters, with the mod-
esty and reserve which distinguished
her in so high a station, and with the
impenetrable silence she always ob-
served with regard to the fact of the
king being her husband.J
Though living in the midst of the
court, her elevation was, as Voltaire
says, nothing but a retreat. She re-
stricted her society to a small number
of female friends, and devoted herself
almost exclusively to the king. No
distinction marked her in public, ex-
cept that she occupied in chapel a
gilded tribune made for the queen.
* " Siede de Louis XIV.," tome ii.
t Livrc vii.
j " Due de NoaUles," tomeii., pp. 131-2.
810
Madame de Maintenon.
Louis spoke of her as Madame, and if
the Abbe de Choisy may be trusted,
Bonlemps, the valet, addressed her in
private as " your majesty." She was
seldom seen in the reception-halls, but
the king passed all the time that was
not occupied with public affairs in her
apartment. He rose at eight, sur-
rounded by his officers ; as soon as
dressed, he was closeted with his min-
isters, with whom he remained till
midday ; at half-past twelve he heard
mass, and in passing and repassing
through the grand gallery, to which
the public was admitted, might be ad-
dressed by any one who asked permis-
sion of the captain of his guards.
After mass, he visited Madame de
Montespan daily till the year 1691,*
and staid with her till dinner was
announced. This was ordinarily about
half-past one. Madame de Maintenon,
though she supped in her own room,
dined always at the king's table, sit-
ting opposite him. Then followed
shooting in the park, which was his
favorite amusement. Sometimes he
hunted the stag, the wolf, or the wild
boar ; but from the time he dislocated
his arm in 1683, through his horse's
stumbling over a rabbit-burrow, he
seldom went to the chase mounted,
but in a calash, which he drove him-
self, with some ladies, and very often
Madame de Maintenon. Banquets
were spread in the woods, and in the
summer evenings gondolas with music
plied on the canal, and Madame de
Maintenon's place was always in that
of the king. At six or seven he re-
turned home, and worked or amused
himself till ten, the hour for supper ;
after which he passed an hour with his
children, lawful and legitimized, his
brother sitting in an arm-chair like
himself, the dauphin and the other
princes standing, and the princesses
on tabourets. During winter at Ver-
sailles, a ball, a 'comedy, or an ap-
partement followed every evening in
regular succession. The appartement
was an assembly of the entire court,
and sometimes ended with dancing,
after music, chess, billiards, and all
sorts of games.
There was nothing in Madame de
Maintenon's temper opposed to the
ceaseless festivities of Versailles, Mar-
ly, and Fontainebleau. She height-
ened them, indeed, by the noble plea-
sures of the mind, which her influence
could not fail to introduce. Her style
of dress was exquisite, and elderly
beyond what her age required; and
while she treated all around her with
the utmost attention, she was alto-
gether free from airs of importance.
She rose between six and seven, went
straight to mass, and communicated
three or four times a week. While
she was dressing, one of her attend-
ants read the New Testament or the
" Imitation of Jesus Christ ;" and dur-
ing the rest of the day her movements
were regulated by those of the king.
Whenever she was at liberty, she
passed her mornings at Saint-Cyr, and
Louis came to her regularly several
hours before supper. She never went
to him except when he was ill. Her
income amounted to nearly four thou-
sand pounds a year of our money;
and of this the larger part was given
to the poor. In vain the members of
her family looked to her for promotion,
in vain they reproached her with for-
getting the claims of kindred : " I refer
you, madam," she wrote to the Prin-
cesse des Ursins, "to the valley of
Josaphat to see whether I have been
a bad kinswoman. I may be deceived,
but I believe I have done as I ought,
and that God has not placed me where
I am to persecute him continually for
whom I wish to procure that repose
which he does not enjoy. No, madam*
it is only in the vale of Josaphat that
the reasons for my conduct toward
my relatives will be apparent. Mean-
while, I conjure you not to condemn
me."*
The poor and unfortuntate had no
cause for similar complaints. She
gave away between two and three
"Due de Noailles" tome ii., p. 147, note.
* Letter of 16th February, 1710.
Madame de Maintenon.
811
thousand pounds a year. During the
scarcity of 1694, having parted with
all she had, she sold a beautiful ring
and a pair of horses, to supply the
wants of the sufferers. " Distribute
my alms," she wrote to her steward,
"as quickly as you can. Spare no
pains, and repine at no difficulty. Cir-
cumstances require unusual charities.
See if peas, beans, milk, and barley-
meal, if anything, in short, will supply
the place of the bread which is so
dear. Do in my house as you would
in your own family. I leave it in
your charge. Incite the people to
courage and to labor. If they do not
sow, they will reap nothing next
year."
She often visited the needy, and re-
lieved their wants with her own hand.
She would put off buying anything
for herself to the last moment, and
then say, " There, I have taken that
from the poor." Her charity inspired
others with the spirit of self-denial,
arid the king and his chief almoner
often dispensed their bounty through
her. But neither poor nor rich divert-
ed her attention from Louis. To his
ease, his tastes, his sentiments even
when they shocked her his time, and
his very friendships, she sacrificed
everything. He was her vocation;
and her own friends could not, as she
said, but look upon her as dead to
them. To her the king confided all ;
and thus the cares of state, the perils
of war, the intrigues of the court, ca-
bals, petitions, private interests, and
even family disputes, were continually
rolling their din at her feet. Princes,
princesses, ministers, and a crowd of.
persons anxious to secure their own
interests, forced themselves upon her,
and broke up all the pleasures of soli-
tude and society, of study, meditation,
and correspondence, for which she
pined. But she had counted the cost,
and bore with equanimity the absence
of that perfect happiness which she
never expected to attain on earth.
The honors which encircled her were
brilliant fetters, and galled her no less
because they glittered. " I can hold out
no longer," she said one day to her
brother, Count d'Aubigne* ; " I would
that I were dead ! " The sense of
duty was her abiding strength, and she
derived consolation from reflecting
that her elevation was not of her own
seeking. The path by which she had
been led was strange so strange that
she could not but believe she had a
divine mission to accomplish. It was
easy to interpret her conduct in a
worldly and ambitious sense ; but
w r hen, since the Master of the house
was called Beelzebub, have the chil-
dren of his household been rightly
understood ? Whatever is in the heart
comes out sooner or later in the writ-
ings, and those who read Madame de
Maintenon in her letters, will be in no
doubt as to what were her guiding
principles. Always true to herseltj
she was an enigma to those only who
had not the key to her true character.
The year of her marriage was sig-
nalized by one of the most important
legislative acts in the history of mod-
ern Europe. This was the revocation
of the edict of Nantes, by which, eighty-
seven years before, Henry IV. had,
shortly after his abjuration of Protes-
tantism, terminated a long civil war
by granting to the Ctilvinists freedom
of religious worship and admission
to offices of state. The edict itself
was as contrary to the spirit of that
age as it would be consonant with the
ideas of this. Those who regarded each
other respectively as idolaters and
heretics had not yet learned to
live together in social and po-
litical brotherhood. The popes and
saintly doctors of those times looked
on such fraternity with horror, and
foresaw that, if it became general, indif-
ference and widespread infidelity
would be its certain results. Events
have justified their anticipations ; and
though it may be doubted whether this
or that act of intolerance, such as the
revocation of the edict in question by
Louis XIV., were wise and expedient
under the circumstances, it ought never
to be forgotten that the establishment
and maintenance of Catholic unity in a
812
Madame de Maintenon.
kingdom redounds, abstractly con-
sidered, to the glory of a Christian
prince. To this glory the govern-
ment of Louis aspired ; and while it is
clear from Madame de Maintenon's cor-
respondence that she took no active
part in the matter, it is evident also
that she approved it, as did the nation
in general. Voltaire concurs with
the Due de Noailles in exonerating
her from the charge of having instigat-
ed the revocation and applauded its
results. No traces of a spirit of per-
secution can be discovered in her char-
acter. Nothing can exceed the sweet-
ness of disposition with which she re-
proved her brother, when governor of
Cognac, for having treated the Calvin-
ists with needless severity. " Have
pity," she wrote, "on persons more
unfortunate than culpable. They hold
the errors we once held ourselves, and
from which violence never withdrew us.
Do not disquiet them ; such men must
be allured by gentleness and love : Je-
sus Christ has set us the example."*
Ruvigny, a Protestant, afterward made
Earl of Galway by William III.,
spoke of her to the king as one who
had a leaning to the Reformed reli-
gion ; and though nothing could
be more untrue, it shows that her zeal
as a Catholic could not have been in-
temperate. The king himself told her
that her tenderness toward the Hu-
guenots came, he thought, of her having
formerly been one of them ; and the
historians of the French refugees in
Brandeburg, Erman and Reclam, al-
low that she never advised the violent
measures that were used, and declare
that she abhorred the persecutions
consequent on the revocation. The
authors of them, they add, concealed
them from her as far as possible,
knowing that she desired the adoption
of no other means but instruction and
kindness.f In her conversations with
the sisters at Saint-Cyr, her language
was always in conformity with these
statements. The king, she told them,
who had a wonderful zeal for religion,
* Lettre a M. (TAubigne, 1682.
t Tome i., p. 77.
pressed her to dismiss some Huguenots
from her service, or oblige them to en-
ter the fold of the Church. " I pray
you, sire," she replied, " to let me be
mistress of my own domestics, and
manage them in my own way." Ac-
cordingly, she never pressed them to
renounce their errors. She showed
them the more excellent way when
ever she had an opportunity, and in
good time had the satisfaction of
seeing them all embrace the Catholic
faith.
If, then, Madame de Maintenon
applauded the revocation of the edict
of Nantes, she must not be held re-
sponsible for the forced conversions,
the dragonades, imprisonments, and
emigration in which it issued. Her
approval must be interpreted in the
same sense as the .brief addressed to
Louis by Innocent XI a * in which the
pontiff congratulated him on " revok-
ing all the ordinances issued in favor
of heretics throughout his kingdom,
and providing, by very sage edicts,
for the propogation of the orthodox
faith." The immunities granted to
the Calvinists by Henry IV. involved,
according to Ranke, a Protestant his-
torian, " a degree of independence
which seems hardly compatible with
the idea of a state."f Religious dis-
sent naturally engendered political
disaffection. The Protestant assem-
blies in the time of Louis XIII. en-
deavored to establish a kind of federal
republic. Six times during that king's
reign the Calvinists took up arms.
Richelieu maintained that nothing
great could be undertaken so long as
the Efuguenots had a footing in the
kingdom. They formed a treaty with
Spain, with a view to their independ-
ence, and were regarded by the nation
at large as a public enemy.
Zealously as Madame de Maintenon
labored for the conversion of her own
relatives particularly M. de Vilette
and his children it is no wonder that
she concurred with the king, the clergy,
and the people in thinking that the
* 13th November, 1685.
t "Lives of the Popes," vol. ii., p. 439.
Madame de Maintenon.
813
time was come to withdraw from the
Protestants of France privileges dan-
gerous to religion and to the state, and
to concert more effective measures for
their conversion. She held with Bos-
suet that a Christian prince " ought to
use his authority for the destruction
of false religions in his realm, and that
he is at liberty to employ rigorous
measures, but that gentleness is to be
preferred." * She believed with Fe-
nelon that the religious toleration
which is necessary in one country may
be dangerous in another for the mild
and loving prelate of Cambray agreed
at bottom with the sterner Bossuet on
this subject.f Whether subsequent
events vindicated the political expe-
diency of the revocation ; whether the
evils it produced were not greater than
the good it proposed ; whether those
who recommended it would not, if fur-
nished with our experience, have
wished it had never been carried into
eiiect are questions of great impor-
tance and interest, but foreign to the
purpose of this paper.
We have more than once alluded to
Saint-Cyr, and it is time now to give
gome account of the origin and nature
of that noble institution, which perish-
ed with the monarchy and old aristoc-
racy of France, on which it depended,
and of which it was a support. Like
most other great works, its beginnings
were small. Before Madame de
Maintenon was raised so near the
throne, she used often to meet at the
Chateau de Montchevreuil an Ursu-
line sister named Madame de Brinon,
whose convent had been ruined. De-
voted to the work of education, this
lady spent her days in giving instruc-
tion to some children in the village.
Her resources being very low, Ma-
dame de Maintenon intrusted her with
the care of several children whom she
charitably maintained, and often vis-
ited them and their mistress, first at
Rueil, and afterward at Noisy, where
the king placed a chateau at her dis-
'Politique tires de VEcriture Sainte," livre
t *' Essaiturlt Gwtvernvnent civil,
posal, and enabled her to enlarge the
establishment. The daughters of poor
gentlemen were then admitted to the
school. The king, returning from the
chase one day, paid them an unex-
pected visit, and was so pleased with
all he saw that Madame de Maintenon
had little difficulty in inducing him to
extend his royal patronage much
further, and provide means whereby
two hundred and fifty young ladies,
of noble birth and poor fortunes, might
be instructed, clothed, and fed, from
the age of seven or twelve years to
twenty. The domain of Saint-Cyr
was purchased; and twelve young per-
sons belonging to the establishment,
and destined for the most part to a relig-
ious life, were selected as mistresses to
direct the larger institution. They en-
tered on their duties after a noviciate
of nine months, and were called Dames
de Saint Louis. Their vows were
simple, had reference to the purpose
in hand, and were not binding for life.
The young ladies were nominated by
the king, and were required to prove
their poverty and four degrees of no-
bility on the father's side. The final
transfer of the revenues of the abbey
of St. Denis to the establishment of
Saint-Cyr was not approved by the
Holy See till after some years, in con-
sequence of the dispute existing be-
tween Louis and the court of Rome.
In 1689, however, Alexander VIII.
formally authorized the foundation,
and in the Februaiy of the next year
addressed a suitable brief to Madame
de Maintenon, expressing the warm
interest he felt in her undertaking.
Madame de Brinon was elected superi-
or for life, but, as she did not altogether
second the designs of the foundress,
relaxed the rules, and introduced
amusements which were thought too
worldly, a change became necessary.
It was not without much patience on
the part of Madame de Maintenon
that the difficulties were at last over-
come. Madame de Montchevreuil,
their mutual friend, was charged with
a lettre de cachet by which the king
commanded Madame de Brinon to quit
814
Madame de Maintenon.
Saint-Cyr. She retired to the abbey
of Maubisson, of which the Princess
Louisa of Hanover was abbess, and
there passed the remainder of her
days in honorable retirement, and in
the enjoyment of a small pension. She
was fond of great personages, and of
playing an important part, and this
feeling led to her becoming the inter-
mediary between Leibnitz and Bos-
suet, in a correspondence which aimed
at the reunion of Catholics and Pro-
testants, and which, as might have
been expected, produced no results.
After Madame de Brinon's depart-
ure, Madame de Maintenon devoted
herself more and more to her impor-
tant enterprise. As the young ladies
were educated for home and the world,
not the cloister, they were indulged
occasionally with dramatic representa-
tions. This gave rise to two of Ra-
cine's finest pieces. Having been
requested by Madame de Maintenon
to invent some moral or historical
poem in dialogue, from which love
should be excluded, he produced " Es-
ther," which was first acted at Saint-
Cyr in 1689, in presence of the king.
His majesty was charmed; the prince
wept. Racine had never written any-
thing finer, or m6re touching. Es-
ther's prayer to Assuerus transported
the audience. Madame de Sevigne
only lamented that a little girl person-
ated that great king. Numerous re-
presentations followed, and crowds of
eager spectators, courtiers, ecclesias-
tics, literati, and religious sat beside
the ex-king and queen of England, to
hear the pure and harmonious verses
of Racine recited by the young, the
innocent, and the beautiful, to the rich-
est and softest music Moreau could
compose. This success was but the
forerunner of a still greater. At the
request of Louis, Racine wrote an-
other tragedy the following year viz.,
" Athalie ;" in the opinion of French
critics the most perfect of all trage-
dies. But the excitement attending
the play of " Esther " had been too
great to allow of a renewal of the ex-
periment. The " comedy," as it was
called, of "Athalie" was performed
therefore by " the blue class," without
stage or costume, in presence only of
the king, Madame de Maintenon,
James II., and six or seven other per-
sons, among whom was Fenelon.
In the midst of such amusements,
pride and frivolity crept into Saint-
Cyr, and Madame de Maintenon be-
came convinced that she had allowed
its pupils more freedom than they
could enjoy without abuse. Reform
was indispensable. The Dames de
Saint Louis took monastic vows un-
der the rule of St. Augustin. No ef-
fort was spared to inculcate piety and
make religion loved. Bossuet and
Fenelon were frequently invited to
address the young people. One of
the sermons thus delivered is found in
the works of Bossuet, but the original
manuscript is said to be in the hand-
writing of the Archbishop of Cam-
bray. It bears, in fact, the impress of
their twofold genius, but the pathos of
its style stamps it as more peculiarly
the production of Fenelon.*
The Due de Saint-Simon, incapable
of mastering ideas of a religious order,
carps and jeers at Madame de Main-
tenon as one who thought herself an
" universal abbess." Those who care-
fully examine the annals of Saint-Cyr,
and weigh the difficulties that arose
from the various characters of the su-
periors chosen, the tendency at one
time to relax and at another to over-
strain the religious education of the
pupils, will arrive at the conclusion
that few ladies in an exalted position,
and in the midst of all that is most
worldly, ever possessed so much of
that wise and loving spirit of govern-
ment which should distinguish an ab-
bess, as the wife, friend, companion,
and counsellor of Louis XIV. One
might almost say that Saint-Cyr was
the passion of her life. When at
Versailles she went there daily, and
often arrived at six in the morning.
The young ladies, scarcely yet awake,
had the joy of seeing her beloved and
* " Due de NoaUles,"" 1 tome iii., p. 140.
Madame de Maintenon.
815
revered figure among them in the
sleeping apartments ; and she fre-
q lenily helped to dress the little ones
and comb their hair, with unaffected
and maternal kindness. The unre-
mitting attention she gave to the es-
tablishment was soon rewarded, and
its beneficial effects on society were
placed beyond all doubt. The pupils
and mistresses alike of Saint-Cyr
were held in great esteem, and many
of them, scattered through the king-
dom, filled important educational and
conventual posts ; while in Hungary,
Austria, Russia, and the Milanese, in-
stitutions were formed on its model.
By interesting the king in its details,
and inducing him to visit it very often,
Madame de Maintenon partly secured
the other great aim of her existence,
namely, his amusement.
Ol' all the errors that have, from
time to time, insinuated themselves in-
to the minds of Catholics, none has
worn a more plausible and poetic as-
pect than Quietism. It crept into
Saint-Cyr under the auspices of Ma-
dame de la Maisonfort, a person of a
peculiarly imaginative and mystic
temperament. She discoursed with like
fluency with Racine and Fenelon, and
always appeared brimful of intelli-
gence and devotional feelings. Ma-
dame de Maintenon had received her
as a friend, and hailed with delight her
resolution to adopt a religious habit
and become one of the Dames de
Saint Louis. She made her profes-
sion in 1692, and by moderating her
vivacity for a time deceived others, and
perhaps herself also. Errors akin to
those of Molinos were then spreading
fast, and Madame Guyon, their chief
propagandist, happened to be a rela-
tion of Madame de la Maisonfort.
When the former lady was arrested
" r the first time in 1688, her kinswo-
man and Madame de Maintenon inter-
ceded for her. After this she often
visited Saint-Cyr, and gradually be-
came intimate with the ladies engaged
in the institution. Her manuscripts
were eagerly read, and a chosen few
who were first initiated in their mys-
teries inoculated others with the subtle
poison, until all the novices, one con-
fessor, the lay-sisters, and many under
instruction, abandoning themselves, as
they believed, to the sole guidance of
the Holy Spirit, practiced all kinds of
mystic devotion, talked incessantly the
pious jargon of Quietism, looked down
upon those who could not embrace the
new tenets, and strangely forgot their
vows of obedience to superiors. Noth-
ing was heard but the praises of
pure love, holy indifference, inactive
contemplation, passive prayer, and
that entire abandonment of one's self to
God which exempts us from caring
about anything, and even from being
anxious about our own salvation.*
Fdnelon, by his intimacy with Ma-
dame Guyon, whose director he was,
lent life and vigor to these extravagant
ideas. His elevation to the see of Cam-
bray, in 1695, was regarded by them
as the triumph of their cause, and
Saint-Cyr bade fair to rival Port Royal
as a stronghold of suspected tenets.
But episcopal authority interfered at
last, and through the remonstrances
of the Bishop of Chartres, Madame
Guyon was dismissed, and her books
were forbidden. She continued, how-
ever, to correspond with the inmates of
Saint-Cyr; and when, in December,
1695, she was imprisoned anew, they
exhorted each other to remain firm
and endure the coming persecution.
Bossuet himself, at the request of Ma-
dame de Maintenon, now fully alive to
the danger, came to assist hi extinguish-
ing the nascent error, while Fenelon, on
the contrary, defended his own and
Madame Guyon's opinions from what
he considered to be exaggerated charg-
es, and wrote his famous ( " Maximes
des Saints" in opposition to Bossuet's
" Etats d" Oraison." It is a question
whether Bossuet was not led, in
the zeal of his antagonism, to make
indefensible statements of a different
tendency. Fenelon, in fact, charged
him with so doin^ and the spirit dis-
* Madame Guyon herself disowned many of
the monstrous conclusions of the Quietists,
while her own opinions were in excess of tho&e
of Fenelon.
816
Madame de Maintenon.
played by the Bishop of Meaux in de-
fending himself and prosecuting the
condemnation of his former friend,
does not present the most pleasing in-
cident in the great Bossuet's career.
Perhaps Fenelon has won more glory
by his ready and humble submission
to the ultimate decision of the Holy
See than has Bossuet by his zeal in
procuring a just censure on Fenelon's
errors. The temper and ability with
which Fenelon pleaded his cause be-
gan to enlist public opinion in his fa-
vor. He utterly disclaimed all parti-
cipation in the errors of Quietism, and
said he could easily have calmed the
heated minds of the sisters of Saint-
Cyr, and have brought them in all
docility under their bishop's yoke.*
But Bossuet invoked the authority of
the king, the decision of his brother
prelates, and the judgment of the
Holy See. The Bishop of Chartres,
on making a personal inquiry into the
state of things, required that not only
Madame Guyon's writings, but those
of Fenelon himself, should be deliver-
ed into his hands. Whatever the
merits of the question in other respects,
and whatever opinion may be formed
of the respective teaching of these two
great men, there can be no doubt that
the " Maximes des Saints'" had foster-
ed prevailing errors. The king ex-
pressed great displeasure at the course
events had taken, and by a lettre de
cachet in 1698 ordered Madame de
la Maisonfort and another lady to quit
the establishment, and all other infect-
ed persons to be removed. They
passed the night in tears in the supe-
rior's apartment ; and the next day
Madame de Maintenon come to con-
sole the community for their loss. If
she erred at all throughout this per-
plexing affair, it was by over-indul-
gence and by forbearing too long.
When her duty became clear and im-
perative, she was never undecided, nor
showed any inclination to encourage
novelties in religion.
A history of Madame de Maintenon,
* "Due de Noatila," tome iii., p. 241.
however detailed, must always be
wanting in those personal traits which
distinguish most striking biographies,
and this for the simple reason that her
habits and disposition were retiring,
and her daily effort was to throw a veil
over herself. That her influence in
the long run was enhanced by this
modesty, no one can doubt ; yet it is
not on that account the less true, that
in the scenes through which she passed
it is difficult to seize and depict her
individually. We must, nevertheless,
endeavor to give some idea of her re-
lations with the royal family, by some
of whom she was beloved, by others
hated, and by all held in high consid-
eration. Monsieur, the king's brother,
liked and respected her for Louis'
sake, to whom he was sincerely at-
tached; but it was far otherwise with
Madame. A Bavarian by birth, she
was completely German in her tastes,
and in the midst of Parisian splendor
sighed for her home beyond the Rhine.
She was, she said, a hermit in a crowd,
and passed her days in utter loneliness.
She was a Protestant at heart, in-
tensely masculine, and had little sym
pathy with Madame de Maintenon's
quiet mode of life. So fond was she
of the chase, that she continued to fol-
low it, though she had been thrown
from her horse six-and-twenty times.
Madame de Maintenon was her spe-
cial aversion, and this antipathy arose
principally from her national preju-
dices against unequal marriages. The
king's wife was, in her view, an up-
start, and the credit she had obtained
at court did not diminish this impres-
sion. She spoke with contempt of
her piety as mere hypocrisy, and laid
to her charge every species of enor-
mity. She had pandered to the dau-
phin's profligacy ; killed the dauphin-
ess by means of her accoucheur ; led
the young Duchess of Bourgogne into
sin ; monopolized corn during a fam-
ine to enrich herself; and never
dreamed of anything but her own
pleasures and ambition ; she had poi-
soned Louvois and, nobody knew why,
the architect Mansart ; she, with Pere
Madame de Maintenon.
817
la Chaise, had instigated the persecu-
tion of the Protestants ; she had set
fire to the chateau of Luneville ; and,
from her retreat at Saint- Cyr, foment-
ed conspiracies against the regent!
Truly the poison of asps was under the
lips of Madame Elizabeth of Bavaria.
The dauphiness, on the other hand,
neglected by her dissolute husband,
made Madame de Maintenon her
friend, and found consolation in pour-
ing her troubles into her ear, and list-
ening in return to her sage and tender
counsels. After ten years of sickness
and sorrow in her married life, she
died of consumption in 1690. " See,"
said the king to her unworthy partner,
"what the grandeur of this world
comes to! This is what awaits you
and me. God grant us the grace to
die as holily as she has done !"
The pages of French history pre-
sent few pictures more replete with
grandeur and interest than the retreat
of the great Conde at Chantilly.
Crowned with the laurels of a hun-
dred victories, the princely veteran
there gathered around him a more dis-
tinguished staff than had ever sat in
his councils of war men who, endued
with intellectual might and moral
greatness, were to achieve lasting con-
quests in the realm of mind. Pro-
foundly skilled himself in history, phi-
losophy, art, science, and even theology,
he loved to entertain those who, in va-
rious ways, had devoted their lives to
the triumph of knowledge and reflec-
tion over ignorance and sensuality.
All that was noblest in birth and cul-
tivated in mind met together in his or-
angeries, and sauntered among his
gardens and fountains. There the
most eminent prelates of their time
were seen side by side with the great-
est dramatists, historians, and poets.
There was Flechier and Fleury ; there
La Fontaine, Boileau, and Moliere ;
there Rapin and Huet, La Bruyere
and Bossuet. There wit sparkled and
wisdom shone as incessantly as the
jets and cascades that rose and fell in
light and music by night and day.
Thither came often the entire court,
52
and with it Madame de Maintenon, a
star among stars, brilliant but retiring,
to enhance the glory of the illustrious
and aged chief. There, honored by
the king and closeted with him daily,
as at Versailles and elsewhere, she
could not fail to receive the willing
homage of every member of the house
of Conde. There, too, after the gen-
eral's death, she saw her former pupil,
the king's daughter, Mademoiselle de
Nantes, espoused to Conde's grandson ;
and thus, as time went on, she watched
the career of those whom she had edu-
cated, and who formed the more noble
alliances because the king had raised
them to the rank of royal princesses.
Never did any lady occupy a more re-
markable and in some respects a more
enviable position than herself. " There
never was a case like it," says Ma-
dame de Sevigne, " and there never
will be such a one again." She unit-
ed the most opposite conditions. By
her union with Louis she was all but
queen, and by her admirable tact ex-
erted over state affairs a far greater
influence than belongs in general to a
sovereign's consort. She had been
the servant of that very king of whom
she was now the helpmate ; a wise in-
structress to his children, and a mother
in her affection and care. At one mo-
ment she was acting abbess, control-
ling the complicated irregularities
which had crept into the religious and
secular economy of Saint-Cyr, and at
another she was mediating as peace-
maker in the family quarrels and petty
jealousies of pampered courtiers, or by
her sage counsels arresting the ravages
of war, and rescuing harmless popula-
tions from the scourge of fire and
sword. Children loved to hear her
voice, and hung upon her smiles ; the
poor and afflicted were fain to touch
the hem of her garment, for they felt
that virtue went forth from her ; none
were so great as to look down upon
her ; none so lowly as to think that she
despised them. Her sovereignty over
others was that to which men render
the most willing obedience the sov-
ereignty, not merely of station or in-
818
Madame de Maintenon.
tellect, but of character of sterling
worth, of wisdom learned in the school
of suffering, of virtue tried like gold
in the fire.
As Madame de Maintenon's talents
and merits prevented her being lost in
a crowd of courtiers, or in any way
identified with them, so, on the other
hand, her affectionate disposition kept
her from being isolated and closing
herself round against any intrusion of
private friendship. So far from it,
she had with her a select group of la-
dies who were called her familiars, who
shared with her, in a measure, the
king's intimacy, accompanied her in
her walks and drives at Marly, arid
were her guests at the dinners and
suppers she gave at Versailles and
Trianon. They were in some sort
her ladies of honor, though, like her-
self, without any visible distinction.
Of these the principal were Madame
de Montchevreuil and Madame d'Heu-
dicourt, both old friends, and with them
nine others, among whom were her
two nieces, Mesdames de Mailly and de
Caylus. To each of these a history
attaches ; for the constant companions
of so extraordinary a woman could
not but have special attractions and
remarkable qualities. There were in
this number those who had drunk
deeply of the intoxicating cup of
worldly pleasure, and having drained
its poisonous dregs, thirsted for the
fountain of living waters. It was Ma-
dame de Maintenon's especial care to
encourage such friends in their heaven-
ly aspirations, and lead them, in the
midst of the court, to enter the devo-
tional life. Often she called the fer-
vent Fenelon to her assistance, and
his letters addressed to Madame de
Grammont are a lasting proof of the
readiness with which he answered to
the call. If, as all her contemporaries
assure us, it was impossible to combine
more that was pleasing and solid in
conversation than did Madame de
Maintenon if, in her case, reason, as
Fenelon expressed it, spoke by the
lips of the Graces how admirable
must she have appeared when she di-
rected her powers of persuasion to the
highest and most blessed of all ends !
Neither pen nor pencil can adequately
recall the charms which surrounded
her; but the captive heart of Louis
and the unanimous voice of the rich-
est and most lettered court in Europe
attest their reality and power. In
her ceaseless efforts to amuse the
king, his immortal interests were
never lost sight of ; and if she spoke
to him comparatively seldom on the
subject, it was because it occupied all
her thoughts. Out of the abundance
of the heart the lips are often mute.
In 1686 Louis suffered extreme
pain and incurred great danger frcin
a tumor, which at last required an
operation. This circumstance brought
Madame de Maintenon's capacity for
nursing into full play. It was she
who watched by his bedside, and al-
leviated the sufferings of the nation's
idol. The surgery of that day was
wretched, and the operation for fistula
which had to be performed was at-
tended with great danger. Intense
solicitude prevailed through the coun-
try ; for, in spite of all efforts to pre-
vent anxiety, the report spread ra-
pidly that the king's life was in peril.
The churches were thronged, and the
people's attachment found vent in
prayer. The royal patient alone was
unmoved. The grande operation, as it
was called, had been decided on six
weeks previously, and the evening be-
fore it was to take place he walked in
his gardens as usual, and then slept
soundly through the night, as if noth-
ing were to happen. On waking he
commended himself to God, and sub-
mitted to the painful operation with
the utmost coolness. Louvois held
his hand, and Madame de Maintenon
was in the room. In the afternoon
he sent for his ministers, and con-
tinued to hold councils daily, though
the surgeon's knife cruelly renewed
the incisions several times. " It is in
God," wrote Madame de Maintenon,
" that we must place our trust; for men
know not what they say, nor what
they do." The fourteen physicians of
Madame de Maintenon.
819
Charles II. were still more unskilful
in his last illness,* and justify equally
the opinion of the Northern Far-
mer:
"Doctors, they knawa nowt, for a says what's
nawways true :
Naw soort a' koind b 1 use to saay the things
that a do."
In the case of Louis, however, the
operator Felix answered to his name.
A cure was effected, and the kingdom
was filled with demonstrations of joy.
" Every one," as Madame de Mainte-
non wrote, " was in raptures. Father
Bourdaloue preached a most beautiful
sermon. Toward the close he ad-
dressed the king. He spoke to him
of his health, his love for his people,
and the fears of his court. He caused
many tears to be shed ; he shed them
himself. It was his heart that spoke,
and he touched all hearts. You know
well what I mean." After dining
with the citizens of Paris at the Hotel
de Ville, Louis drove through every
quarter amid the loudest acclamations.
"The king," wrote his wife again,
" has never been in such a good hu-
mor as since he has witnessed the
enthusiastic love the capital bears
toward him. I very much like his
sentiments : perhaps they will inspire
him with the design of relieving his
people." Absolute as the sovereignty
of Louis was, his subjects delighted in
his rule. He was the last of a long
line who, century after century, had
formed the nation out of the confusion
of feudal times, and had, of all kings,
the best right to say, if indeed he ever
did say ,t "Z'etart, c'est moif" In
him the state was summed up, and
the kingdom was impersonated in him.
The soldier expiring on the battle-
field cried " Vive le roi ! " and vessels
have gone down at sea with the entire
crew shouting the same words ; for
" Vive le roi ! " was, in their minds,
* " The king was in a chair they had placed a
hot iron on his head, and they held his teeth
open by force." Agnes Strickland's "Lives of
the Queens of England;" vol. viii., p. 447.
"A loathsome volatile salt, extracted from
human skulls, was forced into his mouth."
Macaulay's "History of England," chap. iv..
1685.
t See " Due de Noailles," tome Hi., p. 668.
equivalent to " Vive la France ! " The
government of Louis XIV., though
despotic, was, on the whole, marked
by moderation, particularly after the
death of Louvois ; and if sometimes,
seduced by the glory of foreign con-
quests and the love of regal display
he forgot the interests of his people
and the misery his magnificence en-
tailed on them, Madame de Maintenon
was always near to counteract the
arrogant minister, urge counsels of
peace, and heal the bleeding wounds
of a loyal population. Yet she was
far from being a meddling politician,
Her advice was not offered, but asked.
She abstained from entering into de-
tails, and confined herself to general
suggestions of a moral character, dic-
tated by conscience, not ambition. If
she guided, or, rather, gently disposed,
the king to this or that measure, she
was in turn guided herself. Her cor-
respondence with the Abbe* Gobelin,
Fenelon, and the Bishop of Chartres
sufficiently proves that her highest
ambition was to be a servant of God,,
That Racine, of whom she was the
friend and patroness, should extol her
in his verse* is not surprising; but
the satirist Boileau, be it remembered,
was no less her eulogist. If Byron's
beautiful lines on Kirke White had
the more weight because they occur-
red in his most biting satire, some-
thing of the same kind may be said of
Boileau's testimony to Madame de
Maintenon :
" J'en sais une, cherie et du monde et de Dieu ;
Humble dans les grandeurs, sage dana la for-
tune:
Qui geinit comme Esther de sa gloire impor-
tune;
Que le vice lui-meme est contraint d'estimer,
Et que, snr ce tableau, d'abord tu sais nonv
mer." t
The Due de Noailles is not the only
member of the French Academy who
has arisen of late years to refute the
calumnies of Saint-Simon. M. Saint-
Marc Girardin has ably defended the
* "Esther," act ii., scene vii.
t "I know one beloved of God and man, who
is humble in her grandeur and wise in her good,
fortune ; who groans like Esther over her trying
glory; whom vice itself is compelled to respect;
and whom, on seeing this picture, you will name
in an instant." Satire X.
820
Madame de Maintenon.
victim of his malignity in the Journal
des Debats,* and Messieurs Rigault,
de Pontmartin, Monty, Chasles, and
Hocquet, have pursued successfully
the same generous and equitable
course.
When James II., in December,
1 688, fled from his kingdom, the sym-
pathies of more than half the French
people were enlisted on his side. Ig-
norant of the British constitution, they
knew little of the peril it had incurred
through the king's extraordinary ex-
tension of the dispensing power, and
they saw in the landing and success
of the Prince of Orange nothing but a
horrible domestic tragedy, in which,
through personal ambition and hatred
of the true religion, a Catholic sove-
reign was hurled from his throne by
an unnatural daughter and son-in-law.
They joined, therefore, without any
misgiving, in the cordial reception
given to the royal fugitives by Louis,
and desired nothing so much as to
make common cause with them, and
take vengeance on their foes. Ma-
dame de Maintenon was not among
those who pressed with all ceremony
into the presence of the exiled king
and queen; but she visited them in
private, and was received as became
her station. The compassion she felt
for their fate, her respectful address
and Christian consolations, so won
upon Mary Beatrice, that a lasting
friendship was formed between the
queen in name, not in reality, and the
queen in reality, not in name. It
continued without interruption during
five-and-twenty years, and was ce-
mented by unity of sentiments and
mutual services. The ex-queen had
married in her fifteenth year, and had
overcome, by the advice of her moth-
er and the Pope, her desire to devote
herself to a religious life.f Whatev-
er may have been her trials in a con-
vent, they could hardly have equalled
those which befel her as queen. A
hundred and forty-five of her letters
to Madame de Maintenon are extant,
* 4th and 16th October, 1856.
t ''Due de Noatiles" tome iv., p. 231.
and the readers of Miss Strickland's
" Lives " are familiar with the Chaillot
correspondence, in which the desolate
and sorrowful queen pours forth the
fulness of her sensitive heart, and
never tires of expressing her love and
esteem for that remarkable friend
whom Providence has led across her
thorny path. Often Madame de
Maintenon repaired to Saint- Germain
to visit her, and still more frequently
the latter came to Versailles to see
Madame de Maintenon. It was some
relief to escape for a time from that
downcast, dreary court in exile, where
a crowd of poor but faithful followers
gathered around a master equally
wrong-headed and unfortunate. The
semblance of royalty which was there
kept up only increased the sadness of
the place, and fostered those jealousies,
intrigues, and cabals of which a ban-
ished court is so often the parent afld
victim.
A powerful coalition, in the creation
of which the Prince of Orange was
the chief agent, had long been menac-
ing France, and was now actually
formed. Louis found himself opposed
to the greater part of Europe, for the
Emperor Leopold, the Germanic and
Batavian federations, the kings of
Spain and Sweden, and the Pope him-
self, obliged to act on the defensive,
adhered to the league of Augsburg.*
Three powerful armies were sent by
the king of France to the seat of war.
The mission of one of them was to
capture Philipsburg; and from the
camp before that stronghold the king's
brother wrote many letters to Madame
de Maintenon, describing the opera-
tions in progress. The Due du
Maine also, once her pupil, and now
in his eighteenth year, wrote to her
from time to time, and received thank-
fully the advice she offered him with
all a mother's solicitude. The second
of the three armies was charged with
the devastation of the Palatinate, and
fulfilled the part assigned it with dis-
tressing precision. If its soil was not
to supply the French, it must fur-
* " Due de NoaUles," p. 253.
Madame de Maintenon.
821
nish nought to the Germans. It was
a perfect garden, and Duras received
orders to reduce it to a wilderness.
Half a million of human beings were
warned that in three days their houses
would be burned and their fields laid
waste. Fiercely the flames went up from
city and hamlet, and the fugitives sank
with fatigue and hunger in the snow,
or, escaping beyond the borders, filled
the towns of Europe with squalid
beggary. Every orchard was hewn
down, every vine and almond tree was
destroyed. The castle of the Elector
Palatine was a heap of ruins; the
stones of Manheim were hurled into
the Rhine. The cathedral of Spires
and the marble sepulchres of eight
Caesars were no more ; and the fair
city of Treves was doomed to the
same cruel fate. It was time for the
voice of mercy to speak. Marshal
Duras had already written to Lou-
vois,* to remonstrate against the bar-
barous orders he was compelled to ex-
ecute, and Madame de Maintenon her-
self is said to have interceded with
Louis for the suffering people of the
Rhine. The Due de Noailles, indeed,
does not state this, like Macaulay,f as
matter of history, though he allows
that it is probably true ; and this va-
riety in the views of the two histo-
rians, each anxious to do justice in
this particular to the king's wife,
proves how difficult it is for even the
most sagacious and unprejudiced writ-
ers to arrive at the exact truth in re-
ference to bygone days. Macaulay is
certainly inclined to attribute to Ma-
dame de Maintenon a much larger
measure of political power than
she really exercised; and it is curi-
ous to observe the chain of pure as-
sumptions by which, having taken it
for granted that she " governed" Louis,
he arrives at the conclusion that she
induced him to recognize the Pretend-
er as James IILf In a letter writ-
ten soon after the taking of Philips-
burg, she seems to disclaim all active
* 21st May, 1689.
t Hist., chap, xi., 1689.
$ Hist, chap, xx\\, 1701.
4th October, 1688.
interference in state affairs. In speak-
ing of Louvois, she says that she nev-
er contradicted him, and adds, " Peo-
ple think that I govern the kingdom,
and they do not know that I am con-
vinced God has bestowed on me so
many favors only that I may seek
more earnestly the king's salvation. I
pray God daily to enlighten and sanc-
tify, him." But it is evident how com-
pletely an earnest recommendation to
Louis to spare Treves, and stay the
ravages in the Palatinate, may have
tallied with that unique and hallowed
purpose. Have not those from whom
such truculent orders emanate a ter-
rible account to render ? Has not she
who dissuades a ruler from an iniqui-
tous measure done something toward
saving his soul ?
There are stories afloat respecting
Madame de Maintenon, and in every-
body's mouth, which the Due de No-
ailles scarcely condescends to notice.
That she who always spoke and wrote
of Louis in terms of affectionate hom-
age should have seriously committed
herself to such assertions, as that her
daily task ever since her marriage was
to amuse a king who could not be
amused, and that he was so selfish
that he never loved anything but him-
self, is an improbability as inconsis-
tent with her character and policy as
it is at variance with the facts of the
case. That in his latter years her
life was embittered by his fretful and
querulous temper, and by the fits of
passion into which he often fell, and
that in one of her letters written at
that period she complains of the diffi-
culty of amusing him, is undoubtedly
true ; but this and similar complaints
ought not to be stretched beyond their
natural meaning, and made to tell too
severely against the king. When, in
the early part of 1691, Louis appear-
ed in the camp before Mons, his wife,
separated from him for the first time
since their marriage, retired to Saint-
Cyr,alarmed at the dangers he was about
to incur, and unable to conceal her sad-
ness. Consolatory letters poured in
upon her from all quarters, especially
822
Madame de Maintenon.
from her spiritual friends and advisers
the Abbe Gobelin, the Bishop of
Chartres, and Fenelon. But, "the
selfish monarch who could not be amus-
ed," did he, amid the bustle of a siege,
find time to write to a lady fifty -five
years old, whose only business had
been to amuse him or fail in the at-
tempt? He did; and that not once
now and then; not briefly and
drily, as a matter of form ; not like
a man who had little to say, and
still less attachment, to the person to
whom he said it. No ; every day in
her solitude Madame de Maintenon
was consoled by seeing a royal dra-
goon ride into the court-yard with a
letter for her from his majesty, and
almost every day with one from the
king's brother also. Nor was this all ;
the king, "who had never loved any
one but himself," proved that there
was at least one exception to this rule,
and that he loved his wife. In 1692
she joined him at Mons, by his com-
mand, in company with other ladios
of the court, and followed him to
the siege of Namur. Amusements
were not wanting in the royal camp.
The king and his courtiers clined to
the music of timbrels, trumpets, and
hautboys, and he reviewed his troops
in the presence of carriages full of
fair faces. But, with all this, he visit-
ed the diiferent quarters so diligently,
and inspected so closely the works and
trenches, riding continually within
range of the enemy's guns, that his
wife had almost as much anxiety for
his safety as when she pondered at
a distance the cruel chances of war.
In spite of his many faults, there
was much in Louis XIV. to captivate
the imagination of one like Madame
de Maintenon. " No prince," says the
Duke of Berwick,* " was ever so little
known as this monarch. He has been
represented as a man not only cruel
and false, but difficult of access. I
have frequently had the honor of
audiences from him, and have been
very familiarly admitted to his pres-
ence ; and I can affirm that his pride
* Memoirs, vol. ii.
is only in appearance. He was born
with an air of majesty, which struck
every one so much, that nobody could
approach him without being seized with
awe and respect; but as soon as you
spoke to him, he softened his counten-
ance, and put you quite at ease. He
was the most polite man in his king-
dom ; and his answers were accompa-
nied by so many obliging expressions,
that, if he granted your request, the
obligation was doubled by the manner
of conferring it ; and if he refused, you
could not complain."
Madame de Maintenon's campaign-
ing life was not altogether free from
disagreeables. On one occasion, writ-
ing from Dinant,* she relates how
they encountered more difficulty in
retiring from Namur than in approach-
ing it. They were eleven hours and
a half on the road, and wholly unpro-
vided with food. She arrived at her
journey's end exhausted with hunger
and suffering also from rheumatism and
headache ; but, it being an abstinence
day, the only repast that awaited
her was oil-soup. The king likewise,
though throughout the campaign he
dined ordinarily with all the sump-
tuousness of Versailles, found himself
obliged sometimes to partake of a cold
collation under a hedge, without quit-
ting his travelling carriage. Warfare
would be an easy calling if such were
its worst hardships.
In Flanders, as in France, Madame
de Maintenon continued to take the
most lively interest in the course of
events, martial, political, and social.
Proximity to the scene of action did
not induce her to exceed those limits
of reserve which she had long since
marked out for herself. Though in-
formed of all that happened, and form-
ing a sound judgment on almost every
occurrence, though earnestly desiring
peace rather than aggrandizement, and
justice rather than glory, she obtruded
no views of her own in the cabinet of
the king, nor even influenced the choice
of generals. It was her habit of close
observation, and her exact description
t 12th Julie, 1693.
Madame de Maintenon.
823
of all that passed, which made Napo-
leon Bonaparte delight in reading her
correspondence, and pronounce it su-
perior to that of Madame de Sevigne,
because it had more in it. Madame
de Maintenon speaks in one place of
her own style as " dry and succinct;"
and, indeed, were it not for the piety
which constantly breathes through
them, her letters would often read like
the despatches of a general. She is
brief, terse, sententious ; her mind being
evidently bent on things rather than on
words. As a letter-writer, she resem-
bles Napoleon himself more than any
other French authoress. Her style is
free from that vacillation, that timid
adoption of a definite line, which always
indicates a weak thinker and a total
absence of system in the mind. Had
it been otherwise, she would never
have stood so high in the esteem of
foreign courts, nor would princes and
sovereigns, such as the Elector of
Cologne, the Due de Lorraine, and his
mother, Queen Eleanor, have written
to ask favors at her hands.
The reign of Louis XIV. lasted so
long, that neither his son nor grandson
ever sat on the throne. If the latter,
the Due de Bourgogne, had not died
in his thirtieth year, he might, as the
once docile pupil of Fenelon and
Madame de Maintenon, have fulfilled
his promises of excellence, and have
left to his successors a rich inheritance
of wisdom. "Telemachus" was not
composed expressly for him in vain.
He was born in 1682, and at an early
age was affianced to Marie- Adelaide
of Savoy. The princess was at that
tune only eleven years old, and was,
by the marriage contract, to remove to
France, and be wedded in the ensuing
year. The union of the young couple
was celebrated in 1697, but on ac-
count of their extreme youth they
continued to live apart two years
longer. During this time, Madame
de Maintenon undertook to complete
Marie- Adelaide's education. The in-
structress was worthy of a princess
destined, as it was believed, to govern
France. All day she sat by her when
sick, and Racine read Plutarch's
" Lives" to her during the pauses of
the night; Bossuet was her chaplain,
and Dangeau, whose manuscript me-
moirs of Louis' court have proved so
useful to historians,* was her knight
of honor. She was the delight of all
around, and so charmed the king, that
he was never willing to part with her.
But there were no apartments Marie-
Ade'laide so much loved to frequent as
those of Madame de Maintenon. Se-
vere as her admonitions often were,
she possessed in the highest degree
the art of attaching young persons to
her, and inspired them insensibly with
taste, wisdom, and nobility of mind.
She had long been convinced that the
education of princes was conducted,
generally, in such a way as to prepare
them for habitual ennui. They learned
and saw everything in childhood, and,
when grown up, had nothing fresh to
see or learn. She withdrew her, there-
fore, as far as possible from the court,
and submitted her to the simple and
wholesome routine of Saint-Cyr. The
princess proved extremely docile, and
her amiability was as striking as her
diligence. The society of the religious
in Saint-Cyr, so far from putting a
constraint on her lively and winning
ways, seemed only to fit her more
completely to be the pet companion
of Louis XIV. Her sprightly talk,
her opening mind, her elegant sim-
plicity, amused him in his walks and
drives, in the gardens, the galleries,
and the chase ; and while he contrived
daily some new diversion for the fasci-
nating child, he could not but trace in
her the happy results of Madame de
Maintenon's unwearied attention. She
entered into all her childish pleasures,
and even played hide-and-seek with
her, that she might, as she said after-
ward, gain her ear for serious truths,
and by yielding all she could, have the
better reason for withholding what
would have been hurtful. At last
nor was the time long Marie-Ade"-
laide quitted Madame de Maintenon's
embrace, and with her heavenly coun-
* They were first published entire in 1856.
824
Madame de Maintenon.
sels graven on her memory, and given
in writing into her hands, bidding
farewell to the hallowed cloisters of
Saint-Cyr, and to her daily gambols
and prattle with the loving and indul-
gent king, she took her place beside
her destined bridegroom, and " entered
other realms of love."
Such was the woman of whom the
worldly and sceptical speak jeeringly
as the proud widow of Scarron ; the
intriguing, austere, ambitious Marquise
de Maintenon; the persecutrix of Hu-
guenots, and the despot of her royal
spouse. They know not what they
speak, nor whereof they affirm; for
they are incapable of estimating the
character of the righteous. Outward
acts are to them an enigma and a
stumbling-block, because the soul
and its guiding principles cannot
be seen. A true Christian, such as
Madame de Maintenon, is an object of
faith, as is the Church, and as was the
Church's Lord in the days of his hu-
miliation. Seated, to say the least, on
the footstool of the throne, and sur-
rounded by all the pomp and circum-
stance of royal life, she was to jaun-
diced eyes but one in a crowd of princ-
es and courtiers, and differing from
them only in that she was more as-
tute; but, seen as the prelates of
Cambray and Meaux saw her seen
as her letters and conversations with
the nuns of Saint-Cyr exhibit her
seen as the Due de Noailles describes
her, and " time, the beautifier of the
dead," has rendered her she was
using this world and not abusing it ;
seeking society only to improve it,
and solitude only to pray ; holding all
she possessed in fealty to her un-
seen King, and making every occupa-
tion subordinate to that of loosening
her affections from earthly vanities,
and fastening them wholly upon God.
The Due de Noailles' history does
not end with the fourth volume. It
leaves Madame de Maintenon in her
sixty-second year two-and-twenty
years before her death. To trace her
intercourse with Louis during the long
and disastrous war with Spain, called
the War of the Succession her coun-
sels and influence during the defeats
by Marlborough and Prince Eugene,
and the triumphant reprisals of Ven-
dome and Villars her grief at the
king's death in 1715, when she had
reached her eightieth year her re-
tirement to the long-loved shades of
Saint-Cyr her devotion and zeal
heightening as age advanced, and the
celestial goal was neared her con-
versations with the sisters, and her
letters to the Princesse des Ursins
to analyze her correspondence, and
her vade-mecum as published by M.
Bonhomme to record the pillage of
Saint-Cyr, and the outrage done to
her venerable remains, as to those of
the royal dead in St. Denis, by the
frantic revolutionists of 1792 would
supply ample materials for another
article, but would only confirm the
views already formed of her prevail-
ing character and principles. Enough,
perhaps, has been said to place our read-
ers on their guard against the malice
and fictions of the Due de Saint-Simon
and a host of detractors who rely too
readily on his word, and to dispose
them favorably toward a most judi-
cious and remarkable history, which
does honor to the French Academy
and the illustrious house of de
Noailles.
A Dublin May Morning.
825
From All The Year Round.
A DUBLIN MAY MORNING.
WHEN I look down on this gay
May morning from a window into Great
Sackville street, where there is a huge
column to Admiral Nelson, and a
golden shop-front board dedicated to
O'Connell, on the site for his statue,
and which is by-and-by to be made
into a French boulevard and planted
with trees I say, on this May morn-
ing it is easy to see that one of the
many great days for Ireland has come
round once more. For the crowds in
the great thoroughfares, and the
" boys " sitting on the bridges, and the
flags and streamers, and the rolling
carriages, and the general air of busy
idleness, tell me that a great festival
is toward; and placards in fiercely
carbuncled letters proclaim in an angry
fit of St. Anthony's fire that the
Prince of Wales is to " OPEN " some-
thing : which something a still greater
scorbutic operation of type tells us is
THE DUBLIN EXHIBITION OP 1865.
Not without charms, and marked
and special features of its own, is this
Dublin city to say nothing of the
fresh and fair Irish faces and violet
eyes which pass by in streams, or of
the cheerful voices and the gay laughs
heard at every turn ; or of the giant
policemen who wear moustaches and
beards, and thus compete on more
favorable terms with military rivals ;
or of the rollicking drivers, who stand
up as they drive, very like the cocchi-
eri of Rome, and who look out for
"fares" in a debonnaire indifferent
fashion. There is a gay, busy, foreign,
particolored look about the place,
which reminds one of a foreign town.
The background is composed of wide
spacious streets, Grecian buildings
wonderfully classic in tone and shape,
fitted into corners with porticoes that
belong to the street, and under which
the people walk pretty breaks where
the bridges come, and the masts or
shipping seen in the sun half way
down a long, long thoroughfare.
There are no warehouses or ugly
business associations ; but all is shops
and shopping, and color and liveliness,
and carriages and walkers.
I think, as I look out on this May
morning, that it is curious that a peo-
ple popularly supposed to want " self-
reliance " and " independence," and
who are utterly ignorant of the " self-
help" principle, should, after all, have
done some few self-reliant things in
this very matter of exhibitions. Some
one tells me that many decades of
years before glass palaces were
thought of, and when the universal
peace and brotherhood glass palaces
were mysteriously supposed to bring
with them were not quite believed in,
this " un-self-reliant " people had their
regular triennial exhibition of manu-
factures, on the French model. Fur-
ther, that close on the footsteps of the
Hyde Park Exhibition came the great
one of Cork, and closer again on the
footsteps of Cork the really great
Dublin Exhibition of 1853, the build-
ing of which cost nearly eighty thou-
sand pounds, and which was remarka-
ble for the first international collection
of pictures, and for the first perfor-
mance of Handel on a colossal scale.
Not content with this, I am told that
this people, who were not self-reliant,
went further, had two more successful
exhibitions on a smaller scale, and
have now finally girded themselves
up for this yet more complete effort of
1865. Not so bad, this, for our poor
wo-begone sister with the harp, espe-
cially when we consider that our well-
to-do Scotch sister has not "fashed"
herself with such follies, justly consid-
ering the margin of profit too uncer-
tain or too slight to repay the trouble.
826
A Dublin May Morning.
But this is a grim and statistical un-
gracious view, not all suited to this
Dublin May morning.
It is known, then, on this gay Dublin
May morning, that the young prince,
who in this island has always been
looked to with an affectionate interest,
has been in the city since over-night,
and out at the pretty lodge, which lies
out in the " Phaynix." Hence the
flags and the streamers. Hence, too,
in front of the palace, the balconies
fringed with scarlet, and the softened
and melodious buzz of distant military
music, with the staff officers flying
north and south, and the regiments
tramping by. But the flags grow
thicker, and the balconies gayer, and
the music more distinct, as I find my-
self at the corner of the great place, or
square dedicated to St. Stephen,
which is a good mile's walking all
round, and near which I see the great
building, with the heavy porches and
pillars, round which, and over which,
run delicately, the light entrance of a
Moorish-looking glass temple a sil-
ver howdah on the back of a gray ele-
phant. Such is the rather novel de-
sign for this last comer in the long
series of exhibitions.
After all the miles of glass green-
house, and the long protracted repeti-
tions of gorgeous decorated pillars
and girders, I cannot but think what
a happy combination this is of solidity
and lightness ; and acknowledge that
in these days, when Paxton Palace
succeeds Paxton Palace with some
monotony, there is something original
in striking out the idea of fitting the
glass-house to a great solid building,
with huge halls, and long, cool pas-
sages, and spacious rooms, and sur-
rounding the whole with a garden,
and greenery, and cascades.
There has been the usual crush
and pressure, the tremendous toiling
against time, to get all done ; the
straining of every nerve, the sitting
up all night, the hammering and saw-
ing, the stitching of a hundred work-
men and workwomen, changing the
utter disorder and the naked deal
boards and the rude planks of five
o'clock last evening to perfect order
to the regularity of a drawing-room
and acres of scarlet cloth. And in a
crowd of light May morning dresses
we drift into the huge concert hall,
which is to hold thousands, and to
echo to brass throats, and where there
are the great organ, and the orchestra
which holds the musical army a thou-
sand strong: on the floor of which
have grown up beds upon beds of hu-
man lilies that flutter and flutter again,
whose flowers are white parasols and
gossamer shawls. This hall, as a fea-
ture, is not so remarkable, for there
are many great halls ; but at its far
end it is open and crossed half way by
a gallery : and through this opening
we see far on into a Winter Garden
and Crystal Palace, where are the
light airy galleries, with the old fa-
cmiliar rimson labels, and the French
trophies, and the bright objects, and
the great apse like a glass cathedral,
and Mr. Doyle's pale coloring, the
faint lines of delicate green, chosen
with rare good taste, which in itself is
a novelty.
Looking out through the open end
of the concert hall, and facing the or-
gan, I see a grand marone velvet
eastern canopy and dais, under which
the Pasha of Egypt is to sit a few
months hereafter and receive his
tribes ; and on this dais are the nobles
and gentlemen gathering, in the fine
rich theatrical suits which give a col-
oring to a festival, and of which we
have not half enough. Judges in
scarlet and ermine, privy councillors
with coats that seem " clotted " with
gold, the never-failing lords-lieutenant
and deputy-lieutenants, knights of St.
Patrick, deans, doctors in scarlet, sol-
diers in scarlet, a lord chancellor all
black and gold, eastern dervishes (it
may be, from the pillow-ca'se look of
their caps), a lord mayor of York, a
lord provost of Edinburgh ; in short,
all shapes of particolored finery.
Turning round for a second, I see
that the black musical army has de-
bouched and taken ground, and that
I
A Dublin May Morning.
827
the great orchestra' has spread like a
large dark fan from floor to ceiling.
I can see " Ulster " in a gorgeous
tabard, flitting to and fro, marshalling
grandees, as none sx> well know how to
marshal them, each according to his
or her degree. That marvellous tab-
ard is so stiff and gorgeous, that when
it is laid by, it surely cannot be hung
up or folded or put to sleep on its
back like other robes, but, I fancy,
must stand up straight in a wardrobe
on its end, h'ke a steel cuirass.
We seem to riot in mayors. The
eye can be feasted on mayors ; they
can become as the air we breathe if
we so choose it. They have flowed in
from every town in the three king-
doms. And it does strike one, with
having such a municipal gathering
brought together, that there is a sort
of corporate expression, a kind of mu-
nicipal smirk or perk, a kind of smil-
ing burgess air of complacency which
makes the whole of this world akin.
Kvery one, too, seems to be invested
with the collar of the Golden Fleece.
Here, also, are many known faces,
who wear no scarlet nor gold nor
collars. Faces like that of the famous
dog and animal painter whose four-
footed friends look down at him from
the walls : faces like that of the Sir
David who invented the most popular
toy hi the world : faces *from the sci-
ence and art : from South Kensington,
which, as we all know, is science and
art : faces from France, from Canada,
Rome, India, and a hundred other
places.
Now, I hear the hum of distant
martial music, and the yet fainter but
more inspiriting sound of distant
cheering. Then the scarlet and er-
mine, the privy council clotted gold,
the May morning bonnets, glitter and
rustle with excitement. The hum and
chatter of voices full of expectation
travel on softly down the glass aisles
and into the great hall. There has
been a grand plunging of military
troopers outside, a violent arrest of
fiery horses pulled up suddenly, and
the prince and a royal duke and the
vice-king and all their attendants have
descended. From the outside, the
shouting creeps in gradually, until at
last it comes to its fullest pitch ; when
the crimson and gold crowd parts a
little, we see this prince standing mod-
estly under the Egyptian pasha's can-
opy, with thirty thousand eyes upon
him. At this moment a speck half
way up the dark orchestra, but which
is a very skilful and most musical
speck, gives a signal with what seems
a white pin, and the musical army ad-
vances with the fine Old Hundredth.
The grand Old Hundredth travels out
in rising waves through the open end
of the hall into the glass cathedral,
then loses itself up and down in the
aisles. For two verses the voices do
the battle by themselves ; but, at the
third, the trumpets and the grand
brass and the rolling of monster drums
burst out, and every syllable is em-
phasized with a stirring crash. It is
like the deluge after a drought.
Then the sun gets up, and the gold
and colored figures cross, and crowd,
and flit past, as some business is being
transacted under that Egyptian pa-
sha's canopy ; for there are addresses
to be read and spoken, and there is
much advancing and backing to be
done. Now, the party under the pa-
sha's canopy breaks up for a time, and
the stiff gold and scarlet and privy
council strait- waistcoats, and the cor-
porate dressing-gowns, having formed
themselves into a procession, take the
prince round to look at the place.
And there is a great deal to see.
There are many charming pictures,
and among the choicest those of which
the queen of Spain has stripped her
palaces, and sent here. Is there not
a hint of many a Velasquez most ex-
quisite, and of Mr. Stirling, which are
worth a journey to the Escurial to wor-
ship ? Here is many a rare Reynolds
which Mr. Tom Taylor might find
worth making a note of, and here are
walls covered with noble cartoons of
the severe Munich school. These, with
the photographs and water-colors, and
mediaeval objects, are common to many
828
A Dublin May Morning.
an exhibition held before ; but there is
one feature unique a noble sculpture
gallery, artistic, charmingly lighted,
sufficient to delight Mr. Gibson, and
drive the Royal Academy to despair.
A sculpture-hall, on which you can look
down from a balustrade in a room
overhead, as if into a Pompeiian court.
A sculpture-hall, in which you can
look up to an arching glass roof, and,
half way down again, to the balus-
trade just mentioned, which is dotted
with small statutes. A sculpture-hall,
where I can walk round and think my-
self in a Roman palace, to which these
fine objects belong, and not in a tem-
porary shed where some scattered ob-
jects that have been lent are shown.
For here I see that the Roman stu-
dios have been emptied of their trea-
sures ; that Miss Hosmer has sent her
Faun, in toned yellow marble: a mar-
vellous if the speech be not impolite
work for a woman. With Story's
wonderful Judith, and a Baby Girl by
Mogni a pendant for the now famous
Reading Girl. But it is easy to
prophesy that this Baby Girl will be
photographed, and stereoscoped, and
binocularized in a hundred ways, and
watched over by policemen specially,
and visited by a steady crowd. This
hall and its contents the like of which
it is no boast to say has not been yet
seen in these kingdoms is the feature
of this exhibition.
Then, having seen all that is most
curious and beautiful in the fashion
in which such things must be seen
where there is only a quarter of an
hour to see them the stiff' gold and
crimson strands, which we call the
proce&sion, came back to the pasha's
dais. And then, with a crash and a
smash, and a thundering of monster
drums, and the rattle and rolling of
little drums, and the sharp brassy bark
of trumpets, the true English national
Old Hundredth, in which musical and
unmusical people with ears, and peo-
ple without, even people with voices,
and people without can join, then God
save the Queen is sung. Sung ! Rather
fired off! Discharged! Salvoed!
And then the glittering mass begins
to dissolve and fade away. The stage,
which has been laid out under the pa-
sha's canopy, gradually clears. At
the door there is a struggle, and the
scatter of new gravel, with the frantic
leaping up behind carriages of many
footmen, and the closing in of mounted
soldiers. And then the pageant melts
away, and the work of the day is done.
As I walk and wander from the
light glass arcades to the darker courts,
and from the courts to the open ter-
races, and hear the hum of Saxons'
Toices. and from at least ever}' third
mouth the sharp " burr" of some Sax-
on dialect, and when I meet burly
shoulders and massive chests which
are not of the country, some out-of-
place speculations come into my mind,
and I am tempted to make supposi-
tions. First, I speculate of course
shrinking away from the dry bones of
politics whether there might not have
been some mistake in the old and con-
stant treatment of a people who seem
cheerful and grateful for a kind word
or a kinder act, and who are " willing"
and even clever in their way and
think whether the " want of progress"
and want of " capital" and of " self-
reliance," and the want of a hundred
other things which puzzle and dispirit
the political physician, may not in
some degree' be laid to the account of
old mistakes, old laws, old errors, old
harsh treatment, old jealousies and re-
straints, the folly of which is now seen
and admitted, but the fruits of which
remain to this day?
Just as the fruits of a bad educa-
tion linger in a grown man, and the
marks of early hardship are stamped
upon the face and constitution, it will
take many years yet, in the life of a
nation, before old faults are worked
out of its constitution. And I think
still in the walks of the Winter Gar-
den that if my friendly Briton tell
me that his experience of the lower
orders of Irish is that " you can't de-
pend upon a word they say," I cannot
but recollect that half a century ago
they were civilly slaves, without rights ;
Speech.
829
and that a century ago they were a
proscribed caste, against whom one-
half the laws of the land were directed.
If we have found them indolent, and
disinclined to perseverance and the
making of money, have we not dim
recollections of seeing acts of parlia-
ment passed again and again to crip-
ple their trade ? A people must grow
up, as a child must grow up ; and it is
hard to expect that a child whose body
has suffered by an unkind or an inju-
dicious nurse, should become at once
strong under better treatment. Then
J speculate on the mysterious relation
of Irishmen to Irish land, through
which the " bit" of land is as neces-
sary as the " bit" of bread ; where a
tenant holds his tiny scrap, on which
he pays his thirty-shilling rent ; and
during the whole year is struggling
desperately to work out of this great
estate a few potatoes, and fewer
clothes for himself and family, beside
the miserable thirty-shilling margin
for the landlord. I think how some
estates have two, four, six, eight thou-
sand tenants of this valuable class-
and think beside, in answer to a na-
tural objection, how this miserable
system was created for political ends,
to multiply voters " to support govern-
ment," If the Palace and Winter
Garden were twice as long and twice
as broad, I should not have half time
or space enough for the speculations
that come crowding on me with refer-
ence to this perplexing country.
And having made these specula-
tions, and having gone quite round
the garden, I begin in addition to
my speculations to make some rather
wild suppositions. As, suppose that,
for a mere experiment, there were a
greater spirit of charity of speech intro-
duced into our dealings with this coun-
try. Suppose that we gave the people
time and reasonable allowance looked
on with encouragement where there was
any good attempt made, and with in-
dulgence where there was failure.
Suppose that some of our journals
gave over writing "slashing" articles,
and some men desisted from speeches
and bitter epigrams on the "mere
Irish," which, being copied in every
cheap print, and brought to every cabin
door, do incalculable mischief, fatally
widening the breach, and causing Eng-
land and Englishmen to be sometimes
almost hated. Suppose that there
were some little restraint on the tradi-
tional stock ridicule of Irish matters.
Suppose that the Englishmen who vis-
ited the country carried themselves
with a little less of William the Con-
querer and Strongbow air, and sup-
pose that
But here are the umbrellas, and
the sticks, and the gate.
From Chambers's Journal.
SPEECH.
BE choice and frugal of thy speech alway :
The arrow from the engine of the thoughts
Once shot, is past recall ; for scorn is barbed,
And will not out, but rankles in the wound ;
And calumny doth leave a darkening spot
On wounded fame, which, as it would infect,
Marks its sad victim in the eyes of men,
Till no one dare approach and know the truth.
830
A Visit to the Grande Chartreuse.
From The Lamp.
A VISIT TO THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE.
OUR pilgrimage to La Grande Char-
treuse was an event in our lives worth
remembering. At about half-past five
on the morning of the 22d of June we
left Lyons. Nothing could have been
more auspicious than the brilliant sun
and balmy air of that early morning.
The birds sang cheerily as we walked
from St. Irenee down to the railway
station, where our kind friends took
leave of us. The country in the
neighborhood of Lyons was exceed-
ingly pretty ; but as we drew nearer to
Grenoble, it became more and more
attractive. The railway passes
through two ranges of mountains,
whose snow-capped summits stood out
in beautiful contrast to the azure sky.
Our only fellow-traveller was a priest,
who for a long time had been intent
on his breviary. Amused perhaps at
our exclamations of delight, he entered
into conversation with us ; and we
were soon very good friends. He ex-
pressed particular interest in the con-
dition of the Catholic Church in Eng-
land, having heard that there were
many conversions in consequence of
the hard work doing in our missions.
He spoke very highly in favor of a
visit to La Grande Chartreuse. He
kindly promised always to pray for
us, and the conversion of those we had
left behind, and to remember us in the
mass he was about to offer. We
reached Grenoble at about twenty
minutes to ten. It will not do to stop to
describe the magnificent situation of
this old city, completely surrounded as
it is with mountains, between the riv-
ers Isere and Drac. Until recently it
was a frontier town ; a very strong one
too, judging from the appearance of
the citadel, piled fortress after fortress
up the steep mountain side. The
cathedral is interesting, as having
belonged to St. Hugo, the friend of
the great founder of the Grande Char-
treuse.
We made an agreement with the
driver of a carriage to take us to the
Grande Chartreuse ; and he promised
to take us there in about five hours,
and put us down at the door of the con-
vent ; so, at least, we understood him.
We returned to the hotel, got some
refreshment, and started in an open
carriage at about twelve o'clock. The
road for several miles runs through a
richly cultivated valley, with wooded
mountains on either side. Every-
where the vine was trained in
graceful festoons, and stately walnut
and chestnut trees grew along the road-
side, shading us from the mid-day sun
with their rich foliage. Every now
and then we caught beautiful gh'mpses
of the distant Alps, abruptly rising
from the green level of the valley, be-
yond the hills clad with the dark ver-
dure of the pine forests, piled curious-
ly one over another, which run the
whole length of the plain, forming the
first steps, as it were, of those mighty
Alpine mountains which rear their
magnificent heights, shrouded in eter-
nal glaciers, behind these graduated
ranges. Just before reaching St. Lau-
rent du Pont, what was our astonish-
ment to hear our driver proclaim we
should shortly reach our destination !
We could not conceive how that could
be, for we were evidently approach-
ing a small town. How different it
looked from all we had read and heard
of La Grande Chartreuse! Our
amazement increased when the car-
riage was driven up in front of a small
inn ; the driver, getting down, opened
the door, and said, with evident satis-
faction, " Nous voila. " We demanded
an explanation, and his reply was
that this was St. Laurent du Pont,
and as far as he could take us. Here we
A Visit to the Grande Chartreuse.
831
could either procure another carriage
or mules to carry us up the mountain
to the monastery, which we might
reach in about two hours.
It was difficult to suppress all the
indignation one felt at being so com-
pletely taken in ; and we threatened
the unfortunate driver with all kinds
of complaints on our return to Greno-
ble- There was nothing to be done,
so we agreed we had better make the
best of it. It was five o'clock, and we
could not afford to waste our time in
words ; so we ordered another carriage,
and in a few minutes a most rickety,
uninviting conveyance was brought to
the door. St. Laurent du Pont is
situated at the opening of the narrow
gorge leading to the wild solitude
where the monastery is built. The
scenery was grand and beautiful as
we gradually began the ascent about a
mile from St. Laurent du Pont, where
the mountains closed upon our road,
and the rocky stream of the Guiers
Mort brawling beneath us. Tall pines
and stately trees overshadowed us,
rising from the almost naked rocks
themselves. One of the great pecu-
liarities of the Chartreuse mountain is
the extreme luxuriance of the vegeta-
tion, mingled as it is with the huge
blocks of limestone, which sometimes
formed walls on either side of our way.
We had a miserable horse, which
stoutly refused to go beyond a sleepy
walk, the driver and the horse being
of the same dreamy nature. We lost
all patience, and got out. No lan-
guage can adequately describe the en-
joyment of that walk. The scenery,
so sublimely wild ; the sound of the
rushing torrent, now far below our
road, filled us with awe. The pines,
rising like weird giants by the moun-
tain side, mile after mile ; the scene
changing and becoming more majestic
with every curve of the road. Every
now and then we crossed a handsome-
ly built stone bridge, erected by the
good monks, across the torrent, and
passed under several tunnels cut
through the rock. The sun was de-
clining, and nothing could exceed the
beauty of the evening ; we had walked
for nearly two hours in almost uninter-
rupted silence, for there was that in
the solemnity of the scene, as we
penetrated further into the heart of
the desert, which filled one's mind with
thoughts and one's soul with feel-
ings which could not be uttered.
At length, on a sudden turn in the
road, the breeze wafted toward us the
sound of the chapel-bell, ringing, we
supposed, for vespers. This was
truly a most grateful sound to our
ears, for we were weary with our
walk and the excitement of the scene,
and longed for our journey's end. A
few steps further, and the vast monas-
tery lay before us. How solemn and
silent it looked ! The tones of the
bell, how sweetly musical they were !
To listen to them, to gaze on that
gray pile, and, high above it, on the
lofty snow-capped peaks of -4he moun-
tains, was an indescribable rest. How
wonderfully grand was that mountain
top ! and far beyond the forests of pine
rose still more distant mountain
peaks, ascending until they reached
the very skies, now gilded with all the
glories of a setting sun. It filled one
with peace the thought of all the cen-
turies that that vast pile had lasted ;
of the long ages the voices of the
monks had mingled with the varied
voices of nature in one hymn of praise
to the almighty Creator of all. We
waited until the arrival of our carriage
interrupted our musings. It could go
no further ; so, followed by the driver
carrying our baggage, we walked up
to the door of the convent of the
Sosurs de la Providence, where we
were most hospitably received. A
friendly sister took us to our cells, and
said supper would shortly be ready.
The blazing logs of pine in a huge
fireplace in the refectory were most
cheering, for the evening air was quite
cold in these high regions even at
the close of a hot June day. A
maigre supper was served at half-past
seven. We were amused to hear that
it had all been cooked by the monks,
and sent to us from "the monastery.
832
A Visit to the Grande Chartreuse.
where nothing but maigre is ever
allowed.
From eight to nine we walked round
the monastery, following a path close
to the dark pine forest, which forms
the background to the building. We
could look down.from this height upon
the cells, church, and little gardens
of the monks. Returning toward the
hospice, we met the reverend mother
and a sister ; they took us into the
little chapel where we were to hear
mass the following morning. It was
very plain and small ; there was a
grille in front of the altar, on which the
blessed sacrament was not reserved.
What a trial this must be to the good
sisters !
At half-past nine, rev. mother ad-
vised our retiring to our cells, as
we were to be up early the next
morning, and en route for St. Bruno's
chapel by half-past four. A very in-
telligent young guide was provided
us ; he told us he had spent his life
with the fathers, and hoped to live
there to the end. He was extremely
communicative and willing to answer
all our questions.
There are about forty monks in this
monastery, beside several lay broth-
ers. The monks live each in his cell,
which has a little garden attached to
it. They maintain silence, excepting
on Sundays and great festivals, and
during their Monday walk together
through the desert for four hours.
They eat alone in their cells, excepting
on Sundays ; each one's maigre meal
is passed by a lay brother from the
cloister through a little turn into his
cell. On Sundays they go to the
choir at all the hours except com-
plin ; on other days they only go to
sing matins and lauds at midnight ;
for high mass and vespers ; the other
hours are recited in their cells. Wo-
men are not only excluded their enclo-
sure, but even their church, under pain
of excommunication. It was very
tantalizing to hear of their solemn mid-
night office, sung as it is in darkness ;
each monk takes with him into choir a
dark lantern, and for each antiphon he
does not know opens a slide which
throws the light on it. It must have
a wonderful effect these sudden flashes
of light, lighting up the Chartreux,
clothed in their white woollen habits,
with their patriarchal beards and
hooded heads. Beside the divine
office, they say the office of our Bless-
ed Lady, and, almost every day, the
office of the dead. Their library was
plundered by the revolutionists, and
now forms the public library at Gre-
noble, one of the finest small collec-
tions of books in France. Nearly all
this we learnt from our guide while
walking up to the chapel of St. Bruno.
Before we reached it, far into the
midst of a dark forest, we came to the
chapel called De Casalibus, erected
upon the very spot where the first
convent stood, which was destroyed by
an avalanche. The chapel of St. Bru-
no is built over the same rock under
which he dwelt, beside a gushing
spring, his only beverage, which sup-
plies the monastery to this day.
The chapel is about an hour's walk
above the present monastery. It is
very plain, but adorned with frescoes,
representing some of the early fa-
thers of the order. A most beautiful
altar stands at one end of it, of ex-
quisitely carved Italian marbles, on
which has been placed the same altar-
stone on which St. Bruno celebrated
the holy mysteries; behind this is a
basso-relievo of St. Bruno, with our
Blessed Lady appearing to him, beau-
tifully executed. We lingered here
awhile, loth to leave so holy a spot.
The guide told us that there are fre-
quently as many as sixty masses said
in the Chartreuse church in one
morning. Many hundred priests make
their annual retreat here. What
place, indeed, could they find more
fitting for the repose their souls thirst
for ! Here truly they might die to
the world and all its allurements, and
meditate in peace on the deep myste-
ries of God and eternity. We descend-
ed the mountain to assist at the offer-
ing of the holy sacrifice at seven
o'clock in the little chapel we had
Death by Lightning.
833
visited on the previous evening, It
was a great joy to make our commu-
nion in this vast mountain solitude,
where all combined to elevate the soul
to God. We had hoped a Carthusian
would say mass, but in this were
disappointed, for a secular priest had
been requested to do so by the ladies
of his party.
At the Homo factus est of the Credo,
the fathers prostrate themselves on
the ground, and the mode of celebrat-
ing mass is strange, and differs in
many points from the ordinary mass
of seculars. As the blessed sacra-
ment was not reserved in the chapel,
we preferred finishing our thanksgiv-
ing beneath the blue sky on the skirts
of the forest of pines. After break-
fast we tasted the celebrated liqueur
made by the monks from the wild
mountain flowers. It was very good ;
(here was a certain charm in taking
it on the spot where it was made.
We had a talk with the reverend
mother, and left with her a long list
of intentions to be given to the fa-
thers, asking especially their prayers
for the conversion of England. This,
we were thankful to hear, was fre-
quently an object of their devotions.
Before leaving, our curiosity to see
some of the fathers was gratified ; for
two came out to give instructions to
some workmen. We began to de-
scend the mountain at about half-past
eight, arrived at St. Laurent du Pont
about ten, and as soon as our carriage
of the previous day was ready started
for Grenoble. Once the horse came
to a dead stop, and we fancied the
driver wished to prolong our journey
as long as he could, that we might
have no time for making the threat-
ened complaints on reaching Grenoble.
As it was, we arrived there five min-
utes before the time fixed for our de-
parture at half past-one. There was
hardly a minute to get anything to
eat beyond some fruit and bread
which we took with us. So the driv-
er escaped his punishment, after all.
From The Reader.
DEATH BY LIGHTNING.
PEOPLE in general imagine, if they
think at all about the matter, that an
impression upon the nerves a blow,
for example, or the prick of a pin is
felt the moment it is inflicted. But
this is not the case. The nerves are
not the repositories of sensation ; they
are but the conductors of the motion
which produces sensation. The seat
of sensation is the brain, and to it the
intelligence of any injury done to the
nerves has to be transmitted, before
that injury becomes manifest in con-
sciousness. The transmission, more-
over, requires time, and the conse-
quence is, that a wound inflicted at a
portion of the body distant from the
brain ia more tardily appreciated than
53
one inflicted adjacent to the brain. By
an extremely ingenious experimental
arrangement, Helmholtz has deter-
mined the velocity of nervous trans-
mission both in warm-blooded and
cold-blooded animals. In a frog, he
found the velocity to be about eighty
feet a second, or less than one-thir-
teenth of the velocity of sound in air.
If this holds good, which it probably
does, in the case of a whale, then a
creature of this class, eighty feet long,
if wounded in the tail, would not, as
Helmholtz has remarked, be conscious
of the injury till a second after the
wound had been inflicted. But this
is not the only ingredient in the delay
that occurs between the impression on
834
Death by Lightning.
the nerves and the consciousness of the
impression. There can scarcely be a
doubt that to every act of conscious-
ness belongs a determinate molecular
arrangement of the brain that every
thought or feeling has its physical
correlative in that organ ; and nothing
can be more certain than that every
physical change, whether molecular or
mechanical, requires time for its ac-
complishment. So that, even after
the intelligence of an impression,
made upon a distant portion of the
body, has reached the brain, a still
further time is necessary for the brain
itself to put its house in order for its
molecules to take up the position ne-
cessary to the completion of conscious-
ness. Helmholtz considers one-tenth
of a second necessary for this purpose.
Thus, in the case of the whale above
supposed, we have first one second
consumed in the transmission of intel-
ligence through the sensor nerves from
the tail to the head ; one-tenth of a
second is required by the brain to be-
come conscious of the intelligence it
has received ; and, if the velocity of
transmission through the motor be the
same as that through the sensor nerves,
a second would be consumed in send-
ing a command to the tail to defend
itself. Thus more than two seconds
would elapse before an impression
made upon its caudal nerves could
be responded to by a whale eighty feet
long.
Now, it is quite conceivable that an
injury might be inflicted which would
render the nerves unfit to be the con-
ductors of the motion which results in
sensation; and if such a thing oc-
curred, no matter how severe the in-
jury might be, we should not be con-
scious of it. Or it may be, that long
before the time required for the brain
itself to complete the arrangement
necessary for the act of consciousness,
its power of arrangement might be
wholly suspended. In such case also,
though the injury might be of such a
nature as to cause death, this would
occur not only without pain, but abso-
lutely without feeling of any kind.
Death, in this case, would be simply
the sudden negation of life, accom-
plished without any intervention of
consciousness. Doubtless, there are
many kinds of death of this character.
The passage of a musket bullet
through the brain is a case in point ;
and the placid aspect of a man thus
killed is in perfect accordance with
the conclusion which might be drawn
a priori from the experiments of
Helmholtz. Cases of insensibility,
moreover, are not uncommon, which
do not result in death, and after which
the person affected has been able to
testify that no pain was felt prior to
the loss of consciousness.
The time required for a rifle-bullet
to pass clean through a man's head
may be roughly estimated at one-thou-
sandth of a second. Here, therefore,
we should have no room for sensation,
and death would be painless. But
there are other actions which far
transcend in rapidity that of the
rifle-bullet. A flash of lightning
cleaves a cloud, appearing and disap-
pearing in less than one-hundred-
thousandth of a second, and the velo-
city of electricity is such as would car-
ry it over a distance equal to that
which separates the earth and moon in
a single second. It is well known
that a luminous impression once made
upon the retina endures for about
one-sixth of a second, and that this is
the reason why we see a ribbon of
light when a glowing coal is caused to
pass rapidly through the air. A body
illuminated by an instantaneous flash
continues to be seen for the sixth of a
second after the flash has become ex-
tinct ; and if the body thus illuminated
be in motion, it appears at rest at the
place which it occupied when the
flash fell upon it. The color-top is
familiar to most of us. By this in-
strument a disk with differently col-
ored sectors is caused to rotate rapid-
ly ; the colors blend together, and if
they are chosen in the proportions
necessary to form white light, the disk
appears white when the motion is suf-
ficiently rapid. Such a top. rotating
Death by Lightning.
835
in a dark room, and illuminated by an
electric spark, appears motionless,
each distinct color being clearly seen.
Professor Dove has found that a flash
of lightning produces the same effect.
During a thunder-storm he put a col-
or-top in exceedingly rapid motion,
and found that every flash revealed
the top as a motionless object with
colors distinct. If illuminated solely
by a flash of lightning, the motion of
all bodies on the earth's surface would,
as Dove has remarked, appear sus-
pended. A cannon-ball, for example,
would have its flight apparently ar-
rested, and would seem to hang mo-
tionless in space as long as the lumin-
ous impression which revealed the
ball remained upon the eye.
If, then, a rifle-bullet move with
sufficient rapidity to destroy life with-
out the interposition of sensation, much
more is a flash of lightning competent
to produce this effect. Accordingly,
we have well authenticated cases of
people being struck senseless by light-
ning who, on recovery, had no memory
of pain. The following circumstantial
case is described by Hemmer : On
the 30th of June, 1788, a soldier in
the neighborhood of Manheim, being
overtaken by rain, placed himself un-
der a tree, beneath which a woman
had previously taken shelter. He
looked upward to see whether the
branches were thick enough to afford
the required protection, and, hi doing
so, was struck by lightning, and fell
senseless to the earth. The woman
at his side experienced the shock in
her foot, but was not struck down.
Some hours afterward the man re-
vived, but knew nothing about what
had occurred, save the fact of his looking
up at the branches. This was his last
act of consciousness, and he passed
from the conscious to the unconscious
condition without pain. The visible
marks of a lightning stroke are usually
insignificant : the hair is sometimes
burnt; slight wounds are observed;
while, in some instances, a red streak
marks the track of the discharge over
the skin.
The effects of a shock of artificial
lightning on a gentleman of our ac-
quaintance, who is very sensitive to
the electric discharge, may be here
described. Under ordinary circum-
stances the discharge from a small
Leyden jar is exceedingly unpleasant
to him. Some time ago he happened
to stand in the presence of a nume-
rous audience, with a battery of fifteen
large Leyden jars charged beside him.
Through some awkwardness on his
part, he touched a wire which he had
no right to touch, and the discharge of
the battery went through his body.
Here life was absolutely blotted out
for a very sensible interval, without a
trace of pain. In a second or two
consciousness returned ; the recipient
of the shock saw himself in the pres-
ence of his audience and apparatus,
and by the help of these external
facts immediately concluded that he
had received the battery discharge.
His intellectual consciousness of his
position was restored with exceeding
rapidity, but not so his optical con-
sciousness. To prevent the audience
from being alarmed, he observed that
it had often been his desire to receive
accidentally such a shock, and that his
wish had at length been fulfilleU But
while making this remark, the appear-
ance which his body presented to him
was that of a number of separate pieces.
The arms, for example, were detach-
ed from the trunk, and seemed suspend-
ed in the air. In fact, memory, and
the power of reasoning, appeared to
be complete long before the optic
nerve was restored to healthy action.
But what we wish chiefly to dwell
upon here is, the absolute painless-
ness of the shock ; and there cannot be
a doubt, to a person struck dead by
lightning, the passage from life to
death occurs without consciousness
being in the least degree implicated.
It is an abrupt stoppage of sensation,
unaccompanied by a pang.
836
London.
From The Dublin University Magazine
LONDON.
A DUBLIN saunterer of antiquarian
propensities pacing the flags in front
of Christ church, or elbowing his
troublesome way down the narrow de-
file called Castle street, can scarcely
escape a certain sense of awe as he
looks on the houses and the passen-
gers, and darts a thought back through
dim and troubled time till he strives
to arrive at an idea of' the first inhab-
itants and the scene in which they
played out their short parts.
Passing over the mysterious and
weak race that preceded the Gaels,
he fancies these last in their quaint
garb going about their ordinary occu-
pations, or rushing to their earth
mounds and dykes to repel the fierce
Northmen. Then pass before his
mind's eye the successive races of dif-
ferent speech, and different garb, and
different interests the Danes, Dano-
Celts, and the Anglo Normans, em-
ployed in fierce struggles with each
other, and each looking on the events
of his own times as paramount to all
that ever agitated society till then.
All now quiet and silent in the dust.
The shopkeeper attending to his cus-
tomers, the tippler stepping into the
corner shop for a dram, and the car-
man smoking his pipe, and giving his
beast a mouthful of hay, are as uncon-
scious of any personal connection with
the dead generations as if they had
sprung full grown and furnished with
clothing from the fat glebe of the
neighboring Phrenix Park.
So would feel still more intensely
an archaeologist on Tower Hill, or by
the Fleet Ditch, or on London Bridge,
if the ever hurrying and feverish
crowd would allow him to concentrate
his thoughts on anything.
How it should make the feelings of
the most dried up anatomy of an arch-
aeologist glow, when, throwing his
thoughts nearly nineteen centuries
back, he sees the mighty robber con-
ducting his band, guarded by strong
defences of bronze, and leather, and
wood, to the bank of the then clear
river, and preparing to invest and de-
stroy that ill-armed but heroic body
of brave men on the other side, who,
in defence of their weak children, and
loving and high-souled wives and
daughters, will soon send many an
armed and ruthless Roman soldier to
shiver on the cold banks of Styx.
And what was the profit of all the
plotting, and all the unjust warfare,
waged by men single or in masses
against those they considered their foe-
men ? They shortened the career of
their opponents, they shortened their
own lives. They preferred a short
and turbulent existence to the longer
and quieter span intended for them,
they passed away, and were either
speedily forgotten, or remembered but
to be cursed.
It is a bewildering occupation to a
stranger to contemplate a map of Lon-
don in order to acquire some distinct
notion of the number and arrange-
ment of the streets (an idea of the in-
habitants is out of the question), to
ponder how the countless multitude
can be fed and clothed, and to reflect
that if old mother earth should lose
her fruit-bearing qualities for one
year, how little would avail the
beauty, the bravery, the wit, the in-
genuity, the industry, and the intelli-
gence of the three million inhabitants,
to prevent the circuit of famed Lon-
don from becoming a vast charnel-
house.
Our earliest historians were the
poets, these were succeeded by the
romancers. Geoffry of Momnouth,
translating the ' ; Chronicle of Kings "
brought from Brittany, informed the
London.
837
people of the twelfth century that
Brutus, great-grandson of Eneas, after
many voyages and adventures, found-
ed a town about where the Tower has
long stood, and called it New Troy.
This was afterward changed to
Trinobantum. Lud, brother to Cassi-
belan, again gave it his own name
Czer Lud. Hence Ludstown soft-
ened to London. Other derivations
for the city's name are not at all
rare. From the Celtic words Leana,
marsh or meadow ; Linn, a pool ; Lung,
or Long, a ship ; and Dunn, a fort, it
is easy to make out the fort among
the meadows, the fort of the pool, or
the fort of the ships. The sister city,
Dublin, is simply black pool.
As ancient Dublin occupied at first
only the hill of which the castle
occupies the south-eastern spur, so
Tower Hill, Ludgate Hill, Cornhill,
and Holborn Hill, formed the site of
the original British Dun or Duns.
Hence the most interesting portion of
London to an antiquary must include
those places of strength. But as the
more easterly eminences have much
longer ceased to be fashionable than
our Fishamble and Essex streets, and
the traditions of London literary char-
acters from the time of Elizabeth date
from regions further west, most
writers choose to expatiate on the
buildings that lie between Whitehall
and Temple Bar, and on the remark-
able personages and incidents con-
nected with them. Charles Knight
was unable to say his say concerning
the modern Babylon in fewer than six
royal octavo volumes, and the portly
octavo lately put forth by Mr. Thorn-
bury is concerned with a very small
area of the city, Temple Bar being at
its south-east angle, and the Strand,
St. Martin's lane, Holborn, and Chan-
cery lane its boundaries.
THE STRAND.
Temple Bar, that narrow neck
through which the struggling sands
find their way with difficulty from the
Strand and the Fleet portions of the
great hour-glass, and which is looked
on by shallow readers as a relic of
hoar antiquity, dates only from 1670,
four years after the great fire. It
forms the point of junction between
the cities of London and Westminster,
and in early times was only provided
with posts, rails, and a chain. These
were succeeded by a wooden house
with a narrow gate-way and a pas-
sage on one side. The present struc-
ture is incumbered with the statues
of Elizabeth, James I., Charles I.,
and Charles II., all distinguished, ac-
cording to Mr. Thornbury, by feeble
heads, crimped drapery, and feet and
hands kept whitish by the rain, the
non-projecting portions of the bodies
rejoicing in more than a century of
dark atmospheric deposits.
Mr. Thornbury's selection includes
the long line of palaces that once
adorned the Strand or River-bank
street, the haunts of artists in St.
Martin's lane, the traditions of Long
Acre, the reminiscences connected
with Drury lane, and the old houses
of the nobility in Lincoln's-Inn Fields.
One of the most remarkable of the
fine buildings of the Strand is that
which bears the name of the ambitious
brother of Jane Seymour, the Duke of
Somerset, who boasted that he could
muster retainers to the number of
10,000. To erect his palace, which,
by the way, was unfinished at his
death, he demolished the parish
church of St. Mary, and pulled down
the houses of the bishops of Worces-
ter, Llandaff, and Lichfield. He
would also have appropriated St. Mar-
garet's at Westminster, but the mob
would not sanction the sacrilege.
" Moreover, he destroyed a chapel in
St. Paul's Church-yard, with a cloister
containing the Dance of Death, and a
charnel-house (burying the bones in
unconsecrated ground)." To crown
his acts of rapine he stole the stone of
a church of St. John near Smithfield.
It is not worth mentioning the carry-
ing away of the stone of the Strand
Inn, it being the property of the law-
yers, who could afford to be robbed.
838
London.
The Danish consort of our Solomon
I. here delighted all who had no ob-
jection to spectacles, in which the
handsome queen and her ladies mas-
queraded to their own and their ad-
mirers' content. Kare Ben Jonson
was surely elated by the lists of royal
and noble personages who presented
his masques. From this same noble
residence Charles I. had some trouble
in dislodging the" Gallic followers of
his sturdy queen, with whom his hard-
headed and wooden-shoe-abhorring
subjects had come to be at deadly
feud. As they were rather too te-
dious in " shifting the halter, and tra-
versing the cart," the poor king was
obliged to write thus to Bucking-
ham :
" STEENIE, I have received your
letter by Dick Greame. This is my
answer. I command you to send all
the French away to-morrow out of the
town, if you can by fair means (but
stick not long in disputing), otherwise
force them, away, driving them away
like so many wild beasts until you
have shipped them, and the go with
them ! Let me hear no answer but
of the performance of my command.
So I rest,
"Your faithful, constant, loving
friend, C. E.
" Oaking, the seventh of August,
1626."
" The French inventing all sorts of
vexatious delays, the yeomen of the
guard at last jostled them out, carting
them off in nearly forty coaches.
They arrived at Dover after four days'
tedious travelling, wrangling and be-
wailing."
Queen Henrietta taking part in a
masque at Christmas in 1632-3, and
Prynne's Histriomastix happening to
be published the next day, the poor
man lost his ears for an uncompli-
mentary remark on women-actors,
which was found in the margin,
though it could not possibly have been
written with any reference to the
queen's appearance on that occasion.
To Somerset House returned Hen-
rietta Maria after the restoration, and
there the garrulous Pepys paid his re-
spects to her as -well as to Madame
Castlemaine. " By-and-by, in came
the king and Duke and Duchess of
York. The conversation was not a
very decorous one, and the young
queen (Catherine of Braganza) said to
Charles, * you lie,' which made good
sport, as the chuckling and delighted
Pepys remarks, those being the first
English words he had heard her say ;
and the king then tried to make her
reply, ' confess and be hanged.' "
The most striking object in the old
days of the Strand was the new May-
pole which replaced the old one taken
down by Oliver's Parliament. It was
of cedar wood, 134 feet high, and
stood in front of the church of St.
Mary. It was brought in two pieces
from below Bridge, the splicing made
secure by iron bands, thfee crowns
fastened toward its top, and then the
tall article was raised by twelve sail-
ors to a vertical position, and firmly
imbedded. The operation was happily
accomplished under the superintend-
ence of the Duke of York in four
hours. Then sounded trumpets and
drums ; and morris-dancers in motley
attire, and enlivened by the music of
pipe and tabor, danced in glee around
it, while thousands of throats became
hoarse with loyal shouting. James
would have found little enjoyment in
the general glee, if he could at the
moment have had a prophetic glimpse
of his wife, with her infant son folded
to her breast, pacing along the river
bank in doubt and fear, and watching
for the friendly boat that was to con-
vey her from the unfriendly city.
When the pole that succeeded this
was obliged to abdicate, it was present-
ed to Sir Isaac Newton, who again
presented it to the rector of Wan-
stead, and in Wanstead park it help-
ed to support the largest telescope
then known.
From this memorable if unedifying
goal, Pope started the racers in the
Dunciad :
London.
839
"Amidst the area wide they took their stand,
Where the tall maypole once o'erlooked the
Strand ;
But now, as Anne and piety ordain,
A church collects the saints of Drury lane."
In the old palace of the Savoy once
lived John of Gaunt ; John, King of
France, the Black Prince's captive,
died there ; George Wither, the poet,
is buried there ; and there also was
Geoffry Chaucer married. Simon,
earl of Montfort, once lived within
its precincts ; but where kings, arch-
bishops, and high nobles once walked
and held high council, pickles are now
sold, printing types set up, and glass
rolled out and spun.
Wat Tyler's mob being forbidden
to plunder, and supposing a couple of
barrels to contain money, flung them
into a great fire. The money, alas,
was gunpowder, as in the Dunleary
ballad, and blew up the great hall,
shook down the neighboring houses,
killed sundry of the social reformers,
and reduced the palace to ruins.
Henry VII. instituted within its
precincts a house of refuge for every
indigent person passing down the Riv-
er-side-road, and by a natural process
of abuse the poor wayfarers derived
little advantages from it. Loiterers,
sham cripples, and vagabonds of both
sexes begged abroad all day, and came
in the evening to the Savoy to sup
and sleep. Edward VI. transferred
a good portion of its revenue to Bride-
well Prison and Christ's Hospital.
Mary replaced the charity on its old
footing, much to the enjoyment of in-
veterate beggars; but Elizabeth in
her turn disagreeably surprised the
lazy inmates and the corrupt governor,
and they had to look out for victims
in other quarters.
The building had not lost its privi-
lege of sheltering imposture and knav-
ery in the last century, having served
as an asylum for fraudulent debtors in
Queen Anne's time; it became the
darling haunt of such chaplains as Mr.
Lever's Eeverend Paul ; and in 1754
we find in the Public Advertiser this
precious document put forth by
them:
" BY AUTHORITY. Marriages per-
formed with the utmost privacy, secre-
cy, and regularity, at the ancient royal
chapel of St. John the Baptist in the
Savoy, where regular and authentic
registers have been kept from the time
of tjje reformation (being two hundred
years and upward) to this day, the
expense not being more than one
guinea, the five-shilling stamp includ-
ed. There are five private ways to
this chapel by land, and two by wa-
ter. "
Wither, the Cromwellian poet, who
had a hard time of it after the resto-
ration, lies in the Savoy. Denman,
petitioning for his life, used this inge-
nious device : As long as Wither
lives, I shall not be considered the
worst poet in England."
It is not easy to a passenger saun-
tering or hurrying down the Strand at
this day, admiring the facade of Som-
erset House, glancing into the windows
of rich shops, elbowing his way
through an eager and bustling crowd,
and having his ears stunned by the
thundering rumble of cabs, busses, and
wagons, to fancy it once a sandy and
marshy road, and the footpath very
disagreeable to the feet, and interfered
with by bushes and thickets. Three
water-courses from the northern fields
found their way across it to the river,
and these were spanned by three
bridges. The building of Westmin-
ster Abbey encouraged the erection of
the first houses along the River-side-
way, but the bad state of the road
made a subject for a petition so late as
the reign of Edward II.
PUBLISHING IN THE SEVENTEENTH
CENTURY.
Of the coffee-houses in the neigh-
borhood of the Strand and Fleet street
frequented by the witty and the learn-
ed from the restoration to the close of
last century, we shall gladly speak if
our limits permit. Meanwhile, being
on a literary subject, we must not
omit to mention that the father of Mu-
840
London.
die's and all other circulating libraries
in London, was established at 132
Strand, in 1740, by a bookseller
named Bathoe.
Had there been such establishments
in Pepys' time, they would have sav-
ed him some money and some trouble.
Witness his disappointment about
Hudibras:"
" 26th of September, 1 662. To the
Wardrobe. Hither come Mr. Batters-
by, and we falling into discourse of a
new book of drollery in use, called
* Hudibras,' I would needs go find it
out, and met with it at the Temple;
cost me 2s. 6d. But when I come to
read it, it is so silly an abuse of the
presbyter-knight going to the wars,
that I am ashamed at it, and meeting
at Mr. Townsend's at dinner, I sold it
him for 18d." (The new book of droll-
ery continuing to be the rage)," Febru-
ary 6th, 1663. To a bookseller's in
the Strand, and there bought ' Hudi-
bras ' again. I am resolved once
more to read him, and see whether I
can find him an example of wit or no."
(Success very doubtful.) " 28th No-
vember. To Paul's Church -yard, and
there looked upon the second part of
' Hudibras,' which I buy not, but bor-
row to read." (He bought it a few
days after, however.) "The world
hath mightily cried up this book,
though it hath not a good liking in
me, though I had tried but (by ?) two
or three times reading to bring myself
to think it witty."
We find him a few days after these
researches purchasing " Fuller's Wor-
thies," the " Cabbala, or Collection of
Letters of State," " Les Delices de
Holland," and " Hudibras " again,
" now in great fashion for drollery,
though I cannot, I confess, see enough
where the wit lies. "
Pepys' great acquaintances seem
to have discovered this sore spot in
his mental configuration, and to have
angered it oftentimes by quoting
"Hudibras" at him, and chuckling
over the fun, which, alas, was the
reverse of fun to him.
It was long after the introduction of
printing into the country that booksell-
er's shops became an institution. At
and before the time of the great fire,
St. Paul's Church-yard was the chief
bookselling mart. On the 31st No-
vember, 1660, Pepys bought a copy
of the play of Henry IV. in that place,
" and so went to the new theatre, and
saw it acted, but my expectation being
too great, it did not please me as
otherwise I believe it would, and my
having a book did, I believe, spoil it
a little."
Poor Pepys ! A leaf out of the
scandalous chronicle of the court
would have interested him more than
all the wit and wisdom of Shakespeare.
He tells us in his diary how his wife
and he laughed a whole evening over
a pamphlet written about the queen.
The fire destroyed thousands of
fine works in the Church-yard ; and so
much was the value of books increas-
ed, that Ricaut's " Turkey," 85. before
the fire, could not be got under 55s.
after it.
Later in time, Little Britain, from
Duck-lane to the Pump, became a
literary quarter. When Benjamin
Franklin first visited London he took
lodgings in Little Britain at 3s. 6d,
per week, next door to a bookseller's,
from whom, as circulating libraries
were not in vogue, he purchased vol-
umes, read them, sold them again to
the same man, and bought others.
A great deal of information on book-
selling and other subjects that inter-
ested the people near 200 years since,
may be obtained from the perusal of
the " Life and Errors of John Dun-
ton," bookseller, an autobiography.
The son of a clergyman in Hunting-
donshire, he says he learned Latin so
as to speak it pretty well extempore,
but he could not get on well with the
Greek ; and this, coupled with an af-
fection entertained for a " virgin in his
father's house," such passion carefully
concealed from its object, completely
unhinged the classical and clerical de-
signs of his father on him. He be-
came a bookseller's apprentice, and in
London.
841
1685 a bookseller in his own person.
He speaks very disparagingly of the
mere men of letters of his day. He
says, good simple-minded man, that
what they got per sheet interested
them more than zeal for the advance-
ment of literature. Very little we
blame the poor fellows, but they were
really inexcusable for pretending to
have ransacked the whole Bodleian
Library, to have gone through the
fathers, and to have read and digest-
ed all human and ecclesiastical history,
while they had never mastered a sin-
gle page in " St. Cyprian," nor could
tell whether the fathers lived before
or after our Saviour.
That was the golden age of sermons
and pamphlets, the latter occupying
the place of our monthlies. Mr. John
Dunton's first essay in the publishing
line was "The Sufferings of Christ," by
the Rev. Mr. Doolittle. All the trade
took copies in exchange for their own
books, a feature peculiar to the busi-
ness 160 years since. John throve
and took a helpmate to himself, not
Mrs. Mary Saunders, the virgin before
mentioned. The beautiful Rachel
Seaton, the innocent Sarah Day, the
religious Sarah Briscow, had succes-
sively paled the image of the preced-
ing lady in the mirror of his rather
susceptible heart, and at the end he
became the fond husband of Miss An-
nesley, daughter of a nonconformist
divine. The happy pair always called
each other by the endearing and po-
etic names of Iris and Philaret, but
this tender attachment did not prevent
Philaret from leaving Iris alone, and
making excursions to Ireland, to
America, and to Holland, and delay-
ing in those regions for long periods.
These separations and distant wander-
ings did not tend to make our book-
seller's old age comfortable and inde-
pendent.
Dunton has left an interesting ac-
count of most of the then eminent
booksellers in the three kingdoms.
He says that in general they were
not much better than knaves and athe-
ists. He also gave information of
the writers he employed, the licensers
of the press, etc. It would appear
that the publishing business of the
time was in a very vigorous condition.
The shoals of pamphlets satisfied the
literary hunger of those to whom, if
they lived in the nineteenth century,
Athenceums arid Examiners, Cham-
bers' s Journals and All the Tear
Rounds, would be as necessary as at-
mospheric air. The chief booksellers
of that day, if not to be compared
with continental Alduses or Steph-
enses or Elzevirs, were men of good
literary taste and much information.
Of the booksellers amber-preserved in
the " Dunciad," Dunton mentions only
Lintot and Tonson. The disreputable
Curll was not known in his day. This
genius, embalmed in the hearts of the
rascally paper-men of Holywell street,
being once condemned for a vile pub-
lication, and promoted to the pillory,
cunningly averted the wrath of the
mob by a plentiful distribution of hand-
bills, in which he stated his offence to
be a pamphlet complimentary to the
memory of good Queen Anne. Ed-
ward Cave, in starting the Gentleman's
Magazine, 31st January, 1731, gave
healthy employment to many a pam-
phleteer, though he diminished the
number of separate pamphlets.
BEN JONSON AND LINCOLN'S INN.
Our fancy to speak of books, and
their writers and sellers, has led us
aside from the area marked out by Mr.
Thornbury for his own explorations,
so we must return to bounds, within
which we find Lincoln's-Inn Fields.
These inns were originally established
as places of entertainment, where pil-
grims and other travellers were hos-
pitably attended by the monks. The
town houses of noblemen were also
called inns, just as in Paris they were
styled hostels. The inn in question
derives its name from the Earl of Lin-
coln, Henry de Lacy, to whom it was
granted by Edward I. Many emi-
nent men have used chambers in Lin-
coln's Inn, since it became the resort
842
London.
of legal students. Sir Thomas More
had chambers there, and there Dr.
Donne, the poetical divine, attempted
to study law in his seventeenth year.
Dr. Tillotson preached to the lawyers
(with what effect is not told) in
1G63, our own Archbishop Ussher in
1647. Sir Mathew Hale was at first a
wild student of Lincoln's Inn, till re-
claimed by the sight of a drunkard
seized by a fit. Shaftesbury ; Ashmole,
the antiquary ; Prynne, of pillory no-
toriety ; Secretary Thurloe ; Sir John
Denham ; George Wither, omitting
mention of modern celebrities, all en-
deavored to penetrate the mysteries of
law and equity in this long-enduring
institution.
One of the most remarkable, though
not the most reputable, of lawyers
connected with Lincoln's Inn was Sir
Edmund Saunders, who gave his aid
to the crown while endeavoring, in
1683, to overthrow the charter of
London. The following extract con-
cerning him is taken from Granger:
" Sir Edmund Saunders was origi-
nally a strolling beggar about the
streets, without known parents or rela-
tions. He came often to beg scraps
at Clement's Inn, where he was taken
notice of for his uncommon sprightli-
ness ; and as he expressed a strong
inclination to learn to write, one of
the attorney's clerks taught him, and
soon qualified him for a hackney
writer. He took all opportunities of
improving himself by reading such
books as he borrowed from his friends ;
and in the course of a few years be-
came an able attorney and a very em-
inent counsel. His practice in the
Court of King's Bench was exceeded
by none. His art and cunning was
equal to his knowledge, and he gained
many a cause by laying snares. If
he was detected he w r as never put out
of countenance, but evaded the mat-
ter with a jest, which he had always
at hand. He was much employed by
the king (Charles II.) against the city
of London in the business of the -Quo
Warranto. His person was as heavy
and ungain as his wit was alert and
sprightly. He is said to have been a
mere lump of morbid flesh. The smell
from him was so offensive that people
held their noses when he came into
court. One of his jests on such occasions
was, * That none could say he wanted
issue, for he had no less than nine on
his back.' "
The literary students of the inn, as
they sit in their lonely chambers, or
converse with their comrades, Arthur
Pendennis and Mr. Warrington, in
the pleasant grounds, delight to fancy
brave old Ben Jonson helping to
raise the wall on the Chancery lane
side, and reciting a passage from Ho-
mer. Whether Sutton or Camden
sent him back to college to pursue his
studies is not so certain. His fight-
ing single-handed in Flanders in the
sight of the two armies, and the sub-
sequent carrying away of the " Spolia
Opima" of his foeman, were in strict
accordance with the practice of the
heroes of his studies. His college
life and his deeds in foreign fields
were all over in his twenty-third year,
1597, when we find him a player and
writer for the stage in London; his
critics asserting that he walked the
boards as if he were treading mortar.
Poor Ben, with a countenance com-
pared to a rotten russet apple, and de-
scribed by himself as remarkable for
a " mountain belly and a rocky face,"
was equally ragged in temper. Quar-
reling with a brother actor, he killed
him in a duel in Hogsden Fields, and
was brought very near the gallows-
foot for his non-command of temper.
He had not the gentle character nor
the expansive intellect of his friend,
the " Gentle Shakespeare," nor did
his characters embrace entire human-
ity, nor did he possess the soaring and
far-seizing imagination of his brother
poet and player, but he more closely
pictured the modes of society in which
they moved, the social and politic fea-
tures of the locality and the era ; all
those outward manifestations, in fact,
that distinguish the intercourse, and
the morals, and the character of this
or that locality or time, from those of
London.
843
its neighbors. Hence a better idea
can be had of the scenic features of
Old London, and the costumes, the
idioms, and usages of its people at the
end of the sixteenth and beginning of
the seventeenth century, from the lite-
rary remains of Ben Jonson than
from those of William Shakespeare.
Aubrey remarked that " Shake-
speare's comedies would remain wit as
long as the English tongue is under-
stood; while our present writers re-
flect so much upon particular persons
lind coxcombeties, that twenty years
hence they will not be understood."
London was Ben Jonson's world ; its
people, such as they appeared to him,
the whole human race. The hu-
morists that he knew were reproduced
with the utmost truth and the class-
modes and manners that came under
his observation were sketched from
and to the life. There was local truth
of costume and character, but little
generalization. Illustrative instances
abound in all his plays and poems. In
Elizabeth's time, Finsbury Fields were
covered with trees and windmills. So
we find Master Stephen (" Every Man
in his Humor"), who dwells at Hogs-
den (Hoxton), despising the archers
of Finsbury and the citizens that come
a-ducking to Islington Ponds. " The
Strand was the chief road for ladies to
pass through in their coaches, and
there Lafoole in the ' Silent Woman'
has a lodging to watch when ladies
are gone to the china houses or the
exchange, that he may meet them by
chance, and give them presents. The
general character of the streets before
the fire is not forgotten. In ; The
Devil is an Ass' the lady and her
lover speak closely and gently from
the windows of two contiguous build-
ings. Such are a few of the ex-
amples of the local proprieties which
constantly turn up in Jonson's
dramas." /
To those who accuse rare Ben of
intemperate habits it is useless to ob-
ject that he lashed intemperance and
the other vices of his time as severely
as the most rigid moralist could ; there
are too many instances extant of the
sons of Satan correcting sin in their
speeches and writings. However, the
club at the Mermaid in Friday street
to which he belonged, consisted of such
men as we cannot suppose to be of in-
temperate habits, nor willing to cher-
ish a noted drunkard. For Sir Wal-
ter Raleigh, Shakespeare, Beaumont,
Fletcher, Selden, Cotton, Carevv, Mar-
tin, Donne, flashes of wit, and sallies
of imagination, and touches of genial
humor, had more charms then beast-
ly wallowing in liquor. Hear what
Jonson himself says in his invita-
tion to a friend to supper where
canary, his darling liquor, was to
flow:
" Of this we will sup free but moderately,
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men,-
But at our parting we will be as when
We innocently met. No simple word
That shall be uttered at our mirthful board
Shall make us sad next morning, or affright
The liberty that we'll enjoy to-night."
It was to the middle aisle of the old
cathedral of St. Paul's that Jonson and
others like him resorted to obtain such
wayward and grotesque characters as
would take the attention of an audi-
ence. It was the favorite lounge at
the time of coxcombs, bullies, adven-
turers, and cut-purses. Here a new
man, wishing to be in the height of
fashion, would bring his tailor, and set
him to mark the garb of the foremost
gallant in vogue. Country squires anx-
ious for a varnishing of courtly polish,
would be found there observing the dress
and demeanor of the people of fashion,
and afterward flinging away the pro-
duce of their good lands in entertain-
ments shared with these envied dar-
lings of the courtly goddess. Captain
JBobadil, we may be certain, was met
among the crowd at Paul's. Here it
was that all those niceties of the mode
which crop up through his plays were
observed. In the "Midas" of Lily,
quoted by Charles Knight in his
" London," are found collected several
of these distinctive marks of the cour-
tier comme ilfaut:
" How will you be trimmed, sir ?
Will you have your beard like a spade
844
London.
or a bodkin ? A pent-house on your
upper Up, or an alley on your chin ?
A low curl on your head Hke a bull,
or dangling locks like a spaniel ?
Your mustachioes sharp at the end
like shoemakers' awls, or hanging
down to your mouth like goat's flakes ?
Your love-locks wreathed like a silken
twist, or shaggy, to fall on your shoul-
der?"
Few dramatists in his or our days
would venture to speak so fearlessly to
his audience as honest Ben Jonson :
" If any here chance to behold himself,
Let him not dare to challenge me of wrong ;
For if he shame to have his follies known,
First he should shame to act 'em. My strict
hand
Was made to seize on vice, and with a gripe,
Squeeze out the humor of such spongy souls
As lick up every idle vanity."
Our bard was not left to struggle
with the hardships of an ordinary thea-
trical career. He was employed to
compose the plots and verses of the
stately and splendid masques in which
Elizabeth, and Anne of Denmark,
and her "Royal Doggie" delighted.
Had space permitted, we should glad-
ly have quoted some of the verses and
stage directions of these court shows.
Among the rest is an Irish masque in
which Dennish, Donnell, Dermott, and
Patrick come in their long glibbs
and shaggy mantles to present their
compliments to King Yamish, and con-
gratulate him on the marriage of some
lord or other. Having been roughly
received by the janitors, they sounded
their grievance aloud :
"Don. Ish it te fashion to beate
te imbashaters here ? and knock 'hem
o' te head phit te phoite stick?"
u Der. Ant make ter meshage run
out a ter mouthsh before tey shpeake
vit te king ?"
They announce their intention to
dance as well as that of their masters,
who as yet stand outside :
" Don. But tey musht eene come,
and daunch i' teyr mantles, and show
tee how teye can foot te fading and te
fadow, and te pliip a dunboyne I
trow."
"Der. Tey will fight for tee, King
Yamish, and for my mishtress tere." *
After much soft-sawder about their
love and their loyalty to Shamus, six
men and boys danced to bagpipes and
other rude music. Then the Irish
gentlemen danced in their mantles to
the sound of harps ; and one of them
called on a bard to celebrate the
fame of him who was to make Erin
the world's wonder for peace and
plenty :
' Advance, immortal bard ; come up and view
The gladdening face of that great king, in wLom
So many prophecies of thine are knit.
This is that James, of which long since thou
sungst,
Should end our country's most unnatural
broils."
Would he had done so ! Ben was
not so blind but that he could spy out
some little defects in Solomon and his
queen. As he could not apply his tal-
ents to their correction, he recompens-
ed himself in unmerciful handling of
court vices. Toward the end of
James's reign he enjoyed a competent
fortune, and owned an extensive libra-
ry. Distress and illness succeeded;
but Charles I. being made aware of his
forlorn condition, granted him an addi-
tional pension, and that tierce of can-
ary, whose successors have been drain-
ed by all poet-laureates since his
day. A blue marble stone lies over
his remains in the north aisle of West-
minster Abbey. The epitaph,
RARE BEN JONSON, was cut in the
flag at the order and charge of Jack
Young (afterward knighted). Eight-
een-pence requited the sculptor.
Whether we have improved on the
feats of artists of another kind, in
Queen Anne's reign, is questionable.
At Bartholomew Fair, in the reign of
that good-natured sovereign, a girl, of
ten years, walked backward up a slop-
ing rope, driving a wheelbarrow be-
* As out of all late or still living writers, not
natives of Ireland, there are not three who quote
our peasant-pronunciation correctly, so it is
more than probable that Jonson, acute as his
observation was, mistook the pronunciation of
his own day.
The Origin and Mutability of Species.
845
hind her. Scaramouch danced on the
rope with two children, and a dog, in
a wheelbarrow, and a duck on his
head. Our authority leaves us in
some doubt as to the relative positions
of man, children, dog, duck, and wheel-
barrow, and whether the duck took
position on head of dog or man. The
eighteenth century was inaugurated
by an intelligent tiger picking the
feathers from a fowl in such style
as to elicit the hearty applause of a
discerning public. Continental sove-
reigns of our own time prefer the stir-
ring spectacle of men and horses gored
by sharp horned bulls. The tiger
merely removed the feathers from the
skin of the dead fowl ; the viscera of
the living quadruped follow the thrust
of the bull's horn.
Translated from Etudes Eeligieuses, Historiques, et Litteraires, par des Peres de la Compagnie
de Jesus.
THE ORIGIN AND MUTABILITY OF SPECIES.
Origineset Transformations de I'homme
et des autres etres. Ire partie. Par
TREMAUX. Paris: Hachette. 1865.
ANTHROPOLOGY is a recent science,
and yet its votaries have produced
numerous treatises. The delicate
questions which it raises have given
birth to various and contradictory
opinions. The most important prob-
lem of this science is that which re-
lates to the origin of man. At what
epoch did man for the first time tread
the surface of our globe ? How did
he appear? What cause produced
him ? Two first class scholars, Hum-
boldt and Bompland, said, not long
ago, " The general question of the
origin of the inhabitants of a continent
is beyond the limits prescribed to
history, perhaps it is not even a phi-
losophical question." Bolder than
they, the anthropologists put a ques-
tion a thousand times more complex,
as to the origin of the whole human
race, and they do not hesitate to be-
lieve that, sooner or later, science will
be able to answer it with certainty.
As to the present, we may say, Quot
capita, tot sensus ; the most opposite
ideas divide the world, and it is the
main discord which pervades science,
These last words are those of M. Tre-
maux. To remedy this confusion, the
learned traveller puts forth a new
idea, which in his opinion should, in
throwing light on all the aspects of
the question, cause the discord to van-
ish ; trace the way we ought to
follow; and at no very distant day
arrive at a complete solution. It re-
mains to be seen whether these happy
auguries will be realized, or if, on the
contrary, the theory of M. Tremaux,
added to the others, will not have the
fatal effect of increasing the confusion
it would abolish.
The opinions relating to the origin
of man may be reduced to three. In the
first place, we will state that of the mo-
nogenists, who behold in all the hu-
man types scattered over the world
only races and varieties of the same
species, and regard mankind as de-
scending, or at least as capable of de-
scending, from a single couple primi-
tively sprung from the hands of the
Creator. This opinion is evidently
conformable to the Bible narrative ;
this reflection will not escape the sin-
cere Christian, and we must make it at
the risk of exciting the pity or indig-
nation of certain positivists, who re-
proach us with bringing into scientific
questions prejudices and arguments
which are extra-scientific.
846
The Origin and Mutability of Species.
The opinion of the polygenists is
diametrically opposed to the preceding.
According to them, the typical differ-
ences which exist between the races of
men are so decided, so profound, that
they could not be the result of the
conditions of existence ; these differ-
ences are then original ; men, instead
of belonging to a single zoological spe-
cies, form a genera or even a family,
the bimanous family ; community of
origin is then impossible, and the ac-
count in Genesis must be considered
as legendary.
Lastly, a third school separates
itself entirely from the preceding, and
considers the question under discus-
sion as a phase of the general
question the stability of the species.
The naturalists connected with this
school regard the species as something
essentially changeable. They deduce
this opinion from the examples of the
endless varieties of forms which our
domestic animals above all others pre-
sent. It is possible, by known pro-
cesses, to obtain, after several genera-
tions, products so different from the
primitive type, that to judge them by
the form only we should believe in
the existence of a new species ; the
continued fecundity between the two
varieties alone attesting the specific
unity of both types. Would it not be
possible, by new methods, or by a bet-
ter employment of the means already
known, to arrive at such a complete
transformation that the fecundity be-
tween the new and the primitive spe-
cies should cease to exist, or at least
cease to be unlimited? We should
have thus obtained a novel species by
a simple transformation due to the
forces of nature. The result which
man might obtain at the end of seve-
ral generations, nature, left to itself,
would inevitably arrive at, after a
longer or shorter time, according as
circumstances should be more or less
favorable. This is admitted by La-
mark, and the two Geoffroy Saint-
Hilaire ; it is admitted also by the
English naturalist Darwin. The lat-
ter regards all animals actually exist-
ing as ^descending from four or five
progenitors ; an equal number would
suffice for plants. He even adds that,
guided by analogy, he would willingly
admit thai, all organized beings, plants
and animals, descend from one single
primordial type, and that man should
constitute no exception to the general
laws ; he springs from the ape or
some extinct type, and thence from
the primitive.
It is to this last school that M. Tre*-
maux belongs : the title of his book
sufficiently shows it. He concedes
the variability and the transformation
of the species ; but separates himself
distinctly from Darwin relative to the
causes which produce this variation.
M. Tremaux* book may be sum-
med up entirely in the statement of
the great law of the improvement of
beings which is printed in large letters
on the front page of the first part:
" The improvement of creatures is or
becomes proportionate to the degree of
elaboration of the soil on which they
live ! And the soil is in general elab-
orated in proportion as it belongs to a
more recent geological formation." To
prove this law, and to deduce from it
every possible consequence, is the ob-
ject of the book.
The first requisite in judging a
work is to understand its ami or end.
Thus we have endeavored to seize the
sense and the bearing which the au-
thor attaches to the great law he thinks
he has discovered. Such a soil gives
such a product, we are told. We un-
derstand this when the direct fruits of
the earth are in question that is, of
the vegetables which draw directly
from the earth the principles which
should assimilate them. But as to an-
imals, what influence can the soil ex-
ercise over them? This is what M.
Tremaux should have explained, and
what he has forgotten to tell us. Must
we understand that the land, by virtue
of its chemical and mineralogical com-
position, possesses a mysterious action
of an unknown nature, determining
according to the case the improvement
or degeneracy of the species of ani-
The Origin and Mutability of Species.
847
mals ? Such is in fact the meaning
which many passages seem to attribute
to this law. Thus, after having shown
that the causes generally assigned
cannot explain those typical changes
which nature presents, the author
adds : " By the action of cross-breed-
ing, food, and climate alone, we shall
meet with contradictions at every step.
With the action of the sun, the whole
globe exhibits the same effects." Since
it is neither through food nor by. cli-
mate that the sun acts, it is by some
mysterious agency ; and behold us
thus, in the nineteenth century, thrown
back upon occult causes. May we be
permitted to observe that this is not
scientific ?
Entirely engaged in proving by
facts the law which must serve as a
oasis to his system, M. Tremaux seems
never to have thought of explaining
to himself the manner of the earth's
action. Thus, beside numerous places
which clearly imply an immediate ac-
tion, others could be quoted which only
attribute to the soil an indirect action
due to the aliments drawn from it.
For example, apropos of cretinism, we
read : " This scourge is above all en-
demical, because in fact those persons
who can profit by the products of an-
other soil feel in a lesser degree the un-
favorable results of that condition."
And further on: "To avoid living
permanently on a soil which produces
cretinism is the sole remedy, or rather
the only palliative, against its perni-
cious effects on man. It is best to
abandon it completely, or at least to
make use of products other than those
destined to feed its inhabitants" In
brief, what is necessary to bring hu-
manity to perfection? "Firstly, To
choose carefully those lands whose
products are more directly intended
for man. Secondly, To have recourse
to every proper means of improving
the land. Thirdly, Planting with suit-
able trees those lands which are un-
favorable to the growth of human food.
Fourthly, To subject to agriculture
those forest lands which occupy a fa-
vorable soil."
These passages appear clear that
it is not of itself, but by its produc-.
tions, and also doubtless through its
climate, the soil acts on man and on
the animals. This explanation is
more philosophical than novel.
Between the monogenists and the
polygenists, the question reduces itselt
very nearly to this: Can beings dif-
fering so much as the Europeans and
the Bushmen, the Hottentot and the
Australian, descend from the same
ancestors ? No, reply the polygenists ;
for the differences are greater than
those which characterize certain spe-
cies. In order to meet this objection,
the monogenists have had recourse to
what is called the middle theory, and
to that of the cross-breeds. The whole
of the external circumstances under
which the representatives of a species
exist, constitute what is called the mid-
dle or medium, to which monogenists,
supporting themselves on undoubted
facts, attribute the power of gradually
changing the medium type of a species.
The crossing of many types thus mod-
ified will give birth to new forms, all,
however, belonging to one common
kind.
Where do we find the difference
between this middle theory and the
law of M. Tremaux? In nothing but
a greater or less importance attributed
to the influence of soil ; and even this
difference is more apparent than real.
The fundamental law so understood
and it appears to us hard to under-
stand it otherwise constitutes no
novel idea or theory ; it is nothing
more than a variation of the classic
theory of the influence of media.
How is this law proved ? It is im-
possible for us to follow the author in
the development of his arguments.
He gives proof in them of rare learn-
ing, and of profound and varied
knowledge of ethnography. We ob-
serve the marked predilection of M.
Tremaux for the soil of Africa, which
he has ably described in special works.
But when we have finished reading
him, and would give an account of his
arguments and of their value, we do
848
The Origin and Mutability of Species.
not find in them all the elements of
conviction. We know that many writ-
ers have expressed an opinion very dif-
ferent from ours, but even should we be
deemed too exacting, we must acknow-
ledge that an attentive perusal has
not convinced us. There are no doubt
remarkable coincidences in the work ;
but they are not of a sufficiently
trenchant character, and, moreover,
most of the facts may be explained
otherwise than by the influence of soil.
Let us give some examples. "We
cannot meet with a single instance of
a civilization which has developed
itself, nor even been maintained in
cases of emigration, under adverse
geological conditions." Nothing is
more natural, in fact. Why should
emigrants on the way of civilization
settle preferentially in unfertile coun-
tries ? For it must not be forgotten
that what are here called geological
conditions refer simply to the fertility
of the soil.
Another argument extensively de-
veloped is drawn from the persistence
of the same types in the same coun-
tries. After having examined Africa
and Europe from this point of view,
the author concludes thus : " In short,
what have the migrations from the
East peopling the West produced?
They have created Hellenes in Greece,
Romans in Rome, Gauls in France,
and children of Albion in England."
Must we conclude, from this persist-
ence, that the conquering races have in
each generation felt the influence of
the soil, so as to resemble after some
centuries the former populations ?
Such is the reasoning of M. Tremaux.
But the same fact is appealed to by
polygenists, who interpret it in a differ-
ent manner. According to them, this
persistence proves that the conquer-
ing race has always been absorbed by
the indigenous ; and they do not fail
to conclude from it that between these
two races illimitable fecundity, the
specific character of unity, is hardly
ever realized.
We read at the same page : " If we
pass over other continents, the same
results strike us on all sides. On
certain points of Australia and Amer-
ica, the English type is attached from
the very first generation." This fact
is stated by some naturalists, but it is
denied by others. We can say as
much of the pretended transformation
of negroes. Messrs. Reiset, Lyell,
and E. Reclus tell us that they are
transformed in about one hundred and
fifty years to approach the white type
by one quarter of the distance which
separated them from it. But Amer-
ican anthropologists, who are nearly
all polygenists, resolutely affirm the
contrary.
Thus we see the facts are difficult
to ascertain, and still more difficult to
interpret. It is one of the grand dif-
ficulties of anthropology. We rarely
succeed in agreeing about the facts
themselves, which only happens in
some exceptional cases supported by
perfectly exact statistics; and many
facts are not of a nature to be con-
signed to the columns of an official
register. Even in a case where the
facts are placed beyond doubt, they
are generally of a nature to be vari-
ously interpreted, and every one with
preconceived ideas tortures them at
his pleasure, and does not fail to find
in them a confirmation of his theories.
M. Tremaux is so filled with his idea
that he finds proofs in support of it
even in politics ; and reciprocally, does
not hesitate, in the name of geology,
to counsel princes on the manner of
governing their subjects. For exam-
ple, we remember the war carried on
in 1848 by Hungary against Austria.
At that time Transylvania withdrew
from the common cause and rallied to
the Austrian government. The em-
peror Francis Joseph rejoiced at this
result, hoping to easily propitiate the
Croats ; but he experienced from them
an unexpected resistance, and their
assembly of notables declared that
Croatia should continue to share the
fate of Hungary. Upon this M. Tre-
maux says: "This would appear
paradoxical if we considered only
geographical positions, but consult ge-
The Origin and Mutability of Species.
849
ology and all this will appear perfectly
rational, since Transylvania reposes
like Austria upon a great surface of
old ground; whilst Hungary, Croatia,
and Dalmatia stand upon more recent
layers." We leave our readers to ap-
preciate this.
The author adds : " As to Venetia,
not only is its soil of recent formation,
but it possesses a distinct and very
different nationality ; thus each one
recognizes its unalterable tendencies."
What caused the sanguinary war
which has just desolated America?
Why, because the Southerns, dwelling
on virgin soil, fought for their inde-
pendence and would not be governed
by men from old lands. And reflect-
ing that the new lands of the South
are more fitted to improve the races
which cultivate them, M. Tremaux
fears not to predict, notwithstanding
the unforeseen victory of the North,
that " in the future the South will
govern the North, if it be not sepa-
rated from it."
As to Ireland and Poland, it is
again in the name of geology that our
author defends their independence.
Not hoping to obtain this result, he
at least gives the princes who gov-
ern them wise counsels for their guid-
ance.
Let us come to the scientific conclu-
sions which the author pretends to
draw from his principle in favor of
natural history in general and of an-
thropology in particular. Since the
soil acts so energetically in the modifi-
cation of types, it is evident that the
species ought to be essentially vari-
able. Let a race be found isolated on
a favorable ground, without any com-
munication with the rest of mankind,
and the modifications will be produced,
transmitted, and increased in every
generation ; and, after a longer or
shorter time, the new type will be so
different from the old one, that illimit-
able fecundity will no longer exist be-
tween them ; there will only be one
species the more. Transformations
in reality are not made as rapidly as
might be believed, because the isola-
54
tion which we have supposed never
exists. It thence follows that the
crossings with the primitive race, or
even with a race on the road to degen-
eracy on an imperfect soil, constantly
check the effect of the superior soil.
At length there is an equilibrium be-
tween these two causes, and then
there appears a medium type, which
preserves its identity so long as the
circumstances remain the same. This
necessarily happens in a period of
several thousand years, like our his-
toric period. But if we take in at a
glance several thousand ages, we shall
understand that the geological changes
effected by time on the surface of the
world will cause the action of the soil
to prevail over the influence of cross-
ings, in such a manner as to modify
slowly but progressively the types and
the species.
Starting from these principles, what
does M. Tremaux require in order to
explain the actual state of creation?
A simple primordial cell or utricle,
the most simply organized being,
whether animal or vegetable matters
little. If this being so simple existed
at the epoch which geologists term
the Silurian period, it is many millions
of ages past. Since then the surface
of the globe has been constantly modi-
fied and ameliorated, life has been
constantly developed, and form been
brought nearer to perfection. It is
thus that even in the most elementary
beings nature has arrived at the nu-
merous and complicated forms which
we know. In this manner man at his
appointed hour appeared on earth,
where he strove to improve himself
and is striving in that direction still.
M. Tremaux does not exactly admit
that we are descended from apes. No ;
but he contends that both man and
ape sprang from one common source,
which has now disappeared ; and that
whilst the quadruman, placed under
unfavorable geological conditions, has
suffered from its inevitable influence
and been degraded, man has on the
contrary, under happier influences, de-
veloped himself, and is become able, by
850
I7ie Origin and Mutability of Species.
his intelligent activity, to combat those
external influences. Hence his ac-
tual superiority hence his future pro-
gress. .
A serious objection here presents
itself. Does the influence of the soil
perfect the instinct of animals as well
as their bodies ? Has it given man
that intelligence which, better than all
zoological characters, especially dis-
tinguishes him from the brute crea-
tion ? M. Tremaux meets this diffi-
culty with a reply which might have
been taken from Nysten's dictionary.
In his comparison "of man with the
ape," he tells us " that M. Gratiolet
divides the subject into two sections,
the one referring to organization, the
other to faculties. He concedes the
resemblances of the first, he refuses to
acknowledge those of the second, with-
out observing that these differences in
faculties are only the consequence of
a greater or less degree of organic de-
velopment." This philosophical her-
esy does not slip by chance from the
writer's pen ; we find it repeated in
several places, nearly in the same
terms. Moreover, in refuting another
passage from Gratiolet, he says : " I
am astonished that Gratiolet does not
recognize in instinct a rudiment of in-
telligence ; in the constructions of the
beaver, in the nests of birds, in the
cells of bees, elements of sculpture
and of design, etc."
M. Tremaux divides the opinions
of Grat'olet into two; the first part
is serious, and is that of the learned
anatomist ; the second is that of senti-
ment, wherein he speaks by the same
title as the philosophers who develop
the void of their entities. This con-
tempt for philosophy well explains the
strange ideas of our author about the
intelligence of man and the souls of
brutes. To see nothing between both
but a difference of organization is not
philosophical. A little metaphysics
would spoil nothing, and it really does
not require a strong dose to behold
the abyss which separates human in-
telligence, capable of seizing the ab-
stract and the absolute as well as the
congcrete and the continent, from that
of brutes, acting by instinct, able only
at the most to combine some sensa-
tions, without ever having any gene-
ral ideas.
We think we have now given a
pretty exact epitome of M. Tremaux'
ideas. The whole work rests upon
an ill defined principle, which, in the
sense in which we have understood it,
the only one which appears to us to
be feasible, cannot be considered new.
This principle, although true in a cer-
tain sense and within certain limits, is
not to be proved irrefragable, as the
basis of any theory should be. The
consequences which are sought to be
drawn from the premises are not ne-
cessarily contained in them, and many
bear not the seal of a wholesome phi-
losophy. We shall perhaps be
thought a little too severe upon this
work. We think we should be so,
especially as the author is in many re-
spects recommendable. Apropos of
the question of species, M. Tremaux
writes : " M. Kourens has his merits,
but they lie elsewhere; it is in his
researches on the periosteum and on
the vital cord that he acquires them."
We may be allowed to use the same
expressions and to say : "M. Tremaux
deserves well, but not herein ; his ac-
tual labors on ethnography and archae-
ology are very good. Read the ac-
count of his travels to Soudan and
into Asia Minor, and you will ac-
knowledge him a man of talent and
undoubted science. But as to his
theoretical ideas on the question of
the species, he must not reckon upon
them to support his reputation." Some
journals may waste their incense upon
him ; the Constitutional may exclaim :
" The veil has been lifted ... a new
law is about to unite all disputants . .
the arguments of M. Tremaux abound,
and we feel only an embarrassment in
choosing." U Independance Beige will
join the chorus. Even the Moniteur
will grant its approval. But all this is
no set-off against the opinions of the
learned, and M. Tremaux knows very
well that our great naturalists do not
Wisdom by Experience.
851
look upon liis ideas as acceptable, or
his arguments as conclusive.
It will be observed that we have
not spoken of the Bible, although its
narrative appears compromised by the
transformation theory. We believe it
to be useless to mix up theology with
scientific debates, at least, when it is
not directly attacked. Now, M. Tre-
maux is far from attacking revela-
tion ; he does not believe his ideas
reconcileable with Genesis ; he never
speaks of the Bible narrative but with
the greatest respect. Hence we be-
lieve it advisable to show great toler-
ance toward sciences which are still
in their infancy, which require their
elbows free for development, and
which must wander a little in un-
known countries, free to make a false
step from time to time. It is thus they
will progress and arrive at the truth.
We will add one last remark on
the address of the anthropologists.
The origin of man concerns histo-
rians as much as naturalists ; for this
reason we should not, in works of
this character, neglect historic monu-
ments. Of all those monuments,
books are the surest. Even in ab-
stracting the special value which the
Bible possesses as an inspired volume,
it is not the less true that it is a doc-
ument which must be considered, and
which as a written document has an
incontestably safer meaning than all
the fossils in the world.
For a higher reason we should
beware of all theories or hypotheses
which do not agree with the sacred
text. The Bible no doubt is not in-
tended to instruct us in the secrets of
the natural order, and it is perhaps
for that that we find in it so little re-
lating to these subjects ; but the Holy
Ghost, who inspired the sacred writers,
could not have dictated to them er-
rors, and every assertion which would
be contrary to the clear and certain
sense of a passage in it should, for
this reason, be rejected as untrue.
When the sense is obscure or doubt-
ful, which is nearly always the case
in passages relating to physics, we
should, we think, be very cautious, and
it is prudent for the learned to be on
their guard, for fear of falling into
very numerous and grave errors.
From The Victoria Magazine.
WISDOM BY EXPERIENCE.
WHAT a shame! What abomina-
ble interference ! What cruelty !
What tyranny ! These and many
other strong expressions of the same
kind proceeded from a collection of
rose-stocks planted ready for budding.
They were all fiercely angry and in-
dignant, and first one and then an-
other uttered some exclamation of
disgust, and then all joined in a chorus
of maledictions on the gardener who
had done them so much injury. It
was in the month of June that their
feelings were so much excited, just
when the sap was most active, and
they were throwing out their most
luxuriant shoots. I don't know how
they went on when the gardener first
dug them up out of the hedges, and cut
away all their side branches and left
only a single straight stem. If they
did not make a fight for it then, it
must have been because their sap was
all dried up, and their leaves had fall-
en off, and they were in low spirits,
and did not much care what became
of them. But even then I don't
think they yielded without a struggle,
and I have no doubt there was a good
deal of scratching and dragging back,
852
Wisdom by Experience.
and a great show of independence and
sulleimess. But they had not the
spirits to keep up resistance, and the
gardener did not give them much
chance, for he pruned them close, and
planted them in rows just far enough
apart to prevent the possibility of
their having much intercourse, or of
the evil disposed corrupting the more
docile. But it was different in June,
when, as I said, the sap was active,
and their branches began to grow out
on all sides, so that they could reach
each other and even take a sly pinch
at the gardener or any of his friends
who happened to come near. And
the particular irritation now was be-
cause the gardener had discovered
how wild they were becoming, and
set resolutely about restraining them.
First of all he cut off all the suckers
that grew from the roots, and the
lower shoots, leaving only those that
grew at the crown of the stock, and
then he put them all straight up, and
would not let them loll about or
hang over the path a habit they had
got into which was very disagreeable
to those who passed by. And if
they would not stand upright without^
he fastened them to pieces of board
let into the ground. This was a great
grievance, but I think they most re-
belled at having their lower boughs
cut off, for if left to themselves they
would have spread and puffed them-
selves out in a most ridiculous way.
Now it so happened that Madame
Boll, a stock of a former year which
had been budded, but left in its place
and not removed with the rest into
the flower-garden, heard their excla-
mations of anger and impatience, and
having perhaps gone through some
such phase of feeling herself, and
thus gained wisdom by experience,
she thought she would try if she
could put their case to them in a bet-
ter light ; so she took advantage of a
little lull in the storm, and said in a
gentle, ladylike tone,
" My young friends, I am very sor-
ry to see you so unhappy ; but per-
haps if you will hear what I have got
to say, you might think better of your
present position."
"Well," said Miss Strong, who was
tossing her long arms about in a verv
excited way, only luckily she was out
of reach, " if you are going to take the
gardener's part, and preach patience
and submission, and that sort of thing,
I can tell you you had better keep
your remarks to yourself, or if I can
get at you, I'll spoil that neat head-
dress of yours, which, let me tell you,
is not half as pretty as hundreds in
the hedgerows, or as ours would have
been, if we had been left to our own
devices as we were last year ;" which
tirade she ended with a scornful
laugh in which many of the others
joined.
But little Miss Wild-Rose, who was
nearer, said quietly,
" Perhaps it would be as well to
hear what is said on the other side ;
particularly as ,it is too hot to go on
screaming and abusing people who
don't seem to care about it ;" and as
several of the others were of the
same opinion, Madame Boll took
courage, and said what was in her
mind.
" Perhaps it may give you more
. confidence in me to know, that when
I was first placed here I had many of
the same thoughts and feelings that
you appear to have. I did not know
why I was taken out of the hedgerow,
and trimmed and restraiend, and not
allowed to have my own way ; and I
confess I thought it very hard. Par-
ticularly I was indignant, as no doubt
you will be when the time comes (for
you have still a good deal to undergo
w T hich you know nothing about at pres-
ent), I was, I say, very indignant
when the gardener cut a slit in the
only shoot which he had left me, and
which was growing very luxuriant,
and I was quite proud of it ; and in-
troduced a meagre little bud from an-
other tree, and made me nourish and
strengthen it, though I knew that my
own shoot would suffer by it ; and so
it turned out ; for after a while, when
the bud began to grow, he cut away
rvT
Wisdom by Experience.
853
my natural slioot altogether, and left
only that which had been inserted."
Here Miss Strong broke in.
" You were very tame to submit to
it. I would have banged and twisted
about till I had got rid of it some
way or other."
"Ah!" said Madame Boll, "we
shall see ; you are stronger and more
resolute than I was. All I know is, I
could not help myself."
" Cowardly creature ! " muttered
Miss Strong, scornfully. But Ma-
dame Boll resumed :
"I soon got used to the change,
and gradually began to take an inter-
est in the bud I had adopted; and
though of course Miss Strong may
affect to despise its beauty, I can as-
sure you that most people have a
different opinion."
Whereupon, Madame Boll gave
herself airs, and coquettishly moved
aside a leaf or two, and displayed a
most perfect and symmetrical rose.
"But," said Miss Wild-Rose and
her party all in a breath, "do you
mean that we shall all bear roses like
that?"
"Not all, certainly, possibly none
of you exactly like, for there are
hundreds of varieties, and many of
them much more beautiful. It will
be just as the gardener fancies, though
he is generally guided in his selection
by the habit and vigor of the stock,
I daresay he will give Miss Strong,
who is so energetic, a bud of Gloire
de Dijon, or Anna de Diesbach, and
you, being weaker, will have Devon-
iensis, or Niphetos."
Miss Strong gave a scornful toss
at this, but did not vouchsafe any re-
mark, though I think she felt rather
complimented, and the others began
to muse, since it must be so, what rose
they would be likely to have, and
wilich. would become them best.
A little time after this it turned out
just as Madame Boll had said the
gardener came one morning and be-
gan to bud the stocks, and just as he
was preparing Miss Wild-Rose for the
operation, a young lady came by, and
asked what bud he intended for that
one, for, she said, " I want a Devoni-
ensis, and I think it would just suit
it."
" I have got a Devoniensis bud
here," he said, " and will put it in."
" And that tall one I think I should
like for Gloire de Dijon."
" I will try," he said, " but somehow
I am half afraid I shall have some
trouble with it, for though vigorous it
is rather awkward, and the thorns are
very spiteful. To say the truth, I am
half afraid of it, and have been leav-
ing it till the last."
" But what," said the lady, "is this
in the corner ? Surely it is Madame
Boll ; and such a beauty ! What is it
doing here ? "
" To say the truth, ma'am, I over-
looked it when I planted the others
out, and now it must remain where it
is for another year."
" Well," she said, "I hope the oth-
ers will take pattern from it and do
as well."
"So," said Madame Boll, after
they were gone, "that accounts for
my being left here : I must confess I
was a little mortified, for I thought it
was a slight ; but I generally find, if
we wait awhile, everything comes
right in the end, and possibly my be-
ing here has done you some good,
or given you comfort; and if so,
instead of regret, I ought to feel
pleasure. But now, my young friends,
I will tell you a conversation I over-
heard one day, between the young
lady who was here just now and an-
other, which your foolish behavior a
short time ago brought to my mind.
They were talking about the children
in the school, and how difficult it was
to make them feel the advantage of be-
ing submissive and conforming to their
rules. They said they 'were so anx-
iotis to have their own way, and seem-
ed to think it was a pleasure to their
teachers to thwart them, or make
them do what they did not wish, and
not that it was intended for their good ;
and if their teachers thought they
paid too much attention to their dress,
854
Wisdom by Experience.
and wished to be smart, and wear
flowers and feathers, when they ought
rather to be adorning their minds,
and beautifying their tempers, and
enriching their understanding, they
were ready to cry out, as you did just
now, ' What tyranny ! ' ' How inter-
fering ! ' ' Why can't they let us dress
as we like ? ' But what they were
particularly complaining about on that
occasion, was that the children would
persist in wearing hoops which stuck
out their clothes, and made them take
up twice as much room as they other-
wise would have done. For, it seems,
the benches where they sat were
only large enough for them if they sat
close together, which they could not
do with hoops on, so they were obliged
to tell them they could not take them
into the school if they did not lay
aside their hoops, and some of them
were foolish enough to say that they
would not come to school if they were
not allowed to wear hoops. Now, it
struck me, this was just like your folly
in wishing to keep your wild-growing
suckers and lower branches, when you
know very well that they would take
away all the nourishment which is
needed to bring the beautiful rose-buds
to perfection ; the bud, in your place,
answering to the knowledge and other
excellences which it is the object of
education to impart to their ignorant
and lawless natures, and which, in
after years, when they are able to
appreciate them, they prize highly,
and can hardly understand what it
was that made them so averse to go
through the process necessary for their
acquirement."
A year or two afterward I saw the
young lady and the gardener looking
at a bed of beautiful roses on the lawn,
and heard the young lady ask what
had become of the Devoniensis she
had asked him to bud.
" Don't you see it, ma'am," he said,
" growing against the wall ? I think
it is almost the gem of the whole
garden."
" Oh, what a beauty ! " she exclaim-
ed ; " and how well it has grown ! "
" Yes, ma'am," he s^aid ; " it has al-
ways done well ; it seemed to take to
it kindly from the very first, and has
never gone back at all. But I had a
good deal of trouble with this one ;
perhaps you may remember my say-
ing I thought it likely I should. It
is that strong growing one you re-
marked at the same time when you
told me to bud the Devoniensis. It
won't make much show this year. It
wasted so much energy in putting
out side-shoots and suckers. But I
think it has got out of its bad ways,
and next year I hope it will make
quite a grand tree."
" Oh ! " she said, " and here is my
old friend Madame Boll, I see. I am
glad you put it here, it is well worth a
good place."
" You hear," said Madame Boll, af-
ter they were gone, to her neighbor
Gloire de Dijon, " what they say of
us, and I hope you have become re-
conciled to the change, and will let
the good that is in you show itself."
Whereupon there seemed to come
rather a lachrymose murmur from the
dwarfed shoot of Gloire de Dijon.
" But am I not to flower at all this
year ? "
"Well, my dear," said Madame
Boll, tenderly, "I do not wish to be
severe or say anything to hurt your
feelings, but you must know that your
present disappointment is the natural
result of your past conduct. You
were so determined to indulge in per-
verse and self-willed suckers, and you
never let the gardener touch you with-
out trying to prick his fingers or tear
his clothes. And now all you want is
a little patience. Who knows but
you may be allowed to bloom in the
autumn, and perhaps win the prize at
the last flower show ? But if not, why
it will be all right next year. Do
you think it was no mortification to me
to be neglected and almost unnoticed
last year, and that, as it appears, en-
tirely owing to the carelessness of
others, and not from any fault of
mine ? Well, you see, I have got
over it ; and very likely next year
Laborers Gone to their Reward.
855
you will have the gratification of hear- When Madame Boll ended, I could
ing the lady praise you as she did me see on the edge of one of her delicate
just now. Be thankful that experi- leaves a drop of dew, and I said to
ence with you has not come too late." myself, " How very like a tear ! "
From The Month.
LABORERS GONE TO THEIR REWARD.
IN the days in which we live, more
perhaps than at any other time, edu-
cation, the school, and the college are
made the positions of vital importance
in the battle-field of contending princi-
ples. Services rendered and losses
sustained on such points are, therefore,
worthy of special notice, of particular
gratitude, or of sorrow. In the month
of May of this year two souls went to
their rest, both of whom had labored
long, signally, and successfully in the
cause of Catholic education espe-
cially for the higher classes ; both of
whom have left behind them institu-
tions m which their spirit is enshrined:
destined, we trust, to continue through
centuries yet to come the work, the
beginnings of which were committed to
those whose loss we are now lamenting.
On the 14th of May Monsignor de
Ram, the restorer of Catholic universi-
ty education in the countries over which
the French revolution had swept,
died peacefully, but almost without
warning ; and a few days later, his
decease was followed by that of the
reverend mother Madeline Sophie
Barat, the foundress and first superi-
oress-general of the congregation of
the nuns of the Sacred Heart. Let
us devote a few lines to each.
Monsignor de Ram was born at
Louvain, of parents distinguished for
piety and noble descent, September 2,
1804. He early devoted himself to
the service of the Church ; was or-
dained priest, March 19,1827; and
became at once professor in the eccle-
siastical seminary of his native dio-
cese, Mechlin. He had no sooner
grown up than he was struck by ob-
serving that his native language, the
Flemish, which of all European
tongues most nearly resembles our
own, was almost wholly without books
of a good tendency. The reason was
evident. The population by which it
is spoken is comparatively small, and
is hemmed in by others which speak
French, Dutch, or German. Hence
it has almost sunk into a patois. Men
who speak Flemish to their servants
and laborers read and write in French.
The first labors of Mons. de Ram were
devoted to meet this want, by publish-
ing several very useful books in Flem-
ish. He was only thirty when the
bishops of Belgium resolved to erect
a Catholic university. The attempt
could never before have been made ;
for in Belgium, almost more than any-
where else, education had for two hun-
dred years been seized by the state,
and used to an irreligious purpose.
The revolution of 1830, though not
made by the Church nor in its inter-
ests, had given it a freedom which it
never possessed before. The first use
made of this freedom by the bishops
of Belgium was to erect a Catholic
university, and the young and zeal-
ous priest de Ram was set over it by
their deliberate choice. To its service
he devoted the rest of his life. Be-
neath his care were trained during
thirty years a continual succession of
young men, who are at this day the
strength of the Church in Belgium,
and to a considerable dejrree in France.
856
Laborers Gone to their Reward.
England also has sent students there.
Those who have had the happiness of
attending the meetings of the Catholic
congress in Belgium must, we think,
have been struck by the high Catholic
tone of a number of young men of the
middle and higher classes, and by
their intelligence. For those men
Belgium and the Church are indebted
to the Catholic university of Lou vain,
and of that university Monsignor de
Ram has, until his death, been the soul.
On Friday, May 12, he returned
from attending a meeting of the acad-
emy of Brussels. On the evening of
Sunday, 14th, he had entered into the
unseen world. His age was only
sixty; and as he was willing, so it
might have been expected that he
would be able, to continue for years
to come the labors in which his life
had been spent. Such was not the
will of his Lord, whose call he was at
once ready to obey.
At Paris, on the morning of Mon-
day, May 22, only seven whole days
later, the superioress of the Society
of the Sacred Heart had attended the
mass of the community. She had
completed in the preceding December
her eighty -fifth year. Her day of la-
bor was at last over. She was seized
with apoplexy, and never recovered
the power of speech. She gave, how-
ever, clear signs of intelligence, and
received the viaticum, as well as the
last unction. On the 24th the blessing
of the Holy Father reached her by a
telegraphic message. On the 25th
she slept the sleep of the just.
She was born in December, 1779.
She had an elder brother, who before
1800 was a priest, and had joined
himself to a society which was formed
at Vienna in the latter part of the
French revolution, under the title of
the " Fathers of the Sacred Heart."
The first superior of this society,
Father Tournely, had been a pupil of
the illustrious Father Emery at St.
Sulpice. His object seems to have
been to continue under another name
the spirit and practices of the Society
of Jesus, which had been swept away
twenty years before by the insane
union of the monarchs of Europe
with the revolutionary infidels, until
times should allow of its re-establish-
ment. This, however, he did not live
to see. His successor, Father Varin,
joined it at its restoration. He relates
that the great desire of Father
Tournely was the foundation of a con-
gregation of nuns devoted, under the
protection of the Sacred Heart, to the
education of young persons of their
own sex. At one time he had hoped
to see this project carried into execu-
.tion by the Princess Louisa of Bour-
bon-Conde, who actually came from
Switzerland, where she was in exile,
to Vienna, to confer with him on the
subject. But God called her to the
contemplative life, and she became a
Benedictine. Father Tournely, how-
ever, never doubted its execution.
Walking one day on the fortifications
now destroyed, but then surrounding
Vienna, he said to Father Varin, al
luding to this disappointment, " Dear
friend, I thought this had been the
work of God, and if it is not, I con-
fess I do not know how to discern be-
tween the spirit of truth and the spirit
of falsehood." Then, after remaining
silent awhile in recollection, he turned
to his friend, with something of fire
more than natural in his expression,
and added : " It is the will of God.
As to the occasion and the instrument,
I may have been deceived ; but,
sooner or later, this society will be
founded." His friend used to say that
the impression left by these words, and
the manner in which they were spoken,
never faded from his mind. They
impressed him with the same convic-
tion; and he added, that when he
repeated them to his brethren, it took
possession of all their minds.
" In truth," said Fr. Varin, " God
had not chosen for the commencement
of this work instruments great in this
world. That the glory might be his
alone, he was pleased that the founda-
tion of the building should be simplic-
ity, littleness, nothingness."
Fr. Tournely died soon afterward,
Labo
Gone to their Reward.
857
in the flower of his age. Fr. Varin
succeeded him, and the conclusion of
the revolution enabled him and his
brethren to return to Paris. To Paris
they went in the year 1800. It was
exactly the moment when to human
eyes the night seemed darkest, but
when the morning was ready to spring.
Pius VI. died a prisoner in the hands
of the infidel French revolutionists,
August 29, 1799. u At this moment,"
says Macaulay, " it is not strange that
even sagacious observers should have
thought that at length the hour of the
Church of Rome was come. An infi-.
del power in the ascendant, the pope
dying in captivity, the most illustrious
prelates of France living in a foreign
country on Protestant alms, the no-
blest edifices which the munificence of
former ages had consecrated to the
worship of God turned into temples of
victory, or into banqueting-housfes for
political societies, or into theophilan-
thropic chapels ; such signs might
well be supposed to indicate the ap-
proaching 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 be-
fore the funeral rites had been per-
formed over the ashes of Pius VI., a
great reaction had commenced, which
after the lapse of [sixty-five] years
appears to be still in progress." As
yet, however, no human foresight
would have observed the tokens of
that reaction. Paris was no longer
the city where the eldest son of the
Church was enthroned, and where the
great of this world were rejoiced to
heap their wealth upon any new plan
which promised to promote the glory
of God. Still, Napoleon Bonaparte
had just seized the reins as first con-
sul, and there was at least toleration
to priests. The community lived in a
single mean room, which served them
as dormitory, refectory, kitchen, and
study. Here Fr. Varin was sitting
upon the edge of a very shabby bed,
and by his side sat one of his com-
munity, Fr. Barat. " I asked him
what relations he had. He said, one
little sister. The words made a strong
impression upon me. I asked how
old she was, and what were her pow-
ers. He said she was eighteen or
nineteen ; that she had learned Latin
and Greek, and translated Virgil and
Homer with ease ; that she had quali-
ties to make a good teacher ; but that
for the present she had gone to pass
some time in her family." Father
Barat, good man as he was, was not
above human infirmity, and like other
elder brothers, however proud he
might be of his younger sister, could
never fancy that she was really grown
up ; for when he said she was about
eighteen or nineteen, she was one-and-
twcnty. Two months later she came
to Paris. " I went to see her, and
found a young person of very deli-
cate appearance, extremely retiring,
and very timid. What a foundation-
stone ! said I to myself, in reply to
the feeling I had had within me when
her brother had mentioned her to me
for the first time. And yet it was
upon her that it was the will of God to
raise the building of the Society of
His Divine Heart. This was the
grain of mustard-seed which was to
produce the tree whose branches have
already spread so wide."
On November 21, 1800, she dedi-
cated herself to the Sacred Heart, un-
der the patronage of the Blessed Vir-
gin, together with an intimate friend,
Mile. Octavia Bailly, who shared her
aspirations. It was the first streak on
the sky which told of the coming day.
The day the society was formed, in
1802, she became superioress of the
first house, which was at Amiens. In
1806, a second was founded at Gre-
noble ; that year the first general con-
gregation elected her superioress-gen-
eral. In 1826 there were seventeen
houses, and the rules were approved
by Leo XII. Before her death she
had under her rule ninety-seven houses
and 3,500 nuns. She had been supe-
rioress of the congregation for sixty-
three years ; and it is probable that
the majority of the French ladies now
living who have received a religious
858
Miscellany.
education at all have received it at the
hands of herself or of her children in
religion.
Her body was taken to Conflans,
where is the novitiate in the neighbor-
hood of Paris. During three days
her cell was visited by all whom the
rules of the community permitted to
enter the nuns of the different houses
in Paris, pupils present and former of
all ages. Not only these, but many
priests were so desirous to have med-
als, chaplets, etc., touched by her re-
mains, that two sisters, who were con-
tinually employed, wsre hardly able
to satisfy the general desire.
At the beginning of this short no-
tice we spoke of sorrow and a sense
of loss as feelings natural in those in-
terested in the great works undertaken
by such laborers as Mons. de Ram
and Madame Barat on the occasion of
their removal from the scene of action.
We need hardly do more than allude
to the other feelings which must at
the same time blend with arid qualify
these ; to the joy and exultation that
must always hail the close of a noble
career long persevered in, from the
thought of the rest and the crown
that have been so faithfully won ; and
to the confidence that the works
which those who have been removed
from us have been allowed, while in
the flesh, so happily to found, promote,
and guide, will certainly not suffer by
the Providence that has now, as we
trust, placed them where they are en-
abled to see, without any intervening
shadow, the value of the great end for
which these works were undertaken,
and where their power to help them
on is to be measured, not by the feeble
and inconstant energies of a will still
subject to failure and perversion, but
by the mighty intensity of the inter-
cession of those who are at rest with
God.
MISCELLANY.
Mont Cenis -Railway. Pending the
completion of the great Mont Cenis tun-
nel, a temporary railway on inclined
planes is to be carried along the present
road over the mountain. The French
Government, on its portion of the line,
will use locomotives with a peculiar
mechanism, to produce adhesion, on a
middle rail placed between the two
ordinary rails. On the Italian side a
traction carriage will be employed,which
will wind the carriages up by means of
a drum acting on a heavy fixed cable
laid along the line. The mechanism of
the traction wagon will be put in motion
by an endless wire rope actuated by
wator-wheels at the base of the in-
cline.
Homes wiiJwut Hands. A new book by
Mr. Woods, with the above title, gives an
account of the habitations, " which are
never marred by incompetence or im-
proved by practice," constructed by
various animals, classed according to
their principles of construction, and il-
lustrated by some excellent engravings,
from drawings made expressly for the
work. The author first describes the
homes of the burrowing mammalia, and
then proceeds to those of the social birds
and insects. The mole appears to take
the first place in Mr. Wood's list of mam-
malia. " This extraordinary animal
does not merely dig tunnels in the ground
and sit at the end of them, but forms a
complicated subterranean dwelling-
place, with chambers, passages, and
other arrangements of wonderful com-
pleteness. It has regular roads leading
to its feeding grounds ; establishes a sys-
tem of communication as elaborate as
that of a modern railway, or, to be more
correct, as that of the subterranean net-
work of metropolitan sewers." . . .
" How it manages to form its burrows in
such admirably straight lines is not an
easy problem, because it is always in
New Publications.
859
black darkness, and we know of nothing
which can act as a guide to the animal."
The real abode of the mole is most ex-
traordinary. " The central apartment is
a nearly spherical chamber, the roof of
which is nearly on a level with the earth
around the hill ; and, therefore, situated
at a considerable depth from the apex of
the heap. Around this heap are driven
two circular passages, or galleries, one
just level with the ceiling, and the other
at some height above. The upper circle
is much smaller than the lower. Five
short descending passages connect the
galleries with each other, but the only
entrance into the keep is from the upper
gallery, out of which three passages lead
into the ceiling of the keep. Therefore,
when the mole enters the house from one
of his tunnels, he has first to get into the
lower gallery, to ascend thence to the
upper gallery, and so descend into the
keep." The mole appears unequalled in
ferocity, activity, and voracity. The fox
prefers to avoid the labor of burrowing,
and avails itself of the deserted home of
the badger, or even the rabbit; for, though
it needs a larger tunnel than the latter,
the cunning animal finds its labor con-
siderably decreased by only having to
enlarge a ready-made burrow instead of
driving a passage through solid earth.
Of the weasel tribe, the badger is the
most powerful and industrious exca-
vator ; there are several chambers in its
domicile, one of which is appropriated as
a nursery, and is warmly padded with
dry mosses and grass. The rabbit, like
the eider duck, lines her nursery with
the soft fur from her own breast ; but Mr.
Wood deprecates this being set forth -as
an act of self-sacrifice, and held up as an
example of such to human beings, and
declares it to be as purely instinctive as
the act of laying eggs.
The Wealth of Mexico. M. Laur, the
engineer deputed by the French govern-
ment to explore the mineral wealth of
Mexico, and who has already published
several reports in the Moniteur, has com-
pleted his task. These reports, ac-
cording to a paragraph in the Moni-
teur Beige, are shortly to be pub-
lished in a more extended form, giving
the exact situation, extent, and richness
of the principal mineral veins of that
country. It is hoped that under the new
administration many of the old workings,
abandoned during the civil wars, will
be resumed, and that they will prove as
valuable to the empire as they were dur-
ing the early days of the Spanish occu-
pation.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
DIE IIEILIGE ELIZABETH. Ein Buch fur
Christen, von Alben Stolz. Freiburg
im Breisgau. 1865. 8vo, pp. 315.
The Life of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary.
A book for Christians, by Alben Stolz.
The author of this new life of Saint
Elizabeth is one of the popular Catholic
writers of Germany, if not the foremost.
He is the Abraham of Sancta Clara of
this century.
The principal events of the saint's life
are narrated in simple and familiar lan-
guage. The point treated of in each
chapter is concluded with a practical
instruction. These are far from being
dry. We would suggest the translation
of this book into English, were it not
that it is, like all this author writes, thor-
oughly German, and exclusively adapted
to the circumstances and difficulties of
the Catholics of Germany. What our
Catholic English reading public needs,
is that some of our writers should take
a lesson from this agreeable as well as
edifying writer, and do for them what
he is doing with so much zeal for the
good of his countrymen.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. By His Emi-
nence Cardinal Wiseman. 32mo, pp.
64. Boston : Patrick Donahoe.
This is an American edition of the
lecture of the late Cardinal Wiseman on
William Shakespeare, which appeared in
THE CATHOLIC WORLD for July. It
contains, in addition to the lecture, an
appendix, in which the eminent author
makes suggestions for, and observations
on, " a tercentenary memorial of Shake-
speare." The cardinal suggested a splen-
860
New Publications.
did edition of the great poet's works,
illustrated, and printed in the best and
most elaborate style possible. His em-
inence went into the most minute details
in regard to the manner in which such
an edition should be illustrated, printed,
bound, etc. The binding and paper of
this little volume are excellent ; but the
type from which it is printed is too
small. We are sorry Mr. Donahoe did
not
for
faultless.
; get it out in larger type. Were it not
this slight defect, the book would be
NATIONAL LYRICS. By John Greenleaf
Whittier. Illustrated. 32mo, pp. 104.
Boston : Ticknor & Fields.
This is another of the cheap volumes
of poetry issued by Ticknor & Fields.
It contains several of Mr. Whittier's
earlier pieces, as well as many of his
late poems. Among the latter are " Bar-
bara Frietchie," and The Poor Voter
on Election Day."
SYBIL : A Tragedy, in Five Acts. By
John Savage. 12ino, pp. 105. New
York : J. B. Kirker.
This tragedy was written by Mr. Sav-
age well known in the literary world A
as the author of several excellent poems,
and now editor of the New Orleans
Times some years ago, and met with a
good reception in the cities in which it
was played. It contains many good pas-
sages of high poetical merit, and is, we
should think, well adapted for the stage.
The scene is laid in Kentucky, in the be-
ginning of the present century, and de-
scribes society as it is supposed to have
existed at that time.
A GENERAL HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC
CHURCH, FROM THE COMMENCEMENT
OF THE CHRISTIAN ERA UNTIL THE
PRESENT TIME. By M. 1'Abbg J. E.
Darras. With an Introduction and
Notes. By the Most Kev. M. J.
Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of Bal-
timore. New York : P. O'Shea.
We have received numbers 9, 10,11,
and 12 of this excellent history. Num-
ber 12 brings the work down to the
pontificate of Sixtus III., 432.
THE MARTYR'S MONUMENT. Being the
patriotism and political wisdom of
Abraham Lincoln, as exhibited in his
speeches, messages, orders, and proc-
lamations from the presidential can-
vass of 1860 until his assassination,
April 14, 1865. 12mo, pp. 297. New
York : The American News Company.
The title of this handsome volume
sufficiently explains its purpose. The
origin of the work is set forth in the
following extract from the preface :
" A few days after the assassination of
President Lincoln, the publishers of the
present volume received the following
letter from the distinguished gentleman
whose name it bears :
" Gentlemen : Collect and publish, in
the speediest possible manner, the inau-
gural and other addresses of Abraham
Lincoln, his proclamations, messages,
and public letters, indeed, all he has
written as President, and you will con-
tribute to the mournful celebrations of
the American people your share of last-
ing value, and of far more impressive
eloquence than the most fervent orator
could utter. You would thus make the
martyr rear his own monument, which
no years, no centuries, could level and
cause to mingle again with the dust.
" Your obedient,
"FRANCIS LIEBER.
"NEW YORK, April 18, 1865."
This book is got out in elegant style,
and will be valuable hereafter on ac-
count of the many documents it con-
tains which relate to the late civil war.
Received: PASTORAL LETTER OF THE
RT. REV. M. DOMENEC, D.D., BISHOP OF
PlTTSBURG TO THE CLERGY AND LAITY
OF THE DlOCESE, PROMULGATING THE
JUBILEE ; together with the late Encyc-
lical of the Holy Father. Published at
the office of the Pittsburg Catholic.
THE STORY OF THE GREAT MARCH,
FROM THE DIARY OF A STAFF OFFICER.
By Brevet-major George Ward Nichols,
aid-de-camp to General Sherman. New
York: Harper & Brothers.
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